Things Remembered (Accidentally On Purpose Companion Novel #3) Page 2

  I’d ignored him and turned to Keith.

  “You were aware of my background when you presented me with the job offer, were you not?”

  Of course, he had been privy to such information. We’d spoken about it during my first interview.

  I hadn’t seen any reason to tear Keith’s face off, though; it had been obvious that Kyle was the one kicking me out of the position.

  Anxiously, he had leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk, pushing the glasses up on his face.

  “Certainly. Yes, Miss Grayne. Erm, that is, even though we are usually more…well…uh…selective with our employees, Miss Esmeralda Grayne has given you very high accolades. Also, your…” He’d cleared his throat and dared a glance at Kyle, but I kept my eyes on him. “Your therapist and parole officer also spoke very highly of you. We here at Sterling believe in giving everyone the chance to—”

  He’d been cut off once again by Crabby Kyle.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” he’d said in a quiet tone that some may call dangerous, but I just thought he sounded like Batman.

  I’d given him a one-shoulder shrug. “I can neither dispute nor lay claim to most of it, as I do not recall most of those incidences.”

  His eyes had narrowed more. “So you say.”

  Irritated, I’d said, “Yes, so I say. Drugs have a way of addling the brain.”

  “So, you admit that you are a drug addict.” A look of self-satisfaction for surmising such a very obvious thing had crossed his face. He was more than Captain Obvious; he’d earned a promotion to Admiral Obvious.

  “I am a recovering drug addict, but”—I’d smiled sweetly at him—“you already know about that, don’t you, Mr. Sterling?”

  There were many, many faces I had forgotten over the years, but his was not one of them. I’d seen his face at a dreaded meeting before, just as I had known he’d probably seen mine, too.

  The frigidity of his stare could have turned just about anyone else into a shaking and terrified mess, but it had only convinced me that my words had hit home.

  “Do you have anything else to add to your list of reasons as to why you believe I am incompetent?” I’d asked as I inspected my nails.

  He hadn’t hesitated to answer. “You have only just recently graduated from a generic college with an unimpressive transcript and a degree that has nothing to do with the position you were heedlessly hired for. With your offending, derelict background, ineptitude and ignorance, you hardly qualify to even work in our mailroom. Unfortunately, I only have the power to keep you out of my own department, not out of the company as a whole.”

  Even though it would’ve been wise to just take his verbal beating, smile, and prattle my way through it until he went on his way, that was a lesson I had yet to learn. I had yet to utilize the filter that connected my brain to my mouth—even after all these years, it takes a considerable effort for me not to say exactly what I think.

  “You can stand there with your ivy-league education—that your daddy probably bought for you—in your two-thousand dollar Canali suit and say what you will about my arrest record and my history with drugs. You can talk all day about how unqualified and incompetent I am for the position, but if you ever again try to tarnish the one gold star I’ve earned in my life, I will knee you in the balls so hard that you’ll be spitting them out of your mouth. Then I’ll shake some pepper on them, find a pair of tweezers to lift the wee things with, and eat them for lunch.”

  I had suddenly remembered that the man that hired me sat only a few feet away. I’d looked over at Keith and cringed inwardly, so sure that I’d lost any employment opportunities by threatening to eat Kyle Sterling’s balls. I was shocked, however, when the man’s eyes had flicked to me, and one corner of his mouth had—very briefly—pulled up into what could only have been a smile, or some kind of palsy.

  I’d glanced back up at Kyle, whose face hadn’t changed. He didn’t smile, nor did he seem surprised or angry. He hadn’t even placed a protective hand over his balls. He’d just continued to wear what I later dubbed his “Bitch Face,” which, for the most part, was his normal expression.

  “Emmy Grayne highly—if not erringly—recommended you, but I do not want you in my department. Besides, it is more likely that you will soon slip back into your old ways than to succeed here. How unfortunate that you will probably destroy your relation’s credibility.”

  He’d given me one last hard look and then headed toward the door.

  My hatred for him right then was enormous. I hadn’t hated him for the calloused and stabbing things he’d said previously. I had most likely said worse things to other people, and without the eloquence that he’d possessed. What I’d hated him for was his last couple sentences alone.

  Every day had been a struggle to keep my feet on the ground. Every hour, every minute…every second. It had taken an astounding amount of power to convince not only everyone around me, but myself as well, that I could do it—that I could get through a day without failing, let alone get through the rest of my life. Much too quickly, Kyle Sterling had made me second guess myself. The little bit of confidence that I’d had, along with the confidence that I’d pretended to have, had been blasted away.

  Had he made a derogatory comment about my weight, my mixed race, or the old track marks on my arms, it would have had far less of a negative impact on me. I hadn’t feared not getting a job at Sterling, there were other places to work. No, my worst fears had been that I’d lose myself to the drugs again and let everyone down.

  “Dickhead,” I’d muttered over my shoulder. It hadn’t been the most mature response, but it was heartfelt.

  “Excuse me?”

  When I’d glanced back up, I noticed he’d stopped just in the doorway and glared at me with a raised eyebrow. He probably didn’t expect me to repeat it.

  At that point, I didn’t really have anything to lose. If I hadn’t lost my employment prospects over threatening bodily harm to the man whose last name had marked the front of the building, surely, I wouldn’t have lost any by my next words.

  I’d turned in my seat so that he’d see my lips moving when I spoke, just in case he really was hard of hearing. “You are a dickhead,” I’d said, pronouncing each word carefully. “An itchy, infected, puss-oozing penis head.”

  His eyes had darkened, but he’d kept his bitch face in place when he’d said, “Well, with your past, I suppose you would know what an infected, puss-oozing penis head looks like.”

  He’d walked away before I could even contemplate throwing anything at him. Distractedly, I had turned back around in my seat.

  Keith had cleared his throat when I bent forward to pick up my purse off the floor. I knew the man was about to dismiss me from his sight. My mind had raced as I’d tried to recall the other places I had applied at.

  “I apologize for the, erm, distraction,” Keith had said after clearing his throat again.

  I’d raised my eyes to meet his, and I’d found him smiling. My jaw had fallen open and my eyebrows shot up. I’d closed my mouth and then opened it again, unsure how to respond.

  Keith had leaned forward conspiringly. I’d leaned forward as well, an automatic response when someone is about to share a secret.

  “I’ve never seen anyone stand up to him like that,” he’d whispered. “In the very least, your interaction with Kyle Sterling will be entertaining for the rest of us.” He’d winked at me and he no longer seemed to be nervous. “Now, would you like to discuss the human resources position?”

  That first meeting with Kyle had sparked a hateful relationship that had lasted for years. Emmy hadn’t been too fond of him, either. She’d nicknamed him Douche Puddle. Therefore, it had been surprising when, some months later, she’d accepted a promotion as his personal assistant and department manager. It had been more baffling when a couple years after that, she’d somehow ended up in bed with said douche puddle.

  That whole situation had been a hot mess. He’d had a girlfriend
, and Emmy later got a boyfriend, but they’d continued to screw around anyway. Even though Emmy hadn’t been very sensible, I had hated Kyle for his role in that relationship. He’d been in a position of authority over her and in my opinion, he’d had the bigger responsibility not to stick his prick in his employees.

  That screwed-up relationship had come to a very explosive and violent ending after about a year, though, after Kyle had gone into a violent psychopathic fugue.

  Amazingly, Emmy doesn’t hate him for what he did to her. Even though I’d hated him for hurting one of my best friends, I had been able to relate to Kyle Sterling. I had a few of my own VPFs when I was younger. I understood how drugs could completely alter a person. I understood the denial and the cravings and helplessness. I understood the desire to die, but unlike Kyle, I hadn’t minded trying to take my own life.

  I wish I could say that those feelings and deadly thoughts faded with time, but they didn’t, not truly. Kyle understood that, and very few others did. So, despite my many reasons for hating the guy, it was the destructive pieces of ourselves that had brought us together in an unexpected and strange association, which in a way debunked my whole broken people can’t help broken people theory…

  “It’s that kind of day, is it?” Kyle asked at the end of the meeting.

  He glanced at the origami flower on my lap. I had used the paper sleeve of my coffee cup to make it during the meeting.

  I had learned the art of origami during my last stint in rehab. My therapist thought it would be a soothing distraction for me whenever I was anxious, depressed, or had the desire to shoot up or have a line of coke. I didn’t think it would help at all. I thought it was the dumbest idea I’d ever heard. However, before I knew it, there were paper animals and flowers all over my room at the rehab center. It wasn’t a miracle cure or anything, but it helped me, as long as I really want to be helped.

  “I saw someone I used to know today,” I admitted immediately. I was never one to beat around the bush, and neither was Kyle. It was another reason why we had an equal hate for each other before, and yet another reason why we could tolerate each other later.

  “Another phantom,” Kyle said, nodding knowingly.

  “Not this one. This one is pretty solid.”

  He gave me a surprised glance. “You remember him? Without the help of your cousin or Em?”

  My cousin Tack was just “your cousin” to Kyle, but Emmy was “Em.”

  So many years later he could still say her name with an intimate familiarity that sometimes made me feel a little uncomfortable, and there wasn’t much in the world that made me uncomfortable.

  “I do remember him. Like anything else, there are some dark patches in my memory, but I remember him pretty clearly.”

  Many people were still milling about, drinking sludgy coffee and nibbling on stale cookies that someone had brought in. Crazy Judy and Drunk Larry spoke earnestly in a corner, and I prayed that the two were both sterile and wouldn’t procreate while Judy healed him with her pussy…cat.

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Kyle prodded. “You want to remember.”

  Slightly bending back the pedals of my paper flower, I spoke softly. “I don’t want to remember this time.”

  He matched my soft tone. “What is it? Who was he to you?”

  My hand closed into a tight fist, crushing the delicate flower to my palm. I took a deep breath.

  “He was a lot of things. The older brother of a good friend Tack and I used to get high with. He was someone I used to…love…” I said the word hesitantly. It felt strange coming out of my mouth. “He was also my unsought savior. My friend and I both overdosed at the same time and he chose to save me instead of her.”

  I dropped the crushed flower to the floor and kicked it away. I lifted my head and looked at Kyle.

  “He helped the wrong girl. He let the wrong girl live.”

  Chapter Three

  We went to a diner after the meeting. It wasn’t uncommon for us to walk the two blocks to the little hole in a wall after a meeting if one of us—mostly me—wanted to talk, or if we were just hungry. When Kyle stepped outside to take a work-related phone call, I began to lose focus on the world in front of me. The conversation inside the diner, the clinking of silverware against dishes, and the smells of food cooking became nothing more than a low buzzing at the back of my mind as I slipped into the past…

  I was only two when my mother put me in dance classes. I was three when I began piano lessons, and I was four when I competed in my first beauty pageant. My dark, spiraled hair, my peach-colored skin dotted with light brown freckles, and my big gray eyes got me in without any trouble, but I was also a very well-spoken child, unafraid and charismatic. I excelled at dance, conquered the black and white ivory keys of the piano, and was victorious at most of my pageants.

  My young life was a hustle and bustle of activity, going from one practice to another, shopping for the next dress, and trying out the newest hairstyle. Also, I was expected to keep an A average as a homeschooled child. My leisure time was almost non-existent, and I rarely got to do the same things kids my age did. I didn’t learn how to ride a bike because of the risk of injury. That reason was also why I couldn’t play Freeze Tag, jump rope, roller skate, or participate in any sports.

  By the time I was eleven years old, I had begun to burn out. I also began to hate my mother, because she wouldn’t let me quit, nor would she just give me a break.

  “I’m tired,” I complained to her. “I just want to do what other kids are doing.”

  “You are not like other kids,” she said with a sigh. It wasn’t the first time we had the conversation. “You are special.”

  “I don’t want to be special.”

  “Mayson, most young girls wish that they were in your shoes.”

  “They can have my shoes!” I shouted.

  I removed my ballet shoes as my mother patiently watched with her arms crossed over her chest. I threw them one by one across the small dance studio that had been transformed from a two car garage many years before.

  “Are you quite finished?” Mom asked, one dark eyebrow raised on her russet-colored face.

  “No!”

  I yanked the pink ribbon from my hair, and then the hair tie and pins that held my bun in place. My curls sprang free, making me look like a child-sized Medusa, especially since my eyes were no doubt as stony as the mythical creature’s eyes.

  “I don’t want to dance anymore,” I said, stomping my foot. “I don’t want to play the piano anymore, and I don’t want to be in any more competitions!”

  Mom cocked her head to one side as she looked at me thoughtfully.

  She was pretty, prettier than most moms I knew. She was a beautiful medium shade of brown with big, slightly slanted dark brown eyes and hair to die for. It was natural, thick, wavy, and fantastic. Her body was curvy but fit. She worked out daily to keep her trim waist, flat stomach, and long legs toned. No amount of working out, however, could get rid of her genetically inherited boobs and butt.

  “You’re right, Mayson,” she finally said, and I started to relax at her words, thinking that maybe I could finally start being like other kids. “You are tired. You may go to your room and take a one-hour nap.”

  I blinked slowly as my mouth hung slightly open. “A nap?” I asked dumbly.

  “Yes, a nap. You will feel refreshed and ready to begin again after a brief rest. Now, pick up your ribbon and your shoes and go. I will wake you after an hour.”

  Outraged, I stomped both my feet and crossed my arms. “I am not a baby! I don’t need a nap!”

  Her eyebrow went up again as she wordlessly said, “Oh, you’re not a baby, are you?”

  “Why won’t you let me quit?” I asked in a whiny voice.

  “Only losers quit, Mayson,” she said easily. “If you quit now, you will never be able to succeed at anything else for the rest of your life.”

  I threw my hands up in the air. “Everyone has to quit sometime
s, Mother. No one can do something forever.”

  “Someday you will thank me for all this. You will appreciate the discipline and order in your life. Now, Mayson, enough of this. Go lay down. Pick up your shoes and your ribbon as you go.”

  Rebelliously, I ignored the shoes and the ribbon and her as I left the studio. I stormed into my bedroom and slammed the door so hard that a couple trophies fell off a shelf. I let out an ear shattering scream of frustration and swiped another trophy to the floor.

  I sat down on my bed with my arms crossed tightly and glowered at the wall without actually seeing it.

  My mom wasn’t going to listen to me. She’d never listen to me. Even at the age of eleven, I knew what was happening. She was trying to live the life she had wanted as a child through me. She had grown up poor, ugly, and fat apparently. She eventually lost the fat and turned into a swan, but by then, all the things she had dreamed of were out of her reach because she was too old and too poor. She had told me thousands of times that she had to work very hard to get through college, that she was often too broke to eat more than one or two meals a day. That had all changed when she met my father. Adam Mayson Grayne took away all of my mother’s struggles, loved her, and gave her a daughter.

  I understood that my mom had a rough life and that I needed to be appreciative of the life I had. My dad was born into money and made very good money himself doing his part in the Grayne family business. I didn’t have to go through the same challenges that my mom went through, but she was adamant about me doing all the things she had wanted to do as a child and could not.

  “I always wanted to be a princess,” she’d told me when I was eight. “Now I want you to be a princess. Being an actual princess isn’t possible, but this is as close as we can get.”

  Somehow, I doubted that princesses had to do all the crap that I had to do.

  “I don’t want to be a stupid princess,” I growled to myself as I got off the bed.

  I changed out of my leotard and put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Most of my casual clothes weren’t really casual at all. My mom was insistent that I wore dresses like a lady. I was so tired of dresses and cute shoes. I smiled broadly when I slipped my feet into a pair of flip-flops that my dad had bought for me. Mom hadn’t liked that.