Digging a Hole

  I hear several takers and probably a few who are so wasted they’ll cheer for anything.

  “Georgie, come down. Time to go home,” he snarls loudly.

  “You gonna kiss me?” I slur. Okay, maybe I am sloppy wasted. So what?

  “If I do, will you go home?” he asks, pissed as ever.

  I shrug just to annoy him. “If it’s a good kiss.”

  “Fine. Come down, and I’ll kiss you.”

  I point in his face. “I kneeeew you wanted me.”

  He reaches for me, and I stumble and fall into his arms.

  “Yeah! Good catch, Agent Fogey.” I chuckle and pat his cheek a little too hard. Oops!

  “Stop it. You’re acting childish.” He carries me off through a blur of rooms, and suddenly, we’re at the front door.

  “Heeeeey…where’s my kiss?” I hiccup.

  “It’s waiting for you at home.”

  “Nope. Nope! That wasn’t the deal. Help! He’s kidnapping me!” I yell, drawing the attention of several partygoers.

  “Shut up, Georgie. You’re causing a scene.” His eyes are practically shooting angry lightning bolts.

  “That’s what we do, us young, smart women who can’t be playthings.” I poke his nose.

  “Stop that.” Still carrying me, he manages to hand a ticket to the valet and then gives me a stern look.

  “Ohhhh…no. Mr. A-hole is giving orders.” I clap. “Listen up, everyone, Mr. A-hole here says we should all quit having fun!”

  He rolls his eyes. “I swear if you weren’t so drunk, I’d spank you,” he grumbles under his breath.

  I clap again. “Yes. Yes. A good spanking,” I say with an English accent, but I’m not sure he gets the Monty Python reference.

  His car, a big black SUV, pulls up. He lowers me to my feet, takes my arm, and shoves me inside. “Not a peep, Georgie.”

  Of course, I’m drunker than hell for my very first time, so there’s only one thing for me to do. “Peep! Peep! Peep!”

  He gets into the driver’s side and tries to ignore my juvenile antics, but I’m not having it. He’s harshing on my party vibe. Boo him. In fact, his car is an instant buzz kill, all quiet and lacking dancing.

  “It sucks in here. I want to go back.” I start reaching for the door handle.

  “Georgie!” he yells. “Cut it out, or so help me I will hog-tie you and throw you in the back.”

  Will he now? Sounds kind of fun.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Grey.” I salute him. “Where’s the rope?” I turn to see what he’s got in the backseat and feel my head slam into a thick, cold wall of sad reality. There’s a booster seat.

  Suddenly, my drunken stupor isn’t so amusing or fun anymore. I’m just being a moron—a fucking idiot who’s kept this man from his daughter tonight because he’s busy watching over me.

  I face the road.

  “Are you going to be sick?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “You don’t look well.”

  I can’t say what I’m thinking because it’s too dark and too emotional, and God knows I don’t do well with any of that. “I’m drunk. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. You’re allowed to be twenty-one.”

  I start to tear up like a blubbering fool. “No. No, it’s not. I’m a Walton. We’re not allowed to be anything but Waltons. Not even loved or happy.”

  “Things will look better in the morning, I promise.”

  “But will it?”

  “Of course it will,” he replies firmly.

  “But I won’t ever know what it’s like to be just me. I won’t ever be free to live and do what I want. They’ll always be watching, hating, trying to ruin us.”

  “That’s not true, Georgie.”

  “Isn’t it? Isn’t that why you want to destroy my family? Isn’t that why you’re here with me instead of home with Joy? I bet she misses you. I bet she needs you. But you’re stuck babysitting a dumbass rich bitch.”

  Sam looks straight ahead, his face completely unreadable. “I’m here because I didn’t want anything to happen to you, but that doesn’t mean you should feel bad. Everyone needs a little fun, you most of all. You’ve been through a lot.”

  “Huh! Like you care.”

  “Why do you think I offered to get you into the party? Or how about making you go to that fundraiser?”

  “To subject me to cruel and unusual groping?”

  He flashes a sharp glance my way. “No. I thought having a little fun would make you happy.”

  He wanted to make me happy? “Bullshit. I’m the key to your big plan to make every last person pay for the pain they’ve caused you, and I know because I’m no different. I want everyone who’s ever ridiculed me to burn in hell. And that, my friend, is why I never came out of my shell.”

  “So you’re afraid you’ll hurt people?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just want them to burn in hell. I’m too big of a pussy to hurt anyone.” I throw my hands into the air. “Flies, you’re all safe with me!”

  Sam shakes his head as we hit the highway, and I shrink back into my thoughts—my inebriated, horribly wobbly thoughts. “I really, really liked you, Sam. I didn’t even care that you’re so old.”

  “I’m not old.”

  “I’ve met dirt younger than you. But I didn’t care. I said to myself, ‘Georgie’—not Sydney, but Georgie—‘he doesn’t let you get away with it.’”

  “With what?” he asks, his eyes glued to the road.

  “With my bullshit. Everyone’s always accommodated me or felt sorry for little Georgie, who’ll never be anything. But you, you wouldn’t accept that from me. And now, here I am, not accepting it either.” I draw a long, slow breath. “I love you for it, Sam. And I always will. I just wish I was enough for you because I don’t want parties. I want you. We could be happy together,” I mutter, feeling my eyelids sink and my mind going dark. I have so much to say to this man, but the tequila has finally caught up. “You’re hot, Sam. I’d like to have babies with you,” I mumble before I drift off. And I’m not sure if I’m dreaming, but I think I hear him chuckle.

  Either way, I pass out with a smile on my face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It’s morning. My head fucking hurts. I have no clue where I am, but I’m fairly sure I hear a child squealing somewhere in the background.

  I crack open one eye and turn my head toward a clock on a nightstand that is neither mine nor familiar. One o’clock? From the daylight shining through the light gray curtains, I know it’s p.m. not a.m.

  Jesus. How much did I drink? I’m praying this pain won’t last because, dear God, this is not fair. Shouldn’t a first-time drunkard get a pass on the hangover?

  I slowly sit up, and once the room stops spinning, I get to my feet. I’m still in my green and black dress from last night—excellent news! But I am most definitely in a man’s room. There’s very little in the way of decorations, and the furniture is modernist—neutral colors, clean, and masculine.

  I rub my neck and press my other hand to my forehead. “Ow, ow, ow…” Memories of last night sift through my mental fog. Okay, there were tequila shots, dancing, more shots, more dancing, some food—I think tacos? Or sandwiches? Hell. I don’t remember. Then there was a friendly game of pool, which I lost. I then recall dancing for penance and Sam dragging me home.

  Sam! I’m in Sam’s house. I look around the room. Yes, it even smells like him, all sagey and leathery. Wait, did I tell him I love him? My mind scrambles. Oh no. I most definitely did. Christ, Georgie! What happened to moving forward? To putting him behind you? I can only hope he’ll just forget about the entire thing. Not like I meant it. Especially, the “let’s have babies” part.

  Ugh. Boozmiliation.

  I stagger to my feet, stumble to the small all-blue bathroom, and try to rinse the old-sock taste from my mouth. When I look in the mirror, one of my fake eyelashes is stuck to my chin. Nice. You’re a born princess.

  I clean myself up, rinse with Sam
’s mouthwash, and contemplate using some of his herbal-smelling deodorant. Ewww… Hangover and man-stick do not mix.

  I grab my heels and purse and quietly open the bedroom door, hoping I can sneak outside and grab a shame-cab home. It’s then that I realize I’m not in his apartment. There are family photos all over the hallway.

  I lean forward, checking out one of him and a bunch of people on some camping trip.

  “Georgie? You up?” The deep manly voice bucks inside my throbbing eardrums.

  I cringe, feeling like I’ve been caught snooping. “Yeah?”

  “’Bout time.”

  I tiptoe for no damned reason—shame, I guess—into what looks like Sam’s living room. It’s open and warm with a fireplace, comfy khaki couch, plush brown armchair, and a play area with brightly colored blocks in the corner. Sam is sitting on the carpeted floor with a chubby little toddler in pink overalls.

  I can’t believe how beautiful she is. The gray eyes, just like her daddy, pouty little lips, fat cheeks, and big smile.

  “Ohmygod. Aren’t you the sweetest little thing?” I go right to her, and she holds up her arms. I pick her up, and I can’t even. “How the hell did you end up with such a gorgeous little girl?” I ask him, but I’m looking at this bundle of curls and sweet smiles, who’s clearly all energy and wiggles.

  “I stole her,” he says sarcastically.

  “Of course you did,” I say in a deep, playful voice. “Becawz there’s no way this big ol’ ugwy ogre is yo daddy. Now is there, pumpkin?”

  She giggles, and I can’t explain it, but it’s like when you see the most adorable puppy in the world, wagging its tail at you from the store window, and your heart just wants to take it home, cuddle and kiss it to death. Joy is that times a hundred.

  “Bo! Bo!” Joy points to the floor toward a fuzzy stuffed boat that has miniature animals shoved inside.

  “Oh, you want your boat? Well, the hungover lady says that’s a great idea because she just might toss her cookies if she doesn’t have some water.”

  “Water!” Joy barks.

  I laugh and set her down.

  “It’s this way.” Sam gets up, and I can see the tension in his shoulders. It puts me on edge.

  We enter the kitchen, which is small but cute—white cupboards, brown and white marble counters, and an eating area. O-shaped cereal is scattered across the wooden kitchen table, and a sippy cup of unfinished milk is parked on the high chair.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” I blurt out. “I swear I’ve never been drunk, and I promise it will be my last.”

  With his back to me, he grabs a glass from the cupboard and fills it with tap water from the sink. “Where do you get off doing that?” He turns and shoves the glass at me.

  I take it with a hesitant hand. “Doing…what?”

  “Joy is not a toy.”

  I blink at him. “I-I’m so sorry.”

  “I brought you here because the paparazzi figured out who you are and were following me. I had to drive for over two hours to lose them. We ended up closer to my house than my apartment, and I was falling asleep.”

  Sam is visibly upset—pulsing jaw, tight lips, dark brows shoved together.

  I hold up my hands. “I’m sorry. Really. But I didn’t mean any harm by that.” I point to the living room, toward Joy. “She’s beautiful, Sam. Truly beautiful.”

  I want to say that her eyes remind me of him and so does her smile, but clearly I’ve upset him by holding his daughter. I’m not welcome here, and I’m not just talking about his home. I’m not welcome in his life.

  “I’ll go now,” I say.

  “Good.”

  I nod hesitantly. “And thank you for making sure I didn’t make too big a fool out of myself last night.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  I turn and head through the living room to the front door, ignoring Joy’s pleas for me to see her boat again. It feels like a girl-dick move, but Sam’s made his feelings clear.

  “See you at your apartment tonight?” I ask.

  “There’s a change of plans. Your brother has an emergency meeting at one of the refineries today at six.”

  “Tonight?”

  “I’ll be in front of his building at six thirty. Don’t be late.”

  I’m not ready for whatever comes next, but most of all, I’m thinking that after tonight, Sam will be gone from my life. He’ll have what he needs. Henry will be off the hook. I’ll be nothing but a job completed, and it breaks my heart.

  On the way home, I call Abi and leave her a voice message just to let her know I’m okay. I can only assume she’s sleeping off her own headache. Still, I’m dying to hear how it went with “the Bulge.”

  When I get inside my house, I say hi to my mother, who’s playing cards with some friends outside on the terrace—which makes me super happy. I like seeing her trying to get on with her life.

  I lie down to take a nap, and when I wake, it’s almost six thirty. “Crap!” I shower, throw on a pair of jeans, my red tank, and black flip-flops, and head out. By the time I get to Henry’s place, I have seven pissy texts from Sam, and I’m a nervous wreck. But as I walk up to the main building, I realize I’m not frightened by what Sam might find. Henry is so squeaky clean, you could eat off of him. Not that I’d want to because that would be weird. Nevertheless, I’m all jitters and nerves because this is my last encounter with Sam, and if we’re really saying goodbye, then I want to tell him that he might be an ogre with a nasty disposition, but to me, he was my knight in shining armor. He changed my life. I want to tell him that I want him to be happy too, and I understand if he doesn’t want to be with me, but that I hope he’ll find a way to move on—if not for himself, then for his daughter. Because I know what it feels like to be trapped by your thoughts and fears and the scars of your past. But I also know how good it feels to let it all go and to breathe again.

  “About time,” Sam says when I make my way into the lobby. He’s wearing a plain baby blue oxford and jeans that gently hug his masculine thighs. Why does he have to always look so good? It’s a distraction to my hormone-saturated body.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I had to talk to a man about some Gatorade and Tylenol.”

  “You’re hysterical,” he says dryly, refusing to remove his mirrored sunglasses.

  “Okay then.” I go up to the security counter, show them my ID, and away we go into the elevator. The apartment is actually owned by our holdings company, and I’m on Henry’s account as a “welcome anytime” family member. His place also has a keypad to enter, so there’s no need for a key.

  As we’re riding up to the penthouse, I can practically see the steam rising from the top of Sam’s head of dark hair. I don’t know why exactly, but his pissedoffness irritates me.

  “Would you stop already?”

  Looking ahead, he says, “Don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do. And for the record, I’m the one who should be mad.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m breaking into my own brother’s home so you can steal something from his safe.”

  “If he’s got nothing to hide, then there’s no problem.”

  I narrow my eyes at him even though he’s not looking at me. “Cut the crap, Agent McDaniel. You know how much I love Henry, and you’re making me betray him just to keep him out of jail.”

  “Life is tough. Get used to it.”

  The elevator doors chime open, and we step out.

  “Well, you’re making it a lot harder than it needs to be.” I walk past him, go to the keypad, and enter the code. The door pops open, and he sails inside as if it’s casual spy-Friday and we’re not doing something horribly wrong.

  “Bedroom’s that way.” I point to the right, down the hallway.

  Henry and Elle are at some meeting tonight. There’s been an issue at one of the oil refineries, and some people got hurt. They want to find out what happened because at plants like those, they have a gazillion safety procedur
es to prevent injuries.

  Sam doesn’t waste a moment. Within thirty seconds, he’s in Henry’s walk-in closet.

  “What do you think you’ll find?” I ask.

  “Proof.”

  “Of what?”

  “Enter in this code, and we’ll know for sure.” He holds out a piece of paper.

  “Why me?” I cross my arms.

  “You own part of the company that owns this apartment.”

  Oh. I get it. I don’t need a warrant to go into my own safe, just like I didn’t need a warrant to hack my own servers.

  I step back. “Well, I’m not opening it—not until you and I talk.”

  “If you’re worried about getting immunity, the answer is yes.”

  What the hell? “Immunity for what? I haven’t done anything wrong and you know it.”

  “You hacked into a bank.” He shakes the paper at me. “Now let’s get on with this.”

  “I just want to know what comes next? After you’ve busted Craigson?”

  He looks at me with flat lips and angry eyes. “Fine. If you won’t do it, then I will. You can go.” He steps around me with the paper and starts punching numbers into the keypad.

  “No.” I push his hands away. “You’re not opening that safe until you answer me.”

  “Why? Why do you want to know what comes next?”

  “Because I’m in love with you,” I blurt out. “And if this is the end, if this is the point that you let go of the past and move on, then wonderful. But if your plan is to make revenge your lifelong calling, then I want to know because I need to move on.” My heart is pounding with adrenaline. I can’t believe I’m saying all this to him, because it’s kind of a shock to me, but it’s all true.

  He turns his body toward me but looks away, his jaw muscles pulsing. “I told you, Georgie, not to waste your time on assholes like me.”

  “That is not an answer, Sam! When the fuck is this over? When do you say you have enough? Because for my father, the answer was never, and it drove him mad. And as much as I hoped he’d change, it didn’t happen. So all I’m asking is a simple question: Are my feelings for you a mistake?” What I really mean to say is, “Will you ever love me?”