Crushed (Crystal Brook Billionaires) (45 page)

“I know,” he says.

I twist a lock of hair around my finger.

“I don’t think I could ever leave home.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Not for more than a few months.”

I can’t help but laugh.

“What?” he asks, squinting his eyes at me.

“I just don’t get it,” I say, my hands up in question. “What’s so good about that place?”

His brows knit together. “You grew up there. You know as well as I do. Come on, Sydney. Do you know who your neighbors are? Do you even know their names? Back home I know everyone on my street.”

“All right,” I concede. “You’re right about that. But still, there’s just so much more here that there isn’t in a small town.”

“Well, yeah, of course. There’s quantity. Everywhere you look there’s a new person or a new bar. But what about quality? Life is good in a small town. You can count on things being the same each day, and you can count on people.”

I bite my tongue. Things being the same each day is precisely the reason I ran away from our town in the first place.

“I kind of thought you might come home after school.”

I scoff. “What? Really? Why would I do that?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe I just hoped.”

His eyes catch mine and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. What would it be like to kiss Brendan right now? Would it be the same as it was two years ago?

Would he wind his fingers through my hair and press his hands against the curve of my back?

I shut my eyes.

“What?” Brendan asked.

I shake my head, eyes still closed. I don’t remember Brendan ever wrapping my hair around his fingers. It’s Mr. Mulroney I’m thinking of. It’s his kiss.

Brendan’s touch grazes against my cheek and I open my eyes before sitting back in the lawn chair. My movement breaks the touch. Brendan drops his hand, looking disappointed.

I know how he feels.

He turns his head and looks out over the yard. I do the same, though there’s nothing to look at other than the back of the house on the next street.

“Is there someone else?” he asks, his voice more forceful now. “Is there a guy in your life now?”

I don’t answer.

“It’s okay,” he continues. “I didn’t even ask.” He blows out a long breath. “I didn’t want to know.”

I peek at him, taking in the way his hair falls over his forehead. His arms rest in his lap, his entire body is tense.

“Hasn’t there been anyone for you?” I ask.

He clears his throat. “A few girls. But none of them are like you. No one is like you, Sydney. I didn’t really appreciate what I had with you until it was over.”

He looks at me and I drop my gaze to the ground. I hate to hurt him. Three weeks ago, I probably would have fallen into his arms, but things are so much more complicated now.

Someone else holds me back, and though I won’t allow myself to have that someone, I’m still not free.

“I’m going to a party tonight,” Brendan says. “Want to come?”

“Where is it?”

“At someone’s house not far from here. One of my cousin’s friends.”

“Sounds cool.” My response is feeble.

“What do you say? I probably won’t know anyone there. It would be nice to have you by my side.”

The way he says it makes me feel guilty for having to turn him down.

“I can’t,” I say. “I have plans. Sorry.”

“Oh.” He looks slightly hurt. Is he wondering if the plans I speak of are with another guy?

“How are you getting around the city?” I ask, changing the subject.

“The roommate on tour left his car, and he’s letting me use it.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah,” he nods.

I look down into my water glass. The conversation is strained; a weak reflection of the easy going and familiar one we had on Wednesday night.

A sudden and intense urge to throw down my water glass, climb over the back fence and run away fills me. It’s combated with the urge to reach over and press my lips against Brendan’s.

“Do you want to walk down to the beach?” he asks.

Being surrounded by other people right now sounds like a great idea.

“Yes.” I stand up so fast I see spots. “Let’s go.”

*

I leave as soon as it seems polite. The entire drive home is spent cursing myself and clutching the steering wheel. Did I blow it with Brendan? Should I have just accepted his advances?

A summer romance isn’t a bad thing, I know.

It’s just not something I can easily do. I need more from a person than that. I’m not talking about commitment for the rest of our lives, but I like some sort of stability and predictability. If I were to start hooking up with Brendan, I would regret it the moment he gets on that flight and heads back to the east coast. I know I would. It will be too hard to see him go; I’ll have gotten attached to what we started.

Just like the last time with him.

Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to spare.

My current life situation could be equated to floating on a raft in the middle of the ocean dying of thirst and knowing there’s nothing to be done about it. Just like I can’t drink the salt water, I can’t have these men. They’re bad for me.

No one is at the apartment. I drop my keys on the shelf and just stand in the middle of the living room, feeling sorry for myself. Telling Brendan I had plans tonight was a total lie. There’s a party happening downtown with a lot of people from school, but I wasn’t planning on going anyway. I’ve had enough of crowds for a while.

When the silence becomes too much to bear, I go into my bedroom and dig in my sock and underwear drawer. I find a red bikini top and a pink and orange striped bottom. They clash so much it makes me cringe, but my only other bathing suit is still in the bottom of my clothes hamper.

After getting changed, I slip on some flip flops and head down to the pool. When we moved in, Crystal told me she heard one of the neighbors got a fungus from it, so I’ve never so much as dipped a toe in its waters. The courtyard gets a decent amount of light, though, and I lay my towel down on one of the lounge chairs and stretch out.

I last about ten minutes. Being alone with my own thoughts is torture. All I can think about is what Mr. Mulroney might be doing. Does he always spend his weekends the same way? And what way is that?

I groan and sit up. Snatching my towel, I stomp up the stairs. The older Hispanic woman who lives down the hall gives me a weird look, but I ignore her.

I don’t bother taking off the bikini. Instead, I pull a t-shirt and some shorts on over it. I start the coffee pot, clear the table in front of the couch, plug in my computer, and the ritual of beginning complete, sit down to write.

I get as far as INT, RESTAURANT, DAY before I’m opening up the browser. I’m restless and it’s not like I have any fresh ideas anyway. My fingers thrum against the coffee table and I look self-consciously around the living room. I’m the only one home, but I still feel guilty about what I’m about to do.

Going to Google, I type in ‘Simon Mulroney’. I hit the search button and cringe. The act is so juvenile I should be sent straight back to eighth grade for simply considering it.

The number of hits is mind blowing, but of course it is. He runs one of the largest film production studios in the world. At least, he’s purported to. As his assistant, I can personally attest to the fact that Mr. Mulroney does what he needs to do and not much more. Dana has told me a lot of our boss’ job is a front; that the Mulroneys hired out others to do much of the work long ago.

I don’t know what “much of the work” really means, but I know Mr. Mulroney has enough time to enjoy the luxury of coming and going almost whenever he pleases.

I resist the desire to scroll through the pages and pages of pictures. Going that far really would make me feel like a creep. Instead, I go to Wikipedia.

I nibble my bottom lip as I scan the article written on him. Two minutes. That’s all I’m giving myself. After that, I’m clearing my web browser’s history so I can forget all this ever happened.

Except something catches my eye that makes forgetting impossible.

In the little section titled Personal Life, way past the lengthy list of films produced during the years of Mr. Mulroney being at the company, is one simple sentence.
Engaged to Alexandra Dupre for one year.

I blink and rub my eyes then read the sentence again. There’s a second one, too, saying the engagement was broken off five years ago.

Quick as a whip, I slam my laptop shut. I’ve gone too far already. I am
not
going to slump to the level that involves searching Google images for pictures of Mr. Mulroney’s ex-fiancée.

Just the fact that he was once engaged is more than I can wrap my head around. I try to imagine him even proposing to someone. Did he get down on his knee?

No. Not Mr. Mulroney.

Not the Mr. Mulroney who spanked a woman in his office then kidnapped me from work midday to kiss me in his car.

You kissed him,
I remind myself.

I also stopped the kiss… because I have a brain.

Running my hands through my hair, I tug slightly at the roots of my bangs. I got online hoping to find some information to help me unravel Mr. Mulroney’s mystique and definitely got more than I bargained for.

“I can’t do this.” My voice was barely a whisper.

I can’t keep driving myself to the brink of insanity each and every day.

Opening the computer back up, I close out the browser. I’m not stupid. I know that at some point in the near future I’ll be back online, poking around where I shouldn’t be and finding out more than I can handle.

But at least for now I’ve committed to putting all of that aside. I open my screenplay back up and get to typing. With each word, I manage to edge Mr. Mulroney a little bit more out of my mind. He never completely leaves it, but that’s just the way it is now. I can’t dispel him, but I can somewhat manage his presence in my psyche.

And that will have to be enough.

M
onday morning’s alarm clock sounds delightfully far away. In my dream, I’m somewhere in the mountains, shepherding a flock of goats across a river. On the other side of the monolithic mountain in front of us rests our destination. I don’t know what the nearby town holds, but I’m excited to get there. There’s a sense of immediacy and thrill. I wonder when I became a shepherd anyhow, but it doesn’t really matter.

A little brown kid comes up and nuzzles my hand, his fur soft against my fingers. The shrieking grows louder.

I groan and twist in the sheets. The blanket pushed down at the bottom of my bed gets tangled around my feet and I kick it off. I hit the alarm clock and sit up.

It feels like a bolt of electricity hit me. Seven-forty. How could that possibly be? Has my alarm been going off for over an hour?

A hole opens up in my heart and I jump to the floor, practically throwing myself at the wardrobe. I’m an idiot. I stayed up too late last night. And I wasn’t even doing anything! I laid on the couch till two a.m. thinking about my man problems.

And now I’ll be late for work because of a goat dream. If it was going to happen, why couldn’t I have at least been having one of my forbidden boss dreams?

Mr. Mulroney’s promise that my job is secure is going to be moot once I show up for work thirty minutes after I should have been there, because unless I put a superhero cape on and fly myself across the valley, no way can I make it on time.

I start to pull on the first pair of jeans I grab. One leg in and one leg out, I halt. It doesn’t matter how late I am for work, I can’t go in there wearing the mom jeans I should have thrown out years ago. I drop them on the floor and grab my skinny black pants instead.

Luckily, I did laundry the day before and have my pick of shirts. Tearing my tank top off, I slip on a white tee. I’m already running down the hall, making a break neck pace for the bathroom. What can I cut out of my morning routine?

I brush my teeth with no toothpaste. I splash water on my face, forgoing the soap. I slip one of Crystal’s head scarves on, hoping it will cover up my mess of hair.

I’m opening the door when I realize my cell phone is still in my room. “Damn,” I gasp, running back and snatching it up.

I dial the office while I run down the front steps, one palm trailing down the hand rail.

“Simon Mulroney’s office.”

“Dana!” I shriek. “I’m running super late. I am
so
sorry.”

“Is everything okay?”

I briefly consider lying. “My alarm clock didn’t go off.”

So that’s a half lie, which is not as bad as a full out one. It went off, I just didn’t hear it for sixty minutes. Or rather, I thought it was the shrieking of some yodeler over on the mountain yon while I herded my goats.

“When do you think you’ll get here?”

“I’m almost halfway there.”

Halfway to the car, I mean.

“Okay, just get here as soon as you can. This morning is going to be crazy.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she says, the word clipped. “See you soon.”

She hangs up. It’s just my luck that the one morning I’m late, I’m also actually needed at work. By the tone of Dana’s voice, I’m picking up the vibe that it won’t be a busy morning sending out Evites or dusting shelves.

My foot nervously taps against the floor as I pull the car onto my regular route. Should I have checked GPS first? Maybe traffic is lighter the back way and I can get there quicker.

No. It’s too late. I need to stick to my usual path.

I’m almost to the freeway when a horrible rumbling begins. It seems to be coming from the beat up truck in front of me, but as my Chevy edges along, I realize with horror that the sound is issuing from my little car.

The needle behind the steering wheel starts to go up, pushing itself all the way to the hot end of the gauge. I stare in terror, unable to believe this. I’m already late to work and my car is overheating.

Can I make it to the office? Is there some way I can just coast my dumb ass to that studio, park the car, and deal with my automobile troubles at five o’clock?