Friction(74)

She’ll be that reminder for me. When I say that I don’t do attachments in the future, I’ll think of her.

“Jace,” she starts, but I thin my lips and shake my head.

“Save it, Lucy. You're fired.”

“What?” she breathes.

Fisting my hands on my desk, I repeat myself, this time slowly, enunciating each word, so she gets the point. “You. Are. Fucking. Fired.”

She folds her arms over her stomach and sways forward. Fuck, even I feel like I’m going to be sick. I’ve not vomited since before I was the legal drinking age, but when I swallow, I taste bile. “Are you at least going to give me a chance to explain myself?” she demands. She sounds close to tears, and I don’t think I’ll be able to deal with them.

I’ve always hated when women cry. And Lucy—no matter how much her actions have ruined me—will make me regret what I’m doing the second tears fall.

If it saves my business, maybe it’s worth it.

I try to convince myself of that as I shove away from my desk and stalk around to her. I bend until our faces are close. “There's nothing to explain! I don't have a lot of rules. All I ask is for my employees to work hard and respect my clients’ privacy. You didn't do that, and now we’re all about to pay the price, Ms. Williams. You fucked me over because you just didn’t give a shit.”

“I'm so sorry, Jace.” She shakes her head defensively, her lips moving as if she’s searching for something more to say. I don’t want to hear any more. Don’t think I can. So I’m relieved when the words don’t come to her.

I lean back, narrowing my gaze at her. “Don't fucking apologize. I just want you to leave. I've got a goddamn nightmare on my hands, and I can't have the woman who took the photo here when B shows up ready to take everything I’ve worked so hard for.”

The pain in the back of my throat? It gets worse with every word I speak to her.

“What if I explain myself? What if I told him that I didn't mean to? What if…” Her voice trails off. She has so many what ifs, but it doesn’t mean anything when there’s only one that would matter. What if I hadn’t taken that picture?

“Do you think Bailon cares? Do you think he gives a damn that you didn't mean to post that photo so that whichever of your wonderful friends could share it with the world?” I jam my hands into the front pockets of my jeans and turn away from her before I can issue the blow I know will make her go so I can get my head right to fix this. “Do you think I care?”

“Yes,” she whispers brokenly, and something bitter gnaws at my insides. “I mean, I hope you care. We…” She buries her face in her hands, letting out a soft sob.

I shouldn’t want to touch her when I hear that sound, but I do.

Fucking Lucy.

Fucking weakness.

“There’s no we, love,” I state. “What you did put my company in harm’s way. It put the other people who work for me in harm’s way. Those people out there”—I jab a finger in the direction of the workshop—“they’re like my family, and you didn't give a damn about them, so that's why I can't and won’t do this.”

When I tell her this, she stands. Her face is red, chest is rising and falling rapidly, but she still takes a step towards me.

I lift a hand and close my eyes. “I don’t want to touch you, Lucy. I can’t be near you.” Dragging a hand through my hair, I set my face in a harsh line. “Just … go.”

Silent tears trickle down her cheeks, but she bobs her head. “I really am sorry, Jace,” she murmurs between gasps.

I let her leave without so much as another word.





Twenty-Nine





Lucy





For the first few days after I get fired, I'm in a daze. Once that fades, though, I follow Gossip Daily. I stalk any new information about the heiress I outed, about Jace and the implications my mistake has on him and his company, like it's my job.

“Are you still looking at that thing?” my mother asks me when she stumbles upon me sitting on the couch after she comes home from dinner with her Bingo friends about a week after I’m excused from EXtreme.

I swallow, but the wedge in my throat is still there. Still refusing to go away. It’s been there for days, since I realized that Jace isn’t going to respond to my calls or texts. “Mom, I really messed up.” She sits down beside me, grabbing my laptop from me despite my protests. She closes it and sets it on the coffee table, reminding me of the time Dad had taken away my computer because I was studying too much.

“Lucy, it's all right.”

But it's not all right. Nothing about this situation is all right, and I have lost my job, the friends I made there, and Jace because I made a stupid decision. When I came home the afternoon he let me go, my face swollen and red from sobbing all the way home from Boston after I had a couple of drinks with Jamie to calm my nerves, Mom was already waiting for me. She already knew of the photo’s existence, thanks to her hairdresser who saw it online.

Mom was fully prepared to give me a piece of her mind—and a few other choice words—the second I stepped through the front door, but as soon as she saw my face, she paused. She’s never been much for too much affection, but that night, I had curled up on her lap, bawling like a baby as she numbly watched a DVR’d episode of one of her TV shows.