A Love Story

33)

Brooke English, it seemed, was a woman of many talents. Upon realizing what their night would entail and how long they would spend in her office searching for any loophole to use against Chandler's loophole, she had proceeded to order food and gone out to get it.

Processing that last thought, Buck paused in his reading before letting out his breath tiredly, thoroughly grieving for the loss of grammatical grace that raising a teenage daughter had caused in the man. He loved his daughter but the point was, she was his daughter and, because of that, she had been a hellcat even during her calmest years.

Raising his head when the door opened, he took note of the bags dangling from one hand thankfully and then leaned forward, taking them and setting them on her desk as the drinks tipped dangerously. Letting her purse drop to the desk, she set the drinks down carefully, pausing as she noticed him pulling something out of his inner coat pockets.

Noticing the raise of her eyebrows, he held up the pill case and offered a dryly amused smile as he snapped one or two compartments open, dropping the caplets into his open palm. "I've had a lot of health drama in the last years, Ms. English." Catching her look, he added, "Brooke."

"What kinds of health drama?" she questioned as she set his drink before him, opening the bag and starting to search inside. "I'm an editor, so I'm sorry if this is rude but you've managed to keep the press out of your existence for quite while considering how much drama you and daughter have been involved in."

"So which is it," he chuckled quietly, swallowing the first pill down, glancing at her thoughtfully. "I'm either too much drama or I hide myself very well for a man of my caliber."

Brooke set a Styrofoam container before him along with several napkins and plastic fork; silently thankful they had gotten rid of those disturbing and irritating "sporkes" so many places used. They had been the bane of her existence as a mother, Jamie having a fondness for poking and jabbing at her business suits with them when she wasn't looking.

Many a blazer had been ruined in the seemingly endless English vs. mini-Martin "spork" battle of his childhood.

"The effects of the bullet in my head, I admit, is the worst of the lot but, Hell, there are times that I'm amazed I'm even alive with what this body has been through." Another pill was downed as she studied him silently. "That's where the blindness comes from, you see. Not bad these days, I've spend many years working to improve the eyesight, but the truth is, it'll never be completely whole again."

"So, what, somebody shot you and you woke up blind?"

She was a woman of tact, wasn't she? "No, more like I woke up okay, and later started losing my eyesight because, apparently, surgeons can only pull out so many bullet shards at once. A few months after I got home with my daughter, I started getting blurry vision, then one morning I woke up and couldn't see anything." He cocked an eyebrow, offering a crooked grin. "A few of the shards had moved in the couple of months and they went back in and removed those."

"And now?"

"Now?" At her nod, he sighed slightly, fiddling with the brim of the hat set on the corner of her desk. "Well, now, Brooke, I'm a half-blind cowboy with lingering back problems—that's from when my plane went down, remember—and, of course, the heart attack from the stress of the shooting. Add to that numerous illnesses that were a direct effect of the aforementioned health problems and my daughter has spent more of her life nursing me when I have problems than she has spent with people younger than mid-forties, all business men if you're curious."

Finally dropping the empty bag into the wastebasket by her desk, the redhead settled into her own chair, opening the container that held her meal—an assortment of meat and vegetables—and stabbed one piece of pepper steak, biting it off her fork and chewing thoughtfully, watching him study his food. "Good?" she questioned lightly.

His answer, punctuated by the flick of a piece of sweet and sour chicken adorning the end of a fork, was a chuckle and a nod, leaning back and setting feet back on her desk, grinning to himself and deciding that, just maybe, the next few weeks in Pine Valley wouldn't be that bad.

Jack hadn't been in the mood to worry about Erica and the casino this evening, not with these worries about his children.

Lily, at the moment, seemed the most balanced, something that both worried and encouraged him, an odd blend of emotions that he disliked as he sat on the couch, fingertips tracing his leather wallet, feeling the slight change he had detected as soon as he lifted it from his desk several hours before.

Greenlee, for her part, had become hollow in her movements over the last months, had come to exist in an autonomic mode as she worked at Fusion, called him loyally once a week, and pranced around like a Stepford wife as Mrs. Lavery. Things had suddenly shifted a few days before and it baffled him, although it also left him with his own suspicions considering the 'why' behind it.

If he was right in his unhappy suspicions, he'd soon be going after Hayward with something large and heavy to cave in the doctor's thick skull…

But it was Reggie that, as always these days, held his largest blend of worry and fret, especially since just after Miranda's return. One day his son had been planning to steal baby-sitting time from Jack and Erica regarding Miranda and the next, he had gone quiet and withdrawn from Jack with such speed and perfection it left Jack's head spinning.

Jack didn't know how to be a father and had accepted long ago that he'd never really understand the mechanics behind it because, really, he couldn't grasp it at times, that his children, his children for God's sake, depended on him, that they needed him in a way that not even Erica needed him in her worst moments.

He knew where he stood with Erica, even when things got bad, very bad but he never, ever had sure footing when it came to being a father to these children who weren't even children anymore, not really. Greenlee was grown, a strong woman with the reins of a company under her hands and Lily, though young and clearly unsure of some things, at times seemed more aware of the mechanics of the world than he could say he was.

Reggie, though…

Tiredly, shaking his head softly, he opened the wallet, taking silent note of how many bills were missing and then closing it again, setting it at his side and staring dully at the coffee table before him with usually sharp eyes, now gone hazy in his quiet, unspoken confusion regarding this sudden slip.

What the Hell had changed?

Torres' glass had a slight mark of pink, the touch of lipstick along the edge and she shifted her attention, catching sight of the other glass. Seeing Simone threading her way through the crowds, probably to get the ice for Maxie's poor ankle—Harley always had known the mechanics of the other woman's mind—she grabbed up the other one, slipping it into the plastic bag and into her large bag, darting quickly away from the table.

It was all almost too much for her, especially if what Maxie said turned out to be truthful. The youngest Cambias—except for the itty-bitty Montgomery daughter—Maxie had enough plans going on, all at once, to make Harley's head spin with the attempts to keep them separate. Brothers, daughters, sons… she didn't even know anymore, not really.

The fact that Kincaide was in town didn't ease her worries and, almost expecting the petite banshee to pop up, lungs a-blaring, she glanced over her shoulder as she headed for the doors of the casino, but saw no sign of the angry young woman with way too many stiletto heels and skirt suits… honestly, was that all she ever wore!

Finally getting out, she took off across the concrete, heels clicking and echoing loudly in the stillness, loud and sharp against the muted noise from the casino. Digging past her little finds, she grabbed her keys from the inside of her bag, unlocking the door of her car in the far corner of the main parking lot.

Honestly, the Cambias family was like the Baldwin family… somebody shakes the tree and another one drops off…

JR had to admit, it was nice to be worried about.

Fingering his empty glass absently, he felt an odd sense of pleasure at the worry that he could pick up from Kendall as she picked at the smooth top of the bar. She had Miranda back, had what she so desperately needed and she still gave a damn about him and that… that was so very special…

"What about Chandler Enterprises?" he asked suddenly, turning his head to regard the closest thing he had to somebody he could trust with curiosity edged with something akin to a childish kind of need. "I mean, I saw Malone when I came in and she was walking around like she owned the place so, I mean… the plans haven't changed, right?"

"Of course not," she snapped, flicking her wrist and the fingers of that hand, as if dismissing his concerns without a thought. "Everything's going fine right now… Livia's one of the best and she's in Zach's corner." She stopped suddenly, freezing and eyeing him with a slight wariness. "And… um… other things."

"Other things?" he echoed, blue eyes narrowing and his face chilling, looking uneasily like a young, not-so silver-haired Adam. When she looked away, he grabbed her hand, tugging it repeatedly, knowing it pissed her off and she snapped around, scowling at him, suitably pissed enough to snap something about charities and clubs.

"What!"

Kendall just shook her head, waving that hand again, something that irritated him beyond words; sick of being dismissed by people who weren't supposed to dismiss him, not after all they said they would do. "Kendall—"

"Why can't your father leave well enough alone?" she snapped, turning on the stool to bring full attention to the, flinging her hands out like some ruffled bird flapping her wings. The flash of her finger bling, glittering brilliantly in the light, only enhanced her image, as did the nest of curls and the slight touches of shading on the blue dress. "We were giving him back his company, your company and he pulls crap like this!"

"I don't understand a word you—" He stopped, confusion easing as he stilled, eyes flashing and then he snapped a hand out, stopping the nervous movements of her hands in her lap. "Crap like what, Kendall… crap like what? What, exactly, did he pull without you, me or Brow Boy knowing?"

"Okay, you will not go around town, calling my husband 'brow boy', okay!" At his look, she scowled again, more childishly as she glared down at her hands. "Apparently, your father doesn't like Ms. Texas… he, did something… with the papers…" She glanced him another nervous look, scrunched her shoulders a little bit before blurting out brokenly, "Your father broke the contract we all made up and it's all his fault!"

Leaning one shoulder against the door to her loft, Micaela bent one leg, reaching down to slip off one heel and then another. That done, she entered, locking the door behind her, heels dangling from one hand as she trudged into the main part of what would eventually become her home if she tried long and hard enough.

Micaela was not, by nature, a happy woman. Two years of her childhood had been ruined and, as far as she was concerned, the unhappiness of her life during that period had permanently soured what should have been a happy, rich-girl existence. Most women, like her, would have settled into a Paris Hilton-esque existence with blank stares of stupidity when anything like intelligence was needed.

Micaela was usually proud of her intelligence and tried using it whenever she could and that, in essence, was why she found herself feeling so very disappointed in herself as she dropped her heels, letting her blazer follow minutes later and finally eased herself onto the couch, something that still had the tag on.

Pressing her palms against the sides of her face, she let out her breath harshly, feeling heated, stunned at what it was that was upsetting her so badly about all this. The loss of the club had been a slap in the face but the realization that the bastard, after fully digesting Livia's words, now essentially had full power over the Foundation had been the punch in the gut.

What was she going to do?

Closing her eyes, struggling to loosen the knot of panic forming in her gut and the tightness in her chest, she concentrated on simply breathing, breathe flowing in and out of her, something she could, at least on some level, control. Letting out a frustrated noise like some angry child, she dragged fingers through dark hair, threading the black tresses, breath catching at the thought of him destroying it.

She knew why she had created it but she never put it into words, not with what it would mean. A slap in the face to her father after all they had been through together in her life, the doting daughter and flawed father united against the nastiness of the world, against people like Lynette, who played with lives with not a single care to who suffered while she tried to get what she wanted.

And the anger was there, her constant companion for so many years, it rose up again, memories of that heartless bitch causing it to ignite, an inner blaze that made it hard to hear anything but the blood pounding in her ears and the heat scorching her skin and the sudden inability to fill her lungs with the cool air of this place she had brought.

Her hand swept up, sending a half-unpacked box on the coffee table crashing to the floor, contents spilling out to litter the floor like the silent victims of some massacre, photo albums and plastic containers filled to the brim with glossy images of what had been tainted by that woman and her hatred of her father.

Leaving them there, refusing to look at them when she felt like this, she stood, striding away from the couch and table and the mess, purse dangling from tingling fingers and then turning towards the bedroom, snatching the phone off the dresser and dropping onto the bed, the cradle of the phone in her lap.

Digging the card out of her purse, which she dropped at her feet, she punched in the number and then, with fingers clutching the cradle with white-knuckle force, gripping the phone between shoulder and ear, she waited for Livia Frye-Cudahy to pick up the phone and answer a few of her burning questions.

The cell phone was ringing and, really, Tad could not care.

Thoughts of going home, not that it felt like his home anymore, were unappealing at the least and disturbing at the most and he was hesitant to bring thoughts like these and memories like this into where he and Dixie had once lived, didn't want to contaminate what lingering happiness was there from before, however small and slight it was.

And, God forbid, what if anyone should be there?

He wanted, more than anything, to find some small place to curl up into and simply die. That had to be better than this mix of emotion that, if anything, grew with every heartbeat, tangling and knotting up his gut and his chest, making it hard to do anything else but wallow, drowning in them.

It had taken a good fifteen minutes just to move away from the door, ease himself into the office and take a seat, moving like some beaten man who had nothing left to give. Now inspired by the sudden flow of metaphor, he snorted bitterly, quietly, rubbing his hand over the savage but empty smile twisting his face.

Everything hurt.

His eyes and his head and his heart, bruised and aching in the fragile stillness of the silent office, and he was wary of everything, half-expecting a shadow to come at him or, and this thought came with a slight flicker of hope, the ground would move up and swallow him whole, which would have to be better then this.

Tipping the bottle of alcohol, he wasn't even curious as to what variety he was tossing back, he poured a bit more as well as he could, which wasn't all that well. Some sloshed too hard, out of the glass and onto the table, pooling. His hand was shaking, hence the sloshing of the booze and he put down the bottle carefully, leaning closer to the table and staring into the glass.

He couldn't pinpoint it exactly and God knew he had tried, hadn't he?

He felt like some kid at the beach, watching his so-carefully constructed little sandcastle simply fade away, bit by bit, with each wave, the rush of water ripping it away and dragging it all down to nothing. And in the end, there would be nothing left to testify to its original existence but his own memories, ones that were becoming viciously tainted and muddied by all of these little seconds of time, little heartbeats of his existence.

Blinking, he studied the glass, listening to the ringing continue, wondering why this person wouldn't just drop it and try later. His eyes shifted slowly to the phone, staring silently at the flashing blue light, looking almost angry in the frightening shadows around his broken form, ones that he felt shifting, moving closer, tightening up like a noose around his neck.

Reaching, he lifted it up, staring at the number and name before shaking his head dully and dropping it back to the table, lifting the glass with one hand and throwing it back, shaking himself at how strong it was but grateful for the harshness, almost hoping it would clear all of these things for him, explain things that he didn't understand.

It didn't, of course it didn't… couldn't have anything be easy for him, right?

"Do you know where Mrs. Martin is?"

Jerking, Joe looked up from the phone that sat in the cradle like some coiled serpent, staring at the young woman who stood there, heels dangling from her fingers and looking bone-weary as she leaned against the doorway to his home office, studying him with interest and something in the back of her eyes that made his chest tug uneasily.

"She's already gone to bed," he responded, turning his chair to give her his full attention but she shook her head furiously, looking everywhere but at him as she straightened, standing tall. "It's okay, I was just wondering…" Another shake, this one slightly ragged and, when she took a small step back, he questioned cautiously, "Is there anything you need to talk about?"

She gave him a look and he grinned the smallest bit at the twitch of a smile there, just a twitch but still… "I'm just exhausted, Dr. Martin, you know? I spent the last few hours running around a casino with Mags and her boyfriend and I'm just in sore need for a good sleep… when you see Mrs. Martin, just tell her that I got home all right."

Before he had even managed to nod, she had turned and was gone and he sat silently, eyes back on the phone, listening to her movements as she darted upstairs and then the click of the door behind her closing. When the final sounds had died down, when no other noises, however quiet, came from above, he reached back out and plucked back up the phone, fearless as he punched in Tad's work number, content to sit up and wait as long as he had to for a response.