Point of Release (Point Series Book 2)

by Remy Rose

  I shrug and pull my legs under me in the armchair. “I guess I'm resisting talking to him because I don't feel like he deserves it. I trusted him, and he hurt me.”

  “I get that. I'm not saying he wasn't a total ass hat for getting you involved in that game. But given his actions since then, I have to think he is sincerely sorry, and I have to give him credit for trying so hard. Plus—and this is a big plus I thought about—he stopped himself from having sex with you. He couldn't go through with it, remember? And he didn't intend for that colleague of his to see the video, because if he did, he would have fucked you.”

  I shift in my seat. I haven’t really allowed myself to go there—to where I might forgive him.

  “Is this making any sense to you?”

  “I try not to think about it too much.”

  “And how's that working out for you? Trying to push it out of your mind is not going to solve anything. I know you, and Carlo keeps creeping back in to your thoughts, doesn't he?”

  “I'm trying to close that chapter of my life.”

  “Reread it. At least just skim. Maybe there's a reason why that book is hard to put down.”

  “Speaking of books, don't you have studying to do?”

  “Okay, okay, I'll take the hint and drop this. For now. You want to go out with us later?”

  “I have turnout tomorrow at Windswept, so I'll have to pass. And I haven’t told you because I hate to think about it, but Brownie is leaving. Ingrid told me he's going to Florida.” The back of my eyeballs begin to burn, and I blink viciously to keep the tears from coming.

  “Your horse crush? Oh, shit—that sucks, Cass.”

  “I'm trying to get myself used to the idea. It's just hard.”

  “You should definitely come out with us then, so we can cheer you up.”

  “I'm honestly too tired. I've got to get to bed early, and hopefully I'll sleep better tonight. Last night, I kept dreaming about headlights.”

  “Headlights?”

  “The person who was following me in the car, remember?”

  “Ughh, that's right...the stalker. I'm sorry about that. It was probably just some random thing, though.”

  Teal resumes her studying while I make nachos and peruse Etsy and eBay for the next couple hours, interrupted by Teal's phone call from Garrett and a text from Carlo: Hope you're enjoying your weekend. I'd like to talk to you soon. Pretty bland, compared to some of his texts. But this is how he rolls—seesawing back and forth, keeping me off balance.

  By the time Teal is ready to leave, it’s snowing: fat, lacy flakes accumulating quickly on the ground. My mother used to say whenever the snow was sticky like this that it was snowmen “hiding,” waiting to be shaped and brought to life. My throat tightens. Christmas is eight days away. I’ll be alone. Again. And missing my mom.

  “Hey.” Teal’s looking at me anxiously as she puts on her jacket. “You okay? Your face just got sad and serious all of a sudden.”

  “PMS. And the whole holiday thing. But I'll be fine.”

  “Come out with us tonight, Cass. Even if you're tired. It'll be good for you. I don't like thinking of you here alone on a Saturday night.”

  “I love you for worrying about me. But really, I'm okay. I'm going to take out some Christmas decorations and make things merry around here.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. I've decided I want to start liking Christmas again.”

  She pulls me into a tight hug and kisses me loudly on the cheek. “That's very cool. I'm proud of you. If you get good at liking it, maybe you can help me find the joy. Even with my psycho family.”

  I’m locking the door after Teal leaves when I realize I haven’t gotten my mail yet. Slipping my feet into my untied sneakers, I grab the mailbox key and head out to the bank of mailboxes, shivering in my thin sweatshirt as the snow falls all around me.

  Norman, the maintenance guy, calls to me from spreading salt on the sidewalk. “You need a coat, Cassandra.”

  “You’re right, Norman. Quick trip out here, though.”

  I unlock the mailbox and reach inside. Four items—the cable TV bill, a credit card offer, a Target flyer, and a red envelope that looked to contain a card. No return address, but it’s postmarked Harrisburg. I recognize the handwriting—the slant of the letters, the first letter of my name larger than the rest. It’s from my father. How did he find my address? Probably the same way I found his. And he would dare to contact me—at Christmas?

  I’m stiff with indignation, walking back to my apartment. I said what I wanted to say when I’d gone to see him; I had been in charge. That visit was supposed to be closure. My father shouldn’t be opening things back up by contacting me a month later.

  Coming inside, I kick off my sneakers on the doormat. The Target flyer and cable bill go on the kitchen table, the credit card offer in the recycle pile on the counter, and the card from my father in the trash under the sink. Pride overruling curiosity.

  I clean up the living room, folding over the Fritos bags and picking up the beer cans. Now to get the Christmas decorations. This will be the first time since Mom died that I’ll have taken any of them out. But in keeping with the whole new outlook on life thing, I’ll do it. My mom had always loved Christmas, and looking out the living room window at the snow frosting the tree branches, I can remember how I used to love this time of year, too—the hushed, magical feel in the air during a snowfall.

  There’s a red tub with a green lid in the back of my bedroom closet with the decorations. I lug it to the living room and set it in front of the couch. Lifting the lid, I feel like I’m opening a door to my past where a torrent of memories will rush out—some wanted, some not. I’ll try to focus on the good.

  I unwrap the Santas first. Many of them are wooden; one holding an American flag, another a tiny grapevine wreath. The soft beard of one Santa is frayed from when our kitten had chewed on it. Then, the craft fair snowman with the blue plaid scarf and bird’s nest on his head that I bought for Mom. 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, her red hair in long curls down her back, and the father in a forest green vest, his mouth shaped in an O like he’s singing.

  The perfect little family. I wrap up each one carefully and return them to the tub.

  I set the Santas on the coffee table and end tables and bring 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. I’ll leave the snowmen out all winter, like Mom used to do. There’s a large, clear bowl made of thick, wavy glass and filled with old-fashioned glass balls of red, green, silver, and blue that I’ll use for the centerpiece on my kitchen table.

  When I’m done, I look at the display, remembering how my mother had taken out all the decorations every year, even after my 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 is bringing back traditions for her mom.

  In the stillness of my apartment, I speak softly, my eyes brimming with tears. “You were enough, Mumma.”

  I hope, somehow, she can hear.

  Maybe it’s the Christmas spirit, or a newfound sense of maturity, but I find myself opening the cupboard under the sink and getting my father's envelope—similar to how I’d relegated Carlo's orchid to the trash and later had second thoughts.

  Taking a deep breath, I slide my finger under the flap of the envelope and take out the card. There is a horse-drawn sleigh on the front with a red barn in the background. Is this a random card he chose, or is it purposeful because he wanted to acknowledge my love for horses?

  I open the card, my eyes widening in surprise at the sight of the one hundred dollar check, and read what my father wrote. Merry Christmas. I hope I can see you again. And I h
ope you can forgive me. Dad.

  The tears fall, then. I rip up the check—I have too much pride, and that’s not what my visit had been about.

  But the card—that, I will keep.

  chapter twenty-seven ~ Carlo

  “Ms. Malstrom is on the phone. Again. I thought you’d taken care of her?” Estelle lets the frosty question mark hang in the air as she looks at me over the top of her glasses.

  “I thought so, too. She's coming down next month.” I arrange my face to look apologetic. “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 turns abruptly and walks out of my office.

  Seconds later, my desk phone chimes. Here we go. “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.”

  I shift in my 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 turns 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.”

  “Good. We'll have fun, Carlo.”

  I steer the end of our conversation toward business, discussing government contracts. No sooner do I get off the phone with Liv than I get 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 an update.”

  “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, I remember. “Isn't that one Cassandra's favorite?”

  Ingrid gives 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.”

  I lean back in my chair, the phone cord stretching with me. Highly doubtful that Cassandra will be all right with Brownie leaving. I’ve seen the way she looks 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 would expect the week after Christmas.”

  “All right. Thanks for letting me know.”

  I hang up and think over this bit of news from Windswept Stable. Jesus, I hate thinking of Cassandra enduring more heartache. But she might resent me getting involved in this, and Ingrid does have everything in place. I trust her, and she obviously knows a hell of a lot more about the horse world than I do. Still...

  Shit. What to do.

  I reach for my inbox and pull out the latest bookings report to peruse. Before I can open the folder, my door opens. Estelle again, looking mildly perturbed.

  “Madame Secretary. Are you ever going to let me get some work done?”

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

  I slide the letter opener underneath the flap. There’s a 5 x 7 photograph inside. It takes me a few seconds to process just what it is.

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

  It’s me. And Cassandra.

  Blood pounding in my ears and heat rushing to my face as fury flames inside me. There’s no doubt who sent this.

  Fucking cocksucker. The resurfacing of Brock's betrayal burns as hot as when I first learned of it. Thinking of that prick watching something so incredibly intimate—knowing that Dall has seen Cassandra naked and witnessed her in such a vulnerable state makes me almost choke on my rage. Self-loathing, too, is part of it—I have myself to fucking blame.

  Brock is apparently trying to stir things up—a continuation of his phone call last week, and as long as his job woes continue, he’ll blame me for it. I can’t fight the uneasy feeling I have. Dall's tone was sinister during that conversation, and he basically admitted that he’s plotting something. I’ll be on guard, but nothing’s going to deter me from going after that prick for corporate espionage. He deserves that, and more.

  I can’t stand looking at this picture a second longer. I get up from my desk and feed the fucking thing into the paper shredder, feeling a little satisfaction as it’s cut into unrecognizable slivers. I don’t need any reminders of that night, and Cassandra would be beside herself if—

  Christ...what if Brock sent a copy of the photo to her? What if he’s also pulling her into his twisted need for revenge? Dall is well aware that the way to truly get to me is through Cassandra.

  Questions are ricocheting through me. Should I warn her? Or would that cause her unnecessary stress? She might not even believe me, and she might get more resentful, since I was the one who put her in this position in the first place.

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

  I go back to my desk and grab my iPhone. Dall is going to hear just what I think of him.

  He answers almost immediately. His voice is 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 talking 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 litt
le 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.”

  The rage is building inside me, but I have to keep a lid on it. I don’t want Estelle—or Brock—knowing how much I want to rip his balls off. I lower my voice. “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.”

  “I'll do whatever the fuck I want, Carlo. You'll find out that you can't control me.” He pauses, laughing softly. “Merry Christmas.”

  Dead air, leaving me to contemplate what he said. I can take care of myself, but Cassandra...she’s vulnerable, and the thought of her being at risk in any way both enrages and terrifies me.

  I’ve got to give her a warning—just so she’ll be more aware. After what I caused, it’s the least I can do for her.

  chapter twenty-eight ~ Cassandra

  I’m trying to stay upbeat, if for no other reason than I don’t want Brownie picking up on any negative vibes, but God, this is hard. Since he’ll be leaving in just a few days, I’m torn between wanting to spend as much time as I can with him and thinking it would be wise to try and distance myself so I can sort of ease into the reality of him not being here. I decided that the second choice is just stupid, because Brownie isn’t the type of horse you can just ignore. And when you love something, you want to spend all the time you can with it.

  I give him a treat every time I walk by his stall (eff what Ingrid thinks) and spend more time grooming and petting him, scratching underneath his mane till his bottom lip quivers in pleasure. I’ll miss little things like this about him: the way his ears prick forward when he sees me, the low nicker he has when I walk toward him. And I’m going to miss big things, like his goofy, sweet disposition and the fluid, rocking motion of his canter underneath me. It’s so hard to imagine Windswept Stable—and my life—without him.

  The combination of Brownie leaving and Christmas coming are both bringing me down, even on this gorgeous winter day with the sun spilling in through the stable windows and the sky a brilliant shade of blue. I’m also having trouble shaking the feeling I got from Carlo's voicemail a few days ago, telling me to be on my guard. He sounded so serious: “Cassandra, I know you’d rather I didn’t contact you, but Brock is 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.”