Filfthy (57 page)

D
erek

“
Y
ou’re twenty minutes late
.” Kyla storms down the front steps of her Victorian McMansion Sunday afternoon. The closer she gets, the more I notice the ridiculous amount of makeup covering her wind-burned cheeks and the pale outline around her eyes marking where her ski goggles once sat.

“There was a lot of traffic.” I climb out and go to the backseat.

“At four o’clock on a Sunday?” Her hand flies to her hip.

Any other mother would be fawning over their daughter, having not seen her for several days, but Kyla is more concerned with berating me over nothing.

“Did you have somewhere to be?” I unbuckle Haven and lift her from her car seat.

“As a matter of fact, yes.” She lifts her head. “Herb made us reservations at this new French restaurant in Hawthorne. It’s a forty-five-minute drive, and our reservations are in forty minutes.”

“Will Haven eat French food?” I deposit my daughter on the grass and she runs toward the front door, stopping once to blow me a kiss. She waits as I pretend to catch it in the air, and then she disappears inside.

“We’re not taking Haven.” Kyla speaks quickly, eyes darting past me. “We got a babysitter.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Kyla?” There’s a growl in my throat, and I’m two seconds from heading inside, scooping Haven into my arms, and taking her home with me. But I’m not about to get myself arrested because of this fucking twat, so she’s lucky. “You haven’t seen our daughter in four days, and you make me rush her home Sunday night so you can go on a date with fucking Herb?”

“We’ve been on the wait list for months.” Kyla stomps her foot. “We got the call on the way home. We weren’t expecting it. Completely last minute.”

As if
that
makes this any more acceptable.

“This is un-fucking-believable.” I shake my head, threading my fingers through my hair and pulling, my teeth grinding. I move to the backseat, grabbing Haven’s bag, and I shove it in Kyla’s arms. “You don’t fucking deserve to be her mother, and you know it.”

Her jaw hangs. “You did
not
just say that to me, Derek.”

I climb back in the car, and her expression softens as she moves to the driver’s window.

“Where’s your pretty little friend?” Her tone is sweet. She’s fishing.

I start up the engine and shift into reverse.

“Fine, don’t answer me.” Kyla snorts. “Oh, don’t forget. You have Haven next weekend too. I’m hosting a trunk show for a local designer, and then Herb is taking me into the city for a little bit. She’d just be in the way. And we need to talk summer, because that’s coming up soon. We’re doing six weeks in Europe, and that’s just too much for a four-year-old, so she’s going to have to stay with you. Also, we need to talk summer childcare. I assume you want to help me interview nannies. I just don’t have the patience to spend all day, everyday with a four-year-old. Also, she’s going to be staying with my mother in San Francisco for a month before preschool starts up again.”

I turn to her slowly, and my mind is made up. “Can you send all of this to me in an email, please?”

Kyla’s brows arch. “Um, sure, okay.”

Fucking moron.

I peel out of her driveway, mentally building my custody case as I drive the long two hours back home.

* * *

“
H
ave a nice drive back
?” Serena greets me when I return, though I’m not in the best of moods. She lingers by the kitchen island, studying me. “Everything okay?”

I groan, mumbling nonsense and swatting her away.

“Okay, I won’t bother you.” Serena pulls away from me, stepping toward her hallway. “It’s getting late, so . . . have a good night.”

“You have an appointment tomorrow. Ten AM,” I realize I forgot to tell her that over the weekend, but to be fair, she’s pretty much avoided me since Friday night.

Serena, who’s halfway down the hall by now, stops and turns. “With?”

“A local psychiatrist,” I say. “Her name is Dr. Lia Perez. She’s going to clear you, and as soon as I have her statement, I’ll file the papers and petition the courts to cancel the conservatorship.”

Her face lights, and I think she’d run into my arms right now if I wasn’t so gruff.

“Thank you, Derek.”

“I’ll pick you up at nine thirty. Don’t be late.”

I head to my room, not waiting for her to respond. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing left to talk about as far as anything else is concerned. She wants to leave, and I sure as fuck won’t try and stop her.

* * *

W
e’ve said
two words to each other all morning Monday.

Now I’m seated in the waiting room of Dr. Lia Perez’s private mental health clinic, paging through a tattered copy of
Men’s Fitness
from October of last year. It’s been two hours now. I’d have been better off not waiting.

“Mr. Rosewood?” Dr. Perez’s nurse opens a hall door. “You can come back now.”

I follow her down a wallpapered hall with cherry wainscoting. This place used to be a bed and breakfast. Now it’s a place where the locals come to pour their broken hearts out to people who are paid to listen.

I’ve never found the value in spilling your soul to someone who’s only financially vested in caring, but that’s just me.

“Right in here. The doctor will be in soon.” The nurse points to a shiny wooden door, and I catch a glimpse of Serena already seated in front of the doctor’s desk.

Her legs are crossed, her foot twitching and bouncing like she has something to be nervous about.

Dr. Perez waltzes in by the time I take my seat. She’s a tiny thing, pushing forty, with jet black hair that frames the very face her glasses are trying to hide. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s just as guarded as the next person. Listening to people’s secrets for a living tends to do that to a person, and I speak from experience.

The doctor shakes my hand. “Mr. Rosewood, nice to meet you in person.”

“Likewise.” I release her soft hand and flatten my tie as I take a seat.

Serena watches me, chewing the inside of her lip.

“So,” she says. “I’ve spent some time with Ms. Randall, and I see no reason she should need a conservator of her estate.”

Dr. Perez’s mouth spreads into a wide smile, and her eyes relay between Serena’s and mine.

Serena exhales slowly, readjusting her legs and sitting up straight. She’s relieved.

“That’s excellent news,” I say.

“My evaluation should be typed and ready by the early part of next week. I generally request seven to ten business days, but given Serena’s extenuating circumstances, I don’t want her to have to wait that long.”

“We appreciate that, Doctor.” I speak for the both of us. The sooner she’s gone, the sooner I can get her out of my fucking head. She’s been playing in there like a loop since the day I met her.

I knew it was a mistake. Touching her. Kissing her. All of it was wrong.

I wanted to resist.

But I wanted her more.

Hell. Now, I’ll probably have to pass her estate case off to someone else. Let them deal with the Veronica Kensington-Randall Shit Show. Wash my hands of this family.

When I rise from my seat, I realize we weren’t done discussing this quite yet. Dr. Perez and Serena exchange puzzled looks, and I recover by checking my watch and mentioning an imaginary appointment I have at noon.

“Sure,” Dr. Perez says. “I’ll let you two get going. Serena, I gave you my card. I want you to contact me if you ever need anything. Stopping your medications without doctor supervision was quite risky, but I’m glad to hear you’re doing okay. Call me if anything changes, okay?”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Serena grabs her purse and stands before following me to the door.

By the time we reach my car, we still haven’t said much of anything to each other. But I’m fine with that. She’s not my girlfriend. We fucked once.

I don’t need to tiptoe around her. I don’t need to smooth anything over. I gave her the best part of me, and I owe her nothing.

She should consider herself lucky.

I don’t open my home to anyone, especially not in the presence of Haven.

I shake my head, shaming myself because I goddamned knew better.

Who cares if she’s equal parts beautiful and unpredictable? Who cares if she’s amazing with my daughter? Who cares that she choked down Demi’s spaghetti without so much as a complaint and then offered to clean up afterward?

Women like Serena are a dime a dozen. I could hit the town tonight and bring five of them home just like her.

Fuck.

No, I can’t.

“Are you going to keep giving me the silent treatment?” Serena asks when we’re halfway home.

“I’m not giving you the silent treatment.” I grip the steering wheel. “Just have a lot on my mind. Not in the mood for piddly conversation.”

“Ouch.”

Fuck.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I add.

Serena stares out her window, refusing to look anywhere in my general vicinity. I guess I deserve that.

I drop her off in front of my building and head back to work, only I’m not expecting to find my father sitting in my desk chair, arms folded and brows furrowed.

He stands, dragging his thumb along his mustache. “Derek. Come in and have a seat. We need to talk.”

S
erena

M
y phone rings
halfway through Days of Our Lives. I mute the TV and pull my lazy bones into a seated position, dragging my iPhone across Derek’s coffee table and squinting at the Caller ID.

Poppy?

I clear my throat and sit straight. “Hello?”

“Oh, my God. Serena?” Poppy’s high-pitched lilt blasts through the speaker. “I can’t believe you answered.”

Rolling my eyes, I muster all the positivity I have and force myself to pretend to be happy to hear from her. Where was she twelve weeks ago? Where was she when I was holed up at Belcourt Prison?

“Are you okay? Is everything okay? I’ve been so worried about you,” she says, breathless and excited.

Really? She’s been worried about me? Last I knew, worried people called and checked on their friends.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Ironing a few things out, but I’m fine.”

“Oh, thank God.” Poppy laughs. “I’ve been trying to reach you for months. I ran into Veronica at Bergdorf’s not long after . . . the airport incident . . . and she said you were seeking medical help and recovering at Belcourt and that you weren’t taking visitors. I sent flowers. Did you get them?”

I lean forward, brows meeting. “Flowers?”

“Yes. Pink roses. Your favorite. And boxes of European chocolate from that little shop on Madison. I even sent you a care package with nail polish and face scrub and magazines and essential oils. Random things I thought might cheer you up.”

“Poppy, I never got anything. You sure you sent them to Belcourt?”

“Positive.”

“Why would they be intercepted?”

“No clue.” She blows a breath into the receiver. “That’s really odd. Anyway, where are you now? When are you coming home?”

“I’m staying in a little town called Rixton Falls. My attorney is here.” I leave it at that. There’s no sense in giving her more information than necessary. Not until I know what she really wants.

“Never heard of it. When are you coming home? We miss you. Everyone misses you.”

My chest tightens for a moment. I want to believe they all miss me. And maybe some of them did try and reach out. I’ll never know.

“You’ll be happy to know Natasha and Tenley have essentially been shunned from our little social circle.” Poppy’s tone is low. It’s the very tone she takes when she’s sharing insider information. Gossip. “After what they did with Keir . . . what it did to you . . .”

She needn’t continue. No point in rehashing the worst moments of my life.

“You know, we all think they baited Keir. Natasha was always so jealous of you, and Tenley always wanted what you had. She copied your makeup, your haircut, your shoes and bags. She even stole your stylist.” Poppy rambles on, and I tune her out for a second.

“I don’t care if they baited Keir. He took the bait. That’s all that matters. There’s no coming back from that. I’ll never trust him again.”

“Oh, sweetie, I know.” Poppy groans in sympathy. “The entire thing was so horrid. It never should’ve happened to you. You didn’t deserve it. Anyway, it’s safe to come home now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Natasha’s been vacationing in the Maldives the last two months. Supposedly. And Tenley moved back to LA to be with her sugar daddy. I’d be shocked if those two showed their faces in this city again.” The phone is muffled for a moment. “Sorry. My meal delivery just came. I’m getting so sick of chicken and broccoli and sweet potatoes. I haven’t had a real meal in months. Hey, you should come back this weekend. My sister finally moved out, so I have a guest room.”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on,” she whines. “I’ll send my driver to come get you in the morning, and he’ll drop you off Sunday night. You’ve been gone far too long. I miss you. I mean it. You were my best friend. Still are. You know I like you a million times more than any of those other bitches.”

I laugh through my nose.

“Please?” she asks. “Don’t make me beg.”

I contemplate my answer in silence.

“I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer,” she says. “Give me your address, and I’ll send Carlos to come pick you up at nine o’clock tomorrow. When was the last time you had your hair done? I can call Katinka and see if she’ll squeeze you in. We can do some shopping after. Have dinner at Giuseppe’s on Fifth. Get some drinks at Bar Gray. Anything you want to do.”

It sounds good. It really does. I tuck my hair behind my ear, my fingertips grazing my smiling cheeks.

I give. “Fine, Poppy. I’ll text you the address.”

“Yay! I’m so excited. You have no idea.”

An incoming call places a beep in my earpiece, and I pull the phone away. It’s Eudora.

“I have to let you go,” I say.

“Don’t forget to text me.”

“I won’t.” I end Poppy’s call and accept the incoming one. “Eudora, hello.”

“Serena.” She’s breathless. “I’m so glad you answered.”

“What’s going on? Everything okay?”

“No.”

My heart thuds, and I sink back into the cushions. “What’s wrong?”

“Your father,” she says. “He fell. Hit his head. Couldn’t get up. I think he may have broken something as well.”

So many questions race through my mind, like why was Eudora with him? What happened to her paid leave status? But none of that matters right now.

“Where’s Veronica?” My question comes out like an angry demand.

“I don’t know, darling,” Eudora says. “She left this morning. Said she had business to attend to out of town and wouldn’t be back until after dark.”

Of course.

“Where is he?” I ask.

“Ambulance just took him to Amherst Good Samaritan Hospital, just outside the Hilldale Estate. You should come.”

“I’ll get there as soon as possible.” I end the call, fingers shaking, mind scattered as I search through my contacts for Derek’s number.

I’m not sure why my instinct is to ask him for help first, but my fingers are seconds from hitting the “send” button when his apartment door swings open.

He stands in the doorway, briefcase in hand, tie loose around his neck. I glance at the clock, and it’s barely past one-thirty. He shouldn’t be home yet.

Derek’s heavy footsteps fill the open apartment. Judging by the storm in his eyes and the tenseness in his shoulders, he’s still very much in the same mood he was in this morning. Maybe more so.

But I can’t think about him right now, or his man tantrum or his ridiculously over-the-top reaction to not getting his way with me.

My hands tremble, and the phone slips through my fingers, landing on the rug beneath me with a hard thud. I swoop down and grab it, rising and taking ginger steps toward the kitchen, where he’s flicking through mail as if it disgusts him.

He stops for a moment, glancing up at me, then to the mail and back. His face pinches. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Um.” My lips feel wavy, my voice faltering. “I . . .”

“What? Say it.”

“My dad fell. He’s at the hospital.” My eyes mist, and I blink them away. “I need to be with him, and I . . .”

He grabs his keys from the counter, his harsh expression suddenly softer. “Let’s go.”