Текст книги "Sexy"

Автор книги: J. A. Huss

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

 

I get a text from Katie halfway through lunch and I feel the disappointment in Shelly’s face before I even look at her. “You have to go?” she asks from across the table, her mouth still full of the roast beef sandwich.

I force a smile. “Yeah, but I’ll be back soon.” I get up from the table and squeeze Sam’s shoulder as I walk over to Shelly and bend down to let her kiss my cheek.

“You always say that, but you leave for days.”

“I gotta work, baby. You know I’d rather be here with you, right?”

She puffs up her lip and pouts. But she nods. She knows the drill.

“I’ll call ya later, OK, Sam? If he comes back—”

“I know, Fletch. Don’t worry. I called the guardhouse and told them not to let him in again.”

I let out a sigh and a little bit of the tension I’ve been wearing all week slides down my shoulders.

“Thanks for understanding.”

She gives me a weak smile and I figure that’s all she’s got right now, so I take it and make my way to the front of the house.

It’s a spectacular house. It’s not my accomplishment, so I’ve never had any reason to be proud of it. But I do love it. And I love that Shelly is growing up here. Just like me and Walker, only without the rivalry.

I don’t know why my brother hated me. First child syndrome? Jealousy of the new baby? But it doesn’t make much sense. How much jealousy is a one-year-old capable of anyway?

We are sixteen months apart in age. A fact that definitely contributed to the demise of my mother’s social life, and then later, her interest in life. She’s not even dead, like my dad. Just cut out of the family for lack of ambition after he passed.

I guess I can’t blame her. I see first-hand what having one kid does to Sam. Imagining her with two little ones that close in age is enough to make me cringe. It’s nothing against Sam at all. It’s just a lot of work taking care of one infant, let alone two. I know. I’ve been there.

So I can cut my mom some slack. My dad was more like Walker than me. Transient would be a good word to describe him. Ask any kid if that’s a good quality in a father and even an eight-year-old like Shells will tell you no.

I imagine her thinking that of me as I drive south along the lakeshore. It’s late afternoon now. I didn’t even get to stay an hour before I got called away. Does Shelly think I’m transient because I stay down in South Tahoe most nights?

I hope not. I do my best.

I lose myself in thought as the miles pass and the minutes tick by. I barely see the beauty of the landscape around me anymore. Tahoe is part of me. I don’t leave often. And the fact that Walker knew about my trips to New York and LA has me unsettled.

Does he know who I am?

He might. It’s not like I’ve been super-secretive about any of it. I just figured no one much cared.

But apparently someone does. And it figures it would be Walker. I imagine all the reasons why he came back. Money tops the list. But I don’t owe him shit and he’s not getting one dime out of me.

Sam is second on the list. And that’s the more realistic one, considering that the outfit he was wearing today must’ve cost him about five grand alone. He’s not out of money yet.

I try to imagine a scenario where she’d choose him over me and come up short. Sam would never do that. Never. She’s the most loyal person I’ve ever met.

But… she could. She could still love him.

And if she does, Fletch, then she does. You can’t change the way people feel about each other.

And that line of thought brings me back to Tiffy just as I pull onto Lake Parkway and wind my way past the golf course towards the Landslide, their bright copper towers gleaming in the late-afternoon sun. Blinding, almost. The perfect metaphor to describe what goes on inside.

Name your poison—gambling, drugs, stripping, sex—you can get it inside. Those guys at the tables tell themselves it’s their lucky day. They snort coke in the bathroom and stuff tips in the bras of the cocktail waitresses. Hell, I tell myself that shit too. It’s my lucky day every night I go out on stage and come back with a pile of money.

I pull up to the valet and leave my delusions in the backseat when I get out. It’s a job, Fletcher. Nothing more.

But Tiffy didn’t feel like a job last night. Tiffy felt like a possibility.

Just your delusional mind, trying to justify why you’re not a no-good piece of shit.

Whatever.

I stop by the front desk and smile at Kristen. She’s not too bright, but she tries hard to please and she always smiles. I like her for those reasons alone. “Hey, Kristen, you got a package for me?”

“Oh, yeah, hey, Fletch. One sec.” She finishes typing on her keyboard and then slips behind the partition that separates the front desk from the office. She appears again, barely a minute later, and hands me a thin box with my name on it.

“Thanks, babe. Oh, hey,” I say, turning back to her. “Have you seen Tiffy today?”

“Earlier,” she says, going back to typing on her keyboard. “Maybe a few hours ago?” She looks up and gives me a smile. “Not since then.”

I nod. “OK, well, thanks.” I head off for the elevators, barely registering her answer of, “No problem,” and push the button when I get there, anxious to see what’s in the box Katie left.

It can’t be good. Well, it can, in a way. But ultimately, everything about this request I had her do for me will turn to shit.

I tap my foot as I wait for the elevator to take me up to fifteen, and then get out and find my keycard in my back pocket as I walk down the hall. When I get to the door, I pass it over the lock and the light flashes green at me.

I push the door open.

Tiffy Preston is sitting on my couch with a stack of papers in her hand.

My mind races as I figure out what might be on those papers. “What the fuck are you doing in my room?”

“Your room?” She laughs. “This is the hotel’s room. And I’m the legal representative of the hotel. So this room, Fletcher Novak, belongs to me. You don’t even pay for it.”

“You better have a damn good explanation for this, Tiffy. I’m not even joking. And those papers in your hands, they had better belong to you, or I’m going to be one pissed-off guy.”

“You think you have the right to be pissed off? Ha!” She looks down at the papers in her hand and begins reading. “‘Dear Sexy Man’”—she snorts—“‘I have a problem with a girl. She’s rich and I’m not. She comes from a very prominent family and I work for her father. It’s difficult to relate to her, and I’m sure she feels the same way about me. But there is something there that makes me want to try harder. What can I do to close this money gap? Signed, Rich Man, Poor Man.’” She shakes the letter in her hand. “What is this?” Her voice rises a little at the end of that sentence, making me cringe. “Why do you have these letters?” She flips through the pile, dozens of them in her hands. “I’ve read them all, Fletcher. The one from Self-Loathing in Saratoga where the guy complains about how his girlfriend has such a low opinion of herself, she can’t see that he really loves her? What is that?”

I clear my throat, unwilling to say nothing, but not sure how I can soften the blow. In the end, I decide I can’t. So I just tell it like it is. “I’ve been using our conversations to write the letters.”

“Obviously,” Tiffy snaps. “Are you this… this… Sexy Man? Do you write that column?”

I nod. “I am. I do.”

“And you make those letters up?” It’s an accusation. One she already knows the answer to, she just wants confirmation.

“Come on, Tiffy. The whole world is scripted. You know this.”

“You know what? Yesterday I almost thought that I had misjudged you. That I was pegging you unfairly. That I came here with an expectation that you deserved to be fired. Because you have this smooth voice. And your words are like candy. Soothing and sweet. But you’re poison, Fletcher Novak. Nothing but poison.”

I give her a sidelong glance. “How would you know?” I growl. “You have no idea who I am.”

“I have an idea,” she snaps back. “Cole sent me to the spa today to relax. Because he had meetings all day and we weren’t going to meet until dinner.”

I cringe at the dinner part, just like I did this morning. She’s finally wrangled him into a date. Got just what she wanted.

“But I wasn’t into it, so I left and went up to the restaurant. And do you know who I saw up there?”

“I can guess,” I say evenly, letting out a breath of air.

She stares at me for a moment, looking like she might explode. But then she lifts her chin and steels herself for the next confrontation. “You set up your client with my possibility.”

I shake my head no.

“You liar,” she seethes. “You liar. I saw you today too.”

“Saw me where?”

Tiffy crosses her arms cross her chest. “That mansion you have up in Incline Village? What the hell was that? You’re rich? You’re married?”

“You had me followed?”

“I followed you myself. I saw you with your… wife, lover, girlfriend… whatever she’s called in your sick world. And your daughter. Do they know what you do, Fletcher?”

“She knows,” I say, leaving Shelly out of it. “And she knows why.”

“So she’s OK with you whoring yourself out? Taking home girls, fucking them on the roof, stringing them along so—”

“I never strung you along. You’re the one who got up and walked out on me this morning.”

“You set Cole up with one of your clients.” She snarls the words out. “You wanna tell me why you did that when you knew I wanted him?”

“You can’t always get what you want, princess.” Her face hardens. “Besides, he’s no good for you. I realized he was an asshole the first time I saw him up at this hotel months ago.” I wait for the surprise, but it never comes. “So you know he was up here?” I ask.

“I do now. Not that it matters. He and I weren’t dating then.” Her anger morphs into pain before my eyes. “He and I weren’t fucking. You used me. You lied to me.” Tears begin to form. “You sold me out, Fletcher. And all I ever did was try to help you keep your job.”

I scoff out a laugh. “I told you the other day, you can keep that fucking job. You think this one measly paycheck is enough to pay my bills?”

“What bills? I saw your house today, Fletcher. And I’m not a real-estate expert, but I looked the address up, and comps come in around four million dollars.”

“Shit.” My laugh is practically a guffaw this time. “If that house was worth four million dollars, my problems would be over. Try thirteen million, Tiffy. Thirteen fucking million dollars. Almost three acres of lakefront property. Two hundred yards of beach. A dock with deep water access so the bigger boats can get in. Eight thousand square feet of living space, home theatre, heated pool in the backyard, and a gym on the lower level that would put this hotel gym to shame.”

“Then why do you need money? And is that why you were so interested in me? For my money?”

Jesus Christ. I eye her, considering if I should tell her or not, considering if she deserves the truth. In the end, I let her decide. “Why do you think?” She lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’m serious,” I say, before she can protest. “Tell me why you think I need money.”

“God only knows. You already admitted to using me for that stupid column of yours. Who knows why you need anything.”

“Give it a shot,” I growl.

She purses her lips and shrugs. “Drugs. Gambling debt.”

“You have a really low opinion of me, don’t you, Tiffy?”

“Oh, please!” she chortles. “I have a low opinion of you? Try the other way around, Fletcher.”

But I’m shaking my head, and then my words come out so low, I’m practically whispering. “I never lied to you. I just don’t hand the truth out to just anyone. And I never had a low opinion of you, Tiffy. From the minute I saw you out in the audience, I was hooked. You were beautiful. So fucking beautiful, you caught my eye in a crowd of hundreds. And even though you didn’t realize it, I liked you because you were confident. It shone through all the doubts you had. I saw it, even when you didn’t. I thought you were sexy. I thought you were funny, and intriguing, and smart. And yeah, the first time we fucked, it was a fuck. But if you think that was fucking last night, then I feel sorry for you. Because you don’t seem to be able to recognize love, Tiffy. And that is just sad.”

I stare at her as she stands in front of me with her arms crossed, shocked into silence.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna be busy packing, so get the fuck—”

A knock at my door stops me mid-sentence, and since I could use the distraction, I walk over and open it up.

Claudio is standing on the other side of the door, his face in a long, sad frown. “Is Tiffy with you? She’s got her phone turned off and I need to talk to her.”

I open the door wide and wave him in.

“Claudio,” Tiffy says, rushing forward. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Claudio nods, looking at me first, before shifting his gaze to Tiffy. “Your father is in the hospital. They’ve sent a helicopter to take us to Reno where the jet is waiting.”

Chapter Thirty

 

My father died on Tuesday. And the saddest thing about it was that the world went on.

The doctors and nurses in the private hospital suite were too used to death, too wrapped up in the realities of it, and too busy to mark this one particular occasion as special. It wasn’t, in fact. Special. And aside from a somber three sentences muttered on the stock report news that night on the cable channels, no one noticed.

I got there in time, at least. I spent nearly forty-eight hours with him before he slipped away. He wasn’t coherent though. He hadn’t come to the show Saturday night because he’d had another stroke due to the tumor pressing on his brain.

And now that I’m sitting here alone at the cemetery five days later, I feel like shutting down.

At least it’s not raining, though. But it might later because I can see a storm brewing out over the Pacific from where I sit. And it’s not quiet. The traffic from the city is all too familiar. It’s just an ordinary day marking another ordinary death. I don’t mind. I don’t care about anything right now.

Claudio and Cole both explained the money situation. I’m not even sure I mind that. It wasn’t mine, after all. Why should he let me have it?

No, it’s not the money that nags at my calm exterior. It’s the fact that being cut out makes me feel like it was all a lie.

Of course, Claudio insists that I shouldn’t feel this way. But what does he know about rejection? His parents are still together. They live in the same top-floor condo in Russian Hill as they did when he was five. He’s the poster child for unconditional forever love from his parents. He can’t possibly understand.

And that’s why I’m here alone. I told Claudio I’d talk to him later. I just wanted a few minutes alone with my dad to say goodbye. People who have been loved their whole life like he has can’t possibly understand how I feel right now.

I sigh as I wring my gloved hands in my lap. It’s warm today, so they’re sweating. My whole body is hot and slick under my black lace dress and my matching hat. It feels like punishment for some reason.

It’s not the money that bothers me. I’m not sure I remember what it’s like to live on a budget, I was so young when Randall appeared. But I’m smart and I can adjust. I can figure it out. So it’s not the money. It’s the feeling I get about the whole situation. The lies about his illness. The last-minute changes to the will. It’s like he left me behind. Like he took it with him, after all. He took everything with him and left me here all alone.

My mind wanders to Fletcher. I think about him constantly. His home up in those mountains. His family. How happy he looked when he was there. A different kind of happy than when I saw him at the hotel. Why does he keep them secret? Why does he cheat? Why does he do anything?

I can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s like he switched places with Cole, who I have barely thought about at all in the past week. I can’t stand to look at Cole, to be honest. Even now, his name starts to make my stomach sick.

A man clears his throat behind me. “Do you need anything, Miss Preston?”

I don’t turn. I just shake my head.

“You can stay as long as you want. Do you need a ride home?”

I’ve been here for more than an hour, just staring at the grave. Contrary to movies, they don’t just fill the grave in after people leave. Cemeteries, it seems, run on a schedule just like anyone else. So the shiny black coffin in the hole in front of me only has those few symbolic handfuls of dirt on it. I can hear the machinery off in another part of the cemetery as it works to cover another recently deceased’s grave. I might be fucking up their schedule, come to think of it.

But who cares? I guess if there is a moment in life when you can be a little bit selfish about taking up other people’s time, it’s when you’re sitting at a cemetery.

“No, thank you,” I finally say. “I have my car.”

Everybody disappeared after they found out about the will. It’s not official yet, these things take time. But the writing is on the wall. Tiffy Preston was cut out. She owns one struggling luxury hotel in Nevada, and I’m sure they think I’m gonna get nowhere with that, since the whole place is in flux after Fletcher left and Chandler took the job in Vegas that Cole offered him.

Cole. I can’t even.

I can’t even with that hotel either. I just feel… defeated.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

I turn my head a little at the woman’s voice behind me, but not enough to see who it is.

“Thank you,” I mutter.

Clothing rustles as she makes her way up to the row of chairs in front of the grave where I sit alone. She takes a seat two chairs down and places a black leather attaché case on the red velvet cushion.

I stare at it, then glance up at her face and frown. It’s the woman who was having lunch with Cole last Sunday. “Can I help you with something?”

She smiles. And she’s very pretty with her blue eyes and blonde hair, her perfect face with her perfect makeup. No bloodshot eyes for her. No tearstains on her cheeks. Her hair is swept up in a professional do that is sophisticated and sexy at the same time.

“I’m a friend of Fletcher’s.”

I shake my head and look down. But I say nothing. I just haven’t got the energy.

“And he was going to show you this last weekend, but he…” She pauses, maybe trying to find the right words for what happened last weekend. “But he didn’t have time.”

“I’m not interested.” It comes out flat. Devoid of emotion.

“Maybe not.” She sighs. “But he thinks you should at least know.” She pats the case and stands. “When you’re ready.”

I have nothing for that. I don’t even have a slight curiosity about what that case might contain. A letter of apology? That makes me snort and the woman halts her retreat mid-stride, to see if I have anything to say.

No, more likely it’s more lies.

“He’s sorry,” she says.

“I bet he is.”

She sighs, letting out a long stream of frustration into air that is so damp from humidity, it probably clings to her breath. “He really is sorry.”

“For what?” I ask, finally looking up again. “What exactly is he sorry for?”

The woman gives me a little gesture with her hands. Something akin to, I’m not sure.

That makes two of us.

“If you have any questions, you can call me.” Those are her final words. She turns and walks off.

I stare at the case, then turn around in my seat and watch her retreat. The man in charge here is waiting a little ways off, his hands clasped together behind his back, like he’s standing guard.

I look back at the case, pick it up by the handle, and then stand. I peer over into the deep hole that holds the only father I ever knew and feel the sting of sadness as a final tear streaks its way down my cheek. “Goodbye, Dad.” My chin trembles. “I just want you to know, I love you. And I don’t care about the money. If you feel I don’t deserve anything, then there’s a reason for that. I’ll be OK.”

And that’s it. That’s all there is to say about it. He made his decision and I’m going to live with it.

I walk off, the heels of my shoes sticking into the soil underneath the deep grass with each step. I get my car, place the black case on the passenger seat beside me, and then start it up and drive away.