Breaking Free Page 6

  He grabbed the check and tucked it into his front pocket. “Seriously? I finished that project almost a year ago.”

  Mr. Lowe laughed. “Yeah, that’s headquarters for you.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of Trent’s mouth. His luck was finally starting to turn around. “Hey, I’m not complaining. Better late than never, right?”

  “So true, Mr. Goddard. So true.” Mr. Lowe studied a stack of papers spread across Trent’s desk and frowned. “I haven’t seen any updates on the Peak Performance Foods campaign. Found an angle yet?”

  Trent’s pulse quickened as he thought about his blank computer screen, but he quickly covered with a smile. “No problem. My gears are running overtime.” He tapped his temple with his index finger.

  “I imagined as much.” Mr. Lowe threw him a thumbs-up sign before disappearing out the door and down the hall.

  Trent leaned forward and massaged his temples. He had less than a week to create an amazing media campaign for his biggest gig to date, and as of yet, he’d come up blank.

  Sports drink samples provided by Peak Performance Foods cluttered his desk. He grabbed a red bottle, took a gulp, and swirled it around in his mouth. Awaken your taste buds? No, that sounded cheesy. Burst into action? Get the flav?

  Get real. They were expecting more than that. He popped a track and field video into his computer’s DVD player, then leaned back to watch the runners. Next, he skimmed through two basketball clips, football footage, and extreme cage fighting, but by six o’clock he still had nothing. Nothing but tired eyes and a looming deadline.

  CHAPTER 8

  You got any cash?” Alice’s son Tim grabbed a pair of gym socks from the laundry basket and stuffed them into a duffel bag.

  She placed a neatly folded dishtowel on the couch. “Not on me. Why? What do you need?”

  “Food.” He scowled. “There’s nothing to eat in this place.”

  She set the laundry aside and walked into the kitchen. She searched the cupboards, then pulled out various food items. “There’s some crackers and peanut butter in here.” She opened the fridge and rummaged through the near-empty shelves. “And some cottage cheese and celery.”

  “I’m not in preschool, Mom.”

  With a sigh, she returned the items to their proper places. “Like cottage cheese would kill you? What time’s your lunch period?”

  Tim snorted. “I don’t think so.”

  She peered around the corner. “What?”

  “Hey everyone, Tim’s mommy brought him lunch today. Isn’t that adorable?”

  Alice marched into the living room and jammed her hands on her hips. “OK, Mr. I’m-so-grown-up-I’d-rather-starve-than-let-anyone-know-I-have-a-mother, what would you like me to do? Leave a bag of food on the hood of your car?”

  “Forget it.” Tim threw his backpack over his shoulder and stormed out.

  “Don’t—” Alice flinched when the door slammed behind him—“slam the door.”

  “Gotta go.” Danny set his cereal bowl down, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and stood.

  “Wait.” Alice faced him. “What are you doing for lunch?”

  “I’m good.” He grabbed his phone from the coffee table and slipped it in his back pocket.

  “You can’t go all day without eating. Hold on.” She dashed into the kitchen for the crackers and cottage cheese, but by the time she made it to the fridge, the front door had already opened and shut. A moment later, a car engine hummed to life.

  Alice exhaled and kneaded her forehead. Just another cheery day in the Goddard family. Leaving partially folded laundry on the couch, she grabbed her purse.

  She crossed the room in long strides and threw open the door. Beth stood on the other side, finger poised on the doorbell.

  “Good morning.” She grinned, then glanced at Alice’s handbag. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  Alice offered a tight-lipped smile. “Hello, Beth. Did we have plans?”

  “Huh? Oh, no. I just . . . I thought I’d stop by and see if you wanted to get coffee. My treat. Then, if we finish and find ourselves twiddling our thumbs, I thought maybe we could jot down some discussion questions.” She pulled a book from her purse and Alice read the title: The Battle for Truth and Love: Why Peace at All Costs Leads to All Out War. “I picked this up at the library, along with Ten Steps to Increased Intimacy.”

  Alice frowned. Beth certainly was persistent. “I would but . . .” She held up her purse. “I’m heading out. I’ve got a lot of errands to run.”

  Beth’s face fell. “Maybe later?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll call you.” She couldn’t deal with Beth this morning. Getting through the day was hard enough.

  CHAPTER 9

  Friday afternoon, Trent leaned back in his office chair and rubbed his face. His eyes burned and his head throbbed. It had been quite a week. A good week but long. Although he still hadn’t found the winning angle for Peak Performance Foods, he wrapped up a couple minor accounts Mr. Lowe tossed his way. Neither of which—one for an emerging gymnastics academy and the other for a national teen crisis center—offered big incentives, but money was money.

  He glanced at the time on his computer screen. Two more long, mind-numbing hours. Time for a late afternoon pick-me-up. His gaze shot to the office door, and his ears strained for the sound of voices or approaching footsteps. Nothing.

  He yanked open a desk drawer and fished around for the vodka bottle hidden in the back. The tension drained from his neck and shoulders the minute the warm liquid touched his tongue. After another nervous glance, he took a second swig.

  The steady clicking of wooden soles on the linoleum signaled someone’s approach. His hands went slick as he screwed the lid back on the bottle and returned it to its hiding spot. Pens rattled in a plastic desk organizer as he slammed the drawer shut. Popping a handful of mints in his mouth, he swiveled his chair, turned to his computer, and clicked on his email account.

  Messages filled the screen by the time Mr. Lowe poked his head into the office. “I saw the work you did for House of Healing. I think it could be stronger with a few minor changes, but it’s a good start.” He crossed the room. “Did you get a chance to look at those Power Juice commercials I sent you?”

  “Yeah, they were great, thanks. Gave me a lot of ideas.” Not. There was nothing like watching what he couldn’t use to shrivel his creativity.

  “Glad to hear it.” Mr. Lowe’s eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head.

  Trent held his breath, exhaling when Mr. Lowe’s tight expression smoothed into a smile.

  “Keep it up.” And with that, he left.

  Trent’s shoulders went slack. Friday couldn’t have come any sooner. Why waste time staring at a blank computer screen? Today was payday, and his check had already been deposited. He’d checked. With money in the bank, he could finally let off some steam. Besides, with their dinner engagement at Misty’s later, he’d need a few shots just to get through the night. A couple hands of poker wouldn’t hurt, either.

  Guilt soured his stomach as he thought of all the times he’d left Alice hanging over the past month, but this time would be different. He would stay out of trouble and keep his eyes on the clock. Hopefully he’d win a few, but if he didn’t, if he happened to lose, he’d walk away before it got bad. In fact, he’d only bring 50 bucks in with him. The rest of his cash would stay in the car. And he’d be home by 6:30 at the latest.

  He scrolled through his phone and paused at Larry Bellue’s name. Maybe he’d give him a call to see what kind of game he had brewing. No, that wouldn’t work. Bellue and his guys didn’t get going until after nine; Misty expected him and Alice by eight. Besides, the Bellue gang played penny poker, and even though Trent wasn’t looking for a high-stakes game, he didn’t want to sit around sucking lollipops either. Not for his one night, maybe even his last night, at the table.

  After scanning through all his contacts and coming up with nothing more than a handful of unimpressive prospects
, most of whom he owed money to, Trent decided to head to his favorite hole-in-the-wall pub.

  The clock read four. That gave him plenty of time to get his game on, build up his wad, and head home. A quick change later and he and Alice would be off to the see the pinky-lifting cappuccino sippers, a thought as appealing as shoe shopping on Christmas Eve. At least Ed would be there, although truth be told, things had been a little strained between them lately. He didn’t know why, but it was like the guy was analyzing his every move. So much for that transparency and open-arm acceptance Ed always preached. Not that Trent expected much else.

  After answering one last email, he closed his laptop and slid it in its case. Grabbing his computer in one hand and his briefcase in the other, he headed into the hallway where he ran smack-dab into Mr. Lowe.

  “There a problem?” Mr. Lowe eyed Trent’s briefcase.

  Busted.

  “No, sir. Everything’s great. I just . . .” Had a meeting? Needed to pick up more footage? What? “Alice called and there’s . . . I’ve got some personal business I need to attend to.”

  Crossing one arm, Mr. Lowe tucked his other hand under his bicep. “How you doing with the Peak Performance Foods account? Ready to blow them out of the water? D-Day’s just around the corner, you know.”

  Trent’s grip tightened around his computer bag. “I’ve got it covered.”

  “Let me see what you’ve got.”

  Trent swallowed. “Sure thing.” Now what? Maybe he could pull up an old account, except he’d need to manipulate things, remove names, logos. “Last week you said you had some designs you wanted to show me?”

  Mr. Lowe studied him. “I did? For what?”

  Trent shrugged. “Something to do with their new drink labels.”

  Mr. Lowe frowned, staring at him for a long moment. “I said that?”

  Trent nodded, working the story in his mind, searching for another stall tactic. Not that delaying would do him any good, except give him more time to sweat. Moving toward his desk, he glanced from the clock to the hallway, wondering where Theresa, Mr. Lowe’s constant shadow was when he needed her.

  “So, I spoke with their guys at length yesterday, to make sure I understood their angle. Their brand. You know, the tone they were going for and the feelings they wanted to invoke in their customers.” He kept talking, barely pausing to take a breath. “Remember what Dave Jenkins said at the marketing seminar you sent everyone to last winter?”

  Mr. Lowe shook his head and checked his watch.

  “He gave a presentation on using color schemes to convey emotion. The effects are subtle but brilliant. Let me show you.” He sat behind his desk and pulled open one of his drawers, rummaging through it, as if some brochure or pamphlet lay within it. “Hm . . . Where did that go?” He swiveled his chair to face the small filing cabinet to the right of his computer.

  Someone rapped on his opened door. Releasing a gust of air, he glanced up, relieved to see Reba from human resources standing in the doorway. “Mr. Lowe, do you have a moment? I need to talk to you. It’s important.” Probably about the harassment suit the lady from accounting was filing. Perfect.

  “Yes, of course.” He gave Trent a brisk nod then hurried out.

  Trent dashed down the hall toward the elevators. He thought about all the catching up he was going to have to do—nearly a month’s worth. Nothing like a slew of deadlines to get the heart pumping. But he could put in some hours this weekend and catch up.

  After a quick stop at the ATM, he headed toward his favorite bar. Fifteen minutes later he pulled into Casey’s parking lot and grabbed a deck of cards from his glove box. Reaching into his back pocket, he ran his fingers over the smooth leather of his wallet.

  Thinking about the $725 tucked inside, he smiled. Then hesitated. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, walking in with that much cash. Only $50. That’s all he’d spend. If he won, great. Otherwise, he’d walk away. He tucked $675 into his glove box for safekeeping; but what about drinks? That could cost him another $20. Tips could push him to $30. And leaving cash in your car, visible or not, was asking to be robbed. No, it made more sense to take it with him.

  He paused to survey the parking lot with its handful of cars. Based on their rusted paint and dented fenders, it’d be slim pickings tonight. Maybe he should’ve hit the pool halls, although he wasn’t much of a billiards man. Besides, he was here now, and the clock was ticking. He’d have to make the best of it.

  A girl with shiny, black hair, dressed in a tight jean skirt and shimmering blouse crossed the lot and disappeared into the bar. He followed a few paces behind, pausing at the entrance. Tiny pricks of adrenaline shot through his veins.

  Breathing deeply, he raked a shaky hand through his hair, rotating toward his car. Common sense told him to turn around, get back in his car, and head home to Alice. Cash bulged in his pocket and more waited in his bank account, maybe even enough to placate Jay and his thugs.

  “You going in, or what?”

  He spun around to find himself face-to-face with a heavy-set man whose crooked nose and mangled ears told of one too many bar fights.

  CHAPTER 10

  Alice dialed Trent’s number. It went to voice mail.

  “Hey, it’s me. I’m checking to see what time you think you’ll be home. Don’t forget we’re meeting Ed and Beth at Misty’s this evening.” Of all nights for him to pull a no-show, tonight wasn’t it.

  Tucking her phone in her purse, she paced. Although Trent wasn’t late—yet—she wasn’t holding her breath. And the fact that he refused to take her call didn’t make her feel any better.

  She grabbed her brush off the dresser and ran it through her already combed hair. Setting it down, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Her pale cheeks looked more washed out than usual, the dark circles beneath her lashes evidence of the many sleepless nights spent waiting for Trent to come home. Pathetic.

  She rummaged through her makeup case until she found her favorite lipstick. The soft, shimmering pink thickened her lips without accentuating the tiny lines around her mouth. A few strokes of rouge to her cheeks went a long way toward brightening her face and intensified the blue in her eyes.

  Finishing with some mascara to her thick lashes, she prepared for the inevitable. It could be midnight before Trent finally wandered home, slobbering drunk and smelling so foul it’d make her gag. But she couldn’t go to Misty’s alone, not without adding momentum to the rumor mill. Although, she might not have a choice.

  She glanced in the mirror one last time and moved to her jewelry box. If she had to play the fool tonight, at least she’d look good doing it. Lifting the smooth mahogany lid, she sifted through the delicate necklaces and bracelets tucked inside. The sterling silver slide pendant Trent gave her for their fifth anniversary shimmered in the dim light. She picked it up and ran her fingers across the tiny diamonds as memories of that day resurfaced. She could still see the passion in his eyes when he had draped it across her neck.

  “You know, you’re just as beautiful now as the day I married you.”

  She closed her eyes. She could almost feel the electricity that had surged between them when he wrapped his hands around her waist and drew her closer.

  “Forever and a day, right?” was her breathless response.

  “Forever and a day.”

  His warm lips trailed across her shoulder as he hummed the tune to their favorite song. Then he’d spun her around and cupped her face in his hands, causing her spine to tingle.

  Shoving the memory aside, she inhaled a breath and trudged into the living room to grab her purse. Trent wasn’t coming. And now she had to figure out an excuse to feed the gossip-hungry ladies. Maybe she should call to cancel. There was always the “I don’t feel well” line, but that’d only make things worse. Knowing Beth, she’d organize a chicken-soup-and-Kleenex thing. No, Alice needed to go, with or without her lying husband.

  Trent looked inside the bar, then back to the man holding the door, scanning his
leather vest, broad shoulders, and bulging arms in one sweep.

  “You going in or what?” The man repeated, his muscular jaw tightening into a firm frown.

  “Sorry.” Trent looked away and dashed inside, making a mental note not to play poker with the guy no matter how desperate he became. Last thing he needed was another muscle man added to his list of pursuers.

  A man with a beard that extended to midchest sat in a far corner nursing a beer. A pair of bikers with long hair and thick beards filled a small table to the right. One of them, a man with a mustache that dipped below his chin, met Trent’s gaze, his expression blank.

  Trent looked away and scanned the room for a friendly face. He paused to watch a lady dressed in a painted-on tank top and miniskirt flirt with a man in a suit. She looked up as Trent approached and smiled provocatively.

  He paused, taking in the soft contours of her body with his eyes until his gaze met hers. In response, she lifted her chin and tilted her head, painted lips parted.

  She stirred her drink. “Want a taste? I’ll share.”

  Yeah, for a price. When a girl responded that easily, it only meant one thing. They were looking to get paid.

  He shook his head and stepped back. “No, thanks.” He came to let off steam, not tangle himself in a net.

  Turning away, he strode to the back of the bar. If anyone came looking for a game, that’s where they’d go.

  He chose a table in the far corner. After ordering a gin and tonic, he pulled out his deck of cards and placed them in the center of the table. And there he sat, for 45 minutes, sipping drink after drink until he no longer noticed the smell of the moldy carpet and mildewed walls. People came and went—a couple that looked like they had just jumped off the rail; two young girls who walked in, glanced around, then ran out; a bunch of biker dudes covered in leather and chains.

  Five or six cocktails later, he lost count, a group of kids meandered to the back and filled two small tables next to him. They looked fresh out of high school, barely old enough to grow peach fuzz.