Lame.
Yeah, well, the whole thing was lame, she acknowledged as she walked through her apartment. Leaving a note for a one-night stand? Lame. Thinking she actually had her shit under control? Lame. Having her mother show up before dawn, stoned or drunk or just plain crazy? Very lame.
The remnants of last night’s party littered the kitchen and living room. Glassware and small plates took up every available surface, along with cocktail napkins, noisemakers, and party hats. Confetti and streamers decorated the floor. Picked over trays of food sat out on the counter separating the two rooms—some of Babycake’s trademark mini-cakes, but also a selection of flatbreads and canapés. She’d wanted to remind people she could do more than sweets, and judging by the meager leftovers, she’d succeeded. She picked her way through the mess and opened the hallway closet where she kept her flip-flops and purse. The hinge squeaked when she opened it. She froze, and listened.
Nothing stirred in the apartment as far as she could tell. Relieved, she shoved her feet into the flip-flops and grabbed her purse. Drawing a fortifying breath, she pulled the front door open, stepped out, and quickly closed it behind her. No point giving the woman any ideas about coming inside for a visit.
“Lauralie! Happy New Year, baby!”
The staggering embrace accompanying the loud greeting nearly knocked her off her feet. She struggled for balance and breathed through a surge of nausea brought on by sour breath and sharp angles of a body too accustomed to a liquid diet. “Denise, it’s five in the morning. Keep your voice down.”
“Right. Sorry. Shhh… Don’t want to wake your company.”
“I don’t want to wake my neighbors. What are you doing here?”
“Why, sweetheart.” She pressed her hand to a still ample chest, though it looked to be getting some help from a push-up bra these days. “I came to see you. Who’s the lucky guy? Anyone I know?”
Oh, hell no. They were not indulging in girl talk. There’s be no stopping Mommy Dearest if she thought her daughter offered an in with a man of Booker’s resources. “No one special.” The words tasted bitter in her mouth. She set off down the walkway, toward her carport at the back of the white stucco and red-tile-roofed building. Montenido boasted newer, grander examples of Southern California Mediterranean architecture, but she liked the classic 1930’s style of the small complex, not to mention the comparative affordability of the rent. “What do you want?”
“To see my baby girl, silly. I’ve missed you.” The clomp-clomp of narrow heels against concrete confirmed Denise followed. While Laurie fished her keys from the inner pocket of her purse, she looked down at the silver sandals strapped to her mom’s feet. Yikes. The sandals bore an uncanny resemblance to the ones she’d worn last night. An old saying about apples and trees sprang to mind—insulting when applied to her—and she made a mental note to get rid of the blasted shoes. They hurt her feet anyway.
Booker knows a cure for aching feet. Remember?
Yeah, well, fun was fun, but she couldn’t rely on Booker to save her from the uncomfortable aftereffects of every questionable decision. Though he’d done so more than once in the past ten years. She preferred to stand on her own two feet, and tacky silver sandals didn’t advance that goal.
“Mission accomplished. You’ve seen me.” She stopped at the bumper of her new black Ford Expedition. New to her, at any rate. She’d needed something bigger and more reliable than her old Explorer for deliveries and had negotiated an end-of-year discount on a certified pre-owned model, fresh off a four-year lease. Between upgrading her vehicle and the bonuses she’d paid to her employees, she’d drained the little cushion in her finances, but she considered both expenses an investment in her business. She also had six grand in custom cake deposits sitting in her safe at the bakery. April, May, and June were busy wedding months in Montenido and thanks to some favorable write-ups and good word-of-mouth, her upstart little bakery had nabbed half a dozen large orders. She tapped the unlock button on her key, and then activated the power liftgate. The beep echoed in the cool morning air, but the trunk door lifted almost soundlessly.
“Lauralie, don’t be so freaking literal. I meant talk to you. Catch up. Nice car. Is it new?”
She ignored the question and walked between the SUV and the wall until she reached the rack at the back of the carport where she and a few of her neighbors stored their surfboards. A three-digit combination unlocked the rack. She slid her board out, re-locked the rack, and walked back to the SUV. Denise jumped out of the way when she swung the board around and loaded it into the trunk alongside her wetsuit and a straw tote containing her bikini and towel. “I’m headed out, and I won’t be back for hours.” A press of a button shut the truck. If only she could shut Denise out as easily, but the woman specialized in difficult. Turning, she faced her mother. “If there’s a point to your visit, now would be a good time to get to it.”
“I need a teensy loan.”
“No.” She straightened, mentally kicking herself, because even though she’d seen the request for money coming a mile away, some stupid part of her had secretly hoped Denise had come to apologize for being such a shitty mother, and—what the hell, as long as she was dreaming—maybe give her something for a change.
“Have some compassion for your mother. I need a little help, and I don’t think it’s too much to expect my own daughter to be there for me.”
“Just like you’ve been there for me?”
“I did the best I could by you. I was gone a lot on account of my career. I didn’t have the luxury of hanging around the house all day taking care of a kid.”
What career? Denise had been a “personal assistant” to an endless string of guys who wanted to fuck her, invariably did, and then walked away when they realized no fuck was worth the accompanying drama. She walked to the driver’s side and yanked the door open. “I can’t take care of an adult. Sorry.”
“But you’re doing so well. You can afford this big, shiny car. I think you can afford to give me a loan to remove a tumor from my uterus.”
“You know, I could have sworn I gave you money for a hysterectomy three years ago.”
Denise blushed, though it could have been a sign of temper rather than shame. “That doctor was a quack. He didn’t know what he was doing, and now I’m paying for his incompetence. I’ve talked to a lawyer about suing his thieving ass, but it costs money to file a lawsuit.”
“You’ve come to the wrong place. I don’t have any cash to spare.” With that, she hauled herself into the driver’s seat.
Denise skittered over, nimble as a spider, and stuck her face into Laurie’s. “You selfish brat. Don’t bullshit me. I know all about your fancy bakery. I saw a glossy spread in Montenido Magazine, gushing about how all the rich suckers around here stand in line to plunk down five dollars for a cinnamon bun or fifty bucks for a dozen cupcakes. Not your best picture, by the way, but Jesus Christ—fifty bucks for cupcakes? You’re raking it in. If you turn me away, I’m going to have no choice but to camp outside that little business of yours and explain to everyone who passes how you can’t spare a dime for your own mother in her hour of need. A few of them might decide to help a fellow human rather than buy a treat. Who knows?”
Threats were also to be expected. ‘Help me, or you can kiss your precious spot on the surf team good-bye.’ ‘Help me, or I’ll come down to your job and have a word with your boss.’ And they weren’t empty threats. Denise would do whatever it took. The only difference now was Laurie had more to lose than an extra-curricular activity, or a minimum wage paycheck. This time, it was her livelihood at stake. She knew better than to waste her breath on the realities of owning a small business. Her mother didn’t give a shit about reality.
She also knew better than to meet the threat with anything except threats of her own—not initially, at least. “If you panhandle outside my shop, I’ll call the cops and have you removed.”
“Which gives Montenido Magazine an interesting follow-up story. ‘S
uccessful Business Owner Has Ailing Mother Arrested.’ That’ll bump the readership.”
“You’re overestimating people’s interest.” But she wasn’t. People couldn’t look away from a train wreck. Denise ruined everything she touched, including her daughter, and if she touched Babycakes, Laurie had no doubt she would ruin it, too.
“Why bring us to that? Cough up fifteen thousand dollars, cash, and nothing turns ugly. I catch the next train to LA and see to myself.”
Fifteen thousand? All she could do was laugh at the outrageous demand. “Are you high? I don’t have fifteen grand sitting around, and even if I did I couldn’t get to it on New Year’s Day.” Still, her mother’s proposition gave her hope. She wanted a quick score. Much larger than what she usually tried to bleed out of her daughter, but there was a number that would get the woman out of her life. Today. They just had to arrive at the figure.
Sure enough, Denise folded her arms and jutted her chin. “How much can you get right now?”
“I have forty, maybe fifty bucks in my wallet.”
“Stop fucking with me. You’ve got an ATM card.”
“And a daily limit.”
“Fine. If that’s how you want to play it, give me a thousand today, and I’ll settle for ten grand first thing Monday. I’ll come to the bakery. Have it ready for me.”
Abso-fucking-lutely not, but at least now they had a realistic ballpark. A door slammed somewhere in the complex, and a panicked desperation fueled her counter-offer. “I’ve got six thousand in the safe at the bakery. I’ll take you over there right now, and give you every cent, provided you get the hell out of Montenido this morning. Best and final offer. You’ve got five seconds to make up your mind.”
“I’ll need a ride to the train station.”
Somehow, she resisted the urge to slap the triumphant smirk off her mother’s face. “Done. Get in.”
While Denise scurried around the front of the SUV, Laurie revved the engine to life and promised herself a long, soul-cleansing surf session as soon as she dumped her mother at the train station. Getting blackmailed by a blood relative only hours into the New Year effectively sucked away the orgasmic glow left over from last night’s amazing, but inadvisable, hookup with Booker. Thank God he hadn’t woken. The only thing more humiliating than caving to her mother’s threats would be Booker witnessing it. The fearless visage she strived to maintain would disappear in the blink of an eye, and she didn’t think she could handle the loss—not when it came to him.
Denise hoisted her bony frame into the passenger seat, and slammed the door. “Got anything to drink in that bakery of yours, Lauralie? I feel like celebrating.”
Congratulations. Your New Year can’t get any worse.
Chapter Five
Alone. Booker didn’t need to open his eyes to confirm what all his other senses told him. Scents of champagne, vanilla, and sex lingered on the sheets, but no sleep-warmed curves pressed against him. No rustle of movement from the kitchen or bathroom disturbed the silence. He wasn’t just alone in the bed. He was alone in the whole damn apartment.
He scrubbed a hand over his eyes and blinked them open. Watery light filtered into the bedroom through the filmy drapes. Yep. Alone. Maybe she’d run to the store for coffee filters, or, better yet, condoms? A yellow Post-it note on the nightstand flagged his attention. He sat up, and peeled it off the white-painted wood.
Happy New Year, Booker. See you around.
Frustration leaked out in the form of a sigh. Leave it to her to try and turn them into a one-night stand. Sorry, Jailbait. Not going to make it that easy for you. He crumpled the note and chucked it at the small wastebasket beside the dresser. It hit the rim and bounced onto the rug. Fuck. Apparently nothing would be easy this morning.
He swung his legs to the floor, but before he could reach down and retrieve the note now littering her rug, his phone rang. His do not disturb settings left only one possible caller. Dispatch. Changing course, he snagged his pants, and dug the phone from his pocket. While he was at it, he slid hers from the other pocket and placed the slim, white device on the dresser. Had she forgotten he had it, or had she simply been too busy bolting to pause for electronics?
Phone abandonment—the human equivalent of gnawing off a limb to escape a trap.
Suppressing another sigh, he flicked his thumb across the screen of his phone. “Booker.”
The dispatch supervisor’s voice flowed over the line. “Sorry to hit you on your day off, Sheriff, but we’ve got a less than happy New Year underway, and Chief Nelson asked us to make you aware.”
Chief Nelson headed the fire department. Booker used his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear and dragged his pants on. “What’s happening, Michelle?”
“Structure fire at Nido Point Plaza. It’s the little shopping center on the southwest corner of—”
“I know it.” A jolt of adrenalin charged his system. Babycakes occupied a storefront at one end of the plaza. Lauralie “Anyone inside? Any injuries?”
“Yet to be determined. According to witness reports, the entire east wall of the building is engulfed. FD’s on the way.”
“So am I.” He felt for his keys, but then remembered he didn’t have them…or his car. “Shit. I need a ride. Send a unit for me.” He rattled off the address.
“Will do.”
“Thanks. Call me if you get any new information.” He disconnected, yanked his sweater over his head, and then scanned the floor for his shoes. Lauralie might well be in that building, and here he was, miles away, with no car, no radio, wearing last night’s clothes, and…fuck…in possession of her phone. He grabbed it, shoved his feet into his shoes and sprinted out the door. Dammit, when he got his hands on her, he was going to—he didn’t even know. At this point he couldn’t think past finding her.
Desperation sent him around the building to the carports, in the hopes of seeing her car, but her slot sat empty. He jogged to the front, dialed dispatch, and waited, helplessly, while nightmare scenarios played through his mind.
The supervisor picked up. “What do you need?”
“Do you have eyes on the fire?”
“Yep.”
“Any vehicles in the parking lot? A black Ford Expedition?”
“Hold on.”
While he held, a cruiser approached the complex. Booker raised a hand to catch the attention of the deputy behind the wheel. Dave Petty nodded back, a late-career member of the department coasting toward retirement—but a capable coast. Dispatch popped back on the line while he slid into the passenger seat. “No vehicles in the parking area. My eyewitnesses can’t get a look behind the building without approaching the fire. I’ve instructed them to stay back. FD’s just arrived on the scene, along with two of your units.”
“Got it.”
He switched to radio, contacted the units, and requested a search for vehicles behind the building. Then he slipped back into helpless waiting mode, and silently told himself she wasn’t there. She would have parked in front. She always parked in front.
Petty pulled up on the plaza before anyone reported back. Booker leaped out of the cruiser, instinctively cataloging details as he approached the scene—his deputies establishing a perimeter and keeping a growing crowd of onlookers at bay, fire trucks occupying strategic points in the parking lot, and firefighters racing to unfurl hoses. Flames devoured one side of the building. Smoke rolled from the structure in thick, dark clouds. He didn’t need a fire science degree to know the blaze originated in the bakery. The first team got a hose on the fire. He headed over, ready to commandeer the damn thing and drag them through the door.
A blaring horn and the screech of brakes whipped his head around. He looked up, and nearly passed out from relief at the sight of Lauralie’s black Expedition lurching to a stop by the curb of the street leading to the plaza. An instant later she rushed around the front of the car. Eyes wide and riveted on the fire, she careened down the landscaped slope to the parking lot. He ran toward her, prepared to
intercept 110 pounds of frantic woman before she did serious damage to herself.
She lost her footing three quarters of the way down, and started to slide, but he caught her before she tumbled to the asphalt.
The impact of their bodies knocked a gasp out of her. She would have bounced off him and continued running, but he had his arms around her, and locked her to him even as she fought to get free. Giving in to bone-deep relief, he buried his face in her hair. Wet hair, full of sand, salt, and the scent of the ocean. She’d left him asleep in her bed and escaped to go surfing. They’d talk that shit out later, but right now he didn’t care. She wasn’t inside the bakery, and that’s all that mattered.
Her struggles gradually subsided, but her body succumbed to bone-rattling shakes. She said something over and over against his chest. Keeping himself between her and the sight of the burning building, he adjusted his hold to let her raise her head.
Her hoarse, broken words immediately reached him.
“Let me go.”
“Not a chance.”
“It’s mine. I have to see. I have to.”
He bundled her over to the cruiser—out of the way of people, equipment, and the worst of the smoke—and put her in the backseat. Then he parked himself by the open door. That’s when he realized his back pocket vibrated nonstop. Word traveled fast. He pulled her phone out and handed it to her.
She stared at the glowing screen so long the vibrations stopped, and then she lifted utterly defeated eyes to his. “I can’t talk to anybody right now.”
A part of him wanted to gather her into his arms, and promise he’d hold the world back, but allowing her to withdraw into her misery didn’t do her any favors. She needed support, even if she didn’t want to admit it. The buzzing began anew. He held out the phone once more. She wouldn’t respond to sympathy—at least not from him—so he resorted to scolding. “You have friends, and right now they’re frantic to know you’re okay. Don’t put them through what I experienced this morning.”
Hard Compromise (Compromise Me) Page 6