Hard Compromise (Compromise Me 2)

“You know, I could have sworn I gave you money for a hysterectomy three years ago.”

Denise blushed, though it could have been a sign of temper rather than shame. “That doctor was a quack. He didn’t know what he was doing, and now I’m paying for his incompetence. I’ve talked to a lawyer about suing his thieving ass, but it costs money to file a lawsuit.”

“You’ve come to the wrong place. I don’t have any cash to spare.” With that, she hauled herself into the driver’s seat.

Denise skittered over, nimble as a spider, and stuck her face into Laurie’s. “You selfish brat. Don’t bullshit me. I know all about your fancy bakery. I saw a glossy spread in Montenido Magazine, gushing about how all the rich suckers around here stand in line to plunk down five dollars for a cinnamon bun or fifty bucks for a dozen cupcakes. Not your best picture, by the way, but Jesus Christ—fifty bucks for cupcakes? You’re raking it in. If you turn me away, I’m going to have no choice but to camp outside that little business of yours and explain to everyone who passes how you can’t spare a dime for your own mother in her hour of need. A few of them might decide to help a fellow human rather than buy a treat. Who knows?”

Threats were also to be expected. ‘Help me, or you can kiss your precious spot on the surf team good-bye.’ ‘Help me, or I’ll come down to your job and have a word with your boss.’ And they weren’t empty threats. Denise would do whatever it took. The only difference now was Laurie had more to lose than an extra-curricular activity, or a minimum wage paycheck. This time, it was her livelihood at stake. She knew better than to waste her breath on the realities of owning a small business. Her mother didn’t give a shit about reality.

She also knew better than to meet the threat with anything except threats of her own—not initially, at least. “If you panhandle outside my shop, I’ll call the cops and have you removed.”

“Which gives Montenido Magazine an interesting follow-up story. ‘S

uccessful Business Owner Has Ailing Mother Arrested.’ That’ll bump the readership.”

“You’re overestimating people’s interest.” But she wasn’t. People couldn’t look away from a train wreck. Denise ruined everything she touched, including her daughter, and if she touched Babycakes, Laurie had no doubt she would ruin it, too.

“Why bring us to that? Cough up fifteen thousand dollars, cash, and nothing turns ugly. I catch the next train to LA and see to myself.”

Fifteen thousand? All she could do was laugh at the outrageous demand. “Are you high? I don’t have fifteen grand sitting around, and even if I did I couldn’t get to it on New Year’s Day.” Still, her mother’s proposition gave her hope. She wanted a quick score. Much larger than what she usually tried to bleed out of her daughter, but there was a number that would get the woman out of her life. Today. They just had to arrive at the figure.

Sure enough, Denise folded her arms and jutted her chin. “How much can you get right now?”

“I have forty, maybe fifty bucks in my wallet.”

“Stop fucking with me. You’ve got an ATM card.”

“And a daily limit.”

“Fine. If that’s how you want to play it, give me a thousand today, and I’ll settle for ten grand first thing Monday. I’ll come to the bakery. Have it ready for me.”

Abso-fucking-lutely not, but at least now they had a realistic ballpark. A door slammed somewhere in the complex, and a panicked desperation fueled her counter-offer. “I’ve got six thousand in the safe at the bakery. I’ll take you over there right now, and give you every cent, provided you get the hell out of Montenido this morning. Best and final offer. You’ve got five seconds to make up your mind.”

“I’ll need a ride to the train station.”

Somehow, she resisted the urge to slap the triumphant smirk off her mother’s face. “Done. Get in.”

While Denise scurried around the front of the SUV, Laurie revved the engine to life and promised herself a long, soul-cleansing surf session as soon as she dumped her mother at the train station. Getting blackmailed by a blood relative only hours into the New Year effectively sucked away the orgasmic glow left over from last night’s amazing, but inadvisable, hookup with Booker. Thank God he hadn’t woken. The only thing more humiliating than caving to her mother’s threats would be Booker witnessing it. The fearless visage she strived to maintain would disappear in the blink of an eye, and she didn’t think she could handle the loss—not when it came to him.

Denise hoisted her bony frame into the passenger seat, and slammed the door. “Got anything to drink in that bakery of yours, Lauralie? I feel like celebrating.”

Congratulations. Your New Year can’t get any worse.

Chapter Five

Alone. Booker didn’t need to open his eyes to confirm what all his other senses told him. Scents of champagne, vanilla, and sex lingered on the sheets, but no sleep-warmed curves pressed against him. No rustle of movement from the kitchen or bathroom disturbed the silence. He wasn’t just alone in the bed. He was alone in the whole damn apartment.

He scrubbed a hand over his eyes and blinked them open. Watery light filtered into the bedroom through the filmy drapes. Yep. Alone. Maybe she’d run to the store for coffee filters, or, better yet, condoms? A yellow Post-it note on the nightstand flagged his attention. He sat up, and peeled it off the white-painted wood.

Happy New Year, Booker. See you around.

Frustration leaked out in the form of a sigh. Leave it to her to try and turn them into a one-night stand. Sorry, Jailbait. Not going to make it that easy for you. He crumpled the note and chucked it at the small wastebasket beside the dresser. It hit the rim and bounced onto the rug. Fuck. Apparently nothing would be easy this morning.

He swung his legs to the floor, but before he could reach down and retrieve the note now littering her rug, his phone rang. His do not disturb settings left only one possible caller. Dispatch. Changing course, he snagged his pants, and dug the phone from his pocket. While he was at it, he slid hers from the other pocket and placed the slim, white device on the dresser. Had she forgotten he had it, or had she simply been too busy bolting to pause for electronics?

Phone abandonment—the human equivalent of gnawing off a limb to escape a trap.

Suppressing another sigh, he flicked his thumb across the screen of his phone. “Booker.”