by Tara Brown
Whatever was up, it created an air of tension that you could cut with a knife. Something was about to give, or straight-up break. Remembering I needed to transfer some money from my former trust account that was finally in my control to my Canadian friend who was investing in some marijuana company in British Columbia and getting 70 percent returns, I flipped open my laptop.
Incoming.
I stared at the text from my brother as my father’s footsteps entered the room.
“Jordie!” He sounded jovial, which was weird because there was no way he was off work yet considering it was only three in the afternoon, even if it was Friday.
“Dad.” I scowled, not sure why he was saying my name with such a zest for life.
“We need to talk, son.” He closed the door, which, when I was a kid, meant I was in trouble. Now it meant he didn’t want the house staff to overhear.
“Okay.” I put down my laptop and waited for it.
“Look, I know that you don’t exactly like the whole schmoozing, business-deal side of things; you’re more of a straight-shooting numbers guy.” He gave me that cheesy used-car salesman grin. It made my stomach hurt, because it always meant looking the other way or helping to do something I didn’t want to. He switched to a woe-is-me expression as he continued, “And my situation with Grandpa hasn’t always been stellar.”
Underexaggeration of the year.
“But I was hoping you might help me out the next couple of weeks. I’ve had a real dry year. Investing has been shit.”
Ironically enough, I’d been making a killing with some advice from friends; my father just wasn’t motivated enough to try. An utter lack of imagination could have had something to do with that. And possibly the stubbornness that prevented him from following Grandpa’s investing, something I always did. Between him and Frederick La Croix, my returns were always amazing.
“And I have a potential deal that could mean a lot of money and a lot of stability. Quite frankly, it could change the future of this business. You remember the Weitzman family?”
“No.”
The bottom fell out as he revealed his hand, making my stomach hurt. “Well, they have a daughter. Amy. She’s your age. Red hair.”
“Okay.” The name didn’t ring any bells, but his hand was starting to look like setting me up the same way he and my mom had been in a business merger–marriage from hell.
“No, wait, she’s younger, maybe by two years. She went to Pennbrook.” He was stalling. It had to be bad. Had he already promised me to this girl? Was I getting married this weekend?
“Okay,” I repeated, wishing he would just get on with it.
“Anyway, long story short, she’s apparently always had a thing for you. Kinda watched you from the societal shadows at varying functions, so to speak, and”—he continued rambling while my brain screamed, Nooooooooo!—“since you’re home for the summer, her dad and I thought you both might hit it off.”
“No.” I didn’t have an okay for that. I couldn’t even pretend.
“Now listen here—” He instantly changed to the man I was used to. The song-and-dance act had dropped. He stood over me, tall and trying to be intimidating, but I wasn’t eleven anymore. All I had to do was stand up and stare down on him. He was stuck at five feet eleven, and I was three inches taller now.
He bristled. “You can do this family a favor for once instead of just taking, and help your old man out. I’m not asking you to marry her. Go out, get a meal, see a show, hit a nightclub. Do whatever it is you young people do. How hard is it to entertain a pretty girl so her dad feels comfortable enough to invest with me? Weeks, Jordie. Not the rest of your life. Don’t be selfish about this. It’s important to me,” he said, bringing out the big guns.
“Dad—”
“No. Before you start making up excuses, remember that I pay for your education. I gave you the first half of your trust early, but I still have the other half. I make sure you have this beautiful life. And meanwhile all I’m asking is one favor, one small favor, so that I can continue to provide for you and this family in the comfortable way you’re all used to. And when you think about it, I’m actually doing you a favor.” He circled back to used-car salesman. “This is a beautiful girl we’re talking about. Consider this your first test. If you can’t handle this one little responsibility, how are you going to handle working for Grandpa as a partner? And your grandpa is on board with this. Is it worth the rest of your inheritance to put your family’s best interests behind screwing around all summer?” And there it was, the biggest gun he had. Mentioning Grandpa and calling me worthless while disinheriting me from the second half of my trust. He was extra manipulative today.
“I’m not dating some girl because you want her dad to invest. Jesus!” I almost laughed at him. He was a caveman.
“It’s a billion-dollar deal, Jordan! Do you have a billion dollars lying around to make up the difference? Cause Grandpa sure wants that money.” His face flushed as he got more worked up into convincing me.
My phone vibrated, drawing my eyes down and making me fight a grin as I realized my brother, Stephen, was in the house and texting me as Dad was screaming.
Hang in there.
“A billion dollars! Think about that!” He sounded like he might have a stroke at any second, he was so amped. This was just the start. His act was amazing, and it was easier to agree than listen to him go on and on. He wouldn’t stop until I did. “This is our family business, Jordie. We have to work together, everyone pulling their own weight. Right now you’re not doing much to chip in.”
“Fine, whatever.” I gave in, like I always did. “If you can’t come up with a single other intelligent idea to convince her dad you’re the man to trust his money with, then I guess prostituting your own kid out is the only alternative.” I sighed, defeated. If Grandpa was involved, I would end up doing it anyway; the old man was much better at presentation than Dad was. He at least would have gotten me drunk, put me in bed with her, and faked a pregnancy. He’d do a lot for a billion-dollar Klondike bar.
“Attaboy!” He ignored my jab. “Stop being such a downer, kid. The girl’s a knockout, and your old man is about to show your grandpa who the boss is!”
Doubtful.
“That’s my boy.” He turned and left, uncaring about me and convinced he had already secured the deal.
I was alone with the prospect of how much my summer had just crashed and burned when Stephen came slinking into the room, poorly hiding the fact that he’d come by the house solely to watch this performance. “Okay, Dad’s lying. Grandpa totally isn’t on board, and while Amy isn’t a troll—actually, she’s kinda hot—she’s also likely a starfish. Vapid as fuck. Like, you need to bail on this. Take the disinheritance. You can’t go through with this. You won’t make the summer. What kind of man would you be if you couldn’t even decide for yourself where you put your dick?” He said it like he was laughing, like it might be a little funny, because this wasn’t happening to him.
“You’ve met her?” I groaned.
“Oh, God, yes. It was awful. Had dinner a couple of times in the last two weeks before you got back. You haven’t lived until you’ve watched her play with her phone for three hours without speaking once. I didn’t even know if she was breathing the whole time. Trust me, this is not your kind of dish. She doesn’t know who Chaucer is.”
“Fuck you,” I said with half the effort it deserved. “You don’t know who Chaucer is.”
“Awww, I love you, too, little buddy.” He sat next to me. “But for reals. No. You can’t do this. She will eat your soul. Even I wouldn’t bang her with your dick.”
“Awesome.” And that was that. I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t. I just had to decide what flavor of screwed I wanted to be.
Chapter Three
TITANIC MISTAKES
Lacey
The party was amazing.
Packed yacht.
A light show to accompany the music.
&nbs
p; Drinks flowing in every direction.
Trays of food circulating along with a massive buffet.
And a promise of fireworks later.
One of my best friends, Kami, had convinced her boyfriend, Miguel, a.k.a. DJ Spark, to DJ for us, and he was killing it. He was one of New York’s up-and-coming celebrity DJs, which I had heard had gone to his head when it came to groupie love—something that was less than acceptable if true.
Regardless of how sleazy the DJ may or may not have been, he helped throw a fantastic end-of-year party on a two-hundred-foot yacht with 150 of our closest friends and a lot of food and booze. I personally thanked God and the caterers several times for the food.
“Oh my God, did you see who’s here?” Marcia shouted at me from across the bar table we were eating at. Well, that I was eating at while she watched me in disgust.
“No, who?” I asked, before I noticed the hateful stare in her eyes. I didn’t need an answer then; I knew instantly from the look. There was only one person she hated that much.
“France.” She couldn’t even say my ex-boyfriend’s name without spewing venom, which was sad because she spoke a lot about France—not my hateful ex, but the beautiful country where I was forced to join her every year at the end of the summer for her back-to-school shopping spree. I didn’t complain that she dragged me along on her private jet and we stayed at her penthouse flat, but I did refuse all her attempts to buy me things. It was bad enough that she covered flights, accommodations, transportation, food, drinks, and all the pampering we could handle. I had to draw the line at clothes and jewels. Her version of visiting France was my version of winning an all-inclusive vacation from one of the game shows my grandma watched on TV. There was no way she would have done France my way: cheap hostels and a lot of sightseeing.
She kept glaring over my shoulder. “Why would anyone invite France”—shudder—“to the end-of-year party? He’s not even in college anymore. He dropped out last semester.” She sounded horrified.
“I don’t know.” I didn’t want to discuss it. He’d been my first boyfriend ever, what I’d mistaken for love. Unfortunately he turned out to be an asshat who couldn’t keep his pants on and his tongue out of other girls’ mouths.
“He’s with someone.” Marcia sounded disgusted.
“Lemme guess. Supermodel, brunette, legs up to my chin, and her vagina is longer than her skirt?” I offered without turning around. I was shoving half a gourmet sandwich into my mouth and didn’t need the eye contact with the current stick insect in the middle of my gorge fest.
“Yeah, almost. Redhead this time,” she sneered, before taking a sip of champagne.
“Oh, he’s changing it up a little.” I didn’t care. My legs were likely half as long as hers, and I enjoyed carbs of every kind. I didn’t need to see his flavor of the week. I’d dumped him. This girl could have him. I actually felt sorry for her. She likely had no idea what she was in for. All the wooing in the beginning really did trick you into thinking he was a sweet guy. The cheating that followed suggested otherwise. Dirtbag.
“He looks like he’s getting fat.” Marcia continued with her obligatory hate on my skeezy ex.
“Good,” I said as I stuffed my face.
She gave me the eye, the one that said, Put the miniburrito down.
But I didn’t. I kept eating. I didn’t care.
“Hello, ladies.” On the other hand, Marcia had an amazing boyfriend named Monty, who slid up next to me and started eating off my plate. He was tall, tanned, muscled, stunningly beautiful to the point it almost blinded you, and the kindest man I’d ever met. His tolerance level for Marcia’s bullshit should have been an indicator of lower intelligence, but he was smart on top of his good looks and outgoing personality. In fact, he was a bit nerdy. His adoration of his girlfriend was a mystery to us all, including Marcia. She had no idea how she’d landed a perfect man, but she had.
“Took me half an hour to find you, Marcia; I barely recognized you with all that makeup. You look like a unicorn going to a rave”—he turned to me—“and you like a princess from ancient Egypt. Was this supposed to be a theme party?”
“No. Someone thought we were going to be on a float later and demanded we do crazy makeup.” I chuckled and tried not to stare at him.
Before he’d started dating my best friend, Monty was the highlight of all my sex fantasies.
The moment they’d made it official, I cut him from the roster, but it was hard. Sometimes, midorgasm with someone, I’d see his face in my mind out of nowhere, making me hate myself just a little. It made masturbation conflicting.
“You do kinda look like you belong on a float.” He smiled, and it still made my stomach tighten, a side effect I wrestled with. Even my dad had sighed when he met Monty. And the worst part was that he was the coolest guy ever. He made all the other boyfriends and husbands and guys in general I’d ever met pale in comparison. His family was rich, but he was a hard worker and totally down to earth. He could have slacked off in everything and ridden the trust fund, but he didn’t. I respected that about him. He was as close to sainthood as a guy could get at our age and in our circle of friends.
“We look hot,” Marcia said to defend us, but I knew what we looked like.
“Lucky I knew Lacey at least would be near the food,” he gently mocked.
“I keep telling her it’s eventually going to catch up with her,” Marcia said jokingly, but fooled no one.
“Whatever, we have to enjoy it now while we can still keep the weight off by working out. My mom used to be a size two.” I laughed, kidding around. She only ever grew into a size four and still ate whatever she wanted. Great metabolisms ran in the family, literally. My parents ran marathons. For how my grandma cooked, and how much I ate, I should be at a weekly weigh-in monitoring body fat and calories.
“Your mom was a two?” Marcia asked, genuinely shocked.
“Yeah, she’s only up a size. And she’s fifty.”
“Yikes.” She shook her head. “My mom is still a two.” She wasn’t saying it to shame my mom or get into a “my mom is better than yours” argument. This was just her being factual. Again . . . sometimes I loved her to death.
“I don’t know what size my mom is, but she eats cake every day. I swear, every day. She’s the happiest person I know,” Monty said, before stuffing one of my sandwiches in his mouth. “Anyway, you having fun?” he asked me.
“Sure am. You?”
“No. I’m sacked. I really was voting for a quiet night and possibly watching a movie. But this thing over here demanded I show my face.” He winked at Marcia.
“Ugh.” Marcia gave him a fiery scowl. “We can watch movies when we’re old. Have fun.” She sauntered off, sashaying that ass. And like he knew he should or he honestly couldn’t help himself, his eyes were glued to her body.
“Monty!”
We both spun to see one of the notorious hot guys of the rich world, sort of a celebrity party boy, heading our way with his hands out wide.
I recognized him, excusing myself before I got dragged into a second or third set of introductions with Stephen Somersby. “See you later.”
He was one of the infamous Somersby brothers. I didn’t know them well, just by reputation.
Stephen and I had met a couple of times, but he always forgot we’d been introduced. He knew he knew me, but from where? It was annoying, but also the way it worked for someone like me—a nobody who associated with the “it” crowd. I was constantly overlooked as anything beyond a casual hookup, and that wasn’t really my scene. I was okay with occasional one-night stands, just not with notorious, wealthy womanizers.
Which meant Stephen and his gross brother weren’t my type. They were known as the worst snobs and the players of all players. Stephen was older than us by about five years, but still living like he was nineteen, as his presence at this party clearly indicated.
He’d recently married some amazing lady named Cynthia Whitmore. I felt a bit sorry for her. She�
��d seemed really nice the one time I’d met her. Marcia said she was some top lawyer who everyone thought was way too cool for Stephen. They all thought she’d bitten off more than she could chew marrying him, but Stephen’s defenders—people like Monty, who was a family friend of the Somersbys—swore Cynthia had whipped Stephen into shape. The drink in Stephen’s hand and the sloppy smile on his drunken face suggested that she still had her work cut out for her.
I squeezed myself into the crowd and tried to find Marcia or one of my girls.
After getting lost in the masses, I wandered along the quiet side of the boat under the stairs, pausing to take in the view of the city as the boat came around again. Sometimes, usually in the middle of a moment like this, I liked to pause and take it in. My life with Marcia could be incredibly surreal.
If I hadn’t gone to the same high school, something my grandparents had insisted on paying for, and met Marcia, who brought me into her fold instantly, I knew where my life would be. I would be one of those flickering lights in the city, working in a fast-food place at night after my day job of something equally shitty. I would be hustling to save every penny so I could afford college and life. My parents helped as much as they could, covering most of my tuition at NYU every year, but it was hard for middle-of-the-road people like us.
My connection to Marcia and her family had saved me from that. My summer job with her dad was equivalent pay to two regular summer jobs, and I knew one day I would be working for him, making both my parents’ incomes on my own. I was carving my path out of the middle of the road.
I was midthought about how awesome my future was going to be when a voice interrupted me. “What a gorgeous view.”
“Yeah, it’s stunning.” I gave a side-glance toward the guy speaking and smiled politely. I knew him from somewhere, but I didn’t bother trying to remember. I was five gins, half the buffet, and three flutes of champagne in, the lighting was bad, and all these dudes looked the same to me.
“I’m Jordie.” He stepped closer and held a hand out. From what I could see, he was handsome. Big shoulders, thick arms, and a tight body. His jeans and T-shirt fit him well. He looked like an athlete, maybe even a pro. But I could tell he wasn’t. He was rich. He had that vibe coming off him, even if he was brutally dressed down, baseball cap and all. There was no mistaking the air about him—the kind I didn’t like breathing in anymore.
