by Jess Bentley
“Good Lord, Janie,” Sahara groans. “Give it to Chester and Lacey, then. You said they’re on board for the ride, right? You trust them?”
“Lately? Yes… I guess. It’s hard not to feel like everyone has a price tag these days.”
“Do you?”
I want to spit. “Some people seem to think so… but no, I don’t.”
“Then maybe they don’t either, okay? Now,” she says, serious again, “say the words, Janie Hall.”
“Fine,” I say, caving in at last. “I’ll do it. I’ll take a day off and… go to the spa.”
“Good girl. If you were here, I’d give you a treat and pet your head.”
We laugh, and honestly… I do feel a little better.
If I had my way—I mean, if I could literally bend reality to my will—I would live my life in near-boiling water.
I’m up to my chin in salt water, after subjecting myself to a deep-tissue massage and a half-hour seaweed wrap that I can still feel aching in my muscles. After that much-needed abuse, they led me to a room all to myself with a massive bamboo tub, Japanese style, and after some argument on my part agreed to crank the heat up—if I signed a waiver, which I did.
The heat sinks into me, summoning a torrent of sweat on every inch of skin exposed to the air, and for a little while I am able to clear my mind of all my worries. The scents of lemon and lavender fill my nose, and I drift.
Like a boat crashing on a rocky shore, I drift right into thoughts of Jake Ferry. Of those strong hands when they were briefly on my hips, and of that confident grin of his in the moments just before he asked me out in the most bullshit way possible.
But if I back up… if I imagine a different question, a different outcome. If I imagine that I’m not fighting a losing battle against him and his father…
My fingers find my clit before I realize where they’re headed and I have to drag them away. For one thing, the staff here will check up on me at some point, and I’ve lost track of time. But for another, even if he isn’t here to know my thoughts I refuse to even give imaginary Jake the satisfaction of knowing how he stirs me up. Oh no. You can go fuck yourself, imaginary Jake.
I take a mental left turn, and immerse myself in planning instead. A literal brainstorm as I try to think of the buzz around this or that distillery or vineyard. Who has something coming up that would make some noise? Someone loyal, that I could keep the Ferrys cut out of? I hate that I’m thinking that way, but at least regional exclusivity is entirely above board. I don’t doubt for second that Ferry Lights is making deals like that. Though for all I know I’m going to find myself blacklisted by every distributer in the region before long.
Didn’t I hear something about a wedding recently? Who was that… I sift through memories of my daily trek through the social media universe, looking for what I’m reminded of and… yes! That’s it. Tim Waller and Jenna Stone just announced their wedding plans a few months ago, and it should be happening sometime this month. I’ve known Tim for years, and he’s been meaning to come by Red Hall. I bet if I offered to host the reception he’d take me up on it. An exclusive event like that would catapult Red Hall way above Ferry Lights; and Reginald can kiss my ass from below.
I need to take more spa days.
Chapter 11
Jake
Reginald doesn’t bother to schedule parties. When he’s in the mood, people show up out of the woodwork to attend. It’s one of the rare times when all his little playthings are in one place.
When I come home from a much-needed visit to the gym—the one across town, not the one at home; it’s as much about getting out as it is burning off stress—it seems one of these affairs has sprung up spontaneously in my absence. For all I know, it’s because of my absence.
The first sign of the event, of course, is the line of cars filling the circular driveway in front of the house, surrounding the great fountain at the center. I have to park the Benz to one side because the garage is blocked.
The second sign, this one far more troublesome, is Toia, who’s barely keeping herself together as she stalks across the foyer and up the stairs, dressed in a bathing suit. That’s not usual, but it’s not unheard of—just normally not during a party. I assume this means Reginald is feeling particularly sadistic tonight.
A quick visit to the party deck, where the pool is, informs me of the problem. It seems there’s a fashion show in progress. Walking across the glass bridge over the pool as though walking on water, there’s a slender Asian girl parading from one end to the other in one of Toia’s evening gowns. Looking around, it’s easy to see that she isn’t the only one. My father is lounging in a speedo, proudly displaying his erection while he cheers them on.
Poor Toia. She’s too damn dumb and helpless to grow a spine. Not like my mother was; though it took her long enough to do so. Somehow, I didn’t think Toia ever would.
It’s disgusting how he treats people. Everyone is a pawn or a plaything. A rapid alpha male, if Reginald can dominate the people around him, he will. Even his own wife. Even these playthings—all of them have the look of women who hate one another, but what are they going to do? Complain? My father keeps them stocked in pretty clothes, prescriptions from crooked doctors, and for the ones he really likes he even puts them up in nice apartments. Two of them have chauffeurs.
The Asian girl leaves the walkway and is replaced by someone who is clearly a professional fashion model—she manages a more or less genuine-looking smile. She’s probably new. I don’t recognize her, but then again it’s hard to keep track of Reginald’s women.
When I look away, I see my father staring at me. There’s a cold, meaningful fury to his eyes and I know right then that he knows what I did. The timing was too perfect for it to have been a coincidence. As far as I know, he didn’t put the hit piece out at all. There would have been no point.
At least for now, he’s not in the mood to have a discussion about it. Well, to call it a discussion… probably it would be a dressing down or maybe, finally, a disinheritance speech. I find myself hoping it will be. Except I doubt that my father would stop there.
He waves a hand, and one of the girls approaches him. He glances up at her, and then down at his tented Speedo before he looks at me again, a vicious grin on his face. Like a good little pet, she kneels beside his chair, pulls him out of his Lycra prison and starts to go down on him, his fingers tangled in her hair. Like watching a train wreck, for half a second I can’t look away. I see her eyes close tight, and I recognize the spasm of her shoulders as he forces her down and she gags.
I don’t show my disgust outwardly. Just turn, and walk away. He doesn’t have to say what he’s thinking for me to know what he means. He’s in charge; don’t forget it. No worries, Dad. I never do.
I make my way to my room, lost in thought. My father has never been one for things like spankings, or even beatings. Oh, he’s hit me a few times. But the real punishment is always more clever, more subtle, more insidious than that.
What I did was a big deal. I know that. But I also know how my father thinks. Whatever he comes up with, it will be a warning shot across the bow—a reminder that he’s in charge. It’ll hurt, but it won’t be the end.
The part that will hurt the worst, I realize, is what he comes up with to make up for the lost opportunity to hit Janie Hall where it will make a difference.
As I let the cool water wash over me in the shower, I start to doubt the wisdom of what I’ve done to help Janie. There’s every chance in the world that I’ve only made it worse.
Shit.
Chapter 12
Janie
Most of the time, the celebrities that frequent Red Hall are a boon. They show up, they bring their friends, and they attract the paparazzi. While I don’t care for them personally, they do attract the crowd that knows how to locate celebrities. Every person in this weird social food chain has money and wants to spend it in Red Hall. It’s good business, and I’m grateful for it even if I sometimes have to l
et security throw out the occasional stalker.
But once in a while, one of the bad ones shows up.
You know the ones—they’re recent reality TV stars or known divas who live to make a scene wherever they go. One of them, Martin Twill, who did two seasons of some TV show I didn’t see, has managed to consistently stay in the public eye by mouthing off, getting wasted in public, and pulling every trick he can think of to stay in the public consciousness.
In his defense, it’s worked. In the last year or so he’s managed to finagle everything from a successful YouTube channel to spots on major panels for the hot networks. Whatever, go him.
Just two days after Red Hall reopens, I see him stumble into the lounge and start doing what he does—making a scene. Cameras come out, and it’s like throwing gasoline on a burning building. Things get rough, and ultimately I have to sic security on him and personally escort him to the door. I’m polite about it, professional. I tell him he’s welcome to come back sober, but this is not the environment that appreciates an outburst. Buh-bye.
According to all present, I handled the situation just fine.
“So why,” I ask Gloria, that little spider, when I see Red Hall mentioned in the paper, “is there a headline in the fucking local news suggesting that I may be on my fucking period?”
“I… I don’t know,” Gloria says, blinking her bright blue eyes at me in confusion.
“It may be,” I tell her, taking a step forward as I point to the quote she’s credited for—first and last name, mind you—with barely contained fury, “because you told them I was having a really rough pre-menstrual cycle and that I sometimes get a little over-emotional when I’m PMSing, Gloria!”
“Like right now?”
The gall of this woman. If I strangle her, it’s entirely possible no one will miss her. Except George’s work mate, Gloria’s dad, and his wife who is my mother’s closest thing to a best friend, which is the only reason I keep her around. And why? To hang onto some broken semblance of peace in a family that doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
“No, Gloria,” I say, calmly, “I am not currently on my cycle, which would be none of your business anyway. Right now, my anger is a one hundred percent all-organic direct reaction to you shooting your mouth off with a third-rate, scandal-chasing asshole when you know—you know, Gloria—exactly what the fuck I’m dealing with right now. Why? Why would you do this to me?”
“I didn’t do anything to you,” Gloria insists. “I just thought it would help people understand why you went off on Martin like that. He was just having fun—”
“No, Gloria, he wasn’t just having fun,” I groan. She’s so fucking dumb, how does she even function? “You think it’s a coincidence he showed up after the most recent debacle? That he just strolled in for the first time? People like him don’t discover places like mine two months after the fact, Gloria!”
I should fire her. I know that. It would be best for everyone. But my image is fragile enough as it is right now, and if I throw her out after she gave that quote it’s just going to make what she said seem more true. Especially when she’s been with me since I opened the doors. I have not had to fire a single person so far—my entire original staff is still working. I was careful in hiring every single one of them. Gloria was the only exception and I have regretted it from day one.
No. It’ll have to be something else and it will need to be relatively public. Worst of all, it will have to wait.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Gloria says. She isn’t repentant, though; just defensive. It is absolutely the wrong tone to take with me at this very moment and I try to warn her of that with my face, which is still flushed red with anger. Like I said, though—she’s dumb as a box of hair, this one. “It’s just that right now, Red Hall kind of needs to be careful about its image, and throwing Martin Twill out was a mistake.”
She flinches when I go completely still. I measure my tone carefully. “You are not to say another word to a blogger, reporter, or a stranger on the street, in either support of or defense of Red Hall’s PR image or situation, or me, or anyone who works here. If I see another quote in any media outlet of any size, I will fire you. It is not your job. I handle the PR, or I hire the people who do. You are a hostess, Gloria. Are we perfectly, plainly, crystal clear?”
Gloria swallows loudly, and nods. But there’s defiance in her eyes. Burning just a few inches behind those pretty blues, I can see her calculating.
When I turn and leave her there in the storeroom to simmer in it, I can practically feel the point of the knife that I know she is going to stick in my back when she gets the chance.
But that fact is, she can do that whether she works here or not at this point. All I can do is keep her close enough, for now, to keep an eye on her.
And maybe find out if her parents really would miss her.
It’s one o’clock in the morning, and I’m finally back home after spending an extra hour after close scheduling out the next week’s worth of social media posts and preparing the special menus for printing. Tim is going to hold the reception at Red Hall, and at last, things are looking up.
All I want right now is to crawl into bed. I don’t even bother to undress; just slink down into the warm embrace of my plush mattress and let myself take the slide down into sleep.
And then my phone rings. Should have put it on silent.
But it could be related to work. Lacey is restless, and planned to stay up late experimenting with some ideas we’ve had for the reception. She does that from time to time. I trust her entirely.
I’d better answer it, though. Except… it’s not my chef. It’s George, who never calls me for anything. Do I dare answer?
“Hello?”
“Janie,” George says, “you better come. It’s Gina. She’s been admitted to the hospital, and they say it’s bad.”
“Why?” I sit up, and I’m already putting my feet back into my heels. No, better wear flats. Shit, I’m still in my dress from work. “What happened?”
“What do you think happened?”
He doesn’t want my answer to that. “Did they admit her for a panic attack?”
“For observation, yes… and they want to keep an eye on her heart.”
My heart begins to pound. Jesus… in the past three years I’ve barely spent any real, quality time with my mother. It’s strange that this is what comes to mind. Right away, I’m wondering how long she’s got. She active enough, but Mama’s health has never been ideal, not for fifteen years. Not since Dad left and, really, even before then.
“Text me the room number,” I tell George, and then hang up. A moment later, the text comes through and I’ve changed into something more casual, though my hair is still up. Whatever.
The doctor tells me more or less the same story. Mama had a panic attack, and thought that she was having some kind of cardiac event. When she came into the emergency room they told her she wasn’t—but she did have a murmur that got worse when she was in the midst of one of her attacks. Her blood pressure was too high, and there was a concern that she might have a stroke if her distress didn’t cause a heart attack first.
So, they want to keep her for a week for observation of her heart and blood pressure, but also for a psych eval. Why?
Because George admitted that she’d talked about killing herself before.
“They asked me, I told them,” George says. “And you know your Ma. She wants to stay.”
Mama’s asleep at the moment. I checked on her, and then met George to tell him to call me if anything changes. George, though, has another concern. The one that he actually called me for.
“Look, I wanna take care of your Ma, Janie,” he says, using that good-guy voice I’ve only heard when he wants something, “but we can’t afford this. We don’t have this kind of money.”
“Okay,” I say. After all, this isn’t about him, or me—it’s about Mama. I look at Chris and Derek, who’ve come to help out as well. “So, what are you guy
s pitching in? Are we just gonna split it, or what?”
My brothers share a look, and then drop their eyes.
“We both pitched in a grand,” Derek mutters.
A grand. Each. I look at George. “Which leaves…?”
“About five grand,” George says—apologetically! As if he’s really sorry about this when I know damn good and well that George Acropolis is never sorry about anything.
“She really needs them to keep an eye on her right now,” Chris says. “And you’re better off than any of us. Red Hall’s back open, right? You’ll make that kind of money back in a night.”
I’d very much like to know where he got information like that. He isn’t wrong, but it’s beside the point. These two are constantly going on about all the money they spend on cars and vacations and Armani suits that they have custom tailored. And a thousand bucks is the best they can come up with to “split” an eight-thousand-dollar price tag on their own mother’s hospital stay?
I stare at the door to Mama’s eight-thousand-dollar room. If she does need to be here—if the doctor is right that she’s in some kind of danger—then I’ll never forgive myself for letting her down.
For once, no one is berating me about my involvement. Go figure. Like they think they need to con me out of my money. It wouldn’t make a difference, and I’m not making the decision because they’re being friendly. I’m making it because Mama needs me and I’m the only one she can apparently rely on.
“I’ll handle it,” I say, and feel anger simmer just behind the thin veneer I’m able to maintain when they all smile at me. Derek and Chris take turns patting me on the back, and George even comes in for a hug. I endure it, for the sake of peace in a hospital, but don’t hug him back.
“I’ll ah, call you when the bill comes in,” George says.
Yeah, I bet he will.
“This’ll mean a lot to Mom, Janie,” Derek says confidently, as if I need him to reassure me why I’m doing it.
