Unintentional (5 page)

“Holy Crap!” Sophie exclaims.

I’m startled from my half-conscious, almost-dozing state. “What, what?” I ask.

Sophie stares at the television screen with her hand over her mouth.

“Oh no, Laurel, two people died on Saturday. It’s so sad! Do you remember the blonde girl with the gun? She killed the doorman, and some other guy shot and killed her.”

My fuzzy brain tries to take all of this in. How did I half-sleep through this?

“Is everyone else okay? Was anyone else killed?”

Sophie shakes her head. “Not according to the news. This is so terrible. I can’t believe this happened.”

My stomach sinks as the news settles in. I don’t know these two people, but the waste of young lives is heart-breaking. I contemplate the loss their families must be experiencing. The enveloping sadness fills me as I approach Sophie. I know she’s going to need a hug.

If I’m honest with myself, I’m also in need of one as well. As soon as I reach for Sophie, sure enough, she comes undone. Tears flow freely as she empties her sadness onto my shoulder.

I order tea and sandwiches from room service. If there is anything I’ve learned from life, it’s that tea can soothe almost
anything.

Chapter 3

Laurel

One month later

September

It was hard to leave Seattle like we did. It felt wrong somehow, like we were slinking out or shirking our duties. Hard Reign was our mission, and we didn’t accomplish anything, except for a short preview of what they were all about. It makes what Sophie just told me so much more frustrating. She was able to track down one of the band members and didn’t receive good news.

Apparently, Cade, the lead singer, has dropped out.
Why?
He has more talent in his little pinky than most of the singers who top the charts now.

Sophie’s brown eyes look back at me with the same expression I’m holding, confusion. “Did he say why?” I question.

Her expression turns to sadness. “Yes. Scott said he’s in pretty bad shape.” Scott is the band’s drummer, and also one of Cade’s best friends from high school we’ve learned.

“It’s the girl, right? The one he was singing to,” I question.

Sophie holds her hands up in frustration. “All he would divulge is that Cade has dropped off the radar. He wouldn’t come out and say it, but I think our boy Cade is suffering from a broken heart.”

“Her name is Mattie, right?” I ask.

Sophie nods, “Yes, that’s her name. Beyond that, all he would say is that Cade’s taking a break, and he doesn’t know when or if he’ll be coming back.”

“I wonder if it’s just Mattie or if something else is bothering him.” Sophie raises her shoulders, “No, I think he got dumped, and now he can’t handle it.”

Anger flashes through me momentarily. I rarely get mad at Sophie, but she pushed an unknown button with me.

“Just because you choose not to get emotionally involved with anyone doesn’t mean the rest of the world is the same.”

Sophie’s eyes widen as the words sink in. Uh ho, I’ve seen that look before. I’ve lit a fire.

“Don’t you dare start on that, Laurel. I’m young! I don’t want to settle down, maybe ever. What good does it do anyway? People get married, have children, then get divorced. Why should I join that
group? No, Laurel, I’m going to have fun, even if you don’t like it.”

I don’t want to drop this. “Don’t you think it’s possible, Sophie? I mean, outside of romance novels and movies? Don’t you think there might be someone for you?”

If I weren’t looking for it, I would’ve missed it. Yes, there is hope for Sophie after all. The well-hidden emotion made its appearance in hardly a millisecond, but it was there.

Hope.

All of the anger evaporates out of the room.

Sophie reaches over and hits my arm. “You’re just as bad as I am, you know. I don’t see Mr. Right sitting next to you.”

I smirk as I say, “Well, maybe Douglas is Mr. Right. You never know.”

Sophie gives me the mother of all eye rolls. “Yeah, right. That guy is not for you.”

This comes as no surprise. Sophie has said this dozens of times since I started dating Douglas three months ago. I know her reasons, and I think she might be right, but I want to make my own decisions, on my own terms.

“I know you think he’s stuffy, but what about the whole
opposites-attract thing? We get along really well. We never fight. Things are good.”

“That’s exactly it, Laurel! You never fight. What kind of relationship is that?”

“A good one?” I respond, laughing.

“You need passion, Laurel. You need fire and love, and, I don’t know, something other than just getting along. Don’t waste your time on him when there might be someone else who’s better for you. Hey, I know. Listen to your own advice; go find your own soul mate.”

Well, hell, I didn’t intend for those words to come back to me – and so soon at that.

I ask, “Do I need to say it? You know what’s coming next, right?”

Sophie’s eyes squint at me, trying to look tough. “No. I know already. At least you have a boyfriend. At least you aren’t some floozy with a string of one-night-stands left in her wake.”

Taking her hands, I look right into her eyes, so she’ll feel the sincerity of my words. “Not for one minute do I think you’re a floozy, Sophie. You are the best, most honest, kind-hearted person I know. That’s why I want more for you. I want you to have it all, everything
you deserve. And you know what? You deserve it all. Love, happiness.” I stop and take a breath “Even children. You’d be a wonderful mother, Sophie. Even if you didn’t have one yourself.”

Now I’ve done it, I see the tears forming in her eyes. Sophie’s mom was anything but good. I know I’ve brought up a sore subject, but she needs to know history won’t repeat itself.

“She had so many problems, Sophie, problems you don’t nor ever will have.”

The tears escape as she nods looking down.

I met Sophie when I interviewed her for the assistant position three years ago during her last semester at college. Since that time, we’ve come to know each other well, sometimes, I think, even better than sisters. One night, while we were drowning our sorrows in wine and, yes, the dreaded Dirty Mother for Sophie, she opened up about her childhood.

It wasn’t a pretty story. Her dad left soon after she was born, buckling under the pressure of being a father. He couldn’t handle it, and went the way so many do. He deserted his family. Coward. Sophie’s mom tried at the beginning, but she also couldn’t handle the demands of motherhood. She succumbed first to alcohol then moved
on to drugs. Luckily, an observant teacher noticed Sophie’s unkempt attire, her withdrawn demeanor, and bruises marking most of her body.

The physical abuse was bad, but the emotional abuse is what still lingers. She pretends it doesn’t bother her—she’s one tough cookie—but inside, I know it does. Sophie was bounced from foster home to foster home, never fitting in, never knowing what it was like to be loved by her parents. Finally, her paternal grandparents found out about her situation and rescued her when she was fifteen.

Against all odds, she was able to secure a scholarship to USC and succeeded brilliantly. The one thing that didn’t stop Sophie was her love of all things academic. I think she used it as an escape during middle and high school. When other kids were out partying, Sophie was at home studying.

It paid off. She’s absolutely the best assistant I could wish for. Sophie’s mind is like a steel trap; she stays on task, organizes, and juggles appointments and attacks the never-ending mounds of paperwork with enthusiasm. I’m usually tied up with negotiations, setting up promotional tours, so her skills complement mine perfectly. We couldn’t be a better team.

Taking a moment, I reflect back on my childhood. Was it better
than Sophie’s? Sure. Was it dysfunctional? Most certainly. My parents had a marriage of convenience. I don’t think they loved each other, well, not as far as I could tell. But they tolerated each other. I guess that’s about as good as I could expect.

My dad traveled most of the time, putting an added strain on the relationship with my mother. I always wondered if it would have been better or worse if he’d been around more often. Would they have been able to stay together for appearances sake, or would the relationship have finally crumbled?

I’ll never know. My dad died suddenly of a heart attack three years ago at the age of fifty-six. My mom cried, arranged the funeral, and promptly went to Europe for an extended vacation. I shouldn’t have been surprised.

What did surprise me, though, was that she returned with Angelo, a handsome Italian man ten years her junior. He seemed to like my mom just fine, but what he seemed to like even more was her money.

My dad was a workaholic, amassing great wealth and leaving us both behind enough money to live several lifetimes. I don’t care about the money at all. I don’t need fancy things, but I do like
freedom. I like the ability to choose a profession I love and pursue it. I feel so fortunate I’m able to sit comfortably, chat it up with Sophie on a Wednesday afternoon, and not worry about paying the bills. I really love my life.

Cade

I hate my life. It sucks. It’s been thirty days since the shooting, and things just keep getting worse. I turn over in my bed and groan. I’m hung over again. My body feels like it’s been through a meat grinder then tossed into a dryer, just for fun.

First, I rub my hands over my throbbing temples, hoping to relieve some of the pressure. Next, I try to deal with my gritty, aching eyes by massaging them. Nope, not working. I let out a frustrated moan. Knowing it’s my fault, the agony my body is currently suffering, doesn’t make it any better. Actually, it makes it worse.

I remember telling Mattie four months ago, when we met at the cabin, I wasn’t good with rejection. If she could see me now, she’d know I wasn’t overstating things. I feel like shit – in every way possible.

I’ve taken a leave-of-absence from both jobs. Distance is what I need to figure out “my plan” as my parents call it. I’m so tired of everyone giving me their opinion. It’s my life, and I’ll do whatever the hell I please with it.

Bitterness overtakes me once again. I know I’m feeling sorry for myself, but I don’t care. I have another week to wallow before I’m expected to be back, at both jobs. Do I want to go back to either?

My fuzzy, alcohol-ridden brain either can’t or won’t process this question. I heave a sigh and force myself out of bed. It’s 11:00 am. Coffee. I need coffee, stat. I usually have mine before work, at 7:00 am. Caffeine withdrawal is probably playing a part in this horrible headache. As I reach for the coffee beans, there’s a loud pounding at my door.

Contemplating whether I want to see who is making all the racket, I hear Scott yell, “I’ve got a key. I’m coming in.”

Damn it to hell, that pushy bastard thinks he can just walk right in? He does just that.

I’m pissed. “What the hell, Scott. What do you think you’re doing?”

Scott enters, looks around, taking in the front entrance and
living room/kitchen area.

“Holy shit, Cade.” His head veers from side to side and back again. “Everyone’s worried about you, man. You won’t answer your phone or emails. Look at this place, and look at you. You look like shit, man.”

My eyes scan the room, seeing it the way Scott must. It does look pretty bad—from the clothes on the floor to the dirty dishes and take out cartons strewn throughout the kitchen and living room. I’ve got to give it to him; he’s right.

“So?” I ask. “I’m on vacation. What’s it to you.” I know I’m being an ass, but I really don’t appreciate the invasion.

Scott flops down into his favorite chair directly in front of the window facing Lake Union. He stares out the window for a few minutes. I know he’s gathering his thoughts, or maybe his strategy on how best to approach me.

I know I’ve made it tough on my family and friends, withdrawing like this, but the emptiness I feel makes it hard for me to conjure up sympathy. I’m worried that, when I start to feel again, when I let myself feel again, it won’t be pretty.

I’ve been drinking away the hurt, anger, pain, and sadness for
a month, but I still need more time. Without warning, a “Mattie memory” flints unwelcome through my mind. This time, she’s laughing, tilting her face into the sun. God, is this ever going to get better?

Scott notices my expression. “What’s it to me? Damn, Cade. You’ve dropped off the face of the planet. You’re living here like some hermit. This place is disgusting, and you know what a slob I am. It smells like someone died in here, for God’s sake. What’s gotten in to you? I know you’re upset about Mattie, but I’ve never seen you like this.”

A momentary flush of guilt seeps through my self-pity, but not enough for me to act on it. I ignore him while I continue to make coffee. My headache is getting worse, and now I can add Scott as one of the reasons.

“Nothing has gotten into me. I just need some time – alone – to work things out. It isn’t helping that my parents, and now friends, keep intruding. You’re just delaying my re-entry to the world, or whatever you want to call it.” I’ve finished the pot of coffee. “Well, since you’re here, do you want a cup?”

Scott jumps up, pats me on the back, and exclaims, “That’s the
Cade I know and love.”

My headache has now escalated to defcon one. “Don’t do that! Can’t you see I’m suffering here?” I grab my coffee and head back into the living room. I stretch out my legs on the sofa, and, for the first time today, look out the window.

Chapter 4

Laurel

“Let’s get off the subject of men, shall we? We have more important things to discuss. For instance, how are we going to get those hot rockers to sign with us?” Sophie grins at me mischievously.

Hard Reign. The one that got away. “We can’t very well force the lead singer back, now can we?” I smile sweetly.

Sophie tips her head back and laughs. “Good one, Laurel. I’ve never met a more stubborn person than you. You’ll find a way. Tell me your plan.” She leans closer, transfixed, knowing that I’ve already hatched a plot to get the band to sign with us.

I let my own wicked smile come through, “Okay, I have a little idea.”