The Negotiator (Harbor City 1)

She managed to walk through the hotel and catch a cab to the penthouse where she crammed all of her stuff back into her suitcase. She left behind the fancy dresses, the expensive shoes, and the one pair of hiking boots that had actually been delivered. Australia wasn’t in the picture anymore and she couldn’t care less. Hudson was right. With all of her adventures, she’d been looking for her purpose. She still hadn’t found it, but at least now she knew she wasn’t going to do so by traveling halfway around the globe. She was done running—from her fears, from her expectations, from herself.

The numb bubble surrounding Clover didn’t pop until she was standing outside the apartment she shared with Daphne. She tried her key but her hands shook too much t

o get it in the lock, so she finally gave up and rang the bell. By the time the door opened, she had a river of mascara streaming down her face.

“Oh, honey,” Daphne said wrapping her arms around her and bringing her inside. “It’s gonna be okay.”

But Clover knew deep in that part of her soul that couldn’t lie that it wasn’t going to be, not even close.

…

Three hours and three double whiskeys later, Sawyer stumbled around his penthouse ready for battle with an opponent who had already vacated the premises. Staring at the bare hangers in her closet next to the cocktail dresses he’d bought for her, the shoes he’d fucked her in, and the one pair of hiking boots for her trip to Australia that he hadn’t managed to hide away before she saw them, he realized that Clover’s abandonment must have been what Irving had wanted to warn him about when he brushed the man off and rushed into the elevator. A bitter taste coated his tongue as he slammed the closet door shut and stormed out of her room. Of course it wasn’t her room—not anymore.

He took a beer from the fridge and tipped back the bottle as he tore off his bow tie and shrugged out of his jacket. Fucking monkey suit was choking him. That’s the reason why he couldn’t get a decent amount of air into his lungs to alleviate the vice grip squeezing them tight. The beer was gone by the time he lowered the bottle. Another. That would help him get rid of the pounding in his head and wipe away the memory of Clover’s face when she’d tried to hand him the engagement ring.

He swiped another beer from the fridge and his arm protested. Fuck. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt. The only thing to do in this situation was to sit down, turn on the television, and get as drunk as possible as fast as possible until he couldn’t see the sly smirk she made when she was winning a negotiation or hear her soft moan as she came or remember the smooth silk of her skin under his fingers.

Listing toward the living room, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from Clover’s flea market bar cart on the way and settled onto the couch in a haze. He clicked the remote and an episode of Flea Market Flip appeared on his TV. His finger hovered over the button to change the channel but he couldn’t push it. They’d seen this one together. The older women kicked their husbands’ asses. The remote slipped from his hand and landed on the coffee table with a hard thunk.

Watching this horrible show was like pouring rock salt into a gaping wound, but he couldn’t stop because what all the alcohol in his system couldn’t dull was the fact that Clover was gone and it was his fault. He’d missed some detail that really mattered. He’d fucked up. Now he’d pay the price.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Someone had taken a tire iron to Sawyer’s head. It was the only explanation for the pounding that was loud enough to rattle his teeth. He opened his eyes and sat up. That was a mistake. His stomach pitched and the room spun just enough to make him squeeze his eyes shut, white knuckle the couch, and promise to whomever was listening that he would never ever do whatever it was that he’d done to get that way ever again.

The intercom buzzed and the sound vibrated down his spine.

Okay, it wasn’t a tire iron, but Irving’s buzzer finger that was trying to kill him. Girding himself, he took a breath and then stood up and staggered toward the intercom box by the elevator.

He pressed his hand to the talk button and leaned his sweaty forehead against the cool elevator doors. “Irving.”

“This is not Irving,” his mother said, her normally strident tone had an extra robotic quality thanks to the crappy intercom speaker and his whiskey-soaked brain. “Undo the override lock on your elevator.”

When had he locked the elevator? Last night? No yesterday morning. It was coming back now. Clover had punched through his rib cage to rip out his still beating heart, he’d gotten very, very drunk for several days, and after that it got gray—or was that amber-colored—and foggy. Whatever color his world was, it required solitude to really soak up all of the self-pity. It was definitely not the place for his mother—especially not when he was so foul after almost two days in the same tuxedo pants and undershirt that he could smell himself.

“Mom, I’m not really—”

“Do not even bother,” she interrupted. “Your brother has told me everything about the idiotic fake engagement you two cooked up.”

Well, he didn’t have to worry about puking anymore because his stomach had dropped down three floors. “Shit.”

“That’s a succinct way of putting it. Now undo the elevator override lock.”

“I’m not really feeling well.” Or sane. Or remotely human.

“Just imagine how you’ll be feeling when your sixty-one-year-old mother has to climb dozens of sets of stairs just to give you a piece of her mind. Unlock the elevator immediately, Sawyer Anthony Carlyle.”

His middle name. It didn’t matter that he was a grown man, it was still parental fucking kryptonite. Knowing he was going to regret it but that he didn’t have a choice, he entered his security code into the touchscreen menu and unlocked the elevator. Then, while the touchscreen displayed the floor numbers as the elevator passed them on its way up to the penthouse, he ambled back to the living room and the chaos that awaited him there. Yet another do-it-yourself show was on the TV. About a dozen empty beer bottles, a mostly empty bottle of whiskey, and a half-eaten bag of sriracha-flavored chips littered the coffee table. He was contemplating cleaning the mess up when the elevator doors opened. His mom and Hudson got off.

“Oh look,” Sawyer said, his voice a rusty unused sound, “you brought Brutus with you.”

“Hudson didn’t betray you. He’s trying to help you.” Helene gave Sawyer a long, disgusted up and down look before grimacing. “Are you still drunk?”

“What makes you think I’m drunk?” he asked from the safety of his non-moving couch because the rest of the room was starting to tilt on its axis.

“You’re still in your tux and the gala was two days ago,” his mom said, keeping her distance—no doubt to avoid the smell.

Hudson, on the other hand, leaned forward and took a deep and dramatic whiff. “And you smell like a dive bar floor after they turn on the lights.”