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I don’t think I can wait until after. Thank God we have a break at the one-hour point, and before Luke can get caught in conversation, I tell him we have to talk now.
“After the meeting,” he answers, waving to R.J. and another heavyset fellow.
“No.” I smile at R.J., nod at the heavyset fellow. “Now.”
We step out of the conference room together and walk down the semidark hallway. Luke attempts to put his arm around me, and I pull away sharply. “What have you done?” I choke, grateful the light’s dim or he’d see the pain in my face. “What have you done?” I repeat, unable to think of anything else to say.
“Nothing,” he says, stopping me at the end of the hall.
One of the gentlemen is heading our way to get water from the cooler. “That’s not true,” I whisper. “You’re part of this somehow, you’re here at this meeting, which means you’re part of Freedom—”
“I’m the owner.”
My God. My legs wobble, and I fall back a step, even more unsteady. Luke puts a hand out to my elbow, but I won’t let him touch me.
“So you did all this.” I can’t speak above a whisper even if I wanted to. “You were behind Frank’s call and the money and terminating the other agency’s contract, weren’t you?”
“No.”
“Luke, don’t lie to me. Not to me, of all people. I’m not stupid—”
“I never said you were.”
“Then tell me the truth. Did you talk to Frank?”
“Yes, and no.”
That’s all I need to hear. I lift my hands. I surrender. “Then I’m done. I quit. I’m out of here.”
I start walking for the elevators as fast as I can. I’m shaking so badly, I’m afraid I’ll fall out of my high heels, but I don’t stop out of fear that I’ll fall apart. But I can’t fall apart here, not in front of men who build motorcycles.
Luke’s walked with me to the elevators. As the doors open, he tries to grab my elbow for a third time. I raise my hand warningly. “Don’t.”
My Mountain of a Man puts his hands on his hips, his red gold hair flaming. “So what do I tell everyone?”
My eyes burn and my throat burns, and I swallow hard. Luke has disappointed me more than anyone has in years. “You tell everyone you made a mistake, and you’re going to do everything in your power to get Lowell Bryant Agency back.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I’m shaking as I drive home, both furious and heartbroken. How could Luke do that to me? How could he pull a power play like that?
Fine, he can be founder of BioMed. He can be a billionaire. But don’t be God and manipulate my jobs and whip up magical contracts to “make things better” for me.
I don’t want a fairy godmother for a boyfriend.
Arriving home, I’m just glad Eva’s in bed. I couldn’t handle trying to act normal in front of her right now.
I spend the next two weeks avoiding all contact with Luke. I don’t return his calls or answer his e-mails or his text messages.
I’m done with him, so done that I delete him from my BlackBerry and go through everything I have and toss anything he might have given to me, anything that might remind me of him, even putting my bike up for sale on Craigslist. It’s not a Freedom bike, it’s a Harley, but I never want to ride a motorcycle again.
Eva knows I’m upset, and she knows it’s about Luke, especially as she doesn’t see him anymore or hear me speak to him on the phone.
It’s not easy, though, for me to erase him that fast. I might have blanked him out of my BlackBerry, but I can’t get him out of my system that fast. I do miss him, far more than I anticipated, far more than I can handle.
But getting rid of the bike will be the first step to really moving on.
The bike has found a buyer. I read the e-mail from an Al Pancetti of Lakewood, Washington. He’ll pay asking price with a cashier’s check, and he’ll be here the day after tomorrow in the afternoon to pick it up.
Wow. That was fast. So that’s it. Bike is gone. Well, almost gone.
I leave my desk and head to the garage, pull back the dropcloth, and, crouching next to my bike, run my hand over the chassis. I feel a twinge of pain as my fingers glide over the chrome and glossy paint.
I need to go for one last ride. Sticking my head in the studio, I shout that I’m taking an early lunch and will be back before one.
I’m already wearing jeans and a sweater, so I layer on a black leather coat and my black combat boots and set off. I head north on 405, passing Bothell and Mill Creek, continuing on to where 405 and 5 merge, up to Mount Vernon, before turning around and heading home again.
I’m on 5 South, passing the University District and getting ready to take the 520 on ramp, when my bike begins to sputter. It’s making a coughing, skipping sound, and from the way the engine starts racing, something’s loose.
Glancing down, I look for the screw in the carburetor, and once I find it, I run my fingers across it. It feels tight. I’m going to need to back it off, but I can’t do it driving.
I pull over to the side of the freeway, hoping I can make the adjustment now without having to go to a gas station. It’s dangerous here on the side of the road, but I work quickly, first tugging off my helmet and then kneeling next to the bike.
I use my fingernail to try to turn the little screw. It doesn’t need a lot, just a small adjustment would work, but the screw doesn’t budge. I try again without success. I’m still kneeling next to the bike when I hear a truck pull up behind me.
“Everything okay?”
I know that voice. Very well. Karma, I think, pushing hair off my face to look up at an unsmiling Luke.
I wipe my cold, stiff hands on my knees and sit back on my haunches. “Hey.”
Luke towers above me. “Break down?”
“The carburetor needs adjusting.”
“Need a hand?”
“I’ve got it. Thanks.”
His scrutiny deepens. “Where are your tools?”
My skin grows hot, and I hate this feeling, so anxious, so nervous, so not in control. “I don’t have any.” The beat of silence is hugely uncomfortable, so I add flatly, “I’m using my fingernail.”
“Your fingernail,” he repeats.
I know it sounds funny, but it’s what I’ve done before and it was fine. “Yes, my fingernail.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I can tell he’s laughing on the inside. “Is it working?”
“It will,” I answer, surprised by the crazy weakness in my knees and thighs as I stand. I’m shocked by the sight of him and hope that my brisk tone communicates that I’m a professional and completely in control.
He doesn’t buy it. “What if it doesn’t? What will you do then?”
It must be a rhetorical question, because he doesn’t even wait for an answer. Instead he heads to his Land Rover, retrieves a toolbox, and returns with a screwdriver.
He steps around me and crouches next to my bike. With a quick twist, he adjusts the screw on the fuel filter, shakes it once to make sure it’s on tight, and then stands up.
“All done,” he says, looking down at me, his expression as cool as the frost on my lawn this morning.
“Thank you,” I answer stiffly.
?
??You should carry tools,” he adds. “If you’re going to ride—”
“I know,” I cut him off. “I should. But I wasn’t going far, and I didn’t expect any problems.”
He stares down at me, and I can tell he’s just as angry as I am. He’s quiet so long, I don’t think he’s going to answer, and then he gives his head a single shake. “You make so many assumptions, and most of them are so wrong, so wildly off base, that I sometimes wonder what we were doing seeing each other.”
Luke’s words hit hard, each of them a slap, the consonants and vowels like stinging hail. “I wonder who it is you think I am,” he continues, “and why you always think the worst of me.”
I open my mouth to protest, but there’s enough truth in what he says that I can’t defend myself. Instead I stand there, chin lifted, even as my insides fall, icy cold.
“I have ethics, Marta, and I wouldn’t sell out, not even for you. I’m proud of the way I do business. I’m proud of how I conduct myself. Maybe it’s time you looked at the way you conduct yourself.” Finished, he turns and heads back to his truck.
Shaking, I watch him put away his tools and then open his door. “So what did happen with Freedom Bikes?” I call to him. “If you didn’t go in and wave your magic wand, who did?”
The traffic is thick and loud and zooms past, and for a split second I think Luke hasn’t heard me, but then he pivots away from his truck and faces me.
“Frank,” he answers.
I’m not sure I heard him right over the roar of traffic, so I walk toward him. “Frank?” I repeat.
Luke glances at a huge semi truck that has just sounded its horn. “It was Frank’s idea to toss out the other agency and bring you back in.”
“So you didn’t ride roughshod over the executive committee?”
He makes a sound of disgust. “God, no. I wouldn’t be in business today if that’s how I operated. First, I delegate decision making, and second, Frank came to me, telling me he’d made a mistake. He wanted you back. I told him there was nothing I could do, that it was his and the board’s decision.”
