Backlash (The Rivals Book 2)

by Geneva Lee

  I went to Sterling for shelter after my brother, Malcolm, pulled the rug out from under me again. I took a job as an editor at Bluebird—another thing I lost in the last twenty-four hours. Malcolm made sure of that. He betrayed me before I could even fill out my tax information. I can only imagine what Trish, Bluebird’s managing editor, thinks of me now. Not that she’ll ever be honest with me. I’m the boss. The owner. It’s so like my father to leave me the one thing I always wanted—a job working with books—just to remind me that I’ll never be free of him. One last demonstration of power from beyond the grave.

  Because I didn’t ‘earn’ it. It’s not mine. It’s just another hand-out. I never earned his respect or admiration while he was alive. I never had what it takes. Giving me the publishing house was a pity inheritance, which is the most scathing character critique Angus MacLaine could give. In his opinion, pity was for the weak-minded and the weak-spirited. There wasn’t a benevolent bone in my father’s body. Compassion was for suckers. Leaving me Bluebird was one last dig. One last demonstration of his disappointment.

  Not that he’d left us with an empire. The MacLaine dynasty is little more than a crumbling ruin now. That’s what he’s left all of us: crumbs.

  Minor stakes in the company.

  A few newspapers he didn’t sell off before his death.

  A name that opens doors but can’t sign the checks.

  A money pit of a house.

  My mother’s car and…

  An apartment at the Eaton.

  It’s another pittance, another reminder I’m still dependent on him.

  But I’m not homeless. I just have to swallow my pride and take another bit of his ill-willed charity. I’m trading one deal with the devil for another. Who am I kidding? I sold myself a long time ago. There’s nothing left to break. No heart. No soul. No will. The best I can do is find a safe place to pick up the pieces and figure out who I am now.

  Daddy might have thought I didn’t have it in me. He might have believed that I was nothing but a disappointment. But he’s dead, and I have nothing left to prove to him. I’m not the property of the MacLaine family name. No one owns me. Daddy didn’t. Malcolm doesn’t.

  And Sterling Ford? He sure as hell never will.

  Number six-fourteen occupies a quarter of the top floor of the Eaton. I’ve been there once before. My mother brought me for a slumber party. I didn’t know we owned it until it was given to me during the reading of my father’s will. Arriving at the Eaton, I do my best to arrange my ruined dress, along with my dignity, into some semblance of propriety. I’m not sure either passes muster.

  A giggling woman nearly steps into the revolving door compartment before I can exit. She’s distracted by the man she’s with. He pulls her out of the way and smiles apologetically. “Excuse us.”

  “Oops!” she adds. I can’t tell if she’s drunk or just intoxicated with him.

  I force myself to nod but can’t make myself return the smile. Stepping into the lobby, I discover it full of happy couples holding hands, whispering to one another—one pair is even touring the space with a wedding coordinator. I suddenly feel like I’m gagging on my own silver spoon. This is supposed to be my life. Dinner at a five star restaurant, drinks in the bar, small talk with the other elite members of Tennessee society—and a sexy, successful man at my side paying for it all. It’s what I’m supposed to want. I never have—until now.

  But I’ll never be able to settle for this lie of a life. Not after tasting real life. Or, at least, what I thought was real at the time.

  I make my way to the concierge desk, unsure exactly how this works, but desperate to get away from all the happy couples. I hadn’t been given a key or anything of the sort. Several of my friends’s families owned apartments in hotels in New York or London or Paris, the benefit being that at a hotel there was always someone available for maintenance and security. It would always be clean when it was time for an impromptu visit. Why settle for a housekeeper when you could have a five star staff at your disposal?

  The concierge doesn’t bother to look up when I approach. He’s a few years older than me and a few inches shorter, which leaves me staring at a thinning patch of hair as his attention remains on the computer screen. He’s probably planning someone’s dinner reservation with their mistress. “May I help you?”

  Still no eye contact. I take a deep breath and speak directly to his bald spot. “I hope so. I’m Adair MacLaine, and I—”

  His head whips up at the mention of my name. “Ms. MacLaine! My apologies!”

  “It’s okay, Geoff,” I read the name engraved on the polished brass pin on his jacket. Judging from his reaction at the mention of the MacLaine name, he expects me to throw a tantrum. I dismiss the innocent snub because I don’t have the energy to be offended, and because I’m tired of living up to my family’s reputation—good and bad. “My family suite—I recently inherited it…um, I’d like to see it.”

  Use it. Live in it. Hide in it. I add the rest silently, unwilling to commit fully to the idea that I’m leaving Windfall behind for good. Too much has happened in the past twenty-four hours. I need to process. I need to be alone.

  “Of course, let me get a key made.” Geoff switches quickly into schmooze mode, but I can’t help noticing a bead of sweat near his receding hairline. Then I realize his hand is shaking slightly.

  I want to tell him that I don’t bite, but something tells me he won’t believe that. I try to put him at ease instead. It’s not a trait that comes naturally to me. MacLaines are accustomed to demanding and receiving. We don’t take time to apologize or ask kindly. The world comes to us, or else it can go fuck itself.

  That needs to change.

  “Sorry to put you on the spot.” I plaster the warmest smile I can muster on my face. It takes effort given the gnashing anger roiling inside me. It’s not Geoff’s fault that Sterling is a bastard. Geoff is helping me. Geoff is a solution.

  He’s also a man, and after my brother’s demands yesterday and Sterling’s manipulation, I’m ready to lash out. Geoff is an easy target, but I won’t let him be. I’m not that bitch that needs to be left behind. I’m not the girl who waited around for a man who only came back to throw her away again.

  I don’t know who I am, but I’m determined to decide my own fate from now on, starting with Geoff here.

  “Will you be staying?” Geoff interrupts my thoughts, and I blink at him.

  “Excuse me?”

  He pulls a handkerchief out and mops his forehead as he repeats the question.

  “Does it matter?” I don’t feel like committing to anything. Not until I know if Malcolm will come looking for me. Not until I’ve seen the suite.

  “We can set a key to expire,” he explains, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. “We can also leave them open if you’d like to come and go or…”

  Of course, that’s why he asked. It makes sense.

  “Leave it open,” I say after a moment. “I have business in the city.”

  “Let me show you up,” he offers. He’s out from behind the desk before I can refuse. Geoff glances around me. “Do you have bags?”

  “No.” I flush even as I lift my head up. “I thought I better check everything out first. For all I know the place looks like Miss Havisham’s house.”

  He gives me a quizzical look, but customer service wins out. “Very good. If you have a valet ticket, I can see to that.”

  It turns out that living at the Eaton includes in and out privileges. That’s a relief, since I have no idea how much is in my bank account or how long it will last. Sterling came here to ruin my family. That much is clear to me now. There’s a certain poetic justice to it. He’ll be living in his penthouse pedestal, staring smugly down at the MacLaines on the street below.

  “You have use of the private elevators. We reserve them for our penthouse floors,” he explains, leading me past the bank of elevators in the lobby to a discreetly hidden set of golden doors. “Your key will call the e
levator.”

  When it arrives, it’s mercifully empty. I need a moment away from the bustle of the lobby, away from the couple clinging to one another as they speak to a wedding planner, away from the mother lovingly chasing after her toddler, away from people. But Geoff fills the silence with a constant stream of information on the hotel. He tells me about the pool and the spa and the member lounge reserved for platinum elite guests. I guess owning part of the joint secures me those privileges.

  “Are there many other families who own suites?” I interrupt a lesson on how to use the hotel’s wireless internet.

  “Only the Eaton family. The other suites are reserved for high profile guests.”

  Translation: people with more money than common sense and a desperate need to show off. I’d forgotten that Cyrus’s family has a suite here. I’m not sure how that’s possible given what happened the last time I was here.

  I might not have set foot in my family’s suite in the last ten years, but I have been on this floor since.

  Then, I wasn’t the one holding the key. I shake off the horrible memory as the elevator reaches our destination. The past is in the past. I need to leave it behind.

  I need to leave him behind.

  “Everything is fully stocked and refreshed daily.” Geoff leads me to a door marked with a polished brass placard inscribed with the number 614.

  I hesitate on the threshold after he unlocks the door with the keycard. Somehow stepping across it feels like I’ve drawn a line in the sand. The truth is that I don’t have other options. At least, none that don’t include willfully turning a blind eye to my brother’s demands or running back to Sterling, a man who clearly hates me.

  The suite isn’t like I remember. Of course, it’s been a decade since I came here. I stop a few feet in and stare at my new home. It’s been redone recently. The television in the living area is the newest technology. The linen sofa looks like it’s gotten less ass than a virgin. It’s all lovely and tasteful—and so like my mother. I feel at home, and I hate it. There’s little touches of her everywhere. I can almost swear I smell her perfume. I turn as a shadow passes in the corner, half expecting to find her there, but it’s only my imagination.

  “Is everything…okay?” Geoff asks, glancing around. “We’ll send up housekeeping to freshen the sheets and towels.”

  “When were they last changed?” I murmur absently, beginning to wander around.

  “This morning.”

  I stop and shake my head. “There’s no need to send them up. I have everything I need.”

  “Room service is available, naturally. Anything you order will be included on your monthly bill.”

  “Bill?” I raise an eyebrow.

  “Incidentals and residence fees are billed to the account on file,” he explains. “It’s part of the arrangement.”

  “Of course.” That makes sense, although I can’t believe my father kept this place all these years, paying fees on a penthouse we never used. No wonder our family is broke. “Where is that bill sent?”

  The last thing I need is for Malcolm to know my every move, even if it’s unlikely to be more exciting than knowing I ordered a club sandwich two days in a row.

  “I’ll look into that,” he promises. “I do hope everything is up to your standards. It’s been a while since we had a MacLaine in house.”

  “I know.”

  “Your father was a valued member here and we miss him terribly.”

  “My father?” I smile. “You must not have known him very well.”

  “Before his illness, he was here weekly. He was a demanding man but a generous one.”

  He didn’t know my father at all.

  Or maybe he knew him better than I did. Because I had no idea my father ever came to this suite at the Eaton. I only knew about it because of the slumber party.

  “You’re saying my father came here often?”

  “Weekly,” Geoff confirms. I see the recognition dawn on his face as this information sinks into me. He shouldn’t have said a thing. The Eaton is a luxury hotel—the kind that turns a blind eye to the vices of their wealthy patrons. Those residence fees he spoke of—I’m guessing they have a different purpose: hush money. Tip staff well enough and they’ll keep your secrets. Buy a penthouse, come and go as you please.

  “Oh,” I feign idiocy. “The Nashville apartment! The family has so much real estate. I didn’t realize he was talking about this place. He did come here and stay when he had late meetings at the office. I haven’t been here since I was a kid. I just thought of it as a hotel.”

  Geoff’s shoulders relax as though I’ve lifted a weight from them. He probably thought he was about to lose his job, and then who would arrange romantic evenings for Tennessee’s most spoiled mistresses?

  “My brother comes here a lot, doesn’t he?” I ask, realizing that I might have overlooked a critical component of this plan. Malcolm has a weekly date he likes to keep quiet, too. What if…? I don’t want to think about my brother and his girlfriends being here.

  “If he does, he doesn’t use the suite. It was your father’s,” Geoff assures me, bypassing the question of Malcolm’s patronage while still getting to the heart of the issue. I have to give it to him. He’s smooth.

  “And now it’s mine,” I murmur. “The decor?”

  “We can arrange for it to be redone as you like. I can put you in touch with our in-house interior designer.”

  “Interesting.”

  I mean it. I need some place to call my own.

  “If there’s anything else…” Geoff trails away.

  “Yes, can you call that designer? I just took a job in the city.” I mentally cross my fingers that I can smooth things over with Trish. “I wasn’t sure if it would be a good fit, but I think maybe I’m home.”

  “Then let me be the first to say welcome back, Ms. MacLaine.”

  Once Geoff leaves me in my new place, I find the bedroom, throw myself on the mattress, and scream into a pillow until my throat is raw. It beats crying. I once swore I would never cry over Sterling Ford again. It’s one of those promises you make out of desperation, and not because you think you can keep it.

  But today?

  Today, I don’t want to cry. Today, I want to be angry, because anger fuels. Crying saps. I need energy to steer this wreck of a life toward a stable future. When I’m done screaming, I order a fucking club sandwich and a bottle of champagne. I’m going to celebrate this moment.

  I have a home.

  I have a job.

  I have a choice.

  That makes today a diamond by any standards. I choose to see it that way.

  Things could have gone on longer. I could have wasted even more time letting Sterling get the best of me. I could have let Malcolm dictate my entire future. I stood up to both of them. I walked away. If that’s not cause for celebration, then I don’t know what is.

  The food arrives so quickly that I can feel my ass getting bigger. I might have to set some boundaries if they can get chocolate cake to me at this speed. Or not. It’s my life now.

  Tomorrow, I’ll go to Windfall and pack while Malcolm is at work. Today, I settle for a silky Eaton robe I find in the master closet. But celebrating by myself turns out to remind me I’m alone. Usually, I’m okay with that. Even surrounded by friends, I’ve never quite fit. I’m always the odd one out. The one being dragged toward socialization. I’ve embraced that over the last few years.

  But Sterling changed everything. He reminded me of what it’s like to be perfectly understood. Even when we’re at odds, he gets me. For a moment I was completely, utterly myself with him.

  I let my guard down, and he attacked. I don’t know why I expected anything different to happen. You can’t blame a predator for striking. I practically laid down and begged for it. Just like he said I would.

  Never again.

  It’s something to drink to, so I pop the bottle of champagne and pour myself a glass. Room service, in its infinite wisdom, sent two cha
mpagne flutes. It feels like an insult to see it sitting there empty, so I pour another glass and place it next to the framed photo of my mother.

  “To being rid of bad men,” I say to her and clink the rim of my glass to hers. I down the contents of my flute with one swallow. “You going to drink that?”

  Great, now I’m talking to my dead mom. Maybe that’s because she’s one of the few people I’ve ever known who never said a bad thing about people. She always saw the good in them, but not in the innocent way my best friend Poppy does. She saw flaws, but she didn’t focus on them. People always say I take after her, but they mean in the looks department. I have her green eyes and fair complexion. That’s where our similarities end. I’m nothing like her. I’ve got too much of my father in me.

  “Why did you love him?” I ask her. “You saw what he was. What good could you possibly have found in him? I watched how he treated you for years and you always found a way to see past how he controlled you and used you. I mean, he probably brought other women to this very room! Why? Why were you in the car that night? Why did you let him drive? You knew! Why is this all I have left of you?” I wave my hand wildly around the hotel suite, forgetting my glass and sending champagne spilling across the desk. “Shit.”

  I slide open the drawer of the end table, looking for something to wipe it off with. All I find is a stack of paper and some pens. I try the next drawer, only to discover it’s locked or stuck. For some reason, this puts me over the edge. The tears I’ve been fighting break loose and fall down my cheeks. I yank on the desk drawer, determined to get it open, but it won’t budge. Definitely locked. It’s not like it will have what I need anyway. I wind up grabbing a washcloth from the bathroom to soak up the mess.

  “Don’t cry over spilled champagne,” I order myself.

  But I’m not crying over it. I’m crying for my mom and the life I thought I would have. The life I will never have. I’m crying because I want to know the answers to those questions, because maybe if I did, I could figure out why I’m stuck—just like that stupid drawer—repeating mistakes, holding onto the past, never learning. Opening the top drawer, I reach to the back, feeling around for a key, but only find dust. It’s the story of my life: there’s always a missing key.