I stop in my tracks. Bo’s lips aren’t moving—the voice is coming from behind me. I turn to see Adrian charging my way with the force of a bull, his arms waving me out of the way. I turn back just in time for the buttons on Bo’s shirt to introduce themselves to my face, and I land headfirst on the pavement.

Above me, they collide in a sonic boom of testosterone. Neither seems concerned with the blood pouring from my head. A shadow blackens my view of the fight, and suddenly a bear paw of a hand is in front of my face.

“Come with me.” The smoky voice encircles my senses, making my blood run cold and scared.

“Get away from me! Bo, Adrian, help me!” I’m a foot to the side of
them but they don’t see me, or
him
. They’re battling to the death; my voice sounds further and further away in my head each time I scream.

The paw snares my upper arm, yanking me with it. “Get up.”

“Adrian! Bo!” I’m trying to shake free, but the snare tightens and drags me away.

By the time they admit there would be no winner of this fight, it’s too late. My screams are going unheard as I’m pulled into the darkness.

“Ember, wake up!” a voice beckons from above.

Suddenly I am graced with the peace that this is a dream. I let his voice pull me back to reality. My eyes flip open and in one motion I’m seated, trying to regulate my breathing.

“Sorry, did I wake you up?” I say to prove I’m out of that hell in my subconscious.

“No, I haven’t gone to bed yet. Another nightmare, huh?”

I glance at the clock; it reads 10:00 PM. I shake my head at the exhaustion I’ve been ignoring in favor of wallowing.

“Yeah, another nightmare. Thank you for staying with me the last couple nights.”

“Of course.” He runs his thumb across my chin and disappears to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water.

“Thanks, Adrian,” I manage after half of the water is gone.

He just smiles and walks quietly back to the living room, giving me time to collect myself.

I gulp the water in fury, hoping to flush the nightmares of my last night in Concord from my body; but the S.S. Cavanaugh appears unsinkable in the turbulent waters of my soul.

After a few moments and another deep breath, I head to the living room. Adrian sits, flipping through the channels on the TV and settling on ESPN. After driving my soulless body back from Concord, he’s stayed here the past two nights; and hasn’t gone far during the day. My parents wanted to come stay with me, but I asked them for space. They reluctantly obliged. For some reason I felt I couldn’t burden Monica with my mess, so Adrian stepped in and told her he’d stay with me until I felt safe and calm.

We haven’t spoken much about what unfolded between McCarthy’s and his hotel room, or between Bo and me. Frankly, we haven’t spoken much at all. He’s worked on his laptop in my living room most days, while I’ve traveled between my bed, bathroom, and kitchen. He’s prepared at least two meals a day for me, and doesn’t scold me like a child when they go largely uneaten.

“You OK?” He catches me staring and puts down the footrest on the recliner.

“Yeah.”

I walk to him and stand for a moment, our knees touching. He sets the remote down and grips the arms of the chair, working me over with concerned eyes.

“Em ...” His eyes beg me for something, anything.

In one long blink I curl myself onto his lap. His hands hesitate for a moment before resting around my waist. He breathes in the scent of my shampoo as I settle my head on his shoulder. My breath falters against the words brewing in my throat. Adrian notices.

He nudges my shoulders, forcing me to sit up and look at him. “What’s going on?”

“You called me Blue, Adrian.”

“I know.” He swallows hard; this is the first time I’ve brought it up.

“You’re the only person who’s ever called me that. That wa
s
ou
r
thin
g,
an
d
right there, on the beach, in front of Bo, you called me Blue like nothing had happened. Like no time had passed.” I keep my voice quiet and calm, reliving the memory of his voice against the waves shortly after he and Bo told me about the blackmail. It’s hard to believe it was less than two weeks ago.

“I know.”

“I hadn’t seen you in four years and we were standing in front of my boyfriend,” I chuckle for the first time in a lifetime, “and, right there, you just blurt it out.”

“Were you mad?” A grin tugs caution away from his face.

“Furious.”

“Ha. You don’t look furious.” He tucks his bottom lip behind his teeth.

I shrug. “I was mad that it still made me feel the way it always made me feel.” Heaviness pulls at my chest.

“How’s that?”

I yawn and set my head back on his shoulder. “Special. Yours.”

“You are,” he whispers.

“Which one?” I ask as my eyelids close up shop.

If he has a response, I don’t hear it before I drift off. There won’t be any nightmares here.

* * *

“Good Morning, Ember. I’m glad you’re back.” My boss’s smile is sweet as she settles into her desk, motioning me to sit.

“Thanks, Carrie, I really appreciated the week off ...” I trail off and briefly knot my hands before taking a cleansing breath.

“If you need more time -”

“No, it’s really OK. It was just...a lot. But I do appreciate the week to collect myself.” I tuck some hair behind my ear before I continue. “I suppose we should talk about the dissolution of the relationship between B- Mr. Cavanaugh and myself.” I’ve practiced saying his name without crying nearly a hundred times over the last few days, but that doesn’t stop the burn from hissing against my cheeks.

“It won’t be necessary.” Condolences rake Carrie’s face. While she’s my boss, she’s also a woman—she gets it.

I pull my eyebrows in, rendered speechless.

Carrie takes a deep breath before continuing. “Mr. Cavanaugh sent me an email accepting full responsibility for everything that happened. He expressed his apologies and assured me that he would be handing the day-to-day operations of DROP over to David Bryson. He will remain a benefactor and handle behind-the-scenes duties. Further, he’s asked that we still consider the collaboration.”

Mini bombs titled “too much information at once” fire inside my brain.

“It’s summer now,” Carrie continues, “we have interns ready to go in whatever capacity I see fit. I can have one work with Monica on the DROP project—”

I stop her with my hand and a head shake. “No. Absolutely not. This collaboration is too important to leave to interns. DROP is a fantastic organization. Had I played by the very specific rules known to everyone on the planet— including myself—I wouldn’t be in this position. I’m an adult and this is my job.”

I think I just pulled off sounding composed.

“Who does DROP have in place for Grants and Community Ed?” I ask, trying to erase Bo’s blackmailers from my memory.

“DROP’s legal team will handle finances for a while, and David will work on the community piece with Rachel Cavanaugh. They’d like to get together ASAP to design a plan to move forward.”

Rachel’s name sounds like music to my years and feels like a kick to the head all at the same time. She’s certainly aware of the details of the blackmail. Bill Holder and Tristan MacMillian had “compromising” photos of Rachel during the time of her life she was using drugs. I have no idea—and don’t want to know—what the pictures entailed, but they were damaging enough that Bo didn’t want them released. Bill and Tristan blackmailed him for enough money that Bo took his time paying them back. For reasons I don’t understand, he employed them at DROP, and things seemed to unfold from there.

I’m not sure if Rae knows how much I know, or if she knows I know anything at all. I’ve ignored the few phone calls from a number Adrian tells me is hers. I haven’t been ready to face her. It hadn’t occurred to me that with school out for the summer, Rachel would be more active with DROP.

“Ember, are you OK?” Carrie reels me back to the present.

“Yes. Rachel’s great. I met her in Concord. You’re really going to like her.” I allow my feelings for Rachel to show in a smile.

“Good. Well, go get settled back into your office and I’ll get in touch with you later about meeting with Rachel and David.”

I breeze past Monica’s office and shut the door to mine before reorienting myself.

“Em?” Monica knocks and talks at the same time.

“Yeah, come in.”

“How’d it go with Carrie?” She plunks in a chair and slides a latte in my direction.

“Fine. I told her I was still one hundred percent committed to the collaboration, and—”

“Pardon?” She cuts me off with judgmental eyebrows.

“Monica, it’s my job. Period. Bo and I shouldn’t have gotten involved with each other and neither organization should have to suffer because of it. Stop looking at me like that.”

“OK, well, I need to show you something.” Monica produces a sheet of paper and sets it on my desk.

“What is this?” I ask as I pick it up.

“It’s the email ...” She freezes and waits for my reaction.

“Why the hell do you have it?”

“He sent it on Friday. Based on his tone, Carrie thought that you might not be coming back. Of course she wouldn’t show it to me, even if I’d asked ...”

“But ...”

“But Tim owed me a favor after I hooked him up with Callie, so ...”

I chuckle a little. “Nice. Taking advantage of our IT guy.”

“Well...go on and read it.”

I stare at her for about five seconds before scrolling my eyes down to the email.

From
:
Spencer Cavanaugh, Founder, DROP

To
:
Carrie Roberts, Director, The Hope Foundation

Subject
:
Collaboration

BOOK: Reckless Abandon

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