by Alexa Reign
“Oh, Grandma, stop! You're making me blush.” Rosaline giggled. Next to me, Cailie nodded her head from side to side, pulling faces at the back of her sister's head. I raised my hand over my mouth, jabbing Cailie's hip with my elbow. “It's nice to finally meet you, Trent. As you can probably tell, I've heard a lot about you.”
“Likewise.” Trent rolled up the sleeves of his gray sweater and shook her hand.
Behind us, the front doors opened once more. More relatives I've never met trickled in to the foyer. With a smile glued to my face, I shook the hands of the new guests. Holy crap, this was getting exhausting.
“Sonia and Danielle will check your coats,” Grandma announced, flourishing a hand. “Now, if you'll join me in the dining hall, the help has prepared a sumptuous banquet...”
While the guests followed Grandma into the dining room, Cailie walked alongside me, yanking at the back of her dress.
“Lunch hasn't even started yet, and I'm already dying in this dress. This cannot be the dress I die in – I refuse.”
“Don't worry – if that happens, I promise to drag your corpse up to your room and change you into something else that's a little more you.” I hung an arm over her shoulder. “Chin up, kiddo. We'll get through this together.”
“Thanks, Victoria. I always knew I could count on you.”
XXX
Just as I'd expected, I was bored out of my skull. On the plus side, Grandma totally delivered – the banquet was as sumptuous as she had promised. My food baby was bulging out of my chiffon blouse and the waistband of my tights, well over its capacity with filet mignon and about half a dozen desserts. I plucked another caramel-covered pastry ball from the 4-foot tower centerpiece and crunched into it, looking around me.
Grandpa sat at the head of the table, dressed in his usual tweed suit and Mafia-Don fedora. His special chair was double the width of any of ours, reinforced to cater to his 350-lb build. He talked golf with Chester, the pair cloaked in cigar smoke.
Grandma, along with the rest of my female relatives, sat to Grandpa's right. They chatted among themselves, retelling tales of their adventures around the European continent. Each insisted on pronouncing the names of the foreign cities with chichi accents.
Next to me, Cailie's eyes were fixed on the tablet on her lap, reading. She took turns swiping to the next page and lifting spoonfuls of triple-layer mousse to her mouth. Not wanting to disturb her, I leaned forward, tuning in to the conversation playing out across from me instead.
“– so, anyway, I was telling this girl, Jenny – at least, I think that's what her name was – she's a friend of a friend. I was already being really understanding about her showing up to Rage One uninvited, but I finally had to take her aside and tell her to stop going on and on about her dead grandmother. She was all mopey and raining on everyone's parade, and it was Bianca's 30th. Bianca was already in a bad enough mood, you know what I mean? Besides, from what I've heard, Jenny's known her grandmother had cancer for months!”
I played with the ruffles of the table skirt, my cheek poking at the insides of my cheek. This was painful to listen to. The visible vein on Trent's neck made it clear that he was appalled, but the meek guy that he was, he kept his eyes on his plate and sliced into his poached pear.
“I see. That's...unfortunate.”
“Not to worry, I'm way ahead of you –”
“Excuse me.” One of the waitstaff, a young, freckly guy in his 20s, appeared behind Rosaline. He carried a fluffy 8-inch cheesecake, delicately topped with a marble swirl, sugar roses, and crushed toffee bits. I was drooling from my seat. “Ms. DiCarlo, I hope you don't mind – I overheard you discussing your love for toffee the other day, and I took it upon myself to make this for you –”
“Ugh.” Rosaline scrunched up her nose and leaned away from him. “Talk about toffee overkill – how many calories are in that thing? You know what – don't answer that. Just get that thing away from me. Thank you.”
“Ah, I – my mistake.”
The waiter whirled around gawkily, the cake almost slipping from his tray. His freckles disappeared in his pink cheeks, and he was wearing the disheartened look of a kitten that had been kicked aside. Cailie looked up from her tablet.
“Hey, Brian! I don't give a shit about the calories. I'd love to try some of that cheesecake. It looks so good.”
“Me too,” I agreed.
“I wouldn't mind a slice of that, either.” Trent raised his hand.
“Of course.” Brian turned back around swiftly, his face perking up with a smile. He set the cake down in front of us.
“Language, Cailie,” Rosaline snapped. Outnumbered, she pouted. Her tiara even seemed to wilt. “Anyway, as I was saying – since Jenny pretty much ruined Bianca's party, I'm planning this 2-week getaway with my girls to Dubai...”
As Rosaline got into the details of the party, my attention wandered.
“Brian just started – he's only been here about a month,” Cailie whispered, fixing herself a slice of cheesecake. “But he's totally head-over-heels in love with Rosaline. She knows full well, too. I wish she'd get over herself and be nicer to him.”
“I figured,” I whispered back, shaking my head sympathetically. I tuned back in to the conversation across from me.
“2 weeks? You're allowed that much time off work?” Trent's eyebrows shot up. “What is it that you do, exactly?”
“I'm a professional actress and model. And I've been told I can sing, too.” Rosaline tossed her hair over her shoulder, reaching for her white wine.
“Really? That's interesting.” Trent turned towards her, showing his first sign of interest of the day. “One of my exes was a Broadway star. She just won her first Tony. What project are you currently working on?”
“Oh, I'm – I'm actually on hiatus right now,” said Rosaline. As she bowed her head, she looked over at Grandma with a silent plea for help.
“How are you 2 lovebirds getting along down there?” Grandma exclaimed from across the table. “I certainly hope you'll be taking my Rosaline out soon.”
3 seats away from Grandma, Trent's mother shot her son a withering look.
“Very well, I have an extra ticket for a cruise to the Mediterranean next weekend, if you want to join me,” Trent drawled. He would've shown more enthusiasm if he'd just yawned.
Rosaline was immobilized by Trent's offer. She crossed her arms, her face sagging. Cailie tapped my leg under the table. We exchanged troubled looks.
“I – no, I can't be around water –”
Rosaline paused, her eyes zipping back and forth as she thought of something to say. The tension was agonizing. You could've heard a mouse scurrying across the carpet.
“The – the sea breeze makes my hair all frizzy.”
Trent steepled his fingers over his mouth, giving up.
“Anyone catch that Vikings-Packers game last night?” I blurted.
“I did,” another relative joined in. “That was a Hail Mary if ever I've seen one. Had me on the edge of my seat up until Morales got that ball over the end zone.”
“I hear ya.” Trent started to lighten up a bit. “I was at that game, I got to see all that action up close. Packers fans on the other side of the stadium lost it. Victoria, I didn't know you were into football. What's your team?”
“You kidding? Jets all the way, baby.”
“Right answer.” Trent grinned. “What do you do, Victoria?”
“I –”
“She's a sports writer and reporter for ASBC,” Cailie stated matter-of-factly, beaming at me.
“Technically just a writer, for now,” I added quickly. “Used to write for the satirical column in Star Weekly. I haven't been at the station long, so I'm probably not getting any airtime anytime soon.”
“Star Weekly?” Trent's thin, dark eyes focused on mine. “Wait, Victoria Vaughan, as in V. Vaughan? I had no idea it was written by a woman. It was the only tolerable column in the whole paper, no offense. There was a drastic drop in quality when you le
ft.”
“At your service. And thank you – I'm very flattered.”
“Hold on – isn't Ace Warner a sportscaster now for ASBC? You know him? I'm a huge fan – always have been, even during the dark years.”
“Sure, we work together. I'll pass on the –”
“Ace Warner lives in our building, too!” Rosaline jumped in.
“That's nice,” Trent brushed her off. “So, what's it like working with Warner?”
“Oh, um. Fine, I guess? I don't –”
“I've always thought Victoria would be much more suited to do something a little more ladylike,” said Grandma flatly. “Reporting on sports is just so uncouth. How silly of you not to show up to that interview I arranged for you at Fox News.”
“Yes, Fox is the only reputable news station in the country, if you ask me. Or perhaps something along the lines of red-carpet reporting would be more up your alley, Victoria, don't you think?” a relative in a velvet beret horned in.
“Mm-hmm.” I nodded facetiously as Cailie rolled her eyes next to me. “Maybe.”
“Shame,” said Trent softly, just loud enough for all 4 of us at the end of the table to hear. “Here's to hoping you get airtime soon. You're much too pretty to be behind the scenes.”
Uh-oh. I reached for my wine, pretending not to hear him. Across the table, Rosaline blinked, the raised pinkie around her champagne glass quivering.
“Trent's right, you know. You're much too pretty to be behind the scenes,” Rosaline repeated with a stiff smile. Only this time, she said it loud enough for everyone around the table to hear. “Victoria and I are having so much fun being roomies – she's such a joy to be around. And she's such a hard worker, too. I don't know how she gets up for work on time with all those men milling in and out of our apartment –”
Wow. That was a low blow. I drew in a sharp breath, my brows furrowing.
“Victoria!” Grandma gasped, slapping a hand over her chest. “Is that true?”
“Oh, I'm so sorry. Have I said too much?”
I stared at Rosaline. She had this sweet smile on her face, her rose-pink lip gloss and tiara twinkling. But her eyes were staring right back at me, challenging me.
“Forgive me, Rosaline. I had no idea I was being so inconsiderate – and after all that hospitality you've shown me, too. I mean, you don't usually come out of your room until noon, so I had no idea we were bothering you. But I'll be sure to keep it down from here on out.”
“Let the girl be,” Grandpa groused, sucking noisily on his cigar. “At least she has a job – a decent-paying one at that.”
“Yes, be grateful, Mariette,” said Chester wisely, coming to my defense. “It's so rare to find a youngster these days that knows the value of a dollar. Victoria's got a good head on her shoulders. If you ask me, there's far too many of those teen girls on the loose nowadays who can't keep their legs closed – ow, will you quit pinching me, Wilhelmina!”
“You know, I don't think I'm feeling too well,” Rosaline declared sourly as she stood from her seat. She looked humiliated. “If you'll excuse me.”
As Rosaline marched towards the door, I felt a little bad for her. At the same time, I knew this 30-year-old woman needed to learn how to control herself and not get touchy when, God forbid, she had to share the spotlight.
Less than 5 seconds later, however, whatever pity I felt for Rosaline turned to disgust.
I observed in silent horror as sweet Brian approached her from the side, hoping to console her.
“Why are you talking to me? Just leave me alone!”
Trent had seen the exchange, too, sharing the disgust. He watched over his shoulder as Brian stuttered an apology before skulking off defeatedly. I wondered how long it would take Rosaline to see the shovel in her hand. This girl was digging her own grave, and she had no one to blame but herself.
Chapter Five: Ace
“Agh, agh, ah shit.”
The stream of jizz got away from me, hitting the screen at point-blank rage. I grabbed some tissue from the box on the floor. And as I wiped my cum off the screen with my dick in my hand, cold shame took over me. I flicked the used tissue aside, which landed on the small hill piling up next to the bed.
My throbbing dick started to go limp. I smashed the space bar and paused the video. The screen froze to a shot of the dark-haired chick in the middle glazed with the cum of all 4 men around her. Cringing, I slammed my laptop shut and rolled out of bed.
I wasn't proud of it, but rubbing one out was the easiest way to get myself out of my head. Even if it was just temporary. Apart from booze, it was the only thing that put me to sleep most nights.
My gut growled. Hearing my cue, I headed for the shower. All the greasy Chinese takeout I'd been having every meal had me pissing out of my ass. Guess it was probably time to get out of the house.
Halfway into the bathroom, I did a double-take at the walk-in closet. The door was unlocked, opened just a crack. I flared up on the spot. That was the one place I'd explicitly told Mrs. Weatherly to stay out of.
I barged into the closet, my heart pounding in my ears.
“Fuck!”
I closed the door behind me. A box of Brooklyn's things had been knocked onto the ground from the top shelf. I bent over and thrust everything back into the box. As I put away Brooklyn's old memories, I could feel my hands wobbling.
An American Girl doll with a blonde ponytail and a puffy blue dress. A sewing kit crammed with buttons, missing 2 needles. A couple of leather-bound notebooks with heart-shaped locks on them. Some kind of friendship bracelet with butterflies, flowers, and charms that read “T & B BFF 4EVA.” Old movie ticket stubs. A flattened box of cigarettes with faded printing that looked over a decade old...
I slid the box back onto the shelf where it belonged and sat down on the floor, looking around me. It was like being in a Brooklyn time capsule. Her walls of shoes, handbags, and clothes were exactly as she'd left them.
Hanging on the wall next to the vanity was her wedding dress. I crawled over to the wall and reached for the dress. I pressed my face up against the ends of her dress and closed my eyes. The material felt so cool and silky against my face. I could still smell a hint of the apple and coconut of her perfume.
But when I started to feel that choking itch coming up my throat, I pushed myself off the floor and let myself out of the closet, bolting it shut.
XXX
“Hey, Mr. Larson, anything come in for me?”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Warner.” The doorman frowned. “No, nothing yet.”
“Alright, thanks.” I started towards the door. “I'm gonna grab myself a sandwich from that coffee shop down the street. You want me to bring you back anything?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Warner. My wife made me lunch. You have a good day, now.”
“You too.”
I crossed the street and entered the coffee shop. The bright lights swamped my vision. Around me, the hissing of the steaming milk and the chatter seemed louder than usual, the sounds drilling into my skull.
Tugging down on the brim of my cap, I fell in line. I took out my phone and pulled up one of Tabitha's online profiles. I scrolled through status updates and selfie after selfie, going back 3-and-a-half weeks. And when I saw her pictures in full costume and makeup, complete with a check-in at the Broadway theater in Saskatoon, I felt the tides of guilt, relief, and disappointment in one go.
The channels in my head were scrambled. The fact that Tabitha's name even came to my mind made me feel terrible, but I was going on whatever I had. The letter had no stamps, meaning whoever was behind it had delivered it by hand. I'd spent the better half of last night trawling through all sorts of social media pages of everyone I knew and every profile on Brooklyn's friend lists.
Everyone was a suspect.
I closed Tabitha's profile with a heavy sigh. This was fucking exasperating. I knew I was grasping at straws here, but what else was I supposed to do?
As I slipped my phone into my po
cket and stepped forward in the moving line, I was caught off guard by the side-profile of the man in front of me. The man was real skinny, his pointed shoulders visible in his smart gray suit. His ratty white beard was running up the sides of his skeletal face, which was now dotted with age spots, and there were bald patches on the back of his wispy comb-over. I wouldn't have looked twice at him, but his large, hook nose and his platinum “MD” cufflinks gave him away.
“Mr. Dubois?”
Dubois put his phone away, looking back at me.
“Ace?” The owner of the New York Jets gave me a small, tired smile, the deep grooves around his mouth receding. “How are you, my boy? You look good.”
“Thanks. Same to you. What are you doing here? I haven't seen you since...”
Brooklyn's funeral.
“I'm here visiting family,” said Dubois, his eyes dropping to his feet.
I nodded, understanding. With no traffic, the Lincoln Correctional Facility was just 15 minutes away from here. It was where Xavier, his son – and incidentally, Brooklyn's ex-boyfriend – was serving his 4th of his 15-year sentence. Rumor has it that the dude's been having a rough time in there – turns out there were more Whitaker fans than Xavier had anticipated.
“I see. Well, uh, I hope everything's good with you. Send my best to Coach.”
“Will do, Ace.” Dubois placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. “You take care of yourself.”
He turned back to the front of the line. As he ordered his food and stepped aside to the waiting area, we said nothing more to each other. And when he got his food, I couldn't do anything but watch as the shadow of a man slipped out the door, and out of sight.
Chapter Six: Ace
“Oh, thinkin' about all our younger years,
There was only you and me,
We were young and wild and free...”
As I stepped out of Lemon Pines, I was welcomed by the strum of the guitar and a lady's soft-spoken singing voice. A busker in a yellow sundress sat in front of a lamppost, a guitar strapped over her chest. A brown-and-white mutt with droopy ears lay on the floor next to her.
