As James stepped back, Mick turned to take me in. Cupping my cheeks with his warm hands, he not only saw me but looked deep inside me. His dark eyes singed me as they took me in, seeing all my emotions play out on my face.
“What did he do?” Mick simply asked, and we both knew he didn’t mean James.
Shrugging, I reached for my drink, but he pushed my hand away from the half-filled glass.
“No, Margo, first tell me what happened, then I’ll get you a new drink that stuffy piece of shit didn’t buy you. After that, I’ll take you back to my place and make you forget both of them, if that’s what you need. Do you need a reminder of how we work?”
I glanced behind me, noticing that James had slunk away quietly.
“Mick, please,” I said with a sigh, not wanting to get into it with him.
In a short time, Mick had gathered enough ammunition on my husband to start a world war, which was why I came to the Oak instead of calling him. I was trying to break the cycle. Although, I didn’t want to examine why I picked our place to escape to.
“No.” Mick’s response was firm, and his determined gaze continued to burn through me. “Talk.”
“Same as usual,” I whispered, knowing his imagination gave him a pretty good idea of what the usual was. “How did you know I was here?”
“Fucker,” Mick muttered under his breath.
It didn’t escape my notice that he’d ignored my question.
He cleared his throat. “Let’s go take care of it,” he said matter-of-factly, knowing there would be something for him to put back together. “You need to push forward and get out like you said you would. If not for me, then—”
His words were interrupted by the shrill ring of my phone. I pulled it from my purse without looking at caller ID, already knowing who must be calling.
“Is everything okay?” I said in a panic.
“Yes, everything’s under control, but we’re at the emergency room. Priscilla—”
“Where?” I asked, hardly able to breathe.
My own injuries would have to wait. These were more important. Awkwardly holding my phone to my ear, I was shrugging on my jacket as I heard where they were with my daughter.
Without asking any questions, Mick tossed cash on the bar, then took my hand.
I wasn’t sure how he did what he was doing. How he could sense what I was going through, the emotions tumbling around inside me, but his gentle grasp on my fingers told me he did. Without asking, he led me outside toward the valet, and of course, his car was sitting right out front.
As the valet tossed him the keys, I told Mick, “Mass General. Now.”
With a nod, he opened my passenger door and then hurried around the front of the car. Once he’d dropped into the driver’s seat, he blew out a long breath while tapping at the GPS, searching for the quickest way to our destination without saying a word. As he pulled the car out into traffic, he finally spoke.
“You bought yourself a day or two, Margo, but this has to end.”
I wasn’t sure which he meant—us, or my other relationship, or both—but I didn’t ask. I simply sat twisting my hands, worried desperately about my daughter while at the same time wondering how I’d ended up in this nightmare of twisted feelings and bad choices.
Margaret
One month earlier
“We need half-and-half.” Tommy fumed as he tried to slam the door on our Sub-Zero fridge, but the hydraulics wouldn’t permit it. The door let out a slow whoosh as it refused to comply with his demand, softly closing instead.
I wished I could do the same.
With my hair still in a messy bun and dressed in rumpled pajamas, I nodded at my husband’s angry statement without looking up from my laptop. My editor wanted to meet around eleven. Mentally, I went over potential assignments she might have for me, and how quickly I could make Priscilla’s lunch and sneak in a workout before heading out the door.
“Margaret, did you hear me? We’re out of half-and-half. Now I’m going to have to stop for coffee on my way to work. It’s a huge waste of my time.”
I don’t know why I didn’t look up and just tell him I was sorry. Maybe I was channeling the Sub-Zero, but I was so damn sick of the weak version of myself.
“Use some of Prissy’s milk,” I said without thinking. “It’s just as creamy, and I’ll grab some fresh half-and-half today.”
I knew it wasn’t a satisfactory answer, but for two seconds I was caught up in myself and my career rather than my husband. Distracted, I wondered if maybe, just maybe I would get to cover Fashion Week this year.
“It’s two percent. That’s hardly creamy,” he said in an ominous voice.
One part of my mind noted my mistake, but I was still wrapped up in my thoughts. It had been a goal of mine to cover a few of the new gender-free fashion designers and the way they were using Instagram to market their clothes since I’d seen a documentary on the topic.
It really must have been an off morning for me, because I didn’t sense Tommy approach until his hand clamped painfully around my wrist. He gripped it hard, pain radiating all the way to the bone, and any career dreams vanished.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, knowing better than to flinch or say ouch. Revealing any pain or discomfort only fueled Tommy’s rage, and I wanted to finish this episode and get to my workout this morning.
“It’s not creamy. Say it for me, Margaret,” Tommy said low, squeezing my wrist harder.
I froze, not daring to move for fear my slight bones would crack, which would only please Tommy more. “It’s not.” I swallowed hard, knowing it would do me no good to argue.
Tommy’s eyes narrowed, and a vein pulsed in his forehead. “Not what?”
“Not creamy,” I whispered.
“Tell me something. Who pays for that chair you’re sitting in? The roof over your head? That expensive all-girls private school for your daughter?”
Tommy’s words cut through the pain.
My daughter? Actually, she was his daughter too, but I didn’t bother to get into semantics.
“You do, you do.” The words flew from my mouth on repeat and out of habit.
It didn’t take long for me to slip into the headspace where I gave Tommy what he wanted or expected, praying he would let go of my arm before Priscilla came into the kitchen.
“That’s right, and don’t you forget it.”
Tommy glared at me, tightening his grip around my wrist for a beat longer, and I held my breath. If experience held true, I’d bruise and have to wear long-sleeved shirts for a couple of weeks despite the August kind of heat we were having now in September.
Trying to ignore the pain, I glanced at the window. It was barely dawn outside, and I was already having a shitty day.
You made your bed, so lie in it. That was the sentiment my mom had given me with a shrug when I’d gone to her for advice. I hadn’t spoken with her since.
“Get the half-and-half today, you hear me?” Tommy released my wrist with a shove and grabbed his keys from the junk drawer.
“I will,” I barely croaked out in an effort to get rid of him.
Without another word, Tommy stalked toward the garage and was gone.