Break of Day (16 page)

T
he clock on my dash said six thirty
AM
as I rolled into work the next morning. Two and a half hours before my regularly scheduled shift, but after tossing and turning in bed all night, chasing sleep, I needed a distraction. I figured I could spend the morning studying the computers and charts, practicing what Asher had shown me. Maybe I could even find a story for us to work on that day.

I walked through the newsroom, watching the writers hard at work, banging out copy for the newscast, which was currently on air. I didn't see Anna Jenkins amongst their ranks; maybe she'd called in sick? Or maybe she'd proven unworthy of the job? The thought should have made me feel better, but in reality only made me feel worse. Because the same could easily be said about me.

My mind flashed back to the conversation I'd had with Asher the night before. He'd insisted he had no power over my job but I wasn't stupid. Maybe if I had been an experienced producer in the first place—someone who deserved the job—I could have fought a firing in a court of law. But as of this moment, I didn't have much of a leg to stand on.
They could easily say I wasn't qualified for the job and no one could argue with that.

Which meant I needed to get as qualified as possible. As fast as possible. And to avoid any further entanglements with Asher Anderson.

“There you are. What took you so long?”

My jaw dropped as I entered the weather center, only to find it blazing with lights. Asher looked up from his computer, a welcoming smile on his face. As if he'd been there all morning.

“I've got a great story for us today,” he informed me, beckoning me over to his computer. “The scientists are talking about another possible La Niña season and I thought we could interview a couple of them on what that would mean for San Diegans if it happens.”

“Um, yeah. Sounds great,” I said, a little taken aback. What was he doing here so early? And hard at work, too? Seriously, the guy had gone from complete slacker to total workaholic so fast it was making my head spin.

As was the cologne he was wearing. A dark heady scent that made my toes curl as I leaned over to look at what he was pointing to on the computer. As my hand accidentally brushed his shoulder a quiver surged through my entire body. The air itself seemed almost electrified from his presence.

Ugh. So much for the whole friend-zone thing.

I bit my lower lip, trying desperately to focus on the task at hand. I forced my eyes to scan the article he was reading. “I can call Doctor Dutchman,” I suggested, referring to one of the UCSD scientists making the prediction.

“Already done,” Asher pronounced. “Well, he wasn't in his office yet,” he amended. “But I left him a message. As soon as he calls back we can head out. I've already asked the desk for a photographer.”

“Great. Sounds good,” I stammered, completely taken aback at this point. What had gotten into him? Why the sudden enthusiasm? Was it all just an act, his way of proving to me that this hadn't merely been a game to get in my pants?
“Well, did you want to go get coffee then?” I added, feeling lame. “While we're waiting?”

He didn't look up from his computer. “Actually I'm going to work on my forecast a little first,” he said. “To get ahead since we'll be out doing the interviews later. But you go on.”

I nodded lamely, then turned and headed down to the cafeteria, still confused as hell. What had gotten into him?

Maybe he's still trying to impress you
?
something inside me suggested. My body warmed at the idea before I could shrug it away. Mostly because it was kind of working. Seeing him there, hard at work, completely focused, in the zone—it was pretty sexy to say the least. Hard work had always turned me on—maybe because I'd seen it modeled so little while growing up. I knew from watching TV that other little girls had daddies who worked hard and supported their families and bought Christmas presents for their kids. I never even knew my father. But my mother liked to talk about what a worthless asshole he'd been.

I entered the cafeteria and ordered myself a coffee and bagel. I still couldn't believe what had happened between Asher and me the night before. From the hot and heavy make-out session in the country club bathroom to me practically accusing him of the casting couch thing. What must he have thought of me? Not only that I thought he would do something like that, but that I took the job regardless, believing it to be a possibility. My face flushed at the thought.

The worst part was—I actually did want to sleep with him. Not to keep my job, obviously—I wasn't that insane. But because he was fast becoming the sexiest man I had ever met. There was just something about him that had gotten under my skin. Not just his good looks, his flashing eyes, his cocky smile, his amazing body. Not that those weren't appealing side benefits. But in the end it was more than that. It was the way he had locked the door to the bathroom so no one could walk in and see me all upset and disheveled. The way he'd pulled my hair back into a ponytail before walking with me to face the crowd. Simple gestures, yet they said so
much about him as a person. And then there was the protective way he'd wrapped his arm around my waist when facing off with his own mother. As if he would singlehandedly fight an entire army to keep me safe.

Those were not the moves of a player trying to hook up. Those were the moves of a man who actually cared.

Which only made things harder. Because I could deal with an Asher who wanted to seduce me. But an Asher who genuinely cared about me? That was another beast entirely. And I wasn't sure how I was going to resist it long term.

*   *   *

S
o would this weekend work for your friend?”

I looked up from my computer. Lost in writing the La Niña script, I hadn't realized Asher had approached my desk and was now standing above me, looking down at me with questioning eyes. I drew in a breath. God, he looked so freaking good in his suit and tie. It wasn't fair. Spending the day with him, going out on our shoots, had pretty much been torture. Being so close and yet so far. Thank God we had a photographer with us to act as a chaperone or I wasn't sure what would have happened between us.

“What?” I asked, confused. “What friend?”

“Sorry,” he said. “The little boy you told me about. The one who wants the surf lesson. Would this weekend work for him?”

“Oh!” I cried, shocked that after all that had happened, he had remembered our conversation from the night before. “Yeah. Sure. If you don't have any other plans.”

“None as important as getting a young man on his first board,” Asher declared.

My heart fluttered. “Okay. I'll just have to get permission from the housemothers but I think it should be fine as long as I'm chaperoning. What time do you want us and where?”

Asher raised an eyebrow. “You do realize this will take place on a beach, right? We can't exactly surf on dry land.”

I blushed. In my excitement to get Jayden his lesson I hadn't really considered myself and my . . . water issues.
But what choice did I have? Toby would never be able to take off to take him herself. And I didn't trust any of the other staff to keep him in line if things didn't go to plan.

“Yeah,” I said at last. “I'll be fine—don't worry about me.”

“Okay then,” he said. “How about seven
AM
by the Ocean Beach pier?”

“We'll be there.”

He walked over to his computer and I turned back to my script. My heart thudded in my chest and the words seemed to swim on the page.
It's really no big deal
, I tried to tell myself. After all, it wasn't as if I was personally signing up for a lesson. All I had to do was stand there for an hour, watching from a safe distance away. No one could drown on dry land.

Besides, what choice did I have? This surf lesson meant the world to Jayden. I wouldn't be able to live with myself knowing I'd let him down, just like everyone else had in his short life. After all, I knew far too well what it felt like. Jayden needed to know he could count on me. That some adults kept their promises.

Still, the next time I wanted to help a kid? I was so going to suggest bowling.

I typed the last line of the script then read it over. Satisfied, I emailed it to Asher for him to take a look. Then I rose from my seat, ready to head over to the graphics department to see if they'd finished the piece's opening animation. But before I could get out the door, my desk phone rang.

“This is Piper,” I said, putting the receiver to my ear.

“Hey, Piper, it's the front desk. Are you expecting a visitor?”

I frowned. “Um, no? Is someone there?”

The man's voice lowered. “Well, this woman just showed up. She's acting a little crazy, to tell you the truth. She keeps insisting she's your mother, but I don't know. She looks like she might be homeless. Do you want me to get rid of her?”

Oh, crap. I glanced at my cell phone sitting on my desk, suddenly remembering my mother trying to call me last night in the middle of the whole country club fiasco. By the
time I got home it was too late to call her back and I'd forgotten to do so in the morning.

Looks like I was about to pay for that forgetfulness. Big-time.

“Piper? Are you there?”

“Yeah, sorry,” I said. “Just . . . keep her there. I'll be right down.”

“Everything okay?” Asher asked as I set down the phone.

“Yes. Everything's fine. I just have to . . . I'll be right back,” I stammered, trying to quell the panic rising inside of me. This was the last thing I needed. If someone were to see her. To discover she was my mother . . .

I raced downstairs, through the newsroom and down the hall, toward the front entrance, passing the framed posters of all the legendary News 9 employees along the way. One of which, I observed, was Asher's father, Stormy Anderson. Asher definitely resembled his mother more than his father, but I thought I caught a resemblance in the senior Anderson's eyes. I thought back to what Asher had said about his father—about how much pressure it was to live up to such a legend. Maybe he should try
my
life once in a while—where the bar had been set so low by the parental units, it was practically underground.

The hallway ended at a reception area where the security guard sat behind a wall of bulletproof glass. Which, at first glance, might have seemed a little extreme. But we'd had occasions where we'd aired controversial stories and angry people showed up to . . . argue . . . their counterpoints and the guards needed some protection, just in case.

The guard buzzed me out and I pushed through the double doors, stepping into the lobby. My mother, who was pacing the room, turned to find me, her eyes lighting up in recognition.

“See?” she shrieked at the guard. “I told you I had a daughter who worked here!” She turned back to me, her face a mask of indignation. “He tried to turn me away,” she accused.

I sighed. “Mom, we talked about this. I'm very busy at work. You can't come here.”

“What else am I supposed to do, when you won't answer my calls?”

I raked a hand through my hair. God, why hadn't I just freaking called her back? I should have set an alarm or something. Anything . . . to avoid this kind of scene. I glanced back at the double doors and then at the security guard, who was pretending not to listen, but clearly was. This was going to be all over the newsroom gossip vine tomorrow, I could just tell. Piper and her crazy-sauce mother.

“What do you need, Mom?” I asked. “Can it wait until I'm off work?”

“No it can't wait! And it involves your work. I want to talk to one of the reporters here. The . . . I-Team or whatever they're called. I've had my civil rights violated and I want to report it.”

I cringed. Oh God. This was one of my mother's all-time favorites. Her civil rights being violated. Even though nine times out of ten the “violation” was because of something she did or didn't do herself.

I watched as she stalked the room, her steps eating up the distance between walls. Her eyes were wild and unfocused and her lips dry and cracked. She was grinding her jaw muscles back and forth, too: a telltale sign she had been on a bender—or still was.

“What happened?” I asked, trying to channel my inner saint, even as anger roiled within me.
She's your mother
, I scolded myself.
She needs your help.

“That slumlord at the trailer park,” she spit out. “He locked me out of my own house! Without any warning whatsoever. I come home and there's a big fat padlock on my door—with all my stuff inside!”

“Wait!” I interrupted. “You don't live at the trailer park anymore. I got you an apartment!”

She didn't have the decency to blush. “I know, I know. But David needed a place to crash for a couple weeks—while his house was being fumigated. So I let him move into the trailer until the lease ran out.”

I closed my eyes, trying to reset my sanity. Goddamned
David. I knew it had to have something to do with him. It always did. Why couldn't the freaking penal system lock him up for good and throw away the key? Every time he got out I had to deal with this shit.

“Okay,” I said, trying my best to stay pragmatic, even though I pretty much wanted to strangle her at this point. “So what did the landlord say when you asked him about the lock?”

My mother turned, refusing to meet my eyes. “Some bullshit about back rent,” she muttered. “I'm telling you—he's a slumlord. You should do a story on him. I bet I'm not the only person he's ripped off!”

“Back rent? I give you money every month! What have you been using it for?” I started to demand. Then I shook my head. It was a stupid question. I was stupid for having given her the money in the first place. But she'd been doing so well—until David had come back, that was. “How many months behind are you?” I asked.