Wicked Force (Wicked Horse Vegas #4.5)(4)
Her lips purse and she regards me through unhappy eyes. “You ruined a very nice deal I was putting together for you. It was going to be a stepping stone to the next level in your career. You’ve taken a lot of hard work that I had put into it and totally disrespected my efforts by accepting the Cunningham Falls event.”
“I know,” I say softly. All true accusations against me but I’ve already made my apology.
“Joslyn,” she snaps at me and my spine stiffens. “That’s all you have to say? Do you understand how hard I work for you? The promises I have to make and the back scratching that goes on to get you ahead in this world?”
I remain silent because there’s no argument to be made.
Her voice goes almost shrill. “I have only your best interests at heart and everything I do is for your happiness and success. And I can’t continue doing that if you undermine me. You’ve made me look weak now to people in the industry and you’ve made it a hundred times harder for me to negotiate anything on your behalf. Because now everyone will think I have a willful, bratty diva daughter who can’t be controlled. No one will want to work with you.”
Biting hard on the inside of my cheek, I let the anger wash through me but I refuse to engage with her. My mom has a sharp tongue and an even greater ability to throw massive guilt on my shoulders that makes me feel so weighted I can’t breathe.
The source of this disagreement is my acceptance to headline a charity concert back in my hometown of Cunningham Falls, Montana. My mom did not want me to do this because—as noted—she was putting together a much better deal for me that conflicted.
One that involved a paycheck. I’m sure part of her discontent is that I’m doing the concert for free, but mostly I knew that by accepting this event I was going to be ruining other plans she was deep into the process of making for the benefit of my career.
Putting her palms to the edge of my dressing table, she pushes off and pivots away from me. I watch silently as she walks to the small refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of coconut water. I grimace as she twists the top off and hands it over to me. I step forward and reluctantly take it.
She nods toward it, her voice soft and solicitous. “Drink up. You know it’s good for you.”
Funny how everything she thinks is good for me and pushes on me—be it coconut water, beet smoothies or kale salads—is all stuff that I can’t stand.
When I raise the bottle to my lips, allowing just a tiny bit of the foul liquid in my mouth, she gives me a soft smile as she inclines her head. “You know I only want what’s best for you, right?”
I nod, and I truly believe that.
“And do you trust that the decisions I’m making for your career are for your sole benefit?”
Another nod, because again... I believe her intentions are pure. She’s done an amazing job so far in managing my career and has worked relentlessly to get me where I am.
My mom’s voice gentles even more. “Then please trust me when I say the Cunningham Falls concert is a bad idea and you need to send your regrets. Tell them you have a schedule conflict you didn’t realize when you accepted or something like that.”
I shake my head, my expression both apologetic but resolved. “I can’t. I made a promise but more than that, I want to do this. This is personally important to me.”
Her visage turns wounded, the corners of her mouth pulling down. Tears form in her eyes. “You don’t think that charity is important to me too? After everything I went through with your father? After everything I did, you don’t think I would really love you to do that concert for charity?”
And there it is.
The guilt trip. It strikes me true and deep, causing my stomach to cramp and my heart to constrict.
My birth mother died in childbirth so I never knew her. Only stories from my dad and a brief history of photos he had from their all too short relationship. He married Madeline when I was six years old and she joined forces with him to raise me. I was so hungry for a mother figure, I called her “Mom” from the moment they got married.
My dad adored her and she him. She adored me and I her. We were a good family together, even if her tendencies to be overbearing were always something my dad and I had to accept. She was the boss in the family and we did what she told us to do. My dad was a pushover and I followed his example.
Regardless, she was a good mom as I grew up and she’s the one who encouraged me to pursue my passion for singing. She took me to lessons and competitions and sewed me fancy costumes. She researched the best foods and supplements to make sure I stayed healthy and monitored my diet and exercise with the vigilance of a drill instructor. Madeline Meyers is very much the reason I’m standing where I am today.
But more than anything—the real reason I will be truly grateful to her and will usually always, always bend to her will—is that she cared for my dad while he died from cancer. She drove him to all his treatments, monitored his medications, did endless research for alternative therapies, and when things got really bad at the end, she was the one who did everything. She was the one who never left the side of the hospital bed set up in our living room by hospice. She emptied his catheter bag and cleaned him when he soiled himself. She gave him baths and changed his sheets and rubbed ice over his lips. When he slipped into unconsciousness, she kept up an endless stream of dialogue so he knew that she was still there.