Skygods (Hydraulic #2)

by Sarah Latchaw

  I hadn’t needed a babysitter since I was ten. (Save for an unfortunate introduction to Gospodin Vodka and his jiggly mistress, Jell-O, at a freshmen mixer. Molly had to peel me off the floor.) I got why Jerome wanted to micromanage Samuel’s interviews: the behind-the-curtain world of celeb PR was abuzz over Caroline Ortega’s departure. But after the third interview in which the smarmy man shut me down when fielding questions, I itched to pummel his shiny bald head.

  I decided not to fight him on this. Soon, with luck and a little tap-dancing, I’d make sure he and the rest of his self-important crew no longer represented Samuel.

  The silver lining was that Jerome’s micromanagement left me with time to ponder. The last instance when Samuel had large chunks of time wiped from his memory was his cocaine spree in Raleigh. Cocaine had also exacerbated his illness that night in New York, causing a memory lapse. The only conclusion I reached was that he was using again. I hoped to God he wasn’t. But then, what if there was something dreadfully wrong—something out of his control, like a brain tumor—that caused the black out?

  I wound my arms around my torso. Tomorrow morning’s doctor visit couldn’t come soon enough.

  I stared out a window of the Standard Hotel at the mini-circus below, just beyond the railroad tracks. Paparazzi paced like a pride of lions and waited for Indigo Kingsley’s arrival. The camera-happy photogs had hoped for a money shot of Samuel handing Indigo out of car. I could feel waves of disappointment when I’d climbed out of the car instead of Indigo.

  Just beyond the hotel was the Meatpacking District, an area once known for its slaughterhouses, drugs, and prostitutes. Rotting packing plants gave way to dens of hipsters and trendy hotels like the Standard, which catered to celebs seeking low-key visits. The hotel was so futuristically retro, I half expected George Jetson to fly in and say “get out of my chair, you big strata-jerk.” Justin called it Le Corbusier. I called it awesome.

  Samuel sat on an uncomfortable-looking sofa, absently twisting a cocktail napkin.

  “Lastly, Mr. Cabral, do you prefer boxers or briefs?”

  “Seriously?” Justin whispered. “What an unimaginative question. The poor girl works for You Magazine, though, so I shouldn’t expect any less.”

  “Your claws are showing, kitty.”

  At least Samuel could respond to this stuff in his sleep. “Unless you catch me at the Laundromat, I’m afraid you’ll never know the answer.” He winked robotically.

  My eyes drifted across the skyline to the cloudless sky. If I was in Boulder, we’d take advantage of a Monday like this and blow off work to canoe. Heck, our clients would grab their life vests, and bongs, and join us. I covered my mouth to stifle a yawn. I’d seen practically nothing of the city, though I understood it would be this way. Once the movie promotion was over, I’d come back for a real visit.

  “Don’t forget about the press junket and Water Sirens screening in November,” Jerome said.

  The girl thanked Samuel for his time, just as another interviewer strode in, such-and-such from The New Yorker. I didn’t need Jerome to tell me this one was important. The New Yorker was the first big publication to run Samuel’s short stories years ago.

  The man sat, all business with a leather binder and a goatee that hid a weak chin. “Sam, good to see you again. Since we only have fifteen minutes, I’m just gonna get to the good stuff.”

  “Okay.” A napkin shred fluttered to his lap.

  “What’s this I hear about Caroline Ortega beating feet?”

  “I can answer that,” said Jerome. “Ms. Ortega has left The Buitre Group to pursue a new business venture and Mr. Cabral has chosen to remain with us.”

  “You’re not going to give me anything, are you, Jerome? Okay, Sam, is there any truth to the rumors she’s got a book in her pocket written by an old friend of yours?”

  Samuel started from his bored stupor. He crumpled the napkin and tossed it on the floor. “What the fuck kind of question is that?”

  I stifled a groan.

  New Yorker lifted his story-sniffing nose. “I haven’t seen it, but word is Togsender has some pretty strong opinions about you. Judging from your reaction, I’d say it’s true.”

  “I can respond to that, too,” Jerome simpered. “The book does nothing but regurgitate tabloid trash, which obviously upsets Mr. Cabral. It will probably never see book stands. Do you have any questions related to Mr. Cabral’s books?”

  “Yeah, if you’re gonna let him answer.”

  A commotion in the hallway stole our attention, followed by a flurry of action on the street below. Photogs surged toward Indigo Kingsley’s gray SUV in a mad rush to snap pictures and were instantly pushed back by a wall of bodyguards.

  Finally, just in time. “She’s here,” I said to the room.

  Relief flashed in Jerome’s face. “I believe I can arrange a special feature for The New Yorker, if you can give us another twenty minutes of your time. Justin, please confer with Nat and see if Ms. Kingsley is willing to sit down with Mr. Cabral for a joint interview.” Why did it sound as though he was setting up a play-date?

  Mr. New Yorker’s eyes widened. “Hell yeah, I can give you twenty.”

  I had to hand it to Jerome—he was shrewd beneath that oily exterior.

  I watched as the top of her blond head emerged from the car. She paused for a few photos, waved to fans, then disappeared into the hotel. It was over in half-a-minute, but it was enough to make my stomach flip again.

  Soon, the Indigo Kingsley sashayed into the room, all legs and slit skirt. Maybe it was that Aussie confidence, or simply fame, but she commanded a room’s attention with a lift of her chin.

  “Samuel, stellar to see you again.” She clasped his hands and kissed his cheeks. Gray eyes scrutinized the room. “Will you look at this place? I feel as though Scotty’s beamed me up.”

  Nat followed behind her and gave me a small wave. She could easily fade into Indigo’s long shadow, if not for the bright mind beneath her sober face.

  “Indigo, Nat. You know Jerome and Justin. But I’d like to introduce you to Kaye Trilby,” Samuel said softly.

  Confusion flashed over Nat and Indigo’s faces, but they tapped it down. “Kaye, glad to see you again. Samuel, thank you for arranging our shopping trip,” Nat hinted.

  Indigo smiled at me. But it faltered as she watched Samuel sink into the sofa like a deflating balloon. Her gaze swept over his weary slouch and resigned expression. Then she watched as Justin snatched up the napkin shreds at Samuel’s feet. Indigo was sharp. I think she understood something was wrong, and she’d have to carry the interview. I found I was grateful for her steady presence. She sat next to him on the spaceship couch and crossed her long legs, gazing politely at Mr. New Yorker. He’d taken copious notes throughout the exchange.

  “Speaking of Neelie Nixie,” the man began, “in what ways were you able to identify with your character?”

  “The love she has for her friends and family. It wasn’t hard to channel—Samuel wrote her beautifully. I also like to think I have a bit of her adventurous spirit…” Indigo Kingsley was a pro at giving just enough to sate the media’s appetite.

  Nat took her place next to me, and together we watched the interview unfold.

  “I didn’t have a chance to say thank you for arranging the subterfuge last month,” I said quietly. “I was afraid the tabs were gearing up to crucify me for coming between Indigo and Samuel, Brangelina-style.”

  “They probably were,” she whispered. “It was no trouble, and Indigo’s thrilled to show off her hunky Latin lover. It was win-win.”

  I liked Nat. Both she and Indigo were flower-beautiful, but as different as lilies and wattles. We chatted in hushed voices, one ear on the sitting area. As we spoke, the skin on the back of my neck prickled, and I felt the blistering gaze of two beady eyes. Jerome watched me. A dark look passed over his face, then diffused into his ruddy skin.

  “Time’s up, I’m afraid.” He gestured to the clock on the wall
.

  Hours passed and interviewers trickled in and out. Catering wheeled in a cart loaded with lunch items. Samuel ate nothing.

  It was more confounding than an abstract algorithm. Last night had been, frankly, terrifying. I was sure I’d wake to find him a manic mess, fingers worn to the bone from a night of typing. This morning, he was all smiles. Now, it was as if he’d set his body on autopilot while his brain retreated to Shangri-La. Was I witnessing one episode or several? I’d read about rapid cycling, but I thought there were long stretches of “normal” sandwiched between highs and lows, stretches that could last weeks.

  I stole away into the side bedroom and rifled through Samuel’s messenger bag. I found his two prescription bottles and counted: twenty-two Depakote tablets, twenty-two antidepressants. One less than yesterday, each. Relieved, I stuffed them back in his bag.

  Damn it, I needed a sunblock with the highest fricking SPF available for Samuel’s rays.

  By three p.m., birthday wishes were rolling in. Molly and Cassady…Dani from the welding shop…Angel from the hangar…Sofia even phoned, her voice faltering. I hadn’t heard from her since Rocky Mountain Folks. She and Alonso seemed to be giving us our space after I’d reamed them.

  Another call came in, and I gleefully stepped out of the room.

  “¡Hola, mamacita!”

  “Hey, Hector.”

  “How’s life in New York? Seen lots of tall buildings?”

  “I’ve lived in the clouds since I arrived.” Mostly thunderclouds, but clouds, nevertheless.

  “I’ve got a birthday present for you. Ready?”

  “You didn’t need to—”

  “What do you call Hippie Tom’s wife?”

  “I’m guessing not Gail or Audrey.”

  “Ay, that was an insensitive joke, sorry.”

  “Well, give me the rest.” I bit back a grin.

  “Mississippi!”

  My gut twisted, longing for home. “Man, I’ve missed those. Hey, big player, what’s this I hear about a love triangle?”

  “Oh. That.” He proceeded to fill me in on the infamous Tricia/Jaime scandal, his head growing to the size of a Goodyear Blimp. “And then Jaime hung up on me.”

  “Let me get this straight. Jaime asked you to go biking with her in the National Park and you said yes. Then Tricia asked you to skydive with her, and you said yes. How is this not two-timing?”

  “Because the thing with Jaime isn’t a date. Her words were, and I quote, ‘I need someone to bike with so I don’t get attacked by pervert frat boys camping in the forest.’”

  “It’s a date, trust me. And if you want to escape with your manhood intact, I’d break one of those dates. I don’t know Tricia, but Jaime expects exclusivity.”

  “Lo que sea. So, you ready to give Longs Peak a good spankin’?”

  I groaned. “Work has been so insane, I’ve barely had time to do a single sit-up, let alone wall-climbing.”

  “You better get on that or we’ll make you carry the food.”

  I gasped. “You wouldn’t! We always give that to the rookies.”

  “Well, get your butt harnessed so you don’t disappoint the Guzman kid. Seriously, you know the rules. The minute fatigue sets in, you make crap judgment calls and end up tumbling down an ice crevasse.”

  “Geez, bossy. Okay.”

  There was a long, awkward pause when neither of us said a word. Finally, we exchanged our good-byes.

  “I miss you, Kaye.”

  “I miss you, too.” But as the words rolled off my tongue, it hit me that I didn’t miss him as much as I thought I would, I’d been so busy. Actually, I didn’t miss any of the Lyons crowd as much as I thought I would, and feeling that way about my friends made me uneasy. “See you in November,” I mumbled, and hung up.

  Sometimes I forgot that Samuel had marvelous hearing, especially when he was borderline catatonic like today. I emerged from the bedroom after my call and found a nearly empty room. Samuel waited for me.

  “What did Hector say?” he demanded.

  “Nothing important. Birthday wishes, wanted to make sure I was getting ready for the climb.”

  “Did you tell him you aren’t going?”

  I scowled. “No I didn’t, because I’m still doing the climb.”

  Anger flared in his blue eyes. Fury, even. I thought he was going to unleash hell and all its minions on me. But he said nothing, and the fire fizzled to a defiant flicker. “I’m going to take a fifteen-minute break. Can you see if the next interviewer is willing to wait?”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” I said delicately. “You have to watch your health. Maybe we shouldn’t do the event tonight, yeah?” He stalked past me into the bedroom, not even bothering with his usual head kiss.

  I sighed and pressed my forehead against the grain of the closed door. Swallowing, I forced down fear before it besieged me. If I took in everything on my plate, I’d crack. Like steel, Kaye.

  When I turned around, I saw Jerome, hands clasped behind his back, staring again.

  “Is there something I should know about my client, Ms. Trilby?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle, Mr. Buitre.”

  He pursed his thin lips, calculating. “I’ll remind you that Samuel Cabral committed to this charity event months ago. Many prominent people will expect him to be there, and if he doesn’t show—especially after his illness in Los Angeles—people will speculate. Rumors will crop up about nervous breakdowns, rehab, the whole gambit.”

  Now I was faced with a dilemma: Samuel’s health or Samuel’s reputation? Like a machine, I mentally checked off our friendship vows…no matter how I chose, I’d violate at least one of them. Son-of-a-monkey.

  “I’ll give you one hour at the charity event.” Put in a quick appearance, then duck out.

  “Three.”

  “One hour, non-negotiable, then he’s calling it a night.”

  His eyes glinted with a hardness that conveyed how cruel he could be. And then, that silver tongue. “Certainly. Mr. Cabral’s well-being is our first priority, as ever.”

  He knew I didn’t believe him.

  It had come to this. I, Kaye Trilby, small-business owner that catered to B&Bs and ski shops, would have to find that single ruthless bone in my body and exploit, exploit, exploit. I hated the idea. Hated the manipulation, the games, the back-stabbing. But I could tell, without a doubt, Jerome was gearing up to strike.

  The minute the interviews were over and I was ensconced in the privacy of my own hotel room, I called Jaime.

  “Guzman.”

  “Jaime, I need you.” I jerked away my slacks and blouse, and unzipped the garment bag containing the cocktail dress I’d bought with Indigo and Nat.

  “It’s about time. Do you want to wear the strap—?”

  “Ha-ha,” I interrupted, lest she take us to a place from which we could never return. “I need you to do some digging into Jerome Buitre’s background. That weasel’s gonna take me out, I can feel it. I need dirt on him, something to hold over his head ASAP.”

  She whistled. “Tall order. First Caroline, now her boss. Are you sure you want to go down this road? I’m telling you right now, if there was anything to be found, the guy’s probably swept his tracks clean.”

  I squeezed the phone between my shoulder and ear as I shimmied into the filmy black material. “Try. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “I want double what you paid last time, plus a date with Hector Valdez.”

  Crap, he would kill me. I jabbed a bobby pin into my scalp. “You’re asking me to use Hector as a bargaining chip?”

  “It’s your way or my way.”

  Jaime’s way probably involved dog collars and leashes. Well, Hector was always on the hunt for new thrills. Jaime Guzman wouldn’t disappoint.

  “It’s as good as done. Happy digging.”

  My smugness vanished when I looked in the vanity mirror and saw Samuel leaning against the door frame, astute eyes boring into mine, more alert than he�
��d been in days. He was already dressed in a sharp black suit, elegant down to his cuff links and pocket square. The way he looked at me…his disapproval pelted me like dime-sized hail. Well, what did he expect when he brought me on board?

  “Trading in extreme sports for other adrenaline rushes?”

  I glared at him. After Samuel and Jerome overheard my previous conversations, I should have learned my phone voice carried like a klaxon.

  “Don’t play their games, Trilby. Not you. Especially with people you care about.”

  I bent to buckle the straps on my heels, giving him a generous view of what little cleavage I had. “You yanked me off the bench and put me in your starting lineup, Cabral.”

  “Hector is your friend.” He held my gaze for a long while. “You’re sidelining me, you know. Cutting me out of whatever you’ve got brewing. Why?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  His gaze grew flinty. “I may have bipolar disorder, but my brain still works—very well, actually. I have to wonder if this is a delayed attempt at retribution for cutting you out all those years ago.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand. “Please. Just think it over.” He gave me a small nod and left.

  “I’m doing this for you, Samuel,” I called after him.

  Because I was doing this for him. I wasn’t trying to prove a thing, or shut him out, oh no. If he’d only consider publishing his book, I wouldn’t have to play these games.

  But you are cutting him out, Kaye. Are you doing it to protect him, or pay him back?

  I jerked open my makeup bag so hard, I tore off the zipper. Fan-flippin’-tastic. Eye shadow…liner…mascara, like Danita taught me my first day of high school. I uncapped a tube of lipstick and dabbed it over my lips, painting them a killer red. I never wore dark red lipstick. I gazed at the woman before me, all smoky eyes and sleek hair in the glow of vanity lights. Powerful and classy, legs pale and long against a dramatic black. This woman could rival the biggest PR players in New York City. She was heart-attack beautiful. She was scarlet and steel. She was arrogant.