The Trouble With Love: New York Times Bestselling Author Page 7

  I reach for one of the shot glasses full of sake and take it. I take the next one right after. And the next. Then, I wash it all down with the beer.

  “Jesus, Morg. You’re not going to be able to wear your heels out of here if you continue at that pace.”

  “Maybe you should catch up.” I shoot a pointed look at the shot glasses in front of him.

  “Fuck it, we’re in Vegas, after all.” He chuckles and copies me. “And you know what they say –”

  “I swear to God, if you finish that sentence, I will spill this beer over your pretty little head.”

  He laughs loudly and thankfully changes the subject.

  As it turns out, sake is strong as hell. So strong that even the four rolls of sushi we share aren’t enough to stop my head from swaying.

  “I think I’m drunk.”

  He chuckles. “I think I am too. I feel like a lightweight.”

  “We took like six shots.”

  “And the beer.” He lifts the beer.

  “Oh, my God. And the beer.”

  I look over at him. He looks over at me. My eyes fall to his lips. I think about the last time they were on mine, how good they felt. I’ve never been entirely comfortable around men, but for some reason Bennett has always made me feel wanton. I wonder if all women feel this way around him.

  “Did you sleep with her? The Lana woman you took back up to your room?”

  “No.” He licks his lips. “Didn’t touch her. Didn’t kiss her. Didn’t do anything with her except talk.”

  “In your room?”

  “In my room.” His gaze darkens. “I was too busy thinking about the beautiful woman staying in the room beside mine.”

  “Liar.”

  “I am a liar, but I’m not lying.”

  I swallow. “What was she doing there then?”

  “Just talking. I had some papers she wanted to see.”

  “What happened to email?”

  “Nothing that I’m aware of, but they were already printed and in my room, so she followed me up.” He searches my eyes. “I swear it was innocent.”

  “If I kiss you, I’ll regret it,” I whisper.

  “If you kiss me, I won’t be able to stand it, so you better not.”

  “Hm.” I close my eyes and lean against the pillow behind me. “I could easily fall asleep here.”

  “As soon as we get the check, I’ll take you up to your room,” he says. My eyes fly open. I turn toward him. He smiles. “So you can go to bed, Cupid. Don’t get any funny ideas.”

  “I wasn’t.” I close my eyes again, go back to getting comfortable. “Maybe it’s for the best that we’re just friends. I swore off men anyway.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “At some point last year. Between breaking up with my ex-boyfriend and hooking up with a really hot one-night stand.”

  “How long were you with him?”

  “On and off about three years. More off than on, so I guess less than that.” I open my eyes when the waitress approaches with the check. As she clears our plates, Bennett hands her a card. I don’t even think to argue. It’s a business trip, therefore, a business expense.

  “What happened?”

  “He cheated with someone I loved.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Tell me about it. I have enough daddy issues to sustain me through a lifetime. The last thing I need in my life is a man who doesn’t value me.”

  “Hey, at least you know your worth and what you want.” He smiles. “And now you’re building apps to help everyone find what they’ve been searching for as well.”

  “Those who can’t, teach, right?” I reach for my shoes and start to put them on, carefully standing up to make sure I can balance on them.

  “You can,” he says after a long moment. We start walking out, his hand at the small of my back sending tingles up and down my spine. “You’ll find a man who treats you right. And if he doesn’t, send him my way and I’ll kick his ass.”

  “Maybe you should hook me up with a good man.” I glance up at him with a smile. “I’ll give you a list of qualities I’m looking for.”

  “Well, consider my curiosity piqued. How soon can you have this list ready?”

  “Definitely by –” My phone buzzes in my purse and I stop walking and fish it out. No one calls me at this time. There’s an unknown number on the screen though. A local number. My heart dips as I ignore the call. I’ll call back when I’m in my room—alone. “Sorry about that.”

  I keep the phone clutched in my hand as we take the elevator to our floor. We go over tomorrow’s schedule and agree to meet for breakfast at eight o’clock before our long day starts again. When we get to my door, I turn around.

  “Are you going to tuck me in?”

  “You have no idea how tempting that offer is,” he says. “So tempting that I’m going to be a good boy and go tuck myself in before I do anything stupid.”

  I smile. “I didn’t take you for a coward, Trouble.”

  “I didn’t take you for a temptress, Cupid.” He steps forward and leans toward me slowly. I shut my eyes, part my lips, my heart swooshing in my ears as I feel him draw closer still, his lips brushing against my temple. I gasp quietly, waiting, savoring it, but he pulls back. I open my eyes and meet his. “Good night, Morgan. Get some rest.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  My phone won’t quit ringing throughout the night. I tried to ignore it as much as possible, but at one-thirty in the morning I decide enough is enough and answer it.

  “What?”

  “I heard you were in town.”

  I shut my eyes. “What do you want?”

  “I haven’t seen you in over a year and that’s your first question?” she asks. “That’s no way to treat a mother.”

  “I have no money for you, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Hm.” She sniffs. “That’s not what I called for. I miss you.”

  I want to laugh, or argue, but there’s a rock in my throat I can’t swallow past, let alone speak through, so I’m grateful when she speaks again.

  “I can come see you,” she offers. “I just got off work at the Waldorf.”

  “I’m at the Aria.” My words fly out of my mouth before I have a chance to fully think them over, to fully protest. “I can meet you in the lobby.”

  “Bar.”

  “Okay.”

  “See you soon, Buttercup.”

  I hang up the phone and wipe my face. I’ll be damned if she sees me crying. I move quickly, deciding to leave my outfit on and trade my stilettos for pink slides. Grabbing my phone on my way out, I check the app.

  Me: I want to share a secret

  Owl: Share away

  Me: I hate my mom

  Even as I type it, my eyes fill with tears. It’s something that annoys me to no end.

  Owl: You’re not alone. I think most of the universe has parental issues. Want to talk about it?

  Me: Not really. I just needed to say/type that aloud right now. I’m about to meet with her for the first time in over a year.

  Owl: Wow. Good luck.

  Me: Thanks.

  Owl: Report back when you’re done. I’m here if you need to vent some more ;-)

  Me: Thanks.

  The elevator doors open up to the lobby and I head toward the bar. There are many bars here, but I know the one she means. It’s the type people go to when they want to be seen—when they want to be looked at and flirted with. My mother is nothing if not flashy. I spot her immediately. She’s standing by the bar in a short little black number that shows off a body that would make a twenty-year-old envious. She flips her long blond hair, so much like my own right now, box-blond looks good on our golden skin tone. I wish I could smile at the sight, it should make me feel good that I got these rockin’ genes, but nothing helps the dread growing in the pit of my belly. My feet continue to move, at odds with the emotion to flee the scene unscathed, but it’s too late for that. I’m not unscathed, nor wil
l I ever be.

  She looks up when she senses my approach, then gives me a once-over, making a face. “Why are you wearing flip flops at a bar?”

  “Because my room is upstairs and I’m not looking to fuck anyone tonight.” I shoot her a pointed look. She smiles. I sigh. “What do you want?”

  “I can’t want to see my beautiful daughter?”

  “No.”

  “Seriously, Morgan.” Her expression falls. “I’ve tried to call you countless times to apologize. I’ve asked your brother to speak to you.”

  “Devon doesn’t know the half of what you did to me. If he did, he wouldn’t speak to you either.”

  She waves my words away. “Boys don’t understand.”

  “You would say that.” I scoff as the bartender hands her a flute of Champagne. “So, what did you want to see me about? Need me to pay for your fancy drink?”

  “No.” She blinks, annoyed. She would scowl if it weren’t for the Botox that keeps her face wrinkle-free. “I have a boyfriend and he’s very rewarding.”

  “I bet.”

  “Want a drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  I don’t mention that my head is still swimming in all the sake I had with Bennett. As a matter of fact, I decide I can’t mention Bennett at all. I don’t know if she’s met him or not, but the thought of her even looking at him makes me feel a little sick.

  Ugh. What is wrong with me? He’s no one of importance to me.

  My mom starts walking away from the bar and toward a booth, and I follow, sitting across from her.

  “You look well,” she comments, her eyes on my face.

  I look at her arms, searching. She was marred with scratches the last time I saw her, both from altercations and the needles she injected herself with occasionally.

  “I stopped using.”

  My gaze meets hers. “When?”

  “Around the same time you told me to go fuck myself.” She smiles. It’s sad, thoughtful. “Funny what your own daughter saying those words to you will do.”

  “Yeah, well, I still mean them.” I glance away, back at the bar.

  “You’re a cold bitch, Morgan Elizabeth.”

  I purse my lips, fighting a smile. Anyone else says that and it would be offensive. My addict, whore of a mom says it, and it’s instant gratification. It’s the kind of thing she says to the girls who work for her, the ones who sell their bodies in exchange for monetary value. I never had anything but respect for her and those women. Sure, it’s easy to frown upon things like that, but when they’re behind closed doors with their powerful clients, they wield their bodies with power, as they should.

  “Are you here with someone?”

  “I’m here for work.” I meet her gaze. “Why? Hoping to fuck another one of my boyfriends?”

  She sighs heavily, setting down her glass with a clink. “You never let me explain what happened.”

  “It doesn’t matter what happened, what matters is that it happened—period. Who does that? What kind of mother sleeps with her daughter’s boyfriend?”

  “I was high.”

  “All five times?” I laugh. “That’s your excuse?”

  “I was in bad form.”

  “And you expect me to believe he took advantage of that? Please, Mom.”

  “Fine. I can see I’m not going to change your mind about what kind of person I am, but I really am sorry.” She glances down at the table. “Dev told me you landed a solid job. Playing with computers, the way you like.”

  I scoff. Playing with computers. “I did.”

  “Got out of this shithole.”

  “I would’ve done that with or without you fucking Justin, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “That’s not what I’m getting at.” She sighs again, exasperated. My phone buzzes on my lap. I glance at it.

  Owl: I peed my pants at a football game once

  I blink at the screen, then smile, shaking my head.

  Me: One that you were attending or playing in?

  Owl: That is the question, isn’t it? ;-)

  Me: LOL you’re crazy

  Owl: I hope you’re smiling.

  Me: Maybe I am

  “When your father left, I didn’t know what to do with myself,” Mom says. “I was so lost.”

  “You cheated on him with his brother.” I look up, setting my phone aside. “Both of his brothers. How’d you think it was going to end?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “He cheated on me with his secretary and I stayed.”

  I roll my eyes. “You seem to have a real issue understanding what commitment means. It’s a wonder Devon is in a stable relationship. You and Dad both seriously messed us up in the love department.”

  “Men are always fine as long as they’re getting somethin’.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  “I let go of my girls. Passed the baton to Celia and let her take the reins.”

  “You quit?” My brows raise in surprise.

  “I figured it was about time.” She licks her lips. “Rodney, my boyfriend, didn’t like me being involved in that life.”

  “So you’ll live off him now? You must see that there’s a pattern you keep following. You keep putting all your faith in people thinking they’re going to be your savior. People are flawed and selfish and when push comes to shove, we all reach for our own life rafts first.”

  “I guess you’re right. I used to have faith in you and then you left me here.”

  “To go to freaking college, Mom. Jesus Christ.” I slap my hand on the table. “What are you going to do next? Blame me for your betrayal?”

  “No. I’m not saying this to excuse my behavior with . . . Justin.” She clears her throat. “That was a mistake. You left me to go to college. I was alone and lonely and . . . he was there and I was there and . . .” She shakes her head, blinking glassy eyes. “I really am sorry, Morg. It was wrong.”

  I learned more about life from watching my mother than I did from anything she ever said to me. I learned that you can bargain anything, that nothing is ever final, that when it comes down to it, you’ll always pick yourself over someone else. I would love to argue all of it, but thing is, life has taught me that these things are true.

  “I’m not ready to forgive you.”

  She looks struck by this. “I understand.”

  “I don’t think you do, and because I’ve already agreed to this meeting, I’m going to humor you on Girl Code 101,” I say. “First, you don’t ever go after a friend’s significant other. This is probably a difficult thing for you to understand considering your line of work and the amount of married men you see, but it’s quite simple. Second, if the man pursues you first, you turn him down and immediately tell your friend. Third, if you decide to throw caution to the wind and ignore both of those things, you have to accept that your actions terminated your friendship. In this case, replace ‘friend’ with ‘daughter.’ Even if I forgive you someday, you will never be invited into my life. Ever.”

  “I’m your mother. We’re family. We’re bound by blood.”

  “If I could drain myself of your blood, I would.” I shrug, sliding out of the booth. “I’ve done the next best thing though. I’ve decided to choose my family from now on.”

  “But –”

  “I’m done. I’m glad you’re doing well. I’m glad you’re clean and no longer using. I’m glad you have a boyfriend and you’re happy and well taken care of. Despite everything you did to try to fuck up my life and ruin me, I’m happy for you.”

  I walk away slowly, with my head held high and my shoulders pushed back. I hold this bravado until I get inside the elevator, and then I start shaking vigorously. When I step out on my floor, I start silently weeping, and by the time I’m in the confines of my room, I start to sob loudly. I manage to shower, wash away as much as I can of the meeting, of the memories—of my fourteen-year-old-self having sex with a stranger because my mother is too fucked up to open the door and I know he�
�ll beat her to pieces if she doesn’t give him what he asks for. Of myself alone after dance recitals, guitar lessons, and having to turn down every single friend when they ask to come over to my house. I wash away every broken promise and heartache she’s caused, including seducing and having an affair with my boyfriend of two years, a guy I genuinely thought I would marry. I stay in the shower and cry until my eyes are puffy and my fingers have pruned.

  When I turn the water off, dry myself, and wrap myself in the too-large plush robe, I feel my shoulders shake with more sobs. At the sound of a knock on my door, I gasp, wiping my tears quickly. The knock gets louder. I make my way over and look through the peephole at Bennett, standing on the other side. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, his hair in disarray, those too-wise amber eyes meeting mine through the peephole. I know without question, that I look like a complete mess. I know, without question, that if I open the door right now, I’m going to let him see me at my most vulnerable.

  “Morgan.” His voice is firm. “Open the door.”

  I do, slowly disengaging the locks and pulling the door open. I step back, looking at the floor, at my red toenails, and his clean bare feet.

  “I . . .” He starts. “It sounded like you were crying.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “If you need something,” he says, “If you want to talk –”

  “I don’t.”

  He steps forward, blocking the doorway. I let go of the door handle, but otherwise remain unmoved.

  “Do you want to be left alone?”

  I nod my head, biting my tongue to hold back the tears that don’t seem to want to stop forming. I’m always alone. Always alone, but never lonely. It’s something I’m okay with; something I take pride in. Instead of leaving, he steps inside, letting the door slam shut behind him and reaches for my left hand, tugging as he steps toward me. He smells of Christmas—pine and cinnamon wrap around me as he brings his other arm around my body, pulling me against his chest, and then the other until I’m fully cocooned inside a shell of muscles. I start to cry again. I leave my arms down at my sides, unable to bring myself to open up completely, despite the notion that my chest is currently split open, purging emotions. His hand moves slowly up and down my back, strong yet comforting. After a while, I stop crying, but I stay with my head resting on his chest because I don’t know how to pull away and wipe my tears without him seeing me. It’s stupid, really. His shirt is soaked in my tears, yet I can’t bring myself to fully admit I let myself do that. I take a deep, shuddering breath and force myself to pull away. He takes his arms away reluctantly, slowly, as if he’s afraid I’ll tip over without him. The defiance inside pushes me to wipe my tears quickly and turn my chin up. I offer him a sheepish smile.