by Ashley Jade
I instinctively reach for her hand. I can't help myself. “I won't let you fail.”
And had I turned twenty-five last month instead of twenty-four, she wouldn't have to fear being homeless, because I'd pay back those loans, and she'd get to keep full control of her company. But, as it stands currently, my financial situation isn't much better than hers. Only unlike her, I have a guaranteed light at the end of my tunnel.
And my God, what a dark tunnel it's been for the better part of three years.
After I left the hospital, vowing to never let anyone hurt me again...I was in a bad place. A place so depressing and bleak, I shut off and shut down.
I was tired of drowning. Tired of feeling. I just wanted to float and go numb.
So that's exactly what I did.
I left Woodside without graduating and sailed through life in a thick haze of various places, various substances, and various bodies.
I even ended up on the back page of a few tabloids. Something that would have devastated my introverted father who, despite his wealth, stayed far away from all things Hollywood.
I became what I swore I never would. The epitome of everything my parents despised.
But they weren't around to stop me...and I made sure I pushed away anyone who tried to. Including my best friend and my Nanna...even after she made good on her threat to cut me off.
I didn't care.
For eighteen months, I hung around people who had access to more money than they'd ever know what to do with but were miserable deep down—because they all knew what I did.
That even though money could buy me a lot of nice things, no amount of money could ever buy me what I truly wanted.
Money would never bring my parents back.
And it sure as hell would never buy me love—not the kind I'd always wished for. Not even when I gave all of mine away for free.
So, I partied whatever money I had saved from my prior allowances into oblivion.
Things were so much easier without any responsibilities or accountability.
My life was downright fucking beautiful when I stopped giving a shit about it.
Until it wasn't.
My reality check came in the form of a tall, leggy model from Brazil named Gabriela.
It was love at first sight, I was sure of it. Gabriela was an angel sent down to me from heaven. And the bartender who served me my third Long Island iced tea and sixth shot of vodka that night eagerly agreed as he watched us make out before we hit the dance floor.
Thirty minutes and another shot later, however; she was apologizing for having to leave because she was late for the big party her agent was throwing.
I, of course, decided to invite myself because I was both drunk and infatuated with her.
She had no objections as she grabbed my hand and led me out of the club. I remember saying we should call a cab because I was in no shape to drive—but she told me it would take too long and her agent would drop her if she didn't show up in the next half hour.
Looking back, I should have protested and told her it was a bad idea.
Instead, I swooned when she told me how good she was going to fuck me. And I didn't argue when she insisted she was sober enough to drive us there herself and took my keys out of my purse.
The last thing I remember is waking up wedged between the driver and passenger seats and the sound of sirens.
Well, that and the fact that my car went through a large glass window and was in the middle of someone's house.
Unfortunately for me, Gabriela was nowhere to be found. And given the homeowners of the house she drove my car through weren't home, and the car was registered to me, it was near impossible to prove I wasn't the driver.
But at least my girl was kind enough to leave me a token of our whirlwind romance.
A purse containing cocaine. Which, looking back, explains why her agent demanded she get to the party. The girl was holding all the entertainment.
I couldn't be that mad, though. After all, she did say she was going to fuck me good.
And boy, did she ever.
She fucked me so good...it resulted in a hospital visit, a trip to jail, expensive lawyer fees...and a record.
However, it gave me my best friend back, so there's that.
I thought Breslin was going to pass out when she saw me in jail. And then I thought I was going to pass out when Asher of all people ended up posting my bail. A bail I couldn't even pay him back for because I blew most of my savings during my reckless shenanigans, and I knew I had a better chance of finding a genie in a bottle than my Nanna giving me a penny of my parents' money. Especially once she heard the reason I was in this predicament was because I'd fallen hard for a Brazilian model I'd known for all of two hours.
I was facing a felony, and I knew I was most likely going to be sent away until I needed dentures.
There was rock bottom...and then there was me. And I couldn't blame anyone but myself for it.
Preston might have lit the match that sparked my self-destruction three years ago, but I was the one who chose to keep the fire burning until it turned into an inferno.
Thankfully, I had luck on my side, because Landon and Breslin helped me find a great lawyer who was persistent enough to insist they run prints on the purse and the bag of cocaine to prove it wasn't mine, and track down surveillance from the club showing Gabriela—who left her passport in that purse—taking my car keys and jumping in the driver's seat before we took off.
That, along with it being my first offense, my lawyer mentioning to the court that I was one of the hostages in the infamous Woodside campus shooting, reminding the court I was never found behind the wheel, and me breaking down because I was both grateful no one was hurt, and truly sorry I messed up, granted me leniency.
I got off with one year of probation.
I stayed with Breslin, Asher, and Landon at their home in New Orleans for the duration of it, and if I hadn't been grateful for all of them before...I certainly was then.
They had every right to turn their backs and leave me with my mess—it's what I deserved. But instead, they helped me clean it up and get back on my feet.
I owe them everything.
“You're sweet,” my boss says, interrupting my thoughts. “Even though we both know I don't deserve your kindness.”
Her statement confuses me. “Why—”
She levels me with a look. “I kissed you after the holiday party last month.”
I'm pretty sure my face matches the pink tips of my long locks. “I thought you were too drunk to remember. But I promise I never told anyone, including Juan.” My palm flies to my forehead. “Dammit, that's a lie. I told my best friend Breslin, but she would never say anything, not even to her boyfriends Asher and Landon. Although—”
“You're kind of adorable when you're nervous.” She laughs. “Now do me a favor and breathe before you pass out.”
I take her suggestion and fill my lungs. I'm torn between wanting to do a happy dance because she thinks I'm adorable and wishing the ground would open up and engulf me because of my tendency to ramble when I'm seriously into someone.
“I remember the kiss, Kit,” she says and I swallow hard. “But it was a huge mistake that never should have happened. I'm your boss.”
The disappointment that slams into me is potent. Figures, just when I find a girl who is not only gorgeous, but also smart, hardworking, and not a user or manipulator—I can't have her.
Jess is everything I want and the kind of girl I should be pursuing.
Man, this situation blows.
I plaster a smile on my face. “It's totally fine. I get it.” I hike my thumb in the direction of the door. “I should probably go back to my desk and schedule Pretty Kitties' posts for this weekend.”
“Kit,” she says when I reach the door.
“Yeah?”
“I won't be your direct boss anymore after Vegas.”
Before I can say a word, she reaches for her cell phone that's vibra
ting and brings it to her ear. “I have to take this, it’s the new boss, but have a good weekend.”
I wave like the grinning, stunned dork I am. Thankfully she's too into her phone call to notice.
“Hey, you. I meant to return your call after the meeting, but I was talking to Kit, the girl I was telling you about.” She giggles. “She's incredible, Jared. You're really going to like her.” She gives me a wink. “I know I do.”
When she gestures for me to give her some privacy, I realize I'm still standing there grinning at her like a lovesick creep.
I quickly close the door behind me and fall against it.
Smooth, Kit. Real smooth.
“I like it black and sweet, just like my men,” Juan declares as he walks past me to the copy machine.
“Huh?”
He presses a button. “It's how I'll take the cup of coffee that's going to save your ass from looking like a clingy, hot mess.” He snaps his fingers. “Now peel yourself off her door before she opens it and you fall on top of her.”
I walk over to him. “I'm not clingy.”
He raises one perfectly waxed eyebrow. “Right, and I own a minivan and live in a mansion with my wife Cathy who cooks me and my three children dinner while wearing the pearl necklace I bought her for her birthday.”
I rest against the copy machine. “I don't know, Juan. That's an awful lot of detail to not be true.”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “Probably because it's based on my actual fantasy. Only Cathy is Charlie Hunnam and I'm the one wearing a very special kind of pearl necklace.” He swats my arm with the stack of papers he's holding. “Now quit playing and get me some coffee, Ms. Clingy.”
“I'm not clingy,” I repeat as I make my way to the small coffee room.
“You kind of are,” Marge calls out from her cubicle. “I asked if she wanted half my sandwich once and she acted like it was a marriage proposal. The girl brought me flowers and lunch the next day.”
“I was hungry,” I defend above the laughter of my co-workers. “I was trying to be nice and thank you.”
That only makes them laugh harder.
With a groan, I pull out my cell phone and call Breslin. I need an objective opinion and I know she'll give me one.
She picks up on the second ring and I don't waste any time. “Am I clingy?”
“What—” Woof.
“Are you kidding? We went for a walk two minutes ago, Picasso,” she tells her golden lab puppy who I realize isn't a puppy anymore based on his deep bark.
“Sorry, what were you saying?”
“Am I clingy?”
Woof. Woof.
“Crap, he's peeing all over Asher's lucky jersey. Stop it, Picasso. Mommy spoke to you about this, we don't pee on Dad—”
“What the hell, babe? Again?” Asher yells in the background. “I thought you said he graduated from doggie academy with honors.”
“He did,” Breslin says at the same time Landon says, “It's not his fault you left your jersey lying around. You know it's his favorite target. You're practically taunting him with it.”
“I'm gonna go, B. Sounds like you have your hands full.”
“I'm sorry. I'll call you back when it's not so hec—”
“Now he's taking a dump on it and smiling at me,” Asher roars. “Why do you have to be such an asshole, Picasso?”
Woof.
“He's not an asshole,” Breslin says defensively.
“He's smiling because he's relieved now,” Landon adds before the line disconnects.
I try to suppress my laughter as I finish making Juan's coffee and head back to my cubicle to get some work done.
Three hours later, I've scheduled a variety of posts to go off on various social media sites for the weekend and personally responded to over five hundred emails, messages, tweets, inquiries, and Facebook comments on Pretty Kitties' social media pages.
And since Juan's—along with the other sales representatives—phone lines are still blowing up around me, I give myself a pat on the back for doing a good job.
Then I whip out my notepad and brainstorm some new catchy ad ideas to post for the upcoming week.
I'm typing up one for our special Pretty Kitty G-spot vibrator when my cell rings.
I press the button connecting my Bluetooth to my headphones. “Quick, B—I need a sexy word that rhymes with inspector G-spot.”
There's a throat clear that's distinctly masculine. “Kit Bishop.”
I recognize the disdain in his tone immediately. “How did you get this number, Reggie?”
“Reginald,” he corrects. “And I'm calling on behalf of your grandmother.”
“Well, I certainly didn't think you were calling me to hang out and catch a movie. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. I'd appreciate it if you'd lose my number.”
I go to hang up, but his next statement stops me in my tracks. “She's dying.”
“What?”
His words are like a kick to the stomach and it sends a flurry of emotions through me. Other than my piece of shit uncle, this woman is the only family I have. Yes, she was ruthless and mean. And God knows I hated her punishments, rules, and how cruel she could be.
But I also can't help but remember the times she wasn't so cold. Like when I found out my parents died, and she held me as I cried my heart out and promised she would always take care of me.
“It's cancer,” he says softly. “Last year she was diagnosed with throat cancer and the prognosis was good. However, two weeks ago she was diagnosed with lung cancer. Given it's in the advanced stage, she's chosen not to undergo treatment. She doesn't have long, Kit. Maybe a month or two at most.”
My chest grows heavy and I squeeze my eyes shut.
The promise she made to that inconsolable little girl turned out to be a lie. She didn't support me when I realized I was gay—she condemned me instead. And she couldn't be bothered to come to the hospital after the shooting, or when I ended up in jail. Basically, all the times I needed her. Or rather, the times I needed to be loved and taken care of more than I needed her judgments and disapproval.
I swallow the tears threatening to break free. I can't bring myself to mourn a woman who made me wish I was dead so many times I lost count. A woman I deemed important, all because my parents appointed her to be their placeholder. A woman who spoke to me via punishments and threats, instead of words and understanding.
A woman whose idea of love was taking a hammer to all the parts of me she didn't approve of—until I was broken...just like her promise.
“Sorry, Reg. I tried digging deep to find a fuck or two to give, but I came up empty. Have a—”
“She can't speak,” he interjects. “Perhaps that will sway your decision to see her.”
“It doesn't.”
“She's been asking for you.” The desperate twinge in his voice is indisputable.
“I thought you said she couldn't speak?”
“She doesn't. She refuses to use her electrolarynx, so she communicates with her notepad.”
“Goodbye, Reg—”
“Wait,” he says before I disconnect the call. “Your grandmother wants me to inform you that the family lawyer stumbled upon some interesting information during his most recent review, and it would behoove you to hear about it. He'll be at her residence this Sunday finalizing her will, should you come to your senses and change your mind about visiting. Good day.”
With that, he hangs up the phone.
It rings again almost immediately, and I don't hesitate to answer. “Do you really think threatening me will work?”
“Who the heck is threatening you?” Breslin questions.
I massage my temples. “I thought you were my Nanna's assistant—apparently something is going on with my parents' will, but I won't find out what unless I go over there on Sunday to speak to her and the family lawyer.”
“Not to be insensitive, but why are they only figuring this out now? Your parents have been gone for years, you'
d think—”
“She has cancer...it's terminal. The lawyer probably came across it when he was preparing her will.”
“Oh,” she whispers. “I'm so sorry, Kit.”
I start to speak, but she curses and says, “Asher's team is in the playoffs on Sunday. But maybe if I fly in tomorrow, and we show up at—”
“No.” I need to nip this in the bud before Breslin ends up missing the biggest game of Asher's career. “If something goes wrong and your return flight is delayed, or you accidentally miss it altogether, Asher will be heartbroken. I'll be fine, B. Asher needs you.”
“I know, but I don't want you to go off the deep end again.”
Her concern makes me want to reach through the phone and hug her. “I won't, I promise. I can handle this.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Besides, what's the worst that can happen? I've already lost my parents, so it's not like I can lose them again. This is nothing more than her trying to get one last dig at me before she croaks.”
“Yeah, you have a point. But promise you'll call me if you need me. I can catch the next flight after the game and—”
Woof.
“I swear to God!” Asher yells in the background. “It's like he wants me to lose the playoff game. That's it, I'm tossing your treats in the pool, you mutt.”
Woof.
“Maybe Picasso peeing on it makes it extra lucky,” Landon offers. “Ever think of that?”
Breslin sighs. “Here we go again.”
I laugh. “Go take care of your dog...and your men.”
Chapter 2
My stomach drops as I peer across the table at my Nanna, who's looking like the cat who ate the canary. Or rather, gutted the poor thing, watched it suffer, and then licked her fingers clean.
Even when the woman can no longer speak, she's still a malicious shrew who delights in making me miserable.
When I arrived and saw her for the first time in three years—sitting in a wheelchair, looking so much frailer and thinner than I remembered, it pulled on my heartstrings. I couldn't help but think that maybe there was a chance we could bury the hatchet and salvage our relationship before it was too late.