The apartment door was open. Quinn was surprised by what he found inside. The small, sparse apartment was tidy, despite Liam’s being a slob all through adolescence. Quinn’s eyes were immediately drawn to a picture of the family that hung in a prominent place above an old gas fireplace. Does his best to hide it, but he’s as sentimental as the rest of us, Quinn thought.
“What’s up?” Liam asked, wandering out of the kitchen in sweatpants, bleary-eyed and sporting one of the worst cases of bed head Quinn had ever seen.
“I need to talk to you about Sweeney’s.”
“Christ, you’re relentless. I’m not even awake yet. But I’ll tell you what I know: nothing.”
“Fine. Then I need to talk to you about Tommy.”
Liam groaned, motioning for Quinn to follow him into the kitchen. “I need to get some coffee in my system. You want some?”
“Sure.”
Liam’s kitchen was one of the tiniest Quinn had ever seen. Instead of a stove there was a hot plate with two burners. He did have a microwave, but his refrigerator was one of those small cubes college kids keep in their dorm rooms. The only open wall space sported an Ireland 2009 calendar.
Liam began pouring coffee from a French press. “Sorry, I don’t have anything here to go with this,” he said with a yawn. “I usually steal a hunk of soda bread when I get to Mom and Dad’s.”
“Nothing better.”
Liam cracked a small, sleepy smile. “You can say that again.”
Quinn looked around the kitchen again. “Nice place.”
“It’s okay.” Liam put a cup of coffee down in front of his brother.
“Thanks.” Quinn took a sip and gagged. “Think you made this strong enough?”
Liam shrugged unapologetically. “That’s the way I like it.”
Quinn forced down another sip, reasoning that no matter how awful it might taste, a man could never have enough coffee. “When’s the last time you saw Tommy?”
“A few days ago. Why?”
“He say anything interesting? Boast about anything stupid?”
“Apart from the fact he’s been banging some rich widow on the Upper East Side? No. Why? What’s up?”
“I’m gonna tell you something that you can’t tell anyone.”
Liam looked wary. “Yeah?”
“I talked to Declan Sweeney last night and, while he was afraid to come right out and say it, he hinted Tommy was involved. Has Tommy said anything to you about what’s been going on in the neighborhood?”
“All he’s talked about lately is this MILF he’s been screwing.”
“He ever say anything further about PJ’s getting beat up?”
“Don’t you think I would have told you if he did?”
Quinn rubbed his temples in frustration. “Li, I really need your help here. Seriously. Your best friend is one of Whitey’s guys. The more info you can get for me, the bigger my chances that my article could take Whitey down.”
“Yeah, you told me that already, Quinn. But for such a brilliant reporter, I would have thought you’d realize that if I all of a sudden show interest in what Tommy’s up to, it’s going to look really suspicious. Whitey might think I want in.”
“He never pressured you to come in when you ran errands for him as a kid?”
Annoyance crossed Liam’s face. “Believe it or not, no. He knew I was just doing it as a favor to Tommy.”
“And Tommy’s never tried to persuade you to come in over the years?” Quinn prodded.
Liam rose and went to the fridge, his back to Quinn. “Sometimes,” he said tersely. “But he drops it when I make it clear that I don’t have any interest.”
“Have you ever wondered why he’s never tried to extort protection money from Mom and Dad, since the Hart is on his turf?”
“Yeah, I’ve thought about that, too. I’ve never had the balls to ask them about it, though. I just figured Whitey must be scared of Mom.”
“They must hate Tommy coming in.”
Liam looked irked. “Quinn, he’s my oldest friend, and they’ve known him since he was little. I’m sorry that he’s not perfect like you,” Liam sneered. “It must be a real burden.”
“I never claimed to be perfect.”
“You didn’t have to; Mom and Dad do it for you. They’ve always thought the sun shines out your ass.”
“They think the sun shines out your ass, too,” Quinn retorted, “but you’ve spent so much time being angry at me for God knows what, you couldn’t see it.” Quinn leaned forward across the table. “I’ve spent my whole goddamn life trying to be a good big brother to you, and all I’ve ever gotten is resentment. What the hell gives?”
Liam’s jaw clenched. “Nothing gives.”
“Oh, bullshit. Let’s just get it out once and for all, all right, so we can move past it. What’s the deal? Was it jealousy?”
“Maybe,” Liam muttered reluctantly. “Maybe I figured out pretty young that I couldn’t compete with you in any way, shape, or form. Quinn, the star athlete. Quinn, the valedictorian. You walk in a room, and everyone is drawn to you. You have any idea what it’s like to be in your shadow?”
“So you decided to become a bad boy underachiever?”
“Fuck you, Quinn.”
“No, fuck you, Liam!” Quinn was surprised to find himself losing it. “Don’t pin your lack of ambition on me! You’re the one who chose to hang out with Tommy and goof off in school! At any point along the way, you could have made a different decision, but you didn’t.”
Liam pushed back from the table and stood, rigid with anger. “So you think I’m a failure.” He jerked his chin up defiantly. “Go ahead. Say what you’ve always wanted to say to me: that you think I’m a fuckin’ failure.”
Quinn could tell Liam was itching to punch him, and part of Quinn wanted to tell him to, to take a swing so he could get it out of his system and they could clear the air once and for all. But he knew it would turn into an out-and-out brawl, and considering he got winded walking up three flights of stairs, he was pretty sure he’d lose, so he kept his mouth shut, sighing wearily. “I don’t think you’re a fuckin’ failure, Liam, okay? I know that, unlike Tommy, you work your ass off at a legitimate job. I just think you sell yourself short, and that pains me, because you could be anything you want to be. You could have gone to college like Sinead and me. You’ve got the brains.”
“How is being a bartender selling myself short?” Liam challenged. “I know this might be incomprehensible to you, but I actually enjoy it. I like meeting different kinds of people. I like the tradition of keeping it in the family. You’re a goddamn snob, Quinn, you know that, implying that working at a bar is somehow beneath me.”
Liam’s observation hit like a soft blow to the gut. He was right. What he’d just said to his brother indeed implied he thought what Liam did was somehow lesser than what he did.
“You’re right,” Quinn admitted quietly. “You’re totally right.”
Liam looked surprised. “Thanks for admitting it,” he mumbled.
“Look, Liam. It bugs me that you’ve spent most of your life resenting me, that you can’t see what a great guy you are, too. You gotta let it go. Grudges eat people alive. Don’t you know that?”
“We’re Irish, Quinn,” Liam said wryly. “We love a good grudge.”
Quinn chuckled. “Sad but true.” He stood up and approached his brother. “Can we at least agree to cut each other a little slack?”
Quinn held out a hand for his brother to shake.
“What’s this handshake bullshit?” Liam enveloped him in a tentative hug.
Sensing they were both clearly uncomfortable with the display of affection, Quinn broke contact and changed the subject. “What’s on your agenda for today?”
“Hitting the gym, then helping Dad with the books. You?”
“Not sure. I might head over to the Sent, then call Natalie.”
“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
Quinn tried not to
get defensive. “That’s not the way I roll,” he said as he walked to the door.
“I guess as long as she’s fine with that,” Liam said as he watched Quinn head down the hallway to the steps.
Quinn turned to look back. “She is . . . so far.”
Natalie took a deep, fortifying breath as she walked through the door of Sebastian Thompson’s restaurant for her interview. In just a few weeks, his new restaurant, Seb’s, would open. She was both surprised and flattered by how soon he’d called her after their meeting at the premiere party. While Quinn’s parents hadn’t fired her, his mother had been rather cool toward her, which hurt. But it also struck her as somewhat hypocritical. Weren’t Christians supposed to forgive? Why hadn’t his mother forgiven her, then?
The restaurant was empty when she entered, but it was not silent. In the kitchen, she could hear Thompson screaming at the staff. Thanks to having dealt with Anthony Dante, she knew chefs could be emotional, but from the sound of it, Sebastian made Anthony seem like a saint.
Every other word was either “fuck” or “cunt.” Unsure of what to do with herself, she sat down at a small table for two in the middle of the restaurant, waiting for Thompson to finish his tirade. She hoped he hadn’t forgotten their interview.
Five minutes later, Thompson stormed through the swinging doors of the kitchen, his face still contorted with rage. Great. Another waste of my time. Oh, well, it was good practice.
“Sorry I’m late, love.”
Natalie rose to shake his hand. “Only a few minutes.”
“Yeah, well, still. I expect punctuality from my staff. Not fuckin’ right for me to be a hypocrite, innit?”
Natalie smiled tightly, unsure of how to respond.
“You thirsty? Want anything from the bar?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Lucky you. I’m just going to grab a double scotch for myself, won’t be a mo. I deserve it after dealing with those stupid cunts.”
Natalie suppressed a wince as Thompson headed off to fix himself a drink. Her heart was pounding wildly. She was afraid of him.
Thompson swaggered back to the table, sliding into the seat opposite her, the ice in his glass tinkling. “That’s better.” Natalie felt distinctly uncomfortable as he eyed her up and down. “How’s life treatin’ you, doll? Still at the Paddy pub?”
“Yes.”
“Bit beneath you, innit? Sophisticated French lady like you.”
“As I told you, I’m helping out some friends. I’ll be fine until I find the perfect managing job.”
Thompson winked at her. “Well, perhaps you have.” He glanced around his restaurant proudly. “You said you ate at Shepherd’s Pie when you were in London?”
“Yes.” When I was thousands of dollars in debt and just charged the meal on my credit card, she thought to herself.
“Wotcha think?”
“I told you: it was amazing.”
Thompson slumped down in his chair, eyeing her suspiciously. “You just blowin’ smoke up my ass because you want a job?”
Natalie colored. Smoke? Ass? “I don’t understand. Do you mean to ask if I’m giving you a false compliment?”
“Yeah, yeah, exactly.” He belted down some scotch. “I love your accent. So posh. Sexy.”
Natalie’s face turned even redder. “So, about the job?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation away from herself.
“Yeah, yeah, we’ll get to that.” He threw more scotch down his throat. Natalie was still intimidated by him, but at least he was calming down a bit with each gulp of scotch. “I was thinking of changing the name of the new restaurant.”
“To what?”
“Flaming Bitch. That way it would still be dedicated to my ex. Would you eat in a restaurant called Flaming Bitch?”
“I think it would depend more on the food than the name.”
“Good answer, angel,” Thompson replied. “You know my restaurants in England and Scotland have, collectively, earned over ten Michelin stars? You’re French. You know about Michelin stars. Highest fuckin’ honor there is.”
Natalie was admittedly impressed. “I had no idea you’d garnered that many.”
“Yeah, well, the reason is, I’m creative, and I know what the fuck I’m doing. I only hire the best, even if they are a pack of stupid cunts sometimes. I demand perfection, both in the kitchen and in the front of the house.”
“Of course.”
“It’s gonna be the same philosophy at Seb’s.” He drained his scotch. “Tell me about managing the brasserie in Paris.”
Natalie swallowed, relieved that she had Googled “Skills needed to be a restaurant manager” on the Internet and had basically memorized what she found. She felt guilty lying about the experience, but she wanted this job so badly, she was willing to do anything.
Or so she thought.
“Sounds like you know your stuff, Miss Bocuse. Would you like to manage Seb’s?”
“I would love it.” She was so excited, it was hard to restrain herself from jumping up and down in her chair.
“Well, I’m gonna need to know if we’re on the same wavelength. If we can connect, not just intellectually but emotionally . . . and physically. Know wot I mean, love? How about you come to my place tonight to close the deal?”
Natalie froze, her elation quickly turning to anger. He had no interest in hiring her for herself. He just wanted to sleep with her.
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Natalie said coolly. “In fact, on second thought, I don’t think Seb’s would be the right fit for me. But thank you for considering me.”
“Suit yourself, angel. I’ve got three more birds coming in this afternoon.”
Irate, Natalie walked out of the restaurant. By the time she managed to quell her anger, despondency had taken its place. She tried to bolster herself up. She’d only been on two interviews so far. Perhaps she was being punished for lying. Her imagination began spinning out of control. She would never find a job. Never. She’d be stuck working at the pub until Quinn’s mother’s fired her after having some religious vision. Quinn would find her so pathetic he would dump her and take up with a beautiful young reporter whom he could mentor. Humiliated, she would crawl back to Brooklyn, where she’d live out her days as the spinster aunt to Anthony and Vivi’s children.
She knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t help it. It was easier to spin these fantasies than admit she’d been overconfident and naive about how soon she’d find a job in Manhattan.
She slowed her pace, stopping to peer into the window of a very chichi boutique called Rula’s. She fished out the sole credit card she possessed that was to be used for emergencies only, staring at it hard. Do it, do it, do it. Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it. She closed her eyes, picturing how Quinn and Vivi would react if she “fell off the wagon,” as they said here. She imagined the disappointment on their faces. Worry, too, maybe even anger. She snapped open her eyes and put the card away, hurrying up the street. She would get a job eventually. She would. She just had to have faith.
21
“I should go over there and beat his limey ass.”
Natalie was sitting beside Quinn on a bench in Central Park, eating lunch. Her temptation to pull out her credit card and go wild had scared her. When she couldn’t get hold of her Shopaholics Anonymous sponsor, she called Quinn. He had wanted to hear from her anyway following her interview with Thompson. Luckily, she caught him as he was on his way to grab some food. Quinn told her he’d pick up sandwiches for both of them and meet her at the entrance to the park, right across from the Plaza Hotel, in half an hour or so. Natalie took the subway, which she still despised. So dirty compared to the Metro in Paris.
Because she didn’t want to appear snobby or ungrateful, she forced herself to eat the somewhat revolting tuna sandwich Quinn had purchased for her. The tuna was drowning in mayonnaise, the lettuce limp. She knew why he’d picked tuna for her: she’d once told him she loved fish
. He’d bought himself a ham and Swiss cheese sandwich, which Natalie found herself coveting. How sad, she thought, coveting a soggy, prepackaged sandwich. She really needed to get herself out to Vivi’s for a real meal.
When she’d told Quinn about her interview with Thompson, his expression had quickly changed from annoyance to sheer swagger. Natalie found his show of machismo sexy.
“I don’t need you to beat his ass. I handled it myself.”
Natalie took another bite of her sandwich, washing it down with a healthy dose of bottled water. Quinn, of course, was drinking coffee from some deli. He’d always said he’d rather shoot himself than ever set foot in a Starbuck’s. She might be a food snob, but he was a coffee snob.
Quinn grunted in agreement. “I hate guys who talk to women that way. They’re scum.”
Natalie wiped her mouth. She wasn’t going to tell him this, but she decided that she wanted no secrets between them. “I was so upset afterward, I almost went on a spending spree. But I didn’t.”
“That’s great, honey,” Quinn said, admiration in his voice. “I’m really proud of you.”
“It’s so hard sometimes,” Natalie admitted. Had she not resisted, she would probably be in her third boutique by now, charging away, ruining her life.
“Of course it is. It’s a legitimate addiction, just like anything else. You have to go day by day, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, like I said, I’m really proud of you.”
“Thank you.” It was just what she needed to hear.
Quinn gazed out at the bank of trees before them, branches swaying back and forth in the breeze. Natalie gazed at his profile. She loved the way the wind tousled his hair.
She rested her head on his shoulder. “You’re looking very handsome today.”
“Despite the mysterious hole that’s managed to appear in the right elbow of my jacket?” He held it up for her to see.
“Please tell me you’re going to have it mended. I can’t bear the thought of you walking around looking like some kind of tramp.”
With a Twist Page 16
