Beg For Me (Morally Gray Book 3)

By the time lunch rolls around, I’ve finished my resignation letter, saved it to the cloud, and made a dozen arguments back and forth with myself about how and when to send it.

Part of me wants to storm into Hartman’s office right now, throw the letter in his face, and make a dramatic speech about ethics before making an equally dramatic exit, complete with raised fists and slammed doors.

The other part knows that action would not only be futile, but also counterproductive.

I need the next two weeks to plan for all the fallout leaving this position will incur in my life. I need the money too. Staying on the payroll for another fortnight makes sense, even if I’d rather set loose a nest of rattlesnakes under Lorraine’s desk.

There’s also a good possibility I’ll be terminated as soon as I turn in the letter, so all these mental gymnastics might be in vain.

I have at least until Friday. That’s when I told Lorraine I’d give her my answer. In the meantime, I need to get my ducks in a row.

Duck one: update my resumé.

Duck two: make a list of references.

Duck three: pray for Lorraine and Hartman to die in a fiery plane crash or other freak accident.

Nothing that will have them suffering too badly, though. Just a few moments of complete terror before oblivion will do the trick.

I might be vindictive, but I’m not a monster.

A tentative knock on my office door pulls me from my thoughts. “Come in.”

My assistant pokes her head through. “You have a minute?”

“Sure.” I click away from the document on my computer screen and wave her in. “What’s up?”

Alex sits across from my desk, crossing then uncrossing her legs and fidgeting uncomfortably. “So…the word’s out about Carter McCord. Leaving his position, I mean.”

News travels fast. Still unconvinced she isn’t a spy for Hartman, I’m wary of where this might be going. I make a noncommittal noise and wait for her to continue.

After a second of tense silence, she blurts, “If you’re starting your own company, I’d like to join you.”

Surprised, I blink. Then a seed of an idea sprouts.

Should I start my own company? Is that something I want to do?

My thoughts start to churn with the possibilities.

Acutely aware that the office might be bugged, I say, “I have no plans for that.”

Chewing her lip, she gazes at me doubtfully.

“I’m being honest with you, Alex. I’m happy in my position here.”

Now, she makes a face. “That surprises me.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “You just always seemed so much more…ambitious. I figured you’d graduate to something like a cabinet-level government position focused on trade or tech. Or maybe joining a private equity or venture capital firm in a director’s role. Get that Oprah money, you know?”

I cock an eyebrow and gaze at her, trying to determine if she’s baiting me to reveal something sensitive or if we’re having a genuine conversation.

“Is that what you’d do if you were me?”

She nods enthusiastically. “Totally. Or leverage my network and experience to found my own media venture. Like maybe a production studio? Or a tech-driven content platform? But with a focus on women’s leadership and advancement and gender parity.”

Warming to the subject, she leans in and speaks rapidly. “I mean, I know the glass ceilings are way higher than they used to be, and women have made enormous strides in the workplace, but we still have such a long way to go toward true equality. The gender pay gap still persists, even after controlling for education, experience, and occupation. Most boards of directors are still male dominated. And fewer women are promoted at each step up the corporate ladder. And don’t even get me started on the sexual harassment problems we’re still facing!”

She huffs in annoyance. “Just when you think you’re finally being taken seriously, some perv calls you ‘honey’ and grabs your ass.”

This speech surprises and impresses me. I had no idea she felt so passionately about women’s advancement in business.

“I hear you. And you’re right on all counts.”

She studies my expression, but I’m giving nothing away.

Her shoulders slump in defeat. “Anyway. I just thought I’d put it out there.”

“I appreciate it. Thank you.”

She rises and exits without another word, leaving me with conflicted feelings. I stare at the closed door, wanting to reassure her, to offer some encouraging word of advice, but knowing all too well how risky that would be.

In this den of vipers, I don’t know who I can trust.

Which means I can’t trust anyone.

I don’t know what comes after this. A lawsuit? A PR war? A smear campaign? Or nothing at all. Just silence. One day I’m a top executive, the next, I’m a cautionary tale no one talks about in meetings.

That sudden, fierce ache in my chest is longing…for Carter.

He’d know exactly what to say to make me feel better. And even if it was outrageous or I suspected it was a half-truth meant to flatter me, his words would make me smile.

“Dammit, handsome,” I mutter. “Where are you when I need you most?”

I push the ache aside and spend the rest of the afternoon waiting for the other shoe to drop. When five o’clock rolls around and there’s been no sightings of Lorraine or Hartman, I head home with a heavy heart and a throbbing headache.

The moment I walk through the door, my mother hands me a glass of wine.

“What’s this?” I say, setting my handbag on the console in the foyer.

“Trust me, you’re gonna need it.”

My first thought is that something’s wrong with Harlow. A twinge of panic courses through me, but before I can ask, my mother jerks her thumb toward the kitchen.

“She’s in there. And it’s messy. Brace yourself.”

Already assuming the worst, I move quickly toward the doorway, my heels clicking against the stone, but the sound of muffled sobs overtakes everything as I approach.

I stop short in the entryway, shocked by what’s waiting for me.

Brittany sits hunched over the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug she’s not drinking from. Her eyes are red. Her mascara’s smudged. Her cheeks are blotchy. When she hears me come in, she looks up. Her gaze is hollowed out, hopeless, and I already know what’s happened.

“He’s gone,” she says, her voice strangled.

Nick. Jesus. What the hell have you done?

“Gone where?”

“I don’t know. Mexico probably. He left a voicemail, said he wouldn’t be back, that I shouldn’t look for him, and that the lease on his place is up, so I need to move out right away.”

I sink into the seat across from her, my entire body cold with disbelief. “What makes you think he left the country?”

She sniffles and rubs a fist in one eye like a tired child. “His passport’s gone. I checked. So are his laptop and some of his clothes and that leather duffel he never travels without.”

The black leather Tumi I bought him for our tenth anniversary. The one I had engraved with his initials.

The one he packed and took with him the night he left me for her.

I close my eyes, swallowing down a rising pressure in my throat that could either be a laugh or a scream.

“I’m sorry for coming here,” she says miserably. “But I…I didn’t know what to do. I don’t have anywhere else to go. I don’t have any money…” She breaks into soft sobs again, propping her elbows on the table and covering her face with her hands.

I sense a presence behind me and turn to find my mother and Harlow standing shoulder to shoulder, staring at Brittany with identical expressions of disdain.

I turn back to Brittany, take a long swallow of wine, then set the glass on the table.

“What about your mother?”

Brittany shakes her head. “She has a new boyfriend. Some creep who smashes beer cans on his forehead and walks around in his underwear all the time. He’s living with her now. I asked her if I could just stay a night or two, but she said he said no.”

“Surely you must have a girlfriend you can stay with until the baby’s born.”

Sniffling, she admits, “Nick didn’t let me have friends. He said he was the only friend I needed.”

“Cousins? Aunts or uncles? Anyone?”

“There’s nobody.” She stares at me pointedly. “I’m all alone.”

Meaning whoever the real father of the baby is, he’s out of the picture too.noveldrama

That loud cracking sound is me grinding my molars together.

My mother crosses to the fridge, gets the wine bottle out, and fills my glass to the brim.

There’s a brief, blissful silence as I drink my wine and imagine in vivid detail all the terrible and violent things I’m going to do to Nick’s balls when we find him. If we find him. Because that’s not a given. He might be an asshole, but he’s not dumb.

If he skipped town to avoid his legal problems and left his pregnant fiancée behind to deal with the wreckage, his plans most likely involved vanishing for good.

Abandoning his daughter in the process.

I turn again to look at Harlow, and it’s as if she can read my mind. Quietly, but with steely vehemence, she says, “Good riddance.”

“Esatto!” agrees my mother in Italian, then spits on the floor to emphasize her contempt.

I’d say this month couldn’t get any worse, but there are still a few days left until it’s over.

“Excuse me for a moment.” I stand and walk into the living room, motioning with my head for my mother and Harlow to join me. When we’re out of earshot, I turn to them, resigned.

“I’m sure you already know what I’m going to say.”

They look at each other. My mother lifts her brows. Harlow shrugs. My mother rests a hand on her shoulder, and Harlow sighs, nodding.

Their silent conversation over, my mother turns to me. “I’m not giving up the guest room. She sleeps on the sofa.”

Harlow insists, “And she’s not wearing any of my clothes.”

“Nobody’s wearing anybody’s clothing. This is temporary. Tomorrow, we’ll find her a place to stay.”

The three of us walk back to the kitchen, then stand side by side in front of the table, gazing at the pathetic picture Brittany makes, slumped over her mug and crying softly.

This is when I realize I’ll never be the bog witch of my dreams. That badass bitch would have already turned this girl into a one-legged goat and roasted her on a spit for supper.

With a profound sense of the utter ridiculousness of life, I look at my ex-husband’s pregnant young fiancée, the girl who broke up my marriage and my home, who doesn’t have the good sense God gave a flea, and whom He also has apparently put in my path to test both my patience and the outer limits of my sanity.

Then I tell her, “All right. You can stay here for tonight. We’ll figure out something in the morning.”