Forgetting Popper (Los Rancheros #3) Read online

  His eyes flash silver in the street lamps as we speed by. “Or something.”

  We don’t speak on the hour long drive to my house. My body is tired from the adrenaline letdown, the muscles stiff so that it takes long enough for me to get out of the car that Batty grabs an arm gently to help me out.

  I watch him unlock the doors, going immediately to turn off the alarm. I’ve reset it so many times, but he’s been over enough to learn all of my codes. He takes me to my bathroom upstairs. We’ve never been in here together before. He sits me on the lip of the tub, leaning down to unzip my boots.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper. He holds up the heels so that I see the dried blood on them.

  “Did you go to the hospital?” he asks in his brusque way.

  “Which one?”

  His eyes cut to me, flashing a warning as the muscles in his jaw clench.

  “I don’t know if I went. I woke up there,” I say quietly.

  “You don’t remember?” He’s done with the other shoe, and reaches for my shirt. I lift my arms for him.

  “No.” I’m not wearing a bra, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He turns me, putting fingertips to my shoulder blades where they’re scraped.

  “What do you remember?”

  I shrug off his hands and turn again. “I remember after the concert I was supposed to be catching a plane. I would have made it. I’ve always made the planes.”

  “Focus,” he says as he reaches for my pants.

  “I wanted to go but Brian made me talk to a reporter. Do you know Brian?” My brain is foggy, but I know we’ve never talked about anything but the kids. I keep going. “My throat hurt, but the bartender thought I drank whiskey, so I did. That’s all.”

  His eyes scan my face. “You’re an addict and you drank whiskey?”

  I scoff and roll my eyes. “Aren’t you the one that once said I wasn’t an addict?”

  He turns to the tub, twisting the knobs violently. “Yeah. You were the one to offer up your graduation certificate from rehab, so cut the shit.”

  “It’s part of the deal. I did drugs, I drank too much, I went to rehab. Check, check, check. I could have stopped if I wanted to,” I admit to the first person in my life. Figured it would be Batty.

  “In you go.” He holds my hand until I’m sitting down in the half filled tub. I watch under lids that are half-mast as he empties a vase of fake flowers. He quickly fills it with water and starts rinsing my long hair.

  “Why are you doing this?” His hands still for a second before they dump the water on my head again.

  “Because you don’t have anyone else.”

  I feel my face go blank at his words. “You don’t know me, Batty.” My voice is cold, my shields going up faster than the water down my back.

  He stops to reach for my chin, turning my eyes to him. “At least I know your fucking name.”

  “Get out.” My voice shakes. I feel like I’m about to unravel. This was our thing. From the second we started . . . whatever the hell we did, it wasn’t personal. It wasn’t baths and names. Why was he changing the only good day in the week I had? “Get out!”

  He stands up and throws the vase against the wall. I don’t even flinch. He turns back to me with his hands in his hair. It raises his shirt so that I can see the thin trail of hair that disappears behind his buckle. “I’m trying to be nice to you. Maybe it’s been too long for you to realize that, but usually you’re supposed to shut your mouth and let someone be nice.” He sounds exasperated, and sort of desperate. But why would he feel desperate?

  I look at the water, seeing my hair float around my chest like spider webs. “I guess it is Sunday,” I mumble. I hear his rumbling chuckle then he’s next to me again.

  “You’re something else, you know that?” I keep my mouth shut, who knows what would come out. He lathers my hair then puts conditioner in it without being told. When it’s time to come out of the tub, he lifts me from under the arms when I struggle. Batty wraps me in a towel, picking me up and setting me down next to my dresser.

  He leaves me there, so I get dressed in my usual panties and camisole. I’m finished and standing where he left me, awkwardly. When he comes back, it’s with a broom I’ve never seen. I follow him back into the bathroom and watch him clean up the broken vase then leave again. I sit down on the little chair in the corner and pick up the brush.

  Usually this is my favorite part of the day. Getting the tangles out, feeling the bristles on my scalp. I love that feeling. My hair is bleached almost white and falls to below my waist. It takes forever as I start from the bottom, working all the knots out, putting in creams to make the process easier. When I’m done, my arms feel like Jell-O.

  Batty hasn’t returned, but I know if he left he’s set the alarm, so I don’t go check. I get into bed and turn off the light. Only then do I notice my cell phone, little brown pills, and glass of water. I take the ibuprofen with relief then fall asleep.

  Chapter 3

  The ringing starts at an ungodly hour. I squint at my phone: 8:02 A.M. “Fuck you.” I press ignore and fall back asleep. At 8:04 A.M. it starts to ring again. I ignore it too, but by 8:14, I’m spitting mad. I finally accept the call with a, “Where the fuck do you live? I’m coming to kill you.”

  “Hello, Ms. Dinah!” someone chirps in my ear. I pull the phone away as it drills into my head. “Mr. Brennick has an appointment with you at ten this morning and wanted to make sure you were going to attend.”

  “No.” I try to find the end call button without opening my eyes, but in the silent house, I can still hear her talking.

  “He says to tell you that isn’t an acceptable answer. He wrote here that he would come find you if you didn’t come to his office today.”

  “Fuck off.” I finally open my eyes to see the red end button. It immediately starts ringing, so I accept the call. “I’m coming, goddamnit! Now leave me alone!”

  I toss the phone and sit up. Groaning, I get to my feet. I feel sixty years old, instead of my usual fifty. I stand in front of the mirror that takes up the whole wall above the countertops. I had avoided looking at myself until now. Meeting the head of a record label requires makeup though, so it is unavoidable.

  My eyes catch first on my light blue eyes. No black eyes. There are fading fingerprint size bruises on my neck, lots of bruises on my arms, and one that fades into my hairline next to my temple. It could be worse, I remind myself as I dab concealer over my neck and face. After I’m done with the rest of my makeup, I turn to my hair, applying products to it so that it looks greasy, rubbing the strands between my fingers to make it look unbrushed.

  After I brush my teeth, the closet is next. I leave off the necklaces, no need to draw attention to that today.

  When I stroll into Brennick Records at 10:05, I’m armed for war. My feet are perfectly balanced in wedge ankle boots. The wind tickles my legs through the various slits. My upper body is covered by a shirt that aptly states “Rock and Roll stole my soul,” covered by a flannel shirt, and for good measure, over that I have my trusty leather jacket.

  By the time I make it to the top floor I’ve got my face set, telling myself over and over it doesn’t matter if they don’t want me anymore. As soon as I step off the elevator, I see two people I was not expecting to be here.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask immediately. Brian stands up and brushes his suit jacket over his potbelly. Tammy stands more gracefully.

  “We were called in this morning when you actually agreed to come here. It’s an embarrassment the way you’ve put this off. The next contracts have to be signed before the tour is over,” Tammy says while trying to look down her nose at me.

  “You missed the fucking concert, by the way. It’s a good thing we could get such a late flight last night or we wouldn’t even be here,” Brian says, walking closer to me. I force myself not to back away.

  “Why did you get on a plane last night? I didn’t agree until this morning.”

  Tammy shru
gs. “Mr. Brennick’s secretary called late last night to say you would be meeting him, so we dropped everything. Inconsiderate, as usual.” She purses her lips for only a second in disapproval before straightening them out again to make sure she doesn’t get wrinkles.

  The chirpy voice is back, and interrupts whatever comeback I had. “Mr. Brennick will see you now, Ms. Dinah.” She was a little bitty thing, probably in her forties, but all smiles that instantly make me tired.

  I turn to follow the little bird as she flits down the hall toward a conference room at the end of the hall, not waiting for my entourage.

  “Can I get you something to drink, Ms. Dinah?”

  I lick my lips nervously, immediately pissed at myself. “Water. In a bottle.”

  “Of course, and you, sir?” My manager and publicist give long-winded, complicated drink orders that make me cringe as I scan the room. No lawyers. Just a man with his back to the room, looking out the floor to ceiling windows. For some reason I stare at him.

  Maybe not some reason, he does think he holds my fate in the music industry in his hands. But in his perfect charcoal suit, he looks down on the world like a hawk. He knows we’re here, yet he stays with his back to us. I know all about intimidation, and this man is a master. Too bad I’m the queen of this game.

  Or so I thought.

  When he turns around, his features are catalogued almost in slow motion. Is he moving slower? Am I still being affected by the drugs? I must be, as I see broad shoulders give way to massive chest. Adam’s apple, tanned skin, clean shaven face, strong jaw. Slight dimple in his chin, strong nose that may have been broken once upon a time, high cheekbones. It’s the eyes that gut me. Grey eyes that have stared into mine more times than I can count. He has such expressive eyes. He asks a question and I hear it without him ever saying a word. He reprimands and I feel the lash. He praises and it warms my cold heart.

  “Batty,” I croak. The sound of my own voice is what gets me moving. I flash back to a conversation we had in an elevator what seems like a million years ago as I stalk across the room.

  “I’m trying really hard not to slap you right now,” I growl.

  He smirks and looks at the doors. “One day you will. But it won’t be today.”

  His eyes tell me he knows what’s coming, but he doesn’t stop me. I think about balling my fist and ruining his pretty suit, but even as I think it his eyes flash. Why does he have this power over me even now? I want to erase the last five minutes, go back to where he was my Sundays, and didn’t intrude into my Monday.

  The echo of my hand hitting his cheek sounds in the room like a shot. My palm is instantly on fire, but I’m not satisfied. I raise the other hand to get in another shot. Batty—or Mr. Brennick—catches my hand easily though, holding it firmly, but not hurting me.

  “One was enough.”

  Hearing his voice, even though I can see clearly it’s him, makes me want to fall to the floor and rock. If his eyes speak to me, his voice vibrates through me.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Brennick. She can be a little unstable at times, she —” Tammy attempts to smooth things over in her publicist way, but Batty stops her.

  “Both of you can go,” he says without taking his eyes from mine. He won’t let go of my hand, despite my pulling away.

  “Oh, but we thought this was—” Brian pipes up.

  “Leave. You’ll be called in when you’re needed,” he orders. My traitorous body comes alive with that tone.

  As soon as I hear the door click, I use my free hand to push against his chest. At the same time, he lets go of my other wrist and I stumble back. I turn to walk the length of the room along the table. When I turn back, he’s got his hands in his pockets, watching me.

  I grit my teeth and point to him, snarling, “You!”

  He does a head tilt to the side, his version of a slight shrug. “You can’t deny I’ve been trying to get you into this meeting since before we ever met, Sadie.”

  “My name is Popper to you, Mr. Brennick,” I say nastily as I stalk back to his side of the room. I pull out a chair. “You got me here. I hope you’re satisfied. Talk.” I cross my arms and fume. My body is shaking at the loss of Batty, the man who found Sadie in the first place at the cancer ward of a hospital. That he could go through all of the highs and lows we have knowing who I was is more than I can take.

  He pulls out a chair, slowly lowering himself into it. I watch him unbutton his jacket as he sits. Never in a million years did I picture him in a suit, but fuck if he doesn’t fill it out like a CEO should.

  “Sadie—”

  I sit up abruptly and lean toward him. “I just told you my name was Popper. Get it straight.”

  As my back hits the chair, he leans forward and puts his finger down on the table between us. “I have never once in my life called you Popper. Sadie is your name and that’s all I’ll ever fucking call you.”

  “Then we’re done.” I stand up to leave, but his look freezes me. It’s one I’ve never seen from him before, though on other people plenty of times. Judgment. Maybe disgust.

  “Do you really want to be Popper for the rest of your life? What’s so great about her? She dresses like a bum. She talks like a man. She gets herself into situations that hurt her out of pride and arrogance.” He hisses the last part, following me as I back away. Never have words hurt me more, and I’ve heard a lot.

  “This shirt cost over five hundred dollars,” I choke out the only immediate fact my brain throws at me as my back hits the door.

  He’s an arm’s length away when he says, “And yet it looks like it came from Goodwill.” Another slash. I take it like he did the slap, moving my cheek to the side. I expect there to be blood from the blow, but I only feel his hands when they lift my face to his. He rubs his shaven cheek against mine and whispers in my ear, “Sadie is beautiful. Sadie doesn’t need makeup to make her brave. Sadie doesn’t need anything but a smile and a laugh.”

  I shudder against him, our bodies pressed together. My eyes are closed, my mouth slightly open. He has this effect on me, always. When he doesn’t say anymore, I bring myself to say, “Sadie still talks like a man.”

  I feel his cheek lift as he smiles before moving his lips to my neck. “Popper is cold and shut down. Sadie feels.” He opens his mouth on my pulse and sucks the skin, laving it with his tongue. My breath catches in my chest. “You felt that,” he whispers against the wet skin, causing goose bumps to rise up my back. “Who are you now, baby?”

  “I still hate you.”

  “No. Let’s stay on one topic at a time. I don’t think we were ever introduced.” He shifts his erection away from me, just as I was about to push back against it, to hold out his hand. He bites his bottom lip between his teeth.

  “I’m Finnigan Brennick, but you can call me—”

  “Batty,” I say, pushing myself off the door, knocking his hand away to get to his body. I bite the lip that he recently let go of, groaning as his taste fills all of my empty spaces.

  “Mmm. I was going to say Finn. You’re still calling me Batty?” he says against my lips.

  I yank on his tie. How do you get these things off, anyway? “You’ll always be Batty.” He takes over slipping his tie off, so I move to his belt.

  “Does this mean you’re Sadie now?”

  I slide the belt through the hoops with a hiss. “I don’t fucking care. Shut up,” I say deliberately.

  “Goddamnit, you always do this.” He pulls my stretchy pants down my legs then bends me over the conference table.

  “What do I do?” I breathe against the table. I hear him opening a condom wrapper and swallow, knowing he’s going to be filling me in a different way.

  “Always trying to top me. When are you going to learn, Sadie?” He fists my hair and pulls as he drives into me. I groan deep in my throat. I relish the feel of his weight in me and on top of me as he leans down to growl in my ear, “You always get what you want when you’re on the bottom.”

  When he m
oves too slowly out of me, I grip him internally, not wanting him to leave. His hand fists tighter in my hair, but it’s a pain that accentuates everything else. Batty has always loved my hair. Always pulled it. When he powers into me again, he tilts his hips perfectly so that his balls stroke my clit. I open my mouth and scream into his hand that’s suddenly muffling my cry. “Remember that game we played the last time I bent you over, baby?” he says between kisses from my ear and down my neck.

  I nod as I pant behind his hand. He bent me over my Mercedes SLS AMG Black Series, my precious three hundred and fifty thousand dollar car. But it was in the parking garage of the hospital, and when people came out of the elevator, he didn’t stop.

  “Can you be quiet like that again, Sadie? I’ll give you everything you want if you keep it in.”

  “Just keep my mouth covered,” I insist, trying to push back against him.

  “But my hands are needed somewhere else, aren’t they?” he asks, bringing his hand around the front of me, first putting his fingers on the lips surrounding his cock then moving up to circle my clit. “Do you want this? Or do you want me to cover your mouth?”

  My mouth opens, but I cut off the air so the sound doesn’t escape as he plays my body with practiced perfection. I grit my teeth. “I’ll be quiet. I’ll be quiet,” I say quickly.

  “See,” he pants, working himself faster, harder into my body. The table is well made, steady, and doesn’t make so much as a squeak. His thighs slapping against mine are the only sound in the room besides our breathing. “I told you I would give you what you want. Now come for me.”

  Chapter 4

  “Is it weird that you talk to me, about me in the third person?” I ask while pulling up my pants. I turn to see Batty sliding the condom off with a Kleenex then wiping his hands.

  “I’ve got that hair shit all over my hands.” He scrubs harder before finally looking at me. “You are two people. I don’t know Popper. She’s not the woman I drive home every Sunday. I don’t think you like her very much, either.”

  I pull my hair from where it’s choking me and pile it on top of my head, securing it with an expensive looking pen. I just had sex in a leather jacket. Holy shit. Batty walks to a sideboard and pours water into two glasses. I stare at it when he tries to hand it to me.