Point of Release

by Remy Landon

  She was stiff with indignation as she walked back to her apartment. She had said what she wanted to say when she'd gone to see him; she had been in charge. That visit had been closure. Her father had no right to open things back up by contacting her a month later.

  Coming inside, she kicked off her sneakers on the doormat and went into the kitchen with the mail. The Target flyer and cable bill went on the kitchen table, the credit card offer in the recycle pile on the counter, and the card from her father in the trash under the sink. Pride overruled curiosity.

  She went back into the living room to clean up, folding over the Fritos bags and picking up the beer cans to bring into the kitchen. Now to get the Christmas decorations. This would be the first time since her mother died that she would take any of them out. But in keeping with the whole new outlook on life thing, she would do it. Her mom had always loved Christmas, and looking out the living room window at the snow frosting the branches of the trees, Cassandra could remember how she had used to love this time of year, too—the hushed, magical feel in the air during a snowfall.

  There was a red tub with a green lid in the back of Cassandra's bedroom closet that held the Christmas decorations. She lugged it out to the living room and set it in front of the couch. Lifting off the lid, she felt as though she was opening a door to her past where a torrent of memories would rush out—some welcome, some unpleasant. She would try to focus on the good.

  She unwrapped the Santas first. Many of them were wooden; one holding an American flag, another a tiny grapevine wreath. One Santa was wearing a velvety red suit, his soft beard frayed from when their kitten had chewed on it. Then, the craft fair snowman Cassandra had bought her mother, wearing a navy plaid scarf with a bird's nest on top of his head. And then, the family of carolers that used to adorn the mantel: the mother holding a small piece of paper—presumably the lyrics, with a red beret perched jauntily on her head, the little girl with white mittens on her hands, her red hair in long curls down her back, and the father in a forest green vest, his mouth shaped in an O.

  The perfect little family. Cassandra wrapped up each one carefully and returned them to the tub.

  She set the Santas on the coffee table and end tables and brought the snowmen into the kitchen, a few at a time, setting them on the windowsill above the sink, with a couple more on the counter. She could leave them out all winter, as her mother had done. There was a large, clear bowl made of thick, wavy glass and filled with old-fashioned glass balls of red, green, silver, blue and gold which would be the centerpiece on her kitchen table.

  Cassandra looked at her display once she was done, remembering how her mother had taken out all the decorations every year, even after her father had left. There had been music, and pie, and driving around town to see the Christmas lights with a thermos full of hot chocolate. Stacey Larsen had kept traditions alive for her daughter. And now, her daughter would bring back traditions for her mom.

  In the stillness of her apartment, Cassandra spoke softly. “Mumma...you were enough.”

  Maybe it was the Christmas spirit, or a newfound sense of maturity, but Cassandra found herself opening the cupboard under the sink and retrieving her father's envelope—similar to how she had relegated Carlo's orchid to the trash and later had second thoughts.

  Taking a deep breath, she slid her finger under the flap of the envelope and took out the card. There was a horse-drawn sleigh on the front with a red barn in the background. Was this a random card he chose, or was it purposeful because he wanted to acknowledge her love for horses? She opened the card, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of the one hundred dollar check. Merry Christmas, he had written. I hope I can see you again. And I hope you can forgive me. Dad.

  The tears came then. She ripped up the check—she had too much pride, and that was not what her visit had been about. But the card—that, she would keep.

  chapter twenty-seven ~ Carlo

  “Ms. Malstrom is on the phone. Again. I thought you had taken care of her?” Estelle let the frosty question mark hang in the air as she looked at Carlo over the top of her glasses.

  “I thought so, too. She's coming down next month.” Carlo grinned. “Don't be angry with me, Estelle. I've discovered that I can't control all women, no matter how much I might like to think I can.”

  “Well, at least you're learning. Shall I tell her you're in a meeting?”

  “No. Put her through. I'd rather have her purr than roar.”

  “All right. As long as she doesn't sink her claws into you.” Estelle turned abruptly and walked out of his office.

  Seconds later, Carlo's desk phone chimed. Clearing his throat, he picked it up. “Ms. Malstrom. Good morning.”

  “Jesus, you sound formal, Carlo. Not quite what I'd expect from someone whose penis I had in my mouth just five weeks ago.”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Trying to be professional, Liv, but you make it difficult.”

  “I'm sorry. I don't mean to. You don't need to keep me at arm's length, Carlo. I'd rather have things be open between us. No barriers, no boundaries. I feel very comfortable with you, and I'd like to keep it that way.”

  “You're still planning on coming down the second week in January?”

  “Oh, definitely. That's one reason I called. I want to know where I'm staying.”

  “The Fulton Steamboat Inn in Lancaster is very nice. Or there's always the Marriott. ”

  A pause on the other end, then a sigh. “So...a hotel.”

  “Yes. Where else would you—” Oh. Jesus.

  “I guess nowhere else. I just thought I'd ask.” Her tone was brisk. “We'll at least go out, right? I mean, I am your supplier.”

  “Of course we'll go out. Got to keep my suppliers happy.”

  She seemed pleased. “Good. We'll have fun, Carlo.”

  He steered the end of their conversation toward business, discussing government contracts. No sooner had he gotten off the phone with Liv than he received another call, from Ingrid.

  “Good morning, Carlo. I know how you like to be kept apprised of the horses at Windswept, so I thought I'd give you a call.”

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No...just wanted to let you know that British Drummer is going to Florida after Christmas. Our trainer has a client who would like to buy him. He was one of your mother's favorites, so I thought you'd be interested in hearing this.”

  “All right, thank you. I'm guessing he'll be going to an exceptional home?”

  “Oh, yes. The person is an experienced rider, and it's a show home. I'd never let him go otherwise.”

  “Well, that's good for him, then. I'm trying to remember which horse it is. I haven't been there in a while.”

  “He's the big bay Warmblood—we call him Brownie.”

  Brownie. Now, he knew.

  “Isn't that one Cassandra's favorite?”

  Ingrid gave a little laugh. “Cassandra seems to enjoy every horse she interacts with, but yes, I suppose Brownie is at the top of her list.”

  “She's going to be upset to hear he's leaving, isn't she?”

  “I already told her. She seemed all right with it. She really needs to be careful getting attached to any of the horses, because you never know when Judy might have a client who's interested in buying.”

  Carlo leaned back in his chair, the phone cord stretching with him. He highly doubted Cassandra would be all right with Brownie leaving; he had seen the way she looked at that horse.

  “Carlo? Are you still there?”

  “Yes. I'm here. Can you hold off on making any decisions about Brownie?”

  A pause. “I'm not meaning any disrespect here, Carlo, but the decision has pretty much been made. It would be highly disappointing to both Judy and her client if Brownie was not available.”

  Not as disappointing as it would be to Cassandra.

  “I understand. When is he supposed to be heading to Florida?”

  “We don't have an exact date yet, but I woul
d expect the week after Christmas.”

  “All right. Thanks for letting me know.”

  Carlo hung up the phone and sat brooding over this bit of news from Windswept Stable. He hated to think of Cassandra enduring more heartache, but she might resent him getting involved in this, and Ingrid had things in place. He trusted Ingrid, and she obviously knew a hell of a lot more about the horse world than he did. Still...

  Sighing, he reached in his inbox and pulled out the latest bookings report to peruse. Before he could open the folder, his door opened. Estelle again, looking mildly perturbed.

  “Madame Secretary,” he said, in mock chastisement. “Are you ever going to let me get some work done?”

  “Mail delivery. And then I'll try to leave you alone.” She handed him a thin stack of envelopes. A bill from his attorneys, a few Christmas cards from customers, a solicitation letter, and a large white envelope with his name and company address on the front, but no return address on either side.

  Carlo slid the letter opener underneath the flap of the envelope. There was a photograph inside, about 5 x 7 in size. It took a few seconds for him to process just what it was.

  A slightly blurry, side view of a man standing, and a woman on her knees in front of him, performing oral sex.

  It was him. And Cassandra.

  He felt blood begin to pound in his ears. Heat rushed to his face as fury flamed within him. There was no doubt who had sent this.

  How had the fucking cocksucker managed this? Had he paused the video and printed a still shot from his computer? Or had he taken a picture of what was on his screen with his phone?

  Fuck it—it didn't matter how; it was that he had done it. The resurfacing of Brock's betrayal burned as brightly as when Carlo had first learned of it. Thinking of that prick watching something so incredibly intimate—knowing that Dall had seen Cassandra's beautiful nude body and witnessed her in such a vulnerable state made Carlo almost choke on his rage. Self-loathing, too, was part of it—he knew he had himself to blame as well.

  Brock was trying to stir things up—probably a continuation of his phone call last week, and as long as his job woes continued, he'd most likely blame Carlo for it. Uneasiness slithered through him. Dall's tone had been sinister during that conversation, hinting that he was plotting something. Carlo would be on guard, but he was unwavering in his desire to go after his former employee for corporate espionage. Brock deserved that, and more.

  Carlo could not stand looking at the photograph a moment longer. He got up from his desk and stormed over to the paper shredder, feeding the photo into the machine and feeling satisfaction as it was cut into unrecognizable slivers. He didn't need any reminders of that night, and Cassandra would be mortified if—

  A sudden thought seized him, rendering him motionless. Christ...what if Brock had sent a copy of the picture to Cassandra? What if he was also pulling her into his twisted need for revenge? Dall was well aware that the way to truly get to Carlo was through Cassandra.

  Questions ricocheted through him as he rubbed his stubbled jawline. Should he warn her? Or would that cause her unnecessary stress? She may not even believe him, and she may be even more resentful, since it was he who had put her in this position in the first place.

  Fuck Brockton Dall. And fuck this entire mess Carlo had a hand in creating.

  In a few quick strides, he went back to his desk and picked up his iPhone. Dall was going to hear just what he thought of him.

  Brock answered almost immediately. His voice was smooth and pleasant. “Carlo. I was expecting your call. Don't you love this time of year? People sending cards, holiday wishes...”

  “Shut the fuck up, you miserable prick. I'm not going to waste any time speaking to you other than to say whatever little game you're playing isn't going to pull me in. It's clear you have nothing better to do in your pathetic little life than to harass other people—but then again, I'm sure you have quite a bit of time on your hands since you can't find a job. Keep this up, Dall, and you'll be lucky to get hired as a Walmart greeter. And it's probably not a good idea to be fucking with someone who's in the process of filing a lawsuit against you.”

  “From the tone of your voice, Carlo, it sounds as though I've touched a nerve. Was it seeing that photo of your little slut sucking on your dick that got you all riled up, because you aren't getting that anymore? Your ego probably won't allow you to consider the possibility she's moved on to someone else now.”

  Carlo was seething but steeled himself. He didn't want Estelle—or Brock—knowing how angry he was. Lowering his voice, he responded in as calm a voice as he could muster. “It would be in your best interest to move on. Your consequence for betraying Miller Valve is well-deserved. Stay away from me, and stay away from Cassandra—not so much for our sake as for yours.”

  Brock's tone turned sinister. “I'll do whatever the fuck I want, Carlo. You'll find out that you can't control me.” He paused, laughing softly. “Merry Christmas.”

  There was dead air then, leaving Carlo to contemplate what Dall had said. He didn't trust the bastard, especially since it was clear that Brock was still scheming for some sort of revenge. Carlo had no doubt he could take care of himself, but Cassandra...she was vulnerable, and the thought of her being at risk in any way both enraged and alarmed him.

  For that reason, he decided, he would give her a warning—just so she would be in a heightened state of awareness. After what had happened, it was the least he could do for her.

  chapter twenty-eight ~ Cassandra

  She was trying to stay upbeat, if for no other reason than she didn't want Brownie to pick up on her negative vibe, but God, this was hard. Since he would be leaving in just a matter of days, Cassandra was torn between wanting to spend as much time as she could with him and thinking it would be wise to try and distance herself so she could sort of ease into the reality of him not being here. The latter turned out to be stupid, because Brownie was not the type of horse you could just ignore, and when you loved something, you wanted to spend all the time you could with it.

  She found herself giving him a treat whenever she walked by his stall—a chunk of carrot, a piece of apple, a peppermint—and spending more time grooming and petting him, running her hand down his powerful neck and scratching underneath his mane until his bottom lip quivered in pleasure. She would miss little things like this about him: the way his ears would prick forward at the sight of her, the low nicker he had when she came toward him. And she would miss big things—his goofy, sweet disposition...the way he carried himself with suppleness and grace...the fluid, rocking motion of his canter beneath her. It was hard to imagine Windswept Stable without him.

  The combination of his departure and the arrival of Christmas were bringing her down, even on this glorious winter day with the sun spilling in through the stable windows and the cloudless sky a brilliant shade of blue. She also was having trouble shaking the feeling she had gotten from Carlo's voicemail a few days ago, advising her to be on her guard. His tone had been flat and somber.

  “Cassandra, I know you still don't want to have contact with me, but Brock is still trying to get back at me for firing him. He's pissed that he can't find a job and resents me for it, so he may try to go through you like he did before to get to me, because he knows what you mean to me. Let me know if he does anything to cause you any stress or if you feel like you're at risk in any way, and I'll take care of it.” A pause. “I feel responsible for this, and for you.” Another pause. “I hope you're all right. I'm here for you, always.”

  Listening to his last few words, she felt a sting in her nose—the precursor to tears—and quickly squelched it. She had to think with her head and not her heart, which at times could be so goddamned, annoyingly weak. She had to keep in mind that Carlo was the reason she was even dealing with this shit.

  The next thing Cassandra had thought of was the car that had followed her last Friday. Could that have been Brock? If it was, hopefully that would be the worst of it, but i
f he had anything else up his sleeve, she would just be extra cautious: have her keys ready while walking to her car, keep the chain on her apartment door, always have her phone with her. She had always felt safe, though, in her apartment complex and at Windswept, and if she felt really wigged out about walking out of Tucker's, she could always ask Bruce or someone to watch her go to her car. And it wasn't like she went out anywhere by herself; she was usually meeting Teal and her friends. So it should be fine. No matter what happened, she definitely didn't want to be dependent on Carlo.

  After cleaning six stalls, she found herself warm enough to remove her wool hat and jacket, working only in a turtleneck, fleece vest and lined jeans. She had four more stalls to go, and after that, she planned to oil some tack and pour the bags of grain Ingrid had bought into the big storage barrels before heading to the grocery store. She was returning from the shavings pile with a full wheelbarrow when Josh walked into the barn.

  He was wearing his thick cowboy jacket with the Sherpa collar turned up and dark jeans, looking quite boyish in a navy knit cap. He grinned at her, and it struck her that she had never been with him when he wasn't smiling.

  “Hey. You look like you're hard at work.”

  “Oh, yes. But it's keeping me warm.”

  “It's funny, I was cold just before I came in here. But now, I'm not.” His dimples were showing. “Why do you suppose that is?”

  Well. Someone was in a flirty mood. She pushed the wheelbarrow into Sweet Surrender's stall and dumped the shavings in before meeting Josh's gaze. “I think it has to do with the sun coming in the barn,” she answered innocently, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Maybe. I was thinking of another reason.” He came closer, his blue eyes light and warm. “Are you going to stick around after you finish your stalls? I was thinking of taking Tango for a ride and wondered if you and Brownie wanted to go with us—maybe warm up in the outside ring and just take a nice walk around the field after.”