Blackbird (A Stepbrother Romance #1)(13)

“Yes.”

“Not about the meeting.”

“No. Not about the meeting.”

She takes a bite, chews it slowly and swallows without looking up.

“Old flame,” she says. It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

I look at her.

“I’m not going to say anything else. I heard you fired an assistant for touching your shoulder when you fell asleep on the plane.”

“Yes. I did. They all hate me, don’t they?”

Her sandwich is shaking. Her hands are, too.

“You can answer me. I asked you the question, so I must want the answer.”

“Yes.”

“Do you?”

“Sometimes. Please. I have three kids.”

“I know. You’re not fired. I’d offer to wrap that up so you can take it home but I don’t know where the cook keep things to wrap up food.”

“Thanks. I’m not really hungry. Can I go?”

“Yes. Come in at nine tomorrow. I’m sleeping in.”

“Your father-“

I touch my cheek gingerly, and wince. “I’ll deal with him. I’m sleeping in. So should you.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She rises, and most of the sandwich goes in the garbage. As she’s leaving, I sigh.

“Alicia.”

“Yes?”

“For what’s worth, I don’t hate you.”

A little while later I add, “I just hate myself,” but by then I’m alone again.





Chapter Five





Victor





Fuck f*ck f*ck, f*ck me sideways with a blowtorch.

First thing I do is push past some * in a paisley tie (really?) and into the men’s room. I shoulder my way into a toilet stall. I don’t want to touch anything. Then I slip my fingers in my mouth. I can still taste her on my fingers. The stall rattles when I slam my fist into the wall. My hand comes away bloody, a spider-web crack in the tile. Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

She did not say ‘don’t leave me’. That was just my imagination. I’m sure of it.

I walk out of the bathroom with a bloodied hand and paisley tie man is waiting for me. He gives my hand a look and I realize I’m being sized up.

Look, I don’t pretend to be the hardest hardass that was ever hard, but you learn things in prison. Rule number one, is don’t go around sizing people up. Paisley tie man, besides having atrocious taste, is ex military. Still wears a crew-cut and lifts three times a week. He commutes into the city and has a room full of gun parts and Army manuals he bought from a surplus catalog, stuff about close combat techniques and booby traps. I can see all that written on his face, somehow.

You get good at reading faces in jail.

“Hey,” he snaps at me.

This guy pilots a desk at the biscuit factory headquarters. I’m not in the f*cking mood. I walk past him to the sink and wash my hands. I’ve got my blood from the broken tile on my right and Eve’s * juice on my left. The water goes down the sink pink. The paper towel sticks to my hand. I like this bathroom, it reminds me of a casino. It would be a terrible shame if one of those nice porcelain urinals was cracked in half by this *’s head. The probability of that is rising by the second.

I pull the paper towel away. A few little nicks, nothing serious. I squeeze the paper against the blood and take a deep breath. Count to ten. Conflict management was something else I had to learn. After sitting through enough bullshit anger management sessions I actually started paying attention and sharing in hopes they’d stop making me go.

I told them some shit about being angry that my Dad died. I’m not angry with him. It’s not Dad’s fault some * ran him off the road into a tree. What makes me angry is that I gave myself completely to Eve and at the first sign of trouble she believed the absolute worst about me. I can still see her father’s smug face behind her as she reacted to the bitch’s testimony at the trial. Martin. The man has the most punchable face. I wouldn’t mind hammering him with my fist. Paisley tie man hasn’t given up volunteering to stand in for Martin today. He’s edging closer to me all the time as I pat my hand dry again, run more water over it. The cuts are already starting to scab. He looks in the toilet stall and then back at me.

“Did you do that?”

“Not now.”

I start walking away.

“I asked you a f*cking question.”

He puts his hand on me.

Oh, f*ck you.

I duck from under his grip as he paws at my suit coat. Turn, pivot on my heels, and suddenly his fingers are crushed in my grip. A twist and a squeeze and they’ll pop right out of joint, or I can spin on my heel and hammer my elbow against his, snap it clean. I could totally f*ck him up, but I stop. I let go. He goes for me again, grabs at my collar with both hands. I slip my arms up between his and spread them apart, breaking his grip. If I hit this guy, I’m going back to prison.

The bathroom door bangs open and Jim Thorpe III walks in.

III. Part of his name is a goddamn Roman numeral. What am I doing here?

“Howard? What the f*ck are you doing?”

Howard the Paisley Tie man blinks. Looks at me. Blinks again. He walks off muttering, leaving me to adjust my collar and coat gingerly, trying not to get blood on my fingers.