Exquisitely Hidden: A Sin City Tale

by M. Jay Granberry

  “It’ll be okay. They’re not a mob.”

  “Who’s not a mob?” Dan slings a lanky arm around each of us.

  “The group of ladies standing over—” Sin turns to face him and has to slap a hand over her mouth to hold in the laughter. Dan is wearing some, honest to God, Zoolander-type shit. It’s a gray suit, but instead of pants he’s wearing shorts—short shorts. The matching vest is buttoned over a white dress shirt, a neon pink skinny tie is tucked into the vest, and the suit coat is fitted. I think I heard a seam rip when he slung his arm around my shoulder.

  “I see you dressed for the occasion,” I quip, feeling lighter than I had a couple of minutes ago.

  “Sin-a-sticks isn’t the only one who cleans up well.” He steps in front of Sin and me, spinning on his heels and popping the collar of his jacket as he completes a tight revolution.

  “Indeed. I’m sure you’ll be beating them off in that outfit.” Sin flicks a piece of nonexistent lint from his shoulder.

  “I can pull the ladies only wearing tighty-whities, a layer of funk, and day-old scruff. This dapper ensemble is strictly for the cameras.”

  “That’s right, big guy. Keep telling yourself that,” I say, taking a couple of steps backward. “I’ll take the left.”

  “You”—I point at Dan—“take the right and Sin hit the middle. We’ll meet back in the center.”

  “One hour?” Sin fluffs her hair, smoothing the gown over her curves.

  I nod and walk off, winking at Sin over my shoulder, and swallowing a shout of laughter as Dan does a bad imitation moonwalk in the opposite direction.

  I have no intention of working the room. I don’t mingle. People read my brooding and introverted demeanor as artistic or creative. Fine with me. I make a beeline for the bar, which is mostly vacant, and settle into one of the black upholstered leather barstools.

  “What can I get for you?” the scantily clad bartender asks.

  “Vodka tonic.” I lean my elbows on the bar, trying to calculate how long I can get away with hanging out at the bar before I have to jump in the mix.

  “I’m assuming you’re a top-shelf kind of guy.” She all but purrs recognition bright in her hazel eyes.

  “Nah . . . I’m a whatever-makes-me-feel-good kind of guy.” Two pink circles bloom on her cheeks.

  “Let me make you something special.” A slow smile pulls at the corners of her mouth before she turns toward the bottles that line the back wall. Her perky ass shakes with a little extra switch.

  Not really my cup of tea, honey. “Thank you.”

  She returns a couple of minutes later and slides a cloudy green concoction toward me.

  “What this?” I eye the drink warily.

  “The house specialty and . . .”—she blinks at me, a little nervously—“my . . . um . . . my number.” She moves down the bar before I can respond, serving the next person. Her eyes periodically glance back to me every so often.

  And it’s time to go. I push from the bar, standing to fish the wallet out of my back pocket, and drop thirty on the bar just in case the drink isn’t free. I don’t want to be the asshole that stiffs the bartender for either the drink or a tip. I pick up the drink, leave the napkin with the number and, as fast as I can without losing my cool, walk away from the bar.

  I chitchat with the showroom manager and a couple of the ushers who will be working the floor.

  Look at that, I’m socializing like the fucking pro I am.

  I nod at something one of the Hotel managers say when I glance up and find Seth holding up the wall, his eyes trained on me. He drops his gaze as soon as our eyes meet, but not fast enough. Those eyes are shadowed with hurt and longing, and I want more than anything to take it all away. To wipe the slate clean so they sparkle and shine.

  I excuse myself from the conversation and pick my way across the room, keeping to the edges, and not making eye contact. What do you know, in less than a couple of minutes I’m across the room, foot propped on the wall, shoulders plastered to the wall, six inches of space between me and my . . . Seth.

  I turn my head and take in the flawless lines of his face in profile. It feels like forever since he stoically walked out the door without a backward glance.

  “Shouldn’t you be with Sin?”

  He turns his head slowly toward me like a creepy character in some cheap horror flick. Irritation thins his normally full lips into a grim line, and those luminous eyes that mere days ago broadcasted “Take me” are saying “Did you really just ask me that?”

  He turns his gaze back to the room as he takes a calming breath. “Everyone in this room is a vetted and badged employee of the Hotel. There is also hotel security at all the exits and entrances. Sin didn’t want us crowding her when there is little to no threat present.”

  I nod at his explanation; makes sense. I’m fresh out of shit to say and I don’t want him to push off this wall, like he’s doing right now in an attempt to get away from me.

  When we agreed to call it quits, I thought we’d hit the reset button and defaulted back to friendly acquaintances. That I’d still get to see him, shoot the shit, and interact like . . . well, like friends. I’d mistakenly thought I’d get to love him from afar and in the dark. I’d surround myself with memories of how good he felt and the seamless way his body fit with mine. It would be epic and dramatic, but at the end of my unrequited angst, Seth would still be in my life. As of right now he’s acting like I’m . . . nothing, giving me all kinds of back the fuck off and, dammit, I can’t do it.

  He’s already a good couple of feet from me when I say, “Seth.” It’s a wisp of sound, covered over by the multitude of other voices in the room and the melody of the jazz piano pumping through the sound system.

  “Adam,” he says dismissively, tipping his chin in a stiff nod. I stand there dumbfounded, blinking stupidly at his retreating back. I lean back against the wall, knee bent, foot resting on the wall, still in the room but totally apart from the people in it.

  Totally over it for today. How long do I have before I can safely walk out of here without causing problems? I slip the phone out of my back pocket and check the time. I have less than twenty minutes before I’m out of here and on my way to getting the best fucking burger this side of the Rockies. Thank you, Lord.

  I work my way back to the center of the room where we all agreed to meet when I hear a woman yelling, and it’s not just any woman. It’s Sin. I’d know that voice anywhere. She’s pissed, which in and of itself is a red flag.

  Sin doesn’t do pissed off, maybe annoyed, but in all the years we’ve known each other I’ve only heard that tone once. The day she showed up at my house after finding her man in bed with someone else. When I had opened my door to find her on the other side, she’d been quiet, withdrawn, and so deep inside herself I wasn’t sure how to reach her. She’d curled up in my bed and buried her hurt under the sheets and the weight of betrayal.

  At first, I don’t see her in the crowd, but then I catch a swish of pink and her big, natural hair moving at a fast pace toward the entrance.

  “Excuse me . . . I’m just trying to get . . .” I all but run over a petite redhead who’s standing in front of me, her phone out recording Sin’s hasty retreat.

  I walk over a couple more people en route to intercept Sin. She’s almost to the entrance when I finally get to her side. I swing my gaze around, looking for the motherfuckers that dared mess with my girl but the only people in the general vicinity is Aaron Martinez, the entertainment director, who actually booked us for this residency, and Aiden with Seth pulling up the rear.

  I grip her fingers in a death grip and pull her in the opposite direction. I steer us toward the exit doors that dump into the service hallway. She follows my lead. Two confused security guards and a ruffled entertainment director twittering like a fucking bird with arms flapping and his mouth gaping, tag along behind us. The service hallway is wide. The cloying scent of old food and chemicals makes the air hard to breathe.

&nb
sp; The door closes behind us with a slow thud and Sin loses her shit.

  Totally fucking loses it.

  She covers most of her face behind her trembling hands, and she’s hyperventilating.

  “What in the hell was that? I heard the commotion from the other side of the room. I thought something had happened to you,” I yell, looking first at Aaron, even though the question is wholly for Sin. He shrugs and I’m not even sure if she hears the question.

  “Where in the fuck were you two?” I take my eyes off the entertainment director and opt for new targets. Targets that should have had her fucking back and been there in case anything went down.

  “He’s here,” she says. Her voice is barely audible. She drops her hands, looking at me with tears pooling in her eyes. Seriously, what the fuck did I miss?

  “He, who?” I try to make my voice gentle but Sin flinches. Helpless, I look first at Aiden, quickly move to Seth, and last I let my gaze drop to Aaron. Hoping one of the three can give me something. Aiden and Seth stare back with questions of their own.

  Aaron recounts the night like I’m the police and this is a goddamn investigation. “I introduced her to the CEO, Connor Rappaport, and his best friend and business partner, Jacob Johnson, the CFO.” He shrugs because he has no idea what’s going on.

  “Did you just say Jacob Johnson? Jesus . . . fuck!” I bend at the waist, grabbing a fistful of my hair, and growl in frustration. He just said Jacob Johnson as in the asshole Sin dated for six years. The one who broke her, not just her heart but her spirit. He’s the chief financial officer of the hotel we just signed a yearlong contract with.

  Shit!

  “This is a goddamned mess.” I stand to my full height and run my hands through my hair. “How are we just now finding out Jake works here? There is still time for us to back out of this thing. Go somewhere. Hell, anywhere else.”

  “I thought you guys were happy with the deal. We . . . I . . . I went through a lot of trouble . . .” Aaron laces his fingers behind his neck and stares up at the ceiling, looking for answers in the stark white paint.

  “I have an appointment early next week with the Department of Child Protective Services. They’re supposed to check out my house to make sure it meets their standards for housing a child, and if I pass, they’ll grant me temporary custody. But I gotta stay in the valley, you know?”

  Fresh tears well on the line of Sin’s bottom lashes, but she blinks to stop them from falling down her cheeks.

  There she is.

  I told her four years ago he wasn’t worth her tears, and I hope to God she doesn’t let another one fall because of his fuckboy antics.

  “No one is backing out,” Sin says slowly. “It’s just . . . he . . . just caught me off guard is all.”

  “If I have to be the fucking Wall of China, I swear I’ll keep him away from you.” I grab her face between my hands, willing her to accept the truth of my words.

  I swear before my eyes her chin comes up a little higher, her shoulders square, and the determination that kept us doggedly pursuing music and succeeding against the odds warms her eyes.

  “I’m a big girl. If Jake knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay the hell away from me. If he’s stupid enough to come looking, I promise he won’t like what he finds.”

  “There’s my girl. You got this, Sin. You ready?” I’ve said the exact thing to her every time we’ve gone on stage, every showcase we’ve done for labels, every photo shoot, and when we ran away from the group home for the bright lights of Las Vegas.

  “Abso-fucking-lutely,” she says with enough strength that I pretend not to hear the trepidation in her voice.

  Seth

  As we escort Sin back to her villa, Aiden’s eyes find mine over her head. A nonverbal what-the-fuck hangs in the air between us. I shrug because I don’t have the answer to that question any more than he does. My head wasn’t in the game tonight, plain and simple.

  Once each member of the band was inside the lounge, the reporters securely staged outside the doors, and the pre-media introduction in full swing, I happily faded into the background. Aiden was taking point with Sin, keeping her in his line of sight, but hanging back so she could do her thing. That allowed me to get the lay of the room.

  It was all good until I watched Adam picking his way through the crowd, finally coming to rest on the wall next to me. It took every ounce of restraint I learned in the Marine Corps not to turn my head and ask what the fuck he thought he was doing. It was only a couple of days ago he all but expelled me from his life with his flimsy-ass can’ts. So, I didn’t and still don’t get the whole seeking-me-out-in-a-crowd-full-of-people thing. I’m not a fucking toy waiting on a shelf for him to take me out to play.

  Of course, because that’s the way my life seems to be going lately, all holy hell chose that moment to break loose. Sin ended up slapping the shit out of her ex, who just so happened to be the CFO of the Hotel. There were cameras from phones everywhere, which is bullshit because everyone in that room works for the Hotel and has signed nondisclosure agreements. I knew this was going to be a mess by the time we got in the hallway. I have alerts set in Google to notify me each time the band or its members are mentioned, and my phone hasn’t stopped vibrating with notifications.

  It doesn’t take us all that long to get to the villa. Sin is abnormally quiet. She’s not a stupid girl, so she’s got to know how majorly she fucked up tonight. That mistake will have far-reaching repercussions.

  “Night, guys,” she says as she walks past us toward her room, eyes downcast, shoulders curved, hunched forward.

  “Are you gonna be okay?” Aiden asks.

  “I . . .” She looks up, finally making eye contact. “I’ll make it do what it do. Seeing Jake here, it just . . . caught me by surprise. At the end of the day I’m sure Jake has his life just like I have mine and our past has nothing to do with my future.”

  Those words hit home.

  Whatever I had with Adam in the past doesn’t have jack shit to do with my future.

  Adam

  Some things you never forget, never get over. I watch the petite, obviously overworked, older social worker in my house, walking from room to room, assessing me. Making notes on her little pad and checking the boxes on the form. I feel like I’m five or nine or thirteen again, hoping with a sort of childish naivety that this time my mom would pass the inspection with flying colors.

  Spoiler Alert: She didn’t. She never did. The kind but overworked social worker would tuck me into the back seat of her car, with a black garbage bag filled with my meager belongings, and take me to my “new” home. That home more often than not was a dilapidated house stuffed to the brim with kids.

  The state pays per head, which in most cases is an incentive within itself. But greed consumes even some of the best people when you add the money a household can generate.

  Unique cases, such as sickly children, and those suffering from mental illness or learning disabilities, often come with a higher premium. I never fell into that category. I was the kid easily pushed aside, the one who was too small, too polite. The one neglected, and alone until I met Sin. As a kid in the system, you’re never allowed to forget that you eat because of food subsidies, and that the clothes on your back are the donations of a well-meaning community that pities you. I knew I was nothing. More importantly, I knew other people thought I was nothing. I don’t want my sister to experience that. So, if I have to stand by idly and allow this woman to play judge and jury, I will. In the grand scheme of things, a home inspection is small, microscopic on the canvas of life.

  “I think that’s all I need for right now.” Diane Carter peers up at me through smudged glasses. Her ill-fitting gray suit coat pulls tight across her shoulders as she shoves the notebook into her purse. “Victoria hasn’t been adjusting well.”

  “What does that mean? Not adjusting well. She’s only three. Where have you put her that she can’t . . .”

  “Mr. Beckham,” she says, cutting
me off. “I can’t imagine how overwhelming all of this is for someone of your . . . well, of your celebrity, but I assure you that we’ve done everything humanly possible to not only protect but provide for your sister.”

  A person of my celebrity? How can this woman know so little about me? Did she not read the eighteen-page application I filled out twice because it was “misplaced” the first time? Me having money is a new thing that’s happened in the last three or four years. It’s not that Mick Jagger or Bono-type of paper either. I have more of the rise-and-grind variety that comes with just enough breathing room to buy what I need and every once in a while blow a stack on something I don’t.

  I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. My spoon was bent and charred on the bottom from the lighter my mom used to cook her drugs. Where I came from, we ate syrup sandwiches and drank Kool-Aid. Celebrity doesn’t erase my past. I still can’t shake the constant worry I’ll lose everything and end up a washed-up has-been with nothing to show for the money I earned but fractured memories and a couple of awards.

  They haven’t protected my sister any better than they protected me. This is the third time in three years my three-year-old sister has been in state custody because they kept giving her back to a known drug addict who couldn’t take care of herself let alone a defenseless child. Protected her, my ass. I don’t need to see the place to know it’s a shithole. All the group homes are. I lived it. How could anyone with a conscience place a three-year-old little girl in a group home? I bet she’s with a family that probably looks at her like a walking, talking paycheck.

  “Mr. Beckham, did you hear me?”

  No. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t.”

  She lets out a long sigh, absently pushing her glasses into the frizzy dark hair on her head. “If you’re available between nine and noon tomorrow I can try to bring Victoria over for her first visit. Introduce the two of you.”

  My heartbeat thumps in my throat at the idea. “Yeah, of course,” I say, rubbing sweaty palms down rough denim covering my legs. “I’ll be . . . here. You can even bring her now.” When she stares at me blankly, I immediately correct myself. “Or whenever. Tomorrow’s cool too.”