Lovely Trigger (3 page)

Everything was serious these days.
 
Work, even my social life.
 
When I dated, it was very serious professionals, though nothing ever got far or lasted long.
 
My heart just wasn’t in it yet.
 

I told myself I only needed more time.
   

I finished college, and James immediately promoted me.
 
I moved to L.A. and managed the gallery there.
 
Career wise, all of my dreams were coming true.
 
James let me prove myself and gave me free reign over the gallery.
 

I missed Bev, Jerry, and the boys, but I had enough work to keep me busy literally every waking hour, and that’s how I liked it.
 

Bev and Jerry remarried in a very small ceremony in the Bahamas.
 
I attended, and the amount of relief I felt when I found out that Tristan, for whatever reason, hadn’t come, worried me.
 
He should not still affect me like this, I told myself, but there was no helping it.
 

It was a beautiful wedding.
 
They both wrote their own vows, and they were so sweet that I cried like a sap through the entire thing, hugging the boys, who flanked me on each side.
 

Later, I found out that Tristan hadn’t come because he hadn’t been invited.
 
Though he and Jerry were close, Bev hadn’t even considered it.
 

This was told to me by Bev.
 
When I looked baffled by her revelation, she laughed and patted me on the shoulder.
 

“Oh, my sweet girl.
 
If someone told you I don’t hold a grudge, they were
lying
.”

Her eyes and her smile were so unlike her, so bloodthirsty, that I just stared.
 

“You’re doing great now.
 
You look spectacular, and I have every confidence that you will get what you want out of your life.
 
I couldn’t be more proud of you, but there will always be a very clear picture in my head, my dear, and it is the stuff of my nightmares.
 
I can close my eyes and remember how you looked, bleeding and broken in that hospital bed.
 
Heartbroken and abused.
 
Or of you those first few months after the accident.
 
So sad and lost.
 
I’m a loving woman.
 
You know this.
 
I love with all my heart, but a heart like mine works both ways, and there is a
wrath
in me.
 
I will never forget the state that man put you in.
 
You think I could enjoy a celebration if
he
was there, making you uncomfortable the entire time?
 
That’s not how I operate.
 
It will take more than a few paltry years before I can be civil to that man.”

It was hard to know what to say to
that
, but strangely, her words warmed me a little.

It would always feel good to have Bev in my corner.
       

I finally met my biological father face to face.
 
It was one of the most awkward moments of my life, but I can’t say I didn’t feel a bit of satisfaction by the end of it.
 

Bronson Giles was attending a gallery showing in L.A. with his oldest son, Dermot.
 
I’d heard somewhere that he was following in his dad’s acting footsteps.
 
He looked like a perfect younger image of his father, big, blond, and very handsome.
   

With my same eyes.
 

I think I was too completely dead to the idea of feeling anything for my father to have a reaction to him.
 
To see him, well, it was only a sort of vague discomfort.
 

Dermot, on the other hand, I had not expected.
 

The idea of a deadbeat dad was one thing.
 
The concept of a half-sibling, one that had no inkling that I existed, was something else.
 
It was very strange, but I found myself staring at him whenever he wandered close as they perused the art, trying to catch some kindness in him, some redemption.
 
I didn’t want to hate him.
 

In fact, I quite wanted to like him.
   

I wasn’t sure if Bronson thought it was him I was staring at, or if I just happened to catch his eye, but he watched me even more than I watched Dermot.
 

Finally, Bronson approached me directly.
 
I tensed up sure he’d caught the resemblance between me and my mother, who he’d obviously known well.
 

That wasn’t why he approached.
 
Well, I suppose it was a twisted version of that.
 
Marta was apparently his type, and being close to the spitting image of her, I suppose I was too.

His smile dripped with greasy charm even before he opened his disgusting mouth.
 

Before he even got a word out, I had the thought: Oh God, no.
 
My own father is about to hit on me.

Please, please, please, I thought, make this not actually be happening.
   

Who the fuck else had this kind of luck?
 

I didn’t even catch the first little bit that he said, more heard his tone, my mind reeling in horror.
 

It was just too much.
 
Even I couldn’t maintain my usual professional demeanor as I stood there and had the man that had sired me tell me how hot I was.
 

He didn’t even have good lines.
 
He’d been relying on his fame and money for way too long.
 

“So what do you say?”
 
He reached into his pocket, pulling out what looked like a hotel room key card.
 
“I keep a regular room at The Beverly Hills Hotel.
 
I can meet you there in three hours.
 
In the meantime, feel free to make yourself comfortable, order some drinks.
 
Charge it to the room.”

He said it all like it was just a forgone conclusion, even when I knew that the look on my face must have told him that I liked him about as much as something particularly smelly that had just gotten stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
 

He was that oblivious.
 

“You are just stunning.
 
Where do you get that coloring from?
 
A bit of Asian in there, right?
 
I’ve always been a fan of the Asian girls.
 
But the black hair with those pale eyes.”
 
He whistled long and low.
 
“So very striking.
 
What a beauty.
 
Hot little body on you too.”
 

I had to restrain myself from slapping him across the face.
 
My voice was not quite steady when I finally found it.
 
“What is
your
heritage?”
 

“I’m mainly Danish and English.
 
Your turn, babe.”
 

My mouth shaped into a sharp smile.
 
“My mother is Japanese and Russian, and my father is apparently Danish and English, though I just this second found that out.”
 

He gave me a strange look.
 
“How so?”
 

“Bronson Giles, my mother’s name is Marta Markova.
 
I assume that rings a bell?”
 

He at least had the decency to turn green then.
 
“My God,” he whispered.
 

“I can see where that would be a problem, knocking up so many women that you can’t keep track of your offspring.
 
And by the way, Bronson, you are way too old for me.
 
Even if I wasn’t your daughter.”
 
I made a face.
 
“That’s just gross.
 
If you’re going to be a philandering pig, at least be more age appropriate about it.
 
Especially with all of the random women you must have gotten pregnant over the years.
 
Maybe stay away from women that are young enough to be your daughters, or hell, your granddaughters.”
 

“My God,” he said again.
 
“Do you want money from me or something?”
 

“I don’t want
anything
from you,” I told him furiously, my voice low and mean.
 
“Not one thing.
 
I manage this gallery.
 
You are the one that came up to me, or did you not realize that?”
   

He blinked a few times, turned on his heel and strode away.
 

Dermot, who’d been about a dozen feet away for the whole thing, sent me one probing glance and followed him.
 

I thought that was the end of it, but about an hour later, Dermot was back.
 

He sought me out, waiting while I handled a sale.
 
He smiled and held out his hand when I was free.
 
“I’m Dermot,” he said warmly.

I smiled tentatively back, shaking his hand.
 
“Danika.”
 

“I just wanted to apologize for my father.
 
He’s…a throwback, and it looked like he came on a little strong back there.”

I studied him.
 
“I’m not sure why you’re apologizing.
 
You didn’t do anything.”
 

“I just didn’t want you to think I was like him.
 
He’s my father, but I’ve known since I was a kid that he’s a creep when it comes to women.”
 

I nodded.
 
That he was, and I didn’t know what to say about it.

“Listen, this is an embarrassing way to meet, but I’d love to make it up to you sometime.
 
How does dinner sound?”

I made an effort not to smack my own forehead.
 

Seriously?!
 
What the fuck did I do to deserve this?

I realized then and there that I had to tell him, had to bite the awkward bullet and just get it out.
 
“The fact that your father is old and married isn’t the only thing that offended me about his come-on,” I told him, my tone matter of fact.
 

“Oh yeah?” he asked, smiling like I was about to tell him some funny joke.
 

Oh yeah, it was a real hoot.
 

“Bronson Giles is my biological father.”
 

His eyes widened comically, his mouth dropping open.
 

“I have no proof, though if I needed it, his reaction to me telling him who my mother is would have been enough.
 
But if you don’t believe me—“

“No, no, I do.
 
I just-I-I-I’m shocked.
 
I am
so
sorry.
 
I wasn’t hitting on you.
 
I meant like a platonic dinner.”

He hadn’t, but I grasped onto that lame ass excuse just as strongly as he did.
 
“Of course.
 
I didn’t think you were.”

In spite of that less than promising beginning, we did sort of hit it off after that.
 

“I like women as much as the next guy,” Dermot told me over dinner, maybe the fourth time we’d met to catch up.
 
“But if you can’t keep it in your pants, the least you can do is just stay single.”

“Here, here,” I said, toasting him.
 
He was preaching to the choir.
 

“And seriously, he’s how old, and somehow never managed to grasp the concept of birth control?”
 
He winced as he heard his own words.
 
“No offense to you.”

I laughed.
 
“None taken.
 
I mean, I’m glad I exist, but I could’ve wished for a different father, say, one that was present.”
 

“How’s Dahlia doing?
 
And how’s her boy?”
 

I launched into a story about darling Jack.
 

We always asked about the other siblings.
 
We kept track, though no one seemed to have any urge to meet up face to face besides he and I.
 
Dahlia had some weird resentment for our half-siblings, a bitterness for them that I couldn’t fathom, considering she’d wanted to have more of a relationship with our father.
 
He
was the one to blame.
 
He was the culprit.
 
I could well understand a contempt for him and the things he’d done, but our half-siblings were no more to blame for his actions than we were.
 
Still, there was no talking her out of it.
 

It was her loss.
 
Dermot was delightful, sarcastic, and fun.
 
We’d decided early on that we’d gotten the same twisted sense of humor.
 

It was several meetings before he worked up the nerve to ask about what happened to my leg.
 

“The relationship from hell,” I answered.
 

This one time he didn’t share the joke with me.
 
His face shut down, and for the first time I saw that my half-brother could be a bit scary.
 
“Some
man
did that to you?”
 

I shook my head vehemently.
 
“Bad joke.
 
Sorry.
 
No.
 
It’s a long story, but the short version is that this happened in a car accident.”
 

He didn’t look convinced, but he did let me change the subject.
 
It had to be easy to catch on that this wasn’t my favorite topic.