Worst Week Ever (A Long Road to Love) (29 page)

Carrie woke to
the delicious scent of Trent. She opened her eyes and smiled. His face hovered
inches from hers, so close she couldn’t focus on him. “Do you need something?”

“Are you
rested and ready to get to work? We have a very busy day today.”

She gently
placed her hands on his chest and pushed him back so she could sit up. When she
touched a silk tie and crisp white shirt, she focused on his beautifully cut,
double-breasted suit of fine Italian wool.

“Trent, you
could’ve died going back to the penthouse to get your suit.” God, she had to
watch him every second.

He stroked her
hair and frowned when his fingers caught in a tangle. “You can borrow my
hairbrush. Unfortunately, you don’t have time for a shower and Sam has yet to
bring your clothes, so you’ll have to wear your horrid sweat thing. Let this be
a lesson. Never wear something you wouldn’t want to be photographed in. My
grandmother taught me that early on and it’s served me well my whole life.”

With a glare,
she rose and stumbled to the closet to retrieve her sweats. “Well, thank God,
Sam ignored you. Ivan could be at the penthouse, waiting to kill anyone who
shows up.”

“Technically,
Sam ignored Mars, not me, which surprises me. He normally obeys Mars and should
have this time given the cops have already caught Ivan the Terrible. Or killed
him. I can’t remember. The only reason we can’t return to the penthouse is
because they’ve declared it a crime scene, which you’ve proven to have no
problem ignoring.”

She wished to
challenge a great deal of his tirade. “First of all, Mars should not be calling
anyone. He needs rest and recovery time.”

“The other
Mars. Marston or Martin…I can’t remember which.”

“Oh.”
Honestly, she couldn’t remember either, so she let it drop and continued her
objections. “How can you not remember if a person’s dead or not?”

He shrugged.
“I never bonded with the fellow. I did threaten to fire him if he ever served
those shit dumplings for breakfast again, but even then I sent my threat
through Mars.”

She smiled,
certain he’d complained because she hadn’t like them. While she didn’t condone
threatening people, she trusted Mars softened the message to something more
palatable. Which left her with only one objection.

“I did not
enter our office illegally. I called the officer in charge and asked him if I
could go in. He sent a policeman over, who removed the tape.”

Trent glanced
at his watch. “It’s 5:45. Are you going to dress or not? I really want to be at
work by six.”

Carrie hurried
into the small bathroom and stared longingly at the shower. A shower wouldn’t
take long. Noticing both towels lay wet on the floor, she sighed heavily. By
the amount of water on the floor, she guessed Trent didn’t know how to close a
shower curtain.

Upon pulling
off the hospital gown, she sniffed herself. God, she smelled like a horse that
escaped a raging fire, ran the Kentucky Derby then got put away wet.

Knowing Trent
wouldn’t give her much time, she turned on the shower, lathered, and rinsed as
quickly as possible. Once done, she dried herself with the hand towel still
hanging on the rack.

The door
thundered and rattled beneath Trent’s pounding. “We don’t have time for you to
take a shower.” The door handle twisted repeatedly.

Did he intend
to storm the bathroom and carry her off wet and buck-naked? Thank God, she’d
locked it. Otherwise, he’d be complaining for the rest of the day that her wet
body had ruined his suit.

She rifled
through his bag, using not only his hairbrush but also his antiperspirant,
toothpaste, and toothbrush. She even toyed with dotting herself with his
fabulous cologne, but changed her mind, fearing female dogs would follow her
down the street barking at her.

She slipped on
her sweatshirt sans dried sweat bra and dirty underwear.

Given the inch
of water on the floor, she needed dry land to put on her sweat pants. She
lowered the toilet seat and climbed out of the Sea of Trent.

Brilliant
idea—as long as she didn’t fall and break her neck.

That would
be the perfect ending to the worst week in my life.

Managing to
get in her sweat pants without killing herself, she jumped off the toilet. The
moment her feet hit the watery tiles she headed south. Grabbing the door knob
for dear life, she righted herself, and stumbled out.

Trent pulled
her to him. “God, you’re pale as a sheet. Are you having flashbacks?”

Her brain didn’t
have to flashback to prior near-death moments. It only needed to wait a few
hours and she’d incur a new life threatening event.

“I can’t
believe you washed your hair. Now you’ve made us late.”

“I did not
wash my hair.”

“Then why’s it
so stringy?” He pulled at strand after strand.

“It’s oily.”

Trent stood
back as if oily hair were contagious.

His reaction
hurt her feelings. No doubt his stupid grandmother had given him a warning
about oily hair, as well. She huffed with annoyance. Rich people made terrible
parents.

And
grandmothers.

“Can we go
now?” he demanded.

She looked
around the room, ensuring she had everything.

What
everything? It’s not as if she packed a bag of vital items before fainting.

She had
nothing but shoes to put on.

“Are you
wearing those things without socks?” His voice had pure horror in it.

Carrie
wondered which disgusted him more, the tennis shoes or the lack of socks. “Do
rich people never wear tennis shoes?”

He hesitated.
“Some do, on certain occasions, such as playing tennis at the club. However,
they change into and out of them in the locker room of the club. And their shoes
are always clean and new.”

“So they buy
new tennis shoes each time they play?” she challenged.

“I don’t know.
Maybe.”

She didn’t
believe him for a minute. “And what do they do with the once-used shoes? Give
them to poor people?”

“Possibly.
Through a third party of course.”

After tying
her shoes, Carrie stood up, trying not to laugh at the image of rich people
driving through Harlem at full speed, tossing out a pair of shoes to the gang
walking toward their car. Maybe the guy took a shot at Trent’s limo because he hadn’t
thrown out the expected sacrificial pair of Nikes.

“What are you
smiling about?”

“Just trying
to make sense of life.”

“Don’t bother.
The whole world’s insane.”

“Not all of
it,” she muttered, missing her laptop and purse. “Where’s my phone?”

Trent patted
his suit. “I have it.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her along as he hurried
from the hospital.

Maybe she
should invest in roller-skates. Then she could just roll along beside him, no
matter how fast he walked. Instead, she had to run a full-out sprint to keep
up.

She gasped for
breath as he flagged a taxi and impatiently pushed her inside, climbing in
after her.

“You’re out
breath,” he complained. “You aren’t getting sick are you? We don’t have time
for any more hospital visits.”

“I’m fine.”

He started to
pet her hair, but pulled back a second before impact and rubbed her arm. “You
certainly are.”

Voila! An
unexpected act of kindness arrived without fanfare just before she declared
Trent the biggest jerk in the world. She patted his arm in return. “The worst
is over, and from here it’s going to get better.”

He nodded then
yelled at the taxi driver for taking the wrong road. “You do this for a living.
Why do I have to tell you how to do your job?”

The cab slowed
to a crawl for no apparent reason. At this speed, they wouldn’t reach the
office for an hour.

Trent
evidently realized the same thing. “Pull over. We’ll find a cabbie who wants to
do his job.”

The man
ignored him as the cab crawled down the road. Carrie prayed her boss wouldn’t
decide they should jump out of a moving car.

Trent pulled
out her phone and cursed. “Where’s my phone?”

She stared at
him woefully. How quickly he forgot
his
stupid actions, while holding
onto hers forever. By his grimace, recall had just returned.

“Not my old
phone. I meant my new phone. But you need to do something to stop some drug
dealer named Digson from selling cocaine to all our customers.”

She ignored
the latter comment and focused on his question. “Your new phone should have
arrived this morning. If you’ll return my phone I’ll tell them to deliver yours
to the office.”

“Later. I need
to do something now.” He punched the phone with excessive force, still believing
if he bludgeoned the buttons, they’d worked better.

“Mars, give me
my lawyer’s number.” He snapped his fingers at Carrie. “Write this down. 212-388-2664.”

Write with
what?

She put the
number to memory using a play on words: Three ate eight, too sick, sick for
words.

“You aren’t
writing. Why aren’t you writing?”

“I don’t have
pen or paper. It’s in my memory. Let Mars get back to work and I’ll dial it for
you.”

He hung up the
phone without thanking Mars, but his rudeness didn’t surprise her. During these
last two days, his manners had hit rock bottom. Clearly, Trent did not handle
stress well.

She paused
after pressing 212, struggling to remember her mnemonic device.

God, stress
has eaten
her
memory!

“You’ve
forgotten it, haven’t you?”

Finally, the
image of starving people stuck in an elevator came back. “Three ate eight. Too
sick, sick for words.”

“You’ve mucked
it up. The last thing you muttered didn’t even sound like a number.”

She ignored
him and punched the numbers into her cell phone. “What’s your lawyer’s name?”

“Don’t bother.
Give me the phone and I’ll call Mars back.”

Carrie pressed
talk.

“David
Sedita,” a low and professional voice spoke.

“Hold for
Trent Lancaster, please.”

Passing him
her phone, she smiled at Trent. “David Sedita awaits you.”

His eyes
rounded in surprise as he returned her smile. He placed the phone to his ear
and grew stern. “David, Trent. A sorry excuse for a driver has taken us hostage
in a cab going five miles an hour….No traffic. He’s driving this slow to run up
the meter and piss me off. …Yeah, it’s posted.”

As Trent read
off the man’s operator license number, the car miraculously picked up speed.
“Never mind, it appears the man has decided to do his job after all. Sorry to
bother you…but keep the number just in case he has a relapse.” Trent hung up
the phone, clearly pleased with himself.

Carrie patted
his arm. He managed to resolve a problem without bellowing once. While a slow
process, she did see improvement in Trent.

As she relaxed
and closed her eyes, her memory replayed his words about Digson selling cocaine
to their customers.

“Who exactly
is Digson?” she asked without opening her eyes.

“A drug dealer
who evidently has my phone. My useless driver told me he called the number and
this Digson offered him cocaine.”

Carrie’s
temper flared. She’d asked the service provider to disconnect the phone last
night when she reported it stolen and ordered a new one.

Maybe this
happened before her request.

She called
Trent’s number and got an angry voice message. “This is Digger. D I G G E R.
Don't leave any messages for Trent, Master Trent, or Mr. Lancaster. This is my
phone now.”

Carrie hung up
and called the provider.

They checked
their records and assured her they’d disconnected the service. After arguing
with the woman for five minutes, she asked for a supervisor. The supervisor
also insisted they had disconnected the phone. So Carrie asked for a manager.

“What service
do we have?” Trent asked.

When she told
him, he smiled. “Ask to speak to Charles Bradford.”

When they
refused to escalate matters to the CEO, she hung up and pondered how to get
Charles Bradford’s number—Trent would accept nothing less. The name sounded
familiar. “Is he a customer of ours?”

Trent nodded.

She had all
their customers listed in her phone. She found and activated the number. After
a brief moment with the secretary, Mr. Bradford picked up his line. She explained
the problem. “You can call the number yourself and you’ll see it’s not been
disconnected.”

Mr. Bradford put
her on hold. A moment later, he returned, apologizing profusely. “I’ll get the
phone disconnected if I have to go down and do it myself. I’m guessing Trent
doesn’t know about this yet.”

“Actually, he
does.”

A heavy sigh
came over the phone. “Well, thank him for letting you deal with this. Please
explain to him he’s not the only person who has to deal with people who can’t
do their jobs.”

“I will. It
might cheer him up.”

She thanked
him again and hung up, smiling at Trent.

“Is it fixed
yet?”

“He promised
it will be even if he has to go down there and disconnect it himself.”

“Call him back
and warn him not to go after Digget. I don’t want him killed.”

“No. He means
he’ll go down to wherever his little people work and do their job for them.”

“Ah.” Trent
leaned back and smiled. “He doesn’t have a great EA who can do it for him. Poor
fellow.”

She gripped
Trent’s hand and squeezed. “You are taking things very well today.”

He shrugged
and relaxed. “I think you’re rubbing off on me. It’s less stressful to actually
solve the problem than just to bellow and bark about it.”

Her grip
tightened. He truly showed improvement. Once they fixed their horrible employees,
he could easily be become the best boss in the world.