Heading to the door, I turn to her before I leave. “Next time, call me. Not her. You're not her problem, you’re mine.”
Seventeen
Brighton
* * *
My mother paces in her dressing room, toying with the diamond pendant hanging from her décolletage. “We need to discuss boundaries, Brighton.”
I sit on the tufted velvet bench directly beneath a thousand-crystal chandelier, bracing myself for the lecture I knew was inevitable.
I returned from taking Devanie home twenty minutes ago.
The instant my mother heard my footsteps she called for me from her bedroom door, the tone of her voice alluding to the fact that she was none too happy about waking up to a stranger in our home this morning, even if the stranger was an innocent twelve-year-old girl.
Smoothing the lapels of her pale pink robe, she turns to me. “I love that you have a big heart. And I know your intentions were in the right place. And I’m all about helping those in need. But there needs to be limits and boundaries and if this girl is in trouble, I’d prefer that you not involve yourself in that and leave that to the appropriate people.”
I try not to laugh. “It isn’t like that.”
“You picked her up in the middle of the night and brought her home. Put her in your pajamas. Fed her. Clearly she was in some sort of trouble.”
“She was at a party and someone was passing around a marijuana cigarette. She got scared and she called me.” I shrug. “I let her stay here and took her home the next morning. There was no drama or trouble. She did the right thing. End of story.”
My mom worries the inside of her lip. “Where was her mother?”
“Working.”
“So the child was home alone? On a Friday night?”
I nod. “She was afraid to call her brother. Thought he’d be upset. I was all she had."
“Still.” She glances up toward the proverbial heavens and sighs. “You’ve known her all of, what, two weeks now? I think you’ll be better off keeping a distance from her personal life and sticking to mentoring. That’s what you signed on for. Nothing else.”
I open my mouth to respond and then deem it unworthy of my time or energy. I want to tell her that part of mentoring is encouraging good decisions and the right choices, but I know my mother won’t hear any of it. There’s never any convincing her that she’s wrong about something. I gave up on that a long time ago, settling for silent stewing instead.
As far as I’m concerned, Devanie did the right thing and that’s all there is to it.
I swear my mother forgets that she, too, was once young and curious and wanting to belong and fit in.
Rising, I stride toward the exit of her dressing room.
“Where are you going?” my mother asks.
I stop in the doorway. “The conversation’s over, isn’t it?”
Her brows knit. I’ve rendered her speechless, a rare state for Temple Karrington. She’s not used to me walking away without a proper, formal dismissal on her part.
Without saying another word, I leave and head to my room to take a shower and get ready for the day. But on my way to my en suite, I pass my phone and find the screen lit with a calendar notification.
* * *
REMINDER! 1:15 PM MONDAY - MADD INKK FOLLOW UP
* * *
With all the craziness of the past week, I'd completely spaced off this upcoming appointment.
Staring at my screen, I press my palms against my belly, where a mad swarm of butterflies are flurrying about. I couldn’t stop them if I tried. Never mind the fact that he all but screamed at me this morning for leaving him in the dark about his sister. I’m probably the last person he wants to see again.
But screw it.
I’m going.
Madden Ransom does a lot of things to me—but he doesn’t scare me.
Eighteen
Madden
* * *
I draw the curtain around my station Monday afternoon as Brighton takes a seat on the client bed. She’s here for her follow-up, which if I'm being honest is a bit shocking. I figured after the way I acted Saturday morning, she’d have cancelled.
She’s definitely not the type to no-show.
That sort of thing is probably beneath her silver-spooned upbringing.
She places her bag aside and crosses her legs, resting her hands at the edge of the bed as she watches me wash my hands and slip on a pair of latex gloves.
The tension between us is thick, palpable, and I’ll admit, I’ve had a chance to cool down a bit from Saturday morning. And it did cross my mind once or twice this weekend to text her something along the lines of an apology, but something stopped me every time I tried to hit send.
I deleted every message I typed.
And I couldn’t begin to know why.
“Look,” I say, addressing the elephant in the room before we begin. “I shouldn’t have gone off on you the way I did on Saturday.”
Our eyes lock. She says nothing.
“And thanks for being a saint and all, but next time, please call me. Let me deal with her,” I say. “She told me everything—about the party and the joint. And you were right. She’s a good kid and she deserves more credit than I give her. But she’s not your problem.”
Her hands grip the side of the bed so hard her knuckles turn white, and she licks her full lips before she speaks. “I just want you to know that I care very much about your sister. I’d do anything for her. Truly. She will never be a burden or a problem to me.”
I bring my hands behind my neck and release a hard breath, chuffing. “That’s so typical of your kind.”
“My kind?” She sits straight, arms folded, gaze pointed, posture of a ballerina. “What does that mean? Exactly?”
“You know. People like you. The ones who go around thinking they can save the world when secretly they only do it because it makes them feel a little less guilty about their country club life.”
Brighton slides off the client bed, hands on her hips. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
Her voice has a bit of a tremor to it, and it makes me think she’s not used to swearing or speaking to people with such a curt snip to her tone.
“I know you drive a shiny new import that doesn’t belong in Olwine, you carry a bag that probably costs ten times what most people make in a month, and you’re dressed like you’re about to attend a polo match at any given moment.”
Her full lips part, like she’s going to respond, and then her hardened expression fades. A second later, she’s gathering her things and dragging her hand along the sides of her cheeks, catching tears before they fall too far.
Shit.
I don’t get off on making people cry, but I'm not going to apologize for what I said. I don’t have sympathy for people like her, the ones who look down on us poor, unfortunate souls and then drive home to their McMansions in the suburbs and sleep on their luxury mattresses with their thousand thread count sheets without a care in the world keeping them up at night.
“For the record, I’m not crying because of you,” she says with a sniff, wiping her tear-stained palms on her starched, white linen shorts.