Beautiful Sacrifice (3 page)

Blaire looked away in disgust. “Really, Falyn, you look like a cow chewing its cud.”

Blowing a large bubble and letting it snap back into my mouth was the only response I could muster.

Taylor held out his hand with confidence. “Taylor Maddox, sir. US Forest Service trash.”

The hotshot lifted his chin, likely thinking this would impress the pompous ass standing in front of him.

Instead, William shifted his weight, incensed. “A vagrant. Just when I thought you couldn’t sink any lower. Christ, Falyn.”

Taylor pulled his hand back, again shoving it into his jeans pocket. His jaw tightened as he was clearly trying to resist the urge to retort.

“Bill,” Blaire warned, checking to see who was within earshot. “Not the time or the place.”

“I prefer the term
seasonal
,” Taylor said. “I’m with the Alpine Hotshot Crew, stationed just up at Estes Park.”

His bulky shoulders rose as he pushed his fists further into his pockets. I got the feeling it was to keep from connecting one of them with William’s jaw.

Taylor’s movement caused my father to notice his arms. “Hotshot crew, eh? And part-time doodle pad by the looks of it.”

Taylor chuckled, glancing down at his right arm. “My brother’s a tattoo artist.”

“You’re not really dating this deadbeat, are you?” As usual, my father’s question was more of a demand for an answer.

Taylor looked at me, and I grinned.

“No,” I said. “We’re in love.” I strolled over to Taylor, who looked as surprised as my father, and I planted a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I get off at eight tomorrow night. See you then.”

Taylor smiled and reached around my middle, pulling me to his side. “Anything for you, baby.”

William sneered, but Blaire gently touched his chest, signaling for him to stay quiet.

“Falyn, we need to talk,” she said, her eyes making note of every tattoo on Taylor and every frayed edge of every hole in his jeans.

“We’ve talked,” I said, feeling confident while being hugged to Taylor’s side. “If I have anything else to say, I’ll call you.”

“You haven’t spoken to us in months. It’s time,” she said.

“Why?” I asked. “Nothing has changed.”

Blaire’s eyes fell from my face to look down my body and then came back again. “Quite a lot has changed. You look atrocious.”

Taylor held me away from him, gave me a once-over, and then made a show of his disagreement.

Blaire sighed. “We’ve given you space and time to figure this out on your own, but enough is enough. You need to come home.”

“So, his upcoming campaign has nothing to do with it?” I nodded toward my father, who puffed out his chest, indignant.

His audacity to even pretend to be insulted made it almost impossible for me to keep my cool.

My face contorted. “I want you both to leave. Now.”

William angled his body and stepped forward in an offensive move. Taylor steadied himself, ready to defend me if necessary. Chuck had stood up to my parents before, but standing next to Taylor was different. He barely knew me, yet there he was, in a protective stance in front of me, glowering at my father, daring him to take another step. I hadn’t felt that safe in a long time.

“Good night, docs,” Phaedra said in her shaky Southern twang.

Taylor took my hand and led me past my parents into the dining area of the café.

Phaedra shut the door in my father’s face and cranked the key in the lock as Blaire watched. As Phaedra turned her back to them, my parents continued on to their original destination.

Chuck crossed his arms, staring at Taylor.

Taylor looked down at me even though I could claim all of five feet nine inches. “You did that just to piss off your parents, didn’t you?”

I flattened out my apron and then met his eyes. “Yep.”

“Do you still want me to pick you up at eight?” Taylor asked. “Or was that just for show?”

I glanced at Kirby, who looked entirely too happy about the situation.

“It’s not necessary,” I said.

“C’mon”—Taylor flashed his teeth, a deep dimple sinking in the middle of his left cheek—“I played along. The least you could do is let me buy you dinner.”

I blew my bangs out of my eyes. “Fine.” I untied my apron as I left him for home.

“Did she just say yes?” Taylor asked.

Chuck chortled. “You’d better take it and run, kid. She hasn’t said yes to anyone in a while.”

I jogged up the steps to my apartment above the café, hearing the front door click after someone had let Taylor out. After taking just a few steps to the window overlooking Tejon Street, I watched as Taylor walked to his pickup truck in the parking lot.

A long sigh separated my lips. He was too cute and too charming, and he was on a hotshot crew. I was already one statistic. I wouldn’t let him turn me into another. One dinner wouldn’t be hard, and I sort of owed him for playing along while I’d pissed off my parents.

I was well practiced in walking away though. One dinner, and we’d be done.

My fingers flitted under the cool water gushing from the showerhead. The pipes sang a sad song, expanding and trembling within the thin white walls of my quaint two-bedroom loft above The Bucksaw Café. It seemed like it was taking forever for the hot water to kick in.

The carpets were worn, and it smelled of grease and mildew when a candle wasn’t burning, but for two hundred dollars a month, it was mine. In comparison with other apartments in the Springs, the loft was practically free.

Leftover decorations from Phaedra’s eclectic collection hung from the walls. I had left home with nothing but the clothes I wore and my Louis Vuitton purse. Even if I had wanted to take some of my things, my father wouldn’t have let me.

Dr. William Fairchild was feared at the hospital and at home but not because he was abusive or ill-tempered—even though he was the latter. William was a renowned cardiologist in the state of Colorado and married to Dr. Blaire Fairchild, one of the best cardiothoracic surgeons in North America, also known as my mother … and queen bitch of the universe by some of her nurses.

My parents had been made for each other. The only person who didn’t fit into our family was me, and I was a constant disappointment to them both. By my junior year of high school, I had been introduced to my favorite friend, my secret comfort, the promise of a stress-free good time—cheap beer. The more obsessed and well-known my parents had become, the more I’d nursed my loneliness and shame—not that they’d noticed.

The water began to turn warm, bringing my thoughts to the present.

“Finally,” I said to no one.

The button of my jeans easily popped open, the slit worn and a bit stretched out. I unzipped my pants and then realized, with the millions of thoughts swirling around in my head, I’d forgotten an important part of my nightly routine. I swore aloud while rushing to my bedroom closet. Bending down, I uncovered a size-nine shoebox. I carried the cardboard to the kitchen and set it next to my apron on the counter.

A thin stack of twenties and fewer small bills peeked out from the apron that was folded neatly on the speckled gray-and-rose Formica. I removed the lid from the box that held over five years of letters, pictures, and cash instead of Adidas. I carefully placed half of my tips inside, and then I hid it back in the dark corner of my closet.

I returned to the kitchen to tuck the rest of the money inside a plain black wallet that I’d purchased from the local discount store shortly after I’d sold the Louis Vuitton online. One hundred and eleven dollars in cash fit right in with the rest of the stack. I would have rent by the end of my shift the following day. With that thought, I smiled and tossed the wallet onto the counter on my way to the bathroom.

My T-shirt was stuck to my skin from sweating throughout the day. I peeled it off and easily kicked off my ratty white Converse high-tops, and then I maneuvered my way out of my skinny jeans, pulling them down over my ankles and tossing them to the corner.

The large pile of dirty clothes made me happy, knowing that would never have existed in my former life. With a houseful of staff—Vanda, the housekeeper, and the three maids, Cicely, Maria, and Ann—overlooked laundry at the end of the day would have meant somebody’s termination. My bed had been made the moment I climbed out of it, and my clothes had been laundered, pressed, and hung up by the next day.

I let my panties fall to the floor, and I pulled off my damp socks with my toes. I stepped under the steaming uneven spray. Once in a while, the water would become ice cold and then turn scalding before returning to normal, but I didn’t care.

The trash was full, the laundry was a week behind, and dirty dishes were in the sink. And I would go to bed without giving any of it a second thought. No one was there to yell at me, to obsess over order, or to chastise my untucked shirts or untamed hair. I didn’t have to be perfect here. I didn’t have to be perfect anywhere anymore. I only had to exist and breathe for no one but myself.

The yellow wallpaper in the bathroom was peeling from years of steam filling the room, the paint in the living room was chipped and scuffed, and the ceiling in my bedroom had a large water stain in the corner that seemed to get worse every year. The carpet was matted, the furniture older than me, but it was all mine, free of memories and free of obligation.

Once I’d scrubbed the grease and sweat from my skin, I stepped out, wrapping myself in a fluffy yellow towel. Then I began the nightly routine of brushing my teeth and moisturizing my body. I slipped on a nightgown and watched exactly six minutes of the news—just long enough to catch the weather. Then I crawled into my full-sized bed and read something completely and utterly trashy before falling asleep.

Breakfast at the Bucksaw would begin in ten hours, and I would repeat my day like every other day, except for Sundays and the occasional Saturday when Phaedra would insist I find somewhere else to be. Only, the next day would be different. I would have to survive dinner with the interagency oaf, likely listening to how cool axes and tattoos were and being just bitchy enough that he’d steer clear of me until he went home to Estes Park.

A knock on the door startled me, and I leaned up on my elbows, looking around the bedroom as if that would help me hear better.

“Falyn!” Kirby said from the other side of the door. “Gunnar is going to be late! Let me in!”

I groaned as I crawled off the comfy mattress, and I crept out of my room and across the living area to the front door. Just after I rotated the dead bolt, Kirby pushed through the door, still in her apron and holding a to-go cup half full of soda.

“Is it possible to love everything about someone, except for everything about him?” she growled, slamming the door behind her, narrowly missing my face. She sipped on her drink and leaned against the closest thing to the door, the side of my refrigerator. “This is the second time he’s been late this week.”

“Maybe you should stop letting him borrow your car,” I said.

“His truck is in the shop—again.” Kirby’s eyes scanned over my purple cotton nightgown, and she puffed out a laugh. “What a sexy nightie you have, grandma.”

“Shut your face,” I said, taking a few steps to face the large mirror on the wall. It was basically an oversized T-shirt. There was nothing grandma about it.

I padded across the worn carpet, inviting her to sit. I grabbed a section of my still damp hair, mindlessly using both hands to twist the ends. My hair was camouflage, falling in soft waves over my shoulders, long enough to cover my breasts if I were ever stranded in a lagoon without clothes. It would keep my hands busy when I was nervous or bored. It was also a cloaking device. With just one tuck of the chin, a tawny veil would be lowered between me and an unwelcome stare.

Whether a man would mention my hair or my eyes first was a toss-up. My eyes weren’t as closely set as Kirby’s, but they were the same almond shape, only slightly hooded. No matter how many YouTube makeup tutorials I’d watched, eyeliner was a waste of time. Makeup in general was a waste of time because I had never mastered the art, but for some reason, the shape of my eyes plus their bright green color were something my regulars would comment on often. That was only slightly more frequent than the mentions of the splash of freckles over my nose.

Kirby made herself at home, sitting on my sofa and leaning back into the cushions. “I love this old thing. I think it’s older than I am.”

“Older than both of us put together,” I said.

The loft had come furnished with all but the bed. I’d slept many nights on that sofa until I could save up enough to buy a frame and mattress. I deemed a headboard unnecessary. My tips were spent only on the bare essentials.

I sat in the scratchy orange swivel chair beside the sofa, watching Kirby frown as she sipped from her straw.

She turned her wrist to glance at the delicate black leather watch on her wrist, and then she heaved a dramatic sigh. “I hate him.”

“You do not.”

“I hate waiting. I feel like that sums up my entire relationship with Gunnar—waiting.”

“He adores you. He is taking all these classes to get a good job and give you everything you want when you’re his wife. It could be worse.”