Anything You Need (Cataclysm Book 1)

by Jerica MacMillan

  Before Aaron can hassle me any more about Kendra, I change the subject. “You ready to head back to the studio soon?”

  A look crosses his face, and he turns to pick up his beer. “Yeah. About that. Something’s come up while you were gone.”

  “I was only gone for two days. How much could’ve changed in that time? And why would it keep us from working on our next album?”

  Aaron lets out a heavy sigh. “Danny’s mom called. About Eli.”

  Eli is Danny’s two-year-old son. Cute kid. Eli’s mom took off as soon as he was born, left him with Danny, who stashed him with his parents since we were just starting our tour. Touring’s no place for a baby.

  “Did something happen to him? Is he sick? What’s wrong?”

  Aaron shakes his head. “No. It was more that the kid barely knew who he was when he went home to visit. Finally got to spend some time with him, and now the kid’s sad that Daddy’s not there. Danny wants us all to go back east. Finish writing the album and record in a studio there so he can spend time with his kid.”

  Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Why can’t he bring the kid here?”

  Aaron spreads his hands. “And tear him away from the only home he knows? And who’d take care of him while Danny’s with us? Or do you think having a two-year-old around for writing sessions is a good idea?” He snaps his fingers like he has a great idea. “I know. The kid could sit in the booth while we record. Help the sound engineer do his job. Perfect.”

  “Fuck off.”

  He smirks.

  I tap my fingers on my beer bottle and turn to face the window, turning the problem over in my head. I can’t blame Danny. I know the whole situation has been rough for him. But dammit, we can’t finish writing our album with our lead guitar on the other side of the country. Much less record the damn thing.

  The label’s been pressuring me to give them a timeline for completion. I’ve been putting them off, and so far they’ve been okay with it, but I know they’re losing their patience. I haven’t said anything to the guys because I don’t want to add to the collective pressure.

  It’s only been a few months since we finished our tour. And we added on some charity gigs after we finished the summer festival circuit. For the first few weeks we all went our separate ways, needing a long break from being together. I know Danny went home to see his parents and Eli. I spent two weeks on a beach in the Bahamas.

  I managed to sketch out a few song ideas there, but it takes time to get the creative juices flowing again. The grind of touring makes it impossible. For me, anyway. I know some bands manage to write on the road, but performing and writing are two separate things, and both equally draining. I can’t juggle both at the same time.

  Add in the pressure of PR appearances at charity events, friends’ weddings, and helping out Kendra, I haven’t had time for the hamster wheel in my head to slow down enough to think.

  I finish my beer and turn back to Aaron. “Maybe it’s not a bad idea, actually. Spend some time in the Berkshires. I think better in the quiet. I don’t know how well I’d manage to finish the album if we stay here.”

  “Right. ‘Cause you do it all on your own.”

  “Ha. You know it all starts with me.”

  Aaron shakes his head and reaches for the plate of steaks. “Grill’s warm enough by now. I’ll go throw these on. Help yourself to another beer. And keep trying to convince yourself it’s the quiet you’re happy to go back home for and not the chance to spend more time with Kendra.”

  Chapter Eight

  Kendra

  A knock on the door pulls my attention out of the course catalogue I’ve been browsing for the last hour. I’m considering applying for a graduate program in nonprofit management. I have this crazy idea that my dad’s company could start a nonprofit arm, and he could put me in charge of it. So far he’s resistant to the idea. If I have a Master’s in nonprofit management, though, I think my case would be stronger. And it’s not like I have anything else to do in the meantime.

  Graduating last May gave me full access to my trust fund. So I bought my condo and busied myself with moving and decorating, but that only occupied the first month or so. In the fall, I resumed volunteering in the office for the nonprofit that provides instruments and lessons to students from low income families. I started working for them when Marcus left during junior year. It was a way to work with something I loved—music—help people, and also feel some sense of my connection with Marcus while he was away. He always encouraged me to continue with music. And I did, to some extent, playing with the band as a non major when I had time. But by the time I got to my upper level classes, my schedule didn’t allow it.

  Rising from the couch, I head to the door, a smile coming to my face. Marcus is supposed to get back in town today. I was thrilled when he called earlier this week to tell me the whole band was coming out here to finish their next album. He said Danny pushed for it so he could be with his son, but I can’t help thinking—hoping, really—that being close to me made Marcus more agreeable to the idea. There are so many good things about him being here. It helps make our relationship more plausible, and I get to spend more time with my best friend.

  But when I pull the door open, the bubbly excitement inside me fizzles out, because the person standing there isn’t Marcus. In fact, it’s the last person I’d expect to drop by unannounced. “Mitchell! What are you doing here?”

  He flips the keys around his finger into his hand and tucks them into his pocket. He’s impeccably dressed as usual in a gray suit, a salmon button down shirt, and a cobalt tie, complete with a matching pocket square, and a camel colored coat draped over his arm. Flat blue eyes and perfect hair make him look like the poster boy for trust fund babies everywhere. His smile is unctuous and makes me want to take a shower. “Hello, Kendra. I hope it’s okay that I stopped by. You haven’t returned my calls.”

  “No. I haven’t.” I position myself in the opening, blocking access to my apartment and pulling the door closer with my hand still resting on the handle, my mind whirling, trying to figure out how to get rid of him as quickly as possible. I don’t need this douchebag ruining what should be a great day. “What can I do for you, Mitchell? I didn’t realize whatever you were calling about was urgent, since you didn’t leave a voicemail.” He’s tried calling me off and on since we broke up, most recently a few days ago. I never answer, letting all his calls go to voicemail, figuring I’d let him tell me what he wants before dealing with him. Not that he ever bothers to leave a voicemail.

  He angles his body closer. “Can I come in?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  A flicker of irritation crosses his face. “Afraid your boyfriend will get jealous if he finds out your ex is over?”

  I can’t help the sigh that comes out. “Sure. Why not.” Let him think what he wants. I have no intention of telling him that I don’t trust him in the slightest, and I have no desire to let him into my space. Not today. Not ever again.

  He skates a hand up my arm that’s not hanging onto the door, and I fight the urge to flinch away. “Come on, Kendra. You really want to waste time on some rockstar who’s been in the tabloids with a new woman every week? You think he’s going to stay faithful when he’s on the road? You know the phrase ‘sex, drugs, and rock and roll,’ right?”

  “What’s your point, Mitchell?”

  His blue eyes shutter, and he pulls his hand back. “If you won’t let me in, will you at least come have coffee with me?”

  I consider him for a moment. I don’t like that he still hasn’t told me what he wants, and I highly suspect that this is some ploy on his part to try to win me back. I’m not sure why. I don’t think he likes me any more than I like him. But picture-perfect Mitchell wants the picture-perfect family, I guess. And he’s had it planted in his head that I’ll give it to him. Probably by his parents as well as mine.

  With another sigh, I give in. “Fine. Coffee. But I’m not staying for longer than
an hour.”

  I close the door in his face, leaving him to wait in the hallway while I gather my purse with my phone and keys, put on my coat, and slip my feet into a pair of ankle boots.

  Hopefully I can convince him that whatever plans he has for us are doomed to failure and he’ll leave me alone after this. I’d rather keep things civil between us, since we’re likely to see each other at events for many years to come. In our families, business, personal, and charity events all gather the same crowds, and there’s little distinction between the three.

  In fact, if you drew a Venn diagram, Mitchell and I would be in the intersection of all three circles.

  I pause to shoot off a quick text to Marcus. Going to coffee with Mitchell. Not sure what he wants. Tucking my phone into my coat pocket, I steel myself for an hour of Mitchell’s company.

  When I come into the hall and pull the door closed, he’s leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, looking every bit like an ad for men’s clothing. As I turn to lock the deadbolt, he says, “You know, I wouldn’t mind waiting inside if you wanted to change clothes.”

  Instinctively, I look down at myself. I have on designer jeans that fit me like a glove and a soft cashmere sweater under my red wool coat. Mitchell always hated this coat, because it’s too bright and attention grabbing. He bought me one just like it in a soft gray. Like his suit. I donated it to a charity shop the next day. “There’s nothing wrong with what I’m wearing, Mitchell.”

  He shrugs, but I know it bothers him that I’m going out with him wearing jeans, even if they are designer.

  And he wonders why I broke up with him.

  “There’s a coffee place on the corner,” I volunteer as we head for the elevator. “That way we can walk.” Because there’s no way I’m getting in a car with him, either. If we walk, I don’t have to worry about getting trapped or stranded. Not that I couldn’t get a ride home if I needed to. It’s the prospect of being trapped in a confined space with someone as slimy as Mitchell that I can’t stomach.

  “Fine,” is all he says.

  I nod at the doorman on our way out into the chilly January weather, and we walk in silence down the block past tall brick condo buildings, crossing the street to the financial district where my favorite coffee place occupies the corner spot of the gray stone building two streets over from Faneuil Hall.

  It’s a locally owned place with housemade pastries, delicious soups, and fair trade organic coffee. The furniture is all subdued browns and greens, a mix of tables, couches, and overstuffed chairs, with splashes of color provided by the artwork from local artists for sale on the walls. I actually bought a couple of pieces here to decorate my condo.

  Like everything else about my choices, Mitchell doesn’t like them. They’re not appropriate or tasteful, according to him.

  Mitchell pays for our coffees before we settle at a table, distaste written all over his face as he removes his coat and drapes it over the extra chair. This place is too plebeian for his liking. Yet another perk of bringing him here.

  When I take my phone out of my pocket, I see that Marcus has responded to my text. On my way. Text me where you are.

  I have to fight back my smile of relief that Marcus is going to rescue me from this situation. And completely ignore the other feelings that being close to Marcus always causes. More so since the last time Mitchell cornered me, Marcus made it clear that I was his. As quickly as I can, I type in the name of the coffee shop and set my phone face down on the table.

  Mitchell eyes the phone then looks at me. “Something important?”

  “Just answering a question. Nothing to worry about. What was it you needed, Mitchell? You never said.”

  He regards me in silence, his blue eyes hooded as he sips the coffee from his paper cup. As he swallows, he looks at the cup and shakes his head. “The coffee’s good, I’ll give you that, but I could’ve taken you somewhere a lot nicer, you know.”

  “I like this place.”

  He eyes me again. “I don’t remember you being this … aggressive about your preferences before.”

  I simply hum my response as I take a sip of my latte. There’s not really a good response to that. I thought I made it clear on our first date that I’d really only agreed to it to get my parents off my back. They’d been pushing me to go out with him for months. When our paths crossed at a charity dinner and he was seated at my table, I suspected it was a setup. I figured if my parents were going to go to that much trouble, agreeing to one dinner with him ought to placate them. But they were so happy, over the moon, really, that we were dating, even though it was just the one time, that I couldn’t tell them that I didn’t intend to see him again. I’ve always hated disappointing them.

  At that point, I didn’t have a specific problem with him. He was gentlemanly, holding doors, pulling out chairs, standing when I left the table to use the restroom. Conversation was light and friendly, if a little dull at times when he talked for too long about business. But I couldn’t come up with a convincing reason to not go out with him again. And I hoped maybe all those little things were just first date nerves. So when he called a few days later, I agreed to see the symphony with him. At least at a concert we wouldn’t have to make small talk. Or at least not for as long.

  But he’d been sweet and seemed genuinely interested in me, so when he kissed me at the end of the night, I let him. And the next time we had a date, I invited him inside.

  It wasn’t until we’d been seeing each other for a few months that the subtle criticisms started. Complaining about the color of my coat. My choice of jewelry. Or the fact that I don’t dress like a society wife twenty-four seven.

  Since, well, I’m not a society wife. Or any other kind of wife.

  All of these criticisms were followed up with gifts. The new coat. New jewelry. A paid-for appointment with a personal shopper.

  I never said anything to him. Just graciously accepted his gifts and donated them.

  But I’m not a moron. I saw exactly what was going on, the way he was trying to mold me into what he wanted. And I had no desire to be some kind of Stepford wife. I was trying to figure out how to disentangle myself from our relationship without causing a rift between me and my parents or his family and mine when my mother dropped the tidbit that Mitchell had asked her my ring size.

  Since she assumed it was for an engagement ring, I saw no reason to doubt her. No longer willing to wait, I broke up with Mitchell that night.

  Fortunately, the blowback wasn’t too severe. My parents were disappointed that I broke up with him. My mom took me out to lunch, where she tried to convince me that Mitchell wasn’t so bad, and his subtle manipulation was really him just being sweet (He got you so many expensive gifts!)

  That was a little over a month ago. He left me alone for a few weeks, but then he started texting me. Checking in, he said, seeing if I was okay when I came down with a cold. Solicitous and friendly.

  When Mom started hinting that I should give him another chance, that their anniversary weekend would be the perfect opportunity to talk to him, I knew I had to bring a date. Not just any date. A boyfriend.

  Enter Marcus.

  Who can’t get here soon enough.

  Especially with the Mitchell criticism train already having made two stops.

  When I don’t give him the desired response, namely an apology for making him come to a place where normal people congregate instead of letting him whisk me to some overpriced gourmet restaurant for dinner rather than the more quotidian coffee, he sighs and sets his coffee down.

  I quirk an eyebrow when he levels a serious look at me. Almost a glare, but not quite. “Kendra.”

  “Mitchell.”

  His lips press into a firm line, and I know he’s keeping a tight rein on his patience. “As you know, our relationship presents certain … advantages for our families.”

  “It does?”

  “Don’t play dumb, Kendra. If we get married, there’s no question of what happens t
o the company once our fathers retire. And since they’re not getting any younger, we need to face the fact that we have to plan for their eventual retirement.”

  Something weird happens in my stomach at his words. I still think of my dad as the same guy who used to chase me around the backyard when I was a kid. Even though his hair is graying, he still looks like a man ten years younger than he is. Thinking about him getting older, retiring, not working all the time is weird. His work has defined him my whole life. He always made time for me, but Dad and work are synonyms in my mind. I never thought of him retiring before. I figured he’d work till he dies.

  I force a smile. “You make it sound like they both have one foot in the grave already. You really think they’re going to retire anytime soon?”

  He smirks back at me. The expression has a distinct condescending flavor. “Kendra, they’re getting older. Even if it’s not for another ten years, we have to plan for the transition. That takes time.” He reaches across the table and covers my free hand with his. “If we’re together, our families’ shares merge into one once our fathers retire. It makes the transition seamless and keeps it all in the family.”

  I gently extract my hand. “You seem to be forgetting something.”

  Sitting back, he lifts an eyebrow and makes a gesture inviting me to explain.

  “I have a boyfriend. And it’s not you.” I tilt my cup in his direction before taking a sip.

  He rubs his finger over his lips a couple of times before leaning forward again, bracing his elbows on the table. “The thing is, Kendra, I don’t really believe that that guy’s your boyfriend.”

  My heart rate picks up, but I force my face to remain placid, taking a sip of my coffee to stall for time and make sure my voice doesn’t betray my nerves. “Oh? And why’s that?”

  He smirks. “Come on, Kendra. We both know that little show was all for your parents’ benefit. You’ve been friends with that guy for years. Just friends. Why would that change now?”