by Claire, Ava
I saw the crack, the sliver, but there was still a chance it could go wrong. She could keep the wall up. Keep the door closed. Tell me it was none of my business or to go to hell. But she didn’t reach for the white string or punch the button I knew they had on the rail, well within her reach.
“I wish I had something I couldn't live without,” she said in a tiny voice. “Lately, it’s just been a bunch of things I can’t live with." Her eyes dropped and I watched as she picked at some invisible scab with her fingers, black polished nails burrowing into the white sheets. “I know what people say when my face flashes on the screen. ‘There’s another entitled celebrity given everything but she’s still not happy.’ And they’re right. I have everything and I'm miserable. I don’t deserve one bit of it.”
“Mia,” I said softly, “You don’t mean that. I’ve seen your show-”
“You watched Carolina, California?” she asked incredulously.
My face warmed. “I may have watched an episode or two.” Or ten. “You were incredible. And your voice is amazing.”
She gave me a bittersweet smile. “Nowhere near as amazing as Shelly.”
“Shelly?” I asked, stepping closer to her bed. “Who’s Shelly?”
She looked at me—no, stared was a better word. Eyes boring into me, scooping me out to study the bits and pieces. I had no idea who this Shelly person was but clearly Mia was trying to decide if she trusted me enough to confide in me.
“You were right,” she said after a minute, slumping her shoulders. “I was trying to...you know.”
So no to Shelly, but she was admitting she tried to kill herself. I’d take it.
“What happened?”
She shrugged her shoulders or at least pushed them upward in a shrugging motion as best she could with the straps. “I was just tired. Tired of the paparazzi, tired of the blogs, tired of the YouTube comments. I mean, it got to the point where I was keeping a tally of all the new dislikes my videos got. I grew up in this business and I thought I had a thick skin, but I just...” Her voice cracked and she looked away, trying to tilt her head away, but not before I saw the tears. "It just seemed like everyone would be better off without me.”
"That's not true," I said firmly. "You matter and no one would be better off."
My words went right through her. This was heavy, heavier than someone who studied marketing and communication could handle.
“You should talk to the nurses or the therapists. They’re all here to help you.”
“I am talking. I’m talking to you.” She jutted her chin out. “Not some underpaid nurse who’ll run and tell the first photographer she sees that flashes a wad of cash. And not some therapist who nods and acts like they understand then uses me as a punch line at cocktail parties. I don’t trust them but I...” She left the rest open ended, going from the take-no-prisoners young woman I met to someone afraid.
And then it hit me. She was trying to say she trusted me...or at least, she wanted to.
“If you ever wanted to talk, I’m here.” I said with a smile.
Her eyes brightened. “Really? Even if I don’t become a Whitmore and Creighton client?”
“Even then," I winked.
The door swung open and I stepped to the side, expecting a nurse but the overwhelming smell of body spray and douchebag told me otherwise. The lanky guy from before was standing in the doorway, clearly gunning for some more dirt to take to the hungry masses.
Maybe he was good looking once upon a time. He had the right height, broad shoulders, and what was left of the generically attractive bone structure with shaggy blond hair. I’d done my research when we were waiting for news about Mia and I knew he was twenty five but alcohol and drugs made him look like he was nearly forty. Any semblance of the guy who came from nothing to be a movie star was dulled and erased by playing it a little too fast and loose. It was obvious any monetary support Mia gave him went nowhere good. And he had the nerve to look at me suspiciously.
“Who the hell is she?” he growled, taking a battle stance.
“She’s my—” Mia paused, her forehead crinkling as she tried to determine the right word to use. “She’s my publicist.”
Not the 'friend' I was hoping for, but it was better than nothing. And it meant that she was at least thinking about giving Whitmore and Creighton another try.
“Publicist?” he repeated, leering at me in a way that made me wish I was wearing a turtleneck. When I didn’t seem shocked by his lurid stare he just moved to her bed, picking up the ice bucket. “You don’t need a publicist, babe. You know I’m taking care of you.”
“Oh, is that what you’re doing?” I said with a frown, moving closer to Mia. “It kinda looked like you were feeding the fire. Making deals and promises that were less about Mia’s best interests and more about your own.”
“What I do for Mia has nothing to do with you,” he snapped, his face reddening. “I think you should leave.”
I almost laughed at that until I saw Mia’s face. She was torn, looking back and forth between us like she didn’t want to choose. Even though I had a feeling she’d go with Scott and it was the worst possible choice she could make, I didn’t want to push her. Right now, she didn’t need me to make a scene and state things she already knew were true deep inside.
So I plastered on a smile and didn’t make her choose.
“I’m gonna head back to the office." I pulled out a business card and scribbled my cell on the back. “You call me anytime, okay?”
She gave me a nod. “K. And I’ll set up another meeting as soon as they let me out of here.”
I gave Scott one last glare and exited the room. I’d gotten Mia to open the door a little and let sunshine in. Getting rid of toxic friendships would have to wait...for now.
****
“I've never wanted to hurt someone so much in my life. So I reached over the counter, swiped a pair of scissors from her pen cup and jabbed the blade into her neck.”
I waited for the horror. For Jacob to look up at me like I was a woman possessed before his delicious mouth split into a smile when he realized I was joking. If he was listening, that would have been his response after I told him what happened at the hospital. How pissed I was when I went back to the lobby to get Missy and Nurse Deadwood came down with a case of amnesia, politely asking us to leave before she called security.
But Jacob wasn't listening.
He brought the rim of the wine glass to his lips, gave me an absent-minded smile and promptly went back to pretending he was taking in every word that came out of my mouth.
“So she’s fine then?”
“She was after I administered mouth to mouth.”
His brow furrowed as he put the wine glass down. “What?”
I threw my napkin on top of my barely eaten dinner, suddenly not so hungry but plenty annoyed. I’d spent the past thirty minutes telling Jacob about Mia. How I thought she was ready to make a change. How I wanted to literally murder Scott with a vase when he had the nerve to say he was looking out for Mia while he profited from her demise. Right around the time I started talking about the huge sketch factory the guy was and Jacob’s replies interchanged with interesting and cool, I realized I was basically talking to myself.
“Is there a reason you’re ignoring me?” I crossed my arms tight against my chest. “Especially after you asked me how it went?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Leila.” His eyes did a complete 360 before they settled back on me. “I just have a lot on my mind. And I asked about the Mia situation because it’s in my best interest to know.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes,” he answered coolly. “If the girl is that far gone, she’s in need of a psychiatrist, not Whitmore and Creighton.”
I was familiar with the cold, indifferent tone of the businessman. He was at the head of a multi-billion dollar enterprise and when it came to business, Jacob Whitmore wasn’t someone you wanted to trifle with. But using that mechanical, emotionless appr
oach when it came to a girl nearly committing suicide, especially given his past? That was too much.
“So what are you trying to say?” I could feel my voice rising along with my temperature. “You’d drop Mia because of what she did?”
“If she proved to be more trouble than she was worth, absolutely.”
Before I even knew what I was doing the napkin covering my food was a white ball sailing toward Jacob’s head.
He swatted it away effortlessly. “Thank goodness there’s no scissors handy.”
“That’s not funny,” I snapped, feeling the indignation flare in my cheeks. So maybe he was listening, but now I was the one wishing there was a mute button. Or maybe rewind...back to before my fiancé said the jackassiest thing I’d heard in a while.
“You don’t mean what you said.” I released my grip on the anger that was choking me and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself before I said it again. “You didn't mean that.”
I knew Jacob. And when Natasha blurted out that Mia OD’d, something flashed across his face. I’d been sure it was sadness but now that he was acting like he hadn't just said we might toss Mia overboard, I wasn't so sure.
“I don’t see what the issue is, Leila. If the Rachel Laraby situation has taught us anything-”
I gripped the edge of the table, feeling my anger rush back with a vengeance. “I know you’re not going to compare a sick, sad girl to a grown ass woman who isn't happy unless we're miserable.”
His blue eyes flashed. “I wasn't, actually. If you’re done, I can finish.”
I did a flourish with my hand. “By all means.”
His jaw tightened. Even mad as hell the flare of anger in me was met by one of lust. That look—stern, powerful, in charge—it was one he wore well. Jacob owned that look...and it turned my insides into goo. But I could tell he wasn’t about to throw me over his shoulder and discipline me.
Not yet anyway.
“What I was trying to say is that we can’t get too close to our clients. It clouds our judgment.”
I flipped a mess of brown curls over my shoulder haughtily. “How interesting. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure you told me that my ability to connect and empathize with Mia Kent made me uniquely qualified to work on her case.”
“Don’t do that,” he said brusquely, throwing his own napkin over his plate. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not trying to patronize you, Jacob.” I leaned forward, reaching for his hand. “You’re stressed out because of work, right? That’s why you’re talking crazy?”
“No, crazy is what Mia Kent is.” He snatched his hand away, face storming with fury. Not anger, not annoyance. No—this was something he’d been holding onto. Something that had been eating at him.
I fell back in my chair, not sure what to do with that statement. It was more than inappropriate. It was downright cruel.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. His words took me back to the hospital. I could still see Mia’s eyes. Wide. Piercing. But her hands shook beneath her restraints. She was terrified.
I’d never attempted suicide, but I knew what it was like to be tired of your life. Going to school day after day and dealing with girls that picked me apart—my weight, my hair, hell, my very existence. Feeling like my mother didn’t understand. Couldn’t really because her idea of making me feel better was reciting the old ‘stick and stones’ mantra. I wouldn't wish that loneliness on anybody. And it wasn’t something to joke about or trivialize by calling Mia crazy.
He dropped his gaze to the tablecloth then closed his eyes like he couldn’t believe he’d gone there either.
“I’m sorry.”
It was a start. When he looked at me, I saw the words plain as day and the remorse was real. I gave him a small nod, but I wasn't gonna just let it go.
“Why would you even say that, Jacob? That’s not like you.” It was the Jacob Whitmore people expected. Coldly handsome. Flippant. Obnoxious. He’s freaking gorgeous so somehow, it works. But that wasn’t the real Jacob. Sure, the domineering, air going out when he came in the room thing was incredibly sexy, but I knew that he was kind. And generous. So this was something else.
He picked up his glass and threw it back.
“It’s just been a long day," he said after polishing off the rest of the wine. "I know what I said was out of line and I apologize.”
He picked up his napkin and dabbed at his mouth. When he discarded it, I saw the familiar hunger in his gaze. “Let’s go to bed.”
There was a part of me that wanted nothing more than to have loud, kinky, after-argument sex with him, but there was a bigger part that knew something else was going on here.
I didn’t budge. “What’s going on, Jacob?”
One side of his mouth curved deliciously upward. “I’m gonna take you to bed, love. Tie you to it maybe.”
That wasn’t even fair. A need of my own was building and I blurted out my concern before it won. “We need to talk about what you said. Something is going on with you.”
The smile evaporated. “You’re not gonna drop this, are you?”
I shook my head slowly. “We’re partners, remember? We have to talk about things. The hard stuff, the uncomfortable stuff. Not just the things that come easy.”
He gave me a guarded look. Even though I felt like I knew him so well, there were still moments when I felt like he was good at hiding his emotions.
Too good.
He could tell me I was imagining things. That it was all in my head. And I had no proof otherwise. What would I do if he started hammering home the ‘so tired’ excuse? I couldn’t make him tell me.
But I had hope. That we’d been through enough that he knew he could tell me anything, no matter how horrible or difficult and we’d work through it together.
He pulled his tie loose and ran a hand through his dark hair before letting out a sigh. “I hate that I’m letting it affect me. I wish I could just turn it off.”
“Turn what off?”
“My mother.”
Oh god. If Alicia Whitmore was involved, I knew it was horrible. I reached for his hand again and this time, he didn't pull away.
“You know most of the story. How my father was barely around. And when he was, he was always distracted.
My mother tried a variety of things." He counted them out on his fingers. “Redecorating the house. Hiring a master chef to cook his favorite meals. Taking cooking lessons. Changing her hair. Changing her clothes. Shooing me out of the house for....” Jacob trailed off with a shudder.
Yeahhh...no matter how old you get the idea of your parents getting it on is still a little weird.
“None of it worked,” he sighed. “And then when I was eight, maybe nine, I came home from school and I remember feeling this burst of excitement because my father's Jag was in the driveway. It was weird because he was never home until I was practically in bed. It was—" His lips tilted into a sad smile. "—exciting. I walked in the house and my father was in the living room. Somber. Quiet. His eyes were trained on the coffee table. It was littered with bottles and a rainbow of pills. Every damn size you can think of. I asked where Mom was and he said she was tired and not to be disturbed. When it happened two months or so later, he told me she was sick. That she tried to hurt herself."
I felt a knot form in my throat that wouldn't get away. After what he'd almost done with the shotgun...
"I was eleven when she started routinely harming herself,” Jacob’s voice was hollow and cold. “Interestingly enough, these urges happened right before long business trips or after she and Dad had some heavy argument."
I gripped his hand tight. It was impossible, but I wished I could take away his pain. How she could do that; use suicide as some ploy for attention, it just...I couldn’t even fathom it.
He cleared his throat and rose to his feet. “But that’s in the past. I never should have taken it out on you or Mia. And if she wants to be our client, I support it fully. I support you.”
/> I wanted to hug him, to be close, to let him know I’d never let anyone hurt him ever again, but he made a beeline for the staircase.
“I’m gonna grab a shower. I’ll see you upstairs.”
****
I leaned against the frame of the door, looking into our dimly lit bedroom, watching Jacob. Blue eyes were on the screen of his iPad, bright beneath a mop of still damp hair. My eyes lowered to his chest, bare and glistening from the shower. I wanted to move closer, to smell the musk of the soap on his skin. But there was no way I could be that close to a near naked Jacob and keep my hands to myself. And considering he’d all but dashed upstairs alone and was reading intently with an invisible ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging above his head, I didn’t think now was the time for seduction or submission.
And the glimpse of his past was enough to make my libido all but shut down. I knew that Alicia Whitmore wasn’t what she seemed the moment I laid my eyes on her. Her glossy, manicured exterior was hiding secrets of something dark. The kind grin she wore as she nonchalantly talked about writing me a cheek to go away. Talking about her love of Jacob in the same breath she used to disparage him. Disregarding what he wanted. What he needed. And now I knew she used the threat of suicide to control her husband and son.
I looked at Jacob, my strong man who fought so hard to contain his emotions, who was once different; happier—until the woman who brought him into the world snuffed it out. Hardened him.
My mother was no saint. She was flighty, impulsive and if you looked up ‘overprotective’ in the dictionary I was pretty sure you’d see her snapshot beside the definition. But hearing about the things Alicia did to Jacob made me want to hug my mom tight and never let her go. It made me want to go back to the Leila who used to complain and say horrible things in the heat of anger and shake some sense into her.
I was lucky to have a mom like her. A mom that told me she loved me so much it made me groan. A mom whose extent of manipulation was things like playing matchmaker and hiding my flats so I had to wear stilettos to the interview that changed my life.