I started looking into the requirements for becoming a cop. The same day I turned twenty–one, I applied for the first job posting I found to start the process. I was ready for it all. I spent the previous year researching and preparing in every way I could. When I finally attained the minimum age requirement, I had the physical ability test down, thanks to all of my sports training. The verbal and written tests were a good fit for me. I am not shy. I speak well, and with a strong voice. I never flinch under pressure and think logically on my feet. I rarely have moments when I regret what I said or did after the situation. I usually find the appropriate words for any situation. I later learned, three fourths of my job is communication. From speaking to citizens or suspects, to writing reports, to testifying in court, they are all necessary skills required to be a good officer. It turned out I was highly qualified, and my choice to become a cop was a good fit.
While I was still researching and considering my ideal vocation, Sam Ford came home from college. He intended to earn his MBA. Dustin told me he planned to become some kind of high–powered business tycoon. No one we knew would have chosen such an ambitious path. I didn’t even know what that meant. It seemed a strange direction for him to follow. Sam wasn’t trying to nurture a certain talent or interest, he simply wanted to be rich. And business, any business, was the ticket to achieving his goal. Sam was so different than all the blue collar men who filled my world that it somehow fit him. He was so smooth and charming. He could talk the skin off a snake. He was already sophisticated, but became even more so in college. As a student of UCLA (University of California,–Los Angeles), he was introduced to many powerful people, the likes of which he would have never encountered in our small neighborhood.
Sam’s family was working class like mine. His dad was the manager of housekeeping for one of the largest hotels on Fisherman’s Wharf for thirty years, and his mom held several jobs over the time I knew her, from being a museum tour guide to an admission clerk at the zoo. They were a nice couple. They always treated me like their surrogate daughter. They also provided well for their kids. Sam never lacked the basics. Although there wasn’t much left over, he had whatever he needed, and certainly had their love.
Still, Sam, even at age twenty–three, hungered for more. He refused to settle for middle class or to struggle. He didn’t want just enough, he wanted it all.
But that didn’t make Sam a bad guy. He was charming, sweet and he smiled all the time. No one really begrudged Sam for wanting more since he was so willing to do the work to get there. Even now, although his parents have long since moved from the old neighborhood and into the suburb of Dublin, about thirty–five miles from us, Sam still wants more for them and more for himself. They are retired now, and Sam and I provide them with a little extra income. We try to ensure they have a far better lifestyle than they ever did before. They now live in a gated community for residents fifty–five and older. But Sam wants so much more. He refuses to toil away his life for small rewards. He grew disillusioned after seeing how hard and long his parents worked and what little they received to show for it. His dad was laid off after thirty–two years with the hotel, when the franchise was sold. During its restructuring, he was forced to retire.
That is what Sam most wanted: the power to control his own life. He wanted to be his own boss, his own man, and earn his own money, so that no one could ever do that to him.
In order to accomplish his goal, he started cultivating the lifestyle he dreamed about during his freshman year at UCLA. He quickly ingratiated himself as part of a crowd that included many sons of powerful men. He found out who was who, and befriended them all.
Liking Sam was easy, and most people just naturally gravitated towards him. He joined a fraternity to increase his presence at parties, with girls and to nurture his fragile connections.
By the time he graduated, he was further up the social ladder than anyone else we knew.
Sam also had a particular type of girl he liked. I realized that back when I was freshman in high school after I started watching his parade of female company. He liked blondes: petite, white and blue–eyed. Those were his usual girls, and later on, co–eds.
I was never Sam’s type, and as polar opposite from his preferences as a golfer trying to play football. I was tall, athletic and competitively fierce with everyone, including him. He liked girls who seemed shy, or extra giggly. He especially liked the girls who were in awe of him. The ones who adored anything he did and worshipped him. Okay, maybe none of them actually worshipped him that was just my impression. I also assumed Sam would never again be close to me. I thought he’d never visit me again. I finally started to accept the fact that Sam was no longer in my life, when he showed up after his college graduation.
He stayed home that whole summer, and I got to see him once again.
Having all but ignored me for the last four years, I seemed to have become the pesky, neighbor girl he used to play with. I often saw Dustin while secretly seeking to catch a glimpse, or even hear news about Sam when he journeyed home every once in a while. But I tried to make sure neither of them realized it. Dustin and I had an enduring friendship where we hung out all the time without any kind of planning or pre–thought. We just hung together. Whatever. Doing nothing. We ran the streets together or just enjoyed each other’s company. I came and went from the Fords’ apartment just as often as Dustin did mine.
That is, until the summer I turned twenty and figured out Sam was home.
I found out when I came in one afternoon and Sam was making out with another typical blonde of his. She and I had attended high school together. She was actually kind of nice, which didn’t help my cause, since I really wanted to hate her. They lay together on the family couch, their legs entangled, with Sam on top. They both kind of gasped when I came bursting through the front door to see Dustin, as I often did. Their parents were rarely home, and Dustin usually lost himself in his music, failing to hear a door bell ringing or a knock. So I just let myself in during the day.
Well, the oops! was on me. I pushed the door open and stopped dead when I saw Sam’s long legs, perfect butt, and tapered back. Upon seeing the back of his head, I easily gathered that his hands were rubbing a breast, and his mouth and tongue were inside the girl’s mouth. Or had been, until I slammed the door and they both jumped and turned towards me. Sam’s gaze could have melted me if I were made of ice. He was so mad! He kind of tilted his head as if silently communicating for me to go! Git! Get the hell out of there! He was shirtless and his torso was smooth and gleaming. He was so pretty that I was a little surprised he didn’t abandon his corporate plan and just take up modeling. He could probably have made a fortune.
I quickly shuffled off into Dustin’s room, my face warm with obvious humiliation. The girl muttered something like What was she doing there? Sam quieted her by sucking her face some more. I noticed, of course, when I sneaked one last look. Her name was Jennifer and she was as bland, pretty, nice and boring as all the bimbos Sam sought out. She smiled sweetly when he said things. She was also polite and ladylike and invariably well-groomed. I leaned against Dustin’s door once I was safely out of the make–out zone. Clueless, Dustin didn’t even look up. He had headphones on and was staring at his computer. I knocked my head back on the door. Damn. I don’t know why, but Sam was the one who did it for me. I couldn’t believe the way my heart started hammering when I simply saw his face or heard his voice. I got all hot and cold and something weird and achy churned my stomach. Not something I felt very often. I was not boy crazy. In fact, I tended to be their friends, confidantes, and sports partners. Rarely was I ever considered the kind of girl a boy wants to date. Sam included.
Still, it’s always been Sam for me.
But he liked the blondes. The girlie, cute, sweet, shy, flirty blondes.
I stayed hidden in Dustin’s room, talking intermittently until he finally noticed me. By the time I heard voices, I thought their parents were home and I could come out of the bedroom.
The girl was gone and Sam was leaning on the kitchen table, his arms folded over his torso. He was talking with his mom. His gaze shifted to me when I came out of Dustin’s room before he scowled hard. I straightened my shoulders and raised my eyebrows, responding to his dare. Screw him! I shouldn’t feel weird for walking through a living room. Maybe he should have made better use of his bedroom door while she was there.
“Did you want to stay for dinner, Natalie?”
I looked past Sam to his mom. A tall, handsome woman, and the source of Sam’s tall, dark and handsome looks, I smiled at her. She was warm and welcoming. She rarely wore makeup, but usually looked a little run down. She seemed more so that night than usual. “Yes, if you don’t mind.”
I often stayed. No biggie there. Sam scowled again at me. I rolled my eyes. For God’s sake! He was more of an interloper there than I. While he was gone at his big shot college and meeting important people, I was here, hanging with his brother and spending long evenings with his parents. They were several decades younger than my own parents. Mine were very quiet. Having been retired for several years by then, they often went to bed by eight. So I’d go hang at the Fords never tiring of all the razzing and boisterousness that accompanied two brothers and their big, burly dad.
But Sam spent the last four years mostly away from there. I could count on my hand the number of times he came home. Despite having the greatest, all–around nicest family in the world, he was off at UCLA, playing the big man on campus, and was far too busy to visit them. I didn’t see what more he needed, other than what was at the kitchen table that night. There was a father who worked his hands to the bone for thirty–plus years to support his family, as well as a mother who worked and came home to do endless, tedious chores and raise her two boys. There was fun, warmth, and most of all, love. There was an overabundance of love, although half the time, Sam was completely blind to it. He seemed oblivious when his mother entered his room carrying his pile of folded, fresh clean–smelling clothes. Or the heaps of food he and Dustin would devour each night without so much as asking for it. I didn’t get it. What could all his ambition get for him that wasn’t right here already? I didn’t totally believe his drive to succeed could take him anywhere better than our small, tightly knit neighborhood and the families that shared our lives. There were friends and relationships everywhere. There wasn’t a lot of money around all the time, but we were never lacking. Sometimes, looking back, all I can see now is how much we had. In more ways than today, we had everything.
That summer… oh, that summer was the summer of change for me. It was also the summer I got held up. It was the summer I determined what path I wanted my life to go on. It was the summer when Sam finally looked at me like I wasn’t Dustin, or his equivalent. It was the summer I last had with my mom. It was a profound summer that changed everything after it. And it all started with a kiss.
But now, that summer only makes my heart clench and ache, over and over again, until the pressure feels like it might explode inside me. No. I refuse to think about that summer. Or love. Or hope. Or youth. Or trust.
All the things that I once felt sure I found with Sam.
Now? Now I have nothing. No one. I’ve never had any blood relatives, now I don’t even have one relative alive that knows me still. Not one relative that remembers me, anyway. And the surrogate family I adopted to substitute for mine would have to side with Sam. I have no one. Literally, no one in the entire world anymore.
I had no idea how alone I feel until today.
So I lie down on the anonymous, generic bed, in a strange town, in a forgotten motel and watch the night ticking away on the clock.
Chapter Three
Sam
I have no idea what to do. The elevator already came and went with Natalie. While trying to get decent, she escaped. I hit the metal door with my fist, but all it accomplished was making my hand ring. I shake out the pain while swearing under my breath. I finally lean into the wall and flip over. What should I do? Race after her? I should. Yes. But what do I say? How do I explain… this? I don’t think she’ll listen to me if I say I didn’t mean to do it. It just happened. I got carried away. I was angry at her. At us. I was… there is nothing more I can possibly say.
I might want to go after her, but how could I explain myself to her at this moment? After she found another woman on top of me? Literally. I shake off the urge to throw up and stomp into my office. Chantal has cleared out thankfully. I start picking up the miscellaneous items that got scattered and shifted. Papers that were crinkled by Chantal’s ass. I flinch as I pick up a file containing the new ad campaign we were considering. I try to flatten the crinkled sheets, cringing as my hands smooth it. It feels contaminated, so I stop and fall into a slump, dropping onto my office chair. I lean my elbows on the desktop and sigh as I stare down with unseeing eyes at the desk I dreamed of having for most of my life. It became the physical representation of all my ambitions and goals.
This is all I hoped for and dreamed about: the big office, the big desk, covered in actual work, correspondences, reports, budgets, and figures; in short, the lifeblood of a functioning corporation. One I had recently been promoted in. It meant I was someone, I was going somewhere, and I had power. I had control. I had money. Yes, it represented every desire I ever wanted. I was hungry for it. Every decision I’d made in the last decade was based on it. It pushed me past being tired or exhausted. It made the sixty–to–eighty–hour work weeks doable, tolerable and expected. I managed it. I managed it all. Or so I told myself. Until today. Tonight.
My shirt is buttoned, but the collar is loose. My tie? Where is it? I glance around and find it shoved off in the corner on the floor. My suit jacket still hangs respectfully at the door. I stare at it, somehow stunned by how normal it looks, hanging where I meticulously placed it when I walked in this morning. At what time? Seven–thirty, wasn’t it? I glance at the clock. It’s going on midnight. I worked fourteen hours. Well, at least thirteen by the time Chantal showed up. Blurry–eyed and exhausted, I wasn’t my usual, careful self. Did I even think of Natalie once in that time? I can’t say for sure. I can come into this office and forget about everything except what is directly in front of me. I can compartmentalize better than most, or at least, that’s what I’ve been told. Chantal was a total surprise to me. I believed I was all alone here tonight. During the quiet hours of late evening was often when I got the most work done… despite it being one of Natalie’s biggest complaints. Work early, or late; but not both. She had a shift, didn’t she? Late, I think. I shake my head. Unsure when she worked today. I’m sure she mentioned it to me, maybe last night. Yes, I remember talking about it, but I can’t recall when.
And isn’t that part of the crux of why my marriage was crumbling around me before tonight. This night. I worked too long and paid too little attention to her. I was too ambitious. I was too… everything. Natalie pointed it out to me in many of our arguments over the last year. A year? Was it that long? Yeah, close to. For a whole year we’d been arguing, fighting, and generally not getting along. It was strained, awkward and seemed endless.
It ended just now. That dismal thought weaves through my brain and I suddenly spring to my feet before slamming my fist on the desk. No! Just fucking no! I refuse to allow this to be the end. I refuse to believe that all of our years together, eight to be exact, could come down to this. Tonight.
I can fix it. I can fix this. Somehow, someway, I can fix this. I have to. That is what I do. I fix things. I think outside the box. I solve things that others can’t. It’s why I’m so valuable in business. It’s also why, as my heart sinks down into my stomach, I realize I might not be able to fix my personal life.
Seizing my office phone, I start calling her. I know she won’t answer. I text her. Several times. I plead for her to just talk to me.
I know she won’t respond. I know she won’t want to see me. Why should she?
I grab my paperwork and start stuffing it into my briefcase. I won’t b
e in tomorrow. Of that I’m sure. I can’t imagine how I’ll come back in, period. Screw me. I had sex with my secretary. She’ll be right here. Tomorrow. The next day. The next. The realization makes me collapse in defeat. I don’t know why I did that. I may as well have imploded both my personal and my professional life. And to be honest? Until this moment, they vied for priority in my life. Or at least, I thought they did. But the bottomless pit lodging in my stomach while thinking about Natalie now makes me realize I was wrong. She is the most important person or concept in my life. She is the only woman who ever got to know me, and loved me still.
What am I going to do? I scan the area around me. The office is big for this company’s perspective. It’s not a corner office, but it has big windows and a postage stamp view of the bay. It is pristinely furnished with contemporary décor. It’s the mark of a respected and distinguished office executive. It is the representation of everything I ever wanted to be. Here it is. But if I come back, I’ll be working with Chantal. Or she’ll turn me in for sexual harassment. That could be next. I deserve it. Maybe that’s what she meant by her cryptic remark. She set me up for this.
More importantly, how could I even try to reconcile with Natalie if I’m coming here every day and seeing the very woman I cheated on her with? It’s simple, I could not do that. In this one act, I’ve lost my marriage, my self–respect and my job.
It shouldn’t have hit me so hard, but it feels like I got punched in my gut. I worked for years to get where I am today. Years. So many long hours. I simply wilt at the thought that all my hard work was for naught. I am done here. I glance around and stand up a little taller. I am sure of that one decision. And strangely enough, in that exact moment when I make my choice, my spine stiffens. I made a decision. I took control. I chose a course of action. I am good at that. I am good at having a plan, and executing it. The only person I could never persuade to follow my plans or meet my expectations was Natalie. That’s the reason she drives me nuts, and the reason I love her.
Leanne Davis - Natalie (Daughters Series #2) Page 3