The Maverick

BRUNO

Ava excused herself almost immediately after trapping me into relinquishing my role as CEO of my parents’ company. She left me to smile and make small talk with the stupid fuckers in suits. I played the game, introduced my friends, exchanged worthless pleasantries, and continued to bust that asshole Charlie Albrecht’s balls until no one questioned my need to move on to other priorities.

“I have three hit singles to make,“ I joked on a wink as I backed out of the room.

Once the door closed behind me, I stormed down the hall. Instinctually, I headed to Ava’s office, but she wasn’t there. Instead, the cardboard file boxes on the desk told me where to find her—my mother’s office. That’s whose job she took; my mother was the COO of LSA Records. Ava had some nerve. She’d had the job for a couple of days, and she was already moving into the big office. I spun on my heel, exploding down the hall in her direction.

Lorelai, my mother’s secretary, was red-eyed and crying at the desk in front of the office door. I assumed she was as upset as I was that Ava chose day one to move in and take over, but I didn’t stop to chat. I barged past her, surprised that Lorelai made no attempt to stop me. Instead, she whimpered, “She’s expecting you.”

Slamming the door behind me, I practically growled, “Didn’t take you any time did it?”

Ava was standing at the window, looking out at my mother’s view of the Empire State Building. She was wearing one of her stupid black pencil skirt and pale-pink blouse combos. The blouse matched the pale-pink streaks in her hair. Like always, she was gripping her fucking outdated attaché case. I kept my eyes north of the curve of her ass; there was no need to be both angry and frustrated.

She didn’t turn to look at me when she said, “She loved this view. Do you remember how she used to tell us that in another time you could see the Twin Towers from here?”

What the ever-living fuck? Did she think we were going to have a little chitchat and reminisce about mama Difranco? ’Cause that wasn’t happening, not ever.

“What the hell was that in there?” I spat at her back. “Did you suddenly forget that you owe me?”

She dropped her dumb briefcase and charged toward me. grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me into the tiny soundproof studio that was more for show than actual use. My mother used to tell people she used the space to think about and put her spin on albums, but that was mostly bullshit. On occasion, she took a break behind the quiet of those walls, curled up on the armchair against the wall and listened to music while drinking wine.

Clearly, Ava’s only use for it was soundproofing. Knowing that we were somewhere where we couldn’t be heard, she screamed, “I can’t fix that, Bruno.” Her face flushed bright red and her features pinched, causing stress lines to appear around her eyes. “I can never go back and make that better. Never. And I get it. I wouldn’t stop hating me either. But…” As if she couldn’t contain the empathic emotion coursing through her body, she pushed her pointer finger into my chest, punctuating each of the rest of her words. “I. Am. Not Your. Enemy.”

Crazy Ava. That was what I was going to call this new version of her that cried and screamed. It was a side of her that I’d never laid eyes on before the plane crash. Ava was poised and calculated. Crazy Ava was a mess, blubbery and red-faced. This was the Jackson Pollock version of Ava—all splatter paint and chaos. I should have hated or feared this version of her. Logically, an unhinged person with Ava’s expertise in human manipulation should have been terrifying but I kinda liked her untethered. It made me think that maybe there was still someone real hiding under her corporate facade. It reminded me of the girl on the subway platform who was disoriented by my lips.

“You're not?” I asked sarcastically, taking a step toward her and backing her up against the studio door.

Looking flustered by my proximity, she shook her head no.

I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to crowd her space, but I moved even closer to her. I was so much taller than her and I wasn’t trying to threaten her, but my behavior could have absolutely been interpreted that way. I pressed a palm flat to the door on either side of her shoulders, caging her between me and the exit. Compliantly, she dropped her hands by her sides, offering no opposition to the intimacy of our closeness.

When I spoke, my voice came out husky and warm. “Really? Because I think you just made me sign over my right to be CEO if I fail to produce three hit singles in four months.”

“You didn’t sign anything,” she whispered, her breath heavy and fast.

I hadn’t been this close to her in years. She smelled incredible, like silky soft baby powder and honeyed tangerines.

“No,” I uttered, “but I promised. And as you know, I am a man of my word.”

“Always.” Her eyes were wide and glazed over. Her hand fluttered up and she touched my face, holding my chin. I swallowed. Had we touched since the day before I left for boarding school? No, probably not. Why would we touch? I hated her, right? I did. I knew I did. But there was no denying that I loved the feeling of her fingertips on my skin. It had been years and still I knew I’d never felt anything like those swollen lips of hers. Even with anger broiling in my chest, I hungered to kiss her a second time.

And then she said, “The promise doesn’t matter because I know you can do it.”

I wanted to see manipulation in her eyes. I wanted to believe Ava was my enemy. She’d let my parents believe I was a fuckup for years and honestly, in some ways, I lived up to their expectations, the whole time knowing that two words from Ava could change everything. I still hated Ava. I was always going to hate Ava, even if she did right by me. But when everyone else failed me, she was always there, and what I saw in her eyes wasn’t hatred or anger or any evil plot. I saw a woman who had hope, a woman who believed in me. Ava was certain I could produce three hits in four months. She wanted me to succeed, genuinely.

Fuck that.

Ava was nuts. I’d been manipulated by her again, not standing in the studio but a half hour earlier in the boardroom. She played me like a fiddle. She made the board members believe that she and I were enemies so that they would be astounded by my success. She was always working, always plotting. If she wanted me to succeed, there was a reason. There had to be.

I backed off, dropping my hands and moving deeper into the studio in the direction that led to the doorway to my father’s office—my office. Shaking my head, astounded, I asked, “What is wrong with you? Why is everything in your world always spin?”

She sighed, annoyed, and spoke sternly, throwing her hands up emphatically as she made her points. “They have to believe that you have oversight. They have to think that they can control you. Correction, that I can control you.”

Again, the anger I felt toward her surged, rising from a simmer deep in my gut to a roar on my tongue.

“You can control me, Ava. I’m not allowed to take a shit at LSA Records without your permission.” The words came out of my body like fire from a dragon. I physically bent toward her, propelling my vitriol at her face. I couldn’t help it. I blamed her for all the dark, sticky sorrow that had clawed at me since I got the call about my parents’ will. Even in their death they didn’t trust or have faith in me.

She took it. Closed her eyes and let every ugly feeling I was sending her way land and lick at her skin until it was absorbed. She bore my anger like a brand, like I owned the right to treat her however I wanted. Watching her stand there, quietly accepting punishment for my parents' sins, made my mouth sour.

After a few moments, she opened her eyes. Through tears that threatened to spill, she spoke with composure. “I will not give you carte blanche to do whatever you want, Bruno. But I trust you and will listen to you and let you take risks you believe in. And I hope…” She paused because her attempt at composure waned and her voice shook. I watched her chest rise as she drew in a deep calming breath before repeating her last words and then adding, “…that over the next four months you will learn to trust me.”

Unlikely.