“No, you’re okay. Stupid cobblestone trips up everyone. Here.” I hurried into action, kneeling in front of her. “I’ve got this.”
After using my palm to scoop most of the contents back into the depths of her bag, I reached for a pill bottle that had rolled the farthest away. Surprised by how light it was when I picked it up, I realized it was empty. And I didn’t mean to but I checked the name of the contents plus the expiration date as I returned it to her.
“Thank you,” she mumbled gratefully, gathering her things back to her chest in an embarrassed rush. “I can’t believe I’m such a klutz.”
My gaze rose to her face, worry lining my gut. She should’ve refilled that bottle a month ago. And if the strain creasing those lines around her eyes was any indication, she really needed her anxiety medicine.
I touched her elbow and opened my mouth to say, hell, I don’t know. This woman wasn’t my problem, her issues should mean nothing to me, but she was sweet and timid, and vulnerable, and I hated seeing her miserable.
“Jesus, Mom,” a voice to my left broke in. “What’d you trip over this time? Thin air?”
Not having realized the backseat rider of the Bentley had gotten out on the passenger side, I swerved my attention toward the voice just as its owner shut the back door and scowled at me.
Amanda’s son, Ethan, had been a year behind me in school. With light, shaggy hair and thick black-rimmed glasses, he looked like one of those new-age, cool nerds that spent all day figuring out what to wear so it would look as if he didn’t care how he looked. And he hated me, probably because he suspected his mother was a client of mine and he’d heard the rumors about what I was.
When his gaze narrowed on my hand at her elbow, I reluctantly let go, scowling right back. I wanted to tell him so bad that if he’d just pay her a little bit of attention or even tossed her a kind word every once in a while, she’d probably never come near me again.
Ungrateful-ass son.
Another reason why I tried to talk to my own mom more.
“What’s the holdup over there?” Mr. Riker called from the other side of the car, making Mrs. Riker startle as if she’d been slapped. “Our reservation’s for five. We’re going to be late.”
Pasting a smile onto her face, she called, “Nothing, dear. Sorry! We’re coming.” As she swept past me, I gazed after her, wondering about the facade she put on for her family. It was completely different from the face she used with me. It made me worry I might be the only person who truly knew how unhappy she was or how much help she ne
eded. If she were suicidal and actually hurt herself, it’d be on my shoulders.
When I realized Ethan had remained next to me, I glanced over to find him, yep, still glaring. Sighing, I took a step back and swept out a hand to let him pass. The distaste in his features heightened before he strolled after his parents.
Landon climbed into their car and pulled it toward the parking garage, and I stood there watching the back of the Riker family as they entered the Country Club. They looked like the model image of the perfect American family.
But then Mrs. Riker glanced back, her gaze full of agony and longing, and I knew how fake the whole scene was.
I turned away, clenching my teeth. I didn’t like the guilt she stirred in me, making me feel as if I should do something for her. I didn’t like this responsibility she heaved on me with every pain-filled glance she sent my way. I couldn’t deal with her problems too.
And yet I continued to feel shitty, helping her in the only way I knew how whenever she called me.
It was a good thing the dinner rush started and distracted my attention with a steady, monotonous stream of cars because worrying about Amanda Riker never solved anything. She had a perfectly capable son and husband who could and should be helping her through whatever depressed, anxious, or bipolar shit she was experiencing. It wasn’t like I was the best son anyway. My mom typically wanted to escape whenever I was in the room. I couldn’t be the fill-in child Amanda sought for comfort.
Someone forgot to tell her that, though.
A little after nine thirty, traffic slowed enough for me to take a break. I was heading down a back employees-only hall toward the staff lounge when I heard, “Psst. Mason.”
I glanced back to find Amanda poking her head from a door that led into someone’s office, and dread coiled in my stomach.
She waved me to her, so I ground my teeth hard and backtracked, hissing, “Do you know whose office this is?”
Because I had no clue, and yet I was still certain that whoever it belonged to did not want her trespassing, especially after hours on a Sunday night.
“I don’t care.” She rushed the words as she reached for me, her grip on my wrist tight and frantic. “I need you.”
Dammit.
I let her yank me into the office because that had to be better than remaining out here with her where just anyone could walk by and catch us together. But if we were caught in here, that’d be my job for sure.
And while yes, I could afford to lose the cash that valet parking brought in, I still needed this job. It was my only source of normal. Like air for my soul, working here fed me a security that had kept my sanity in place for this long. I could not lose my job at the Country Club.
“Amanda,” I started, only to close my eyes and throw my head back, torn and not sure what to do when she immediately wound her arms around my waist, clasping her fingers together at the base of my spine and burrowed her cheek against my chest.