by Reiss, CD
“Not really.”
“You sure you don’t want to bail and just go back to the boring me?”
“No way.”
She sighed, as if gathering a little more strength to lift a heavy load. “One night, we were throwing up a piece on Melrose. That shitty stretch between Western and Normandie everyone drives right past? Cops came. We dropped everything and ran. Blah blah. I was already around the corner when they shot Keenan because—and this is real—he didn’t let go of his spray can and they thought it was a gun.”
“Ah. I’m sorry.”
“We were devastated. He was murdered… and for what? We decided to stop the small-time throw-ups and move to bigger things. We painted Keenan’s name over billboards. We plant trees where we’re not supposed to. We deface things rich people hold dear. But one thing, one big thing, it took years to plan.” She watched my face, reading my confusion like a spreadsheet full of circular references. “You still don’t get it.”
Was I being thick? Was I being an uptight ass she wouldn’t respect?
“You’re saying you have a history,” I guessed.
“Half right.” She took the teapot. “I have a present history.”
It clicked. Thank God I wasn’t that much of an idiot. “You did the house in Westlake.”
“Gold star.” She tapped the tip of my nose.
“Okay, so?”
“We’re a secret collective. There are maybe two dozen of us, in and out, you know? Everyone does what they can, but no one talks. No one. Like fight club. So if you tell anyone, I’ll have to kill you.”
Everything I’d assumed about her was wrong. She’d shed another protective layer and revealed someone so captivating and complex, I found myself awed by my unexpected desire.
“And you were never charged?” I needed to hear her tell the truth.
“Once.” Her shirt hitched up when she put the pot in a high cabinet. Another tattoo on her belly. “Had to pick up garbage on the side of the 101.”
“Bet you stopped traffic.”
She bit her lip, and though she turned away so I wouldn’t see, I would have bet my shares in Crowne Industries that she was blushing.
“Still want to get married?” she asked. “Because I have a record. I do things people don’t like. Illegal things. The internet will destroy my work then eat you alive. I’m a dead weight. I’ll drag your family name to the bottom of the ocean.”
Her life was too complicated. I needed a simple and believable situation. She was a bad business decision. Too much risk.
But the risk was the attraction. I’d gone from needing her to wanting her, and the want was strong enough to pull everything out of whack. I wanted to fuck her. Tame her. Touch the explosive heat inside her.
My body’s desire set off alarms in my mind.
“You’re right,” I said. “It can’t be you.”
No matter what choice I made, her or someone else, I would have regretted it, but this tasted especially bitter.
“I hope you find someone,” she said. “Or you could just, you know, do what your father wants. Take a break from work. Have a little fun. Fathers have a way of dying. Making them happy isn’t such a bad idea.”
“I can’t be a different person for him or anyone.”
“Fake it ‘til you make it.”
“I hate that expression. Pretending something’s real doesn’t make it a fact. It’s like Anthony Hopkins didn’t become a cannibal when he played Hannibal Lecter.”
“Maybe he started liking fava beans though.” She made the tooth-sucking noise the actor made in the movie, and we laughed.
“Go on,” she said. “Get out of here before you change your mind.”
* * *
I’d hoped to go to dinner with my parents while my lawyer adjusted the agreement I’d had drafted for Mandy.
So much for that.
Ella was right. She was the wrong girl to marry, but in selling her on the idea, I’d sold myself. There was a very small number of women I could approach, and none of them were perfect. I ran down a list of possibilities as I drove to Bel-Air, and they all came up short. Most weren’t desperate enough or were looking for a real husband in LA’s circle of eligible bachelors.
My parents had just about moved into their new Bel-Air place. It was too big for two people. Too big for ten. But it was the last spec house Byron had built, so when they wanted to move back to LA, they bought it and put the staff in the westernmost wing, then planned the party of the century.
Taking the back entrance on Stradella Rd, I waved off the valet, pulled into the underground lot, and took the back elevator up to dinner. When the doors closed, I saw my reflection in the polished steel and straightened my hair. I was still Logan Crowne. Same guy with the same problems.
I took a deep breath. The doors slid open as I exhaled.
Dad had made dinner sound like a social gathering, but I knew him better than that. My tendency to overwork didn’t come from nowhere.
I stepped into the house. Every possible exterior wall was made of glass to take advantage of the three-hundred-sixty-degree views, and the huge interior rooms were made intimate with the use of half-walls and shapes that increased the number of corners.
Following the sounds of voices, I found my father making a drink at a side bar. My mother, brother, sister in-law, and their baby were on the patio overlooking Stone Canyon.
“Dad.”
He looked at his watch before shaking my hand, as if checking to see if I was late. I wasn’t. Not that he would have said anything, but I knew the man.
“Glad you could make it.” He held up an ice cube by the tongs. “One for you?”
“Sure. The Glen Alan. How’s the party planning going?”
“Every time I turn my back, your mother adds to the sheer volume of it.” He put the ice in a second glass.
“You could set a limit.”
“Why put a boundary on happiness?” He plucked the bottle up by the neck, let it go upward, spinning in the air, and caught it on the way down. “You look good, by the way.” He pulled out the cork. “Rested.”
“I feel good,” I lied. “Resting.”
“Olivia’s up all night with Garret, and Byron’s up doting on her. Nice to see a face without dark circles under the eyes.”
Dad handed me a glass of scotch. We clicked.
“Like they don’t have a staff?” I snorted into my drink and took a sip that chilled and burned at the same time.
Dad sat on the couch, and before I could join him, Byron strode in and went right to the bar.
“The prodigal son returns.” My brother flipped a glass in the air and caught it.
“I’m not Colton,” I replied.
“If you were, you’d be having more fun.” He poured his scotch straight.
“Sit,” Dad said. “The two of you.”
We sat across from our father. I leaned forward to catch every word. Byron leaned back, spreading his arms and crossing his legs ankle over knee as if he needed more space.
“So,” Dad started. “Byron. It’s been a little over six months. Do you feel caught up?”
“Yes,” Byron said. “Some of the names changed. The numbers shifted, but it’s manageable.”
Dad pointed at me. “You agree?”
“It’s a complicated business.” I leaned forward. “We never know what’s coming down the pike. The rigs off Macau are operating at eighty-nine percent, and if it drops any more, we’re going to lose South American revenue to the Saudis.”
“True, true.” Dad took a sip and pressed his lips between his teeth to swallow.
“It’ll be handled,” Byron said. “Don’t worry about it, Dad. Just take care of Mom.”
Asshole. Byron cared about my parents as much as I did, but he was still being a brown-nosing, playacting asshole.
“We’ll handle it,” I added. “And whatever else.”
“How are you feeling about some downtime?” Dad asked me.
“Downtime?”
“Space.” Dad placed his drink on the table between us and leaned forward, mirroring my posture. “Outside. Life. People.”
“Fine.”
“There’s a rumor making the rounds.” Dad stood, plucking up all three glasses in his fingers. “About you.” He pointed at me and went to the bar.
“That he’s a party animal?” Byron joked.
“Shut up,” I said.
“Come on,” my brother said. “You wouldn’t be Logan Crowne if you had a life.”
Clink clink. Ice dropped into glasses.
“Dad, really. It’s been great. I appreciate it. Going out with friends is all it is. Whatever the rumor is, it’s either bullshit or not anything you have to worry about.”
Our father stood over us, holding two glasses in his palm. I took the one with ice and sat back as indolently as my brother.
“Apparently”—Dad lowered himself onto his seat—“you were in Harry Winston buying an engagement ring.”
Someone had let the cat out of the bag. It was dead, but it was out, and I had to dispose of the body one of two ways.
Deny it, and I could forget about retaking my position by getting married.
Confirm it, and getting a fiancée was do or die.
“Really?” Byron exclaimed, clapping me on the back. “Who’s the poor girl?”
Do or die. I didn’t give up that easily. Crowne was mine.
“No one you know. And I haven’t asked her yet.”
I waited for my father to congratulate me, but he sat there, feet spread apart, two hands circling his glass, taking me apart in a way only my father could.
“That’s fast,” was all he said.
“It is. But not as fast as you think. It’s been going on. I’ll let her tell you when you meet her.”
“When’s that?”
When required a commitment to a plan I couldn’t execute on my own.
“Is she here?” Byron asked. “Or Canada?”
“She’s busy,” I said. “You like that in a woman, right?”
“I do.” My brother seemed genuinely happy for me.
I wished I shared his joy. My father didn’t hide his suspicion. He needed an explanation.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to get your hopes up. Frankly, I didn’t want to get mine up either.”
It was becoming obvious—even to me—that I hadn’t said her name. If my father hadn’t noticed, I’d worry about him. I couldn’t talk about it much longer before he brought it up.
“Look,” I said, “let her say yes first, okay?”
“You should bring her around some time,” Byron said.
“Maybe Crowne Jewels.”
“You’re not rushing this, are you?” Dad asked.
“No. Absolutely not. This is real. When you guys meet her, you’ll know.”
“Fine.” Dad put down his glass. “Let’s talk about the UVX pipeline before your mother finds out we’re working.”
7
ELLA
The Big Blank was still a huge white rectangle.
I ate noodles from the Vietnamese place around the corner and stared at it, willing a message worth the four hundred dollars in materials onto the primer.
With Geode House done and the next project still unknown, I had time to do my own work. This was the moment to produce something important, something with my name on it. It was time to stop making silly little paintings on slabs of wood I found in the garbage.
The couch smelled like Logan.
Anise, musk, and wealth.
The canvas was empty because I was. All those nights breaking into the property, gluing tiny stones, rushing toward a big day that I hadn’t been prepared to be such a success—it all left a hole in me. I’d thought it would feel great, but it was awful. The work wasn’t mine anymore. I had nothing. No one and nothing. The day would come when all those hours would be forgotten and Geode House would fall into obscurity.
My small paintings were shit. Derivative. Boring. Message-free. I hadn’t found a vocabulary or a technique in the hundreds I’d produced, and I figured maybe it was the scale. Small gauge for small ideas.
Risk was inside that big canvas, and only that canvas was big enough to fill the hole the Geode House had left.
I got to the bottom of the container, with a few curlicue beige noodles and a half-Rorschach of brown sauce.
My water glass still smelled of mint and my tongue remembered his kiss.
I put down the container. My Blind Willie album was on shuffle, and I really should have fucked Logan, just for fun. We didn’t have to get married. I could have reached under his shirt. Let him put his hand under mine. Leaned back so he was on top of me. Wrapped my legs around him and pushed against his erection. I could have said yes, I’ll be your wife now, for one hour. Let’s fake it ‘til we make it, then forget it.
My phone jolted me out of the fantasy. It was Bianca. I shouldn’t have answered, but it wasn’t like dreaming about Logan was helpful.
“Hi,” I said.
“Oh, thank goodness!” she said.
“What’s wrong?”
“You have an email from Ningbo. They need a pocket placement approval for the Raquel tee tonight.”
Bianca didn’t know what to look for, so she couldn’t sign off. Of course they needed it tonight, or they’d miss their delivery calendar.
And of course I’d approve it. Otherwise, it would take another day to fix it and tick tock.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Good. See you tomorrow!”
I hung up and opened my laptop. I found the email and the photo of the T-shirt with the butterfly on the pocket.
APPROVED.
There were seventy-five more emails.
I’d told Logan I was scared to lose what I had.
But what did I have? This shit? This garbage wasn’t what Daddy had meant when he wanted me to honor the name.
I closed the laptop.
Where was the risk? In marrying Logan? Or not trying to get the company back?
Logan and I had spoken when we agreed to meet. Was he calling from his office? Home? Cell? I pulled out my phone and found the number. All I had to do was call it.
And get married to Mr. Traditional.
“Fake married,” I reminded myself.
My real husband wouldn’t try to own my identity. He wouldn’t want his slippers out and my legs spread. He’d be a partner in everything, just as my parents had been to each other.
I wouldn’t mind if he looked like Logan, talked dirty like Logan, and kissed me with the same intensity. All that. Without the backward ideas.
My finger hovered over the call button when the screen flashed and the device exploded into vibrations.
Logan Crowne was calling just as I was about to call him.
Accept or reject?
I answered it and put the phone to my ear.
“Ella,” he said.
I bit my lip, unable to confirm or deny because I was busy adding another real-husband trait to my list. The voice. My real husband had to have a voice as deep and resonant as Logan’s, with the same confidence, even when asking a question.
“Ella? Are you there?”
“Yes, Logan. I’m here.”
I stood in front of a copy paper-sized painting I’d done two years ago. My parents’ wedding photo, but as I imagined it from behind, with the photographer in the background. One of the rear vents in my father’s tux jacket opened to accommodate a pair of scissors in his back pocket, and the back of my mother’s vest was embroidered with bookkeeping notations. It was terribly on-the-nose, but the way I’d painted his hand on her back, with the thumb just resting on her skin, seemed so real and intimate—such an encapsulation of who they were together—that I’d spent a year trying to recapture that square inch of canvas.
“And yes,” I added. “Yes.”
“Yes?”
“We can get married if you still wa
nt to.”
“You need to give up that thing,” he said. “The gorilla thing.”
“The Guerilla Arts Collective?”
“Past is past, but I can’t have you getting arrested or caught trespassing while we’re together. It would look bad.”
I’d used the GAC as a way to get him to change his mind, but now he was turning it on me. The one thing I enjoyed was the one thing he was asking me to stop doing.
But what was there to do anyway? We were all exhausted from Geode House, which had been years in the making. We didn’t even have a concrete plan for a second piece.
“Fine,” I said, pacing the length of the room. “But I need you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“You can’t kiss me like that again.”
“Like what?”
He knew exactly what I was talking about. He just wanted me to tell him what a good kisser he was.
“What’s our timeline?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Tomorrow. Lunch.”
“You’re nuts.”
“I have a feeling, Ella Papillion, that you’re a little nuts too.”
Having thought of myself as a little immature, but very sane, I almost objected.
Maybe he was right, and maybe that freed me a little to do something crazy.
“Lunch,” I said. “I’ll be in the office.”
He shot out one laugh of recognition for a woman who went into a job she hated on a Saturday. “I’ll see you there, Mrs. Crowne.”
He hung up before I could take the name change off the table.
8
ELLA
Somewhere in the world, people got the weekends off, but with the Crowne Jewels driving the city into a fashion frenzy, everyone showed up to the Papillion offices. Michelle, the receptionist, was juggling a phone ringing off the hook when she held her hand out for me.
“Bianca,” she mouthed while pointing at me. “Office.”
I waved and bounced up the stairs because… sure, I had time for a meeting before I got married.
* * *
In her top floor office, Bianca stood behind her desk, waiting with her fingers splayed over the glass. The closet containing my father’s most beautiful and valuable gowns was half-open, taunting me. I didn’t have the code.
