by B. B. Miller
“It’s not like that.”
He snorts and leans back in the stool. “Sure it’s not.”
“No, seriously. I think her feelings toward me lean to the side of general disapproval and revulsion.” Not that I want it to stay that way.
“Ah, a challenge then. Good on you. It’s been a while since you’ve had a steady girl. Since Michelle, yeah?” He tilts his head back dramatically, throwing back another shot.
“I could’ve lived the rest of my life without hearing you say her name again.”
“Still stings, does it?” I glare at him in response, my hand itching to fill the glass. “Which band was that guy from again that you found her with?”
“Fuck, you are a pain in the ass, and it was Stomp the Faith, remember?” It’s not a time in my life I like to revisit. Michelle and I were the real deal. At least, I thought we were. We had been together for over two years. Two years of turning down other women and flying home between gigs just to spend a few hours with her. Two years that came to a screeching halt when I found her with the drummer from a one-hit-wonder band.
“It’s all coming back to me. Seems appropriate, the name of the band.” I close my hand around the neck of the bottle, and fill up the glass in front of me.
“Anyway, we’re not talking about me here; we’re supposed to be talking about you.” I refill his glass, setting the bottle out of my reach. “I need to know how bad it is. If we need to push out any concert dates or cancel appearances.”
He looks surprised at my suggestion. “You’d do that for me?”
“The tour doesn’t work without the four of us.”
He claps my shoulder. “That means a lot,” he says quietly.
“You’d do the same thing for me,” I answer, shrugging him off.
He runs his hand over his face before staring blankly into the wall of bottles behind the bar. “It was just last night,” he admits quietly.
“Something happen to set it off? You’ve been clean for almost a year.”
He lets out a mock laugh. “Does it matter? It was a Tuesday? Broke a drumstick? You know how this works. There doesn’t have to be some grand philosophical reason. Brodie said it was some of the best. I was curious. A moment of weakness.”
I nod, gripping my hands firmly around the cool glass. Just one drink . . . “Do you want me to call somebody? Your sister?”
“Nah. You’re here. Besides, Sydney would kill me.” He touches his glass to the one cradled between my hands, and just like that, all is right in our fucked-up world once again. “I’m sorry about the drumstick to the head.”
“No you’re not.” I chuckle. “And it missed me. Nice try, though. Your aim needs work.”
“It won’t happen again, Kennedy,” he says seriously. “I know how important this is to you . . . to all of us. You have my word.”
“That’s all I need.”
“Tell me something, though.” He faces me. “When Parker’s had his day, and you’re done with the girl, what’ll be your reason to stay sober then, hmm?”
“I don’t know.” The glass finds its way to my lips, and I hesitate before draining back the contents. “I don’t know.”
No matter how many times you tell yourself it’s just one drink, the truth is, it’s already too late. You’ve broken the promise you made to yourself, to the people around you, and those who aren’t here anymore. You’re a failure. The demon has taken over, grabbed hold of you, and you’ve got to decide to either fight or prepare for the inevitable.
Tonight, I’m trying to fight. I’ve locked myself away from the party well under way in another suite. I’ve shut the door on the band, and on Brodie. It’s Tucker and me and a room full of guitars; I leave the demon lurking down the hall.
I had wanted to send Abby a video every day, but tonight, I just can’t. If she sees me, she’ll know. And she can’t know about this. She can’t know that less than a week after I told her to trust me that I screwed up.
But the phone is heavy in my hand, and I can’t stop the overwhelming need to reach out. It’s like she’s calling to me without ever saying a word. I type out a message quickly.
I’ve been thinking . . .
Her answering text is a welcome surprise.
Dangerous for you . . .
Abigail
Smiling tiredly, I gaze through the taxi window at the glorious art deco styling of the Chrysler Building. Although other skyscrapers may be more celebrated, I think it’s still one of the most striking buildings in the country.
My flight from San Francisco was nonstop, but that also meant I had virtually no relief from the toddler sitting behind me who wouldn’t stop kicking the back of my seat, no matter how many times I shot a look at his father, who was too busy playing with his phone to mind his son. All I’m thinking about now is room service and a nice long soak in a tub.
By the time I’m out of the cab, my luggage is out of the trunk and waiting for me with another helpful valet despite the late hour. Although a lot of people discount the New York St. Regis as being too old-fashioned, one thing that can’t be argued about is its impeccable service.
I elect to haul my own bag and make my way into the luxurious lobby. Starwood Hotels and Resorts is one of our largest corporate donors, and this year’s annual meeting of its board of directors is being held all week at the St. Regis. One requirement of their continued participation is that I deliver a presentation on the fruits of their labor in person. It’s a small price to pay considering all they do for us.
A tall man with hair dyed the most violent, unnatural shade of red I’ve ever seen and dressed like a designer version of Mad Max practically mows me down in his haste to embrace two scantily-dressed women who stare at him with such vapid adoration it makes me shudder. You can practically see the alcohol fumes clinging to all three of them. He slings an arm around each of their necks, crooning to them in a sexy British accent, and jauntily escorts the giggling pair toward the bank of elevators. They look like a disaster waiting to happen.
Shaking my head in amusement, I finally reach the desk to check in. “Ah, Miss Walker,” the desk clerk says politely as he scans his computer screen. “You’ve been upgraded to one of our deluxe suites, compliments of Mr. Pavel Orlov. Complimentary butler service comes standard with those rooms. Your butler, Gregory, will escort you and see to your luggage.”
My eyes widen in mild surprise. Pavel is Managing Director of the Starwood group, and he’s become a good friend over the years, but an upgrade was unexpected.
“An upgrade isn’t necessary, thank you. Please pass along my thanks to Mr. Orlov, but I’m perfectly fine in a regular guestroom.” I’m scrupulously aware of my role and constantly guard my organization’s reputation, especially when I travel. The last thing I want is for April to have to handle any bad press about me mishandling funds for my own benefit.
“I’m sorry, Miss Walker, but all our regular rooms are unavailable. The upgrade is an apology for your original reservation being unfortunately overbooked.”
I look at him skeptically, but his face remains impassive. “Hmm, all right, then. Please thank Mr. Orlov for me.” I sign the necessary papers and turn to find Gregory waiting patiently, my bag and laptop case in hand.
The Madison Suite is lovely, and I can’t help but smile at this unexpected treat as I enter the well-appointed room. It’s small as suites go, with only one bedroom, but that’s much, much more than I usually allow myself. I decline Gregory’s offer to help me unpack and place my dinner order instead. It’s getting late, but my stomach is still on West Coast time. I’m just sitting down to put my feet up for a moment when my phone rings. With a sigh, I answer.
“Have you heard from Kennedy Lane or any of his representatives?” Nadia’s irritated voice blares from the tiny speaker.
“Now, why would you think that?” I deflect, my shoulders tensing. My phone, containing today’s video message from the man in question, is practically burning a hole in my hand.
/> “Because I know you still have his number, Abby,” she snipes, and I bite my lip. “I haven’t heard jack shit from his team since he was in your office. What the hell did you tell him?” Nadia was not happy that I hadn’t called her when Lane had surprised me a week ago, and wasn’t shy about telling me how she felt. Plus, she knew I wasn’t telling her everything about why he’d entered his phone number into my cell. There was no way I’d tell her how I lost my cool with him that day. Besides, he’d trusted me with the video and his number, and despite my misgivings, I won’t break that trust.
Beyond that, though, there was something intimate about experiencing his creative process that I selfishly want to keep to myself, which makes me exceedingly uncomfortable.
“Calm down. I told you what I told him.” Well, essentially. “I don’t know why they haven’t contacted you, but I’m sure they will. Nadia, it’s Sunday night. Don’t tell me you’re working.”
“Of course I’m working,” she snaps and then takes a calming breath. “Sorry. I had some things to catch up on. The silence from the Lane camp is pissing me off, Abby. I want to get Parker’s dream settled.”
“Well, there’s nothing to be done about it tonight. Tell me what else is going on.” She gives me the rundown on a few other projects she’s trying to finish up and I give her my input. “I have the Starwood meeting tomorrow, and then I’ve got the Yankees Tuesday. Anything else I need to know about that?”
“Nah. You’ve got that one in the bag,” she says confidently. “Give me a call tomorrow night, okay?”
We say our good-byes just as my dinner arrives. After devouring a deliciously comforting butternut risotto, I sink gratefully into a hot bath and sigh in relief as I feel my tense muscles relax. But after soaking in silent bliss for a few moments, my thoughts begin to swirl.
I sink lower in the soothing water, annoyed that I can’t stop thinking about him. I hate that I’m attracted to a man who seems to be such a train wreck. But is he? There have been other texts from him, little snippets of thoughts that are sometimes profound and sometimes prosaic. The picture they’re painting is different from that of the arrogant, entitled man who had appeared in my office, and they’ve left me confused and even a little regretful. I still haven’t responded to any of them, even the video he sent this morning after jogging. Snickering, I hope he has a medic on standby if he’s going to keep up with his exercise kick. Then my smile dims. He says he’s trying, or at least he thinks he is, despite my repeated efforts to let him off the hook. Why bother? I just don’t get it. What does he—
My phone chimes with a text, and I mentally chide myself for bringing it into the bathroom with me. I really need to learn how to unplug. “Yes, Nadia, what now?” I grumble, reaching over to the wide ledge to retrieve my instrument of torture.
What I see makes me almost drop the phone.
I’ve been thinking . . .
I suck in a breath, every inch of me suddenly on alert despite the lulling heat surrounding me. The fact that I’m naked makes me feel both vulnerable and slightly aroused. I quickly tap out a message before I can change my mind.
Dangerous for you . . .
Biting my lip, I don’t have to wait long for a response.
Ah, so you are alive! I was beginning to wonder.
A dry smirk curls my lips. Maybe this won’t be so difficult after all.
Alive and well. You were thinking?
I was wondering what I’d have to do to get you to respond. You don’t make things easy, ya know?
No one ever said I was easy, Mr. Lane. You’d do well to remember that.
Don’t I know it. Did you get my last video?
You looked a little out of shape. Did you survive?
Barely. It’s been a while since I’ve been running. Do you run?
Almost every day.
Figures. What else do you do for fun?
My fingers freeze over the tiny keyboard. Sitting up, I pull my knees to my chest and take a calming breath. Oh, a little of this, a little of that.
Aw, come on . . . you must do something to relax.
Right now, I’m texting with a rock star. Just a typical Sunday night.
I bet. Well, I’m flattered that you consider this relaxing. What else?
The water sloshes as I shift uneasily, unsure of what I’ve gotten myself into. With anyone else, it would be just a friendly question, but with him . . . Well, at least I’ve responded, so now he knows his messages haven’t been floating aimlessly out on the ether. Besides, it really is getting late.
I’m sorry, but I need to go. I have an early meeting tomorrow.
Getting too personal for you?
His taunting voice from our last meeting floats in my mind, and my anger spikes as my fingers fly. Ass. You want personal?
No. But my bathwater is getting cold, and I need to get out of the tub. Goodnight.
I shut off my phone before he can respond and clamber out of the bathtub to dry myself. There, I’ve shown him. Stomping to the bedroom, I throw on my sleep shirt, plug my phone in to charge, and crawl into bed.
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
The next morning, I tuck a stray hair behind my ear as I make my way downstairs to the ballroom. It took forever to wrestle my hair into a French twist. The pot of coffee that was delivered to my door with breakfast hasn’t done much to dispel my grogginess. Despite the softness of the plush hotel bed, my sleep was plagued with disturbing dreams of my ex, Lucas, and of intense ice blue eyes. Then when I finally turned my phone on this morning, it was to discover only texts from Maddie, work-related emails, and two more dead-air voice mails from my loyal assaholic crank caller. I blocked him the last time he called, but he must be using throwaway phones. I have got to remember to change my phone number when I get home. I received nothing from the cheeky rock god, which simultaneously irritates and relieves me.
I have no business being irritated. I never should’ve sent that final text last night. What the hell is wrong with me? What is it about this guy that keeps pushing me over the professional line into conversations that just aren’t appropriate? I charge down my hallway and jab the elevator button repeatedly. He isn’t my boyfriend. Hell, he isn’t even my friend. He’s simply a client, a means to an end. Frowning, I feel a twinge in my heart that tells me that isn’t true. Okay, so he’s a very hot and complicated client that I shouldn’t be as attracted to as I am. Gah! Why can’t he just leave me alone?
When I see the well-heeled crowd leisurely greeting each other as they enter the meeting room, I shake off my fatigue and moodiness and adopt my professional smile. I chose my wardrobe carefully for this audience; a navy suit with a blue silk blouse, paired with nondescript heels, should be appropriately conservative.
Before I can approach the doors, I’m stopped by a tall, slender, dark-haired man dressed impeccably in Armani and smiling confidently. “Abigail—it’s a pleasure to see you this bleary Monday morning. Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough. Thank you for the upgrade; the suite is lovely.”
Pavel smiles and adjusts one of his cufflinks. “It was the least I could do when your original booking was unfortunately squeezed. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“You’ve done too much as it is,” I respond with a dry smirk. “I’m scheduled to speak just after lunch, yes?”
“Yes. But I’m hoping you’re still planning on being my guest for the morning session. There are some people you should meet.” He takes my arm and I allow him to guide me into the room. It’s a typical round table setup for approximately one hundred with a stage set up along one wall. But since it’s the St. Regis, the chairs are comfortable, the linens are crisp, and the centerpieces are swallow crystal bowls filled with water and floating flowers that perfume the air with a delicate fragrance.
The morning proceeds as expected. The number of actual board members in the room is less than half the total of attendees; staffers and the odd bodyguard make up the rest. It’s pretty
easy to tell which is which, but I can’t discriminate. The seconds and thirds-in-command are just as influential as their bosses, so everyone gets the Cordial Abigail Walker Treatment.
Finally, lunch is over, and it’s time for my introduction. I listen attentively as Pavel goes through the financial aspects of Starwood’s annual donation to What’s Your Dream. He’s all data and spreadsheets, and you can almost hear snores from the stuffed suits at the front tables. I hate presenting to these types of groups right after lunch. Between the monotony of the numbers and their full bellies, they’re almost catatonic.
On the other hand, it’s also a challenge I relish—to break through their lethargy and bring them back to life. Truly, these grim-looking men and women have made the difference in a multitude of children’s lives. And it’s time they knew it.
“And now, please welcome to the podium the executive director of What’s Your Dream, Abigail Walker.” I straighten my suit jacket and give the room my winningest smile in acknowledgement of the smattering of polite applause as I step up to the stage. Taking the clicker, I stand to the side of the screen behind me and take a deep breath.
“Thank you, Pavel.” I give him a nod, before facing the sea of stoic faces. “You’ve heard the cold facts and figures, now let me show you the real story of your generous contributions.” I click a button to lower the lights and another to begin my presentation. A huge close-up of a laughing, red- haired, freckle-faced boy with a missing front tooth dominates the screen. “Meet Paden. He’s eight-years-old and plays second base for his little league team in Barstow, California. He also has Burkitt lymphoma. His dream was to take batting practice with his favorite baseball team, the Red Sox.”
With another click, a grinning Paden stands at home plate in Fenway Park with several members of the team lit up the screen. “Thanks to Starwood Hotels, Paden and his family were able to stay at the Westin Boston Waterfront for three days in fulfillment of his dream. He not only got to take batting practice and pose for photos with his heroes, but he also attended a game against the Yankees, and received the honor of leading the crowd in singing during the seventh inning. He was over the moon, as you can see.” The last shot of a clearly enthusiastic and giggling Paden, sitting up in the press box with his father and the Red Sox announcing crew, draws a few appreciative chuckles from the crowd, and I grin to myself in satisfaction as they visibly begin to thaw.