That he's a pushover.
I pat my front pocket for my keys, feel the small bulge, and turn toward the door.
"Hey," she says softly.
Turning back to her, I tilt my head to wait for whatever it is she wants to say.
Please be something good. Please be something that lets me know that I'm not imagining some of these feelings or worse yet, that they're one-sided.
"I meant what I said a minute ago," she says, her eyes lasered onto mine so I know she's talking straight.
"What's that?" I ask, since a lot was said in the last minute or so.
"That I don't want to go back to the Jackson house," she says bluntly. "I really don't want anything he has, but in particular, I don't want to go back there."
"Bad memories and all," I hazard a guess, remembering just how good that felt to hear her say she didn't want to go back the first time.
It's even better the second.
"No," she says simply and picks up her purse. "Just better memories here. Much, much better, and I don't want to give that up."
"Then don't," I tell her leaning forward, grazing my lips on her cheek. "You have a place here as long as you want it."
I hope she reads between the lines. I'm not just talking a bed to sleep in, but I'm certainly not ready to tell her that yet. While Cat's opened up to me in amazing ways, I can still tell that deep down, she's going to be leery of anything that resembles a commitment and I'm not about to scare her off.
Chapter 18
Cat
"There's way more paper than I thought there'd be," I tell Sloane as I pull several thick folders out of a banker's box.
It's one of about forty banker's boxes that are stacked against the wall in the large conference room of Governor Hayes' campaign headquarters. Sloane and I have been diligently unpacking and organizing it all as best we can. It's the materials from his last campaign for governor when he won the office in a very heated and close race. That was three years ago, and in just over a year from now, the citizens will be voting again on whether to keep him in office.
And this is the extent of my knowledge of how elections are run by a candidate. Sloane's been filling me in a bit. She told me that her father used to be an elected U.S. Senator, so she's done campaign work before. She also told me her dad's a douche and she didn't like to talk about him, but she hoped he had perpetual sunburn from spending all his time on a beach in Brazil with his new and much younger wife.
I didn't press her for any details given the acid in her voice when she said that.
Callie was in Cheyenne, meeting with her father to start putting together a formalized kick off for the campaign. For my first day of work, she left instructions for me to just help Sloane with organizing the materials, and that seemed easy enough. I wish I had dressed a little differently, choosing a black and white zebra-print Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress with nude heels. Those have been long since kicked off and my sleeves rolled up as we pull out mailing lists, copies of speeches, policy summaries, advertising campaigns, glossy mailers and signs that were used. We lay them in stacks according to subject on the large table that takes up most of the room and chatter about inane stuff, mostly an attempt to get to know one another.
I had an amazing time with Callie and Sloane at lunch two days ago. The margaritas absolutely helped break the ice, but the fact that these women were so accepting of me says so much about them, that I feel relatively comfortable now despite my sordid past with the two men in their lives.
"So you and Rand, huh?" Sloane says while sitting on the floor before an open box. She's not looking at me but rather pulling out manila envelopes and checking out the contents.
Just casual conversation.
"Yeah," I say a little uncertainly since I really have no clue what the nature of our relationship is. "He's a great guy."
"Hung like a horse too," Sloane says, just as casually and still focusing on her work. She seems intent on what she's doing and as if her statement wasn't anything more than an afterthought.
"Excuse me?" I ask, stunned by her knowledge of Rand's body parts.
She looks up at me with a sheepish grin. "You're not the only one who had experience with all things wicked at The Silo."
"You and Rand?"
"Me, Rand, Logan, Bridger, and Cain," she says, her grin getting bigger with a slightly wistful look on her face. "All at the same time."
My jaw drops wide open, and I make no move to close it. I just stare at her, my eyes probably as big as an owl's. I can't believe it. No way. Sloane looks like the poster girl for innocence with her sweetly rounded face and cute as pie blonde waves coming to just above her shoulder.
Just... no way.
"Yup," she says with a chuckle, completely amused at my shock. "Cain arranged it. I'm sure Rand told you all about how I was an undercover reporter investigating The Silo and Governor Hayes. I was playing ignorant of The Silo with Cain and he was showing me a part of it but not really. Took me to one of the fantasy cabins and had the guys waiting there for me."
"Wow," I say as I lower myself slowly into one of the chairs that surround the conference room tables. I'm not sure how I feel about this. There's a weird, low bubbling feeling that I can't quite place. Like my favorite toy got stolen from me on the playground by another girl. And yet, there's no way that's jealousy. I have no right or claim to be such.
"I tell you that only to make you more at ease with me," Sloane says. "I know it really bothered you at lunch the other day... making friendships with us... not sure how we'd look at you or if we'd judge you. I hope Callie and I have both shown that we don't care about what happened in the past. I just told you about Rand so you know I've got dirty stuff in my closet too, but it doesn't mean anything more than just an experience."
I nod in understanding. She's right... the knowledge that she was with Rand helps to obviate my guilt over being with her man.
"I saw you at The Silo once," Sloane says, now leaning back and placing her hands flat on the carpet behind her.
"You did?" I cringe internally wondering exactly what she saw me doing. While Sloane walks a bit on the wild side, I'm betting the four-on-one she had was the wildest thing she's ever done. She'd probably be sick if she knew some of the things I've done.
"It was after your husband died," Sloane says with a nod of her head. "I was there with Cain and Bridger had told us. You were in one of the rooms... locked in a stockade."
A small smile comes to my lips and my fingers come up to inadvertently touch them in remembrance. That was a good night. It was the night I first got to make my own choices about who I let into my body.
"You were beautiful," Sloane says softly, and my gaze slides to her. She doesn't say that in a "come on" type of way, but rather in a respectfully deferent way. "I remember being amazed at what strength and confidence you must have had to do that."
"Insanity more like it," I mutter as I push out of the chair and walk over to the boxes again.
"No," Sloane says. "I saw your face. There was pride there. And pleasure. You owned it. It was exquisitely erotic but beautifully inspiring. I envy you a bit."
I turn, startled to hear her say that. "Don't envy me. What you saw was a rarity. Most of my Silo experiences are not good."
"I suspected as much," Sloane says with a sympathetic smile. "And I'm really sorry for that."
Turning back around, I grab the next banker's box and haul it down. "Well, it's all in the past."
"You say that as if you almost believe it," she says, and my eyes snap to her.
"What do you mean?" I ask curiously. She acts like she has insight into me that I don't have about myself.
"You're holding back with Rand."
"I'm not--"
"You most definitely are," she reprimands. "I ask about Rand and you're like, 'He's a great guy'. I call bullshit on that."
My eyes narrow on her. "What would you know?"
"I know he's taken you in, given you shelter, provided sa
fety, and shielded you from judgment. Arranged for a job, took you to Vegas, and I bet he's handing you orgasms like they're candy every night, right?"
Not sure how she knows all that, but I'm going to guess it's through Bridger to Woolf to Callie to her, but regardless... she's right about all those things. She's so right about them, and it makes me feel horrible that I refuse to give them the recognition they deserve.
"Rand deserves way better than me," I tell her, finally voicing a fear I've had from the moment he held me after I told him about all the ways in which Samuel abused me.
Sloane cocks her head. "How do you figure?"
"I've got nothing to offer. I'm just a woman who is good for one thing, and I've been too well used for there to be anything special about me."
I hope that didn't sound too whiny because I'm just trying to call it as I see it. But now that I've told her that, I stiffen my spine and hold her gaze, knowing in my heart of hearts I just shared with her my secret fear that's holding me back from Rand.
He's much too good for me.
And I know I can't keep him. Once I figure out what I'm entitled to--or not--I'm going to have to move on and let him have his life back. Until then, I'm going to keep accepting what he's offering me because I guess that's just me being selfish. I like the feelings he provokes in me too much. I like the safety and security and the way he makes me laugh. I'll take it for a bit longer, which only confirms I'm no good. I'll end up using him up and leaving him behind at some point.
But it's what's best for him, I'm sure of it.
Sloane looks at me skeptically. "You totally don't even see yourself, do you?"
"Sure I do," I mutter, pulling the lid off the box I just set down on the conference room table.
I see myself in the mirror every day, and I know exactly the kind of person looking back at me.
My phone starts ringing from inside my purse, and I pull it out to check Caller ID. I try to push down the measure of annoyance that starts to rise when I see "Trish Lyons" on the screen.
I don't have her under the beloved title of "Mom" because she doesn't hold that honor. I stopped considering her my mom long ago.
Little liar.
Swatting my conscience away, I reject the phone call, sending it to voice mail. I start to drop it back in my purse, but it starts ringing again.
Trish Lyons.
"You can answer it if you need to," Sloane says from her seat on the ground. "Callie's really laid back about personal calls."
I don't want to answer it, but I recognize my mom's antics and she's escalating. This isn't the first time it's happened. Something is prompting her to reach out, and she's following the normal pattern.
First, it starts with little texts. Just checking in, baby. How are you?
When I ignore them, she turns on the "mom" act a bit more. Please call me. Really worried about you.
Yeah, bullshit.
Then the calls start. She starts to give more away on the voice mails she leaves. Just trying to reach you. I'm in sort of a pickle and could use some help.
Followed by, I need some cash pretty quick, Catherine. They're going to turn my electricity off if not. Can you wire it to me?
And when that goes unanswered, she gets nasty. If you don't send me some money, I'm going to keep calling and calling. I'm not going away so just send the fucking money. You don't want me showing up on your doorstep.
And I so don't want her showing up on my doorstep. She did it once and made a huge scene, which embarrassed the hell out of me in front of Samuel.
So when I finally give her the money, it's so I can have a little bit of peace. It is usually short lived because once she learned I was married to a billionaire, the requests came more frequently. I never had the guts to tell Samuel what I was doing, so I just took some cash advances off my card and would send them to my mom when she asked. It kept her happy for a bit until it didn't anymore.
We've been through the ignored texts, which she's been sending me for almost a week now. She called and left voice mails yesterday and the day before. Today would be about the time she started to threaten me.
Normally, I would ignore this call too but something in me is a bit different today than it was even yesterday. This morning, I stood up to Kevin and demanded something for myself.
That was something I'm not sure I've ever done before, and I don't pretend otherwise, probably would have never happened but for Rand taking me in and putting me under his wing.
But still... I can do this.
I can stand up to my mother.
I connect the call and say, "Hello Trish."
She doesn't even attempt to be offended because she's not. She's never minded if I called her Mom or not. "I'm surprised you actually answered. I have a better relationship with your voice mail."
"Because we have no relationship at all," I remind her in a tired voice, my eyes sliding down to Sloane to see she's got her head bent back over the box, trying to be unobtrusive. But I don't care if she hears this. Hell, she's watched me gang banged before, so why hide my wretched mom at this point? "What can I do for you?"
She launches right into her tale of woe. "Well, I've had a major leak in the roof and I have to get it replaced. It's going to be pricey, and you know I just don't have that type of savings. Probably at least ten grand."
My mom isn't the brightest bulb in the bunch, and I'm going to have to assume any intellect I have at all was handed down from my dad. She knew her daughter was married to a billionaire. She might not know exactly how many zeroes that is, but she knows it's a lot. The few times I've seen her in in the past three years, she's seen the jewelry I sport, the Mercedes I drive, and the designer clothing. I even had her over for dinner once to my palatial house, maybe hoping to rub her face in the fact that I landed well despite the things she did to screw me up.
Trish Lyons saw all of that and yet she never asked for more than a few hundred dollars at a time. Hell, I'd drop five-hundred dollars on a haircut every six weeks, so it was nothing to me. She would hit me up for the same amount every few months, so in reality, it wasn't that bad. Not sure why I dragged things out... ignoring her texts and calls until she turned nasty, then I'd eventually give in and hand the money over.
No, wait... I do know why I did that.
I did that because there was a small part of me that still considered her to be my mother. Some remote part of my heart that perhaps pitied her for her shortcomings and lack of love. Maybe I even did it in gratitude for the life of luxury that had been bestowed upon me.
But regardless, all those years, poor, intellectually challenged Trish Lyons never asked for more than a pittance. I suspected it was maybe to buy some dope or something.
Now she's asking for ten grand and that's quite the jump.
And I know exactly why.
"You heard Samuel died," I guess as I pace alongside the conference room table.
"Just terrible news, sweetie," she coos at me in such a fake, syrupy voice that my teeth start aching. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I say in a clipped voice. "And I don't have the money."
"Well, of course you do," she says as if I'm the silliest person in the world. "Your husband was rich. He's dead. So you're rich."
If only life were that simple.
"Samuel cut me out of the will," I tell my mother, which is not something I believe at all. In fact, I suspect I'm due a big chunk of change and can buy a new trailer for my mom, not just a roof, if I wanted. But I'll never tell her that. She doesn't deserve to know.
Because if I'm cutting out the poisonous past and refusing to be owned anymore, I'll be damned if I'm going to let my mom maintain any type of hold on me. At the most, I might give her a tiny bit of money once the estate gets settled, but then I'm done with her.
"I don't believe it," Trish says, scoffing. "He wouldn't."
"Well, he did," I snap.
"I'm coming over. We can talk about this," my mom says in a brusque voice.
> "I'm not in Vegas."
Small pause. Can hear the wheels turning. "Where are you?" she asks.
"Look... I'm at work and can't talk," I say, ignoring her question. She doesn't deserve to know where I am.
"But what am I supposed--?"
"Take care of yourself," I say softly and disconnect the phone.
Is that the last I'll hear of Trish Lyons?
Nope. There'll be another day, another dollar asked for.
The one good thing about not having a pot to piss in right now is that it makes my conversations with my mom a lot shorter.
Chapter 19
Rand
I note Cat dressed a lot differently for work today as she walks into the Snake River Brewery to meet me for dinner in a pair of dark jeans and a form-fitted plaid shirt with expensive leather boots that come up over her knees.
Yesterday, she was all polished sophistication when she left. She came back to the apartment tired, sweaty, and with dirt smudges all over her dress. Over frozen pizza because neither one of us wanted to cook, she told me about her day, which apparently included unloading and sorting dirty boxes filled with old campaign stuff, Sloane telling Cat all about our encounter together, as well as a call from her loser mother. It was a full day for her.
Cat didn't seem bent out of shape that I have carnal knowledge of Sloane, but I expect that's because Cat has carnal knowledge of Sloane's man, Cain. Ordinary people would never understand the dynamics of this type of sexual freedom, but hell... sometimes it seems a little weird to me as well.
But no more weird I suppose than the fact that I seem to fall more for Cat each day... hell, each moment we're together... and I can't seem to figure out if these feelings are real or fanned perhaps brighter by an unexpressed desire to be a hero to her.
She walks toward me, hips swaying, and every man in the bar turns his head to look at her. Her eyes are only for me as I stand up from my stool to greet her. Cat steps into me, her hands to my waist and she goes to tiptoes to press her lips to the lower side of my jaw. "Hey," she says softly.
"Good day at work, honey?" I ask playfully as I drop my hand to her ass and cop a quick feel.
She laughs and steps past me, plopping down on the stool I had been saving for her. I take my seat beside her, and she takes a grateful swig of the Snake River Pale Ale I'd had poured for her by the bartender when I'd arrived about fifteen minutes ago. I call out to one of the bartenders who has his back to me, counting money from the cash drawer. "Ryan... go ahead and put in a barbeque chicken quesadilla and a bison burger."
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