Unbreak My Heart (31 page)

As I wandered through the dark house, my thoughts moved faster than my feet.

I worried about Oakley.

I worried about Rock.

I hated feeling helpless at my mother’s hands again.

I hated not knowing what my dad needed to talk to me about.

I hated feeling I’d let Sierra down.

I hated getting scheduled for a midnight to noon shift the next two days.

I pretty much hated fucking everything.

Booze wasn’t the smartest choice, but I needed to calm down. I’d already tried exercise and that had failed. I couldn’t swim because the door alarm would wake Sierra. Mindless TV wouldn’t do anything but piss me off even more.

Booze it is
.

The liquor cabinet in the kitchen had tequila, rum, a bottle of high-end Crown and Jack Daniels.

While I preferred the Crown—Sierra’s taste was wearing off on me—doing shots of it would be a waste. I grabbed the bottle of Jack.

I twisted the cap off and drank deeply. Classy, not to bother with a glass.

I took a breath and swallowed another mouthful.

And another.

And another.

And another.

Then I forced myself to inflate my lungs fully with a slow breath and exhale. I did that four more times, one for every shot of booze. I’d learned the trick from Corky, an older medic who’d served in the Gulf War. But he’d cautioned me to only use it when I’d exhausted other options.

It was only the third time I’d resorted to it in seven years.

The first time had been after I’d lost a patient.

The second time after I’d failed three tests, three days in a row because of dyslexia stress.

And tonight.

I had a water chaser and I put the bottle away.

The whiskey hit me. Not like a freight train—more like a VW bus.

I made it to the couch in the great room. The room didn’t spin when I closed my eyes and the tight feeling beneath my skin had loosened. The constant bombardment of worst-case scenarios faded too.

I pulled the afghan over me and drifted off.

The whirring grind of the coffee maker woke me up. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and glanced at my watch. Seven a.m. Sierra was right on schedule this morning.

I fucking loved that she was so consistent.

I got up and headed for the shower.

Sierra was standing in front of her laptop when I joined her in the kitchen ten minutes later.

The first thing I did was kiss her. An in-her-face, balls-to-the-wall, full-body kiss.

I loved the dazed look that put in her eyes. “Morning, gorgeous. You look fantastic and you smell like a million bucks.” I brushed my mouth across hers again. “You even taste great.”

She poked me in the belly. “You are so cocky.”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me, Boone West. You started the morning mouth fuck so I’d stop wearing lipstick.”

“I crave the taste of your lips and your mouth, baby. Not that waxy chemical shit.” I grinned against her lips. “Morning mouth fuck, huh? I like that.”

“I like it too.” She smirked back. “I just put on lipstick in the car now.”

I grabbed a mug from the cupboard and filled it with coffee, crossing over to refill Sierra’s cup. When I turned back around she wore a quizzical look. “What?”

“Why’d you sleep on the couch last night?”

I started to play it off as insomnia.

Sierra shook her head. “You are about to tell me a little white lie, or change the subject. I didn’t push last night about what happened with your sister. I’m pushing you now.”

“Yeah? You sure you wanna hear about my nightmare where I watched my psychotic mother torch the house and my sister?”

She bobbled her cup. Then she drew in a slow sip of coffee. “I’m sorry. I knew you were restless last night. Did sleeping on the couch help?”

“The five shots of Jack Daniels helped.”

“I imagine so.”

I don’t know why the hell I’d expected her to pass judgment on me; she never did. “Thanks for trying to take the edge off last night.”

Her lips quirked which meant she was thinking dirty thoughts.

“With the
massage
thing,” I stressed, “but I wouldn’t have turned down a blowjob.”

“Really? You like blowjobs? Huh. I wasn’t sure.”

“Smartass. So you gonna bust my balls or do you wanna hear about Oakley?”

“Bust your balls,” she muttered. “Sometimes I think you forget I’m not Raj.”

I lifted a brow. “I promise you I never discuss my balls with Raj.”

“Point taken. Go on.”

I gave her the short version of the Oakley situation.

Sierra said, “She’s lucky to have you, Boone. You didn’t have anyone.”

“I haven’t heard from her yet this morning so I’ll call her after you go to work.”

“Yay, I can hardly fucking wait for this day to start after the spectacular shit show I dealt with yesterday.”

Guilt punched me in the gut. I was a self-centered prick last night. “What happened?”

“Finger-pointing at DPM. Greg neglected to update the paperwork for a lease renewal with a fairly big client and we lost the account. He tried to blame it on his assistant, Melissa, claiming he finished the project and she misfiled it. He fired her. Melissa had expected that, so she’d come to me earlier in the day with documentation of all the things he’s fucked up over the last year. So I think I finally have enough evidence of his misconduct to take to the big boss.” She looked at me over the rim of her coffee cup. “Unfortunately, the big boss in this case is not my dad. After I assured Melissa I’d find her another position at DPM, she said it’d be worse for her if she stayed. Which sucks ass because she was a great employee.”

“Will any of this backfire on you?”

She shrugged. “We’ll see. Then, to make my day even better, I dealt with mama drama when I received an email from my mother.”

I frowned at her. “An email?”

“Yes. Evidently that’s how today’s busy socialite corresponds with her daughter. And because I was curious about what warranted a fucking email, I opened it and then I wished I wouldn’t have.”

“Why? Did she ask you to fill in as a bridesmaid?”

“That’s not even funny to joke about.” She rinsed her cup and put it in the dishwasher. “Apparently someone is hosting a bridal luncheon for her. Since I hadn’t RSVP’d she wondered if I planned to attend. She was so condescending about being ‘understanding’ if I couldn’t go on such short notice.”

“When is the luncheon?”

“Saturday.”

“
This
Saturday?”

“Yep. She claimed my invitation must’ve gotten lost in cyberspace. But I know that she didn’t even bother to invite me in the first place.”

I couldn’t tell if Sierra was hurt by this or just pissed off. I turned her around and tugged her against me. “That’s shitty. I’m sorry. I’m betting you RSVP’d with a big ‘fuck you’ in all caps.”

“Hell no. That’s what Ellen wants. So you can bet your ass I
will
be at that luncheon.” She pecked me on the mouth. “I have to go. Will I see you tonight?”

“I work midnight to noon the next two nights.”

“I’ll be late, but not that late.”

“See you later, McKay.” I clamped my hands on her face and gave her a morning mouth fuck goodbye…just because I could.

L
ate Saturday morning
I’d arrived on time for the bridal luncheon at the new “club” my mother had joined upon her engagement to Barnacle Bill.

After I assured her I’d be in attendance for what she called her
big, special day
, she’d sent me a link to her bridal gift registry—which I ignored. Then she’d tacked on a “reminder” of the appropriate attire for a fall-themed soiree at a prestigious country club.

Rebellious Sierra dreamed of showing up high as a kite, wearing a black leather halter and disco-era gold lamé pants. But practical Sierra with the business degree chose the high road and a nondescript dress that allowed me to fade into the background. I hadn’t bothered with jewelry. My mother’s friends’ accessory of choice was a glass of white wine or a pumpkin spice martini, so I secretly lamented that I’d left my flask of Crown at home.

I wandered around, not making polite chitchat as much as listening to conversations.

Which I soon discovered were boring as hell.

Charity this, charity that. Caterers, florists, scheduled luncheons.

Yawn.

Bored women with nothing better to do than decide how to spend hubby’s money on pet causes while indulging in a three-martini lunch with their other bored society friends.

Cynical?

Yep.

I vaguely remembered my Grandma Daniels encouraging my mother to become involved with service organizations. Early in my parents’ marriage my mother had embraced the idea of being the wife of Gavin Daniels, heir to a real estate company. She’d spent time at my grandparents’ country club. She’d tried to look the part of the corporate wife. Problem was, she hadn’t acted like a corporate wife. Her infidelities embarrassed my father—personally and professionally—and he’d cut his losses with her early on.

Luckily my relationship with him hadn’t been a casualty of the demise of their marriage. At least I’d grown up with one stable parent who proved that unconditional love exists. I was very proud of the fact that I
am
my father’s daughter.

That’s why I was wrestling with my decision on whether to leave DPM.

Phyllis wasn’t pressuring me. I’d had a text from Rory asking if I’d made a decision. I still hadn’t mentioned anything to Boone about the offer to run PCE. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him. I’d just never been in a relationship where I could discuss issues in my professional life. I saw myself as captain of my own ship. Asking for advice almost seemed like asking permission and that was something I wouldn’t do.

Break out into a chorus of “I Am Woman” why don’t you?

That thought made me smile.

My smile faded when I remembered the whole debacle with Greg’s assistant Melissa this week and her refusal to stay on at DPM. It’d hit me… How could I, in good conscience, take a position at PCE advocating for
all
women in business when I couldn’t help even one woman in my own business?

I couldn’t.

I needed to fix things at DPM first. Figure out a way to effect change from within and earn the respect of the guys I worked with. That would be the best use of the skills I’d learned at PCE and there was no better proving ground for leadership.

Made up your mind, just like that? Would you stay in that position if it wasn’t a family business? If you weren’t worried about disappointing your father?

No, I wouldn’t stay at DPM. I would’ve taken the job at PCE the moment Phyllis offered it to me.

This wishy-washy back-and-forth stuff…no wonder I hadn’t talked to Boone. I changed my mind every five minutes.

Armed with the knowledge that nothing would get resolved today, I focused on the party, hanging back to watch my beautiful, blonde mother. She’d already claimed the spotlight. She looked stunning in a dark teal pantsuit that hit the mark between classy and trendy. For once she wasn’t trying to appear younger and hipper than anyone else in the room. But she’d always been a chameleon, changing her appearance and her personality to fit the social situation or the man she was with. Being Barnacle Bill’s babe motivated her to ditch the hair extensions, the skinny jeans, the bohemian jewelry and embrace the upper crust’s idea of respectability and act her age.

I couldn’t help but wonder how much she hated that. Or how long
this
phase would last.

I’d gone through phases of my own with her. In my childhood she’d used me as a pawn or a wedge against my dad—not that I’d known it at the time. Then in my preteen and early teen years, she’d morphed into being my friend more than a parent. We shopped. We did all the girlfriend things she should’ve been doing with her own friends and not her fourteen-year-old daughter. She attempted to turn me against my father with outright lies and manipulation. It still caused me a pang of shame to admit she had succeeded on a few occasions, convincing me to think the worst of my dad.

By the time I’d grown into my body and my looks—her words, not mine—she encouraged open defiance of my father’s rules. She’d let me skip school when she had custody of me. She’d let me throw parties on the weekends and provide booze for us. My friends were in awe of her; she was the coolest mom ever. So it was a blow to my fifteen-year-old pride that they preferred to hang out with her more than with me. She’d complain if I attempted to do homework, reminding me that men prized beauty and physical desirability over brains. Another shameful thing I’d actually believed for a time.

During those formative middle teen years when she claimed a girl “needed her mother” she took my dad to court, demanding full custody of me. I’d bought into her false flattery and her promise to always be there for me. Yet, when I’d ended up in jail for shoplifting, she hadn’t been around at all. My need for her approval had turned me into her mini-clone; an entitled brat with no thought to the future beyond next season’s fashion trends.

My father had put an end to it by pulling up roots and relocating us to Wyoming while my mom had flitted off to Paris with her man
du jour
.