“Ow!” I yelp right out of my sleep as Taylor Swift jolts me awake and causes me to bang my head against my headboard.
Rumbling irritably, I slap the alarm next to my bed. But it doesn’t go off. It gets even louder as it falls off the nightstand and into bed with me, Taylor sassily telling the guy she’s singing about that they’re never, ever getting back together. Great news, but I could really, really use another half hour of sleep before discussing your love life drama, Tay-Tay.
Grumbling, I mash the button again and Taylor goes up another octave, making my head pound. Why did I buy an alarm clock with such tiny buttons again?
It takes several more mashes and a well-placed karate chop to silence the alarm. I make a mental note to buy a new one because I might’ve actually just broken it, and if not, something with a big-ass snooze button would be nice.
“Gee, thanks—” I begin to growl but then stop, choked as I breathe in a . . . ball of cat fur? Hacking, I wipe at my mouth, disgusted and unfortunately not all that surprised. “Sophie!” I complain, “Have you been sitting on my chest while I sleep again?”
My black and white Persian cat, Sophie the Magnificent—and in her mind probably a lot of other titles—gives me an imperious, I-give-zero-fucks look from where she’s perched on my desk before licking her paws. If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost be tempted to think her incapable of being responsible for the fluffball that oh, so conveniently found its way into my mouth.
But looks can be deceiving.
Sophie can be a sweetheart most times, but she can also be my worst nightmare. Besides costing me a rather nice chair earlier in our relationship, I swear she hops on my chest while I’m asleep. The sweet side of me likes to think she’s guarding me, making sure I’m breathing all night. The not-so-sweet side is certain she’s trying to suck the life out of me.
But I know better than to expect further response from my feline companion, so I get up and stretch my arms. I mentally cycle through all the things I have to do to get ready for work. Shower, shave, makeup, get dressed, and then off to pick up my bestie, Tiffany Young, for carpooling, but I talk to Sophie the whole time. That’s one of the main reasons I have her—so that I don’t look like a lunatic talking to myself.
“If you keep leaving me hairballs for breakfast, you’re going to see me use up every last one of your nine lives—” My voice fails me as I step forward and fall into a tangled heap. “Dammit!”
Damn, am I usually this clumsy?
I glare balefully at Sophie, who’s still sitting pretty on my desk, but I can see the laughter in her eyes. She’s enjoying my morning clumsiness. I kick my feet, messily getting untangled from the pair of jeans I shed as I fell into bed last night. I know there’s a trail of clothing from the front door leading to this last puddle right here, meaning I’ll have to watch it so I don’t fall again. At least I managed to not knock last night’s wine glass off the nightstand with my alarm clock battle du jour.
Yeah, last night was epic. If you consider one and a half glasses of wine, my favorite book boyfriend, and falling asleep immediately after jilling off to be a great night. To be fair, sometimes, I do. Others, like now, I think I really, really need to get a release with a pulse. Wait, make that a heartbeat because Maximus, my battery-operated boyfriend, does have a pulse mode. A really good pulse mode.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me,” I warn Sophie, shooting her a murderous glare as I climb carefully to my feet. Meanwhile, she’s unperturbed by my death gaze, even offering a soft meow that belies her evil nature. “I swear someone’s got a voodoo hex—”
“Papa don’t preach—”
The music is back again. This time it’s my phone, and fate must be screwing with me today on the music choices.
Shit. I do not need this right now.
Part of me wants to blow it off and go about getting ready for work. But another part of me feels guilty for even thinking that. There are people you can ignore and people you can’t.
And if you don’t answer, he’s liable to get so worried he might send the “boys” to check on you.
Just the image of my two lumbering, overprotective hand holders, also known as my cousins, showing up at my door is enough to change my mind, and with a sigh, I press Accept.
“Dad,” I complain as my father, Daniel Stryker’s, handsome face appears on my phone’s screen. At forty-six, he’s what my best friend crassly likes to call a D-I-L-F. I have to constantly remind her that’s the last fucking thing I want to hear. Yuck.
His strict diet and workout regimen help him exude a youthfulness of a man almost half his age. If that weren’t enough, he’s a vice-president at Fox Industries, a multi-billion-dollar Fortune 500 Company, making him the most desirable middle-aged bachelor in the city. And that’s according to several magazines, not just his own ego.
I mean, it’s kinda nice to know I’ve got the genetics to age gracefully myself, but it’s also really, really strange when you have to use a bat to keep your female friends at bay. Surely, they can work their daddy issues out with someone who isn’t my actual dad, right?
“I’m trying to get ready for work. Is it important?”
“Ah!” Dad exclaims, ignoring my complaining, his handsome mug lighting up like a Christmas tree as my face appears on his screen. “There’s my beautiful little princess!” He suddenly recoils sharply from his screen, his face twisting in horror. “Damn, baby girl, Medusa’s got some competition going!” He pops a raspberry into his mouth, talking to me and prepping his breakfast at the same time.
“Very funny!” Despite my irritation, I laugh, not offended in the least. He’s always teased me about my bed head. It’s been an ongoing joke since I was a little girl when he’d have to painfully, patiently get the tangles out before school. It got so bad I started wrapping my hair in silk wraps in my teen years to help control it, but that never seemed to work since apparently, I roll around like the possessed girl from The Exorcist in my sleep.
Eventually, I said to hell with it and just started fixing it with a shower, heavy conditioning, and a quick blowout in the morning.
“Not everyone can wake up looking picture perfect like Your Highness,” I tell him, stroking his ego. “And I just rolled out of bed, so I have an excuse.”
“You’re definitely right about that,” Dad agrees, smoothing back his already impeccably slicked back hair. But there’s a hint of laughter in his eyes, letting me know he hasn’t gone totally arrogant in his not-that-old age. “But you’re just getting out of bed? Honey, you really do need to make time for yourself. Early to bed, early to rise, get a workout in and a healthy breakfast to start your day right.”
It’s advice, but it’s also a recap of his morning as he holds up a glass containing green glop. He takes a good gulp of the drink, and I cringe. That stuff tastes like grass, and I refuse to drink it anymore now that I can make my own coffee and Pop Tart breakfast.
I roll my eyes in an exaggerated enough manner to make sure he sees it. “Give me a break. I’ve had a rough start this morning. Sophie’s been playing soul stealer again, and I damn near tripped and broke my neck before you called. The only thing that could make it worse is that Peeping Tom I caught outside my window a couple of nights ago.”
Dad frowns and leans forward to get closer to the camera, suddenly serious and on edge. “Peeping Tom?” Dad’s breath escapes him in a huff. “Should I send the boys to check everything out?”
I let out a groan.
But Dad’s on a roll now. “Security system, with door and window alarms. Maybe have the boys sleep over for a few nights to see if they can catch the fucker . . .”
My cousins, Billy and Ricky, or as Tiffany likes to call them, Bebop and Rocksteady, are like my dad’s adopted sons. More meat than brains, they’ve been a thorn in my side ever since I could remember, with Dad having them watch over me like hawks.
Their primary mission? Keep me safe, which leads conveniently into their secondary mission, no fun for Elle. And now I’m talking about myself in the third person like I’m crazy. Thanks, Dad!
At least I’ve always been able to outsmart Billy and Ricky so they haven’t been much of a hindrance to my shenanigans.
“Dad, didn’t we already have this discussion?” I ask in a tired tone and giving him the ‘look’ through the camera. “I’m a grown woman. I don’t need anyone to come looking after me just because I’m having a rough morning. Besides, I was just joking about the Peeping Tom thing. Payback.” I stick my tongue out, disproving my claim of being an adult.
“Seriously? That doesn’t stop me from worrying about you, El,” Dad says, not amused by my little joke. “No matter how old you get, I’ll always worry about you. It’s my job.”
The sincerity in his eyes and the worry lines etched in his brow pull at my heartstrings, and for a moment, I empathize with him.
After all, his worry isn’t totally unfounded, given our family’s history. Our life had seemed pretty picturesque, but then came the fateful day where Mom up and left with no explanation. No goodbye letter. No telling me, or him, that she loved us.
Nothing.
She just disappeared one day, never to be heard from again.
At first, we’d thought the worst and Dad had even called the police to report her missing. But she hadn’t been missing. She’d just left us. To say Dad was devastated is an understatement. His entire life, his partner, his heart had been ripped out of his chest.
We later found out that she was having an affair with an old college flame, and he was tired of being the side dick, so he gave her an ultimatum. Him or her family.
She chose him, and I’ve never even gotten a birthday card since.
Dad reacted by going insular, focusing on me and work, in that order. For a while, I reveled in being his main focus. He made me feel safe, comforted, and loved in the face of my mother’s rejection, which was no small task. And somehow, he managed to still be a machine about work. When I learned what the word efficient means, I immediately saw Dad. He’d drop me off at school at eight, and while I would catch a ride home with my cousins or a friend, he was always there by five thirty to take me to ballet class, Girl Scouts, or whatever. He even cooked, and he cooked good stuff too. No spaghetti from a can in my house. He balanced it all and made it seem effortless and easy.
But as I got older, things changed.
I coped rather oppositely, deciding that living safe was no guarantee of a happily ever after, so why not try YOLO instead? If I’m only living once, I’m going to make the absolute best of it.
Okay, so that led to a couple of scares. I might’ve jumped off the roof into the pool once or twice, and I sorta got into it with a curb and broke my nose after spinning around a bat a few dozen times. And there was the time I decided I could handle hard liquor even though I’d never so much as had a beer. And those are just the things Dad knows about.
Eventually, I wouldn’t say no to any dare, no matter how crazy it was. If someone said those magic words—I dare you—I was in.
“Well, stop worrying about me,” I tell Dad, shaking myself out of my reverie. “I can take care of myself, remember? Lord knows, Billy and Ricky made sure I knew how to squash a guy’s nuts like a pumpkin pie as soon as I was old enough to swear.”
Dad’s answering grunt sounds a bit pained, as if the summoned imagery makes him think of his own family jewels getting crushed, but he murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like, “Good boys.”
I cut him off, wanting to change the subject from the one we’ve beaten to death, reanimated like a zombie, and beaten to death again. “I’ve got to get ready. But quickly, before I go, how’s the search for Fox’s HQ2 coming along?”
Dad brightens, straightening his shoulders and steepling his fingers beneath his chin, his eyes brimming with excitement. If there’s one thing he loves almost as much as me, it’s work. And with my ‘leaving the nest’, first for college and then getting my own apartment, he’s been able to rocket up the corporate ladder even faster.
The recent announcement that Fox Industries would be acquiring a second headquarters, along with a Regional President to run it, had every top executive scrambling to produce the best location for the company.
Rumor has it, Dad’s plan is top on the company’s list.
“Great! The board is still hearing presentations, but I think they’re close to voting. If everything goes to plan, you’re looking at the new President of Fox HQ2!” Dad gloats.
I clap my hands and let out a whoop, causing Sophie to jump at the sudden noise. “Wow, that’s awesome! I’m so happy for you!”
Dad beams, but then he leans forward, looking at me expectantly. Even through the screen, his gaze is heavy and meaningful. “If I land the deal and get promoted, you know what that means, right?”
I know exactly what that means.
Come work for me.
He might have let me live in the dorms in college and of course have my own apartment . . . but he still wants me to be within arm’s reach. I’m his little girl, after all.
But though it’s something I feel torn about, I can’t tell him that now. Not again, when we’ve had the discussion several times already about how I want to pave my own way, not get by on his last name.
Knowing I don’t have time to argue, I take a different tact, striking a button I know he refuses to discuss with me. “Yep! So, does this mean you’re gonna finally find a lucky woman to share all this awesome success with?”
He immediately looks over his shoulder and then coughs before looking back at the camera. “You know what? I should start preparing for that meeting,” Dad says. “Have a great day, kiddo.”
With a wink, he’s gone and my phone’s screen blank. “Can you believe that, Sophie?” I say, not surprised by my dad’s reaction. He always gets skittish when I press him about finding a partner, and I sometimes use that knowledge to my benefit. “He wants the play by play on my private life, but as soon as I try to get the scoop on his, he turns into Casper and ghosts.”
Naturally, Sophie doesn’t answer, and I glance at my clock.
8:05 . . . less than an hour to get ready, pick up and Tiff, and rush to work.
“Holy shit!” I hiss, cursing Dad for calling me and wasting precious time. “I gotta get ready!”
I hop over the bed, nearly falling and busting my head on my dresser, and I’m in the shower in a jiffy. I only have time for a quick shave of my legs before I’m toweling off. I decide to use my fallback hairstyle of a slick bun because my condition and blow-dry routine is too time-consuming after Dad used up all of my spare minutes this morning.
I apply a light layer of makeup, focusing on my lashes and a matte red for my lips, a few spritzes of my woodsy perfume, and then pull on a white dress shirt and a tight black pencil skirt. Red heels complete the look, making the almost-uniform seem chic and stylish.
“All right, Sophie,” I tell her as I check myself over in the mirror.
I look pulled together and professional, like Professional Barbie with my blonde locks, big blue eyes, and boobs too big for my frame—thanks for that, Mom. But I know how to use those attributes to my best advantage too. People don’t often expect a brain like mine to be housed in this packaging, and I’m more than happy to let them underestimate me while I mow right over them, kicking ass and taking names.
“I need you to hold down the fort.” I grab my purse and work keys off the dresser and head for the front door while saying over my shoulder, “Try not to tear down the house while I’m gone, ’kay?”
She meows . . . but that could be a good or a bad thing.
It’s all hustle and bustle to get to Tiffany’s apartment with me nearly getting into a fender bender as I burn rubber across town. But she’s nowhere to be seen when I pull up to the curb, which is unusual for her because she’s always outside before I show up.
I wait a few minutes before rolling down my window and honking the horn while yelling, “Come on, Tiff, we need to go!”
When Tiffany fails to appear, I grumble angrily as I jump out of my car and walk up the first-floor walk, ready to pound on her door. I only make it a few steps before I hear booming bass and a voice yelling, “Shake your ass! But watch yourself.”
“What . . . on . . . earth?” I mutter as I walk up and pound on the door. “Tiffany!” I yell over the music, seeing several neighbors peek out from behind their curtains. “You’ve got three seconds to come out or I’m leaving!”
As if in response, the door swings open, and instead of Tiffany, I see Ace Young, Tiffany’s older brother, standing there in unbuttoned jeans and no shirt, a can of Coors in his hand.
Once upon a time, he’d been hot, and I’d told Tiffany so during one of his visits to our college dorm. Hell, the first time I saw him sprawled out on her bed, I’d thought she was hooking up with him and was thinking my girl had done good. I’d been delighted to be wrong, even though girl code dictated that he was look-don’t-touch level only.
But his glory days are gone.
What the hell is this fool doing, drinking this early in the morning? I think to myself but then decide I don’t want to know as the smell of his beer breath hits me. He looks like a total mess, his once flat as a board stomach now bloated and soft.
“Elle?” Ace asks, looking absolutely wasted and making me wonder what the hell is going on with him. Last I knew, he’d landed a good job up north and was seeing an awesome girl with wedding bells on the horizon. But a month ago, he mysteriously returned, much to Tiff’s dismay, sullen, tight-lipped, jobless, and very single, to crash on her couch.
And he’s been driving her absolutely crazy ever since.
“How’s it going?”
“Hey, Ace, where’s Tiff?” I say loudly over the still bumping music, ignoring his question because I don’t want to get drawn into a conversation. “We’re running late for work.” We’re not really late, but any cushion on the clock is gone and we need to go.
Ace begins to reply but is shoved aside as a familiar voice growls, “Move!”
Tiffany, my best friend and partner in crime since freshman year dorms, appears looking frazzled, her dark hair pulled back behind her in a messy ponytail and her dress shirt rumpled and buttoned wrong, leaving one tail long and one short. Never mind the fact that it should be tucked in to begin with.
With her bright, mischievous eyes and brisk demeanor, some people might think we make an odd couple. Friends are supposed to keep you out of trouble and give you sage advice when you’re about to do something stupid.
Tiffany’s the exact opposite.
I was already a small-time daredevil in my own right when we met, but she became my main instigator, always upping the ante on me with the dares.
She’s become something of a devil on my shoulder.
The Thelma to my Louise.
And I love her for it because we’ve had some great times. Some really great times.
It’s unlike Tiff to come out of the house looking barely put together, though, because she’s also the organization to my chaos, so I know whatever delayed her must have been one hell of a reason.
I open my mouth to ask her what took her so long, but she brushes past me, rushing toward the car, throwing over her shoulder, “Let’s go. I’ll explain in the car.”
“Bye, Ace,” I say quickly, turning to rush after Tiffany.
“See ya, Elle,” Ace replies, watching me through bleary eyes. Behind him somewhere, the music begs me and everyone in the building to ‘show me what you’re working with!’
Classy AF, Ace. Really.
Tiffany yells back over her shoulder, “Turn that shit down before my neighbors call the cops!”
He does at least look chagrined, and before we even close the car doors, the music quiets.
“What the hell was that all about?” I demand as we pull away from the curb. “Drinking this early in the morning?”
Tiffany bangs her head against the headrest, her eyes closed. “I’m going to kill him. He was up all night and then commandeered the bathroom for forty-five minutes this morning, doing God knows what, because he sure as hell wasn’t taking a shower.” Her nose crinkles cutely even though she’s talking about Ace’s stale body odor.
“Jacking off?” I offer.
Tiffany makes several retching noises. “Ew! But seriously, I don’t know what to do with him. He goes off like he’s going to conquer the world, then comes back a shadow of his former self, refusing to talk about what happened . . . all while making my apartment living room his official man cave.” Tiffany growls, but her fire is dimming, replaced with sadness. “It’s almost as if he met some crazy succubus out there that sucked the life right out of him and replaced him with . . .”
She loses her voice for a moment, shaking her head. At the worried look in her eyes, I feel a pang of sadness too. I know Ace is in pain, and whatever is going on with him hurts Tiffany too because she loves her brother like I love tacos and cake, which is a lot. Complaining about him to me is her way of dealing with it, and I suspect, her way of coming up with a plan to fix whatever mess he’s in.
That’s Tiffany’s way of showing love. She’ll fix your shit right up, whether you want her to or not.
“Maybe you should try getting him some help,” I offer gently. “Looks like whatever’s going on with him, it’s not healthy.”
“You’re telling me,” Tiffany mutters, “except I’m pretty sure he’d just tell a therapist to fuck off as it is right now.”
She looks sad and lost in thought as she nibbles her lower lip. “I do worry about him, though, which is why I’m putting up with it . . . for now.”
I reach out and gently pat her hand. “Everything’s going to be okay, Tiff. He’ll come to his senses eventually.”
“I hope so,” Tiffany sighs. “I really do. Because if he doesn’t get his shit together soon, I’m going to have to put my foot down.”
And that’s one thing I love about Tiffany. She might be a shit-stirring, grade-A professional instigator who likes to play around, but when it comes to serious issues, she can show a surprisingly level of maturity.
“Anyway,” Tiff says, waving a hand and wiping at her eye in one flourish while appearing to simultaneously brighten up, “did you get your usual call from Daddy this morning?”
“Tiff!” I protest, glaring daggers at the nickname she’s adopted for my dad. Tiffany has disturbingly let me know that she has a crush on my dad.
I let her know just as certainly that he is off limits because it gives me the heebie-jeebies whenever I think about it. I love my dad and I want him to find a woman who’s a perfect fit for him. Grown up, professional, a woman who can be his equal.
And while I love her to death, Tiffany is none of those things.
“What?” Tiff asks innocently as I keep glaring at her.
“Stop calling him that! Maybe Ace isn’t the only one who needs a therapy appointment.” I throw my voice into a caricature of my professional tone. “Daddy issues . . . right this way, please.”
“I’m just playing. Chill.”
“Yes, I did talk to him this morning . . . and no, he didn’t ask about you.”
“Whatever.” Tiffany laughs, knowing not to press my buttons any further on the issue.
Everything’s good until we get off the freeway and run smack dab into traffic.
“Ugh!” Tiffany groans as we watch four cars get through the intersection ahead before stopping. “It’s like everyone and their grandma is in the way!”
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. “There’s a garbage truck ahead, you know.”
“So?” Tiffany asks.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Tiffany grins, pointing to the oncoming lane which is currently empty. “Pop it.”
I look over at her grinning face, her perfectly white model’s smile tweaked into that little tilt that I know way too well. “Are you nuts? Intersections like this, you know the cops—”
“Just skip ahead. I dare ya.”
The words hang in the air, and Tiffany’s grin widens as I turn my attention back to the road, my hand resting on the gear shift. “Fine . . . on the green.”
Up ahead, the light goes green and I floor it, throwing my Camaro into first while jerking my steering wheel to the left. Adrenaline rushes through me, filling my blood as we rocket through the intersection and beyond. Up ahead, I see the problem—a city sewer repair truck—but I’m committed now.
“Elle, there’s—” Tiffany yells, but I see it. A flagman, traffic . . . oncoming traffic.
I push it a little harder, shooting the gap and jerking my wheel back to the right just in time to avoid getting my bumper clipped by a soccer mom in an oversized SUV. “Yes!”
I don’t let up, making a quick right and then a left a block later to try and not be followed by the cops before I merge back onto the main road and slow down like everything’s normal. “That was fun.” I pat the dashboard of my baby. “Good girl, Cammie.”
Next to me, Tiffany looks like she’s ready to lose her breakfast, and I’m betting she only had coffee. Wiping the sweat off her brow, she gasps. “Damn, girl. That was close.”
I grin like I just did something amazing. It really wasn’t even that close. It was definitely a bitch move to make, and those folks had every right to honk at me, but it wasn’t nearly as dangerous as Tiffany’s making it out to be.
Dare done.
And that adrenalin wears off, leaving me buzzed and fizzy inside, ready to tackle another day.
