As they began to slide shut, Cade’s door opened and he sprinted out into the hall, holding an unbuttoned pair of slacks at his waist. Her eyes met his as the doors closed, and she mouthed a quick Sorry.
But they didn’t close fast enough for her not to see the flare of anger in his eyes.
Then, it was shut and the elevator was heading down. She punched the lobby button and took a deep, shuddering breath, determined not to cry.
Cade would eventually figure out this was better for both of them. He really would. Right now he was just dazzled by easy sex. He’d come to his senses and then they could talk sensibly about an annulment and no one would be the wiser.
Once the elevator hit the lobby, Kylie sprinted for the doors. She was terrified at the thought of seeing a half-dressed Cade coming down the stairs and got into the first cab she saw out front. “Drive,” she bellowed. “Please, just drive.”
Click went the meter, and then she’d escaped. She was home free. With a sigh, Kylie looked in the rearview window, but there was no Cade waiting on the sidewalk, watching her leave. That was good, she told herself. She gave the driver the address to her hotel and tried to fix her appearance with a comb and a bit of makeup during the ride back.
Then she was at her hotel. She paid the driver, headed in, and went up to her floor. She kept her head ducked, avoiding eye contact in case she saw someone she knew.
She’d almost made it inside and was at the door to her room, fumbling for her key in her oversized purse when the door next to hers opened. Ginger stepped out, wheeling her small carry-on suitcase behind her.
They stared at each other for a moment, and then Ginger slowly shook her head. “Walk of shame, Kylie?”
“Of course not,” Kylie lied, hoping that her lip gloss covered her swollen mouth and her hair would hide the worst of the hickeys.
“Then where’s your bra?”
Kylie had no immediate response for that. She remained silent, and Ginger shook her head. “You are playing with fire, girl. Your ass is going to get canned if you’re not careful.”
“I’ll be careful,” Kylie said.
But Ginger just snorted, clearly not believing Kylie’s protest, and wheeled her suitcase down the hall.
—
Just when Kylie couldn’t get any lower, her phone rang that afternoon. She winced at the caller ID, but answered it anyhow. “Hi, Nana.”
“Kylie Daniels,” the old woman’s shaky voice sounded pissy, even over the line. “Where are you?”
Her head ached and she rubbed her temples. “Busy.”
“Don’t you sass me, young woman. Do you know where I am right now?”
Uh-oh. “The nursing home?” Please? She desperately hoped her grandmother hadn’t escaped again.
“That’s right! I hate this place. I told you that already. But you keep shoving me here because you’re mad at me. Isn’t that right?”
Old, familiar pangs of hurt rippled through Kylie. “I don’t have you there because I’m angry, Nana. You’re there because they can give you the best care possible. You need someone to look after you 24/7.”
“Lies. You come get me right now.”
“I can’t, Nana. I’m on tour right now.”
“Touring? Why?”
Her grandmother always forgot what Kylie did for a living. “I do makeup for singers on tour, Nana. Remember? It pays the bills.”
“Don’t you remind me about paying bills, young woman. I’ve worked two jobs for the past ten years to keep you fed. And are you grateful? No! You just keep eating. I swear you’re fatter than a little pig. It’s a wonder I can keep a roof over our heads. Your grandfather would roll over in his grave if he knew what a burden you were.” The elderly woman’s voice shook. “Don’t you try and lecture me about responsibility. I know all about it.”
There was that word: burden. Her grandmother always tossed it in Kylie’s face. It hurt worse than any other insult. “Well, now I’m working and taking care of you, Nana. Just like I should. How are you feeling?”
“I hate this place.” Her voice wobbled. “Come and get me. Right now.”
“I can’t, Nana. I wish I could. I have to work.”
“Then put your mother on the phone, Kylie. I know she’ll come get me. She’s not ungrateful. Not like you. You get that from your father’s side.”
Kylie’s head throbbed. She hated these conversations. If she told her grandmother that her daughter was dead, she’d just get confused—or worse, cry. “She’s in the bathroom, Nana. I’ll have her call you back.”
“You do that. I have to go to work now.”
“All right, Nana. Talk to you later.” Kylie’s throat felt like a dry knot when she hung up. A call from her nana always made her feel like dirt. Unloved, ungrateful dirt.
Count on the burden of family to kick you while you were down.
TWELVE
By the time Daphne went on stage for her second Vegas show, Kylie had mostly relaxed.
Mostly.
She’d showered and fixed her hair into an elaborate set of sausage-curls and clips that would show off her newly redyed bright red ends. She’d taken care of her roots, and her makeup was carefully done as well. All of this was to hide the fact that she had rings under her eyes and a hangover pallor to her skin. If she looked put together, no one would ask questions. She wore a cute swishy navy dress with a striped top and fluffy skirt hemmed with red, and wore red and navy sandals with it. Today, she supposed she’d look the part of Fat Marilyn. And if the rest of her was a bit glammed up, maybe no one would ask why she was wearing rings on every finger, or why the one on her ring-finger was turned inward, the stones hidden unless she opened her palm.