T-Minus 11 Days
Rising from the table she’d commandeered as her temporary desk, Sophie stretched her aching neck and shoulders as wide as her limbs would extend. Although it had been concise yet informative to begin with, Sophie wanted her resumé perfect before she met with Jane. Jane was a bundle of pure sweetness in a tiny package topped with a gray mop of hair. Energetic, brainy, downright likeable.
Still, Sophie didn’t want to be a pity hire. Not that Jane would hire her out of pity. She was generous, but she wasn’t the type to hire her just to be nice. Foothills Accounting was a successful local business, which wasn’t by coincidence. Jane was as shrewd as she was kind.
Argh. Nails getting increasingly short, Sophie tore her fingers from her mouth and paced the dining room. She was going to drive herself nuts. This was the perfect job in the cutest little town where she already had friends.
Family, really. At least the closest thing she’d known to family in fifteen years. Blowing this would mean she’d have to start over.
Stop fretting. Her resumé looked awesome. That internship with Meckel and Jones had been a great learning experience. With the knowledge she had gained, she could comfortably manage the typical tax prep, as well as personal and small business accounting at Foothills Accounting and offer more extensive budget financing for local businesses as a new service, if Jane was agreeable.
Pink Floyd’s Money blasted from her phone. Dammit, not now. Not ever, really.
“Hello, Yvette.” Even the name grated on her nerves. She was not allowed to call her Aunt. Nor was she to ever even hint to anyone that Yvette was a totally made-up name. Born Bernadette, she’d found Yvette suited her better as a stage name.
“Sophie, dear. How have you been? You must be done with school by now.” Voice dripping with honey, she was all politeness.
Cringing, Sophie made a concerted effort to not bite her nails through the call. Yvette had hated the little habit, so of course Sophie had done it as often as possible in front of her in her own silent protest. Until, of course, Yvette started taking them out for manicures together, talking nonstop while draining their rationed funds. “Yes. Did that graduation gift you promised finally get returned undeliverable?” Blank pause. “Because you forgot to put postage on it? Remember? That’s what you told me two weeks ago.”
She hadn’t believed the story then, and certainly didn’t believe now that Yvette had even considered sending her a graduation gift. However, she did enjoy calling her on her fibs and embellishments wherever possible. In the nicest possible way.
“Of course. It must be lost in the mail system. Anyway,” she giggled in a lilting falsetto she’d rehearsed for hours on end when Sophie was fourteen and had discovered having friends over was never going to work. “Your twenty-seventh birthday is what, next week?” Greed oozed like slimy green ectoplasm, clogging the airwaves between them.
“Gosh, is that coming up so soon? I’d forgotten.” The trust fund from her mother and grandparents would be fully in her control on her twenty-seventh birthday.
Colette, her mother, had known she would get stuck with her only living relative, money-grubbing Yvette. Having lived just the two of them since her last grandparent had passed away the year before Colette, there hadn’t been anyone else. It was Yvette or foster care. Sophie didn’t envy that her mother had been forced to make such a tough decision for her young daughter.
Shrill laughter pierced through the line. More of her natural laugh than the other, it was somehow more grating and ingenuine. “How silly of me. I was so afraid I’d missed sending your birthday present. Can you send me your address so I can mail you a present?”
Very fishy. She’d never sent her a present before, despite many fictitious tales of the extravagant gifts she’d sent in the past that never seemed to pass post office muster. Why would she start now? Buttering Sophie up wasn’t likely to entice her to share her fortune. “I actually don’t know my address offhand, and it’s temporary anyway.”
“You are staying with Pippa’s family then? Foothills, right?” Uh-oh.
Sighing, sinking into the nearest chair, Sophie couldn’t find the energy to invent a decent story to buy her more time. “For now.”
“I know you aren’t working yet, but if you have anything set aside from the allowance your dear mother left to support us, her only remaining family… I have an audition coming up for a Netflix pilot. My landlord is breathing down my neck for rent, but I won’t have it for another few weeks.” Sophie was almost surprised Yvette didn’t get more roles. She was an awfully talented actress when it came to asking for money.
Dreaming of refusing, as she so desperately wanted to, she feared the repercussions if she did. Now and again, she actually pulled off a decent rejection. Learning from her aunt, she would spin a tall tale that at least bought her some time. However, she’d learned that it never worked out in her favor, as delays led to devious repercussions.
Unintelligible, deafening sobs lanced through the phone, jarring the thin membrane of Sophie’s eardrum. “My landlord. He’ll evict me if I don’t come up with the funds, or else he’ll… I don’t even want to say it.”
And Sophie didn’t want her to say it either.
“He’s threatened to get his money’s worth, ‘one way or another.’ Oh Sophie, I’m so scared.”
Oh boy. This was even better than last time. Yvette wasn’t stupid. She didn’t ask every month, only when Sophie had had just enough time to recover from the berating herself for sending money the last time.
Time to end it. End the manipulation. Break off all ties. Her knuckles paled to a ghostly white as she clutched the phone, desperately trying to find the courage to stand up for herself. Chewed to the nub, her poor fingertips of her non-phone hand were raw.
“Your dear mother, my sister, was such a generous soul, Sophie. You’re just like her. Generous, kind. Always taking pity on your dear Auntie Yvette. If you sent enough for rent and a minor procedure, like Botox, I’ll nail the pilot and will be able to start sending you money. Just like I always wanted.” Sophie may not be allowed to call her Aunt, but Yvette sure liked adding it when it benefited her.
Last time she’d landed a decent part, a minor, but recurrent, role as a hooker on an HBO drama, she hadn’t asked for money for a year. A Netflix series would set her up nicely, leaving Sophie undisturbed when her birthday came around. “Fine. I’ll send it to your PayPal account.”
Yvette’s bubbling gratitude chafed against her ear. “You’re such a dear. With that pretty face, maybe I could get you a part as an extra on the show? As my cousin?”
Clamping her jaw shut, she refused the offer and ended the call before she exploded. Dammit. Why couldn’t she just refuse? It was never going to end. Even if Yvette got the role, it would always be one more thing.
Why couldn’t she just leave her alone? This was how Sophie realized she had a knack for accounting. At the ripe age of fifteen, she discovered that she wouldn’t eat dinner unless someone other than Yvette managed the bills. At that, food was still often scarce and minimally nutritive as Yvette was usually “dieting” for her next role.
When she found she actually enjoyed making sense of finances, she decided she wanted to help others with her skills. By the time she was sixteen, she had them on a very strict budget and did all the shopping, paid all the bills. It had only taken threatening Yvette that she would call CPS for her to agree to the negotiated budget.
“Everything okay?”
Sophie spun around in a fury at the sound before she remembered she was in a safe place. Telephone disconnected. Denise stood a few feet away, eyes heavy with concern.
“Yeah. Sort of. It’s my aunt asking for money. Again.”
Denise reminded her so much of her mother. Not in appearance. Denise was soft as a pillow and always available for a hug. Her own mother had been slender like she was, a champion triathlete herself, but was equally available for a hug.
“Sophie, dear. I’m so sorry. That woman is a real piece of work. Gave me the creeps on the HBO show.” She added, although Sophie already knew it wasn’t a Denise sort of show, “I checked it out after you mentioned it to me.”
Mischief brewing in her honey eyes, Denise meant it. With her got-your-back attitude, topped with salt and pepper hair slicked back in a fiercely tight braid, Denise was a force to be reckoned with. A lot like Colette had been.
Not uptight or high-strung like Pippa. No, Pippa was her father through and through. My way or no way. Denise had the finesse to make others do what she wanted and be glad they did.
Why couldn’t Sophie emulate either approach? Open a can of metaphorical whoop-ass on her aunt. Or somehow convince her she didn’t want Sophie’s money?
“I say no as often as I can, but she just keeps calling. Manipulates me with a sob story or a thinly veiled threat that she won’t hesitate to act on.” She managed to hold back tears, but barely. Moments like this made her miss her mother more than anything.
With a fighting sneer, Denise put on her angry eyes. “Next time, you hand the phone to me. I’d love to tell her a thing or two.”
And that’s where Asher got it. The take-no-prisoners, strike-first-and-ask-questions-later that he was known for. They even shared the warm, whiskey glow to their eyes.
Letting Denise pull her into a hug, her limbs went limp, and she sunk into the older woman’s arms. “Thanks. For everything. You make me miss my mom. In a good way,” she amended.
Emotion filtered through Denise’s kind voice, “Now that is a woman I would like to have met.” Pulling back, she gently tapped Sophie’s nose with the knuckle of her finger. “For being raised by that witch through your adolescence, your mother must have been an amazing woman for you to have turned out as wonderful as you have.”
Turning to head for the kitchen, Denise started to toss together a restorative lunch. Returning to the table, Sophie accepted that her resumé was as good as she could make it. Jane would take her or leave her, and she’d be okay.
Colette had been a truly amazing woman. A trust fund baby herself, she’d never acted the privileged debutante like her sister had. At age nineteen, she’d met Nate Jones and fallen head-over-heels in love. Within a few months, she was pregnant with Sophie.
Although Sophie hardly knew her father, she knew he was a decent sort of man. She remembered him reading to her, telling her exciting stories of his excursions in the army, about his growing up years in Oregon fishing and hunting and camping. Colette’s parents hadn’t exactly blessed the quick marriage initially, but they came around when Sophie was born and had been exactly the doting grandparents every kid should have.
By the age of twelve, Sophie had lost a mother, a father, and four grandparents. Nail-biting was one of many coping strategies she had adopted, some better, some worse than that.
As the daughter of a single mom, she’d learned self-reliance from an early age. It wasn’t until she was left to Yvette’s inattention that she learned the real meaning of responsibility. Yvette had blown through her own trust fund years prior, and always had her eyes on Sophie’s. Once Sophie learned to balance the checking account, they could eat regular meals and didn’t worry about eviction, but it had required sacrifice. Not for Yvette, of course.
After turning eighteen, within a few days of her high school graduation, she’d gone a little nuts. Subconsciously, she’d known she was trying to convince Yvette to leave her alone. Consciously, she’d known she needed to stretch her wings.
Reliable to a fault despite her boundary-pushing, she’d gone straight to UCLA after high school and earned decent grades. But she experimented a bit. Knew just how many beers it took to reach hangoverville. Learned it was an incredibly stupid idea to smoke weed before an exam. Tried out a number of partners, male and female both, until she better understood herself.
By junior year of college, she was done screwing around. Buckling down, she worked to graduate on time. Pippa had been one of the best things to happen to her. A family girl from a small town and likeably decent, she embodied the fun, girl-next-door sort that Sophie was at heart… but a bit more extreme.
They’d met at a highly anticipated basketball game. Set to be ranked well in March Madness, UCLA had been on fire that year. Sophie had needed a little break from cramming for exams and went to a big game with a miserably dull date. Pippa had made a similar mistake and was there with the guy’s good friend. Hitting it off right away, the two chatted through the game and moved in together the next year.
Turning the key, he heard the slightest tease of the engine trying to wake. Poor, tired old truck had quit right about the time he got back from the mission that wiped out too many of his team. A record-breakingly horrific op.
What glowing luck, to have his truck die the day he got back. He couldn’t bring back his friends in one piece, but dammit, the pickup was a piece of machinery. He’d managed to patch it up again and again, but the days it actually ran were becoming fewer and farther in between. His copy of the Chilton’s repair manual he’d inherited with the old clunker was so worn he could hardly make out the words anymore. Even YouTube was out of ideas.
His therapist had asked if maybe it was time to let the truck go. Ha. The metaphor was painfully obvious; he wasn’t dumb enough to miss the message. Nor was he giving up.
Laying on his back, he rolled under the chassis and stared blankly at the antiquated parts, looking for hints at what might be ailing the old rig. Kicked up by a warm gust of summer breeze, a mouthful of dust swept across his face, grit sticking in his teeth.
Vision obscured with thick dust, the explosion echoed again and again in his ears. He turned sharply, mid-stride, and sprinted back to the explosion, Zane close at his heels. Another blast knocked them both to the ground, dropping him to his hands and knees. Grabbing Zane in the dusty commotion, he pulled him into the cover of the alley. Incensed, Zane tried to pull away to run into the fire after the others.
“They’re gone. We need to get out of here,” he’d shouted over the ringing of his ears.
“Not all; they can’t be.” Zane’s voice was as hollow as his own, his eyes crazed with uncertainty. Gritty debris and ash caked onto to the thick sweat on his face.
Fuck. They couldn’t just leave them.
Taking aim, they covered each other as they re-entered the street. Dead quiet, there was no sign of anyone left to defend against. Not that anyone could see through the pervasive airborne debris to shoot them anyway.
“Anyone there?” Pulling himself out from the crumbling doorway on his elbows, Jack hacked up whatever particles had lodged into his lungs. Sticky, bloody sputum clung to his chin.
Ignoring the possible danger, Zane was at their friend in an instant. Covering the pair, Asher remained vigilant, keeping his back to his friends and watching the street, the nearby buildings. It was too murky, zero fucking visibility.
Muted by the ringing in his ears and the echoes of broken concrete still breaking off of the rubble, he could just make out the crunching of boots approaching. Rotating his head at the sound, he faintly made out a wounded enemy rounding the corner, on his way to check for others, as they were.
Fearing his own end, the enemy didn’t hesitate. Neither did Asher. He wasn’t losing another friend today.
Silencing the scream that filled his chest, Asher whacked a loose part with the flat side of his wrench. Trembling, he slid out from under the truck. Wiping away the dust-coated sweat and tears from his face, he hopped back into the cab.
Turning the key again, he elicited a tired, but steady response. Shutting off the weak rumble of the engine, he dragged his own creaky joints out of the truck. The hood was still open, as it was so often these days. Standing in front of the cool motor, he checked the connections. He was almost there. Had already replaced half the damn parts, rebuilt what he could alone.
“Even your grandpa knew that truck wasn’t going to live forever.” His mom came out of nowhere, ice water and a sandwich in hand.
“What time is it?” He glanced around, remembering his phone was plugged into the stereo across the room. Silent now, his playlist must have run out. How long had he been lost in the flashback?
Shaking her head, she cleared some tools from the table and set down the lunch she’d prepared. “It’s two o’clock.”
No wonder his stomach hurt. Even small children were known to figure out that belly ache meant mealtime. “Thanks.” He wiped his hands on the shop rag he’d remembered to keep handy this time.
Tearing into the sandwich, he about moaned at the gooey grilled cheese with its perfectly crispy outside and a heap of cheese and chipotle mayo oozing out the side. Studying the sandwich, he attempted to solve the mystery as he swallowed the huge bite. Was it really that good or was he this hungry? “This is brilliant. Why have you never made this before?”
Denise smiled proudly. “Sophie’s favorite. She had a rough day, so I called Pippa to find out what I might be able to convince her to eat. I made a spare, realizing you hadn’t eaten either.”
He swallowed a mouthful of the cheesy goodness. Chuckling from deep in his belly at his mother as he downed the rest in a few massive bites, he teased, “Food doesn’t solve everything.”
Considering what she’d said, he worried after Sophie. She seemed to have everything figured out, so what could have spoiled her appetite? “What’s up with Sophie?”
Steam blasting out of his mother’s ears, he could see her getting fired up on Sophie’s behalf. She’d already burrowed her way into the hearts of his sister and parents, and he suspected she was heading right for his, too. “Have you heard anything about her upbringing?”
He shook his head. His Sophie knowledge was pretty limited by design.
“Her dad was in the army, killed in action when she was no more than five. I’d love to have met her mother; she sounds like she was an incredible woman. So tragic though. Her mother died when Sophie was twelve.” Denise leaned back against the workbench, ignoring the grease and oils that were deeply embedded in the woodwork around here.
Asher gulped down his water. “I had no idea. That’s terrible. What happened to Sophie?”
Denise shrugged as she fought back the rage that boiled just under the surface. “Her Aunt Yvette, a chronically struggling actress in Los Angeles, took her in. Her parents and her grandparents set her up well. But her mother must have known what a greedy monster her aunt was, and arranged for a pretty stringent allowance from her trust fund. I don’t know the details, but I do know that Yvette still calls her for money.”
“She calls Sophie for money?” What kind of aunt asked her niece for money? If his stomach weren’t so happy from the delicious lunch, it would be roiling on her behalf.
“Poor Sophie just got off the phone with her, manipulated into sending her more money.” Denise stood tall again, stretching her neck and rolling her shoulders as if preparing for a knockout punch. Instead, she picked up his empty glass and plate. “If I could get my hands on her aunt… I’d show her a thing or two about human decency.”
Fuming, Asher wasn’t sure the term human decency was the wording he would have chosen. “Sophie doing okay?”
Denise nodded. “She’ll be alright. She’s a tough one. Anyway, thanks for listening to me vent. I almost had violent thoughts.”
He chuckled and rose his hands in the air in feigned surrender, “Heaven forbid. If you’re considering violence, everyone better flee. You’ve got a lot of pent-up aggression in there.”
His mother rolled her eyes and motioned at him with the empty dishes. “You’d better watch yourself mister. You don’t want to be in the way when I get angry.”
A true pacifist, he couldn’t picture her going Hulk-crazy. Might be fun, though. She was full of fire. Yet, she managed to be very effective without throwing punches.