Saving Landon Part 82

After a time, he grasped my hand in his good one. "I remember. You helped me with my application before my interview."

"I did," I said. One might have thought our very own staffing specialist would have been able to do that, but alas, Ross wasn't terribly familiar with the application process-nor anything else of particular value, it seemed. "And I apologize that Mr. Culling hasn't returned your calls. I a.s.sume you're here about the status of your background check and interview?"

Mr. Davies nodded. I turned slightly over my shoulder to see Miguel hanging back by the offices, keeping out of sight of Mr. Davies. His face was turning redder by the second and he had a look of unease about him, almost as if he knew what I was going to do.

I'd been lying for Ross and Miguel for far too long. I was going to tell Mr. Davies the truth, and that was something Miguel was desperately afraid of.

"Mr. Davies," I said, turning back to him, but this time without a smile. "I'm afraid Mr. Culling has been avoiding you."

Lacy gasped. Miguel made a strangled sound like a pig that had just been stuck in the belly. I continued: "Your background check came back fine. Your resume was all in order. Everything was perfect, really-except your arm." I slowed my words, taking care not to injure Mr. Davies at all in my anger toward Miguel, Ross, and the rest of Execus.p.a.ce. "Mr. Culling felt that, as a salesperson, the arm would keep clients from signing on. He didn't have anything concrete to reject your application on, and he knows discrimination against disabled people who can adequately perform the job at hand is illegal, so he figured that simply avoiding you would do the trick.

"But now you're here speaking to me because he refuses to come out of his office and face you himself, and because our general manager thinks that an administrative a.s.sistant making ten dollars an hour is better equipped to explain these things to you than, say, a manager. I apologize on their behalf, Mr. Davies, and on behalf of a company that you really, really don't want to work for, anyway. Not if you know what's good for you."

Mr. Davies looked at me for a very long time. I knew how I looked on the outside-calm, perhaps cold even-but on the inside, I felt like s.h.i.+t. It wasn't that I had done anything wrong. I was upset because in the four years I'd worked here, I'd failed to change a d.a.m.n thing about this awful company, and people like Mr. Davies were going to pay for it. None of this would ever come down on Miguel or Ross' shoulders. It was only nice people, hardworking people who would bear the burden of Execus.p.a.ce's moral void. And I hated to be the one who had to inflict it.

"My... arm," he said at last, and I nodded slowly. "But it's not an issue. I can write just fine. Drive, even. I don't see what my arm has to do with being a competent salesperson..."

"It doesn't," I a.s.sured him. "It has nothing to do with it at all. But Mr. Culling feels that the perception of Execus.p.a.ce might be marred by someone who doesn't look like the rest of us do, and for him, that's cause enough not to hire you." I saw the look on his face, the slump in his shoulders, and added: "I really am sorry, Mr. Davies. But after a month of being lied to, I thought the truth might-"

"The truth does nothing for me, Miss Hearst," he snarled, a surprising rage blazing in his eyes. I could see they were watering. They glimmered like hot coals. "A job is what I need. And even a s.h.i.+tty one for a s.h.i.+tty company would have been enough for me. But you people don't give a s.h.i.+t about men like me, do you? All you see is a withered arm and you think that means I'm trash, that I can just be tossed into the gutter. You didn't even have the decency to consider me for the position, did you? You just saw the arm. That's all."

I pursed my lips. This was exactly what I'd feared. Not only was Mr. Davies upset by the news, but he was taking that out on me, the nearest available target. I had to swallow the compulsion to invite him back to Ross' office and knock on his door until he opened up, but Miguel would probably just call security and have them haul both Mr. Davies and myself out.

"I'm sorry," I repeated. "If you'd like, I can get you the number for our corporate office in Virginia. There's a woman named Patricia who could hear your complaint..."

"That's enough," Miguel said, finally loosening himself from the doorway and practically pus.h.i.+ng me out of the way. "Mr. Davies, I'm Miguel Herrera, the general manager for Execus.p.a.ce. Unfortunately, you just weren't a good fit for the criteria we're looking for right now. I'm sorry no one's gotten back to you sooner, but we've all been very busy-"

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Mr. Davies asked him, his face taut with barely-contained rage. "You must, because as much as I think your receptionist there could give a rat's a.s.s about what happens to me, at least she had the decency to be honest."

I felt my own knot of anger and tried not to grimace. "Receptionist" was something of a dirty word amongst personal and administrative a.s.sistants. Even secretaries were higher up the food chain. A receptionist was a person who did the least amount of work in the industry, someone who answered a phone and filed a few papers, maybe. Lacy was a receptionist-barely. I didn't appreciate being compared to her.

But I understood that this wasn't about me. This was about Mr. Davies and his embarra.s.sment at the treatment he'd endured. Though I'd meant for the truth to be helpful to him, I knew that it couldn't have been easy to hear, and I tried to accept his hatred gracefully.

Miguel, however, was showing signs of cracking. I could see his brow lining with deep wrinkles and the muscle in his jaw was steadily twitching.

"Sir, I a.s.sure you, what Miss Hearst has said is in no way representative of our company's values or beliefs. She is obviously misinformed."

"Then why?" Mr. Davies demanded, his voice rising. "Why won't Mr. Culling return my calls? Why did you decide not to hire me?"

Miguel sneered. "We're not under any legal obligation to disclose that. In fact, our HR department discourages us from-"

"f.u.c.k your HR department!" Mr. Davies railed, getting so close to Miguel's face I could see spittle marring his skin. "And f.u.c.k you!"

Before Miguel could retaliate, Mr. Davies left, storming off through the doors to the elevator with steps that shook the office floor.

As the weight of his anger dissipated, I felt another sensation flooding in. What I had done was, objectively, the right thing. I'd given a man honestly when no one else would, and I'd stopped being the whipping girl everyone wanted me to be. I'd stood up for myself and for my own values. But at what cost?

Miguel turned to me. I raised my chin, doing my best to look confident, but not smug. I was preparing to defend my decision when the words I'd been dreading left his mouth.

"Get your things and turn in your key card. You're fired."

Almost without thinking and with shock softening the blow, I removed my lanyard and threw it at him.

"You can't fire me. I quit five minutes ago."

I grabbed my clutch from the front desk, turned, and strode out the doors, following Mr. Davies. Miguel was yelling something at me, but I couldn't hear him-probably some cliched movie-villain line about how I'd "never work in this town again." He seemed like the type.

The blood rus.h.i.+ng in my ears was deafening, and I could feel my body quaking as I pressed the b.u.t.ton for the elevator car. Equal parts relief and dread seeped into me, but I tried not to let either one win until I heard Lacy's shrill voice calling to me over the baritone roar of Miguel's furor.

"But Maddy! I don't know what all you do! Send me an e-mail with everything once you get home, okay?"

And then I finally let the dam burst. I laughed.

And as the elevator car finally reached my floor, and as it descended to the next, and the next, I laughed and laughed some more.

Stepbrother Fixation

My laughter died as soon as I hit the lobby.

It wasn't until I'd shown myself out through the revolving door that I realized the tears br.i.m.m.i.n.g in my eyes weren't the funny ones. They were hot and stinging, tears of rage, desperation, and utter despair. Soon I realized that I really wasn't laughing at all anymore, not even in that hysterical way people do when they feel like they've got nothing else they can do to chase the pain away.

No, I was sobbing. Sobbing so hard it hurt, so hard my chest felt like it would split in two, so hard I was sure I could feel my ribs starting to cave and poke at my lungs.

I was standing on the sidewalk of one of the busiest streets in the city bawling my eyes out in the afternoon rush. Cars and taxis whizzed by too fast for me to see anything more than the blur of their movement, but somehow I was certain that the dark eyes inside them were all on me. Pa.s.sersby craned their necks to ogle at the crying woman slowly wandering toward home, fascinated by me like I was some kind of moaning spirit haunting 47th Street, a jilted bride still searching for her lover or a desolate mother seeking her long-lost child.

They made the whole thing feel more dramatic than it was, but for the most part, they all left me alone. That was fine by me. The last thing I needed at that moment was a stranger's pity.

I steadied myself for a moment on a parking meter near one of those pruned-just-so trees cities put up along the sidewalks to imply they weren't completely destroying the environment. It was every bit as fake as the offices I used to pretend to work for. I could feel cold sweat making long trails down the lines in my palms despite the shade, and my chest felt like someone had taken the muscles and stretching them out paper-thin. I knew what it was. I'd experienced it before. In fact, panic attacks had become a common occurrence since I'd started working at Execus.p.a.ce, and even Zoloft couldn't seem to keep them at bay. Human beings weren't meant to work the way Execus.p.a.ce expected them to. Human beings weren't meant to endure such constant, debilitating stress.

As I sucked in long, slow breaths, I tried to entertain myself with happier thoughts. It's for the best. Think about your health. Think about your peace of mind. This job couldn't have been good for you. Even if it was putting food on the table, who's to say that you wouldn't end up in the hospital for stress a few months down the line? It's not like they offered health insurance. You were one medical disaster away from being dest.i.tute, anyway...

It was all true. But the fact remained that I wasn't one medical disaster away from financial ruin anymore. Now, thanks to a rage that had been building for far too long and a mouth that didn't know when to seal itself shut, I was already there.

I changed tracks on my train of thought, trying to get a grip on something solid-a plan, maybe. The damage was done, and there was no way to undo it, but what I could do now was find a way to move forward.

I knew the job market. I'd been searching for a replacement position for months now in secret. I'd only had one interview, and that position had offered even less in the way of compensation. Still, I was sure I could find something, but time was a factor, and I had no safety net.

That particular thought made my vision blurry and my blood boil. It didn't have to be like this...

The reason I had no safety net had a name, and it was Mother.

My mother, Amanda Hearst, didn't believe in being supportive. She believed in "tough love," as in, "you better not screw this up, honey, 'cause you're on your own." She had made it clear to me from a very young age that my mistakes were my own. My successes, however, she attributed to her stellar parenting. Cla.s.sic mother.

"Those other kids failed because their parents let them," she'd tell me, her carmine lips twisted into a smug smirk. "If it wasn't for me and how hard I've pushed you, you would be just like them."

I had comforted myself for a time with the idea that she was only that hard on me because we were broke. We were the kind of broke that n.o.body liked to talk about-lower middle-cla.s.s, just poor enough to sc.r.a.pe by, but somehow too wealthy to qualify for any kind of a.s.sistance. My father had walked out on her when I was just a baby, and for years I told myself that his abandonment and the way the system has spurned her had made her feel like if she didn't teach me to rely on myself-and only on myself-then I would fall to the same fate. She didn't want that for me, I always thought. She just chose to show it in a cold and hurtful way.

That illusion had shattered three months ago when my mother had announced her engagement to Charles Harvey, the billionaire CEO of Harvey Enterprises. I had no idea what their business actually entailed, but whatever it was, it brought him more money than G.o.d, and as my mother was oh-so-quick to inform me, I wasn't ent.i.tled to a penny of it.

"I didn't raise you to be a leech," she'd told me when I'd said that it would be nice not to have to worry about money for a change. I hadn't meant that I intended on blowing it on some kind of shopping spree. I'd always wanted to finish my college degree, and work was getting in the way...

That didn't matter to her.

Her scowl had sent chills down my spine and twisted my guts into knots. "You're not an infant, Madison. You're an adult. That means you make your own way in this world." She'd looked so devastatingly disappointed as she added, "I thought I'd taught you better than that."

In my anger, I'd asked her what, exactly, I would have to do to be worthy of a little help every now and then. It felt like she'd punched me right in the face when she answered, "Marry rich."

I'd realized then that my mother had never had my best interests in mind. My father leaving hadn't made her protective of me. It had made her protective of herself. It had made her selfish and cruel, and I hadn't spoken to her since.

Which was why I couldn't call her now. I couldn't dial her number and say, "Mom, I need help." She wouldn't give it. I doubted if she would even bother to answer the phone.

As usual, I was on my own.

I was still trying to achieve a stiff upper lip when I let go of the parking meter and set off down the sidewalk in the direction of home. Unfortunately, the moment I did, I barreled straight into a man who'd had the misfortune of stepping between me and my downward spiral.

His chest was so hard under his b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt that I was sure he'd broken my jaw, but the material of his blazer was so soft that it felt like I'd landed on a cloud. It was silken, almost, and as I gently pressed it with my fingers, tilting back my head to look up at who I'd just a.s.saulted, I felt his breath hitch at my touch.

As the halo of the sun faded behind a cloud, I got a good look at the stranger's face. My throat clenched and I uttered a sound that was half a snort, half a wheeze.

"Preston? Seriously?"

"Maddy," he said, his stormy blue eyes glittering as he spoke my name. "Well, this is a surprise..."

I wanted to tell him to f.u.c.k off. I wanted to push him away and sweep past him in a fit of disgust. I wanted to walk so fast down the sidewalk that I left all memory of him in my wake, a spoiled brat who got absolutely everything his heart desired while I couldn't even manage to convince my own mother to keep me off the streets.

But I couldn't do any of that. Instead, to my shame and horror, I buried my face in his expensive blazer and cried.

Stepbrother Fixation

I stood on the sidewalk, frozen in place as Madison Hearst cried into my chest, her delicate shoulders racked by the sobs stealing from her throat. I wasn't used to hanging out with a lot of crying women, but I knew enough to know that these weren't tears of pain or sorrow. These were hot, angry tears, tears of rage and frustration held in so long that the d.a.m.n had burst, and now they had to come spilling out.

I grimaced before gently placing my arms around her. I'd shed a few of those kind of tears myself in my life, and it seemed like offering her the comfort I'd always been denied was the right thing to do, no matter how awkward it might look to the people surrounding us.

It wasn't just that Maddy was crying, though I was certain that was strange enough on its own. What really made me feel like a spectacle was the fact that we were brother and sister-or at least, we would be in just a few short weeks.

My miserable f.u.c.k of a father was marrying Madison's shrew of a mother. They may have deserved each other, but I held onto the opinion that neither Maddy nor I deserved either one of them. It rendered us stepsiblings, which I had a.s.sumed would count for something, but up until this moment, I'd been one hundred percent sure that Madison hated my guts.

Everything she'd ever done had practically screamed it. She looked at me with nothing but disdain, and each time I entered a room with her in it, the temperature dropped at least two degrees. She only offered me curt, clipped responses whenever I tried to strike up a conversation, and that was only if she chose to speak at all. I wasn't certain what I'd done to deserve her ire, but whatever it was, I'd been under the impression that there was just no reversing it.

As a result, I'd given up on having any kind of relations.h.i.+p with my soon-to-be stepsister. And who could blame me? Yet here we were, locked in an embrace on the sidewalk of a busy street-and in broad daylight, no less.

Something had to be wrong. I knew she'd worked in some kind of office nearby, but was she coming to see me? If she was, something had to be seriously wrong. It occurred to me that it could have something to do with one-or both-of our parents.

My breath caught in my throat, but before I could ask, she lifted her face again and said, "I lost my job."

I looked down at her, noticing for the first time how very green her eyes were. If she were any other woman I probably would have been looking straight down the neckline of her blouse, but something about Maddy's face had always struck me as celestial, angelic. That wasn't to say I didn't appreciate her womanly body, those supple curves that made me wish our parents had never met the very first time I'd seen her... It only meant that those rare and beautiful eyes were the most breathtaking pair I'd ever seen.

Which was saying something, because I'd looked into the eyes of a lot of women.

I didn't tell her that. All I could think of to say that didn't sound incredibly stupid was, "I'm sorry." And then, as soon as those words left my mouth, I realized that they did sound incredibly stupid. No wonder she hated me.

But instead of fixing me with that frigid stare she'd inherited directly from her mother, Maddy shook her head and said, "Don't be. It's my fault. It's all my fault..."

That thousand-yard stare she was sporting made me uneasy. I didn't know a lot about her job, except that she'd worked as an administrative a.s.sistant for some rental company, but I got the impression that Maddy definitely didn't have a lot of money. She'd never said as much, but her mother sure as h.e.l.l had implied it. It was almost as if that woman wanted her daughter to fail, like she got no greater joy in life than watching Maddy flounder. It seemed a little wrong when she was spending her days milking my father for every dollar he was worth.

I s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably. Maddy suffered a hards.h.i.+p I'd never known. I came from money, and lots of it. In fact, if it weren't for being the sole heir to the Harvey fortune, I wouldn't have had to work a day in my life. But Dad insisted, and when he made his mind up about something, there was no changing it-not even if it made everyone else around him miserable.

h.e.l.l, especially if it made everyone miserable.

"I was just on my way to a meeting," I said, and that was mostly true. Jane, my personal a.s.sistant, had texted me to let me know she was running hot, as usual. That woman was crazy in the worst ways. Maybe I was stupid for sticking my d.i.c.k in psycho, but I was a hedonist-and a glutton for punishment. Especially when it came at the hands of a buxom redhead in a leather cat-suit... She knew it was over, but that wasn't stopping her from blowing my phone up with one filthy picture after another today. Part of me wondered if I was meeting up with her to affirm it was over, or to f.u.c.k her sideways...

Maybe both.

Thing was, though, my escapades with Jane were beginning to take their toll on me. What started in unpredictable and unlawful ways had started to get dangerous. Suddenly, she wanted more. Maybe it was all the pressure she was putting on me to meet her parents and take her up to the Hamptons for a "romantic getaway." It was her way of trying to make us something official, but we weren't, and no matter how many times I tried to explain that to her, Jane just didn't seem interested in getting it.

That was probably some kind of red flag. I probably should have cut things off with her a long time ago. But if it was all going to end messy anyway, what was the harm in drawing out the good parts a little longer than I should?

Maddy was staring at me. The little flame of hope flickering in her eyes died, snuffed out by my careless words. I scrambled to regroup, to find something to say that didn't sound like I was brus.h.i.+ng her off.

Because honestly, I would rather have spent the day with my distraught stepsister than deal with the crazy s.h.i.+t that my crazy secretary was doing in my office. It was weird to admit it, even to myself, but it was true.

"Okay, let's start over." I took the Bluetooth earpiece out of my ear and thrust it into my pocket so the steady stream of notifications I was getting from Jane couldn't interrupt me. "You're clearly having a bad day, and there's a cafe I like about a block from here. Let me buy you lunch."

She opened her pretty mouth, and for a moment, I was sure she was going to deny me. But then she nodded, lifting her fingers to her face to brush away the tears still br.i.m.m.i.n.g in her eyes.

"I am hungry," she admitted softly.

I smiled. Realizing we'd been holding one another in the middle of the sidewalk for several minutes now, I released her and swept her up beside me, pressing my hand into the small of her back. Maybe that wasn't an appropriate brotherly reaction, but it was instinct and I was new to this whole stepbrother thing. Besides, I'd touched my share of pretty girls that way.

One thing was different with Maddy, though. When I touched her, I felt something stir inside of me, something like tectonic plates moving and s.h.i.+fting under the surface. And below that, there was something flowing and hot, something that made me notice suddenly the smell of her hair, the smoothness of her skin, the way her a.s.s just barely brushed the side of my hand as we walked, the fabric of her stylish pencil skirt clinging to both those ripe, gorgeous swells above her shapely calves and thighs.

Those heels, too-my G.o.d. If they didn't scream "f.u.c.k me," I wasn't sure what did.