by Piper Lennox
Her mutters reach me all the way into the kitchen. I sit at the counter with my laptop—shoving aside the ugliest fucking purse I’ve ever seen, in the process—and check my email. Another message from Louis, my agent, about the reunion special from hell.
Wes, you don’t get it. It’s one week of work for an absolute fuckton of money. And fans are going to eat it up with a goddamn shovel.
You haven’t accepted any of the work I’ve gotten you in over a year.
Not to pull this card, but you kind of owe me.
Attached a rough premise the writers sent over. See what you think.
Against my better judgment, I do look at the attachment.
After the death of their father, the Chase kids return home to the picturesque town of Wellsport. We watch each walk through their childhood home, now for sale, after entering the house in their trademark way: Maisie through the garage, Ben through the backdoor from the garden, and Charlie via his bedroom window, after climbing up the oak to what’s left of the tree house he built with his father so many years ago….
“Done. Anything else, or am I free to actually go live my life?”
I tear my eyes away from this sappy, flaming pile of crap to look at Clara in the hallway. “You already finished?”
“I used to work in a clothing store. Retail folds are easy.” She leans right against my canvas print of Jim Morrison, until the look I give propels her off it. “Well?”
I get up and head back to the bedroom.
“What, are you checking my work?”
“Sure am.” Briefly, I savor the sight that is my clean chair. It’s been covered in laundry so long, I forgot it had a palm tree print on it. Then I open each drawer and shake my head. “Arrange them by color.”
“Excuse me?”
“Color,” I repeat. “Roy G. Biv. Dark to light.”
Behind her glasses, I see her eyes volley between mine. She pulls off glasses pretty well, even if I hate that she’s in those clear frames everyone and their hipster mother wears these days.
“Roy G. Biv,” she repeats.
“Red, orange, yell—”
“Ninety-percent of your shirts are black or gray, dumbass.”
“Then this should be super easy for you to do without that attitude. Yeah?”
“Dick.” She elbows me out of the way and gets to work. “And this is the worst fold for an actual wardrobe. You know that, right? Retail fold is for stacks on shelves of the same shirt. You shouldn’t lay your clothes the same way in a drawer. They get wrinkled and you mess them up, trying to find them. This is how you should—”
“It’s funny, I don’t remember our deal stating anything about backtalk.”
Clara braces her hands on the drawer like she wants to slam it. That, or pop it out of the tracks and swing it into my face.
“Fine.”
I lean on the dresser and watch. Steadily, her hands slow until she flat-out stops.
“Can you not watch me?”
“I want to make sure you’re doing it right.”
“I know how to sort colors, Durham. Go jerk off in your living room or something.”
My flinch goes undetected. Hopefully. “Sad you only got to see a preview, huh?”
“Oh, yes.” Her smile drips venom. “Watching some has-been play with his dick is so sexy.”
“Maybe you’d learn a thing or two. How to handle one properly, for starters.”
This is the most blatant lie that’s ever left my mouth. Clara knows exactly how to handle one. Or at least mine.
Again, her hands freeze in the drawer. Her blush returns.
I know she’s thinking of the cabana too.
“Let me finish this,” she says softly.
Shit. Regret swims through my head as I back away and head for the living room. I just wanted to piss her off, but I think I hurt her feelings.
Which you shouldn’t care about, I remind myself. First of all, Clara is way too sensitive. It’s just about the only trait her sister’s got that I’d view as a positive: a thick skin.
Second—Clara doesn’t need to know that the cabana is still my default memory. Or that she made me come so hard, every orgasm since has fallen short.
That I haven’t been with anyone since then, because it seems so damn unfair to put a girl up against that standard when I can’t even meet it on my own.
She’s made it clear she wants to forget that night. So I’m doing her a favor, really, by implying she was just some subpar blowjob on the beach.
“Done.” Her voice is wound tight when she emerges from the bedroom and snatches her purse off the counter. “What’s this?”
“What’s what?” I ask, feigning boredom—before I realize she’s reading my computer screen.
“Oh, my God, is this for the reunion special?”
I vault the couch better than Bowie and slap my laptop shut.
“Does this mean you’re done being the edgy, too-cool-for-school holdout?”
“It means keep your nose out of my emails,” I tell her, pretending the hypocrisy doesn’t slap me across the face.
She’s quiet a moment. “I can’t believe they’re killing off Bernard Chase.”
“Kind of hard to use that character when the actor’s dead.”
My sarcasm doesn’t faze her. “Yeah.” As she strolls to the end of the counter and toys with her purse, her eyes bounce to the laptop, then to me. “That must have been hard on you. Losing any costar, but especially the one that played your father.”
“Actually, I felt like throwing a giant fucking party over it.”
She snorts in this “Wow, somehow I momentarily forgot what a jerk you are” way, thinking I’m still being sarcastic. I’m not. Finding out that bastard left this earth was the best news I’d received in years.
The fact he probably went peacefully, thanks to a heart attack in his sleep, was almost the worst.
“So you’re really not doing it?” she asks. “I mean…if you have the pitch and everything, you must at least be considering—”
“My agent sent it over; I didn’t request it. He’s pissed I won’t do it. Along with a million other people who seem to think my career is their business. At least Louis has the excuse of being a greedy bitch—he gets a nice check if I do that special. I’m not sure what everyone else’s justification is.”
Her hesitation electrifies the air. “People loved that series. They like the idea of getting closure.”
“Yeah? Then I’m doing them a massive favor by refusing. Real life rarely wraps everything up in a satisfying little package like that.”
“You could do it as a favor to your costars, and your agent. Just because you don’t need the money doesn’t mean they don’t.”
“They all have plenty. Put that bleeding heart of yours away, Hurley.” I pick up the nearest drink just so I’ve got something to do with my hands besides tensing them, but the Monster is empty. I fake a sip, anyway. “Louis, in particular, is doing just fine without me, so God only knows why he’s mad I won’t do the reunion, or all this sell-out endorsement shit he keeps lining up. I wouldn’t be one bit surprised if he invents a scandal for me soon, since I never give him anything better.”
“Not to pull this card, but you kind of owe me.”
And people think I’m a prick.
“Right. Well. Guess you’ve got your reasons.” She slides her purse onto her shoulder and turns. “See you.”
“Whoa, hold on.” I glide in front of her. “Did I give you permission to leave?”
“I’m getting lunch with my sister before our meeting,” she snaps, but holds her breath as she waits for whatever task I’ve lined up next.
Truth is, I’m all out of ideas. Doesn’t bode well for the rest of this arrangement.
“You see your sister every single day. You’ve only got me for two months. Make the most of it.”
“My idea of capitalizing on my time with you is probably very different from yours.”
I watc
h, jaw stiff, as she straightens her hat and turns all her rings the right way. “Tell me.”
“Honestly? I’d very much like to kick you in the nuts.”
“You can make a guy sterile that way, you know.”
“Don’t tempt me.” When she retouches her lip gloss in the metallic base of the lamp nearby, I catch her perfume. Something like lemons and mint, different from whatever she wore the night of the party. “A chance to halt your genetics for future generations would be way too much icing on the cake.”
“You really hate me, don’t you?”
“I don’t think about you enough to hate you.”
Even while commenting on every last video I upload?
“Can I go now?” Clara draws her bottom lip into her teeth, ruining the gloss she just applied as she looks at my warped reflection beside hers. Slowly, she straightens. “Seriously, I’ve got a lot of stuff to do today.”
“I’m sure you do, Little Miss Entrepreneur.”
“Is that what this is all about?” Her hip juts out as she places her hand there. I stare at the deepened curve in her waist and wish like hell I didn’t want to grab her in that exact spot, spin her around, and get her pressed against my wall until the paint smells like her perfume. “You’re jealous?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a musician—”
“Generous terminology, but all right.”
“—and you’re a makeup reviewer. Other than the platform where we post, our work has nothing in common.” I pause. “We’re not even in the same arena. Remember?”
Momentarily blanching, she lifts an eyebrow. “Your sister is.”
“Don’t.” My stomach burns. “She’s got nothing to do with this.”
“And how would I know that, Durham? How do I know this isn’t part of some plot to boost her channel while tanking mine? It’s no secret she’s been trying to claw past us for years. God only knows why. The playing field is huge, yet she’s stayed right on our ass since the day she posted her first video.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I open the door as wide as possible. “Go. Enjoy your time off.”
“Time off? So, what—you think I work for you, now?”
“Don’t you?”
Clara snaps her mouth shut and shifts her purse on her shoulder. Every time I’ve seen her, she has a different one. Rarely are they brands I recognize. And something about them always draws my attention and pisses me off at the same time. Today, it’s the fact she’s got about fifty damn pom-poms dangling from the zipper.
“Tomorrow, same time,” I tell her as she passes, pulling that lemon and mint along with her. It gets me hard again. I wish it didn’t.
I wish I wasn’t about to go back to bed and finish what I started, the second those elevator doors close.
Six
“No. This isn’t acceptable.”
My heart pinches itself when Georgia slides the sample tray back across the conference table. Pearl and Alan give each other this look like they expected exactly that reaction, but I still feel the need to soften my sister’s words.
“The competitors’ versions,” I pipe up, “just smell less...chemical. I think that’s what Georgia is saying.”
“I’m saying theirs smell good, and ours smell horrible. Hair dye that smells like piss isn’t going to sell, and I really resent that you guys allegedly need me to tell you that.” Her gaze lands on Sasha. “You told me to be honest.”
I have a feeling Sasha regrets that more and more each day. In the months since we signed with Rue Royale, Georgia’s brutal honesty has garnered its own unique reaction: half a cringe, half a smile. I secretly call it the “Oh, Hell, Here Comes Georgia” look.
But she’s always right. And while the honesty might be brutal, her tone isn’t—she’s professional and polite (rogue cursing aside), and takes time to note what she does like whenever she criticizes something.
I think what the staff at Royale hates most is that she speaks up at all. They probably thought we’d be like the other vloggers they’ve signed in the past: hands-off, blindly trusting their product development teams, and willing to approve anything as long as our faces and names got attached.
They never expected my sister. Someone who actually gives a damn.
“The chemical smell is strong.” I blush when everyone’s eyes land on me, but I sit up and keep going. “We’re worried people would assume it’s damaging, with that kind of scent. And our whole angle is that it’s reparative, right? Something that’s actually good for your hair. So...so it really should smell good.”
Sasha relaxes. “You’re right.” She looks at Georgia. “You both are. And I apologize—we can definitely work on the scent. But does everything else work for you, so far? The pigment levels, the texture?”
Georgia’s posture softens, too, as she inspects each of the nondescript containers again. “Yeah. I like the pink a lot, actually.”
“We expect that to be the most popular.” Sasha smiles for the first time since we arrived. She’s a little uptight, but I like her. Not once have I heard her use the phrases “minimally viable product,” “eighty-twenty,” or even simply “good enough,” the way a lot of the product team has.
While Georgia’s honesty might get on her nerves, she also seems to appreciate someone who shoots it straight and cares as much as she does.
Our agent, Catherine, is the same way—a bulldog who never accepts second-best. It was our one requirement for picking someone out of the sea of reps who contacted us during our Edge Crossers ascent: they had to be as attentive to quality as we were, and more concerned with long-term results than a quick buck. There are way too many scummy agents out there, salivating at the chance to stab their client in the back and call it a hug.
The rest of the meeting goes well. I’m feeling a little lost by the end of it, which happens frequently. Georgia handles business terms, charts, and timelines best, while I’m better at the creative side of things. My attention wanders until the end, when we get a look at the packaging designs for our first eye shadow palette.
“Your call,” Georgia whispers, nudging me. I fan through the different concepts and choose the only one that’s unique from the others. Instead of the ubiquitous black case with white type, it’s rainbow metallic, and has the text embossed so it’s only visible from certain angles.
“Little avant-garde, don’t you think?” Alan asks with a smirk. I don’t like him. His arrogance reminds me of Durham’s, except that Alan is clearly insecure.
He cares what others think, deep down in his heart—whereas I’m not sure Durham even has one.
“And?” I ask, blinking at him. Georgia grins and slides the design I picked down the length of the table, right into Pearl’s lap.
“I’m so excited.” In the elevator, Georgia holds up her phone and waves me in for a selfie. She makes sure to angle it so you can’t see my hat, since I was wearing one in the last two we posted.
While she types the caption—Big News! Stay Tuned—she elbows me. “Great call on that packaging choice, by the way.”
“Avant-garde,” I laugh, and lean back against the wall as we glide down to the street. “Did you hear how he said that? Like he expected me to be offended?”
“Alan’s such a loser. I bet he and Pearl are fucking.”
“You think everyone’s fucking.”
“Most people are.” Her serious face cracks when I nudge her shoulder and knock her off-balance.
The air is hazy and humid as we carve through the crowds to the subway. We get some stares, but nobody stops us. I’m glad, even if Georgia’s disappointment radiates across me. She likes getting recognized.
“Shit, what happened?” she asks when we’re on the subway, wedged between a guy wearing too much Obsession and a woman whose backpack keeps squirming. I’m fairly certain there’s a puppy or cat in it, so when she isn’t looking I open the zipper a half-inch to give it air.
A ferret nose pokes out. I was wrong
, which makes me love New York even more.
Georgia watches me with amusement, but quickly points her stare back to the scratch on my hand. It’s from Bowie, who got too excited when I removed his leash at the park. I eye it like I forgot it existed.
“Guy had a dog,” I shrug, assuring myself this isn’t a lie. A guy did have a dog, after all.
“He brought it into the shelter? Isn’t that against the rules?”
“Yeah.” Again, not a lie. It is against the rules for people staying at Benedict House to bring pets—not that we volunteers don’t turn the occasional blind eye to it. Try telling a war vet who lives under an overpass he can’t bring his adopted stray terrier in for a warm floor and Dixie cup of water. It’s impossible.
All the rationalizing doesn’t ease my guilt over skirting the truth with Georgia, of course. But it does stop her questions. That’s something.
By the time we get to our stop, the sun is setting. I shut my eyes when we emerge above ground into the breeze. I love early evening, when things have wound down but you still have hours before the day ends.
Then I remember where I have to be tomorrow, and my smile fades.
“I’m, uh...I’m gonna be busy for a few hours in the morning, by the way. Again.”
“It’s our day off!”
“We can still do the spa day,” I promise quickly. “I’m just...really needed.”
Talking to her feels like making deals with some smartass genie, where you have to say things just right to get what you want instead of some horrible twist.
“We both know you’re going to sleep late, anyway.”
At this, she has to nod.
We get takeout from our favorite sushi place on the way home, then stop for wine at the corner store. The owners, an elderly man and his middle-aged son, always shout, “Twins!” when we walk inside, making jokes that they only need to check one of our I.D.’s when we buy alcohol, even though they never check either.
