Beg For Me: Chapter 35

Remembering what Alex said about not trusting anyone, I sail past her desk with a breezy smile.

God only knows who Hartman has bribed to get information on me. Alex was assigned to be my assistant the first week I started here over a year ago…perhaps that wasn’t a coincidence.

Maybe she was put in her position to report on my every move.

“How’d it go?” she calls after me.

I give her a thumbs-up over my shoulder before realizing that’s one of my mother’s signature moves.

My mother who was once allegedly a money launderer for the Mafia.

I knew there was something hinky about the secret knowledge of Italian, the ease with which she threatened Nick with a meat cleaver, and the “small savings” she claimed to have set aside. And the way she hoodwinked my brother into thinking she was physically and mentally frail was positively genius.

Evil, but genius.

I stride into my office, close the door, and am about to pick up the desk phone when I stop and stare at the receiver suspiciously.

Has Hartman been listening in on all my conversations? How far has that son of a bitch gone to get what he wants?

Judging by how much Lorraine knew about my personal life, pretty damn far.

I sit at my desk, fuming, until I’m calm enough to think straight. I want to call Carter, but I can’t. At least not from here.

Every formerly innocent looking item in my office has taken on a sinister aspect. Is there a hidden camera in that ceiling light? A microphone recording my every word behind that framed print on the wall?

I can no longer be sure of anything, except that my time at TriCast is over.

This company doesn’t align with who I am.

But I know that whatever next steps I take will lead to war. Lorraine was far too comfortable dispensing her threats for it to be mere bluffing. The only thing left to do is decide the way forward and prepare for the fallout.

This is definitely going to get messy.

I leave work early, pretending not to notice the way people stare. In the car on the drive home, my cell rings with a blocked number.

I debate if I should answer, but finally do. “Hello?”

“It’s Nick. Please don’t hang up. I have to talk to you.”

His voice is subdued, but he sounds urgent. More importantly, he sounds sober.

“I can’t talk right now.”

“Please, Soph. Please. This is important.”

Three pleases in a row? Who is this imposter?

The horrifying thought hits me that maybe he found out Brittany called me, and he’s done something stupid in retaliation. Something violent. My heart starts to pound.

“What’s this about?”

“I don’t want to talk over the phone. Can I come to the house?”

A flare of anger hardens my voice. “That’s a hard no. Guess why?”

He exhales. After a pause, he says, “I know. I’m an asshole. I’m sorry. I haven’t been myself lately. Some things have been happening…” He curses under his breath, then comes back on sounding desperate. “Please, Soph. I don’t know who else to turn to. You’re the only one I can trust.”

Surprised by everything about that statement, I lift my brows. Alex’s warning words echo inside my head.

“Just be careful who you talk to. You can’t trust anyone around here.”

In the back of my mind, an alarm bell rings. It’s accompanied by a flashing red light and a creeping feeling of wrongness.

Pausing to glance suspiciously at my cell phone, I say calmly, “Don’t be silly. By the way, you were right about that movie. It wasn’t good.”

The brief silence that follows is total, but it crackles with tension. Then Nick comes back on the line, his voice smooth and untroubled. “You see? I tried to tell you.”

I exhale, gripping the steering wheel with clammy hands. “You did. Anyway, I’ve got to run. I’m meeting Ev at the Disco Biscuit Diner for drinks, and I’m late.”

“Okay. Well, I guess we’ll catch up another time.”

“Talk soon. Bye.”

I make a sharp left turn onto Wilshire Boulevard and accelerate through a yellow light. A short drive later, I pull into the parking lot of the old diner at the corner of Pico and Bundy where Nick and I used to eat breakfast every Saturday before Harlow was born.

I wait less than ten minutes before he walks through the door. He spots me immediately, sitting at what used to be our usual table. He slides into the booth opposite me and stares at me with bloodshot, watery eyes. His hair is uncombed, his slacks and dress shirt are rumpled, and he’s got three days’ growth of beard on his jaw.

“You look like shit.”

His smile is thin. “It’s nice to see you too. Thank you for meeting me.”

“You’re welcome. Apologize for what happened at the house and for the way you’ve been acting lately. And mean it, or else I’m out of here.”

His eyes close briefly. He shakes his head, then gazes down at his hands, flattened over the ugly Formica tabletop. His voice low, he says, “It’s inexcusable. I know. I’m so sorry.”

“Keep going.”

He glances up at me, gauging my mood. My expression must be severe, because instead of smiling, he looks down again. “I don’t handle uncertainty well. I know that about myself. It’s a fault I compensate for by being overprepared for everything. I’m very…”

“Controlling.”

“I was going to say vigilant.”

“Security guards are vigilant. You’re Orwellian.”

“Come on. I’m not an oppressive government regime.”

“Aren’t you?”

He drags a hand through his hair and shakes his head again, as if to clear it, then changes the subject. “I’m surprised you remembered our code phrase.”

I remember all our little secret phrases, not that I’ll admit it. We had at least half a dozen of them. The one I used on our call was for situations where something was wrong, but we couldn’t say it because we were in front of other people.

“Are you done apologizing? Because that was pretty weak, considering your recent run of dickery.”

A friendly middle-aged waitress approaches, hands us menus, and asks if we’d like something to drink. I ask for a sparkling water. Nick orders a double scotch.

When she leaves, he looks me straight in the eye and draws a breath. “I’m sorry. For all of it. What happened Saturday night, the way I’ve been with you lately, the way I’ve spoken to Harlow.” He pauses again. “And for Britt. I know that was…”

I wait for him to continue, watching him struggle for words and thoroughly enjoying his discomfort.

Finally, he murmurs, “Wrong. It was wrong of me. And stupid. You didn’t deserve that. I should never have left the way I did.”

I’ve been waiting for this apology for years, so I’m surprised I don’t feel more. More anything—anger, relief, sadness. But right now, looking at him, all I feel is detachment.

This is what moving on feels like.

This is how it feels to be free.

I say, “Can I tell you something without it sounding sanctimonious?”

“I don’t know. Try me.”

“I forgive you.”

He studies my face doubtfully, then wrinkles his nose.

“It sounded sanctimonious, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, but I’ll take it.”

We share a smile, and I see a glimmer of how things might be in some fairy tale future where Harlow is grown up with her own family and we all get together on holidays without it being weird. Then it occurs to me that I’m including Carter in this lovely little daydream, and a powerful pang of tenderness leaves me breathless.

I’m thinking about making a life with him.

My subconscious has already put him on the annual Christmas card next to me, grinning that movie star grin, his arm slung possessively around my shoulders.

Maybe Harlow was right, and I’m already in love with him.

Am I in love with him? And if I am…what does that mean for us? For Harlow? How is my life about to change? How do I want it to change, if at all?

Pulling me from my thoughts, Nick says, “So tell me why you couldn’t talk in the car.”

“You go first. You said ‘some things’ have been happening. What’s going on?”

He’s about to answer when the waitress arrives with our drinks. She hands them over and asks us if we want to order food. Nick ignores her, guzzling his scotch like it’s water.

If he keeps drinking like that, he’s going to have bigger problems than whatever’s already bothering him.

“He’ll have a club sandwich, please. Sub avocado for tomato. On whole grain instead of white bread. Extra fries.”

“Sure thing. And for you, hon?”

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

Nodding, she takes our menus and ambles away. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Nick says smugly, “You remember how I like my clubs.”

“I remember how bad your feet smell too. Why did you want to meet?”

He gazes at me for a long, silent moment before dropping a bomb on my head.

“I want another chance with you. I think we should get back together.”

Dear God. The universe really has it in for me today. I close my eyes and sigh.

“I know, I know. Just hear me out, Soph.”

“We’re not getting back together. Period, end of story.”

“I made a list of all the reasons why we should.”

My laugh is small and dry. “Oh, yeah? Where’s your fiancée on that list? Or did you think we’d all live together like one big, happy family?”

He reaches across the table, attempting to take my hands. I jerk back before he can lay a finger on me and glare at him.

“Look, this thing with Britt…we both know what that was about.”

“Yes, it was about getting your ego stroked and your dick wet.”

“I know it was a mistake, all right? I’ve admitted it.”

“Literally thirty seconds ago. Forgive me if I don’t give you an award.”

I can tell my sarcasm irks him, because his contrite tone sharpens.

“Nobody’s perfect. I was a good husband to you, and a good father to Harlow. We were a good family. We can be one again. Even stronger this time, because we know exactly what we’re missing when we’re not together.”

I stare at him, debating if I should laugh right into his delusional face.

Instead, I take his scotch and swirl it under my nose, letting the fumes clear the cobwebs from my brain. Then I swallow the rest of it and set the glass down carefully on the tabletop.

“Let me guess. You and Britt are having problems.”

He gazes at me steadily but doesn’t say a word, which means I hit the nail on the head.

“Did you call the wedding off?”

When he hesitates, I scoff.

“Just looking for a backup in case it doesn’t work out, huh? Your ex-wife is plan B?”

“It’s not like that.”

“I know exactly what it’s like. I’ve moved on, you can’t stand it, and your pregnant child bride is making more demands on you than you have the time or interest to meet.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth and stares at me with anger burning in his eyes.

“You don’t have to admit it. I know I’m right. Now why don’t you tell me what’s really going on in your life that’s making you so upset, because I know for damn sure it’s not relationship problems. You said some things have been happening, and I’m the only one you can trust. What’s the problem?”

Exhaling through his nose, he sits back against the booth and gazes at me from under lowered brows. Finally, he says flatly, “I’m being sued.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. I knew his disheveled appearance, personality changes, and scotch guzzling wasn’t about the women in his life.

He’d actually have to care about us to let us upset him.

Pretending I haven’t already heard about this from Brittany, I say, “For what?”

“For bullshit, that’s what.”

“If you want my input, you’ll have to be more specific.”

He studies me in tense silence for a moment, then sits forward again, clasping his hands and resting them on the table as he stares at me with hard eyes.

“You can’t really be serious about that kid you’re fucking. You’re too smart for that.”

His tone of disgust makes me smile. “Right back atcha, bud.”

Visibly frustrated, he insists, “He’s a bimbo.”

“You mean mimbo. He’s the furthest thing from it. And if you insult him again, your testicles will pay the price.”

He demands angrily, “Why are you smiling?”

Something inside of me shifts. It’s a tectonic realignment, letting the weight of all the years of his bullshit slide off my back at once.

I’m done.

Done with his lies, done with his messes, done minimizing and playing nice for anyone’s benefit, least of all his. I stand and look coolly down at him.

“Clowns always have that effect on me. Goodbye, Nick. And good luck with your problems, though you might want to look in a mirror to discover where they originate.”

I turn, but before I can walk away, he snatches my wrist and grips it hard. Yanking me closer, he snarls, “You’ll never be anything without me. I made you, you self-righteous little bitch.”

Anger flares behind my breastbone, tightening my stomach and burning my ears. As I stare into his bloodshot eyes, I realize I can’t let this disrespect continue. It’s not enough to simply walk away.

I need to draw a line in the sand.

Holding his gaze, I speak slowly, my words measured and razor-edged.

“Listen to me carefully, because I’ll only say this once. You no longer have influence here. Your threats and insults no longer move me. I won’t reward your shitty behavior with my time, my energy, or my patience. You’ve reached the end of my goodwill, Nick. I’m not a landing pad for losers. Your access to me was a privilege, one you just lost.”

I wrench my arm from his grasp and walk away without looking back.