by Frankie Love
Earlier, my ego wasn’t bruised, but right now it feels quite sore. I get up from the bed and take a long cold shower, my mind filled with Claire’s tits and her soft ass and those soulful green eyes.
And I choose to move on. I must. I have plenty of things to contemplate.
Well, that’s a slight exaggeration. I don’t have anything else pressing for my attention, per se. Tomorrow there’s a blackjack tourney. I’ll work out at the gym McQueen’s convinced us all to join. Perhaps I’ll look on the Internet for possibilities for the business park. And I’m sure to ask a woman to dinner. Perhaps take her to a show. I’d say take her back here for a good old-fashioned fuck ... but, for the first time in my life, that doesn’t have any sort of appeal.
Which is concerning.
As I wrap a towel around my waist, turn on ESPN, and flip through the menu for late night room service, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something. Missing some piece of the puzzle. Missing the point, of all of this. Life. Ambition. Goals.
The other thing I can’t seem to shake is that in those minutes when Claire straddled me, when she looked into my eyes with devotion, seeming to offer me everything she had to give in that moment, I felt whole.
CLAIRE
I get an Uber and arrive home within thirty minutes. Properly disheveled, but not at all properly screwed.
And I’m disappointed in myself for giving in to Landon. I never give in to men at the casino. But at Emmy’s wedding ... for a moment, Landon seemed different.
Which is dumb. Landon is like nearly everyone else, living in Vegas for money and sex and booze. But not me. I’m in Vegas for my daughter, to try and build a life for my little family.
I turn the key in Mom’s condo door and slip inside. I hear Sophia’s small cry right away, and I feel like shit for staying out so late.
“Sweetpea?” I call to Sophia, walking into the room she and I share at the back of the two-bedroom apartment. “Hey, love,” I say, looking down at my little girl.
Mom gives me a sympathetic shrug.
“Sorry, I know you were having fun,” Moms says, standing from where she was sitting on the edge of the bed Sophia and I share. “But Sophia just wants you. I gave her some more Tylenol, and a cool bath, I think right now the best cure is her mama.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, pulling Sophia into my arms.
“I missed you, Mama,” she says, her little arms tight around my neck, her legs wrapped around my waist. In an instant, she is home.
“I’m here. And Gram took good care of you, didn’t she?”
“Course she did.” I feel Sophia’s smile against my neck as she nuzzles closer.
“Thanks for everything
Mom shuts off the light to my room and I kick off my heels, pulling the duvet over Sophia and me. We sink into our bed with me still in my pink chiffon bridesmaid dress. Ace and Emmy’s wedding, their life at the Spades Royalle, and my time in Landon’s suite all seem like a dream. It always seems like that when I go down to the strip to work—all bright lights and glamour and glitz.
I don’t want or need a South Pacific honeymoon and the fourteen-jillion-carat engagement ring on Emmy’s finger. I don’t need a diamond tycoon’s son or a Grammy-nominated lover. I just want something more.
And that makes me feel like a terrible mother and a terrible daughter. I like my life on the strip. And I like my life in this apartment. I just don’t know how to bring them together.
I wonder if my life will always be here and there. Disjointed. Disconnected. Detached.
I wonder if my life will ever feel whole.
Cradled in my arms, Sophia is able to drift into sleep, her fever already fading with the healing power of being in the arms of someone who makes everything feel safe.
I close my eyes, wishing someone held me who could make me feel that way, too.
And, strangely, feeling like I had been held that way, for a sliver of a moment, when Landon hovered on top of me, looking in my eyes, seeing me in a way I didn’t understand.
4
LANDON
It’s been a solid two weeks since Ace’s wedding, and I haven’t seen Claire once. Not that I ever see her on the casino floor—her shifts are usually daytime, and I’m usually still sleeping at that hour.
Which is probably for the best. An awkward post-almost-rendezvous run-in isn’t something I necessarily want to have. I know once Ace and Emmy get back in town it will be inevitable, but what can I say? Avoiding confrontation is a fucking cornerstone of my goddamned existence.
I’ve just pulled up to the gym when the phone rings. My father.
Bloody fantastic.
“Hello?” I say into the now-parked car, Bluetooth activated.
“Landon, my boy, you sound exasperated. Surely you’re pleased to hear from your father.”
“Is everything alright?” I ask, not really interested in the never-ending small-talk-chatter my parents expertly engage in. Some English families are thrifty and sparse with conversation. My parents are not.
I don’t hold much against them, but their never-ending desire for me to join my brother Geoffrey as a productive member of English society, join in the cricket league in Hertfordshire, and stroll around in wellies with a bloody retriever fetching a ball before we break for a bit and shoot for sport makes me a bit ill. My father’s dream for me is a bit much.
Especially when I spend my nights in clubs until four a.m., sleep till mid-afternoon, and don’t even need to hire the strippers who dance for me ... let’s just say our life visions thus far haven’t quite intersected.
Geoffrey and Fiona should be enough for my parents, but they aren’t. Mum and Dad insist, constantly, on calling and asking me to join them in a wet weekend at home with them in England, sipping the nostalgic tea of my childhood.
“Well, listen, son—Geoffrey and I—”
“Dad, did you you really ring to tell me about your golden boy?”
“No, Landon, I called to invite you to an important family summit this weekend.”
“A summit?” I have no idea what he is talking about. “So we’ve graduated from annual family meetings, to full-on summits, have we? Is this a ploy to get me to join the family business?”
“Basically, yes.”
I don’t answer because I have no fucking clue what I’m supposed to say.
“Landon, you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Listen, I need you here next week. I am retiring. And I need to pass the family business on to one of my boys.”
My chest tightens. Retirement? I’d always assumed it was in the far-away future for my father, although my mum has been prodding him to take a step back from he empire for years. But retire now? Passing on the business? This I did not expect.
“You’re passing it on to Geoffrey?”
“Don’t assume anything, Landon. I haven’t made up my mind. You and Geoffrey have equal holdings in the company now, but I need one man’s name on the paper. The president and CEO. Need one of my sons in charge; I’m not interested in passing on The King’s Diamond to some willy-nilly chap who’s been working up the corporate ladder. No. I want one of my boys to take over what was once a small enterprise.”
“But doesn’t Geoffrey work for you now? Surely he’s the front-runner. This seems like an unnecessary step, really.”
“No,” my father says sternly. “I haven’t given anything to Geoffrey. Sure, he has experience with this business ... but I need my successor to really care about people. To care about each diamond, and whose hand will wear that wedding ring or that necklace, to know why each purchase is special, signifies love and commitment.”
This is the point where my father can drone on and on for days about diamonds representing something solid, unbreakable. Representing love. How The King’s Diamond is more than a jewelry store, how it’s an opportunity to be a part of the greatest moments of someone’s life.
He’s still talking, and I try to concentrate, mostl
y hung up on the fact that he’s considering me as his successor. Is he serious?
“You know how much I want you to succeed,” he says. “I want you to put some real heart into your life. Well, I need you to come home and show me what sort of man you are.”
I’m grateful that my father hasn’t learned what Face Time is, or he’d see my aggressive eye roll, notice the way my fingers grip the steering wheel.
Is this is motherfucking joke?
“Do you know me at all, father?” I snort.
“I do, Landon. At least, I know what sort of boy you were, before this mess. Before your stint in rehab, before you ran off with that dancer. Before you landed in Vegas for the past several years drinking and gambling away my money.”
The call goes silent. My jaw clenches as I listen to his recounting of my early twenties. I don’t need him reminding me of my past.
“But I don’t think that’s who you are anymore. Or, at least, I believe in you, son. Now, I want you to come home and show me what sort of man you are.”
I don’t want to fight with him. He isn’t that macho-aggressive sort of man, the kind who bullies and pushes to get what he wants. My father is a good man, and he seems to see something in me.
But I don’t know why.
“Look, I’ll think about, but things are busy here, I don’t know if leaving in a few days is gonna work,” I tell him. The last thing I want to do is show up in Hertfordshire and remind everyone what a fucking failure I am.
In the gym, sweat runs down my back. McQueen’s personal trainer JoJo has given me a run for my fucking money.
Throwing the boxing gloves on a bench, I grab a towel.
“You’re a beast. You know that, right?” I ask her.
“That’s what all the boys say,” she teases. Her long, red hair is wild and free, and from the body in her tight little shorts, I can tell she’s strong. Fierce. I won’t mess with a woman like her.
McQueen though, doesn’t know what’s good for him.
“So, you wanna come to a poker game tonight?” he asks her.
“Hey,” I say, punching him in the shoulder. “What the fuck? That’s a men-only game.”
“But JoJo is one of the guys,” he says, shrugging.
I see JoJo stiffen at the assessment, and I try to read the silent language going on between them. I can’t tell who wants whom.
“JoJo is most certainly not one of the guys.” And she’s not. Her little tits are perky and her ass is tight.
“Fine.” McQueen smiles coyly. “We’ll hit it a different night, JoJo. Maybe you can come over and teach me some new moves.”
“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” she says, laughing, waving us off toward the locker rooms.
“What the hell was that?” I ask him, as I open the locker where my things are stashed.
“The hell was what?”
“Do you have a thing for JoJo?” I ask. “She’s not your type, at all.”
“What the fuck do you know about my type?”
“I know you usually go out with women you meet at your shows. Not girls like JoJo.”
McQueen is a male dancer and DDs aren’t even on his radar. He likes big, plastic, and usually more than one at a time.
“I’m just teasing JoJo, and she knows it.”
“Alright.” I shrug.
We split up to get showered. After I change quickly, I sling my bag over my shoulder. McQueen comes over, ready to go, and tosses me a bottle of water.
“You hear from Ace today?” I ask. “The game still on for tonight?
“Yeah, he and Emmy got home last night from Tahiti. Lucky bastard.”
We leave the gym, and head to our cars in the parking lot.
“What, you want to go to Tahiti? You should fucking go,” I tell him. Living in the moment is my motto.
“Naw, he’s lucky he has Emmy. I don’t know. Maybe I’m done being a fucking asshole in this town. Maybe it’s time to find myself a woman.”
“Like JoJo?” I ask, grinning.
“No. Not JoJo ... she’s too....”
“Confident?”
“Maybe,” McQueen admits, laughing. “I don’t know. What about you? You wanna go to Tahiti with a woman?”
“Actually, my father wants me to go to bloody England next week.”
“Really, bro?”
I fill him in on my father’s phone call, and I can see the wheels turning in McQueen’s dumbass brain.
“So what are you gonna do? Pretend you’re no longer a player? Fly home and convince them you deserve the billion dollar empire?”
“I don’t think I can pull that off. I mean, what? I buy a three-piece suit and drop the f-bombs? I don’t want to go home; it will only remind me of why I left.”
We get in our cars. We’ll meet up later for Ace’s monthly poker game.
Fuck. I gotta get my head in the game. It’s just I’m not entirely sure what game that is.
CLAIRE
Getting dinner and drinks with Emmy and Tess is the sort of indulgence I rarely give myself. I want to go ... but Mom-guilt is a bitch.
“You sure, Mom?” I just put Sophia to bed. It’s a school night and seven o’clock means that girl is out for the count. Still, I feel bad leaving her here with my mom for something that isn’t necessary.
“Claire, go,” Mom says. “Sophia is sleeping, and you’re all tense, have been for weeks. I’m just going to have some boxed wine and watch Bravo. Not missing much here.” Mom opens the fridge and pours herself a glass of Pinot Grigio from the second shelf.
“It won’t be late or expensive. Emmy says she has comp tickets for us at the hotel’s new restaurant, Moxie, and then we’ll have drinks in her penthouse after. She has wedding pictures to show us.”
“Great,” Mom says. “And you look nice. Except, maybe....”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe change your top. It’s a little ... frumpy. And the shoes, too.”
“Mom? Seriously?” I shake my head. I know my wardrobe isn’t up to par with the women she watches on Real Housewives, but it isn’t frumpy. I have on black boots, a black stretchy dress, and a jean jacket on top. Jean jackets are my lifesaver. They go with everything and they sell them at Target.
“I just think denim is a little casual, is all.”
I smile tightly. Mom is so clueless about well, everything. She has no grasp on the reality of me working paycheck to paycheck. How I can’t shop for Roberto Cavalli stilettos and designer dresses for dinner out with my girlfriends.
She’s amazing with Sophia. Beyond amazing. Mom being able to take care of her so I can work means so much. I just wish ... well, I wish an awful lot.
But specific wishes in regard to my mom? I guess when my dad died, ten years ago, Mom never considered looking for a job herself. She’s lived off his life insurance all this time, but now it’s nearly gone. And she’s never had a legit job in her life.
When I had Sophia she let me move in. I’ve always worked, and she’s always helped with my daughter. It was never on the table for me to stay home with my little girl and Mom to look for a job ... and maybe that’s fine. That’s my lot. I made the choice to have her when I was so young, and now I have to suck it up and deal.
I’m so appreciative of Mom watching Sophia so I can go to work and do things like go out tonight. But her commenting on my wardrobe—when I’m working my ass off—stings.
I make my own choices on where my money goes. Sophia doesn’t need to go to a private school. She doesn’t need to take organic applesauce in her lunchbox. I don’t need to take her to swimming lessons at the same pool her classmates go to ... or whatever other unnecessary-but-actually-very-important thing in my I’m-doing-the-best-I-can opinion.
Sophia comes before me. And then I make sure Mom has what she needs. I get whatever is left.
Tonight, it’s a jean jacket and black boots from halfpriceshoes.com.
“Okay, well, I’m gonna go. Text if you need me. Otherwise, I’ll be
home by ten.”
Mom cocks an eyebrow my way and sits in her recliner, the remote in one hand, the white wine in the other.
“How about midnight, Cinderella,” Mom says as I set up an Uber. “Better yet, I’m giving you a hall pass. You never go out and really let yourself have a good time. Go. Play.”
I shake my head. “How do you even know what a hall pass is?”
“I’m pretty hip, Claire,” she says, turning on her show.
“We’ll see. Regardless, I’ll be home before Sophia wakes up, okay?”
I grab my purse and kiss her cheek goodbye, feeling nothing like Cinderella. That’s Emmy’s role. She was the one swept up off her feet by a Prince Charming. I don’t think there are any Kings left.
“Maybe lose the jean jacket?” Tess suggests, frowning critically. The three of us have just been seated at a private table in the back of Moxie.
“What’s wrong with this coat?” I ask, looking at Emmy for confirmation.
She grimaces. “It’s a little ... casual?”
“Casual? Ohmigosh, where did my friends go?” I ask, clicking my tongue. “A few months ago, Emmy, you were hard up for any shifts you could get your hands on, and now you’re the fashion police? How far you’ve come, girl.”
Turning to Tess, I add, “And since when do you get off judging anyone’s fashion sense?” She’s worse than Shoshanna on Girls. She has such a high topknot at the moment I’m afraid it’s gonna topple off her pretty head.
“Whatever,” Tess says, not taking offense. “It’s just, like, something a mom would wear. Not you, Claire. You’re the hot one. The one with sex appeal.”
Her words hit me hard. I’m in mom clothes, probably because I’m a mom.
I need to get some balls.
“Let’s get drinks and let me tell you about my honeymoon!” Emmy declares. A waiter seems to appear from thin air and we order. As soon as he leaves, Emmy leans in. “Oh, and I have to tell you guys something, promise not to tell?” It’s like she has gossip dripping from her mouth.
Okay, so maybe it’s not the time to reveal that I have a five-year-old tucked in at home.
