I must be bad off, because the idea actually appeals to me. For a whole minute, I consider it. Not having a rent. Not having to pound the pavement searching for a journalism position where I can showcase my writing skills. Having someone to come home to. All I’d have to do is my part in whatever version of house Greg feels like playing.
“Doing tricks for men’s treats is your thing, Mother, not mine.” The words come out harsher than I intend, my chest clenching at the silence that comes over the line. I open my mouth to say something, but no words come. Not after one breath. Or two. Or five.
I’m already going to disconnect the line when my mother’s voice fills the other end. “First of all, Lary, don’t you dare judge me or how I’ve managed to feed and raise you. Don’t you dare say that I’m only allowed to be happy with your approval. And if you must know, things with Greg are different—he wants a family. He wants to meet you. The fact that he happens to come from money doesn’t say anything about him as a person. Any so-called journalist would’ve checked her sources before drawing conclusions.”
The line goes dead before I can answer, my gaze resting dumbly on the dimming screen as I tell myself that I’m not a horrible human being. In my defense, we’ve never exactly had a healthy relationship. Maybe it’s because my father was such a goddamn tyrant who beat her into submission any time she dared to defy him, but growing up, all my mother’s energy went toward dealing with him rather than raising me. I thought things would improve after my dad passed away, but that’s not what happened. There I was, eleven years old and desperate to be loved by the parent who remained, but instead, Mom acted as if I wasn’t even there. She started to actively date, treating me like a piece of luggage that got in the way if not put into storage with neighbors or friends or in an empty apartment.
I can’t even tell whether her invite home was because she actually missed me or to satisfy some whim Greg the current sugar daddy had. God knows she’d do more than that so long as he supported her. She’d had so many of these men over the years that I lost count. When shit hits the fan, my mother’s solution isn’t to become stronger or more independent, it’s to find a man to sponge off.
And I’d very nearly made the same mistake.
Returning to my—to the—kitchen, I cinch up the first box with packing tape, finishing just as my phone rings again. Mom again? Nope. Jaz. It’s her third call to me this week, and, the coward that I am, I can’t bring myself to face her. Tightening my jaw, I hit the Ignore button as quickly as I can.
A second later, my phone pings with a text message.
If you don’t pick up, I’ll assume you’re in trouble and call Rescue.
Shit. Snatching up the phone, I dial her number before she decides to make good on the threat. Knowing Jaz, she just might.
“Hey, girl!” Jaz’s forever cheerful voice fills my ear. “Where the hell have you been? And did it involve booze and sex?”
“No and no.” I clear my throat. “Listen, Jaz, this isn’t the best—”
“Blah blah blah. Open the door.” A knocking sound accompanies the demand, the rap rap rap beating out a march against my doorframe.
I open the door, jumping out of the way as the petite force of nature that is Jaz bursts into my place, a six-pack of raspberry beer in hand. Jaz, clad in tight ripped jeans and a very cute bright pink jacket, sets her sights on my boxes, her intelligent gaze putting two and two together. Then her dark eyes jump to mine, her curly hair swinging. “Oh. My. God. You’re moving in with Cullen the broody and didn’t tell me?”
“No!” I rub my face. I’m not sure what I expected Jaz to know given that I hadn’t talked to her or anyone from the Rescue crowd since walking out of Cullen’s office a week ago, but I thought she’d at least know we’d parted ways. My face heats, guilt rising inside me. I should have told her myself. Should have bitten the bullet and at least explained what happened, extending her the courtesy of deciding for herself whether she still wanted anything to do with me. Well. Time to face the music. Straightening my spine I turn to face Jaz fully. “I’m not with Cullen. Actually, I’m not with the Rescue anymore at all. I’m sorry, I thought one of the guys would have told you that much.”
Jaz’s eyes widen, and for the first time since meeting her, I find her speechless. “They didn’t,” she says finally and quite unnecessarily. Moving as if through sludge, Jaz sets down the raspberry beer on the kitchen counter, pops off the caps, and extends one bottle out to me. “No, in case I haven’t mentioned it before, my brother is an utter shithead. I mean, it’s one thing to go all radio silent on his personal stuff, but this? I’m going to throttle him in his sleep. Now, tell me what happened. Because if I’m gonna be throttling one Trident god in his sleep, I can do two.”
Ignoring the raspberry beer Jaz is still holding out to me, I rush forward and wrap my arms around her, relief filling my blood. I don’t know what I did to deserve a friend like her, but I’m more grateful than I’ve got words to explain. “I’m so sorry,” I mutter into her shoulder, my body trembling for a few heartbeats as I will myself not to cry. “I was afraid that…”
“That I’d take the boys’ side? Like hell.” Jaz gives me a reassuring squeeze before gently pushing me away, her bright face full of concern. “What happened? Did Cullen hurt you?”
I flinch. “He…he was well on his way to a pay-to-play arrangement with me, and I was too stupid to see it until I was paying some personal bills for him and discovered that I’m not the only woman he’s got this setup going with. Remember when you said he came back here for Addie? Well, you were right.” In quick strokes, I fill Jaz in on what I’d found on the computer and how poorly my attempt to talk to him about it went. “I think that may be one reason he hates me working for Frank Peterson. I mean, if he’s shagging both Peterson’s sister-in-law and his employee, that’s not a good look.”
Jaz taps her finger against her beer. “I wouldn’t have figured Cullen for the sugar daddy type, to be honest. But he has issues. And from what I’ve, errr, accidentally overheard, he’s been off the past couple of weeks. Has he called you?”
I shrug a shoulder. “I don’t know. I blocked his number. The guys’ too.” I swallow, looking out the window. “I’ve been in bad relationships before. It’s for the best this way. Trust me. I’m moving on. As soon as I find a place, I’m moving out of this golden cage. So, well, boxes.”
Jaz sets down her beer with a resounding click. “Then I will help you pack. And move. And unpack somewhere close by. But with all the time I’ll now be saving you, you have to come cheer for me at WorldROCK tomorrow. Deal?”
Well, I can’t in good conscience say no to that now, can I?
31
Sky
Pulling into the parking lot staging area for WorldROCK, I can’t help being impressed by the sheer number of people who are already here despite the early hour. There are sponsor tents with everything from trail mix packets and electrolyte mixes to sales booths with high-tech gear. A large tent on my left sports an overhead registration sign, and a smaller one on the right is trying to both hand out press credentials and answer the slew of general information queries from competitors, spectators, and family members. Swerving around the meandering crowds, I wave hello to Uncovered’s own James Dyer taking a few establishing shots of the bare ridge, and check the listings for Jaz’s route.