I wanted to gather her close and tell her that everything was okay, that she was alright, and that I'd never let anything hurt her again.
But I didn't. She wouldn't want it. And I'd done more than enough already.
She choked out, "How bad is it?"
I looked deep into her frantic eyes and told her the simple truth. "Not too bad. You're okay."
She frowned.
Once again, she reached up to touch her face. When her fingers brushed the spot where her eyebrows should've been, she gave a little gasp. Slowly, she peered up toward her hairline and froze.
She was seeing what I saw. Her bangs were a whole lot shorter and burnt on the ends.
She shook her head. And then, she looked to me. "You asshole!" Soon she was on me, like a cat on a mouse – except I was twice her size and several times stronger.
Still, I did nothing as she slapped, kicked, and cursed me up and down. By the time the janitors arrived to see what the hell had happened, I had a split lip and a bloody nose.
When they pulled her off me, I called out, "Don't!"
Still struggling in the janitor's arms, she demanded, "Don't what?"
I was lying on the ground where she'd tackled me. "I wasn't talking to you," I said. "I was talking to him." I meant the guy who was holding her back.
Ignoring him now, I looked up, meeting Arden's gaze. "If you want to kick me, go ahead."
By now, she was panting and crying. Through choked sobs, she said, "I don't want to kick you. I want to kill you."
I didn't blame her. Hell, I wanted to kill myself. And yet, I was surprised to discover I was happy to be alive.
Huh. How about that?
As far as Arden's words, I figured she was speaking metaphorically.
Turns out, I figured wrong.
Chapter 18
Arden – Present Day
On the phone, Cami gave a little squeal. "Oh, my God. You're kidding!"
Me, I wasn't squealing. I was reeling. In the privacy of the bedroom where I'd slept last night, I murmured, "No. I'm not, actually."
The offer for consulting services had arrived by email just ten minutes ago – barely twenty minutes after Landon Tarrington had disappeared into his limo.
Obviously, he had plenty of minions to do his paperwork, because nothing else could explain how he'd been able to send me a job offer in record time – and from the road, no less.
But that was something to ponder later. Now, I was too busy marveling at the offer itself.
According to the contract he'd sent for my electronic signature, I'd be paid seven thousand dollars a month for a period of four months, plus a twenty-thousand-dollar bonus at the end, after the project was fully completed.
It was the bonus that had sent me reeling.
Adding everything up, the total was an impressive sum. With a low whistle, I said the number out loud. "Forty-eight thousand dollars."
It was a lot more than I'd expected, especially for a gig that lasted only a few months. It even included room and board.
On the phone, Cami asked, "So why aren't you happy?"
"I am happy," I said. "I'm just surprised. That's all. I mean, there's got to be a catch, right?"
"Of course there is," she said. "There's always a catch. But with this, you already know what it is."
I frowned into the phone. "You mean Brody."
"Exactly!"
Oh yeah. She was right about that. But I was starting to think there was even more to this story. "You wanna know what I think?"
"What?"
I winced. "I think I’m the new Miss LaRue."
She laughed. "Oh stop it. You are not."
It was no joke. During the show's previous season, a new team member had appeared on the scene. Her name was Rebecca LaRue, and she was a high-end interior designer – mostly for rich and famous people, like movie stars and what-not.
Although the show featured several houses per season, Miss LaRue, as she preferred to be called, had helped with only one house – a vintage mansion in Beverly Hills, where her business was located.
Her taste had been decidedly upscale and even more impractical.
I almost smiled at the memory. The brothers had not been thrilled with any of her suggestions, and they hadn't bothered to hide it.
Still, it had made for some great television as "Miss LaRue" tried to convince all of them that kitchens without countertops were "just the thing."
Even now, I wasn't even sure what that meant. But this – along with a whole bunch of other insane ideas – had made for some great fireworks, with Brody in particular.
On the show's final episode of the season, Miss LaRue had quit in a huff, leaving a trail of bleeped-out profanity in her wake.
The episode had slaughtered the competition, ratings-wise, and had spawned a multitude of memes and parodies.
I heard myself say, "Landon – that producer guy – he thinks we're not gonna get along."
"Who? You and Miss LaRue?"
"No. Me and Brody. That's why Landon made the offer. He thinks we're gonna fight."
Cami snickered. "Either fight or donk."
Donk – I'd heard this word plenty of times over the last few years, and I knew exactly what it meant, to Cami, anyway.
"Trust me," I told her. "Brody and I are not going to donk." I didn't care that he had a hot body or that everyone else drooled over him. I didn't like him. And I didn't want him either.
Cami replied, "Yeah, but the producer doesn’t know that. And really, when you think about it, he wins either way." She hesitated. "I mean the producer guy, not Brody."
At the mention of Brody's name, I bit my lip. As Cami went on to speculate on the producer's motives, I wandered to the nearby window and peeked out through the gaps in the blinds.
Brody was leaning against the door of his pickup, glowering as Waverly griped up a storm.
From here, I couldn’t hear a single word, but the look on her face was clear enough. She wasn't happy.
It
