The only crime I ever committed was being born the first, last, and only son of Calder Hereford Welles.
Guilty. But not of my own volition.
A gorgeous gypsy-looking woman in Rome pulled me aside at a bar several years ago, told me she “knew things,” and then proceeded to tell me I was a reincarnation of a fifteenth-century prince, and that I chose the life I have now because I needed to exact revenge on someone who wronged me in that life.
I think she was full of shit, but I liked the idea of what she said.
“I understand,” Marta hums a little before she speaks again. I must make her nervous. “But as I said, it’s extremely urgent. He wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t.”
Right.
The girl in my bed, whose name suddenly escapes me, stares dead-eyed at her phone screen, the bright light illuminating her face as she scrolls with the methodical mechanics of a robot.
I don’t know much about her, other than what she told me over drinks at the hotel bar last night. She’s a drug rep from Minnesota, here for a medical conference, and she’s the youngest of seven. Catholic if I recall correctly. She made a point in telling me her parents didn’t believe in birth control. My expression must have ashened when she told me that because she immediately proceeded to reach into her purse and pull out a pale pink compact filled with birth control pills. I responded by reaching into my wallet and retrieving a magnum-sized rubber.
“Calder?” Marta’s voice brings me back to the present moment. “Still there?”
“Yes.” I pinch the bridge of my nose before rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and then I release a heavy breath into the phone. “I’ll have my assistant get a hold of you. Set something up.”
Marta is quiet. “You ...you don’t have an assistant.”
“A lot has changed in four years, Marta,” I’m quick on the reply.
She clears her throat, quiet. “All right, then. May I have her number? I’d be happy to reach out first.”
“I’ll forward her your contact information. She’ll be in touch.”
Marta’s nervous humming fills the ear piece, a cross between a laugh and a two-note song. That little quirk would get old quickly if she were my assistant. But I won’t have to worry about that. I’m never going to have an assistant. The idea of having to talk to and look at the same person day in and day out is about as appealing as gouging my eyes out with rusty pliers.
I crave change.
I crave variety.
I crave a tether-free existence where I rely on no one but myself.
Anything else would be a prison sentence.
“I would love to have her email at least,” Marta says, her voice slightly shaky. “If that’s all right with you.”
I imagine my father standing over her, clinging on to her every word, scribbling shaky notes onto Post-Its with his weighty gold pen, micromanaging every sentence that comes out of her thin-lipped mouth because the man is obsessed with my approval …
I’m the only person on this entire planet he can’t pay, manipulate, or scheme into respecting him. But respect is the one thing he’ll never have from me until his dying day, and even then, when his shriveled, lifeless body rots, encased in the family mausoleum in Bedford, he still won’t have it.
But I’ll be there.
I’ll be there to remind him what a piece of shit he is as he takes his last breath, and I’ll be there to spit on his grave as the concrete is sealed.
A bittersweet and just finality fitting for an asshole of my father’s caliber.
“Calder … I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it.” Marta is quiet for a second, a dramatic pause perhaps, likely my old man’s suggestion. “Your father is dying.”
The girl in my bed is still scrolling through her Instagram feed. I don’t even think she’s fucking blinked in the last two minutes.
Hannah.
That’s her name.
Not that it matters.
“Calder, your father is—” she begins to speak again, her voice an octave higher and a notch louder.
“—I heard you the first time.” My voice booms enough that Hannah’s shiny eyes dart up and her phone almost drops from her hand.
“He’d like to meet with you to discuss matters of his estate,” she says.
“I’m sure he has a will.” Not that I want anything from him. Money—and the Welles name—is nothing more than a burden. “And I’m certain that when the time comes, his attorney will be in contact with me.”
“There are some matters he’d like to discuss with you personally—while he’s still able,” she says. “The meeting won’t take long. Maybe ten or fifteen minutes of your time is all. Could you come by this afternoon? Your father has time between one fifteen and one forty-five.”
“Not going to happen,” I say. I’m in Telluride, enjoying an impromptu weekend of skiing and snowboarding. Or at least … I was enjoying it.
I move to the edge of the bed, my back folded and my forehead pressed against my open palm. The keys to my Cessna lie on my nightstand. I could fly back to the city today if I wanted to.
If I wanted to …
My father wanting to “go over matters of his estate” is nothing more than code for him wanting to manipulate me into doing something he wants me to do … something that would benefit him because it’s always about him even when he’s supposedly dying.
As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing he’s holding over me in this moment, and that makes me a free man. There’s not enough Welles money in the world to make me want to change that.
The girl in my bed slinks out from beneath the covers before fishing around on the floor for last night’s clothes—a skintight lace dress if memory serves me.
“Calder … do you have a phone charger?” she whispers, wincing as if she’s sorry for bothering me during my important phone call.
“Marta, I have to let you go,” I say.
My father’s assistant begins to protest, but it’s too late. I’ve already hit the red button.
I have to admit … my curiosity is piqued, and telling my father off one last time before he croaks is on my proverbial bucket list, but I won’t be had that easily.
If I decide to show up, it’ll be on my own time. And only if I feel like it.
I drop my phone into the mess of covers and sheets before dragging a hand down my tired face. A second later, I swipe my boxers off the floor and pull them on.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I rest my hands on my hips, trying to figure out a way to tell Hannah she can’t use my phone charger because it’s time for her to go.
“Did you want to grab breakfast downstairs?” The girl reaches behind her back with impressive flexibility to get her zipper. She must do yoga. “The lounge here has the best blueberry waffles.”
“I don’t eat breakfast.” I lie. I eat breakfast, just not with nameless women I pick up in hotel bars. Every hook up serves a purpose, and her work here is done.
Stepping into her heels, she simultaneously runs a hand down the front of her wrinkled dress to smooth out a crease. “That’s too bad.”
In the dark of the room, she manages to locate her bag, and she slips her nearly-dead phone inside.
I wait until she’s finished dressing before I walk her to the door.
“I’m here until Friday,” she says, her hand on the door lever and a hint of hope in her voice. “Room 211.”
Hannah gives a timid smile, one that wholly contradicts all the wild and kinky things she did to me mere hours ago, and I almost feel bad.
There’s a Midwestern wholesomeness about her, a glimmer of hope in her pale eyes, and a naive sweetness in the way she looks at me, her mouth curled in a half-smile.
But this doesn’t have to be complicated.
I’m a shark. She’s chum.
Nature has to take its course, that’s just how it is.
“It’s been fun, Calder. Thank you. For ev
erything.” She pulls the hotel door open and the hall light stings my vision until I look away. “Really hope we can do this again before you leave ...”
I offer a tight smile, though I’m sure my true sentiments are etched on my face. I’ve never been good at bluffing when it comes to these moments.
“I’m heading back to the city,” I say. “Probably won’t see you again.”
And by “probably” I mean “definitely.”
Hannah’s on the other side of the threshold now, clutching her bag under one arm, her hands clasped in front of her like she’s about to take communion.
“You don’t even know my name, do you?” she asks, not making eye contact.
“I really need to hit the shower, so ...”
“It’s Grace,” she says. “Not that you care. I just think, you know, we spent the night together. The least you could do is know my name, even if you have no intentions of seeing me again.”
I try not to laugh at myself. I was way off.
Where the hell did I get Hannah from?
God, I miss New York girls right now. They don’t pull this clingy shit. They don’t take a one-night stand to mark the beginnings of a budding relationship. They go their own way in the morning and when you bump into them around town, they pretend like they don’t remember you and you pretend like you don’t know them and everything’s peachy-fucking-keen as life goes on.
“You do this a lot, don’t you?” she asks, her light eyes moving onto mine. Grace-not-Hannah tucks a strand of messy blonde sex hair behind one ear.
I lean against the door jamb. “Clearly we had different expectations for … last night.”
Why would she think it was anything other than a run of the mill one-night stand?
“You just … you seemed different.” She worries the inside of her full bottom lip. “Guess I just didn’t think I’d feel so … used.”
Oh, god.
“I didn’t use you, Grace,” I say. “I had a great fucking time with a beautiful blonde I met in a Telluride hotel. I’ll never forget it, either. Promise.”
She blows a succinct breath between her pink lips. “Until the next blonde in the next hotel.”
“Actually, I prefer brunettes, but that’s beside the point.” I chuckle. She doesn’t. “Take care, Grace. All right?”
I step away, gently closing the door, but she stops it with her palm.
“I feel sorry for you.” Her eyes are almost a darker shade of blue than they were a second ago. “One of these days, you’re going to meet someone amazing, someone who makes you forget all the things you’ve always wanted to forget. And I hope she breaks your heart.”
With that, Grace-not-Hannah pulls her palm from the door and lets it slam.
I hit the shower.
She can curse me all she wants, but you can’t get your heart broken if you don’t have one.
“THANKS FOR LETTING ME stay here.” I rise on my toes, wrapping my arms around my brother’s scrub-covered shoulders despite the fact that he just got home from working an overnight shift in the ER. He’s probably covered in a hundred thousand germs and microbes, but I haven’t seen him in eight months so I’m too excited to care. “Love the new place.”
I pull myself away from Rush and glance out the generous living room windows that offer him a partially-obstructed view of the Brooklyn bridge. He only recently finished his residency and he’s not rolling in the dough quite yet, but as a young ER physician, he does well for himself.
“I’m surprised you have a two-bedroom,” I say.
“Was going to do the whole roommate thing, but he decided to do the whole Doctors-Without-Borders thing at the last minute.” Rush kicks off his tennis shoes and sits his keys down on a table by the door. He looks older than the last time I saw him, naturally, but in a more refined sort of way. There’s a different air about him, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
I guess it’s hard for me to think of my brother and not picture the scrawny teenager who used to pour my cereal and walk me to the kindergarten bus every morning.
“So who are you working for in the city? You never said.” He pulls a pen from his pocket—purple-bodied with some drug logo on the side—and places it beside his keys.
“Oh, um.” I don’t want to go over specifics with him. For starters, he won’t believe me. And if he does, he’s going to spend the next thirty minutes lecturing me on what a bad idea this was. Rush makes my pragmatic tendencies look like child’s play.
We are what happens when two hippies who don’t believe in organized anything (including school) get together and reproduce. If it wasn’t for Rush, I don’t know that I’d have graduated from high school, and I certainly wouldn’t have attended college. Even though he’s ten years my senior, he was always more of a father figure than an older brother.
My parents once tried to unenroll me from fifth grade so we could travel the country in an RV. They argued that I’d learn more doing that than I could ever learn sitting in a “boring classroom” all day. They only backed off because they couldn’t get financing on the RV they wanted (lack of a job will do that) and Rush threatened to call DHS on them.
“Just so executive,” I say. “Owns some technology company in the city. Pretty boring stuff …”
I hold my breath and cross my fingers that my answer satisfies his curiosity.
“Cool, cool. Well, I’d love to catch up, but I’ve got to get some sleep,” Rush says, squeezing past me. “Going in again tonight for another twelve hours.”
“I’m here for a month. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up.” I offer a tired smile of my own. I had to take a red-eye from LA to NYC since Mr. Welles wanted me to start “as soon as humanly possible.”
“Guest bath should be stocked. You might want to get some groceries. Fridge is pretty bare bones right now. There’s a number on the fridge for a place that delivers.” Rush yawns, his dark eyes squinting as he runs his hands through his even darker hair.
He’s always reminded me of Ashton Kutcher, only less goofy and more serious. Like an Ashton-playing-Steve Jobs-and-not-Kelso kind of serious.
Rush would be the ultimate catch for some lucky gal, and I’m not just saying that because I’m biased. He’s ridiculously intelligent, driven, and one of the most selfless people I’ve ever known.
But he’s married to his job. And he’s not the cheating type.
We’re the same like that, he and I.
Both workaholics, both obsessed with our careers.
Melrose, one of my best friends back in LA, once theorized that since we grew up with such a chaotic home life, our education and careers have been the only thing we’ve ever been able to control.
And I have to agree.
Relationships will always be shaky ground for us, a great unknown that we couldn’t control if we wanted to.
Wheeling my suitcase to the guest suite, I close the door behind me and change out of my travel clothes so I can hit the shower. I always feel so dirty after flying, and a soak in the pristine white tub in the guest bath sounds amazing.
That’s another thing about us Keanes. We’re clean freaks. Likely another symptom of our misguided parents who didn’t believe in cleaning too often because “the chemicals cause cancer.”
Ironically enough, our father almost died of lung cancer five years ago, and to me, that goes to show you that you can believe anything you want to believe, but at the end of the day life still happens—and if I’m being completely honest, that terrifies me.
I peel out of my clothes and run a steamy bath, unpacking and arranging my toiletries and cosmetics in proper order.
AM skincare.
Makeup.
PM skincare.
Face masks and supplements.
I skim my fingers across the top of the bath water to check the temp before twisting the faucet knobs and stepping inside.
Once submerged, the hot water bakes my skin and the steam fills my lungs. My breaths are shallower than normal
and there’s a hint of tightness in my chest, which tells me I’m getting anxious.
This always happens before I start a new job. I just want everything to go well. Better than well, actually. Perfect.
Today, I’ll try my best to settle in and relax. Tomorrow I’m to report at ten AM to WellesTech headquarters uptown.
I slink down in the water, my back sliding against the white acrylic, and with eyes closed I attempt to pull in the deepest, hardest, fullest breath I can muster.
I can do this.
I can do anything—even things that, to the core of my being, feel like a bad idea.
I PRESS THE ELEVATOR call button for the fifteenth floor against my better judgement.
My blood alternates between fire-hot and ice-cold.
Five suits and ties pile in, and I step aside to make room. Two of them make small talk before getting off at the next stop, and another eyes my ripped jeans and cotton Henley ensemble. Their Armani suit existence would bore me to tears. They’re basically prisoners, their suits their orange jumpsuits and their corner offices their cells.
But whatever makes them happy …
We stop at floor fifteen, which looks exactly like it did last time I was here nearly a decade ago. Same trickling fountain. Same marble floors. Updated seating in the lobby—russet leather instead of decorator plaid—and looks like he sprung for a fancy little coffee bar complete with a real barista and everything.
“Hi, can I help you?” A girl not much older than me bats her lashes and half-stands from her desk.
I check my watch as I stride closer, and when I glance up at her, I catch the recognition playing out on her expression in real time.
“Oh. You’re … yes, hold on.” She’s hunched over her desk now, papers shuffling before she grabs her receiver and presses three buttons with a taupe-painted fingernail. “Mr. Welles’ son is here to see him. Yes. I will.” She replaces the receiver. “If you want to head down this hall to your left, you can check in with Marta and she’ll take you to … your father’s office.”
P.S. I Dare You (PS Series Book 3) Page 2
