Break of Day (11 page)

I
was halfway home when my phone rang. At first I assumed it was my mom: After all, who else would call me at such a late hour? But as I glanced at the caller ID, I realized it was Toby at the Holloway House instead.

Which could only mean trouble.

I slipped the earpiece in my ear to answer. “Hello?”

“Piper,” Toby's voice barked from the other end of the line. “Where are you? Can you come in tonight?”

I glanced at my car's clock and cringed. It was almost ten already. Which meant by the time I got home and got to bed, I'd already be hurting when it came to my six
AM
wakeup call. If I took a shift tonight, I'd be pretty much guaranteed to be dead on my feet come morning. And, of course, I didn't dare sleep in—not after all I'd done to make sure Asher would show up on time. Hell, if I arrived at News 9 even one minute late, he'd never let me hear the end of it.

“Toby, I worked last night, remember?”

“I know,” she said, her voice sounding guilty. “And I wouldn't ask if it wasn't an emergency. But Jayden's been
crazy tonight. He flipped out on an orderly and broke his nose. A new guy—who threatened to call the cops.”

I winced. Jayden was probably only one call away from entering the juvenile detention program as it was. And once he went in, it was doubtful with his attitude that he'd be out anytime soon.

Oh, Jayden. Why do you do this to yourself?

But deep down I knew why. I knew all too well why he acted like he did. He was angry. He was confused. He was alone and scared. Just like I used to be. So he lashed out at those trying to help him—just like I used to do. He didn't trust anyone to treat him right, because no one had ever treated him right before. And the only way to earn that trust was to shower him with love and attention and people who cared. Even when he didn't deserve it.

Just as Toby had once done for me.

I let out a heavy breath. “Okay,” I said. There was really only one answer, after all. “I'm on my way.”

I kept driving, skipping the exit that led to my cozy apartment. To my warm, soft bed. Instead I kept on the freeway, heading further south, toward Chula Vista. Toward a night of confrontations and likely little sleep.

As I passed the exit to News 9, I wondered if Asher was on his way home now, too. I imagined him parking his car, walking into his house, stripping off his shoes and shirt, then his pants. He'd probably grab a beer and slug it down before heading to bed, dressed only in those boxer briefs of his. Those damn boxer briefs whose memory still made me feel a bit gooey.

As did that earth-shattering kiss I'd just received from the guy who wore them.

I groaned. Oh my God had that been a good kiss. Like Olympic medal–winning good. The way his mouth had clamped down on my own, his tongue invading without invitation. The way his hands had pulled me to him and the way my body went—as if it were made of magnets and he was nothing but iron. This was a guy who knew how to make a girl weak in the knees. A guy who could make a girl
forget everything but the way she felt when she was in his arms.

Asher Anderson is the last person you should be thinking of right now
, I scolded myself.

But how could I help it? In addition to basically being a real life sex god, Asher had also been so damn sweet. So understanding about my stupid phobia and so quick to change plans to accommodate me. I mean, he had probably spent hundreds of dollars renting that boat for the night. Yet I saw not a flicker of disappointment on his face when I refused to get on board. Sure, I supposed a couple hundred dollars was nothing to him—probably chump change he found in his couch cushions. But still—most guys would have been annoyed at the inconvenience at the very least.

But not Asher. He had taken it all in stride. Simply switched gears—no big deal. For all his reputation of being a playboy who went through women like, well, boxer briefs, he was surprisingly accommodating when the woman in question didn't fall in line right away. He could have easily sent me home. Gone into the club and found easier prey. But he hadn't. He'd stuck with me instead. He'd made the night end magically, despite my initial resistance.

And then there was that kiss. A kiss that hadn't felt like a come-on, like an invitation—or insistence—for more. It had been just what it was. A simple kiss, no strings attached. Even if the valet hadn't interrupted like he had, I knew somehow that Asher wouldn't have taken it further. Wouldn't have put me in the position where I had to turn him away.

I frowned. I needed to stop this—now. It was getting out of hand. So Asher was hot. A great kisser. A perfect gentleman to boot. None of that mattered in the end. Because it didn't change who we were. Two people from different worlds.

It was like my favorite John Hughes movie,
Pretty in Pink
. Sure, Molly Ringwald and Andrew McCarthy got together in the end, but no one who watched the film would bet on them remaining a couple much after prom. They were too different, their upbringings like night and day. She would
never be accepted in his upper class circle—and eventually he'd get sick of being ostracized by his friends and family due to his loyalty to her. He'd realize being poor wasn't a cute quirky trait—and that Molly's abandonment issues ran deep. A guy like him would never be able to completely understand a girl like her—even if he desperately wanted to—and all the money in the world couldn't save her from herself.

I tried to imagine bringing Asher home to meet my mother. How horrified he'd be when he saw her broken teeth and scarred arms. About as horrified as I had been, I suppose, at the idea of going into that fancy club with him and enduring people's stares.

Sure, I was a curiosity to him right now. A novelty—different than the usual girls he dated. But if I were to allow myself to succumb to his charms? To let him have his way with me? I knew exactly what would happen. What always happened with people like Asher. The curiosity would be sated. He would get bored. He would walk away. And then our work situation would become beyond awkward. If it continued at all.

I didn't kid myself; they would not fire him if things went south between us. And I couldn't afford to lose my one opportunity. Not at least until I had enough experience under my belt to get a new job at a new station in a similar capacity. Right now, at best, I'd be relegated to production assistant again. At worse, I'd be blackballed from TV forever.

Sorry, Asher. You're hot. But you're not career-ending h
ot.

*   *   *

I
arrived at the Holloway House thirty minutes later. Toby met me at the door, her face flushed with relief. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I'm so sorry to have to ask this of you. I know you must be exhausted.”

“I'm fine,” I assured her, giving her a hug. “Now where's Jayden?”

“He's in the TV room,” she told me. At my raised eyebrows she shrugged. “I know, I know. He should be on
restriction for what he pulled. But I needed him to calm down so we didn't have another incident.”

I nodded grimly. Then I headed down the hall to the lounge where the kids would come and watch TV. There were a few teens there now, hanging out, watching some surfing competition in New Zealand. Jayden was sprawled out on one of the threadbare couches, his glassy eyes glued to the screen. But I wasn't entirely sure if he was actually seeing it.

I dropped down next to him. “Hang ten, bro,” I said, making my best surfer signs with my hands.

He didn't look over at me, just kept his eyes on the screen. I sighed. So it was going to be that type of night, was it? Instead of pushing him, I turned to watch the show myself. It was funny: Even here in the safety of the TV room, I felt a little nervous watching the surfers crest over the waves. When one took a huge fall, I found myself gripping the afghan next to me with white knuckles until he bobbed back to the surface.

Jayden noticed and looked at me like I was crazy. “You okay?” he asked.

I sighed, leaning back on the couch. “Just not a big fan of the ocean.”

“Really?” He looked surprised. Then he turned back to the TV. “So I guess you're not a surfer then.”

“You couldn't pay me to get on one of those boards.”

“Yeah, well, I would pay big money to do it,” he told me. “It looks fucking amazing.”

I opened my mouth to reprimand him on language, but then decided to let it slide. The light in his eyes as he watched the surfers was an in. I couldn't let it go out before using it to my advantage.

“Where would you surf?” I asked him. “If you could surf anywhere in the world?”

“Hawaii,” he pronounced without hesitation, a shy grin spreading across his face. “So I could go, like, check out the volcanoes while I was there. I've always wanted to see a volcano.”

“I'd be all over checking out volcanoes,” I agreed, “if I could skip the surfing.”

Jayden shook his head, laughing. “You're crazy, miss. The volcanoes are like ten thousand times more dangerous than a little wave.”

“If you say so.”

“Anyway”—he slumped back on the couch, the laughter fading from his face—“that'll never happen. Not while I'm stuck here.” He sighed loudly.

I studied him for a moment, my heart squeezing in my chest. I knew that look all too well. That feeling of hopelessness you got from being stuck in a place like this too long. The trapped feeling—like you were in a cage and you'd never fully escape the life you were given to live.

Sure, I could tell him there was life after the Holloway House. That if he worked hard he might escape his past as I had. But I knew all too well that words only went so far. And at the moment the boy didn't look much in the mood for a lecture. He didn't need to be told of some nebulous future. He needed something solid, right here, right now. Some kind of escape from the monotony of group home life. Some kind of treat to show him it paid to keep fighting the good fight.

Suddenly an idea struck me. I glanced back at the TV. Watched the surfer take on a ridiculously huge wave.
Yes, this could totally work.

I turned back to Jayden. “I've got a proposition for you,” I said.

“A propo—what?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I mean a deal. I've got a deal for you.”

He gave me a skeptical look. “I don't need any more cake.”

“This is way better than cake,” I assured him. “But first you have to do your part. You need to start behaving and promise not to keep beating up on the poor staff.”

“And if I do?”

I smiled. “I may be able to arrange a surf lesson for you.”

“What?” Jayden stared at me, wide-eyed. He jumped from his seat. Like literally launched halfway across the
room. Then he turned back to me. “A surfing lesson? For real? Like in the ocean for real?”

I nodded. “I can't take you to Hawaii, so you'll have to save the volcanoes for another time. But I do have a . . . friend . . . who surfs. I could ask him if he knows of a good instructor who could take you out one afternoon. But . . . !” I added, holding up a hand to stop him from interrupting. “You have to prove to me that you're capable of handling this kind of freedom first. Which means I want to see one week of perfect behavior. No demerits. No fights. I want to walk in next week and have the staff tell me you're their favorite Holloway House resident.”

Okay, that was maybe pushing it. The staff would probably never be endeared to Jayden. But if he could just manage to stay out of their way . . .

“It's a deal, miss,” Jayden declared. His eyes were flashing his excitement. “I promise! I'll be the best-behaved kid in all of Holloway House, you'll see. And then I'll get to go surfing!” He turned to the teens watching TV. “I get to go surfing!” he bragged loudly.

“Get out of the way,” one of them yelled in return. Jayden wasn't, unfortunately, very popular with the other kids here, either. But he didn't seem to care right now. He was practically bouncing off the ceiling.

“Now,” I said, “how about you go up to your room and go to bed? You should have had lights out an hour ago.”

“Aw.” he started. I gave him a sharp look. He grinned sheepishly. “I mean, oh yay! Bedtime! I love bedtime.”

I rolled my eyes. “Now get up there and get your teeth brushed. I'll be up to check on you in ten minutes. And I better find you under the covers with the lights out.”

“You will!” he cried, dashing to the door. A moment later I heard his footsteps banging on the stairs. I smiled.
Mission accomplished
.

I rose from the couch and walked out of the TV room. Toby met me in the hall.

“Where's he going?” she asked, gesturing to the stairs.

I gave her an innocent shrug. “To bed,” I said, as if it was no big thing.

Toby gave a low whistle. “You just have a way with them, don't you, baby doll?”

“I
was
them,” I reminded her. “And I don't know. I think sometimes we all just need something to look forward to, you know?”

She smiled. “You have a good heart, Piper. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.” Then she gave me a curious look. “By the way, I never asked you—how did your first day as a big-time producer go? Was it everything you dreamed of and more?”

I considered this for a moment. Then I nodded my head. “It was different than I expected,” I told her. “But I think it's going to be okay.”

T
hankfully the rest of the night was quiet. With Jayden subdued, the other residents also seemed to find peace and soon everyone was tucked in their beds and I was able to catch a nap on the cot in the office. When the morning shift supervisor woke me the next day I felt almost well rested.

I took a quick shower there, thankfully finding a change of clothes in my locker. Then I grabbed a large cup of coffee and headed straight for the station.

When I arrived, I ran into Richard in the hall. He stopped me and gave me a thumbs-up, a big grin on his face.

I cocked my head. “What's that for?”

“Your producer magic,” he declared. “Seriously, I don't know what you did to him but whatever it is, please keep on doing it.”

“What are you . . . ?” I started to say, before realization hit me. “Oh. You mean Asher? Is he here already?”

My heart started thudding a little harder in my chest. Partially from the fact that Asher had kept his promise. Partially from the
idea of seeing him again. And, of course, partially from the look of approval on Richard's face.

“Please. He's not only here, but he's dressed appropriately for once,” Richard marveled. “He even showed up to our morning meeting and pitched a story idea about riptides being spotted offshore and how parents can better protect their kids from drowning.” He shook his head. “I should have promoted you a year ago!”

I gave him a weak smile, my insides twisting into excited knots.
Thank you, Asher
.

“I'm glad it's working out,” I said, trying to appear like it was no big deal, even though inside I wanted to break out into a Snoopy dance right there in the hallway. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Oh, I will,” Richard said. “Keep up the good work, kid.” And with that, he slapped me on the back and walked away. I watched him go for a moment, feeling giddy with happiness, then turned to head upstairs to the weather center, my steps feeling lighter than air. When I spotted Asher hard at work at the weather computer, my heart pretty much flipped in my chest.

God, he looked good in a suit. I mean don't get me wrong—he looked good in casual surfing clothes as well. And I wasn't even about to bring up those boxer briefs. But even here, now, dressed in a sensible, probably custom-fitted navy suit and tie he looked completely and utterly delicious. His unruly hair had evidently been subjected to some powerful gel, slicked back against his head. And he was completely clean-shaven to boot. Suddenly I felt the nearly irresistible urge to run my fingers across his cheeks, just to see if his skin was as soft and smooth as it appeared.

“Well, well, well,” I said, giving him a slow clap as I approached. “You clean up nice.”

He looked up at me, flashing me one of his trademark grins, his emerald eyes dancing with merriment. “Boss lady insisted,” he teased. Then his eyes dropped to me, lazily roving my body, taking me in. I blushed a little, realizing I probably looked a bit less than completely professional myself.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn't have time to go home last night.”

He raised an eyebrow. I laughed.

“Not like that,” I protested. “I mean, I ended up having to work. My other job needed me to fill in last minute.”

“You worked all night?” he asked, his eyes darkening with concern.

“No. I mean, I got some sleep in the office. Once I got the kids to settle down. It's not a big deal, trust me. I've worked on less sleep than this.”

He frowned. “Are they not paying you enough here? You still have to work another job? I could ask them for more money if you needed it.”

“No, no!” I shook my head, horrified at the idea of him going and asking for more favors on my behalf. “It's not about the money. I've just been working at this group home for years now. Helping out kids who have no families. It's more of a labor of love than anything else—but I couldn't just leave them high and dry once I got my new job.”

Asher nodded slowly, giving me the most thoughtful look. Then he smiled. “That sounds cool,” he said. “Just . . . I don't want you to burn out. So let me know if you ever need a day off or whatever. Or maybe a nap? I happen to know the closet at the back of the weather center makes a great napping space.”

I laughed. “I'm fine, I promise,” I assured him. “In fact, I'm more than fine after running into Richard this morning. He was pretty excited about you showing up to the morning meeting, by the way.”

“I'm glad he appreciates it,” Asher said. Then his eyes locked on me. “But I didn't do it for him.”

I swallowed hard, my stomach flip-flopping all over again.

Coworkers
, I scolded myself.
You are supposed to just be coworkers.

“So!” I said brightly, trying to ignore the heat pooling between my legs. “What's on today's agenda anyway? Richard said something about riptides?”

Asher nodded. “I got an email this morning from one of our
weather spotters. Evidently there have been quite a few riptides spotted over the last week—more than usual for this time of year. I thought we could do some kind of feature piece on that. Give people tips about what to do if they're caught in one. That kind of thing.” He paused, then added, “I hope that's not too personal. I mean, given what happened with your brother . . .”

I shook my head. “That's exactly why we
should
do the story,” I said. “I can't save him. But if we can save others . . .” I looked up at Asher. “Let's do it.”

*   *   *

S
o we did. Working together to set up the piece's interviews: first, a professor at San Diego State University who could talk about what causes riptides and then a spokesperson for the Coast Guard who was willing to do a safety demonstration on camera, showing people what to do—and what not to do—if caught in a current.

According to him most people sucked out by a riptide just panic and subsequently drown—thinking they can't get back to shore. But if they're able to swim horizontally, they can often move beyond the current and be able to head back once they're free. I was pretty sure I would have ended up in the panic/drown camp if ever in that situation, but maybe others watching would be able to keep their heads now that we'd shown them what to do.

Asher recruited one of the news photographers to do the shoots with him while I stayed back at the station, ordering up some charts and animations from the graphics department and gathering applicable statistics. For example, I learned that rip currents had been credited with killing over fifty people in the last year alone. (Just another reason to stay clear of the sea, thank you very much.)

At first I assumed when Asher returned from shooting the interviews he would start writing the segment himself. But to my surprise he suggested I get started on it while he prepped his forecast. Then, when he was done, he said, he'd
look it over and see if it needed any tweaks to better fit his personal style and speech patterns.

In other words—holy crap! My first on-air script!

I sat down at the computer, pretty much equally thrilled and intimidated beyond belief. The idea of me writing a script that would be read on air was a dream come true. The reality, however, was as frightening as a nightmare. After all, top market producers usually spent quite a bit of time in the trenches rewriting AP copy for twenty-second news stories before tackling a full-length feature. And here I was, ready to take on an entire script, my second day on the job.

But what choice did I have? I couldn't exactly go back to Asher and tell him I was chickening out. He'd hired me to help him and he had a lot on his own plate already. The last thing he needed was to be babysitting me on top of his other duties.

He was trusting me to make this happen. I couldn't let him down.

And so I began, first logging all interviews and choosing the best sound bites. Then I started putting together the script itself. At first, the words came slowly, almost painstakingly, with me second-guessing every sentence I put down on the page and doubts assaulting my brain.

What if Asher hated it so much he had to completely rewrite it? Or worse—what if he felt bad for me and read it as is—and Richard freaked out that such garbage had gone on the air? I'd be exposed as a fraud. The girl who didn't deserve the job she'd been given. They'd send me back to production assistant land. Or worse—fire me altogether.

Shit. I looked up at the clock. The second hand was ticking forward, like a metronome of death as the newscast loomed ever closer. I had no more time to stall. I had to get this done. I glanced over at Asher, who was completely absorbed in his computer, as if he'd forgotten I was in the room.

He clearly believed I could do this. It was time I believed in myself.

Grabbing my headphones I shoved them over my ears,
blasting my favorite video game playlist off Spotify. I had always found writing to soundtracks helped me gain focus—the music swelling in my ears, drowning out all other noise. And right now I needed that. Big-time. To get in the zone—to push away all doubts and fears. To get the script down on the page. After all, I could edit a bad script. A blank page on the other hand was completely useless.

Now, as the music blasted in my ears, everything else slid from my focus and soon my fingers were flying over the keyboard, alternating between reporter track and the sound bites between it. I typed and I typed and I forced myself not to look back at what I'd already written. And line by line, a script miraculously began to take shape.

I was doing it. I was really doing it.

Lost in the music and the words, I didn't notice, at first, when Asher came up behind me. Until, that is, he laid a hand on my shoulder—causing me to nearly jump out of my skin. I yanked the headphones off my ears and gave him an accusing look.

“Sorry,” he said, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “I did try calling your name a few times first.”

I watched as his eyes flickered back to the script. I bit my lower lip. My heart pounded in my chest. Doubts assaulted my brain all over again. Would he like it? What if he didn't like it? What if he thought it was the worst script in the history of scripts?

What if my first on-air script ended up being my last?

“It's still rough,” I stammered. “I was going to go back and polish. And if you want to change anything—”

“I don't,” he interrupted. “And I don't want you to change anything, either.”

I stared up at him, my eyes widening. “You don't want any changes?”

“Nope,” he declared. “Print it and I'll find an editor to record my track.”

With shaking hands I reached for my mouse, dragging the cursor over to the print icon on the screen. My mind raced, wondering if he was just being kind, not wanting to
tell me how much it sucked. But no, he was the one who had to go on the air with it. Put my words in his mouth. All the viewers at home—and probably many right here at News 9—would assume he was the one who wrote the story. So it would be his reputation on the line if it were bad.

So did that mean it was actually good?

I rose to my feet to go grab the script off the printer. But Asher stopped me, putting another hand on my shoulder. “No,” he commanded. “You're not an assistant anymore. I can fetch my own script.”

I stared at him, speechless. He flashed me a grin, then walked down the stairs and into the newsroom to the master printer. I watched from the balcony as one of the newer production assistants, a girl named Greta who I didn't know too well, giggled and blushed as she tried to grab for the script and dropped it. Asher stopped her from leaning over, then gallantly grabbed the paper himself, giving her a playful little bow in the process. She looked as if she was going to keel over in delight.

My stomach sank a little as I watched their interaction. Here was the Asher everyone knew. The one I needed to keep at arm's length. The flirt. The player. The one who could have any woman—and probably did.

Sure, he might like me now. He might enjoy kissing me, too. But at the end of the day it couldn't go further than that. I was his producer. His coworker.

But not his assistant.

A smile crept to my lips again as he reentered the weather center, waving the script with a silly grin. I turned back to my computer, rereading the script on the screen. The script that I wrote that would soon be read over the airwaves of all of San Diego.

It was good. It was really good.

Maybe I could do this after all.