Break of Day Page 4

  A date? Was this some kind of joke?

  I stared up at him, trembling, his hand searing my chin. Half of me wanted to shove him backward to break this odd connection between us. The other half—well, that half wanted something else entirely. Something I should have entirely not wanted.

  Suddenly, my phone broke out into song.

  Saved by the bell. Literally.

  I stumbled backward, managing to break away and put distance between us as I fumbled for my phone in my purse. My heart was beating so fast and hard I could barely breathe and I nearly dropped the phone onto the ground. All the while I could feel Asher’s eyes, still on me, watching, waiting.

  “Excuse me,” I mumbled, glancing at the caller ID.

  Shit. It was Mom.

  Under any other circumstance I would have ignored the call. But at that very moment it was my only Get Out of Jail Free card and I couldn’t pass it up. I held up a hand to Asher before cowardly retreating to the other side of the tent and answering the call.

  Before I even said hello, I knew it was a bad idea.

  “Sweetie!” my mother’s voice cried from the other end. The connection was crackly. There wasn’t great cell service out in the desert where she lived.

  “What do you want, Mom?” I asked, gripping the phone tightly.

  “What do I want? Can’t a mother call her daughter just to say hello?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment. Even through the static I could hear the squeakiness in her voice. The slight slur of her words. I so should have let this go to voice mail.

  “Mom, I’m at Beth’s wedding, remember? I was going to call you when I got to the Holloway House?”

  “Oh yes. You and your fancy wedding. I bet there’s a lot of food there, huh? Fancy food? And maybe some fancy wine? Lucky you, hobnobbing with the jet set while your poor mother sits in her trailer with an empty fridge.”

  I tightened my grip on the phone, my stomach now churning. Don’t let her get to you, I tried to scold myself. But, of course, that was impossible.

  I glanced around the wedding tent. At all the happy people, talking and laughing. Enjoying the day without a care in the world. What must it be like to live like that? Where your only true worries were where you were going to eat that night, rather than whether you’d eat at all.

  I reluctantly turned back to the phone.

  “What do you want, Mom?” I asked in a tight voice. “Do you need me to pick up some groceries for you?” I glanced at my watch, biting my lower lip in frustration. I had timed everything perfectly to give my toast, then head to the Holloway House where I was working the night shift. There was no way I’d be able to do both and deliver groceries in time.

  But the alternative . . .

  “Oh, sweetie. You don’t have to go grocery shopping for me,” my mother cooed into the phone sweetly. Too sweetly. Alarm bells began to go off in my head. “I know how busy you are and I have nothing to do. So if you could just wire some money maybe, then I could go shopping myself. No big deal.”

  I sank into a nearby chair. “Mom, what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?” Her voice got defensive. “Like I said, I just need some money for food.”

  “Is David there? Is he out of jail again?”

  The questions left my mouth before I could stop them and I froze, suddenly looking up, my eyes darting around the reception tent, praying no one had been close enough to overhear the J word. Thankfully everyone appeared to be occupied, drinking the aforementioned fancy wine and eating the fancy food.

  “Mom?” I repeated, my annoyance rising again.

  Just one night, I wanted to scream at her. I just wanted one night at the ball. But you couldn’t even give me that, could you?

  There was a pause. I could practically hear the lies rolling around her empty head. “Well, yes, he is, actually. But I don’t see how that has anything to do with . . .”

  “Mom, I’ll bring you some food. But I’m not wiring you any more money.”

  “You ungrateful girl,” my mom snapped. “Your brother would have never done this to me. You brother would have—”

  It took all my effort to hang up the phone and stuff it in my purse. I didn’t need to hear anymore. I knew exactly what she was going to say anyway. What she would always say when she wanted to cut me deep.

  “Everything okay?”

  I whirled around to see Asher had come up behind me. My face burned. God, why wouldn’t he just go away? Why couldn’t he see that I was not the girl he wanted to flirt with? That he belonged with that blonde earlier. Or one of the other people who fit into his world.

  Not me. Definitely not me.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Then opened them again.

  “I have to go,” I said. “It’s an emergency with my mom. Please tell Beth I’m sorry? That I’ll make it up to her later?” Ugh. I really hated bailing on my best friend on her big day. But Beth knew my mom. I hoped she’d understand.

  He looked surprised, but to his credit, he nodded. “Can I help?” he asked. “Do you need me to get you a cab? Or drive you somewhere?”

  I shook my head. Then I remembered my speech. I reached into my pocket, shoving the paper in his direction.

  “Can you give the toast for me?” I asked.

  He took the paper, looking down at it. His eyes danced a little as he looked back up at me. “Does this mean I win?” he teased.

  I sighed. Of course it did. Because people like Asher Anderson always won.

  And people like me were destined to lose.

  four

  PIPER

  Michael! Where’s Michael?”

  I grunt as rough hands shake me awake, nails like daggers digging into my bare flesh. Waving my arms I try to shoo them away.

  I’m so tired.

  I just want to sleep.

  “Five more minutes, Mom,” I beg.

  “Where’s your brother? You were supposed to be watching your brother!”

  My eyes shoot open. I sit up. Looking around, my heart beating fast in my chest as my foggy brain tries to comprehend what she’s screaming about.

  Michael.

  Something about Michael.

  My eyes lock on to the dark water. The waves crashing to shore.

  Oh God. Michael.

  Little Michael . . .

  “WHERE’S YOUR FUCKING BROTHER?” my mother screams.

  * * *

  I jerked up in bed, my body drenched in sweat, my heart pounding, my breath coming in short gasps. I pulled my knees to my chest, burying my head against them.

  “It’s just a dream,” I told myself, trying to steady my breath as the therapists had taught me to do long ago. “Just a bad dream.”

  But, of course, it wasn’t.

  It wasn’t even close.

  “Shit,” I muttered under my breath as I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. I’d gotten the stupid thing at a garage sale a year ago and it had never worked right. Now I’d evidently slept through my phone’s backup alarm as well.

  Not surprising, I supposed. After leaving the wedding to hit the grocery store and then bring the groceries to Mom, I’d been almost an hour late for my shift at the Holloway House. I’d told them I’d stay an extra hour at the end to make up for it. Which meant not getting home until well after two AM.

  And then the dreams had come. The horrible, horrible dreams. I hadn’t had dreams like these in years—I’d thought they were gone forever. But evidently being on the beach yesterday had brought everything back with a vengeance.

  God, I was going to be a zombie at work today.

  Groaning, I swung my feet around, stepping down onto the cold tile floor. For a city with such a temperate climate like San Diego, mornings could still be pretty cold. Not quite cold enough to justify wasting money on heat, mind you, especially now
that I had no roommate to split the bill with, but just cold enough to make me cringe as I made my way to the coffee pot.

  After pouring myself a cup, I headed to the bathroom then stared at myself in the mirror for a moment. My hair was a hot mess, curls all askew, but there was no time to shower. People without curly hair had no idea what pain and suffering we curly girls went through on a daily basis. All they had to do was brush their hair out and go on their merry way. If I brushed mine out, I’d be guest starring at work as Bozo the Clown.

  Sighing, I grabbed a bottle of leave-in conditioner spray and attempted my best patching job. In the end, I resigned myself to putting my hair up in what I hoped looked like an artfully messy ponytail, versus one constructed out of desperation and broken dreams. Then I spackled my face with a small amount of foundation and applied some mascara and lip gloss. I wasn’t normally much of a makeup girl, but at News 9 all the on-air people walked around looking like models just off the runway. Which could be ego crushing to the rest of us mere mortals, to say the least.

  Of course, that won’t be a problem once I get the overnight writing job, I reminded myself. Hardly anyone will be there to see me at that godforsaken hour. And the ones that are? They’ll be too bleary-eyed to notice.

  If I got the job, I corrected myself. After all, it wasn’t a done deal by any means. Especially since I had had to bail on the wedding early and never did get a chance to talk to Richard about it. But my immediate boss, the executive producer, Gary, had to know I was interested. He had to know how much I wanted to move up. And there was no one there more senior than I was. Meaning I was the obvious choice.

  The thought got my motor running and I stepped out of the bathroom to change into my best suit. Which was also, admittedly, my only suit. Normally I didn’t dress up too much—News 9 was pretty casual if you weren’t on air. But today could be a very special day.

  A thrill of anticipation wound up my spine as I slid my pencil skirt over my hips. A writing job. A real writing job. It would be a dream come true. Maybe not a glamorous dream—as Asher had so sweetly pointed out yesterday, the hours kind of sucked. And it wasn’t as if I was suddenly going to be some on-air superstar like Beth.

  But I’d be a journalist. An actual TV journalist. Contributing to an actual TV show. That alone was worth the crazy wake-up time. In fact, it was pretty much worth everything.

  And that didn’t even take into account the new salary I’d be getting. My current position paid only a little over minimum wage and was only for thirty hours a week—hence the second job at the Holloway House. This job, if I really did get it, paid fifteen dollars an hour and could turn into full-time work someday. Which would mean amazing, hard-to-imagine things like 401(k)s and actual health benefits. Not to mention a chance to get my mother out of her current living situation—and away from people like David.

  Sure, I still had to get the job first. But I’d done everything possible to make it happen and that had to mean something, right? Over the past year I’d stayed late, I’d studied scripts written by other writers. I’d written my own and uploaded them to the server. Even left printouts on Gary’s desk to read. Sure, I had no idea if he actually ever did anything with them except use them as coasters for his coffee. But surely his eyes must have swept over one at some point, right? To see the words I’d written? To realize I was the best candidate for the job?

  It was time to find out for sure.

  * * *

  I got to work with ten minutes to spare—a record, even for me. The morning newscast had just finished and all the morning writers were gathering up their things, ready to head home. Some of them would go to a nearby deli and order steak-and-cheese subs or fish tacos—not caring that it was eight in the morning: For them it was dinnertime. I wasn’t sure how I was going to adjust to that kind of thing if I got the job, but I was willing to make it work.

  I was willing to make anything work for this.

  Today, I realized, they were cleaning up from a good-bye party for Heather. Which meant she was definitely leaving, I realized excitedly, my eyes taking in the last crumbs of the cake. The position was definitely open.

  This could really happen for me at last.

  Heart pounding, I headed over to Heather’s desk. She was busy packing her things into a cardboard box.

  “Hey!” I said. “Congrats on the new gig.” I motioned to her bulging stomach. There was definitely a baby boom going on at News 9. I wondered if Beth would stay after she gave birth to her baby.

  Heather gave me a smile that looked both weary and happy. “Thanks,” she said. “At least I won’t have any issues with late-night feeding after working these crazy hours.”

  I laughed. “Good point.” Then I paused, shuffling from foot to foot.

  Just ask, Piper. You’ll never know unless you ask.

  “So do you know . . . when they’re filling your position?” I blurted out, feeling totally awkward for asking. But I couldn’t wait another minute to know.

  Heather frowned. “I think it’s already filled,” she said. “I heard they asked Anna.”

  Wait, what?

  I stared at her, my heart thudding in my chest. “Anna?” I repeated slowly. “You mean Anna Jenkins?”

  But no. That couldn’t be. Anna had only come to News 9 two months ago. She’d worked as a production assistant like me, but hadn’t done anything—as far as I knew anyway—to audition for a writer’s position. In fact, Anna Jenkins barely did anything at all that didn’t involve Facebook or texting her boyfriend.

  Anna Jenkins could not possibly get my job.

  I could feel Hannah’s eyes on me. Her face was now full of concern. “Are you okay?” she asked. Then she gasped. “Oh God, you didn’t want it, did you?”

  I tried to swallow the huge lump that had suddenly formed in my throat. “No,” I said quickly, waving her off. “I mean, it’s fine. No big deal. Congrats again.”

  Her face twisted; she looked anguished. Which made me wonder what I looked like to her. “Piper, it’s a crappy job,” she tried. “You really didn’t want it anyway.”

  “Sure,” I said with a forced barking laugh. “After all, I do love sleeping at night.”

  But of course I didn’t. I mean, I did, but I didn’t want to. I wanted that job. Yes, it was a crappy job. But it was my crappy job. Or it was supposed to be anyway.

  Until they’d given it to Anna Jenkins.

  Half in a daze, I wandered over to the printers, where my fellow production assistants hung out, waiting for scripts to print. There were a couple of them already at work, collating the morning newsbreak. Anna Jenkins was among them, gabbing happily and accepting congratulations on her new gig.

  My heart sank. So it was true.

  “It’s going to be so awful!” she was saying with a giggle. “Oh my God I can’t even imagine waking up at midnight to go to work! It’s like a nightmare!”

  I watched, devastated as everyone tried to comfort her. To tell her it would be fine. That it was a big step and that now she was a real journalist and wasn’t that totally exciting?

  I dutifully said all those things, too. Even as my heart broke. Even as I realized that I would never be a “real journalist”—that I would be stuck in production assistant hell forever until I was forced to quit in exchange for a “real job” that paid more and offered health benefits. And then, that would be it. My dreams of a real broadcasting career would be over forever.

  “Hey, Red!”

  I looked up, just in time to see none other than Asher Anderson himself sauntering through the newsroom. He was dressed in a crisp linen shirt and a pair of dark-rinse Diesel jeans slung low on his narrow hips. His hair was slicked back with gel, but a few strands had escaped, falling into his green eyes. In short, he looked like a GQ model right off the page.

  The cocky smile on his face, the confidence in his step caused anger to r
ise inside of me. I knew it wasn’t justified; he had nothing to do with my not getting my promotion. But I couldn’t help being furious at him all the same. It was just so easy for him, wasn’t it? He never had to worry about being passed up for a promotion. His job had been passed down to him from birth. He didn’t have to worry about working his way up the ladder. It was his ladder to begin with. He could just waltz into the newsroom like he owned the place.

  Because he does own the place, something inside me snapped. And you’d best remember that.

  I realized he’d approached the printers. The other production assistants—including Anna—were staring at him with wide eyes. Not surprising, I supposed. After all, someone like him should barely know of our existence on the planet, never mind deem us worthy of talking to.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out my speech. “I thought you might want it back,” he told me. “You know, for memory’s sake and all.” He grinned. “I have to admit, it was an amazing toast. Got a lot of laughs. And I definitely saw some tears.” He paused, then added, “You’re a good writer, Red.”

  The words hit me hard and before I knew it, tears had sprung to my eyes. I turned away, not wanting him to see.

  “What’s wrong?” I heard him ask.

  “Nothing,” I snapped. “I’m fine.”

  But he was having none of that. And a moment later his hand was on my arm and he was dragging me into a nearby empty office. I let him—what else could I do?—knowing everyone was watching. Once he closed the door, he turned to me.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, the joking lilt in his voice replaced by seriousness. “Are you okay? Is your mom okay?”

  I looked up, surprised he had remembered why I had left the wedding. Then I sighed. “I’m fine,” I said. “It’s just . . .” I shook my head. “That job. That stupid job I told you about yesterday. They gave it to someone else.”

  “I know.”

  I looked up, confused. My eyes still blurry with tears. “You know?”