The Boss's Daughter

by Aubrey Parker

  I don’t think I can take that right now.

  So I lie on my bed, like the teenager I no longer am.

  I look up at the ceiling.

  There’s no knock at the door. No ring of the phone.

  And I’ve never felt more alone.

  CHAPTER 37

  Brandon

  The only reason I don’t drink from the bottle in front of me is because it’s so incredibly obvious.

  It’s what a foolish idiot would do. It’s what someone who doesn’t think would do. It’s what a drunk would do. It’s what a kid would do, rather than a responsible man. It’s predictable, for me to drink. Then it’d be utterly predictable for me to go down to a bar — any bar, anywhere — and turn on the charm. I feel so ordinary, but I’ve never had much trouble getting company. So I’d take them home. And, even though it’s predictable as hell, I’d let booze and orgasms demolish my problems.

  But I don’t drink. And I don’t consider going to the bars, even sober. Because doing so would be giving up. It would be admitting failure. Admitting defeat. No, even more: Doing so would be admitting wrongdoing. If I simply go away like Mason wants, I’ll be proving him right. I’ll be proving that I’m an untrustworthy, unreliable jerk. I’ll be proving that I must not care anything for his daughter because I care so little about anyone. I’ll be making him feel, even more, that we were simply unable to control ourselves — that it was just a big, drunken, ill-advised mistake.

  And if I let him believe that, I’ll let him believe that I’d take it all back.

  I don’t know Riley especially well. I admit it. But I know her well enough to know that something is different. Bridget is seldom wrong, and I hate that about her. She always tells the truth, and I hate that about her, too. Time and time again, Bridget has put her hands on my life’s steering wheel and taken it somewhere I don’t want to go because it’s somewhere she thinks I need to be.

  I’ve only known Riley James for a few weeks, but I knew from that first morning, in the meadow, that she wasn’t like anyone else.

  I kept thinking of her.

  I kept dreaming about her.

  When I saw her, I prickled. Not just in my pants. All over. When I made her smile, that made me feel good, and I wanted to do it more. Making her laugh was the jackpot. So I took her to the Overlook, hoping to see Gavin. Because I knew he might make her cry.

  At some point recently, I stopped wanting the VP promotion for its own sake. This is something Bridget pointed out, too, and I thought it was ridiculous. Of course I wanted to be a VP! I wanted the money. I wanted the security. I wanted to be able to take care of my sister and have enough peace of mind in my own life to keep an eye on hers, so there will never be another Keith. I wanted to prove myself, to prove I could come up from nothing. I want a Cherry Hill home of my own, maybe near the creek.

  Bridget said I was trying to impress someone. That’s why I wanted the job.

  Now, I see that it’s true.

  I wanted to impress Mason. And Riley.

  I hate that it’s true. I hate that Bridget was right. For years and years and years, Bridget and I could only count on each other. We had good and bad foster parents, but to even the best of them we were merely tenants. Customers in a long line of customers. I had friends, and so did Bridget, but friends changed with new homes and schools. We started over again and again before our stint as siblings, and then over again a few more times after that family broke up and I went one way while Bridget went another. But we always stayed in touch. We wrote letters. We called when we could. Most times, our families were close enough that we could reach each other, that we could meet somewhere at the end of a bus ride or two.

  I only had Bridget.

  She only had me.

  It was simple. I had only one person to please. One person to protect and care for. One person to love me and one person to love. Caring about people makes you vulnerable. Worse: caring about someone makes you responsible — something I was reminded of harshly thanks to Keith’s intervention.

  I have enough responsibilities in my life. There’s me, and there’s Bridget. It’s cut and dried. I look out for myself. I take care of me. Bridget and I have each other’s backs, with no other leaks to look out for. No loose ends.

  If I care about Riley, that’s bad news. It’s more responsibility. More burden. Someone else to watch out for and take care of. Someone else I’ll feel the need to please and make happy. Right now, I could care less who else is happy, and it makes things easy.

  But I care if Riley is happy, and have from the start.

  I stare at my phone. She hasn’t called, though I thought she might. But I haven’t called her either because my phone call made this erupt in the first place. The one time Bridget was wrong; who’d’ve thought. She told me to leave that message when Riley didn’t answer. “Put yourself out there, for once. The worse it feels, the better you’re doing.”

  It had felt terrible. Like sticking my arm into a machine filled with gears and teeth. I’d felt so sure I’d be bitten, and of course I was.

  I want to call Bridget, because that’s who I always call at times like this.

  But I know what she’ll say, and it will make me want to throttle her.

  The worse it feels, the better you’re doing. It.

  As if this was all supposed to happen.

  As if it’s okay that I’ve just lost the biggest chance I had. And maybe, just maybe, my job. As if it’s okay that I made Mason so angry. As if Bridget hadn’t intended me to make up with Riley and only Riley, then keep whatever was between us a secret forever.

  It’s almost like Bridget thought we’d have to tell her father eventually.

  It’s as if Bridget thinks this was something more than sex. And infatuation. And endless hours of thinking. And a feeling I’ve never had, for anyone, ever.

  As if this pain is okay. As if it’s worth it.

  I look at the phone. This time, I pick it up. I scroll to Riley’s entry in my contacts. She deleted me; I saw that when my name didn’t come up on her phone’s screen with the message. But I can’t bring myself to delete her, even though it’s over before it began.

  And that’s fine. I’m me. Just me. Just me and Bridget. Life is simpler this way. I take care of my sister and earn enough to survive. Those are my only tasks. I do them well, and I’ll do them forever.

  Riley’s icon on my phone — a photo of a happier girl, who doesn’t know today’s pain — smiles back at me. Makes me feel hollow inside. And I wish I could revoke the power I’ve given her. It’s not fair that she can make me feel this way.

  I wonder what’s next. Am I fired? I have no way to know; I can only go to work on the Stonegate job tomorrow and see what happens. I definitely won’t call Mason. If I’m fired, let him or someone from his office call me.

  I’m definitely not promoted.

  I may be ruined. Destroyed. Dead. It may be over for me at this company, and I’ll have to scrap somewhere else.

  But Riley. What of Riley?

  I could call her. Regardless of what happens with Life of Riley, Riley the girl is something else entirely. If I’m foolish enough to believe I need her — if I’m foolish enough to want to pour salt into the wound she’s opened inside me — I could talk to her … just her. Not Mason. Not the office. Just the girl.

  Maybe there’s something there. But the thought stops as soon as it starts, and I realize that I’m being naive. I have no one but Bridget, and Riley has nobody, really, other than her father. I can’t pull them apart. I can’t allow him to resent or pity her. To think less of her.

  There’s nothing I can do.

  Then suddenly, I have an idea.

  I head to the sink with a smile.

  CHAPTER 38

  Riley

  Morning dawns.

  Dad didn’t knock on my door. I waited all night like I would for a lover, but no knock came. No lover came either, as absurd as that is to think. My phone didn’t ring any more than my door
was knocked on. It’s incredibly unfair. If I’m being chastised for being a foolish girl who only cares about sex (though that’s probably a bit overly dramatic), it seems that I should be overflowing with hedonism. If I’m being punished for being with Brandon, I should be with him. Receiving the cold shoulder but not the reason for that cold shoulder feels like a raw deal.

  I get up. I plod through my morning routine like a zombie. I’m up before the alarm, so I take my time cleaning up. I don’t need a shower; I felt a long, hot bath was warranted last night.

  I head into my side unit’s small kitchen, but of course I only have a few snacks. I normally eat in the main part of the house. With my father. He’s been going in later since I’ve been home.

  I hold the cupboard door open, looking at my lonely box of graham crackers and three Luna bars, and wonder if I should make do. Bars are for breakfast, after all. Graham crackers? They’re for any time.

  But if I stay here, that means I’m avoiding the house. Because I always go there for breakfast. I don’t have coffee. Or a coffee maker. I only drink it in the mornings, and because Dad drinks it too, it only makes sense to share that as part of our ritual. So it’s in the house, not here.

  I could get in my car. Pick up coffee at Hill of Beans, or Starbucks. I could show up early, thus proving how responsible I am. Maybe nobody heard yesterday’s berating. It was lunchtime, after all, and most of them were probably already gone. Maybe I’ll get lucky. I’ll skate through the day, keep avoiding my father like I am now, and make it home safe and sound.

  Repeat tomorrow. Repeat forever.

  Eventually, we’ll forget all about it, and resume our relationship.

  It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid despite still feeling both rejected (from being yelled at) and indignant (because I’m twenty-two damned years old and shouldn’t be yelled at by my father anymore). So I hike up my dress skirt, grab my bag and purse, and drop both off in my car before heading into the main part of the house for breakfast.

  Maybe I’ll walk in, and things will be back to normal.

  Dad will be sitting at the table, dressed for work, with his tie slung back over his shoulder like a scarf to keep it out of his food. His short, brush-cut hair will have a very slight sheen of wax, and I’ll see that before he looks up at me and says, “Good morning, Princess” as he does every day. He’ll be eating his toast, tapping around for news on his tablet, or maybe reading the paper. I’ll get two cups of coffee, which will be brewed but not poured. And then I’ll join him, and we’ll put this all behind us.

  I walk into the kitchen.

  Dad is sitting at the table, wearing a pale-blue shirt and a cobalt tie. The tie is slung over one shoulder, and he’s eating toast. He has his tablet. I can smell the coffee, made as usual, waiting to be poured.

  He looks up at me and says, “Good morning, Riley.”

  I’m perhaps overly sheepish when I reply. I feel naked. Honestly, I feel a lot like I always imagined I might if I’d found myself pregnant at fifteen or sixteen and had to tap dance around him the next morning. My father’s expectations are the reason I took longer than my friends to start having sex and why I was doubly careful (condoms and the pill) when I did. I couldn’t face that morning. But even though I’m twenty-two, I stupidly feel as if I’m facing it now.

  “Morning, Dad.”

  “Sleep well?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He looks up, gives me a small smile, then goes back to his tablet.

  I pour coffee for both of us. Dad takes sugar. I take half-and-half and equal. I feel like I’m walking around land mines, but Dad shows no signs of explosion. Last time I saw him, he looked like he meant to disown me. Maybe he’s realized, overnight, how crazy this all is. Maybe it’s not as bad as I figured, Brandon’s radio silence notwithstanding.

  I sit. I put Dad’s coffee in front of him, and as usual, he takes it without looking — some kind of coffee-location ESP he’s always had. I get a muttered thanks as always. But after his first sip, something new happens. He spins the tablet and slides it toward me. I look, seeing listings of some sort. Then I meet his eyes, which seem a bit softer than normal. Maybe a little tired, too, as if he’s grown older since our parting.

  “I owe you an apology.”

  “Oh.” I blink.

  “It’s hard for me to believe you’re growing up.” Then he almost laughs. “Or that you’ve grown up.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes.”

  That remark doesn’t settle as well, but he seems to have moved on, so I let it go. He taps the tablet.

  “What’s this?”

  “Home listings.”

  I look up. The surprise must show on my face because he laughs again. He’s putting on a good show, but I can tell this is all unnatural for him. He’s trying. But it isn’t easy.

  “You’re buying a new house?”

  “For rent, Riley.” He gives a little sigh. “For you.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know you didn’t mean to stay long. I know you want your own place.”

  I take the tablet. I scroll through the listings but don’t see any of them. For some reason, I feel a plummeting sadness. He’s right; I do want my own place. I’ve said that from the start. But today, here and now, after what we just went through, this seems wrong. I felt displaced coming back from college that first day, and that displacement made me sad. Today feels the same, only I’m not sure why. Something precious has ended.

  “Oh.” I set the tablet down. “Thanks.”

  “There seems to be a lot there. I can give you the deposit.”

  “It’s fine. I have my own money.”

  He must have been expecting me to say this, so he makes no protest. Daddy’s little girl is all grown up and can make her own decisions.

  “Dad,” I say after another few quiet minutes.

  He looks up.

  “Brandon.”

  This seems to test his calm. There’s a bite of toast in his mouth, and his chewing pauses for a few beats. He works his jaw, swallows, and faces me.

  “What about him?”

  “Are you going to fire him?”

  He sighs. “I don’t know.”

  “You can’t fire him, Dad.”

  “It’s not about what he did. It’s about what it represents.”

  “What does it represent?”

  “A betrayal of trust. A lack of respect.”

  “For whom? Whose respect and trust?”

  “Mine.”

  I watch my father, wondering if he realizes what he’s just said. He’s looking right at me, and it’s like he’s forgotten I’m here … or, more importantly, that I was there.

  “It’s not ‘what he did,’ Dad. If he ‘did’ anything, I did it too.”

  “That’s not the same.”

  “You’re acting like he raped me.”

  “Don’t be dramatic, Riley.”

  “Or roofied me. Or persuaded me to act against my will. Or coerced me. Or bribed me or harassed me.”

  “Riley … ”

  “Or got me drunk or told me he’d get me a new car or threatened you with blackmail unless I did what he wanted.”

  “You’re missing the point.”

  “I was there too. It was both of us. Both of us in our right minds.” I swallow, feeling the need to shock him into my point. Or, perhaps, feeling the desire to hurt him the way he hurt me. “Both of us wanting it,” I finish.

  But instead of balking, he sighs. I don’t like this side of him. Mason James has never backed away from anything. He never surrenders. When Mom was dying, he fought even after she was ready to make peace and drift away. Sometimes, I think he’s still fighting for her not to die, now over a decade later. He could have his pick of Inferno Falls’s cougars but stays a bachelor, holding a candle long since extinguished.

  “It’s different, Riley. You’re my daughter.”

  “So I get special treatment.”

  “Yes,
frankly. But there’s more. You’re also an intern.”

  “And?”

  My words are confrontational, so he seems to decide it’s worth fighting dirty to fight back.

  “Honestly, Ri, it doesn’t matter much what an intern does. Interns’ decisions don’t matter. They do what they’re told. As long as you can file papers, make calls, and run errands, you’re doing your job.”

  “I don’t want to be an intern forever,” I say. “You let me attend the financial meeting.”

  His lips firm. I can tell how badly he doesn’t want to fight, and probably hoped this wouldn’t come up. Then, the next time there was an important meeting and I wasn’t allowed to attend, the issue itself would be cooler and less immediate. I’m not sure how much penance he’s sentenced me to, but it’s clear that there’s some.

  “I see. So because I’m interested in someone who works for you, I’m no longer allowed to be a legacy.”

  “I’m not punishing you, Riley. You’re a grown woman.”

  “But you are. You and Mom started this company. You always meant for me to move up; that’s what I was told. The message dimmed a lot after Mom died, though. Around the time I started getting prettier dresses and dolls.”

  “You’re not being fair.”

  “You’re not, Dad.” I stand. My heart is pounding. I’ve never confronted him like this.

  “Nothing changes,” he says. “But you don’t know what the day-to-day of running a company is like. I have to make a lot of decisions, and it’s more of an art than a science. There are no truly right or wrong decisions. Even the best choices have downsides. You have to play a company more than run it. Like you would an instrument.”

  “And my decision-making ability is impaired.”

  “You need to learn.”

  “And I set it back. By sleeping with Brandon.” Another barb, intentionally sharp. If he keeps angering me, I’ll start describing exactly what we did, how fast, and how hard.

  “You’d just met him. You were drunk.”

  “We weren’t drunk! It was hours after the restaurant!”