Waiting For Forever (Beautiful Surrender, Part Four) (6 page)

"He's a businessman, I'll know what he wants me to
know about him," I rebutted sharply. When she angrily snapped her
attention to the window, I cooled my temper. I'd all but thrown her
over my shoulder. Her father had ordered her home, and then I
ordered her to accompany me to straighten the whole mess out. Both
of us made demands of her and forced her hand. It ultimately didn’t
matter if I thought I was doing the right thing.

And it wasn't a completely selfless act on my part. I
wanted to meet the man, show him that I wasn't the tabloid asshole
that was plastered all over blogs and magazines. I wanted him to
see I loved his daughter. But in my rush to prove myself, I put
Melissa's needs second. That was an error I was dying to
correct.

I wanted to know her, to get her to go to an
uncomfortable place. I couldn't ask that of her and not do the
same. "I never met my father. My mother spoke of him of course, but
none of it was good." I reached for a bottle of Evian, wishing it
was a bottle of vodka instead. Delving into my past was more than
uncomfortable--it was dangerously close to unbearable.

Referring to the woman that gave birth to me as a
mother after what she did felt false. I gave the Brysons, the
family that adopted me, as little of my heart as I could get away
with, but if a woman deserved to be called ‘mother’, it was Rose
Bryson. She was the one that put ice packs on my fists after a
fight, the one who made me freshly baked cookies for good luck
before a test. She was the one that worried about me and told me
that I was special after I got so used to thinking I was a
mistake.

In the back of my mind, I always wondered if my
father missed me. I should have hated him--my mother planted the
seeds from the moment I'd unwisely asked where he was. But there
was always a drop of curiosity that never ran out. I wondered what
it would be like if my father had never done what he did and my
mother was normal. But Melissa was proof there was no such thing as
normal. Everyone carried around the broken pieces of splintered
white picket fences.

We pulled closer to downtown. Sidewalks and modest
storefronts were shoulder to shoulder with new construction.
Downtown Sac was getting quite the facelift.

Melissa probably knew the way from here like the back
of her hand, but her attention was elsewhere. Her eyes focused on
every street lamp, every mailbox, every sign. I'd forced a reunion
on her--I wouldn't force her to talk until she was ready.

The driver eased to the curb. I didn't need to strain
my detective muscles to figure out that the small huddle of people
clustered near the entrance were paparazzi. Melissa finally looked
at me. There was no anger, no fight in her gaze, just
weariness.

"Take me home," she said flatly.

I gave her a nod and she leaned forward to tell the
driver the address. When she sat back, she tiptoed her fingers
until they brushed against mine. Her other hand gripped her phone,
typing out a message with her thumb.

Once we were in motion, relief rippled across her
face, rounding her shoulders, releasing the tension in her body
until her fingers roped between mine and she clutched my hand.

"This will be strike three,” she said quietly. “I
doubt he'll come meet me."

"Strike three?"

She listed her offenses one by one. "The first was
doing anything that called into question that the Fosters are
anything but Family of the Year material, the second was not
dashing out here as soon as he called, and the third was not coming
up to the office."

"He's in Marketing," I shrugged. "Surely he knows
that you avoiding the paparazzi right now is the wisest course of
action."

She looked down at our hands, a sad smile lining her
lips. "I deserve the walk of shame. I have to atone for breaking
the cardinal rule: I acted anything less than perfect."

My chest tightened. I thought no father at all was a
worst fate. But a life of striving for the impossible took the
prize. And I'd brought her back here, back to that man.

"I'm sorry for insisting," I said, capturing her gaze
and searching for forgiveness. "Let's just go back to the
city."

She leaned in and kissed my cheek, her words a murmur
against my skin. "Half an hour, then we can head back."

We pulled into her apartment complex and she tensed,
probably expecting the paparazzi had made their way here as well.
She exhaled when the only traffic was residents making their way to
their vehicles with briefcases and backpacks with sleepy-eyed
children in tow.

I told Mike to go grab a bite and be back in a half
an hour, then followed Melissa inside her apartment.

"It's kind of a mess," she warned, "But make yourself
at home."

From the brown microfiber couch and photographs of
her and friends, even one of Melissa and her father, it was easy to
feel relaxed and at home. I'd never noticed how my place lacked
warmth until this moment. Her place looked like someone actually
lived there. Loved there. Mine was a meticulously arranged photo
shoot for some magazine. Beautiful to look at, but lonely.

Knocks descended on the door, and Melissa looked so
shocked that a breeze would have knocked her out flat. Shock faded
into wariness as she moved toward the door and stopped.

"I'm right here," I said firmly.

She nodded slowly, biting her lip. Taking a deep
breath, she rushed forward like she just wanted to get it over
with. She barely had time to step out of the way before a man
barreled into the room. The first thing that came to mind when I
saw him was elementary school. I was scrawny then. A target--until
I started standing up for myself. He hadn't even said a word and I
knew he used his muscular build just like those bullies had.
Throwing his weight around to intimidate.

He looked like he belonged in a ring instead of an
ill-fitting two-piece suit. His salt and pepper hair was buzzed
short, probably a military man. His facial features were hard and
thick, frown lines souring any resemblance to Melissa. Except for
the eyes--there was no mistaking the fact that she had her father's
eyes. His deep blue gaze chewed me up and spit me out.

I had to hold back my chuckle. I hadn't met a
significant other's parents since high school. I hadn't been
nervous then, and I was even less so now.

He sized me up as I joined Melissa's side. Manners
dictated that I extend my hand, but the man was clearly spoiling
for a fight. I wouldn't waste my time, or his, by going through the
motions.

Melissa was the first to speak. "Hey Dad."

He looked at her like she'd just called him an
asshole. From the way he puffed out his chest, breathing fire,
‘asshole’ would have been appropriate.

"‘Hey Dad’?" he seethed. "That's all
you have to say to me? Yesterday afternoon the phones were tied up
with reporters. Who knows if we lost potential clients? Then last
night, I called you and you hung up on me." He shook his head with
disgust. "I decided to do my own research about this situation.
This scandal-" He tossed a look of disdain in my direction. "-this
man...it's not wise to get involved in any of it."

He focused on his daughter. There was still a good
ten feet between them, but Melissa trembled like his massive hands
were on her shoulders, trying to shake sense into her. "What did I
always tell you?"

His answer hung in the air and I waited for her to
fight back. But the woman I'd met was nothing like the one that was
all but cowering beside me.

Like he could smell her fear, he drove forward, but I
stepped in between them. I shook with emotion, but it wasn't fear.
I could see the scars of years of emotional abuse, neglect, and
hurt all over Melissa. I'd be damned if I would let him cause her
another iota of pain.

"That's far enough," I growled.

"Look, boy," he spat. "I don't care if you have more
money than God. She's my daughter-"

"I remember, Daddy." Melissa's voice should have
gotten lost in the back and forth between me and her father, but
there was something so painfully calm in her words that both of us
went quiet. Her voice, her body didn't shudder. She looked past me
to her father, standing up a little taller. "Appearance is
everything. Nothing else matters--including me."

"Now wait a minute," he began.

"Oh please," she snorted. "There's nothing more to
say. The press will go away once the next inevitable scandal hits.
I'll work remotely for a few days, and once they realize they're
wasting their time, they'll move on. I apologize for any
inconvenience I caused you." Her voice was cold. Strictly business.
And as tough as he talked, I could see it hit him harder than any
blow could.

She moved to the door, opening it and stepping out of
his way. "Thanks for stopping by."

He didn't put up a fight, marching right out the
door. He paused on the welcome mat. "We'll discuss this later.
Alone."

She closed the door without another word then went to
the window. She peeked in between the blinds, waiting until his car
started and pulled away before she faced me.

There was no anger. No tears. No emotion.

"Still need to know what my dad is like?" she asked
weakly. She didn’t wait for me to answer. “I’m ready to go,
Logan.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Melissa

I thought that we'd hit peak madness already. The
first instance of crazy was the point where I told him that I loved
him when we barely knew each other. I'd only said that word to two
other people--my dad and Jason. Dad was a given. We had our
differences, and while his face made me want to rage at this
moment, I still loved him. And Jason? That was years in the making.
Slowly falling until I had no other choice but to admit that he had
me.

The second wave crashed into me around the time that
I realized that dating Logan Mason meant having a boyfriend worth
more money than I could wrap my mind around and tangling with
Delilah James. Oh, and he was going to be a father. I felt like any
rational person would at least need a moment to catch their breath.
Not me--I dove in headfirst.

But both of those things seemed like
anthills to the mountain that was springing up in the middle of
Logan's living room.
Tiny bumps in the
road, and here comes the crater to swallow me whole.

I'd made a dumb joke about wishing my father out of
existence. I knew it was crass, and I didn't mean it of course, but
saying it out loud seemed like a form of therapy--until Logan gave
me the most chilling look I'd ever seen. He’d uttered the words
that sliced me down to the bone.

Me too. It seemed like a fitting reaction, the
perfect end for the man that raped my mother.

I didn't need a pen to connect the dots. It was in
the undercurrent beneath his words. The ache in his eyes.

Logan was the product of rape.

I heard a buzzing sound in my ear, a painful clench
in my chest. "Oh my god, Logan! And I was just making jokes about
it, making light of it-"

"Babe, you didn't know. Now you do."

His words were indifferent and I took a step forward.
My first thoughts were to throw my arms around him. I wanted to
take away his pain, but I doubted my hug would even dull the agony.
And his body language, shoulders angled away from me, eyes trained
on the window, told me that he didn't really want to hug it
out.

It would have been patronizing anyway. A flimsy band
aid on a gushing, bloody wound. I stood there, scouring my mind for
the right words to express how sorry I was. But I felt useless, my
thoughts a muddled mess of good intentions and terror.

"I don't know what to say." I could feel the weight
of this in the air, in the taut lines of his body. In the
silence.

"I didn't, either," he answered. "My mother told me
when I was six."

"Six years old? What the hell is wrong with her?" I
gasped when I realized that I was outdoing myself in the foot and
mouth department this afternoon. I had no idea what she had gone
through, her reasons behind telling her awful story to her son.

I wouldn't have been surprised if Logan told me to
get that hell out. I'd been talking crap about my father the whole
ride back to San Francisco, how he didn't see me, and I didn't know
him and he didn't know me. Logan didn't know his father
either--except that he'd done something horrible to his mother.

"There's no good way to react to the bomb I just
dropped." He gestured for me to join him on the couch. Even though
I could see the hurt still burning in his eyes, it seemed he had
whatever demons lying beneath the surface under wraps. I still
hesitated before I followed him, mortified that I'd made light of
death, about pain. In the face of what he had to endure, my issues
with my father seemed pointless.

He leaned back into the cushion, and a flash of guilt
cut through me when naughty thoughts raced through my head.
Appropriate timing or not, the man made the most mundane things,
even sitting, look sexy. Our eyes met and the smile returned to his
lips, broadening and forcing out the darkness that cut his angular
jaw.

"Is that a professionally honed skill, or are you
just good at reading me like a book?" I said, trying to cool the
heat in my cheeks.

"It's one of my many skills," he winked. The
playfulness in his voice didn't linger. "With you, I have the
pieces of the puzzle, I know how it all fits together. The pieces
click together, but the picture is always changing. I keep finding
out new things about you. Falling harder for you. And I want you to
figure me out. I don't want any secrets between us. Secrets are
like carrying around poison. Sure, it's easier to keep things to
yourself, hide it away, but eventually, it'll bleed into
everything."

I knew his words were true. I bit my tongue so often
that I was surprised I could taste anything but blood. Even though
I kicked my dad out, I managed to not tell him how much he'd hurt
me over the years. And all the love in the world couldn't dull the
secret I hid from Jason--that I worried he'd never love me as much
as I loved him. It ended up being irrelevant in the end, but maybe
if I hadn't carried it around like a stone in my gut, things would
be different.