Was I making a nuisance of myself?
And how was it that Max’s sweat smelled so good? We’d sat together in the car, and it was like I couldn’t get the scent out of my head. I sighed. He had probably experienced the opposite with me. I had been pretty rank by the time I got home. I shook my head. Time to concentrate.
I needed to do my makeup and get on with this.
Was just going to text you. Bridget answered me. Fuck that woman.
I stared at the response. That didn’t make a lot of sense, considering what I had asked her. What woman?
I’m going to fly back to New York and kick her so hard, her head spins.
I stared at the text. Well, that was violent, which was not like Bridget at all. Whose butt are you going to kick? I texted.
There was a long pause before she answered me. Amanda Hill.
Fuck. What had Amanda done? I’d just encountered her that morning in the gym, so I figured I’d get twenty-four hours before she posted about me. Hell, between then and now, some heiress could have fallen over drunk, kicked over a tray, and landed funny on the street. That would have taken her attention off me faster than anything else.
What had she done?
Ignore it if you haven’t seen it.
I set down the phone and walked over to my computer, ignoring what was probably good advice from my sister. According to my father, who I was surprised could remember it, our birth order was Bridget, then me, and then Layla. She’d sometimes acted like my big sister, having breathed the air of the green Earth thirty seconds before I did.
But I needed to know what Amanda had done before I faced the event that evening. My reputation literally dictated my job. I’d yelled at her, and that was stupid. How big a hole had I dug with my fury?
Amanda looked at the camera. She wore gray, which looked good with her blonde hair and gray eyes. The woman always knew how to dress herself. Truth was I knew almost nothing about her. I’d never learned her background. I didn’t know if Amanda was even her real name. Did she pay all her bills from advertising from her social media accounts, or did she have some other source of income that I knew nothing about?
“Well, what a morning I had.” She smiled at the camera. “I know that I promised you that today we would talk about who wore what and who shouldn’t have worn what they did at the gala two nights ago. I mean…it shouldn’t be so hard to track down designers, but I digress.”
I rolled my eyes. It wouldn’t be hard if she knew the right people. There was some happiness to be found in the fact that I could have gotten to those designers immediately.
Not that it mattered.
“This morning, I was at the gym where I had the unfortunate luck to run into Hope Radford. That’s right—my second favorite Redhead was at the gym.” She smiled, and there was pure joy in it. “Layla, if you are seeing this, you are still my favorite, darling. New York isn’t the same without you here, Redhead.”
I rolled my eyes. Layla would never see this. She was deep in baby happiness and being loved by the man of her dreams. If the knowledge of my sister’s happiness caused me the smallest amount of jealousy, then I was just going to add it to the growing list of all the things I didn’t like about myself.
“So, anyway, I saw Hope. Can I just say thank god she was at the gym? She looks like hell. I mean…if I didn’t know she was Layla’s sister, I wouldn’t believe it. Not. Pretty. Right. Now.” She shook her head. “I know. I know. You’re going to leave me comments telling me that I shouldn’t say things like that about our fellow females. Girl Power. But seriously, yes, she looked like hell. She was there arguing with Max Broadley. Maybe it’s a good thing he kicked her out of his restaurant? It would be wise if she stayed away from such fatty foods for a while.”
I gasped and turned off the computer. Had she just called me fat and ugly? My ears rang. My phone buzzed and I was sure it was Bridget, but I ignored her because I had to think. I rushed to the mirror and stared at myself. I didn’t look much different than I usually did. Granted, I had been at the gym, but I’d worn cute workout clothes.
Did I look like hell?
Fuck. I had to get out of this headspace. Maybe there would be a time when it wouldn’t matter. When women could be raised to not care what people said about them physically. Maybe women would stop saying such things. Maybe men would. Maybe there were people out there who didn’t care. I wasn’t one of them.
It was pathetic and I’d add it to the ever growing list of my worst traits, but I did care. I had to care. Being pretty was part of my public persona.
Amanda was mean, petty. She meant to hurt me because I’d yelled at her. Well, she’d done it. I was this shallow. She’d called me ugly on a vlog that was picking up thousands of watches by the minute.
And it mattered.
I had to get dressed. If I’d known this was going to happen today, I’d have made a hair appointment and used a professional makeup artist. I knew how to put myself together, and I was going to be stuck with the job I could do on an evening when everyone would be looking.
I didn’t read Bridget’s text. I just sent her one back. It’s fine.
Only it wasn’t.
I sank to the ground. I could be proud of myself for all the times I’d managed not to cry over the last twenty-four hours, but I wasn’t winning that war at the moment. Hope cries—that was what the nannies used to tell my father.
How were the kids? he’d ask, not really caring.
They’re fine, mostly. I’d heard a rendition of this over and over during my growing up years. Layla is flunking school. Bridget is too quiet. Justin is sneaking out at night. Hope cries.
Yes, I did. I’d always been a marshmallow. I’d always been unable to be one of those tough, strong women that I saw in memes. May we know them, may we raise them. Well, I wasn’t that. I could survive terrible things. I proved it, but I hadn’t stood up, back straight, and marched on. No, I was a mess, and it was never going to be any other way.
I wasn’t strong.
I put my head down on my knees and just sobbed. My shoulders shook, and my body vibrated. With my ears ringing, I was unable to even breathe, let alone think. I pounded on the floor with my fists. This was mean girl, high school shit, and it was never going to stop for me. I would always be at the mercy of what others thought of me.
And it turned out, I was lacking in a million ways. Inside and out.
Chapter 8
Eventually, I stopped crying. I washed my face and applied enough makeup that no one would guess I’d been crying. I put on the outfit I’d picked out and checked it five times to make sure that while it was attractive on me, no one would think I looked like a stuffed sausage. Yep, I’d let Amanda that far into my head. It wasn’t pretty in my mind at that moment.
But my black dress was fashionable, my hair was pulled back, and I had diamonds that I almost never wore in my ears to make me feel like I was wearing fuck you jewelry. We were raising money for cancer, and I was ready to throw a hell of a party.
Or so I thought.
It turned out that being called fat and ugly publicly by Amanda Hill meant that people weren’t going to show up for my party that evening. It was sad, really. I did my usual head count again and again, sure that the numbers had to be wrong. There should’ve been twice as many people there as there were.
And I was hardly the only one who noticed.
My client was pretty pissed. I walked to the corner to ignore her heated looks. I was sure I’d be taking abuse for this later. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t raise money for her cause. She would. It was embarrassing for her. Hell, it was the same for me.
I looked down at my phone
You know that you’re gorgeous, right? Bridget’s last text made me smile.
Well, I may need to sell my body to make a living, so I hope so.
That bad? Her texts were fast.
Apparently being fat and ugly means I’m suddenly on a list for people not coming to my parties.
I stared at her answer. Unreasonable rage rushed through me, and even as that happened, I knew that nothing Bridget texted deserved my anger. I took three deep breaths before I texted back, but still, when I did, I knew I was going to make her upset. Right then, I didn’t care. I could really do without the holier than thou right now. Not all of us can be investment bankers.
My temper had risen. Between the crying and the anger, I was really worked up for me. Most of the time, I tried to just maintain. This was a lot of emotions for me to have all at once.
I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. I can see how you read it that way. I just mean you’re amazing. You shouldn’t be doing something that requires you to stay on the good side of such small, miserable people. I love you. You’re amazing, Hope. The only one who doesn’t know that is you.
I put away my phone. I wanted to cry again. Instead, I went to my client—the woman I was afraid that I might be some day. I tried to smile, but before I could say a word, she shook her head. “Well, don’t feel too bad, dear. You’re just done. It happens. Find a husband before you’re not pretty anymore.”
Yes, tonight sucked.
My phone dinged just as I poured whisky into a glass. I put on a black and white movie and sat down on my couch. I’d locked my door four times. No one was there to see me, so I could be happy about the four. I was holding steady at four. That was something I’d hold on to. I wiped my face. The tears were coming and going now. It was like, since I’d opened the faucet, they just felt free to stream down my face anytime they wanted.
This was glass two, and already, I was ridiculous. I’d stop at three because I’d be outright drunk at that time. Probably dance naked in my apartment. Take a bath where I’d send my sisters texts about ducks or other random things. Eventually, I’d fall asleep until two in the morning, when I’d wake up with a headache.
Tomorrow, I would regret drinking.
Now? I was fully invested.
I only drank alone or with my sisters. It was the only safe way to make sure I could feel like this and have nothing bad happen to me.
My phone rang. Someone was actually calling me? I looked down as Max’s number popped up. “Hello?”
“Hey.” He had the sexiest, richest voice. I could really listen to it all day. “What are you doing?”
“Drinking,” I answered honestly. “What are you doing?” I looked at my clock. “Aren’t you working?”
There was a bang in the background that sounded like someone had dropped something. “Watch it, Pete. I don’t want to be buying another box of those. Yes, I’m working. I just wanted to check on you. Anna said that you had a bad day because of that vlog. I wanted to see if you were okay.”
I sighed. “Great. It’s so awesome hearing that the guy you almost slept with last night has heard how you are fat and ugly. Yes, I’m great. My party sucked. I’m apparently done, so now I’m drinking whisky. Straight up. So I’m going to go.”
“Hold on.” His tone lowered. “You know that’s a bunch of bullshit. You’re the prettiest woman in any room you walk into. Hands down. Where are you drinking? I’ll meet you there in two hours.”
I shook my head, but then it occurred to me that he couldn’t see that. I smiled at the thought. “I only drink alone. Or with my sisters. But they don’t live here anymore. In Manhattan. They never lived here.”
He was quiet for a long second. “You only drink if you drink alone?”
“That’s right.” I put my legs up on the coffee table and sighed. “So I’m going to get back to it.”
“Did you sleep today?”
“Nope.” I looked out my window. The red lights of the city were always so inviting from this height. Like it was fake outside, not real.
But of course it was.
“And now you’re drinking alone.” He sighed. “Drinking alone is a very bad idea.”
I groaned. “Okay, I’m going to go. Thanks for the lecture.”
“That wasn’t a lecture. I promise you that. That was an eye roll at best. Call down to your doorman and your security. Tell them I’m going to be there in the morning and to let me up. We’re having breakfast. Do it now.”
Was he really ordering me around? I squirmed on the couch. What did it mean that I sort of liked it? “Okay.”
“And go to bed.”
“I’m not done.”
“You are.” He sighed. “You’re more than done with today. Go to bed. Put me on the list, then sleep.”
I yawned. Maybe he was right.
By the time he pounded on my door the next morning, I’d been up for six hours. Like I’d guessed would happen, I’d been tossing and turning since two in the morning. My head wasn’t pounding as badly as it had been then. It was probably a good idea that I’d listened and cut it off after two drinks. Not drinking very often or regularly really lowered my tolerance.
I swung open the door, glad I’d showered and put on some makeup.
“You’re okay.” He let out a breath. “I spent the whole night wondering if you had drunk yourself to death because of some lowlife talking nonsense about you on a vlog.”
I waved my hand. “It would take more than that to bring me down. What did you bring me to eat?”
He shook his head and strode inside. “Drinking alone is absolutely the worst way to do it. Who would know if you got in trouble?”
“I don’t do that much of it. Are you avoiding the food issue?” He wasn’t carrying any bags. Had he lied about the breakfast promise?
He extended his hand. “Put on your shoes. We’re going out to eat. Much as I love your red painted toes, I think you might tear up your feet if you went walking around like that. Plus, there is the whole no shoes no service issues.”
I grinned at him. Truth was I’d been in a pretty bad mood rather consistently since the gym. But he was funny, even if he wasn’t trying to be.
I wiggled my toes. “You like my toes?”
Max rolled his eyes. “Put on some shoes.”
It was like I could get a compliment once from him and not again. Guess I wouldn’t be digging for them because he only dished them out on his own terms. That was okay. He was there. None of my so-called friends had gotten in contact. My phone dinged. It was Layla texting me. I didn’t have to look to know she’d found out about Amanda Hill. Unlike my caring for an infant sister, my friends had seen the post for sure and hadn’t shown up at my party.
With friends like these, the question was, did I really need enemies? I focused on Max. “Okay, I’ll get my sneakers.”
I wore jeans and a T-shirt. I didn’t really see the point of getting dressed up. People who were done rarely had to make any kind of effort on themselves. But I had put on makeup because I guessed I was just that level of pathetic.
With my shoes on, I locked up my apartment—only once in that direction, since my issues seemed to come with locking up when I was staying in—and followed him out. My guards were both leaning on the car, but he waved his hand.
“We’re walking. It’s three blocks.”
Theo and Luke stared at each other. I’d been banned from doing too much walking. Max squeezed my hand. “You’ll be fine. It’s good for the soul to be able to walk on occasion. It’ll take them twice as long to get you there, because they’ll have to go up Park, turn around, and come back the other way. We’ll be seated and eating by then. They can follow in the car. Text them the address when we get there, and they can wait outside in case anyone wants to Tony Soprano you inside the diner.”
I laughed despite myself. He really did say the funniest things. “I don’t think they’ve ever confirmed he’s dead.”
“Oh come on. He’s dead.” Max grinned at me. “He was obviously dead.”
“We don’t really know what happened. It could be any number of things.” One thing about insomnia was that I watched a ton of television. Old. New. Interesting. Dull. I watched all of it. Cooking shows i
n particular. We crossed the street, heading for the diner where he must have meant for us to eat. I’d never been inside, although I’d always meant to give it a try. “How come you aren’t on television? I’m shocked you haven’t been on one of those cooking shows.”
“They ask all the time, but I’m not the right personality for it. I really don’t want to talk to the camera and say pithy things. I’ve had the same people working for me for years, and they can barely stand me in the kitchen. I don’t want a camera crew.”
I guessed he didn’t need the publicity. His restaurant was kicking ass, and if some crazy socialite didn’t screw it up for him, he was bound to continue to be successful. “Listen, about last night? Thanks for reaching out. I don’t want to talk about it if that is possible. I have a therapist. At least I used to have one. I suppose I could call her, make an appointment to talk about being called mean words by a mean person and how it screwed up my precarious career. If it’s all the same, talking to you about it seems somehow wrong.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about that woman. She bought film of you puking all those years ago. I mean…fuck. Who makes their living doing that? At least you’re doing something helpful with your fame. She’s a waste of space as far as I’m concerned.”
I sighed as the waitress sat us. “She gives people what they want. To talk. To know. To judge. To keep their eyes on people who are famous. I could see it, if I’d done something to earn the attention, but my mother was a famous artist. She married my father. Had four redheaded children. Three of us were triplets. That caused some stir. Then she…died.” Sometimes I could say ‘killed herself,’ and sometimes I absolutely could not say it. “We were left mostly alone. We moved around a lot because it turns out Dad is a crook. Once, we snuck out to a party when we were sixteen. Our brother helped us. We walked in—four redheads, all of us rich, with a dead mother. The whispers started. We were…newsworthy for living, somehow. Layla took the most heat. She was the prettiest, and that was our greatest value right off the bat.”
Redheaded Redemption (Redheads Book 2) Page 9
