Wicked Torture (Stark World 3)

And then, poof, he was gone. Guess he was right; he was just like my daddy.

In my head, I know that he was a jerk, too. And I know that both he and my father left because of my mom, not me. She had her own problems, God knew. But they just walked. They didn't say goodbye. They were there--and then they weren't. And no matter how hard I tried to be rational and make sense of it, their abandonment scarred me.

Maybe with a different mother, I would have healed. One who poured on love. Or even one who was tough and assured me that we'd get through it--that what those men did wasn't a reflection on me.

But that wasn't my mom, not by a long shot. And when I was twelve and Cam was almost two, she took us to her mother's house in Austin, supposedly so that Grams would watch us while Mom had some adult time.

That was the last I ever saw of her, not counting five Christmas cards--without return addresses--that came over the course of the next ten years. She didn't even come to Gram's funeral.

And, yeah, I know it's not my fault. And I know it's not Cam's fault. If anything, it's my mom's fault--she's the one who left, and considering everything, it's a fair bet that she's the reason the men left, too.

But it feels like it's me. And the scars are real. And even though I know the truth, my heart has never really healed.

I pull my feet up onto the seat of the chair and hug my knees, hating that I'm so vulnerable. And hating more that Ares sees it so clearly.

"And Owen?" Ares says gently.

I whip my head over, surprised. "What about him?"

"You're the one who left him."

I cringe, then put my feet down as I reach for my coffee. I take a sip, knowing that I'm stalling, then say, "That's just timing. He would have left me for that grad student."

"And you know that why? Because he slept with you?"

Owen Porter teaches at the business school, but I only had him for one introductory class, and we didn't start dating until much later. Things were fine while I was in school, but once I graduated and started pouring my energy into Crown Consulting, we started to drift apart. He even talked about taking a job at another college, even though he knew my business was rooted in Austin.

Honestly, I'm not sure we were that together in the first place. But we got along, and there was genuine affection, and when we'd married, he'd seemed like a safe harbor.

When things started to get rocky, all I did was get a jump on the inevitable, and I tell Ares as much.

Even as I speak, though, I can't deny the little twist in my gut. Because maybe, deep down, maybe I knew that if I'd stuck, things would have gotten better. But I couldn't stay and take the risk. Leaving was hard enough on my heart. If he'd been the one to walk, I think it would have destroyed me.

"Look, Owen was never my favorite guy," Ares says, "but you imagined him hooking up with a grad student and packing his bags because of your issues. He never actually said or did anything, did he? Because if he did, you never told me or Cam."

I scowl, but I don't respond. He's right.

"I'm just saying, keep an open mind," he continues. "Because if you don't, you're going to end up alone. Or worse, Noah will end up with someone else."

I turn sharply to him, and Ares smiles knowingly.

"Yeah," he says, "that hurts because you care. So don't pretend like you don't. Most of all, don't fuck up, okay?"

14

Because I spent so much energy not thinking about Ares' words, I get a lot of writing done Sunday morning. It's barely past noon when I email the lyrics of two completely new songs to Celia, and am rewarded by her emoji-laden cyber-squeal of joy.

In the afternoon, I turn my attention to work, and dive into an in-depth, meticulous review of my plans for the rollout. I spend hours going over every point and turning my notes into a PowerPoint presentation. Overkill, maybe. But considering the time crunch, I want everybody on the team to be as much in my head as possible.

There are no calls or texts from Noah, and I tell myself I don't care. Because why would he call or text? Or email? Or stop by? We had a great time yesterday, but the day served its purpose, and tomorrow we can go to work and not feel awkward around each other.

Still, I can't help wondering what he's doing today. Or, more accurately, I can't help wondering who he's doing it with.

Frustrated by the direction of my own thoughts, I force my attention back to work. On the dual campaigns for the trade and for consumers. On the presentation team I want to form, so that companies that may be on the fence about the viability of the project can see it in action. Of the television and web ads I want to get in place for the commercial market. And, most of all, the drip campaign counting down to the product's release.

I'm at the Stark offices by seven, and the receptionist leads me to the conference room that is going to be our ground zero. Maia's already there, her laptop open and her fingers flying over the keyboard. Her hair is pulled back from her face in dozens of neat cornrows that fall down her back, each fastened with a brightly colored bead.

She wears neon purple glasses that stand out against her ebony skin, and she's glancing between the papers at her elbow and the screen as she types. Documents are stacked neatly in front of every chair, and the projector is already on as she runs through the presentation I emailed her late last night.