Risky Business, page 20
“You’re welcome,” she answers. “And I liked that. A lot.”
The show finishes, and Jazmyn runs off stage, panting and beaming. She hugs Toni and Kyleigh, the three of them chattering over one another.
“You were amazing!”
“So were you!”
“Oh, my God!”
I honestly don’t know who said what. It blends together into one high-pitched squeal that makes me inordinately happy. Finally, I’m able to get their attention.
“Thank you, Jazmyn. That was a great show. And Toni, that was awesome! I haven’t seen you dance in a while. In my head, I guess you’re always the Sugar Plum Fairy, but you slayed that.” The reminder of one of her most hated roles from her childhood ballet days is a brotherly tease, and she flips me off before laughing. “I told you that you could do better than some dude named Topper. You’re a certifiable backup dancer now, on tour with The Jazmyn Starr.”
I give her a silly wink, thinking she’ll keep laughing. But instead, she grimaces.
“Who’s Topper?” Jazmyn asks, scenting gossip.
“Uh, the guy I’m dating,” Toni answers shyly.
My eyes nearly bug out of my head. “What? I thought you broke up? You said he was stupid.”
Toni gives me a withering death glare and a healthy dose of attitude. “Because he hadn’t realized that he liked me yet. But now he has, and we’re dating.”
I am so confused. It must show on my face because Jayme pats my arm comfortingly. “She’s a teenager, Carson. Take it from me, a teen girl’s heart is like the autumn wind.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Taya asks, giving voice to the same thing I’m thinking, but when Jayme gives her an eyebrow, she nods. “Oh . . . yeah. Autumn wind . . . pumpkin spice . . . changing minds.”
Before I can get clarification, Spencer interrupts, done with the foolishness. “Everyone, the roadies need to begin the teardown or we’ll be here till sunrise, and I, for one, have plans tomorrow, so let’s get to it. Snap, snap.”
She claps her hands, and around us, people start moving. She’s definitely the boss right now.
“What are you doing tomorrow? Or, uh, today, I guess?” I ask her curiously. It’s late, well after midnight, and the whole park is closed except for the Great Garden. It’d been a perfect way to corral everyone toward the front gates for the last big show and then funnel them out.
“Sleeping,” is Spencer’s dry reply. “And drinking a bottle of white wine by myself on the back porch with a delivered dinner of carbs and cheese.”
That actually sounds amazing.
“You deserve it. Hell, take Monday off if you need to,” I tell her. “Both you and Kyleigh.”
“Not sure that’s a good idea,” a flat voice behind me says. Dad.
I turn, already on edge. “I’m fine managing my people’s work schedules and approving PTO without your input, Dad.”
Dad’s eyes narrow, giving me a hard glare. “I meant that it’s typical to do a post-project review as soon as possible.”
I blink, not backing down. “And if Tuesday morning is as soon as possible for our project lead to be in that meeting, then so be it.”
Spencer steps between us and says quickly, “I’ll be there Monday. There’s already a team meeting on the calendar to go over the festival, as well as social media analytics. So no need to argue over useless hypotheticals right now. Save it for your next family dinner.”
With that, Spencer spins on her heel and stomps off. Kyleigh follows her, and Toni and Jazmyn disappear to find Steve.
“Dayum, that bitch has sass. She ain’t putting up with none of your shit. I like her.” Taya clacks her nails together, catching Dad’s attention.
He frowns snootily. “And you are?”
I wonder what Dad thinks when he sees Taya. She’s dressed outrageously, speaks her mind without filter, and could probably buy and sell the entirety of Americana Land with a single phone call. But I bet he would never consider that, given the way he’s looking down on her.
Jayme grabs Taya’s arm. “Just leaving,” Jayme tells Dad. As she pulls Taya away, she gives me a meaningful look. Talk to him.
Somehow, despite being backstage, it’s suddenly just the two of us. The entire crew flows around us like we’re in a bubble, doing teardown assignments without even pausing to consider our presence. We might as well be completely alone with the uncomfortable awkwardness stretching between Dad and me.
“Today was great,” Dad declares formally.
I clench my jaw, waiting for the bomb, but nothing comes. After a moment, I grow restless. “But?”
He sighs heavily, taking his already-clean glasses off to wipe at them mindlessly with a handkerchief. It’s a nervous habit when he’s thinking of what to say. “But nothing. It was a compliment,” he says. Shoving his glasses back on, he adds, “I don’t know what to say to you, Carson. It’s always wrong, no matter what I do.”
I remember what Jayme said, that he doesn’t know how to communicate, but that doesn’t have to be it for us. I can show him the landmines, even if it means drawing him a map with Xs to mark each and every one. And if he still steps on one, then I can blame him. But now? Maybe he’s just ill-prepared.
“You could’ve said ‘good job’ when you walked up. That would’ve been enough. But you called me out in front of my staff, undermining my authority when I was offering a well-earned reward to a project lead.” Every word is stiff and forced, and I mostly want to walk away before he has a chance to respond because putting it out there so plainly makes me feel vulnerable in a way that irritates the hell out of me.
He looks as though I punched him square in the nose. “What? That’s not what I was doing!” he shakes his head in confusion. “Not what I meant to do. I wanted to have the post-project review because this was amazing! I think the numbers are going to be through the roof.”
I stare at him in shock. Never in a million years would I have taken his comment about Spencer not taking Monday off as excitement over a successful project. “What?”
He stares back at me and echoes, “What?”
Shit. I think Jayme was right. Dad’s not perfect, but neither am I. And maybe he’s not the full-blown asshole I’ve thought he was. Or at least not this time.
He’s just flawed, like we all are.
I swallow my pride, as difficult as it may be. “Thank you. I’ll get with the rest of the team on Monday morning, and then maybe we can meet in the afternoon to go over figures?” This is not about a meeting. This is an olive branch and a big step for us. “But Spencer and Kyleigh do deserve a day off.”
“I’d like that very much,” he says thickly. “And you’re right.”
I offer a hand, which he shakes solidly. “Good job today, Son.”
Maybe we can both learn if given the chance.
CHAPTER 21
JAYME
I’m still in bed, drooling on my pillow, when my phone rings. I think I’m still dreaming about the cotton candy slushie I had yesterday, but maybe dreaming on a mega sugar overload isn’t a great plan because the noise startles the hell out of me.
“Wut?” I mutter to my empty room, wiping at my chin.
I shake my head, working the cobwebs loose, and look around for an intruder. Or a giant cotton candy fluff that’s going to consume me like the mist in Stephen King’s story and melt me into nothingness the way my cotton candy dissolved yesterday.
I find neither. Only my ringing phone.
“Hullo,” I groan into it.
“Jayme? Honey? Are you okay? Do I need to call an ambulance? Are you having a stroke?”
“Huh? No, Mom. Um oh-kay.”
I can almost hear her judgment. “You don’t sound okay. Should I at least call Javier downstairs?”
I blink, forcing my eyes to focus and my brain to work. I swear I can hear the gears creaking and groaning inside my head, but thoughts form into logical, though short, sentences. “I’m fine. It’s early.”
Mom laughs brightly. “It’s ten o’clock. Half the morning’s already gone. Why, I’ve already had coffee and pruned the flower beds with Sasha. Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”
“I’m awake. Now.” The accusation lacks vitriol because I can’t seem to muster any with how tired I am. “Went to bed at four.”
That’s true, though I don’t feel like I got six hours of sleep. Maybe the dancing and yelling yesterday got to me more than I thought? Or the go, go, go of helping all day? Either way, I feel like I ran a marathon carrying a twenty-pound weight with zero fuel.
I bet a raccoon weighs twenty pounds, I think nonsensically.
“Ooh, what were you doing? Visiting some hot, new club . . . or on a date . . . or hanging out with Taya?” Mom’s ideas of what one can do at four in the morning are pretty sedate, but not nearly as boring as the truth.
“I was working,” I confess.
She makes a clucking sound I know well. “Honey, you’re always working. Don’t overdo it. You’re young. You should be out having fun!”
My sigh is underwritten with a groaning noise as I sit up in bed and rearrange the pillows and blankets so I can stay conscious enough to have this conversation. “I know, Mom. And I was having fun. Carson and I were overseeing a music festival. I even danced.”
I don’t realize what I’ve said until Mom repeats it back to me. “Music festival? Carson? Who’s that?”
Crap.
Mom’s good at reading between the lines. She has to be as the mother of five kids, though it was usually one of my brothers trying to pull something over on her. Not me. But there’s no ‘between the lines’ reading needed at all. I threw her that bone, easy and overhanded.
“A client,” I answer simply, though he’s so much more than that. “Did you say you were pruning the roses with Sasha? How’re they coming in?”
Mom isn’t fooled for an instant. “Hydrangeas, and fine. Now tell me more about this Carson.”
Damn it all, she knows me too well.
“Is that who’s been keeping you so busy that you haven’t called in weeks?” she continues.
Great, a little guilt trip with my morning wake-up call. I definitely didn’t order that.
Though I don’t often share too much with them about my job, the good thing is, I can tell my parents anything, even my work details. They are beyond well-versed in keeping things quiet. I could tell them something completely crazy, and they’d nod politely and tell me to be careful and do a good job.
I remember one time I told Mom about a client I was helping get into rehab and managing the image spins that go along with that. He’d wanted one last wild bash before getting sober, and I’d had to sit there with a doctor while he cut out his lines of cocaine. I didn’t help him with the drugs, but he was higher than a kite while we figured out how to frame his issues to explain his addiction. It was sad, but he was also hilarious, and along with our work, we’d talked about everything from saving the Amazon rainforest to what makes the best tasting toast.
Avocado and honey was our decision as the winning combination.
But even with all that juicy gossip, Mom and Dad never said a word to anybody. They’d supported me, listened as I worked through processing my feelings, and held me when I cried happy tears as my client emerged from rehab a changed man. All that, and they never so much as whispered or gave me a side-eye.
Though their opinion was that the best toast is cinnamon toast made with fresh, fluffy white bread, cheap margarine, and pre-mixed cinnamon and sugar. Mom even told a story about it being a fancy treat when she was a kid. Dad had laughed and said he’d never had it until Mom made him some after they first got married.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called. I’ve been busy.” The apology is easy because I know Mom is just giving me a hard time. Mostly. She does worry when one of us kids doesn’t check in regularly, which is probably what prompted this Sunday morning call.
“Mmkay, get to the good stuff.” She smells blood in the water. Or at least some good tea.
“Carson is the CMO of Americana Land, the amusement park. He had an . . . incident, and we’ve been fixing it creatively.” I go on to tell her the bare bones about what happened with Abby Burks and then how we’ve been tackling the issue from all sides, including the Freedom Fest. “It was a day-long event capped off with a young, hot, up and coming star.”
“So like Woodstock, but electric,” she summarizes, not correctly, but also not . . . incorrectly?
I snort unapologetically. “Yeah, sort of.”
“I noticed you mentioned this Carson fellow several times, and my Google Image Search says he’s quite the looker,” Mom hints, though she’s transparent as hell.
“You did not Google him while we’re talking!”
I can hear her grin as she balks indignantly. “Yes, I did. He’s quite the handsome young man.”
I don’t want to share too much here. Not because Mom won’t keep it secret, but because she won’t be able to help herself and will get excited about any potential prospect for me.
She’s not rushing to marry off her only daughter, but I am the only one of my siblings who’s not in a long-term, serious relationship. And given that I’m not even dating and I work so much, Mom worries the way only a mother can.
She doesn’t want me to be alone when she dies, though that’s hopefully years away.
And as if I’d ever be alone with my brothers and sisters-in-law around.
She’s probably hoping for more grandchildren too. And for me to have a partner who makes me happy, of course.
I know where this is going, so I might as well take the onramp to the point. I sigh and admit, “Yes, he is handsome.” After a beat, I add, “And smart, has a good heart, and all those other things on your checklist of a potential suitor for me.”
“I just worry, honey. I’m not selling you off to the highest—or only—bidder.”
I gasp, outraged. “Mom!”
She laughs brightly. “Just teasing. Mostly. But . . . uhm . . . do we like him?”
Her interrogation style isn’t too harsh, but I fold like a towel anyway. She just sounds so hopeful that I can’t bear to burst her dreams. Even if they’re not cotton candy fueled.
“We do. A lot. He met Taya. I actually took him to her house but didn’t tell him whose it was. He figured it out, though, and never said a word.” I don’t know why I’m trying to sell Mom on Carson. He doesn’t need it.
Neither does Mom. I don’t talk about guys, mostly because I haven’t dated in ages, so the mere mention of a potential man is exciting to her.
“That’s awesome, honey! When do we get to meet him?”
I laugh at her eagerness, but a yawn steals my oxygen. “We’ll see.”
“Oh, sorry, honey. You sound exhausted. Get some more rest, and make sure you don’t stay up too late tonight,” Mom recommends, as if I hadn’t thought of that.
“Will do.” I make a smacking kissy noise as if kissing her goodbye and hang up gratefully.
After I toss my phone to the nightstand, I scoot down in my bed until my head hits the pillow again. I don’t want to sleep all day, but a couple more minutes couldn’t hurt.
The knock on my door is easily ignorable. The first time. And the second.
Then my phone rings again.
I peel my eyes open and glare at the offending interrupter. I don’t answer, choosing to roll over and go back to sleep. But as soon as I close my eyes again, someone knocks on my door.
I throw the blankets off with a growl. “Can’t I have one lazy day? I think I’ve earned it,” I beseech the ceiling.
But because it’s nothing more than drywall, it doesn’t answer. Stomping to the door, I rip it open with a snarl. “Javier, the building had better be on fire.”
Except it’s not Javier. Even though he’s the only person who knocks on my door on the weekend, and that’s usually only if I’ve had a package delivered.
“Who’s Javier?” Carson growls playfully as his eyes trace down my body and then lift to meet my eyes. “And do you always answer the door dressed like that for him?”
I suddenly feel very naked. And awake.
The building might not be on fire, but I sure as hell am with the way Carson’s drinking me in. His blue eyes are full of hunger and promise dangerous fun.
I straighten my tank top, knowing my nipples are hard without looking down. I can feel them brushing against the soft fabric. “You know exactly who Javy is. The weekend doorman. And I could answer the door naked as the day I was born and he wouldn’t care, though his husband would probably give me shit for it.”
I grin even though it’s not my best comeback, giving myself credit for the compound sentence since minutes ago, I could barely string two words together. Something else occurs to me. “How’d you get up here?”
He smirks at me devilishly. “Myron was at the door this morning. He said I’d been added to your list of approved visitors. I figured you’d done that?”
When I shake my head, we both realize at the same time. “Taya,” we say in unison before Carson adds, “queen of the universe, apparently.”
It’s her stamp of approval for sure, which is not easy to come by. In fact, I’d say it’s exceedingly rare. As far as I know, Taya doesn’t like anyone past me, her few close staff, and her manager. The rest of the world, other than her fans, could disappear in a crack in the earth and she’d be fine with it.
“Come on in. I need a coffee IV, STAT.” Turning around, I walk to the kitchen, swinging my hips a little extra because I know my sleep shorts leave the bottom of my ass cheeks hanging out. I hear Carson’s sharp intake of breath, and then he shuts and locks the door as he comes inside.
I pretend I don’t notice him watching me closely as I add water to the coffee maker and pop in a K-Cup. I ignore him as I grab a mug from the highest shelf, the one that requires me to stand on my tippy toes. I look deeply into my fresh coffee as if it holds the secrets of the universe.
