Make Me Page 16

  “Really?”

  Alec blew a sigh at the ceiling. “Nah, man. I got knocked out in the first round.”

  Russell wanted to laugh. Or smack Alec on the back. Anything, but he didn’t have the energy. Might never have it again. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Ah, no big deal. Vegas was . . . too big or something.” Alec planted both elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “New York is bigger, but I know it. It knows me.” He looked uncomfortable having voiced his feelings. “I couldn’t get back here fast enough, you know?”

  Funny enough, Russell did know. He’d felt the same way on the bus ride home from Southampton. Only there’d been a conflicting pull the farther he got from Abby, relentless in its reminder that home was in the other direction. She was home. Russell rubbed at his eyes. “Believe it or not, I’m glad you’re here. I didn’t exactly bring my A game.”

  “No shit. You didn’t even break my balls over getting knocked out in round one.”

  “A lot of men finish prematurely, man. Happens all the time.”

  “Fuck you,” Alec said on a hearty laugh, earning him a scowl from the closest bank employee. “Seriously, though. You didn’t sleep on my couch while I was gone, so where’ve you been?” When Russell shook his head in lieu of answering, Alec pressed. “Heard a pretty girl stopped by the apartment looking for you last week.”

  Something wrenched in his gut at the mention of that day. Jesus, she’d been so beautiful on his front porch, holding cupcakes. So sweet and unblemished until he’d ruined her. “I’ve been sleeping at the house,” Russell said hoarsely. Which wasn’t a total lie even if he’d been working almost nonstop since returning from the Hamptons. Just another form of self-inflicted torture. Building the house, securing the loan. All for nothing, apart from guaranteeing his misery.

  “You think I’m going to let you skip the pretty-girl part?”

  Denying her existence seemed infinitely wrong. So did telling one more lie where Abby was concerned. “I lost the pretty girl.”

  Bafflement showed on Alec’s face. “So what have you done to get her back?”

  “I can’t.” It hurt saying the words. Beyond belief. “There’s no getting her back.”

  “What?” Alec appeared to be praying for patience. “Do you have any idea how many times Darcy told me to take a hike when we were dating? If I’d listened to her, I would have hiked to Europe and back by now.”

  “This is different.” I acted like an animal. I didn’t treat her the way she deserves. “She wouldn’t have been happy with me, anyway. It would have been like—”

  “Like Mom. Is that what this is about?” Uncharacteristic sympathy crept into his brother’s eyes. “You think no one has a chance because of what happened? Come on, Russell. You’re supposed to be the smart brother.”

  It felt good to experience irritation. At least it was something other than desolation. “You see this bank we’re sitting in? She could walk in here and withdraw enough cash to match the Yankees salary cap.”

  Alec sat back in his chair. “Wow. We’re talking four zeroes here?”

  “Four zer— ” Russell pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let me do the talking in this meeting, okay? Seriously.”

  “Fine by me.” Alec slid the cardboard insert from inside his collar and tossed it into the small, metal trash can. “Listen, Russell. I, uh . . .”

  “What?”

  “How was I supposed to know this thing with Mom was messing you up? You never say anything about it.” Alec lowered his voice. “You were the one who was home with her most, you were the one who found her. It makes sense that it would be on your mind more. But you can’t let it change your destiny, man. Your fate is divine.”

  Russell sighed. “You’re not an actual ninja, Alec.”

  Dammit, there was a reason they never spoke about it. There was never a good time to remember the day his mother—already addicted to prescription painkillers—had washed them back with a little too much gin. An accident, they’d called it. But Russell knew the truth. Had witnessed her depression, day in and day out. Brought her the tissue box in whatever room she’d chosen to cry in. The accident wouldn’t have happened if her marriage had been happy. If she’d been content with her house in Queens. Her children.

  Russell.

  He took a deep breath, working through the memory in stages. Only now, the disturbing images he’d harbored since childhood were laced with visions of Abby, fleeing from him. The realization on her face that she’d gotten into bed with the wrong man. One who could never make her happy. Leaving her alone had been the right thing to do.

  But God, it felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.

  “Mr. Hart?” A female secretary approached the waiting area. “Follow me, please.”

  ABBY STOOD OUTSIDE the door of her parents’ Park Avenue high-rise residence, the heels of her sandals sinking into the plush hallway carpeting. It was Friday morning, and she should have been at the office, but that would have been a waste of the full head of steam she’d woken up with. Late last night, she’d finally reached a solution that would make her father’s life work amount to something. A lot of something. Not to mention, her idea would save her own sanity in the process. The thought of sitting behind her desk in the silent office made her stomach turn. No, it was time to go see her father.

  Her confidence had wavered slightly downstairs when the doorman hadn’t even recognized her face. Or name. Rightly so, since she’d only been to the co-op once for a housewarming party. But it wasn’t normal to feel like a stranger going to see your own parents. Since returning from the Hamptons, she’d felt like a stranger wherever she went. Even in her own apartment, despite Honey’s and Roxy’s attempts to raise her spirits. She’d found herself on the beach in Southampton—found her voice—and now she felt stripped of it.

  Like it had never existed at all.

  Today, she would get it back, albeit in different manner. She wouldn’t be the footstool propping up her father’s company anymore. A footstool who’d already been divested of one leg, thanks to Russell. The remaining ones were starting to creak, the fabric wearing thin. If she didn’t do something proactive now, she wasn’t sure how long those legs would hold her.

  She raised her hand to knock, wondering why her stepmother hadn’t opened the door yet since being that the doorman had rung the apartment to check if Abby was welcome. But it dropped by her side. Why had she gone and thought of Russell? She’d managed to cast him out for the entire morning, sending him to a far corner of her mind, where he couldn’t be as effective. Every time she broke free for a few minutes, a reminder of him would drag her back into the trap. Getting ready for bed last night, she’d refused to go through her nightly routine of checking all the locks. The way Russell always reminded her to do. Then she’d lain there wide-awake for hours, until some responsibility forced her out of bed to complete the task, hearing his voice the entire time. Pull the latch, angel. It only takes a second. Do it for me, would you?

  How could someone who cared so much leave her stranded in hurt like this? She hated him for it even as her mind attempted to pin a reason on why she hadn’t been enough. Why they hadn’t been enough to make him happy.

  Today, she would be enough for herself. She might have an ingrained need to please others, but she’d become a hazard to her own peace of mind. No more. This was her life, and she was done living it for other people. People who were supposed to care about her. Love her.

  Abby rapped on the door, the sound echoing in the posh hallway. A few seconds later, a woman in a maid’s uniform opened the door. “Hello. Miss Sullivan?”

  “Yes.” The woman stepped aside, and Abby entered the apartment, marveling over how little she recognized in the space. Not one familiar piece of furniture or family photo to be seen. “Is my mother home?”

  “Abby.” She turned in time to see her stepmother breeze into the room, elegantly dressed as usual and in the process of ending a cell-phone call. “I didn’t know you we
re coming.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sullivan,” the maid said, looking between mother and daughter. “The doorman rang, but you didn’t want to be disturbed. I just thought—”

  “She just thought since I’m your daughter, my showing up wouldn’t make you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Although that just about sums up how I feel.” Abby swallowed the weakness in her voice. “I came to see my father.”

  The older woman smoothed her skirt. “You know his wishes, Abby.”

  “Respectfully, Mother? Every moment of my time this past month has been dedicated to his company. Our family’s company. So maybe he doesn’t want to see me, but I’m done giving a shit.”

  Satisfied with her stepmother’s dropped jaw, Abby strode toward the staircase, taking them two at a time, not even sure in which room she’d find her father. She’d never even been upstairs. How pathetic was that? The sad realization only reinforced how much of a real home she’d made with Roxy and Honey, unconventional though it might be. It was hers. Guilt for not confiding in her roommates clawed its way up her determination, but she set it aside for now. Fix one thing at a time.

  She could hear her stepmother downstairs on another phone call, so she started pushing doors open. Empty bedroom. Bathroom. At the final door, her fingers paused on the knob a beat as she braced herself, before nudging it open. And there was her father, sitting at his computerless desk, playing solitaire . . . with actual cards. He didn’t look up as she entered, quietly finishing his game and gathering the cards together in a neat stack. He didn’t meet her gaze until he’d replaced them in the box, tucking the top into the slot with careful hands.

  “Haven’t been able to look at the computer screen,” he said, his usually robust voice reminding her of a deflated balloon. “It takes longer this way, but you appreciate the wins more. The doctor says it’s important to recognize small victories. Learn to be content with them.”

  Abby fell into the chair opposite her father, noticing not-so-subtle changes in him. He’d lost weight. Let his hair grow past his collar. But the stress that was usually visible around his eyes and mouth was gone. “That’s good. Is it working?”

  “Sometimes.”

  She nodded, but he didn’t continue. “Why didn’t you want to see me?”

  Her question skipped like a stone in the still room, disrupting the air. Last week, she would have apologized for being so indelicate and taken back the blurted words, but she didn’t have the energy or desire for avoidance any longer. Of any kind.

  Her father tapped the box of playing cards against the desk’s surface. “I’m embarrassed, Abby. Every day I wake up and get dressed, positive today will be the day I stop relying on my daughter. Putting her through what I went through.” He dropped the card box and folded his hands. “The truth is, I’m too scared. It’s not an easy thing for a man to admit.”

  “Thank you for being honest.” A lump formed in her throat. “It’s okay to be scared.”

  He turned his attention toward the window. “Not when it’s hurting your family, the way I’m doing.” His breath came out in a slow exhale. “If there was another way to keep the motor running while I figure out how to cope . . . I would do it. None of this is fair to you, Abby, but . . .”

  “But you and mother have equal shares in the company.” She waited for him to meet her gaze. “She wants to keep me in your seat because it keeps the company in the family. Bringing in help might jeopardize that.”

  Her father leaned back in his chair. “Weeks passed where I could barely decide what I wanted for breakfast. It was hard to gain back the ground I’d lost after that.”

  Sympathy had significantly dampened the fire she’d woken with this morning, but she pushed forward, hoping her gut had guided her in the right direction. “Forget about all the pressure and expectations. Forget about what everyone else wants.” She lifted one shoulder. “Do you want to go back to work?

  “No.” He closed his eyes. “No.”

  “Good.” Abby reached into her purse and removed copies of the documents she’d signed in the Hamptons. The ones she’d asked Mitchell’s assistant for, claiming he needed her to review them for a meeting. She’d spent the last week poring over them in her free time. “I wasn’t aware of this until recently, but I have a 2 percent stake in the company. You never told me.”

  Some of the shrewdness he’d been known for crept into her father’s expression. It was a relief to see a hint of the man she remembered. “It was done so long ago.” His eyebrows rose. “Honestly, I’d forgotten.”

  She flipped a few pages, folded them over. “Mitchell asked me to sign a power of attorney form last weekend, giving me the ability to make decisions on your behalf.” Abby watched that sink in. “Along with my two percent in the company, I have the controlling interest. And I’m ready to use it.”

  Abby jerked when her father threw back his head and laughed. Outside the room, she could hear her mother’s heels clicking down the hallway at a fast pace. She appeared at the door, one hand pressed to her chest as she ogled Abby’s father. “Was that you . . . laughing?”

  “Damn right.” He wiped away tears of mirth. “God help anyone who ever underestimates my daughter. I certainly won’t ever make that mistake.”

  Her mother moved into the room, arms crossed. “Meaning?”

  Abby turned to the final document page and slid it across the desk toward her father. “Here is a list of New York hedge funds in the market to absorb funds of equal or lesser size. I’ve highlighted the candidates that appear most viable, based on the last four quarters and their client list.” When her mother started to interrupt, Abby held up a finger. “If we sell for the amount I believe we’re worth, this is what you’ll walk away with and still be able to give a two-year severance to each employee.”

  “That’s pretty generous,” her father murmured, studying the document.

  “Yeah, well.” Abby smiled. “They all hate me, and this is my way of making them regret it.”

  Abby’s mother leaned over the paperwork, one manicured finger smoothing over the number Abby had circled. A number that would ensure none of them ever had to work again and would keep them in the lifestyle to which they’d grown accustomed. Her parents, anyway. She preferred her three-bedroom on Ninth Avenue.

  Her father’s relief was palpable across the table, tension ebbing from his shoulders with each passing second. “I . . . I think I’ve got it from here, Abby.”

  “Good. Because I think this is where I jump ship.” Stress fell from her body in heavy clumps. “I love numbers, but I don’t love adding and subtracting in my sleep.”

  “Fair enough,” her father said, watching her closely as she backed toward the door. “Abby?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you. For everything.”

  “You’re welcome.” She rested her hand on the doorknob. “Um. You think maybe when you’re feeling better . . . maybe both of you could come over to my place for dinner?”

  Her stepmother looked startled—but cautiously pleased—and her father proud. “We’d love that.”

  Abby walked out of the building onto Park Avenue, sucked in a gulp of sunny, city air . . . and executed an awkward, but energetic pirouette.

  Chapter 17

  RUSSELL LEANED AGAINST the downtown subway entrance, across the street from the Longshoreman. The bright and breezy late Friday afternoon had allowed the bar to leave the doors and windows wide open, giving Russell a view inside. His friends were there at their usual table, minus Abby. It bothered him that she wasn’t there. A lot. Was she sick? He’d been checking in on her via Ben, who got his information from Honey. At first, his so-called friend had refused to pass on a single detail, telling him to man up and go see Abby himself. Ben had finally taken pity on him after a drunk, desperate demand to know how Abby had worn her hair that day.

  Yeah, he wouldn’t be living that down anytime soon. Nor did he give a damn.

  He’d been told Abby’s workload would be eas
ing soon, or so she’d told her roommates. His relief in hearing that was massive. The idea of Abby stuck inside, glued to a laptop with eight tons of pressure riding on her made him fucking crazy.

  The blunt tips of his fingernails bit into his palm. He’d told himself he’d stop by after work wrapped for the day, just to get a glimpse of her. The letdown of not seeing her was the equivalent of being buried under an avalanche. Christ, how long had it been? Five days? It felt like five decades.

  “Screw this,” Russell growled, jaywalking across the avenue toward the Longshoreman. If he went back to Queens now, the dissatisfaction would be unbearable. Hell, he’d probably go back to the house, where he’d been working without cease, pick up the closest power tool, and destroy all his progress. It would only be a temporary distraction, though, and he’d be back to thinking about Abby. Replaying every word she’d ever spoken, every secret she’d ever confided, every smile she’d ever gifted him with.

  When Russell walked into the Longshoreman, he wondered if he’d ever paid attention to the interior before. Nothing registered as familiar. Or maybe he’d just gotten so used to zeroing in on Abby when he walked inside, everything else usually fell away. Jesus, even his thoughts were goddamn pitiful. Stop thinking. That was the only option. Stop thinking and ask his friends about Abby. Just like ripping off a Band-Aid. He’d think later, when he could drink at the same time and mute the images that haunted him.

  Four sets of eyebrows lifted when he sat down at the table. A reaction he’d expected since he’d left Southampton like it was on fire. Figuring he’d give them a minute to get used to his being there, Russell folded his arms and waited.

  Roxy spoke up first, as if there’d been any doubt. “May we help you?”

  “Where is she?”

  Honey’s chair scraped back, her intention to go for Russell’s throat sparking in her eyes. Ben hooked an arm around her waist just in time, yanking her down onto his lap. “Easy, babe.” He looked at Russell. “This better be good.”