I stood in the rain, torn between taking off without another word and rushing onto the deck and letting her hear exactly how I felt about her selling out.
Her concerned expression transformed as her temper flared. Her hand went onto her hip as if she’d been rubbed the wrong way and was about to let me have it.
Oh, sweetheart. I don’t fucking think so.
I jumped over the ridiculous white picket fence and charged up to her.
“What exactly is your problem?” I glared at her, furious she could even think about being angry at me.
“What’s yours? Are mommy and daddy gone now? Are you upset I didn’t skip back over and play house?”
“Play? You know what? It’s enlightening to hear how you viewed us. Really. It is. Thanks for that.” I pointed past her at her scratched up old luggage. “I think I got everything. If I missed something, Tate will have a key. Help yourself to whatever you want. Hell…feel free to use it for filming. Burn any sheets you use.”
I spun around and gripped a white spoke, prepared to hop over the fence to my cart when a sharp pain sliced my leg. Fuck. Dark red blood trickled down my leg. Fucking rose bush.
“Watch out for the roses.” She spun around, leaving me in the rain, bleeding. She reached her suitcases then threw a hand on her hip. “Wait a minute.” With slow steps, she returned to the railing. “Filming?” Her hands fell to the railing. “You saw the announcement?”
“Yep.” My attention fell to my ankle and the vine that had snagged my sock. I shouldn’t have worn flip flops with socks.
“So, your assumption is what?” The careful articulation of each word warned me. But I didn’t give a shit.
“Why don’t you tell me? What did you agree to when you signed on with a pornography conglomerate?”
“Chesterton, you’re a fucking moron.”
“How so?” I called. She lugged her suitcases inside, and the screen door slammed. I kicked back my leg and swallowed the sharp pain. I ran up her steps and pounded on the door. “How so? How am I the moron? You don’t have to do that shit. You have everything in front of you. How exactly am I the moron?” I screamed at the top of my lungs. The same old lady stood still on the sidewalk across the street and watched. Fine. Enjoy the show.
I snapped the screen door open, and it closed behind me with a bang.
Poppy faced me, her right foot tapping out an angry beat. Her cheeks flushed. Her naked blue eyes glowed against her freshly washed face, the cat eyes gone.
“First, you’re a hypocrite. You watch porn. You subscribe to porn. But yet you wouldn’t want me to do porn.”
“Hell, yeah!” I shouted at her. “Call me hypocritical. Fine by me. I don’t want the woman I—I don’t want you doing porn. And you don’t want to do it. Maybe it’s fine for some women, but you’re not proud of what you’re doing now. This will tear you apart…and you don’t need the money, so don’t pull that bullshit excuse—”
“I sold my account to them. I’m not working for them.”
“Bullshit. I saw the posts.”
“And there’ll be posts for months into the future. Everything is scheduled. They’ve taken over. They have access to years of photos they now own. And all my subs. They’ll weave in other talent.”
“Talent? That’s what you call it?”
“What the fuck is your problem? I thought you’d be fucking happy. Isn’t that what you wanted all along?”
I couldn’t look at her anymore. I gripped the edge of the counter. Anger vibrated around me. I had the inexplicable urge to rip the marble countertop right off and throw it against the wall.
She glared right back at me, fire flashing through the blue.
“You’re bleeding on my floor. Clean it up before you leave.” Arms crossed, she rocked back on her heels and waited.
I gritted my teeth and tore off a paper towel. I ran it under the tap and kicked my foot up onto the counter so I could wipe away the red. With each wipe of the cold paper, my anger simmered. With care, I slipped off my thorn filled sock and dumped it into her trash can.
Breathing heavily, exhaling a shit load of anger, I looked around the room. Taped up moving boxes lined her back wall. I shook my hair out like a wet dog.
“Congratulations,” I offered. “I hope you struck a good deal.”
“There’s still blood on the floor. Clean it up. Then leave.”
A mellow Jack Johnson tune hummed in the background, and I focused on the words, letting the acoustic guitar coax me back to a rational place. I bent down on my knee. My cleaning attempt smeared the dark substance more than removed it, so I gathered up more towels.
“You do know that my not taking your investment dollars has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me. I’ve explained that to you before.”
“Explain it again,” I challenged her. Not that I cared, not really. But, for the sake of argument, it seemed like a good idea to be in the know.
“I want to do this on my own. I don’t want to be dependent on anyone.”
“But Suzette? It’s fine to take her on as a partner?”
“How’d you know about that?”
“Do you really think Tate doesn’t keep me updated?”
She rolled her eyes and backed up until she leaned against the wall with her arms crossed. “She’s different. She’s a business partner.”
“I would’ve been a business partner.”
“Hhmmm…yes and no.”
I raised an eyebrow, prompting her to explain.
“You see, my emotions got involved. And it’s too similar…I need to do this on my own. Have my own business.”
“Too similar to your mom?” I asked. She hadn’t told me much, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to fill in the blanks behind five marriages.
“I’m sure you’d be a solid investment partner.” Her glare softened, and I couldn’t remember exactly what we were arguing about.
