Текст книги "Painless"
Автор книги: Devon Hartford
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 32 страниц)
There was another crash.
“Fuck!” Christos shouted.
Was he hurt? I dropped the knife I’d been using to slice a tomato and ran past Spiridon into the studio.
Christos held the painting of Isabella over his head.
“Christos! What are you doing?” I gasped.
He smashed the painting into the cement floor, splintering one corner of the wood frame. Then he bent over, grabbed the broken pieces of the frame, and tore the canvas halfway down the middle.
“Stop, Christos!” I pleaded.
“I can’t stand this piece of shit!” He snatched the broken painting off the floor, barged past me and stomped through the house to the front door, which he ripped open. I was surprised he didn’t yank the door off the hinges, he pulled so hard.
With a growl, he threw the floppy remains of the ruined painting out into the entryway. He shouted a primal roar and chased after it, kicking at the heaped ruin of the broken canvas.
I jogged up behind him, “Christos, stop! This is insane.”
“No, it’s a PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT!!!” He clutched one corner of the remains of the painting in both hands and beat it against the driveway like a rug. With each swing, he shouted, “PIECE! OF! FUCKING! SHIT!!!”
I backed off. He was in a rage, There was no point in trying to stop him. I couldn’t even if I’d wanted to. Christos was ten times bigger and stronger than me.
Christos continued beating his painting to death. I noticed Spiridon and Isabella standing behind me. Spiridon had a pained, sad look on his face. Isabella’s eyes were popping out of their sockets.
A car I didn’t recognize turned down the driveway and drove toward us while Christos pulverized the last shreds of the painting.
Christos was yelling, totally oblivious.
The glare from the sky overhead made it impossible to see who was in the car.
Christos bundled up the wad of torn canvas and the shattered wooden frame. He threw everything over the roof of the garage with a final primal roar. “PIECE OF FUCKING SHIIIIIIT!!!”
The car doors of the random sedan opened and two occupants stepped out.
“Sam?” my mom asked nervously, “is everything okay?”
Oh, fuck, no fucking way.
“Are you all right, Sam?” my dad asked.
Christos stormed back into the house, shouting “GOD DAMN USELESS MOTHER FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT PAINTING!!!”
I stared at my parents.
My fucking parents.
How the hell did they find me in San Diego?
Maybe I should’ve checked that voicemail they’d left weeks ago.
Chapter 14
SAMANTHA
Spiridon walked into the living room from the kitchen and handed a glass of fresh squeezed lemonade to my mom. She sat next to my dad on the couch in the Manos’ living room. I sat on the leather chair opposite them.
“Thank you, uh…Spiridon?” my mom said, taking the glass from him. She hadn’t gotten used to his name. I could imagine her thinking it sounded hippie dippie. Whatever.
“This is good lemonade,” my dad said after taking another swallow.
“Thank you,” Spiridon smiled. “There’s plenty more. A warm day like today is perfect for it.”
I never imagined my parents inside this house. Ever. It felt wrong, like my privacy was being invaded in the worst way possible, like my hope for a new life was being undermined by their presence. I wished they would go. Like, now. I beamed ESP suggestions to my mom:
you left the stove on
Dad left the back door unlocked
your pipes will freeze and burst because you didn’t leave the faucets on a slow drip
GO THE FUCK HOME!!!
Nothing worked. Oh well. Maybe I should just tell them to leave? I could say, “Mom, Dad, you guys are such big jerks, I was thinking you could turn around and fly back to D.C., okay? It’s only a six hour flight.” Yeah, maybe not. I sighed to myself, fresh out of ideas.
“How are you two enjoying the warm weather?” Spiridon asked. “I bet it’s not this warm in Washington D.C.”
My mom smiled her office ass kissing smile, “I was just telling Bill on the drive over that the weather is so nice, maybe we should move here.”
My eyes bulged out of my head. No, please no. I buried my chin in my chest, hoping to hide my expression.
Dad said, “It was a smart move for you to choose San Diego, Sam.”
I nodded in mundane horror as my lips peeled back over my clenched teeth.
My mom chuckled fakely, “You never told us San Diego was so nice, Sam.”
Maybe because you never asked? Duh. All my parents cared about was whether or not I was taking all my Accounting classes in the right order and getting A’s. The weather? Irrelevant. My desire to become an artist? Irrelevant. My wonderful boyfriend? Irrelevant. My parents were in total denial.
“If you had,” my mom grinned, “we would’ve come to visit sooner,” she chuckled.
Yeah, because me and my mom were totally besties. Was she insane? I was waiting for Rod Serling to walk out from behind a piece of furniture and welcome us all to the Twilight Zone.
I searched around the armrests of my chair for one of those James Bond control panels. I was hoping there were ejector seats beneath my parents so I could shoot them through the ceiling. Or maybe trapdoors that dropped down to a dungeon filled with ravenous grizzly bears or a shark tank. I hadn’t yet found that control panel, but the leather chair had rivets on the front of the armrest, so I began meticulously pressing every single one. I was sure one of them was the trapdoor button.
“Sam, what are you doing?” my mom scoffed.
“Nothing,” I said defensively as I folded my hands in my lap. Sadly, I don’t think any of the rivets were switches.
Mom turned to Spiridon and chuckled, “Sam always was fidgety.”
Dad joined in with the good times. “I remember when Sam was a baby, she always wanted to play with my old adding machine. Once I showed her how to make the paper tape spool out by adding numbers together, she couldn’t get enough of it. She’d play with that adding machine until she’d used up the entire roll of tape. It was then that I realized my daughter’s love for numbers. Just like her father.”
I rolled my eyes. Was he serious? My dad was so oblivious. I don’t think he realized that adding machine had been far more responsive to me than he ever had. I was now convinced the stork had dropped my baby basket off at the wrong house nineteen years ago. Maybe my real parents were wizards like Harry Potter’s mum and dad. I rubbed my scalp, hoping to find a lightning bolt scar hidden there. Nope.
“Are you okay, Sam?” Mom frown-smiled. “Have you been using your dandruff shampoo?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I groaned. Where was my magic wand? Oh yeah, Christos had taken it with him when he went for a walk earlier. Yes, the wand in his pants. I repressed a secret smile.
“What’s so funny?” Dad asked.
I needed to take some spy classes so I could learn to make my secret smiles more secret. “Nothing,” I groaned.
“Where did Christos go?” my mom asked.
“I think he went for a walk,” Spiridon said. “He’ll be back sooner or later.”
Christos had stormed past my parents after they’d arrived without saying hello, and gone out the driveway to who knew where. I couldn’t blame him. I wasn’t happy to see my parents either. It was for the best. My parents had been in shock for at least a half an hour after watching Christos murder his painting.
Wanting to change the subject away from Christos and his outrage, I said, “So, how’d you guys find the house?” I’d never told them the Manos’ address.
“That was easy,” my dad said. “We called the manager at your apartment and asked him for your forwarding address. Since we’re your parents, and we co-signed your lease, he was happy to oblige.”
Great. Thanks, Mr. Manager. What a great guy he was. Traitor.
“You’re not staying at Samoula’s apartment, are you?” Spiridon asked.
“Who?” my dad frowned.
“I’m sorry,” Spiridon smiled. “Samoula is a nickname I use for your daughter. It’s a common thing in Greek families to nickname everyone.”
Mom grimaced. I don’t think she liked the idea that I had a nickname, like Spiridon was taking some sort of parental ownership of me. “We call her Sam,” she insisted.
Spiridon nodded, “That’s wonderful.”
Did that mean he was going to stop calling me Samoula? I hoped not. I liked my nickname. Maybe he’d use it after my parents left.
“At any rate,” Spiridon continued, “where are you two staying?”
“We’re staying at the Motel 6 in Hotel Circle,” my dad answered.
“What? That’s half way across the city!” Spiridon laughed. “You can’t stay there.”
“The price was unbeatable,” Dad said nervously, “and I found a coupon online—”
Spiridon cut him off with a dismissive grin. “You can’t stay in a hotel. You’re family and we have plenty of room here in my house. I won’t have you and your wife staying in some rundown no tell hotel. I hear that place rents rooms by the hour.” Spiridon chuckled.
No tell hotel? Since when did Spiridon start dishing out the jokes? I kind of liked it. He got awesomer every time I hung around him.
“Oh, no,” my dad corrected Spiridon, missing the humor completely, “I assure you, Motel 6 doesn’t rent rooms by the hour.”
“Are you sure, Dad?” I said dryly. “This is San Diego. We do things differently on the west coast.”
My dad frowned and shook his head. “Motel 6 doesn’t rent rooms by the hour. I know better.” He glanced at Spiridon, as if seeking agreement.
I arched a doubting eyebrow at Dad. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he insisted, “Motel 6 is not a flophouse.” I could tell he was starting to get angry.
Whatever.
“I don’t care if you have a suite at the Hotel Del,” Spiridon said. “You are Samoula’s parents and you can stay here with us.” He winked at my dad, “And we have the cheapest rates in town.”
My dad perked up at that and turned to Mom. “What do you think, Linda? We could save several hundred dollars if we stay here.”
“I don’t know, Bill,” she said skeptically, “we’ve already checked in and I unpacked my bags.”
“It’ll only take a minute to cancel the rest of our stay and pack your bags,” my dad said.
Rest of their stay? Geez, how long did my parents plan to be here? Despite the earlier failure of my ESP, I tried again. I stared at my mom.
Say no, say no, say NO, SAY NO!!!!!
Mom sighed and threw her hands up in defeat, “Fine.”
Wow, my ESP had backfired. I needed some ESP lessons ASAP.
“It’s settled then,” Dad said. “I’ll call the motel and let them know we won’t be needing the room after tonight. Spiridon, may I use your phone?”
As always, in my parents’ world, cell phones didn’t exist.
“Of course,” Spiridon smiled, “it’s in the kitchen.” Spiridon led the way for my dad.
I restrained a groan. Why did Spiridon have to go and invite my parents to stay? Yeah, I knew Spiridon was all about family. I was too, just not my family.
With Spiridon and my dad out of the living room, it was just me and my mom sitting alone together. I couldn’t have been happier. I started pressing the rivets on the leather chair again, looking for the one that triggered an escape hatch under my ass so I could get the hell out of here.
My mom was pinching the bridge of her nose with her eyes closed. I knew this routine of hers well. I’d seen it a hundred thousand times since I was a kid. After the nose bridge pinch would come the rubbing of her temples with her fingers. Then she’d slide her palms down her cheeks into a prayer position beneath her chin while she stared heavenward for guidance.
While her eyes were closed, I punched both my fists in her direction and flipped her off. I opened my mouth wide and silently screamed, “Go the fuck HOOOME!!!” I’d already determined my ESP needed a little boost.
My mom suddenly stopped massaging her temples and her eyes popped open.
I instantly dropped my hands into my lap with a sheepish grin. Had she noticed? I couldn’t tell for sure, but she didn’t act like she had.
Mom closed her eyes and went back to rubbing her temples.
This was going to be a long Spring Break. Yeah, I’d always fantasized about spending my first ever college Spring Break with my parents.
Groanballs.
* * *
“Everything is taken care of,” my dad said when he walked back into the living room almost an hour later. “I canceled our room at the Motel 6 after tonight. We can pick up our bags this evening.”
Spiridon followed him into the room.
“I don’t know, Bill,” Mom said. “Are you sure you don't want to stay the night at the hotel since we already unpacked?”
Sounded like a great idea to me.
Dad smiled, “Spiridon was showing me the guest rooms upstairs. They’re much nicer than the Motel 6. And the deck outside is better than the pool at the motel. We’ll have plenty of privacy here.”
Yay! But I wouldn’t have any.
Were there any giant meteors in outer space hurtling toward San Diego? They couldn’t get here soon enough.
“Plus,” Dad continued with a big smile, “the price here can’t be beat.”
My mom huffed out a sigh. I knew she could only take so much of Dad’s bargain hunting before she was sick of it. “Fine, Bill. Whatever you say.”
The front door opened quietly and Christos walked into the living room. “Hey, everyone,” he said softly.
I jumped out of my chair and ran to him to see if he was okay, but slowed halfway across the room because my parents were here. Their presence always, I don’t know, restrained me. I stopped a foot away from Christos and didn’t even touch him with my hand or anything. “Hey,” I said.
“Sorry about the scene earlier,” Christos smiled. “I was having a bit of a problem with one of my paintings.”
Spiridon nodded sympathetically, “I’ve been there many times myself. Sometimes a painting goes south in the middle of the process and there’s not much you can do with it short of starting over.”
“You’re an artist too?” My dad asked innocently.
“Yes,” Spiridon said. “All of the paintings hanging in this room are mine.”
It was weird, because there were literally dozens of them surrounding us, and my parents hadn’t said a word about them since they’d walked in. That just went to show how much my parents paid attention to art. It was nearly invisible to them. Just like my love of art. They had no idea it existed.
“There’s a lot of paintings in here. Don’t you ever sell them?” Dad asked.
“I do. As a matter of fact, I’ve sold over a thousand paintings in my career,” Spiridon said.
“Is that how you paid for this house?” my dad asked.
Yeah, my dad was world renown for his social graces.
Spiridon smiled indulgently, “Yes. Everything you see in this house was paid for by the sale of my art.”
Go, Spiridon! Tell it! This was exactly the kind of thing my parents needed to see and hear. An actual mansion, way bigger than my parents’ house, bought and paid for by a real live art career.
“So why haven’t you sold the paintings in this room?” Dad asked.
“I love them too much to part with them,” Spiridon said thoughtfully. “Each one holds a special meaning for me. They’re touchstones that remind me of moments in my life I never want to forget. I could never sell them, at any price.”
“Oh,” Dad said. He had no idea what Spiridon was talking about. Spiridon may as well have been speaking a foreign language when it came to talking about feelings with my dad.
“They’re very nice,” my mom said curtly. “You’re a very gifted artist, Spiridon. I’m sure if our daughter could paint as well as you, she would sell paintings too.”
Because I was turned away from her, my mom’s words literally stabbed me right in my back. Fortunately my mom couldn’t see my face burning with sudden rage and embarrassment. Had she seen my anger, she would’ve told me to get a hold of myself and stop acting like a child. I gave Christos a pleading look.
“You haven’t seen any of Samantha’s recent paintings,” Christos said to my mom. “She’s come a long way since I met her. Her artistic growth has been unreal. Your daughter is epically talented.”
Take that, stupid Mom and Dad!
“She really is good,” Spiridon said, walking over to me to rest his hand on my shoulder. “With my grandson tutoring her, she gets better every day.” He flashed a smile at me, “Isn’t that right, Samoula?”
Now I was blushing as tears of joy threatened to pour down my face. I nodded. The Manos men were defending me against my evil parents! I wanted to jump for joy. I wanted to happy dance all over my parents’ faces while hungry sharks nipped at their toes. Yippee!
“You should see some of her paintings,” Christos said.
The next thing I knew, we were all in the studio.
“This entire room is a painting studio?” my mom marveled. “It’s as big as our house!”
My dad looked around, taking everything in. “I wouldn’t say it’s as big,” he said defensively. “Perhaps two-thirds the square footage. Maybe less if you include our garage.”
Yeah, whatever, Dad.
“And these are your paintings, Christos?” my mom asked.
“Yeah,” he said casually.
I could tell Christos was still somewhat buzzed from all the bourbon he’d been drinking before my parents arrived. But now he was happy drunk, not angry drunk.
“You sure like to paint naked women,” my mom scoffed judgmentally.
I couldn’t take my parents anywhere.
“It’s art, Mom,” I said. “You know, like Rembrandt and Botticelli and Bouguereau.”
“Who?” she frowned.
“William-Adolphe Bouguereau? The nineteenth century French realist?” I’d learned a thing or two about artists from hanging out at the Manos house all the time.
My mom shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“He’s really good. You should check out his work,” I sneered. “One of Bouguereau’s paintings is hanging in the San Diego Museum of Art in Balboa Park. It’s awesome.”
“Are any of your paintings hanging in the San Diego Museum of Art, Spiridon?” my dad asked snidely.
“Yes,” he smiled, “in the permanent collection. As are two of my son Nikolos’. I imagine one day soon, one or more of my grandson’s will join them,” Spiridon said, patting Christos on the back. “And who knows, if she keeps at it, maybe one of Samoula’s will end up there too.”
I think I heard a shame plane fly over my parents’ heads and start dropping suck it bombs all over them. Too bad the explosions weren’t fatal. But the confused looks on my parents’ faces made me rejoice.
Mom motioned at Christos’ paintings as if they were garbage. “I assume all these nude women are actual people?”
“Yeah,” Christos said.
Mom nodded, “Was that young woman who was here earlier one of the nude women you paint?” she asked acidly.
“Yeah,” Christos said.
“And what,” Mom continued, “she just takes her clothes off for you?”
Christos shrugged, “That’s usually the way it works.”
My mom huffed, as if Christos was forcing women like Isabella to strip for him while he watched with his pants around his ankles and did nasty things to himself. She said accusingly, “You know, you’re setting the women’s movement back thirty years.”
“They’re models, Mom,” I said. “They get paid. It’s a job.”
“To take their clothes off?” she scoffed.
“Yes!” I growled.
My mom shook her head. “That’s not art. That’s pornography. I hope you would never consider debasing yourself by deigning to strip for Christos. I should hope I’ve taught you better than that.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever, Mom.”
There was a pregnant pause as the room went silent. I’m sure my mom would accuse Christos of getting the pause pregnant after having paid it to model for him naked. Dirty pause. Everyone knew the pause had no shame. Pause was a whore who had sex for money. I rolled my eyes. My mom was such a prude.
“You should show your mom and dad some of your drawings, Samantha,” Spiridon encouraged.
Under any other circumstance, I would never have showed my art to my parents. Not after all those times in high school when they’d snarked about how bad my art was. But with Christos and Spiridon at my side showering me with supportive loving compliments, I felt like nothing too terribly bad could happen. I should’ve known better.
I walked over to my drawing table where my sketchbook sat. “This is where I work,” I said randomly as I picked up my sketchbook.
My mom put her hands on her hips. “It looks like you’re all moved in, aren’t you, Sam?”
Oh yeah, my parents and I hadn’t yet had the discussion about my new living arrangements. I couldn’t wait to discuss the topic further.
Maybe I would’ve talked to them about my move already if every conversation with them didn’t turn into a minefield. I swear, I couldn’t say a single wrong thing around my parents without triggering yet another one of their bullshit bombs. I needed more suck it bombs to defend myself. Too bad the shame plane was out of the area.
I clutched my sketchbook to my chest, suddenly reluctant to open it. I’m sure my parents were ready to lob insult bombs with abandon. Was there any point in showing them my art? Maybe I could change the subject.
“I haven’t seen your newest work,” Spiridon said. By newest, he meant the stuff I’d drawn in the last few days. Lately, he’d been asking to see my sketches on a daily basis. He always said nice things and offered me little pointers here and there.
Spiridon motioned with his hand, so I gave him my sketchbook, opened to the Wombat sketches I’d done recently. He blurted out laughter and Christos chuckled over his shoulder as they flipped through it.
“These are hilarious, agápi mou,” Christos said.
“Your daughter has a definite talent for cartooning,” Spiridon said before handing the sketchbook to my parents.
My mom took one look at my cartoons of Potty the Pot Smoking Wombat and grimaced as if someone had shown her crime scene photos of a beheading. She didn’t say a word. She just nodded absently as my dad turned the pages.
My dad, on the other hand, surprised me. “Not bad,” he said. “These drawings sort of remind me of Dennis the Menace, but not nearly as refined.”
I had to pause. That was actually sort of a compliment. My dad loved Dennis the Menace. It was one of his favorite comic strips and he still read it daily.
“But I don’t see how you can make any money with these,” Dad finished. “Hank Ketcham has the Dennis the Menace market all locked up.”
I think from now on, whenever I thought of the phrase, “thinking outside the box,” I’d picture my dad literally building a wooden crate around himself with hammer and nails, and as he was about to lower the lid on his own head forever, he’d say “Bye bye, everybody. If you need me, I’ll be inside my box. Where I live with all my thoughts. Which, by the way, are the only thoughts worth having.” I’d gladly nail the lid shut for him. I glanced around Christos’ studio for hammer and nails. Drat. I didn’t see any.
Christos’ phone rang, distracting everyone. He pulled it out of his pocket and examined it. “Excuse me,” he said to everyone, “I need to take this call.” He walked out of the studio.
“What could be so important he had to answer his phone while he’s entertaining guests?” Mom muttered sourly, as if we couldn’t hear what she was saying.
Because, yeah, this was totally entertaining. Maybe if your idea of fun was a weekend of water-boarding followed by hourly whippings.
Kill me now. Please.
* * *
CHRISTOS
I walked out the French doors of the studio to the back deck with my ringing phone in hand.
Russell Merriweather was calling.
Fantastic. I’d debated answering it in the studio and putting the phone on speaker so Samantha’s parents could listen in. Yeah, right. I’m sure they’d want to hear all about the recent civil charges Hunter Fucking Blakeley had slapped on my ass. After her parents heard all the gory details, maybe I could get them up to speed about my recent criminal trial. Samantha’s parents would totally love me after hearing about that shit.
When I was half way around the swimming pool and out of ear shot from the house, I answered. “What up, Russell?”
“Christos! How are you enjoying freedom, son?”
“Freedom rocks,” I joked.
“Yes it does. I’m somewhat inclined to it myself.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “The good news for you is, if you’re smart, you can enjoy as much freedom as your heart desires. All you have to do is stay out of trouble. You think you can do that?”
“I can give it a shot,” I chuckled.
“Don’t shoot anything,” he laughed, “just stay out of trouble. As in, no fighting. Feel me?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I sighed.
“I’m serious, son. No fights. As in, none. Zero. Nada.”
I shook my head and chuckled. “Man, you’re as subtle as brass knuckles.”
His voice turned humorous again. Russell was never long on lecturing. “I don’t want you crying to me on the phone at three in the morning, waking my ass up to tell me that you’re in the can again. I need my beauty rest,” he laughed.
Russell always put me in a good mood. Not only was he a badass attorney, he was the nicest guy. “You know, you’re pretty cool for an old dude,” I said sarcastically.
“Watch your mouth,” he said with good humor, “I can still whup your ass, young man.”
“What, you trying to get me in more fights?”
“I won’t press charges, so it’s okay. And I will kick your ass into next year if I find out you’ve so much as given someone a dirty look.”
“All right, all right,” I smiled. “No fighting. So what’s so pressing you had to call me so late in the day? Shouldn’t you be relaxing behind a bloody steak at the Yard House by now?” I gazed at ruby clouds glowing in front of the golden sun hovering above the Pacific Ocean. My grandad’s house had the best damn view.
“My dinner has been delayed because your pal Hunter Blakeley may have a valid claim against you, my boy. It turns out, he does in fact do a fair amount of modeling, and his broken nose has been costing him jobs.”
I shook my head. I should’ve known Hunter was a total pussy. “What, does the prick want? A bunch of plastic surgery or some shit?”
“That’s putting it lightly. He also wants lost wages and substantial pain and suffering. You should see the bills his attorney is sending me for the high class shrinks Hunter Blakeley has been visiting.”
“Shrinks?” I rolled my eyes. “Why, because he has PTSD after the vicious beating I gave him?”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
I sighed, “Do you have any good news?”
“I’m brimming over with good news,” Russell joked, “I’m the Santa Claus of good news.”
“Well?”
“I need the contact information of your friend Jake. I need to get his deposition and add it into the mix. Also, I’ve got people talking to the Hooters wait staff, see if they can corroborate your story that Hunter was in cahoots with three friends.”
“Of course he was.”
“Not according to his statement. He’s making it sound like his friends watched the incident from a block away while you roughed up poor Hunter.”
“Fuck. His buddies were ready to jump in until I put Hunter in his place. The guy is a total liar.”
“A liar he may be, but if I can’t prove he’s whistling Dixie on the stand, the jury is going to have a hard time believing your side of things. Remember, this isn’t a criminal trial, where the prosecution has to convince the jury beyond all reasonable doubt that you’re guilty. This is a civil trial. If Hunter’s attorney can convince the jury that it’s 51% likely that you’re at fault, instead of an even fifty-fifty, they will rule against you. That’s not much elbow room for us. Even if I present the greatest defense of all time, Hunter’s case need only be one percent more convincing than ours, and you’re gonna end up having to pay damages. And right now, Hunter’s attorney is asking for your left nut on top of all the other damages.”
“Maybe we can send him my left nut and call it even,” I grinned.
Russell chuckled, “Last time I checked, the nut market is in a recession, and you won’t get a quarter of what you’re hoping for.”
“Fine. I keep my nut and you win my case. Deal?”
“I’ll do my best. But I’d start looking into prosthetic testicles. I hear you can hardly tell the difference,” Russell laughed.
“Thanks, man. You’re all heart.”
“Don’t worry, son. I’ll take care of this. I’ve got plenty of people looking into things. We’ll track down Hunter’s friends and drag the truth out of them with pliers and tongs.”
“You do that.”
“I’ll have more good news the next time we talk,” Russell said. “Oh, and one other thing.”
“Yeah?”
“No. More. Fights.”
“I hear you loud and clear.”
“Then my job is done. Now, I have a steak waiting for me with my name on it. I’ve got to run. Bye.”
“Later, man.” I ended the call. While I felt fortunate to have Russell watching my back, as always, his expert services weren’t going to be cheap. At the rate things were going, I was going to run out of money before this case was over.
Too bad I’d destroyed that painting of Isabella. I could’ve gotten at least ten grand for it.
Whatever.
Stanford Wentworth had been right. That painting was a piece of shit. I wasn’t going to lose sleep over it.
I walked inside to join everyone.
Maybe Samantha’s parents could cheer me up.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
* * *
SAMANTHA
“Does anybody need a refill on their lemonade?” Spiridon asked.
Everyone, including Christos, was standing in the kitchen.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” my dad said as he looked at his watch, “but with the three hour time difference, I’m starving. Are you ready to eat, Linda? Remember, we still need to stop by Motel 6 to get our luggage at some point.”
My mom sighed heavily. “Sure.”
She sounded so happy to be here. The feeling was mutual.
“Is there a Cheesecake Factory around here somewhere?” my dad asked.
Leave it to my parents to fly across the country and eat at the same chain restaurant they always went to back home. Their sense of adventure made Christopher Columbus look like a homebody. Not.
“Yeah,” Christos said, “I think there’s one near Hotel Circle.”
“That’s near our motel,” my dad beamed. “We can kill two birds with one stone and get our luggage after dinner.”
Dad could kill three birds with one stone if he smashed me over the head and put me out of my misery.
Then an idea hit me. “Why don’t we invite my friends?” I suggested. “Then you can meet all the cool people I’ve met in San Diego!”
“I was thinking it would just be you, your mother, and I,” Dad said soberly.
“I agree with your father,” my mom said.
I knew what they were thinking. They wanted to corner me and berate me for being an idiot until I changed my major back to Accounting.
It wasn’t going to happen.
“I’ll text everybody right now,” I said, undeterred. I invited Madison, Jake, Romeo, and Kamiko. I’d gotten Jake’s contact info, as well as Spiridon’s, after Christos’ trial. I hated not being able to reach people in an emergency.
