Текст книги "Sweet Sinful Nights"
Автор книги: Lauren Blakely
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The head of the neighborhood association was a certified fanboy.
Alan Hughes knew all of Brent’s dirtiest and filthiest bits by heart.
As he held up his fork, preparing to dive back into his steak, the man who stood between Brent and the Big Apple expansion recited more lines from memory. Ordinarily, the entertainer in him would be thrilled to have someone repeating his lines. But Brent was no fool. He knew the polo-shirt and khakis wearing, forty-something father of two tween girls wasn’t quoting him to suck up at this lunchtime meeting at McCoy’s over prime rib and problems.
Brent fixed on a closed-mouth smile as Alan Hughes waxed on from a comedy bit deemed too crude for his late-night show. This joke had only appeared online. Brent tensed, knowing what was coming next.
Alan punctuated the finale with a stab of his utensil in the air. “And that’s why you should never shave your own balls.”
The joke had been beloved by twenty-something guys. Dudes had gone ape-shit over some of Brent’s bits. That one had earned him some serious guy cred online. Trouble was, that was exactly the opposite of the crowd he needed to impress now. Though Alan lived in Tribeca with his wife and two daughters, the man screamed suburbs, which meant he was the kind of guy trying to turn the city into a quiet, calm hamlet at night.
Alan pointed to himself. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m a huge fan of Jackass and that kind of humor. I love the whole filthy, dirty, late-night Comedy Nation style. I watch it myself when the wife and kids are in bed. The problem is, you’re not trying to win guys like me over.”
Brent nodded. “Got it. And I’m glad you liked it. But talk to me about who I need to win over, Alan. Tell me what you see in your neighborhood,” he said, inviting the guy into the conversation, letting him know he cared. Sealing the deal on New York was vital to Brent’s plans, so he had to play ball. New York was mission critical for Edge, but he also didn’t want to let down his friend Bob. He wanted to come through for him with the gig as manager of the club, delivering for the man who’d given him some of his biggest breaks.
But first, he had to deliver for others.
“Everyone else,” Alan said crisply. “The moms. The stroller moms. The soccer moms. The—”
“The moms,” Tanner barked, his coarse voice grating on Brent. He slammed his palm against the table at McCoy’s. It shook. “All the moms.”
Brent nodded several times, then kept his tone light. “Call me crazy, but I’m getting the sense you’re saying... the moms don’t like me.”
“Sorry to bear bad news, but they don’t right now,” Alan said, hanging his head. The guy truly did seem sorry.
“What can I do to win them over, Alan?”
Alan clucked his tongue. “It won’t be easy. How can we say you run a classy joint when you have this kind of history? You were the bad boy of comedy. That’s what your own network called you.”
“They did. But let’s be frank here. I wasn’t some criminal. They called me that because I had a foul mouth on stage. Because I had ink on my arms. Because it was part of a character.” Brent held open his palms. Nothing to hide here. “But at the end of the day, I was just a comedian, telling some dirty jokes. Let’s move on.” He tapped the table with his index finger. “Talk to me, Alan. Tell what I need to do to convince your neighborhood that I can be good for business.”
Alan nodded, and held up a glass. “I like you. You’re a straight shooter. So I’m going to be straight with you. You need to meet the people in the neighborhood. You need to be charming. You need to show them you’re not just the guy who tells filthy jokes that Axe Spray-wearing douche-canoes watch while smoking bongs.”
“I can do that. And I never use Axe body spray, so there you go.”
Alan chuckled again. “See? I knew you’d make me laugh.”
But laughter wasn’t enough. That was Brent’s stock in trade in his twenties. He’d spun laughter into gold on stage. He’d parlayed jokes into a career, moving up the ladder with each chuckle, each laugh, and each hearty guffaw. They’d fed him and made him wealthy. Now, he’d pivoted. He was reinventing himself as a businessman, and in some ways he was starting at the ground floor. He had to prove he was trustworthy, that he was reliable, and that he was worth betting on when it came to this new playground he was playing in.
Playground.
So bizarre that his days of ball-shaving and first-date waxing had been replaced by playground makeovers. Brent saw a bigger opportunity. “Don’t know if Tanner told you, but I’ve donated some money to have some of the parks revamped in Tribeca. Happy to go further. Build a playground, too. You think the moms will like that?”
Alan nodded approvingly. “Moms love playgrounds. The only thing they’d love more would be a coffee shop in a playground,” he said, and now it was Brent’s turn to laugh. “Anyway, that’s a nice start. And we can build on that. This is what I’m thinking. We’ve got a big picnic coming up in the park. Fundraiser for some neighborhood services. Let’s have you at the picnic. You could come by earlier in the day and say hello. Talk to them. Let them know you’re a family guy at heart. Mention your brother and his wife. Mention your mom. Your dad. Don’t talk up the Vegas roots, or the comedy. I know you’re not married, but is there any chance you have a pregnant fiancée or something like that? If you did, that’d be a nice slam dunk,” Alan said, miming stuffing a basketball through the net.
Brent laughed deeply, and shook his head. “Nope. I’m not opposed to either, but I don’t have a woman in the family way.”
“That’s okay. I’m sure you’ve got plans to have a big family some day soon since you love kids, right?” Alan said, in a leading-the-witness tone.
Brent nodded. He got Alan’s drift. He got it loud and clear.
* * *
“Let me see if I got this straight. The neighborhood association only wants to approve your plans to move Edge into the space if you seem less like the guy you were on TV and more like a clean-cut family guy. So you want my daughter—my precious angel princess—to be your prop?”
Clay raised an eyebrow as he pushed Carly lightly in a bucket swing in a park in Greenwich Village. The one-year-old giggled and kicked her feet.
“My niece who adores her uncle,” he said, stepping in to push the sweetie-pie and elbowing Clay aside.
“Watch it there. That’s my baby girl.”
“And she’s the sweetest, cutest, most adorable baby in the universe,” he said, and Carly leaned back to smile at Brent. He cooed at her and made animal sounds. First a monkey, then a duck, then a chicken, and Carly scrunched her baby cheeks and laughed, the kind of infectious laughter only a child possesses. He shot Clay a sharp-eyed stare. “Told you so. She loves her uncle.”
Like a hawk, Clay swooped in and rescued his daughter from the swing, cradling her against his chest. “Clearly, she’s suffering from temporary insanity. I better get her to the pediatrician right away.”
Later, as they walked through the Village, the baby strapped to her father in a Baby Björn, his big brother relented. “Obviously, you can bring her to the picnic. I’ll just be the guy hanging by the fence, watching my kid. Ready to grab her if I need to.”
Brent clapped him on the back. “Excellent. I knew eventually you’d be good for something.”
“Or maybe I won’t be so generous,” Clay said as they neared a bustling coffee shop, spilling over with Sunday afternoon foot traffic.
“Nah. I have faith in your generosity. And I have faith in caffeine, which I need right now. Red-eye and all,” Brent said, pointing to the shop. “My treat.”
Clay shook his head, and crossed one finger over another, as if he were warding off evil spirits in the cafe. “Not that one. That shop has bad luck written all over it. That’s where Julia practically had my head when she found out I’d done something she wished she knew about sooner.”
“I’ve told you, man,” Brent said, because he was privy to the details of what had nearly split up the two of them before their happy ending, back when Julia had been in trouble with the mob, saddled with debt owed by an ex. “You need to be upfront with women. Just in general. Look at me. I’m a goddamn open book.”
Clay stopped in his tracks, scratching his head. “Wait. I’m sorry. Did I hear that right? You’re trying to give me relationship advice?” he asked, rubbing his thumb against his wedding band.
“Whatever, man. All I’m saying is women want you to lay it all out for them. Be open. You know that. Secrets are almost what ripped you and Julia apart.”
His brother nodded seriously as they resumed their hunt for coffee. “That they did, man. That they did. And I learned my lesson.”
“You ever hear from that guy? Charlie? The one she was forced to play poker for?”
“He called me once,” Clay said as they reached the corner and stopped to wait for a walk sign. A cab blew past them on the street, and a pack of Sunday afternoon runners whipped by on the cobbled sidewalk.
“What did he want?”
“Tried to get me to come work for him. Said he needed a good lawyer.”
Brent scoffed. “I bet he does. Mob bosses always need someone to bend the rules for them. What’d you say?”
Clay’s mouth twitched in a smile and he spoke in a wry tone. “I told him that my client list was full. But I appreciated the offer. Always be a gentleman with men like him. You never know when they’re going to reappear, and you need to make sure you haven’t pissed them off.”
“And you didn’t piss him off, I trust?”
Clay adopted a who me look. “I never piss anyone off. But you? You’re another story. If memory serves, you were pretty skilled in pissing off Shannon back in the day. You learned your lesson on that front? You’re treating her well now?”
Brent flashed back to last night and Shannon’s cries of ecstasy. To the past week, and how her eyes lit up with happiness over their lunches. To the sadness he saw in them, too, when she shared all her fears. All of it. Everything. He desperately wanted to be the man to make her happy. To give her hope.
“Like a queen,” he said. “Like a queen.”
“Excellent. That’s the only way to treat a woman.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Shannon crossed her arms and watched her brother mow down targets with clockwork precision. Huge earphones covered Ryan’s head, muffling out sound as he fired with one hand. A sure shot. She knew how to fire, too, though she rarely did. She owned a sub-compact Glock 42 that Ryan had bought her when she moved back to Vegas.
“It’s your housewarming present,” he’d remarked when he took her to the gun store.
“You afraid the Royal Sinners are coming for me?” she asked, joking but not joking.
He’d squeezed her shoulders reassuringly. “They’re not coming for you. But you never know who is.” He’d filled out the paperwork, plunked down his credit card, then handed her the weapon and said, “Welcome home.”
Then he’d taught her how to handle a gun.
Sometimes she joined him at Reiss, sharing his intensity of focus, his cold concentration. Other times, she wished she’d never learned to shoot, never imagined that she might need to. Even if you were skilled in how to shoot, a gun couldn’t always save you. In fact, it probably wouldn’t save you. If her father had carried a gun, he’d still be dead. He’d been shot in the back, and never saw it coming.
Guns were useless when someone put a price tag on your head.
Ryan took aim at another black and white cardboard cutout. Shannon counted off in her head with each bullet.
One target. Two targets. Three targets. Now, four. Now, five. Absently, she crossed her fingers, hoping for a perfect six. Random, but that was the number she picked.
He landed the last one. Straight down the middle. He lowered his arm, his revolver solidly in his right palm. After he tugged off the earphones and goggles, he turned around, and flashed her a bright smile. He blew on the end of the gun, and winked.
Show off, she mouthed, watching him from just outside.
He waved her into his lane, gesturing for her to join him. “You hit half of what I did, I’ll buy you lunch,” he said.
She rolled her eyes, but accepted the challenge. He positioned the earphones over her head, placed the goggles on her eyes, and set the Smith & Wesson in her palm. She planted her feet wide, peered down the lane, and raised both hands, keeping the weapon steady, solid against her flesh. She peered at the target at the end of the range, a black and white sketch of a body with a bulls-eye on his chest.
She tried not to think of Stefano ending her father’s life. But that trick never worked. She always pictured that man, that street thug, that fucking scum who took a job from her mother.
That killer.
If she didn’t see Stefano at the end of the barrel she’d imagine her mom. She couldn’t go there. She couldn’t live in that land of hate for the woman who’d raised her, taken care of her, kissed her goodnight. If she pictured her mom, she’d be just the same as her.
Her hate was reserved for the triggerman. For the man who had shed her father’s blood. Her jaw tightened, and she watched the reel. Each unlived moment played before her eyes. Her father would never know where she’d gone to college, what she did for a living, if she was happy, if she was in love. He’d never walk her down the aisle, and he’d never tuck his grandchildren into bed or take them to the park.
He’d never enjoy a day of fishing as a retired man—his dream.
He’d never celebrate his fiftieth birthday. He was eternally thirty-six, and always would be.
He’d never grow old.
They took that all away from him.
From her.
From her grandparents.
From her brothers.
Her teeth were clenched, her lips were a tightrope, and her hands belonged to a surgeon. Steady, practiced, perfect.
She fired three shots to the heart.
Adrenaline surged through her, lighting up her bloodstream with wild energy. She could lift a car, fight a man twice her size, or run down any enemy. Her chest rose and fell; her fingertips tingled. Then those endorphins were chased with a dose of red-hot anger, with the madness that comes from the black hole of loss.
She pressed her fingertip to the trigger, wanting, wishing, eager. Itching to fire again.
Before the anger consumed her, she lowered the gun. She handed it to Ryan. “I’m not hungry.”
Minutes later, they sat in his car in the parking lot. The engine was off. The radio was on. The National, Ryan’s favorite band, crooned about missing the one you love. Such a moody song. Fitting, too.
“What’s the story?” she asked, cutting to the chase. “Is Stefano facing more charges?”
Ryan shot her a quizzical look. “No. Or not that I know of.”
She rolled her hands, as if to jog his memory. “You told me your friend in the DA’s office said he visited Stefano in prison about other crimes or something.”
“Right, but even so, that won’t change his sentence.”
“I know that,” she said, but then she realized—Ryan hadn’t called her to discuss the latest news about the shooter. “So this,” she said gesturing from him to her, “isn’t about Stefano?”
“No,” he said, forming an O with his mouth. “Not at all. It’s about someone else. I talked to Mom.”
* * *
His sister’s jaw dropped. Ryan hadn’t intended to shock her, but the evidence was on her face.
“She called you?” she whispered, as if she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around the concept of the phone, and how people used it to stay in touch.
He nodded and scanned the parking lot through the window to make sure they were alone. No one was wandering around. He turned up the music a little more, just in case. Ryan had always believed it was best to have these kinds of conversations in person, with plenty of background noise. He’d learned to keep certain aspects of his life completely untraceable. “She called me collect the other night. She told me her lawyer came to see her.”
Her eyes widened. “The same one who represented her at trial?”
He shook his head. “Nope. That guy is long gone. He went into private practice. But, the guy who came to see her is also a public defender. She said she contacted him and he went to Hawthorne.”
She cleared her throat and swallowed, then spoke in a clipped, controlled voice. “What does she have to talk to a lawyer about? Is she trying again to get them to re-open the case? Is she rehashing the details over and over like the last time we saw her? The evidence against her? The phone records showing she repeatedly called Jerry Stefano for two months before the murder?” Shannon said, smacking the side of one hand against the other for emphasis. “The lies she told about those calls were ludicrous. The prosecution saw right through them. She couldn’t even come up with a decent reason for all the calls.”
He knew why his mom had lied about her calls with Stefano. The truth would have made her look guiltier. She’d gambled and lost. The lies she’d told to the prosecution didn’t do the trick, but honesty would have tethered her more closely to Stefano and his Royal Sinners.
Rock and a hard place.
He knew some of those truths. She’d shared them with him, begged for his help, and he’d kept them locked up in his head. He’d never uttered a word of them. He’d learned that the best way to protect a secret was to never tell it. Seal your mouth, zip it shut, and don’t breathe a word. That was the one guaranteed method, and Ryan Sloan kept secrets like a champion.
But he hadn’t asked his sister to meet him so they could revisit the chain of evidence that had landed their mother behind bars. He’d called Shannon because she was the only one of his siblings who hadn’t closed the door on their mom. He needed strength in numbers even if that number was two.
“Mom and I didn’t talk about the phone calls with Stefano,” Ryan said.
“So why did she see a lawyer?”
“She said she’ll tell us in person when we come see her.”
Shannon held out her hands in frustration. “See? She can’t even tell you why she’s talking to a lawyer. She’s manipulating us into seeing her.”
“She’s our goddamn mother!”
“I know,” Shannon hissed, and pointed two fingers back at her eyes. “I damn well know. I look in the mirror every day and see her eyes. I have her eyes. I have her goddamn cheekbones and chin, too.”
“And you have nice eyes, so just focus on that. And besides, maybe it’s the kind of thing she needs to tell us in person. Maybe it’s important,” he said softly, but in a firm voice that brooked no argument. “We need to find out what’s up. End of the month. Her hours were cut, but she gets her final two hours the last day of June. We need to plan for it. Take the day, because it’s an all-day thing to get to Hawthorne in the middle of god-knows-nowhere. No excuses.”
She shoved her hand through her hair, yanking it back into a ponytail. “Why are you so determined to believe she might be innocent?”
His lips parted, but he took his time. His mother wasn’t an innocent woman, not by any stretch of the law. She might not even be a good person. But he believed that there was a difference between the things she’d done, and the things the district attorney had said she’d done.
“Because we need to be certain.”
She closed her eyes, as if the conversation pained her. Hell, it pained him. When she opened them, the look in them was one of defeat. Even so, she nodded. “I’ll go with you.”
“Good. I need you there,” he said, and flashed a small smile.
“Now there’s something I need to tell you, and if you so much as pull a big brother act, you will go alone. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.”
Then, she told him she was seeing her ex again, and even though he wanted to slug the guy for having hurt her, he understood what it was like to be unable to let go of something.
* * *
She cranked up the volume on “You’re the One That I Want” on the radio in her cherry red BMW as she drove home. She needed the upbeat, dancey number to reset her mind. Belting out the celebratory tune as she turned onto her street, she let the lyrics fill the hollow and angry space between the conversation with Ryan and the rest of her day.
The music was her buffer, and as she sang, she choreographed the number in her head, the dance and the movement ushering the hard kernel out of her heart. Dance had always been a way through tough times for her. Today she would lean on it even more. She had a plan for the rest of the afternoon. She’d review the video from the Edge rehearsal, take notes and tweak here and there, then that evening she’d work with her dancers.
Tomorrow, she was off to San Francisco.
Tuesday Brent would join her briefly.
Wednesday afternoon she had to fly to L.A. with Colin to meet with the reality show producers.
The busy week would keep her focus off her mom.
As she flipped her right blinker to descend into the condo’s parking lot, she spotted a car she’d never seen before parked outside the gate. A Buick. She was used to Audis, BMWs, SUVs, hybrids, Mini Coopers, and plenty of electric cars at her building. This vehicle was the answer in a which one of these things doesn’t belong game. Buicks weren’t common cars. They were old. They were hand-me-downs. Though she hadn’t memorized the rides of all her condo mates, she was sure she’d have remembered this earthy brown vehicle that hailed from days gone by.
She didn’t remember it.
A young guy in jeans, boots and a worn black T-shirt leaned against the trunk of the car, his elbows resting on the metal, smoking a cigarette.
He was doing nothing wrong. Technically.
But cars didn’t park by the gate. Young guys didn’t smoke and wait by her building. He didn’t look familiar at all. But Stefano probably hadn’t looked familiar to her dad either. Her spine crawled.
Better safe than sorry.
She heeded the warning bell. The automatic gate rose for her as it picked up on the transponder in her car that gave her access. Rather than slide into her regular parking spot in the garage—a garage that someone could easily enter by foot—she made a loop around the cars on the first level and exited on the other side.
The guy was still there. She couldn’t tell if he was watching her, or just waiting.
But that was precisely why she left.
By the time she slowed to a stop at a red light, her heart was hammering in her chest, and her hands were clammy.
Soon, she found herself at her studio, and she locked the door behind her, then bolted it. She spent the next few hours working before she tried again to go home.
When she reached the gate to her building, the Buick and the guy were gone.
