“Playmate?” I shrug an innocent shoulder.
She smirks at me. “I didn’t know you could become a centerfold overseas.”
“First of all, Melons Magazine calls us Cup Cakes, not Playmates. And it was easier than you think; they have tons of magazines for men over there.” I narrow my eyes at her. “How did you even know about it?”
“Really?” she asks. “My fiancé is on a football team, Charlie. Do you know what kind of smut circulates around those locker rooms?” She swats my arm. “Why didn’t you tell me? What happened to the sisters’ code?”
I let out a deep sigh. I feel terrible that I withheld information from her. We’ve always told each other everything. The years we spent abroad, even though we were both running away from our pasts, we relied only on each other to get through each day—and those days became some of the best of my life.
When we parted ways last year; when I took off, leaving her with no other choice but to return home to the man she loved, I had to up my game; find more means of making money. Had Piper been able to find me, I know she would have sent some, and for that reason alone, I never told her where I was.
“I didn’t want to embarrass your family,” I lie. I didn’t want to ask your family for money.
She puts down the vase she was examining and crosses the room towards me. “You could never embarrass us, Charlie. You are family. Don’t you know that by now? And the pictures were actually very tasteful. You’re beautiful.”
“Yeah, well, airbrushing works miracles,” I say, glancing down at the many tiny scars on my arms.
Piper touches my arm. “No. You’re beautiful even with your scars.”
My face twitches with a half-smile before I look around the small but quaint apartment. “Anyway, thanks for the offer, but I think I’m going to stay here.”
“Here?” Her eyes widen in surprise. “Are you sure about that?”
My eyes take in the tiny kitchen off the living room, the sparse furniture, and the almost bare walls. “I’ve never been here. I have no memories of this place. It means nothing to me. So, why the hell not? I only have to stay in town for a few weeks. Just until I get the official executor papers and then I can put it up for sale. Will you help me get rid of her shit?”
“Yes. Of course,” she says. “I’m here for you. Whatever you need.” Her eyes meet the floor and she sulks. “But, do you really have to leave again? I just got you back. We have so much to catch up on.”
We walk through the apartment to the far side of the living room so we can check out the sole bedroom. “You mean so I can hear all the sickening details about how much you love the hot football star and his adorable daughter? Or so you can hear about all the hotties I shagged while you were back home putting it to him?”
Her mouth falls open. Then she closes it and rolls her eyes. “Well . . . yeah.”
“I can’t stay here, Pipes.” I walk through the doorway into the bedroom of the total stranger that was my mom. “I already ran into one of her perverted friends at the funeral. I can’t risk that happening again.”
“So you are choosing to live in her apartment? That makes total sense,” she says sarcastically, as she shakes her head and opens the closet to peruse my mother’s belongings. She gasps, reaching up to the shelf overhead and pulling down a shiny metal statue. “What are you going to do with this?” She holds her arm out to me, offering me the Best Actress Oscar my mother won twenty-four years ago.
It was the last award she ever won. I know that all too well. I instinctively rub the back of my head, remembering how much it hurt to have the heavy statue meet the back of my skull from time to time. “I don’t know. Sell it? Throw it out? Melt it down and pour it over her grave? Maybe we should have buried it with her since it was the only thing in her life that really mattered.”
Piper places the award back where she found it and closes the closet door. “There are others in there. I wonder why she didn’t display them, since they were so important and all.”
“Mmmm,” I mumble in response, staring out the large picture window that overlooks a bustling street. The skyscrapers that line the view are breathtaking. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until just now. Even though we didn’t live here, my mom was always hauling me to the city for one reason or another. A screening. An interview. Lunch with a producer. Dinner with her dealer.
My mother refused to give up what she thought was her destiny; A-list roles portraying young, vibrant women. She was offered dozens of roles after I was born. Supporting roles. The best friend. The quirky aunt. The mother. She thought they were beneath her so she was always holding out for that next Oscar-winning part. The part that never came. And the longing for it drove her slowly insane.
“Maybe this will tell you.” Piper reaches into a bedside table drawer.
“Tell me what?”
“Why she didn’t display her awards.” She holds out a leather-bound book. “It looks like a diary.”
I take it from her, but my hands hesitate before opening it. Do I really want to do this? Delve into the innermost thoughts of the person I despised most in this world? But curiosity gets the better of me and I flip open the cover, revealing the very first page.
August 30, 2000
My throat burns and my eyes sting with bad memories. I know most six-year-olds aren’t good with remembering dates. But this one—it would be burned into my memory for all eternity. It wasn’t my birthday. It wasn’t the day I got a new puppy. It wasn’t my first day of school.
It was the day she turned into a monster. It was the very first day she hit me. And she decided to record it for posterity.
I put the journal down and race to the bathroom to lose the contents of my stomach.
Piper runs after me. “Oh my God, Charlie. Are you okay? What is it?” She wets a hand towel and offers it to me as I close the lid on the toilet and sit down on it.
“I’m fine. Just bad memories.” I wipe my face while looking around the bathroom.
On her vanity sits every anti-aging product known to womankind. Creams, gels, masks. There are even needles and small vials of what looks to be Botox. I didn’t even know one could do those injections on oneself. But what makes me want to throw up again is a picture taped to the mirror. I know it’s not a picture of me, but it might as well be. She looks a little older than I am now. Only the clothes she wears dates the photo. She looks young and happy and carefree. More like the mother I remember when I was very little.
I rip the photo off the mirror, leaving the edges torn under the weathered tape that has probably been holding it there for several years. I crumple it up and throw it into the trash. Then I pick up the trash can, hold it to the edge of the counter and sweep everything from the vanity into it. Jars crash together and break, spilling liquid and goo.
I yank open the drawers and pull out bucket-loads of makeup to add to the growing pile of garbage. I open up the cabinet under the sink only to find more clutter that was all part of her quest to regain her youthful appearance. I don’t know what she looked like before her death. But I can imagine. She was forty-eight when I left home. Forty-eight going on sixty. Drugs had taken their toll and taken it quickly.
What a stupid, stupid woman. All she had to do was give up the smack. She wouldn’t have needed any of this crap.
I look down at the overflowing trash can. Then I look back into the bedroom. “I want to get rid of everything. All of it. Even the furniture. Nothing stays. It all goes to the dump. Right now. I have to do it now.”
In the mirror, my eyes find Piper’s. If anyone can understand wanting to purge the past, it’s her. She gives me a knowing look. “I’ll call my sisters and the guys and get them over here. And I think I saw a UPS Store around the corner, so they can pick up boxes on the way. I’ll go look for some trash bags in the kitchen. Will you be okay for a few?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Thanks, Pipes.”
“No thanks necessary. It’s what we do for family.” She t
urns to walk through the door and I hear her summoning the troops faster than she can reach the kitchen.
I wander back into the bedroom and I stare at the diary I dropped on the carpet. Nothing but pain can come from it. There is nothing that woman could write that holds any interest for me whatsoever. The bound leather journal should be the very next thing I throw in the trash.
I sink down to the floor, my back against the hard metal frame of a dead woman’s bed. She can’t hurt you anymore.
I pick up the book and reopen it to page one.
August 30, 2000
He’s an idiot. I’m only 36. And I don’t look a goddamn day over 29. How dare he try to put me in a mommy role. And for a commercial that my 6-year-old was auditioning for. Asshole. Stole my looks, he said. Well, maybe if she weren’t so pretty it would be easier for me. I never should have taken time off after she was born. I never should have given my fans a chance to forget me. I shouldn’t have even had a kid. Why did I ever let George talk me into it?
I snap the diary closed when Piper walks in the bedroom carrying a box of trash bags.
“I’ll start in here,” she says, pulling one out. “Why don’t you take the kitchen? Less personal.”
My friend knows me well. I nod my head and pull on the bed frame to help me up. Then I walk out to the kitchen and with my best basketball longshot, I deposit the diary into the tall garbage can next to the pantry.
I start emptying cabinets, stacking dishes and glasses on the countertop. Too heavy for bags. I’ll have to wait for boxes. Some of the things are pretty nice. Maybe I shouldn’t throw them out. Maybe I should donate them. To a shelter for abused teenagers perhaps? The thought of it causing her to roll over in her grave gives me a wave of unexpected pleasure.
Piper peeks her head out of the bedroom and sees my growing piles on the counter. “What’ll you do if you throw all that stuff away?”
“Eat off paper plates, I guess. I don’t want anything left. It all goes. I’ll sleep in a sleeping bag if I have to.”
“You’ll do no such thing. We’ll figure something out.” She retreats back into the bedroom and I rifle through the kitchen drawers. I pull one of them out and attempt to dump it into the trash can, right on top of the diary, but I miss my mark and end up sending the ketchup packets and take-out menus toppling over onto the floor.
“Crap,” I mumble to no one. I fall to my knees and gather up the junk. When I go to throw it in the trash, I glance at a name on the page the diary fell open to.
Dewey.
My stomach rolls. And despite my better judgment, I pick the damn thing up and page through it. I don’t read any of her hateful words, but I skim several pages wondering if they hold what I seek. Adrenaline courses through me when I find what I’m looking for—when I think back to the funeral and how good it felt to deck that asshole.
And now I know.
I know why I’m here and what I have to do.
Chapter Three
I look around the reception area. In each corner of the room, there are tall vases with ornate fake flower arrangements. The clean lines of the art on the wall complement the opulent area rug in the center of the room that sits under the white leather couch and chairs.
The woman, who greeted me moments ago from behind a glass partition that reminds me of a bank, fits in well with the high-end décor. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek and severe ponytail. Her makeup tasteful and flawless. Her clothes tailored.
Off to one side of the room, almost as if deliberate and not to attract attention, is a display of personal photos. One picture is of a very attractive couple. A man and a woman in formal attire. A wedding photo. Young, in their early twenties, perhaps not any older than I am, they look deliriously happy, and for a brief second, I envy them.
Based on their hair styles, it’s an old picture. But the man is gorgeous. Dirty-blonde hair that’s a little long and roguish. And the way he’s smiling at his bride brings out a dimple in his cheek.
My eyes wander to some of the other pictures. Most are men who share similar features. His brothers, perhaps. Or his children. One boy in particular looks vaguely familiar and I wonder where I’ve seen him.
Before I can finish my examination of the pictures, the stunning platinum-blonde behind the thick partition startles me. “Mr. Stone will see you now.” She slides a heavy glass window to the side and leans over the counter, displaying cleavage that she clearly intended for me to see. “You can come through that door.”
She points toward a door on my right, her gesture revealing long manicured fingernails that have me wondering how she manages a phone or keyboard.
Her eyes follow me as I cross the room to where I’d been directed. I can feel her sizing me up. Maybe she’s even been doing it the entire time I’ve been waiting.
I reach the door and pull on the handle, but I’m met with resistance and it fails to open.
I look at Barbie, raising my brows at her in question.
“Oops,” she says. “Sorry.” She reaches over to push a button on the wall next to her. I hear a click and then the doorknob turns when I try again.
I look back at the thick glass partition where she’s watching me. I guess in this kind of work, they probably have more than their share of scorned spouses that might be pissed at them. I’ve seen one or two in my time. Scorned women, that is.
I walk through the heavy door and am met by the man in the wedding photo. Well, it’s him, but it’s not. This guy is even hotter than that one, if that’s even possible. His hair is longer than the man’s in the picture, touching the collar of his clean and pressed white button-down shirt. The way it curls up at the ends begs for female fingers to grab onto it.
His eyes are dark. A chocolate brown that is accentuated by the midnight-black skinny tie that is so expertly tied, you know it’s not just worn for special occasions. Suddenly, I feel the urge to grab that tie and drag him back onto that white leather couch.
I’m sure Barbie would have an issue with that, however, based on the way her eyes are shooting daggers at me right now. Maybe she’s his girlfriend. Or wife. Shame.
I’m tall by women’s standards, five-foot-eight to be exact, but I still have to crane my neck when he comes close enough to extend his hand.
“Ms. Tate, I’m Ethan Stone. Nice to meet you.”
Oh, hell. Even his name is hot. And although I usually hate being called Ms. Tate, the way his deep voice drips of sultry sex, I can almost envision him screaming it as he pumps into me from behind. Or on top. Or underneath. Doesn’t matter to me.
Confidently, I place my hand in his and allow his large fingers to envelop my small ones. And even though his hand doesn’t linger any longer than is professional, I don’t miss the fact that his eyes do.
Apparently, neither does Barbie. “Hmmpf,” I hear her disapproving grunt from behind. I turn my head and catch a glimpse of the back of her stiletto heel before it disappears around the corner.
“Nice to meet you, too. Thanks for working me in on such short notice. And it’s just Charlie.”
“Not a problem, Charlie. And I’m just plain old Ethan.” He gestures for me to follow him down a hallway.
“Nothing plain or old about it,” I mumble, staring at his broad shoulders that taper down to a slim waist covered by grey linen pants.
“Sorry?” he asks, stopping in a doorway, motioning me through.
“Oh, nothing. I was just saying how much I like your office.”
The left side of his mouth lifts into a smile like he knows I’m full of shit. And, holy God, there is that dimple. The one from the photos. I have a sudden urge to put the tip of my tongue into it.
“Is she your wife?” I nod in the direction of reception.
“Gretchen?” he responds in an are-you-kidding tone.
“Girlfriend?”
“Neither. Please have a seat.” He walks around a large rectangular glass desk that is pretty much empty with the exception of a laptop and a file folder.
It’s strange, but the desk—the entire office—looks like he does. Sharp. Clean. Crisp. Well, except for his unruly hair which is a contradiction to the rest of him.
“Does she know that?” I ask.
He sits in a high-backed brown leather chair that further complements his eyes. Did he choose that exact color on purpose, I wonder?
“Gretchen is” —his eyes search the room for words— “an old friend.”
Friend my ass. She wants under him if she hasn’t been already. And if she has, she wants more. I should know. After all, it takes one to know one. Sluts. Dirty mistresses. Home wreckers. She may dress the part better than I do, but I’m sure she perceived the same about me. We all have that sense about each other. That radar that warns us of the competition. That passive-aggressiveness that comes off as bitchy to other women, but allows us to manipulate unsuspecting men.
I don’t see a ring on his finger. And there weren’t many pictures of women displayed on the wall out front. Not that it matters, but I ask anyway. “Is there one? A wife or girlfriend?”
He lifts a brow. “Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions here?”
I shrug, not in the least bit embarrassed about my curiosity.
“So why don’t you start by telling me why you think you need the services of a private investigator, Charlie.”
“To find out if you’re single, for one.” I smile at him but he cocks his head, unamused. I roll my eyes. “I need to find some people.”
“Okay.” He opens up the file folder and pulls out a piece of paper. “We’re very good at that. Who is it you need to find?”
I open my purse and pull out the list. I unfold it and try not to cringe as my eyes drift across the names.
The Stone Brothers: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set) Page 2
