Page 48 of Just for Tonight

“You suppose wrong. He taught me nothing.”

Mackenzie shakes her head, amused and indulgent. “Oh, I don’t believe that.”

Shit.

Does she know Richard Bradshaw? Of course, she does. Everyone in Empire knows everyone else. It seems unlikely that they talk about me, though, despite Mackenzie’s earlier observations about gossip.

I look toward the windows, which are dark and just reflect our images, knowing it might be simpler to cede this point. Maybe if I do it quickly, it will be less annoying. “Okay, you’re right. There are three things I learned from my father, not from his example but in response to his actions.” I count them out on my fingers before she can ask. “One: never let down your guard. Two: only fools trust anyone. Three: Every favour has a price.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Mackenzie lifts her brows. “That’s quite a legacy,” she says mildly and takes another sip of water.

I hate that I know she’s leaving the silence between us on purpose, but I hate even more that I feel compelled to fill it by making a confession. Hers is the oldest trick in the book, one I’ve used often with success myself, but it’s an old reliable because it works.

Is there anything I hate more than being predictable?

The thing is that it would be better to lose this emotional load and Mackenzie is asking.

She might regret that.

I will never see her again. That makes her an excellent candidate for this info dump.

I take a breath because once I start, I know I won’t stop until I say it all. The realization annoys me, and thus, I am eloquent. “My father had no interest in anything except himself and his own desires. Everyone in his world was a tool to aid in gaining his objectives, an obstacle to be overcome or a non-entity unworthy of his attention. He was selfish and he was cruel and I knew that before I was six years old. When my mother died, I was glad that she wouldn’t have to cry any more. Even as a child, I knew she was desperately unhappy and that I couldn’t fix it. You’re not supposed to feel impotent at six.”

Mackenzie’s eyes widen but she doesn’t say anything. She takes another careful sip and waits.

Of course, her strategy works. Thinking about my mom’s death pisses me off, and the lecture series is underway.

“I knew that he was cheating on my mom, although I was too young to understand exactly what that meant. He smelled like perfume when he came home sometimes, usually when he was really happy, but it wasn’t my mom’s perfume. It was a scent that didn’t belong in our house. And my mother would become quiet when that smell followed him home, as if the scent made her invisible. When she was in the hospital before Abbie was born, he brought that scent home almost every day. I hated that perfume. I could probably still identify it. It was the smell of betrayal and infidelity, of something very wrong.”

“Whose perfume was it?”

“Louise Jones. Very floral. Pretty, really. My mom liked citrusy scents. Brighter, crisper, like a breath of fresh air.”

Mackenzie nods. “But your dad didn’t marry Louise Jones after your mom died.”

“No, the perfume changed then. It became musky. Heavy on the civet, spicy, exotic. It was the smell of sultry perfumes and sex. It was Candace’s perfume and the entire house exuded it within a month of her moving in.” This time, I don’t have to pretend to shudder.

“You don’t like it.”

“No. To me, it’s cheap. Tawdry. And it’s a kind of a spell.”

She averts her gaze, but I’m not fooled.

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking,” I accuse, moving to get a glass of my own. I fill it with the rest of the sparkling water from the bottle she’s opened. There’s a whole line of them in the fridge, so I’m not claiming her beverage, just making sure we drink it while it’s fizzy.

“I doubt if I’m thinking anything half as blunt,” she says and I grin.

“You’re thinking that perfume suits Candace, she of the low-cut, clingy, leopard-print dresses, the heavy make-up, the plastic surgery, the sky-high fuck-me-now heels.”

“A little harsh about the shoes, don’t you think?”

I give her a look. “She can’t walk in them.”

Her smile is impish. “I never thought walking was the point of those kinds of shoes. She can pose in them.”

I shake my head, still fuming. “That woman.”

“Your step-mother.”