Hard Rules

Talk? I can’t talk to him about anything remotely close to the truth. He releases my hands and his own phone starts ringing. I glance at mine to discover a local number and quickly answer only to miss the call that had to be about a job. I wait for the message to beep when I hear Shane say, “You got to be fucking kidding me. There’s a big tip for you keeping him in the lobby. I’ll be right there.” He ends the call, pocketing his phone. “Stay here. My father is trying to pay us a visit.”

“Oh my God. Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s my father.” His hands come down on my arms. “I’m sorry about this. Let me get rid of him before we leave.”

“I’ll be here waiting,” I say, wanting it to be the truth, but knowing it can’t be.

He steps around me and the voice mail on my phone beeps. I stare at it, waiting for the sound of the door shutting. The minute it does, I punch the button and listen to the call, letting out a sigh of relief. At least one of my problems is solved. I squeeze my eyes shut, rejecting the idea that Shane is officially another problem, but I can’t. I open my eyes again. I know his father showing up downstairs is my escape. I know I have to leave before he gets back, but I don’t want to be gone. I dig the second phone out of my purse, and punch in the only number I ever call on this phone.

SHANE

Watching the elevator floors tick by, I am certain of two things. I’m not letting Emily get away and I’m done playing my father’s games. The doors open, and I step into the hotel lobby to find my father leaning against the wall, his arms crossed in front of his black pinstriped suit, his red power tie in place and his white shirt starched, which can mean only one thing. He has a room in this hotel that he maintains, including a change of clothes. And damn it, I am as pissed at him as I am at that piece of shitty news, among other things, I still notice how thin he is, probably one eighty when he’d been two hundred pounds when I’d arrived last year.

I stop in front of him and he smells like perfume. . “Good morning, son,” he says, not the least bit irritated that I wouldn’t allow him upstairs to an apartment he owns. But then, why would he? He dictated my presence.

“Your message is loud and clear, Father.”

“Do tell, son,” he says, a slight rasp to his voice I’ve never noticed before now. “What exactly is my message?”

“You’ll do what the hell you want and approval is the last thing you give a damn about.”

“Is this where you threaten to go back to New York again?” he asks, not denying or confirming my statement.

I give him an assessing stare. “I backed you in a corner over Derek and the pharmaceutical branch and you didn’t like it.”

He pushes off the wall and stands toe-to-toe with me. “That was a gift and consider it the last one you’ll get. Control your brother or go back to New York because somebody has to run this company when I’m gone.” He starts to turn and stops. “You’re wearing your weak spot like a badge of honor.”

He starts walking and I follow his progress, watching as he rounds the corner and for a moment after he disappears, I stare after him, a tight ball forming in my chest that I try to reject, but it just keeps getting bigger. I turn and jab the elevator button, the doors opening instantly. Stepping into the empty car, I hit the code to return to my floor, and I’m quickly sealed inside, that ball now a hot spot expanding in my chest. Son of a bitch. That wasn’t my father playing one of his head games. It was him, in his demented way, telling me the cancer is getting worse. Bringing that woman here was about pissing me off to avoid any pity I might throw his way.

Facing the wall, I press my fist against the wood, hanging my head, damn glad I have a few minutes alone to grapple with the razor blade of emotions cutting through me. I hate him and I love him. How is that even possible? The hate is justified, guilt-free in the past, but death, fucking cancer, changes everything. I dig through my mind for a source of my love for him and I can’t even find a memory to cling to. And yet, I’m still in knots, still wearing guilt over my hate like a weighted glove.

The elevator dings and I shove off the wall, stepping out into the hallway, a mix of emotions driving my long strides. Anger. More guilt. More fucking anger. I’m at my door and I barely remember the walk. The very idea of the woman inside, her smell, her taste, and the way she feels in my arms, calms a bit of the beast that is my emotions raging inside me. I enter my apartment—no, my father’s apartment, a matter I need to remedy now, not later—finding Emily absent from the bar where I expect her to be waiting. Her coffee is there though, and I reach for it, finding it untouched.

Scanning the kitchen and lower level, there is no sign of her presence. A bad feeling rolls through me and I glance toward the balcony, the rain splattering the window ruling out the idea she might be there. Listening, I look to the steps, but there is silence encasing me, and I know she is gone. And I know I’m going after her. I head for the door, exiting into the hallway, and I don’t stop until I’m at the elevator, inside the car, and punching the button for the lobby level. Perfectly still, I stand there, staring ahead, shoving that beast born of my emotions into a mental box to be analyzed at a more appropriate time. Right now, I have one agenda. Emily, who beyond reason, is important to me. Maybe it’s the timing of meeting her. Maybe it’s the hope and optimism in her eyes and her words that defies whatever she thinks has beaten her but I know has not. Whatever it is she does to me, I need it, which means I need her. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">