Catch Me in Castile (2 page)

I couldn’t save myself. I was dying a gruesome, humiliating death that was far from over.

“There’s no point in continuing the interview,” the Big Guy said. “You’re not handling this well, Erin.”

Backed into the corner, my pride bleeding all over the place, I did what I had to do. “
I’m
not? Handle this: take your job and jam it straight up—”

He gripped my shoulder. “Be sensible.”

“You want to keep that hand?”
Sensible?
Any sense had flown out the window fifteen minutes ago when the most important meeting of my life had turned into all-fiery hell. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to pull out the “I Quit” card. This place, this job, was my life.

He tipped his palms up in his typical “let’s negotiate” stance and turned on his plastic smile—the one he flashed before grinding opponents under his wingtips.

Had he forgotten I knew all his moves?

“Think about what you’re doing. If you walk out of here, it’s all over.” His plastic smile slipped, just a hair.

I didn’t want it to be over. Silently, I begged.
You want me to stay. You need me. Please, don’t let me go.

“It’s your call. I won’t stop you,” he said.

“You think I should stick around to—what, rub my nose in your asinine decision?” I trembled with rage. He didn’t want me…he never had.

His nostrils flared. “I was wrong. Obviously, you’re not the best person for the job. I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t sorry. “The only thing obvious is I’ve been robbed.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “No wait, screwed and then robbed. Sums it up, doesn’t it?”

“You’re acting like a crazy woman.”

I leaned in close enough to kiss him. Or bite his nose off. “You haven’t seen crazy yet.” No one at the firm had, but I tilted dangerously in that direction.

Breathe, Erin, breathe. Don’t lose control
, my psychiatrist droned inside my head. I had never been so humiliated, or so viciously used by anyone before. This hurt.

YOU breathe, Dr. Stapleton. I want to pound something. Hard.

My gaze flicked down to the thick folder in my hand.

The Big Guy saw the look in my eye. “Erin, don’t you dare. Those charts belong to DH&L.”

Meaning that after eight years of devoting every waking hour to the brokerage, Erin Carter was no longer a part of the company. I’d become a non-entity.

My head threatened to explode.

I dumped the presentation I’d spent weeks preparing over his perfectly trimmed, meticulously styled salt-and-pepper hair. Life as I dreamed it rained down in glossy color and spanned out across the gray-flecked carpet. Trashed, all of it. Without looking back, I shoved the conference door open with a bang and hustled out of there before I strangled him with my bare hands.

Halfway down the corridor, reality set in. What had I done?

My stomach flopped. I was going to be sick.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

I was numb and yet my legs were moving. Fast. The click of my heels on the faux-marble tiles sounded a lot like, “Screw up, screw up, screw up.”

I grabbed my purse, fled through the lobby doors and ran like a demon chased me into the parking lot. Making it to my car, I shrank down in the front seat, covered my face with my hands and sobbed. The silk blouse I’d paid a kidney for was spotted with tears. How had things gotten so messed up? I felt…destroyed.

Rooting in the glove compartment for a package of Kleenex, my hand skimmed across the DH&L emblem blazoned on the Car’s User Manual. That’s when another important truth sank in—this wasn’t my car. I drove the firm’s navy blue Buick as a top commission producer. Some perk. I only drove it to and from work, even on weekends.

The windshield went fuzzy. Panic seized my brain and careened through my body like a high-speed police chase on the Hollywood Freeway. I wouldn’t outrun the attack. This one was going to be colossal.

“Sweet God,” I begged. “Not again.”

Fingers of terror scraped down my spinal cord. A thirty-pound weight smashed the air out of my lungs. A strange sound filled the car’s interior like air squeaking out of a busted balloon as I hyperventilated in the car that wasn’t mine. The world spun madly. Gripping the steering wheel, I hung on, but nothing would stop the fall. No one would catch me.

My mind didn’t snap. It exploded like an egg cooked on high in a microwave. Heartsick, panic-stricken and blinded with fury, I turned the key, stomped on the gas and floored the Buick.

Straight for the firm’s lobby doors.

But with no love life, no career, and a jail cell in my near-future, luck was a relative term.

Truth be told, I was desperate, shattered, bone-achy and above all else, terrified. Craziness ran in my family, still no one on my family tree went nuts enough to become a suspect in an attempted vehicular manslaughter case. Before now.

Three days had passed in a blubbery haze involving sleep, food, wine, my pink-flowered pajamas and fuzzy socks. The delivery cartons and empty wine bottles grew and grew until the Hefty bag was too heavy to carry to the garbage bin. It sat there in the corner of my kitchen floor as bloated and worthless as I felt.

Standing in front of my open, empty refrigerator, I thought fleetingly about making an appointment with Dr. Stapleton. He’d have some ideas to drag me out of my depression, or at the very least stronger meds, but I didn’t relish replaying the incident. There were no words to explain what happened.

Why did I do it?
reverberated through my head like aftershocks. Panic bubbled up my throat like a soda can shaken to the point of exploding. I had to get my anxiety under control before I killed someone.

Dr. Stapleton’s voice nagged inside my head.
You need to prioritize. Set some goals. Create a game plan.

I ripped the drawers out of my desk and dumped them upside down in the middle of the den. All my client files would make a nice bonfire if I were crazy enough to set a match to them. I found the pale blue journal Mom had given me when I graduated from college. She’d always kept one to write her thoughts in. Mine was as empty as it was on graduation day.

I toddled off to the kitchen and dug into my purse for the purple pen with the gold letters saying
Stockbrokers do it with your share
. I cracked open the empty journal and wrote across the top of the first page,
Get a Life
.

Good. Exactly. Other people had normal lives, lovers and friends. Why couldn’t I? I swung my legs under the barstool, tapped the back of the pen on the black-and-white speckled Corian countertop and concentrated really hard.

How does a woman who has completely crashed her life get a new one?

The phone rang by my elbow. I screeched in surprise and the pen took flight. My hands trembled as I checked the caller ID.
Maria.

“I love talking to you, I do, but you don’t have to call me every hour. Don’t you have work to do? A life to live?”

“Hello to you too,” Maria said. “I’m worried,
chica
. You keep saying you’re fine but…that was some car crash.”

“I know.”

“Judy in Accounting called a zillion times. Why don’t you pick up?”

My nerves had been too raw and jangled over the past three days to speak to anyone other than Maria. Checking emails was enough to douse me in cold sweat. Forget about going to the mailbox. Lord help me if I ended up a shut-in like my cousin Cate, who chopped down her mailbox and tossed out the garbage cans. She even boarded up the chimney to keep Santa out. One of my greatest fears was becoming cousin Cate, or any of my crazy relatives.

I wasn’t there yet. Still, only Dr. Stapleton knew about my battle with anxiety disorder. How would it look? Erin Carter was supposed to be A-class partnership material, not a flipped-out basket case.

“I’ll call her. Soon.”
Maybe
.

“So? What are you doing with your spare time? Banging a cabana boy?”

I snorted. “Oh yeah, right after the gardener. I think you have me confused with a desperate housewife.”

“You’ve got to get out of your condo before you become one of those old ladies who collects cats.”

Great. I needed that image running through my head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Get ready, I’m taking you to lunch.”

I glanced at my watch. “Don’t tell me Jerry lifted his hard-and-fast no-lunch-before-noon rule.”

“About that, I dumped Jerry.”

I jerked up straight. “No, you didn’t.”

“DH&L was boring as hell without Miss Stockbroker Supreme. Besides, the bullshit-flinging contests were getting tiresome.”

“You heard something about the…accident?” A rock fell into my stomach.

She was silent for a moment. “There’s an investigation, but it’s only half-cheeked. Everyone knows what really happened.”

“Investigation?” I squeaked.

“To find out why the accelerator stuck on you. Thank God those concrete posts were there, huh? A few feet to the left and you would have parked inside the lobby.”

“What if they determine it wasn’t an accelerator problem but…” I swallowed. “…a driver malfunction?”
Jail? The sanitarium for the insane and dangerous?

“Come on, Erin, that’s crazy. You were a little upset. We all heard you quit, or was it fired?” She waited, but I didn’t volunteer an answer. “No one on this planet would buy that you crashed the car on purpose.”

“I keep replaying the moment. It’s all so messed up in my head. Oh Maria, what if someone had walked out of the lobby the moment when—?”

There was a sound on her end like a book slapping a table. “Stop it. No one got hurt, except an ugly American car and three concrete posts. It’s over and done. I’ll be there in twenty to take you to Chico’s. Sounds like you could use lunch and a couple of margaritas.” She hung up before I could protest.

I took a stuttering breath. Was it over?

Maria studied my beat-up face, concern telegraphing in her eyes. “That airbag really messed you up.”

I shot her a dirty look. “You sure know how to make a girl feel pretty.”

“Sorry. Look at those stitches in your lip. Didn’t they have string that wasn’t so blue?”

My heart performed a Riverdance beat. “Can we not talk about this?”

“Fine. Are you going to tell me what happened in that conference room, or do I have to sweat it out of the mail boy?”

I cocked an eyebrow at her. All the women at the firm lusted after the guy in the mailroom. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Too bad you don’t work there anymore.”

“I’ve got his number.” She smiled at my shock. “He’s been over and has one of those tushes you just want to sink your teeth into, but that’s beside the point. We’re talking about you here.”

“We are?” I fanned myself with the wine-and-beer menu. “I lost my train of thought.”

“You were just about to spill about the partner meeting.”

It was no secret. Three months ago, one of our founding fathers had fallen prey to a sex kitten half his age. When he left the firm to sail around the world with his bouncing baby bride, a partner seat opened up. Every stockbroker within the fabric-covered cubicles of DH&L dreamed of adding their initial to the ten-foot sign out front. The battle to the top had been bloody. Coworkers lied, cheated and stabbed each other to be the last man standing. I would have killed for the promotion, and, Lord help me, almost did.

“You must have kicked some major male hiney during your presentation.” Maria prodded for the blow-by-blow.

But I worried the truth would blow our friendship to kingdom come. I gulped a large sip of slushy margarita. “Oww. Ice cream headache.”

“Who gulps margaritas?” She leaned in. “No one knew you left officially until yesterday. Of course the big boys did, but they are being suspiciously quiet.”

Would Maria understand? I thought about my cousin, Betty. Did any of her friends understand when she drove her no-good, three-timing husband’s pickup off the Santa Monica Pier? No, people usually don’t get crazy.

“Okay, so you don’t want to talk about it.” She motioned to the empty seats around our table. “Don’t cute guys eat lunch anymore?”

“Beats me. Purple-and-bloodshot eyes are all the rage.” I did the game-show-model-finger-pointing to my shiners and split lip.

“Your eyes are golden-amber.” She swirled melted cheese around on her chip. “When you haven’t been intimately involved with an airbag.”

“Ah well, but you have
the
exotic look with the black hair and blue eyes.” The easy banter and normal conversation with Maria was good. Normal.

She spread her perfectly manicured hands wide. “We Spaniards all look like this. But you, Erin, are a sunny California sunset. Come to my country, you will be exotic.”

“Me? Hmmm. I like the sound of that.”

“So, it’s settled. When do we leave?”

I stared at her a long moment. “Are you serious?”

“Serious as an IRS auditor with a hangover.”

“Just pick up and go?”

“You’ve got some place to be? Face it, Erin. This is the best time to go.”

I settled back in the stool. She was right. Spain sounded like the perfect place to get a life.

“You speak Spanish, don’t you?” Maria asked.

“Three years of high school Spanish, plus two summers in Cuernavaca, Mexico. I get by.”

“Castilian is a different dialect, but you’ll pick it up. Oh, and you’ll love Castile. Great museums, ancient castles, handsome Spaniards.”

“Castles.” I swallowed hard. “Nothing haunted, right?”

“Don’t tell me you believe in ghosts.”

“My mom scared the heebie-jeebies out of me. Can you imagine telling a ten-year-old kid a dead guy haunted the attic? Every night I went to bed expecting his cold dead hands around my neck.” I shivered at the memory. “Mom decided we’d perform a séance to help the spirit move on. Séance.” I snorted. “Like I knew what that was. Basically, I read out of this dusty leather-bound book while she did crazy mumbo-jumbo stuff with candles. Still freaks me out just thinking about it.”

She rolled her eyes. “You can stay with me in Salamanca for the summer. You’ll be perfectly safe. Unless…” She wagged her candy-apple-red-polished fingernail at me. “…your honey has other plans.”

I half-choked on my margarita. “Excuse me?”

“Your main squeeze?” Her grin was downright devious. “I’m on to you, Erin. I know you have a boy toy of your own.”

I died a thousand deaths. “You knew?”

“Suspected.” She clicked her tongue. “Since you’ve worked so hard to cover your tracks, he’s either horribly disfigured, or what? He’s married?”

“Neither.” I took a stuttering breath. “He’s Jack.”

“Do I know Jack?”

“You should. He signed your paycheck for five years.”

“No!” She slammed her palms down on the table. “Our CFO?”

I scrubbed my face with my hands. “It started out simply. A glance. Easy flirtation. Nothing really, all in fun.”

“You’re dating the Big Cheese—”

“The Big Guy,” I corrected.

She slit her eyes at me. “His anatomy aside, why didn’t I know about this?” She plunked back in her barstool. “The partnership. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Shame warmed my cheeks. I played with the multicolored fringe on the placemat. “I didn’t tell anyone. I was afraid it would look like I was messing with the Big Guy to obtain a leg up.” I cleared my throat. “So to speak.”

A chip loaded with melted cheese, beans and a sliding jalapeño remained frozen in air halfway to her mouth.

“I had to have the partner’s seat. Don’t you see, Maria? It was my one chance to prove…”
I wasn’t losing my mind.
“…myself.”

A strange look had replaced the shock on her face. It resembled admiration. “You’ve got
cajones
, woman.” The chip finally made it to her mouth where it was crunched between her teeth. “What a story.”

“It gets worse.” I poked my umbrella into my glass, fracturing the stick. “I believed he was really into me. Insane, right?” I held up my hand. “Don’t answer that.”

“He’s pretty darn cute. Who wouldn’t want to believe it?”

“Because he’s Jack. Hot sex for favors. We both knew the game going in.” I made small circles on my forehead with my fingertips.

“Tell me.”

“The meeting started out great. I proved I was the best candidate a hundred ways by multimedia presentation and glossy color handouts. When I was finished, he said, ‘Let’s go celebrate your victory, partner.’ Maria, I did it. I’d won.”

“Of course you did. You have the best client list and track record of anyone. Aw,
chica
, did you really think you had to sleep with the boss to prove yourself?”

“I didn’t think it would hurt.” I blew threw my lips. “Just shows how wrong a girl can be. But at that moment, back in the conference room, I was euphoric. My letter
C
was going to be added to the ten-foot sign out front. I had it all, except…what I really need. What I’ve never had.”

She leaned forward, all ears.

“A real life. This person I’ve become is messed up. I’ve lost myself. Do you understand?” I was looking at Maria when I said this, but remembering the look of horror on Jack’s face.

“Sure, I get it. You’ve been killing yourself for the firm. You need to let up. Live a little.”

I nodded. She did understand, part of it at least. “Making partner is important to me. Was. But I also want a semi-normal life with kids, family.”
A whole night’s sleep
. “I suggested we take things up a notch.” I winced, reliving the daymare. “I might have used the L-word.”

Her mouth hung open for a long minute. She knew Jack—the word
love
wasn’t in his vocabulary. Finally, she snapped her mouth shut and managed, “What’d he say?”

“He laughed…hard.” I covered my face with my hands. “When he realized I wasn’t joking he said there wasn’t much point in continuing the partnership interviews. Suddenly, I was far too emotional to be a company leader.”

“Head of shit.”

“Yeah, what you said.” I didn’t bother correcting her phrase, choosing instead to drain the final drip of slush from my bulbous, cactus-stemmed glass.

“Erin, what are you going to do?”

“It’s already done.” I threw up my hands. “I quit. Him and the company. Oh, and then I crashed their car into the building.”

“
Madre de Dios
!” She lifted my empty glass. “Waiter, we need another over here.”