She started nodding before he even finished with whatever the hell he was saying, and turned to me with a calm little grandma smile.
“Mr. Killane eat often with us, he is good boy – we take care of him, feed him and look always out for him. Miss, you be nice to him, yes? Always the girls from the TV, they were mean to him – act nice but mean, you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am, I understand – and I promise that any slinky TV sluts who get within six feet of the big guy will get a taste of my fist on their perfect little faces, okay?”
She smiled, turned to Devon, and fired off another round of Mystery Language commentary. Then she returned to her sudoku with a sigh.
“Do I want to know what she just said?”
Devon paused with a forkful of scrambled eggs halfway to his mouth. “She chose to advise me that you are a kind and lovely girl, and that if I am not nice to you, she will never feed me or talk to me ever again.”
He washed down the eggs with a swallow of orange juice, and then showed his inherent resolve and strength of character by resisting the bacon long enough to add, “In truth, Ashley, I have always been far more comfortable around servants than executives.”
“For somebody who’s earned kazillions by knowing how to handle executives, that seems a little odd – how did you come to be Eat-In-The-Kitchen Boy, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“You may always ask me anything, sweet Ashley. I may not always answer, depending on my many moods and insecurities, but always feel free to ask me whatever you wish.”
“Then while we’re at it, how did you also become Mr. Language Guy? I had no idea you spoke German until you and Michael got all chatty in the diner that night, and just now you sprang some more mad language skills on me – what’s up with that? Did you set out to learn that kind of thing because you figured it would be helpful for international business dealings or whatever?”
I looked down at my bacon, realized with a twinge of horror that it had been getting cold while I ran my mouth, and got to work on its greasy goodness. Devon set about cutting his strips of yumminess into unnecessary chunks with his fork, and then toyed with the crunchy mess while he answered me.
“As it happens, both of your questions are resolved by the same circumstance. During the years I lived in my father’s household, some of my least unhappy moments were spent in the company of servants – when I was fortunate the Killanes ignored me, and so I was raised in large part by cooks, maids, and bodyguards. I’ve eaten in more kitchens than I can count, and I’ve always found the staff members there to be far more like family than my actual relatives.”
“That’s … well, that’s sad.” It was beyond sad, of course – it was pitiful and wretched, and it made me want to head on down to wherever the Killanes were being held in custody and punch them all in their smug faces.
“Not at all. A variety of maids taught me by their patient example that women are strong, intelligent, endlessly intriguing, and not at all the worthless creatures my father made them out to be. Maids and housekeepers helped me with my homework, soothed away my hurts, and listened to me when no one named Killane could be bothered. Chauffeurs played catch with me, a gardener taught me how to ride a bicycle, and two bodyguards took me to my first baseball game.”
“Wow, they took you right off the reservation to enjoy the real world, huh? Sounds cool, did –”
“Oh, it was quite cool – until my father found out and fired them with no notice or severance pay, but with rather a lot of profanity.”
Man, the more I heard about his dad, the more I hated that pathological waste of skin. Why hadn’t his sweet mom been able to see what a monster the guy was, behind his good looks and witty asshole banter?
“So he let them go for the high and mighty crime of being nice to you?”
“For that, for treating me like a boy and not an annoying encumbrance, and most of all, I imagine, for feeling sorry for me – I got the impression neither of them even liked baseball that much, they just wanted me to see what fun was like for an afternoon.”
Devon soldiered through the rest of his bacon with the dedication of a weird mutant being who didn’t care for delicious chemical-laden pork products, but felt a moral duty to empty his plate anyway. In between bites, he answered my other unsettling question of the moment.
“As for languages, I have maids and cooks to thank for my learning Spanish and two Filipino dialects during the years I endured in my father’s house. I began imitating their speech out of mere curiosity at first, enchanted by the strangeness of the sounds, but I became quite serious about it once I saw how pleased they were by my first fumbling efforts. As you might imagine, I was rather desperate for any sort of attention or approval in those days.”
Damn right – I almost wished I didn’t have such a clear mental picture of a pale, neglected, lonely little kid getting under the servants’ feet and soaking up their languages like a sponge, just to be closer to the only people who gave two shits about him. “And the German?”
“I first heard German when I was seven years old, and came upon a guard dog handler working with a great shaggy beast that looked not unlike the product of a mating between a wolf and a dinosaur; the man was British himself, but the dog was imported from a kennel in Bavaria, and knew only German commands.
“Once I realized the remarkable fact that an animal knew a language I didn’t, I was hooked, and insisted on tagging along after them as they made their rounds. I picked up all the words the dog knew in a day, though I only learned the rest of the language years later, from two-legged teachers.
“As other servants shuttled in and out of my father’s employ – few of them lasted long under his dictatorial and intolerant reign, as you might imagine – I also acquired a smattering of Portuguese, Korean, and Vietnamese, and I inhaled French wholesale from books. I’ve learned other languages over the years since, from various schools and just by keeping my ears open – and while it has been useful for my business endeavors, in the main part it has simply been soothing, in a way I find difficult to describe.”
It wasn’t a bit difficult to figure out that he found it soothing because it took him back to when strangers first showed him kindness and gave him a tiny harbor of safety in a frightening new world – but I didn’t share that insight, because I figured I’d done enough amateur psychologizing for one weekend.
Instead, I nodded at Masina. “So what language were you two using just now?”
“Ah, that was Samoan – quite different in structure and vocabulary from other tongues I’ve learned, and a fascinating study. Masina has been a patient teacher, and you should have seen Jimmy’s face when I spoke Samoan to him on the night we first met – the man was so stunned to hear his native tongue from a towering white stranger, I rather think it’s half the reason he signed on to work for me the next day.”
“And Jimmy is …?”
“One of my bodyguards. He was working security at a simply awful nightclub Sasha insisted on dragging me to a few years ago – one of those see-and-be-seen places with pounding music inside and a million photographers outside – and I was quite impressed by the way he controlled the crowd with nothing more than his eyes.
“I might mention that I was even more impressed when Sasha yelled at him for making us wait to go inside and he responded with a wordless look that silenced her for ten solid minutes. When I saw that, I knew I had to hire him away from that dreadful place, and he’s been with me ever since.”
“Whoa, I like the dude already – and have I met him? I haven’t learned the names of all your security guys yet –”
“He may have been on duty yesterday when you arrived and I’m quite sure he’s working here today, so you’ll meet him when you leave – that is, if you’re still insisting on going home to your charming but horrifyingly not-here apartment today?”
I wanted to stay. But what I needed was time to sit in my own space and think about what had happened over the past twenty-four hou
rs. There also happened to be a few days of laundry and a sink full of unwashed dishes waiting for me at home.
But why did that have to be home? Why not here?
Yep, that was another subject that needed some serious thought.
“I need to straighten up my place and get ready for work tomorrow, big fella – but don’t worry, we’ll be back here mowing through early German cinema and tons of greasy popcorn before you know it.”
“Ashley, I cannot express to you how much it meant to me to have you here last night. And for all last night meant, it would mean even more to have you here with me every night – I know it’s desperately selfish of me, but I ask again, will you at least consider moving in with me?”
He stared at me with those blue-violet eyes that held worlds of hurt and longing, and I trembled under his gaze. In that moment, I could not think of a single good reason to turn him down … except for the lone fact that something deep inside me said the right time to make his home mine as well was not quite now, and not quite yet.
And just why did he feel selfish for wanting me to stay?
“Devon, I want to be here with you, and I promise I will think about it – now just isn’t quite the right time, okay?”
He reached out and covered my right hand with his own, tracing the contours of my skin with one restless finger.
“Time is rushing past us, my Ashley. Decide quickly.”
And then he stood up and left the room without saying another word.
I put on yesterday’s clothes, bundled up in my coat, and met Devon outside about twenty minutes later. The previous night’s sleet had melted, but the air was chill with the promise of worse winter weather to come, and it would have made sense to get going before the roads iced up again.
Screw sense.
I wanted to grill my guy to within an inch of his life about what he meant by that ominous ‘time is rushing past us’ remark, and I would have stood there in his driveway through a blizzard to get the answer – but I was scared.
I was scared, I was confused, and I knew I loved him whatever the hell he’d been talking about – so instead of demanding an answer, I chickened out and just hugged him tight. I laid my head against his chest and he wrapped his arms around me, holding me against the warmth of his body as he nuzzled the top of my head.
We stood beneath the slate-grey sky sharing warmth and silence and what we felt for each other, as the two security guys who’d met me when I arrived the day before waited at a discreet distance. Bill/Brad/Brent – why could I never remember that guy’s name? – had started my car and now stood by the driver’s side door, ready to open it for me. It was one of those moments that lasted a few seconds, and seemed to go on forever.
“GODDAMMIT!”
I jumped about a foot, Devon tightened his arms around me, and every last person there jerked around to stare at the house.
Mrs. Hadfield came stalking like a wild thing down the walkway, advancing on us with murder in her eyes. You could almost see cartoon steam shooting out of her ears, she was so mad.
“I want to know which one of you ate my ice cream, and I want to know NOW!”
Oh shit.
She marched up to us, planted her feet wide apart, and crossed her arms. One toe tapped against the brick paving, a single finger rapped against her arm, and the laser glare of her eyes could have burned a combat drone right out of the sky.
“Someone ate my one and only pint of Ben & Jerry’s Peanut Brittle ice cream last night, the ice cream that I hid in the back of the freezer in the first floor employee kitchen because it was MINE, and I want to know who the hell did it.”
She jabbed a finger at Devon.
“I know it wasn’t you, because you don’t like ice cream. I’ve never understood that, but whatever.”
Next, she pointed right at me and I felt like I was about three years old, and not likely to make it to four.
“Ashley, was it you?”
My mouth gawped open, and I knew I was screwed.
Then Devon took the bullet for me – or he tried to.
“Mrs. Hadfield, I’m afraid that I’m –”
“It was me, ma’am.”
A quiet, breathy, high-pitched little voice confessed to the crime – but when we all turned to stare at the source … holy shit.
Who knew Giant Staring Security Guy could speak? Or that he’d sound like a mouse huffing helium?
That soft, reserved voice just kept coming out of that ginormous staring mountain of a man, and he took the fall for us without batting an eye.
“I’m sorry I ate your ice cream, Mrs. Hadfield. I was hungry last night, and I ate it while I was on my break. I apologize for forgetting it was yours, and I will replace it.”
Mrs. Hadfield flicked a glance at me, just for a second – did she know? – and then she marched over to our enormous savior. She stared up at him, he loomed over her, and how did she manage to make him look like a cowering three-year-old too?
She glared, she sighed, and she shook her head.
“It’s always the quiet ones. Why is it always the goddamn quiet ones?”
She stared up at him as if she expected an answer, but Giant Staring Security Guy had nothing further to say on the subject. He just stood there in silence, staring off over her head into the distance.
Mrs. Hadfield rolled her eyes. “Men, my god – they make like they’re such unholy badasses, and then they eat a working woman’s ice cream. Goddammit.”
She stared at all of us again, just for the principle of the thing – I guess she figured we were all guilty of something or other, even if she hadn’t figured out what yet – and then she spun around on one heel, she marched back up the walkway, and she disappeared into the house, just like that.
Whoa.
After we all stood there sharing a suitable period of shocked, what-the-hell-just-happened silence, Devon spoke up.
“Jimmy, you are a far braver man than I am. Thank you.”
Wait – Giant Staring Security Guy was the Jimmy we’d been talking about over bacon and eggs?
“No problem, Mr. Killane.”
Then Devon responded by saying something in what I now knew was Samoan, and the two of them spent a couple of minutes talking back and forth in the language of a tropical island several thousand miles away, while the rest of us just stood there being kind of useless.
I felt like I had to say something, though, seeing as how I was the one who’d eaten the majority of the ice cream.
“Jimmy, you didn’t have to do that – but thanks, it was sweet of you.”
“My pleasure, Miss.”
And with that, the spell was broken and the moment was over. Devon walked me to my car, pulled me into another hug and pressed a kiss to my cheek, and then stepped back while I climbed behind the driver’s wheel and put the Mercedes into gear. I pulled away down the circular driveway and out to the road that wound back down the hill, and I took one look in the rearview mirror.
Devon still stood rooted to the spot where I’d left him, staring at me as I drove away. So many answers were locked up inside that man, answers that I needed in order to understand him, to help him – but how could I know which questions to ask and which to avoid? Would he even be able to tell me what I needed to know?
I was halfway home when it hit me – I knew someone else who had to have a lot of those answers.
I knew someone else who had answers, someone who had Devon’s best interests at heart, someone who loved him and wanted to help him, someone who was going to tell me everything he knew as soon as I could arrange to meet with him.
Uncle Sheridan, time for you to spill your guts.
***
She never told me about her dream, but I knew.
She didn’t know that when I had that dream, I always chose the stars.
27. Angel
It was weird meeting the second-richest guy I knew at McDonald’s.
I assumed we’d talk over lunch at some four-star restaur
ant downtown, complete with silk tablecloths, crystal goblets of chablis, unpronounceable entrées, and aggressively unhelpful waiters who looked like runway models, because surely a guy who always wore a three-piece suit that cost more than a car wouldn’t be seen anywhere else, right?
Yeah, I should have known a class act like Uncle Sheridan way better than that.
When I called him Monday – right after I arranged to have a case of Ben & Jerry’s delivered to Devon’s place, because I was pretty sure Mrs. Hadfield knew who the ice cream thief really was – the best-dressed Jedi master in the Empire asked me to meet him for breakfast Tuesday morning, at a McDonald’s that occupied prime turf near the University of Chicago, home of thousands of students unable or unwilling to cook real meals.
And yep, every last one of them packed the place when I walked in at 10:00 a.m. that Tuesday, or at least it felt that way as I waited in line for the better part of forever to gain the precious prize of a steak-egg-and-cheese bagel – and you can stop looking at me like that, because I ordered an orange juice with it and the magical properties of vitamin C balanced out the evil of all that cholesterol, right? Right?
That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I picked up my tray full of delicious greasy awesomeness and went looking for Uncle Sheridan.
I forged through the throng of hipsters, stoners, jocks, and geeks, and I felt like a visitor to an alien planet – had I really gone to school with kids like this and lived this life, just a few years ago?
And why was I mentally labeling them as ‘kids’? Most of them weren’t much younger than I was, and some were older – but between holding down a job in the real world, living with real-world priorities like rent and electric bills, and then getting sucked into the all-consuming vortex that was Killane World, I no longer seemed to even belong to the same species as these yappy, self-absorbed kids pushing past me.
Five Minutes Late: A Billionaire Romance Page 30
