You Dropped a Blonde on Me

by Dakota Cassidy

  Connor’s mouth twisted at the mention of his father. “Not really. I just think you’re doing what you do best.”

  “And what’s that?”

  He looked up at her, setting the new cell phone she’d just purchased for him aside. “Am I gonna be grounded if I tell you the truth?”

  “Nope. Shoot straight.”

  Connor didn’t look convinced. “You’re really sure?”

  Max patted his hand for reassurance. “Shoot. What do I do best?”

  “Try to keep everyone happy. I think you’re doing what you’ve always done with Dad. Smoothing things over to keep him from freaking out. Letting go of the stuff that bothers you so you won’t have to argue. Dad knew you did it, and he used it against you. You used to do it all the time.”

  Maxine nodded with despair. There was no denying she’d done whatever it took to keep Finley pacified.

  “You’d make me clean up my toys so Dad wouldn’t trip over one and flip out because his day was always so much longer and harder than everyone else’s. You used to give me that ‘hush your mouth’ sign with your finger over your mouth behind his back to give me a heads-up not to push him too far. You used to distract him when he was mad and ready to fire someone at the dealership over something really lame, like one of the mechanics not calling him ‘Mr. Cambridge.’ You did stuff like that to keep him happy. But I don’t get one thing. Why are you still doing it?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Keeping him happy. Pretty soon you won’t be married to him anymore—it’ll be Lacey’s job to do it. I don’t really care about Dad’s money or how much he pays for child support and all the other crap. I don’t care that he’s being a jerk and refusing to pay for college. I’ll get a scholarship or something. I don’t even care if we live here with Grandma until I graduate. But I kinda think you did a lot of things for Dad that if you were someone else, he’d have had to pay for it. That should mean something, shouldn’t it?”

  A tear stung her eye. Shame washed over her in ugly waves of reality. Not only had she walked on eggshells with Finley, she’d made Connor do it, too. “But those were things I did out of love, Connor. Not because I hoped to be paid for them someday.”

  “And this is how he pays back that kind of love? That’s pretty twisted. If he wanted a divorce because of Lacey, fine, but did he have to treat you like you were garbage when you were always nice to him? Cut you off like he was never married to you?”

  If only it were all that simple. It was so classic. The timeless story of a bitter divorce. “I have to admit, I never believed your dad would go this far. I’m sorry, Connor,” Max apologized. “I’m sorry I didn’t see what I was doing to you while I tried to keep your dad happy.”

  His broadening shoulders shrugged. “Then don’t do it anymore. Even if you go down, go down swinging.”

  Max absorbed his advice for a moment, still astounded at how astute Connor was. There was so much she wished she could’ve hidden from him, protected him from. In hindsight, she realized, she hadn’t been aware she was making him walk on those eggshells with her because she’d been too busy working at keeping everything together. “And who taught you that motto?”

  He smirked before rising to slide open the glass doors that led to the house. “Grandma. She said she taught you that, too.”

  Yeah. Yeah, she had. “Ever wonder why I don’t listen to her?”

  “For the same reasons I don’t listen to you,” he joked. “She’s your Mom.”

  Max smiled. Yeah. That she was.

  “Joseph Arwin speaking.”

  “This is Maxine Cambridge, Mr. Got My Law Degree From A Bubble-Gum Machine U,” she said into her cell, smiling when she imagined the look on Joseph Arwin’s face at her snipe.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. It’s Maxine Cambridge. I’m calling to fire you.”

  “Fire me?”

  She nodded to herself with a smug smile as she turned onto the highway. “Yep. I knoooow. You’re so surprised, right? I mean, who would want to fire a lawyer as fine as yourself? One who’s fought to the bitter end for me while he ran my credit card up to the max and didn’t do a damned thing for me but tell me it was all my fault I was going to be left with no money? Crazy, right?”

  His sigh was long and aggravated. “Mrs. Cambridge, is this another frantic call about a situation you created yourself? Something I can do nothing about?” His condescending tone chapped her ass.

  Max clucked her tongue into the phone. “You know, funny that. You can do something about it. You just want more money to do it. It took me some time, but then I figured it out. If I’d gone to a real lawyer in the first place who can, based on his reputation, legitimately charge two hundred and fifty bucks an hour for some actual work, I would have been much better off. But silly me, I went cheap, and you know what they say about champagne wishes on a beer budget, right? Yeah, I got the six-pack, pal. But no more. And just an FYI. If, instead of just shuffling papers for the last year and telling me your hands were tied, you’d have done something more than charge my credit card to pay for your mai tais with the fancy umbrellas at the Tiki Lounge, I might have had more money to pay for an attorney who would have at the very least gotten me some decent child support and fought for my son’s college education—which he’s entitled to. So hear this! You’re fired, and if you see your face on a billboard off the Jersey Turnpike with a big X over it that reads ‘Want A Divorce That Doesn’t Rip You A New Asshole? Don’t Call Him’—you’ll know it was me!”

  Max clicked off the phone with satisfaction, throwing it to the passenger seat, her cheeks red, her eyes blazing defiance in the rearview mirror. Wow, when a princess sucked it up, it felt Goddamned good.

  Her chat with Connor last night was the final straw in a string of straws that should have broken the camel’s back long ago. For all the good she’d taught him, she’d also taught him to be a pacifist.

  To sit back and let everyone else rule your kingdom while you pretended everything was okay. While you wrung your hands and relinquished what you could control, leaving the outcome of your life to a man who shouldn’t be allowed to control a car radio.

  Well, no more. No more sitting quietly in the corner, hiding behind her greasy hair, only peeking out occasionally to see the world pass her by, and letting Finley and anyone else she’d allow take advantage of her.

  Not another minute of placating, pacifying, fucking peace-making on Finley Cambridge’s behalf.

  Cheesy lawyer disposed of?

  Check.

  Cheap, bloodsucking leech of a husband due for a bashing?

  Up next.

  And it was only nine o’clock in the morning.

  Max Cambridge didn’t want to be a Cambridge anymore, but she’d be one for as long as it took to make Fin’s marriage to Lacey impossible or until she’d waited so long, Lacey wouldn’t be so young and nubile anymore.

  Straightening her navy blue blazer, Max pulled into a parking space and marched into Cambridge Auto, heading straight for Barbie in the circular reception area. Her face, blank but beautiful as ever, took on a whole new expression when she caught sight of Max.

  Fear.

  Max smelled it. As much as it would bring her great pleasure to sink neck deep in it, that wasn’t what she was here for. “Tell Finley I’m here,” she demanded, ignoring several looks from Cambridge Auto employees. “Oh, and tell him I promise to keep my fists to myself.” She winked.

  The blonde waffled, her lips moving, but only a stutter coming out. “He—he said he can’t be—dis . . .”

  “Disturbed. Yeah. He says that whenever he’s in there, banging some poor, unsuspecting just-barely-over-the-legal-limit blonde. So press that button on your phone and tell him to put the ‘monster’ ”—she nodded at the memory—“yeah, that’s what he used to call it, tell him to put the ‘monster’ away. The woman who really wants to be his ex-wife is here, and she’d be happy to sign those divorce papers the cheap bastard sent he
r, but she won’t do it until he talks to her.”

  Bodacious babe headed for Fin’s door, knocking on it with worry lining her face and a trembling lower lip. “Mr. Cambridge, you have a visitor who—who . . .”

  The door popped open, Fin poked his head out, his line of vision zeroing in on Max. “Maxine.”

  “Finley,” she drawled, stunned at how relaxed she was. She held up the divorce papers, waving them like a white flag. “I think we have to chat.”

  He straightened his already ramrod straight tie. “Talk to my lawyer.”

  “But don’t you want me to sign these papers?” she cooed, taunting him.

  A glimmer of the kill twinkled in his eye. He motioned a hand for her to enter.

  She brushed past him, shocked the bottle of Pepto-Bismol she had in her purse wasn’t screaming her name. There wasn’t an iota of a rumble in her stomach. No acid reflux, no jitters, no cold hands and crashing heart.

  Just dead resolve.

  Fin closed the door behind her, making his way around his desk. A desk so big, Max had always considered it a phallic symbol of the power he liked to show everyone he had.

  And it was a good representation. He was a big dick.

  Finley eyed her with that cold amusement he’d cultivated over the years. “What do you want, Maxine?”

  Her return smile was just as cold. “Out. I want out. If I have to be married to you for one more second, I think I’ll crawl right out of my skin.”

  He tapped an impatient pen on the surface of his desk as though she bored him. “So sign the papers and save your skin.”

  “May I use your pen?” she asked, syrupy sweet, sitting at the edge of his desk. “I don’t have one of my own, but I know how you hate to share, you know, anything. Like houses and furniture and mon-ey.” Max rubbed her fingers together.

  Rolling his tongue in his cheek, Finley handed her the pen without a word, but the tic in his left eye exposed his irritation.

  She fanned herself with the papers, putting the pen behind her ear. “You know what, Fin?”

  “What, Maxine?”

  Ohhhh, his teeth were clenched. Nice. They were at DEFCON level 2 and she’d only asked to borrow his pen. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what a shitty person you are. What a crappy, lying, cheating pig of a husband you were, too.”

  Razor-sharp eyes flashed at her. “Have you thought about what a crappy wife you were? If you’d done what good wives do—”

  “Oh! Wait. I can finish the sentence for you.” Planting her hands on her hips, she mimicked him. “ ‘If you’d been a better wife, Maxine, I wouldn’t have gone elsewhere. If you’d kept the spark alive, I wouldn’t have had to set fire to half the tri-state area with my useless dick.’ Right? Isn’t that how it goes?” She nodded, agreeing with herself. “Yes. That’s how I remember it. It was all my fault.” Her shoulders shrugged. “Maybe it was. Maybe I didn’t do my part. But you know what?”

  His sneer grew. “Get to the point, Maxine.”

  “I asked a question,” she pouted with a coy, flirtatious wink.

  “What, Maxine?”

  “What if Lacey never gets to do her part?”

  Finley rose, leaning over the desk with tense muscles. “What part?”

  “What if I don’t sign these papers? I can drag this divorce out forever and Lacey will never get to do her part, stroking your monster ego as your wife because she won’t be able to marry you unless I let her.”

  His eyes narrowed to ugly pinpoints, but there was something else there, too. Relief? “So are you saying you’re going to hold me hostage because you’re as pathetic as I tell everyone?”

  Her smile was sly. “You betcha.”

  Finley’s face cracked, just an inch, but crack it did. “What would it take to get you to sign them?”

  She jabbed a finger into that crack, forcing it open just a little further. “Connor’s education. What kind of father are you that you’d let your own flesh and blood suffer because you want to punish him for standing up to you? I don’t mind telling you, you’re disgusting. How I missed that all these years just goes to show you how far a little cash and a semi-convincing line will get you. It sure wasn’t your brains and brawn that made me stick around. So, here we are. If you don’t draw up a new agreement that says you’ll pay for Connor’s every little collegiate need, I’ll be Mrs. Finley Cambridge for-ev-ah.”

  Phew. Who was she?

  And then she remembered. She was Connor’s mother, and she’d squeeze Finley’s balls until the Winter Olympics were held in hell before she’d give up the opportunity for Connor to realize his dream.

  “You’re some fucking bitch, Maxine,” he growled.

  “Uh-huh. And your vocabulary is still just as original. Stunted, but original. So,” Max waved the papers in his face, “do we have a deal?”

  “The hell we do,” he spat in her face.

  “Bum-mer,” she spat back from somewhere deep and ugly. “I guess Lacey’ll just have to wait to change her monogrammed towels, huh?”

  “Fin?” A frantic voice barged through the door in clattering high heels and clingy material. “Sweetie? What’s going on?”

  “Oh, look. It’s the never gonna be Mrs. Finley Cambridge number two,” Max said on a wicked chuckle. Whatever, whoever possessed her right now was invited to stay. Even if it made her head spin and she ended up yarking pea soup.

  Lacey went immediately to Fin’s side, concern riddling her face. “What does she mean, Fin?”

  He stretched his neck upward, sucking in his cheeks. “Maxine’s refusing to sign the divorce papers, pumpkin. I told you she was a bitch.”

  Lacey flapped a hand as though this were all so silly-willy. “Oh, Maxine, don’t be a poop. You know you don’t want to be married anymore. You have that new boyfriend. Doesn’t he want you to be divorced?” she asked in a tone littered with an appeasing edge.

  Seeing Lacey like this, watching her run her hands over Fin’s arm to soothe his escalating temper was like a flashback to the early years of her marriage where it was all about keeping Fin calm. “I’m sure he does, but that’s not going to happen until I get what I want.”

  Confusion spread over Lacey’s youthful face. “But what could you want? You signed a prenuptial agreement. What else is there? Is it the furniture? I’d give it to you because I’m only going to replace it anyway, but where would you put it at your mother’s? Besides, Fin said you didn’t want it.”

  The furniture? With the speed of a fastball to the head, enlightenment smacked right into Max. Jesus Christ on a cracker. Lacey had no idea. None. She was clueless about what Fin was doing. How advantageous to find that out now—right here—at the bargaining table.

  Max’s smile grew. So did her balls. “Lacey? I don’t want the furniture. I don’t even want my clothes. That Fin’s let you believe those items, any items, were ever an option for me makes him a bigger scumbag than even I thought he was.”

  Her blonde head tilted as if she hadn’t heard Max right. “But he said—”

  Max’s laugh was bitter when she cut her off. “Oh, I can only imagine what he said, but here’s the truth—”

  “Shut your trap, Maxine!” Fin roared.

  Max reached over the desk and patted his arm, much the way she did when she was pacifying one of the seniors. Only this time, it wasn’t to make his boo-boo all better. “Easy there, big guy. Your cholesterol’s pretty high. I know I told you all that whole wheat bread was the only kind Lola could find at the store, but it was really to keep you from having a heart attack. Upon reflection, I should have given you white bread—loaves at a time.”

  “Get. Out. You. Bitch!”

  Hopping off his desk on light feet, Max held up the papers. “Oh, I’m getting, but before I do, pay close attention. I don’t know what you’ve been telling your girlfriend here to make yourself look like you give a damn about your son, but here’s the scoop. If you don’t have a new agreement drafted, you ain’t goin’ to the chapel any t
ime this millennium.”

  Her hands held up the papers in front of her face.

  The joy she took in tearing them in half, the sweet sound of paper ripping into confetti-sized pieces was like a symphony of violins playing in her ears. Max threw them up into the air, watching as they drifted to the floor in all their cheapskate glory.

  “Fin,” Lacey sobbed. “Just do what she wants. Please, honey. So I can finally be your wife. I don’t want to wait anymore!”

  The shift in Finley’s stance, the subtle half an inch or so he moved away from Lacey, brought with it another realization.

  He was using both her and Connor.

  To avoid ever having to marry Lacey.

  Fin could put her off until the cows came home with the excuse that Maxine was behaving like a difficult bitch, and there was nothing he could do but wait. It was free pussy without Lacey having all the Cambridge privileges.

  Max’s mouth fell open, and then she threw her head back and laughed.

  Laughed until tears streamed down her face and she had to hold her stomach to quell the ache. “Ohhhhhhhh, Finley, you crafty old fox, you,” she crowed. Clapping her hands, she giggled again, high on this coup she’d stumbled upon. “Lacey? I hope you didn’t pay for your wedding dress yet because by the time you get to wear it, Vogue will probably have closed its doors.”

  Max strode to the door, stepping over the shredded paper of her divorce. “And Fin? Just a thought. Maybe you should tell Lacey the only thing keeping her from signing checks as Mrs. Finley Cambridge is your reluctance, nay, your staunch refusal to pay for our son’s college education.”

  With a wiggle of her fingers over her shoulder, Max strutted out the door, bumping into some of the dealership’s employees on her way.

  Outside, in the crisp autumn air, she indulged in a deep, cleansing breath before getting into her mother’s car.

  The kind of breath you take when self-confidence fills your lungs so full you can actually taste it.

  And it tasted better than any Cristal or Pernod ever had.

  Nom-nom.