Life of the Party

by Kris Fletcher

  “How long were you breathing in these fumes, Dekker?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “You’re not usually this dense. I hope it’s just because your brain cells got scrambled. Otherwise I might have to march over to Tadeson’s office and see if they could use a little help.”

  Cole pushed the drawer closed. “Okay. Obviously I’m missing something major here, but I’ll be dipped if I can figure out what. So how about you give me a hint?”

  “You want a hint? Sure, Cole. Here’s a big one.” Ram clasped his hands and pointed both forefingers at Cole. “Rob Elias.”

  “The guy who took the bribes and then took a powder? What does he have to do with—”

  I haven’t broken any laws.

  He used to be family.

  Just Jenna.

  “Oh, shit.”

  “And the candidate gets a clue.”

  Cole dropped into the desk chair behind him, wincing as his butt made contact with the poorly padded surface. “I can’t believe I missed that.”

  “She’s a looker. I can see how your brain might have been hijacked. But still . . .” Ram shook his head. “And you tried to get her to work with us?”

  “Okay, that part, I don’t regret. She’s smart and funny, and she can hold her own.” Plus she had a thing for underdogs. “I thought . . . no, I still think she could be an asset.”

  “She probably could.”

  “But Dad . . .”

  “Yeah,” Ram echoed. “But Dad.”

  Cole hadn’t mentioned Jenna’s interaction with the man he was now sure had been Rob. His discussion with Ram had centered on the before part of their conversation, the banter over the counter that had left him staring at her more than at his phone. But given what he’d seen and heard—and, even more telling, the things Jenna hadn’t said—he was pretty certain that there was no love lost between daughter and father.

  But between father and daughter? Yeah. That was probably a whole different story.

  “Well, she didn’t seem too excited about the offer. So it’s probably irrelevant anyway.”

  “Thank God for that one,” Ram grunted as he pushed the sofa toward the window.

  Yeah. Cole had dodged a bullet there.

  Except . . .

  “The thing is, Ram, I did ask her. So if she shows up, we need to find something for her to do.”

  Ram gave the sofa a wicked hip check. “Are you out of your pearly white brain?”

  “I know. It doesn’t make sense. Except I made the offer. I did it because, you know, intelligent, insightful, thinks fast on her feet.”

  “Not to mention, kind of a babe.”

  “That had nothing to do with it.”

  Ram coughed. Hard.

  “You know, Ram, I still remember when you wrapped up an ice cream sandwich and put it in your backpack so you could have it for morning snack. A little fear and respect wouldn’t be a bad thing here.”

  “Neither would a little truth.”

  Cole gave an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. She’s a good-looking woman, okay?”

  “Good. You’re still human.”

  “My point is, she is who she is. Her father’s name and history have nothing to do with the fact that she—Jenna, not her dad, but Jenna—could be useful to us. That’s who I was inviting to join up. Not Rob Elias’s daughter, but Jenna Elias.”

  “Actually, I think it’s Jenna Stirling.”

  “Stirling?”

  “Stirling, as in Stirling Investments, as in she used to be Mrs. Got Bucks. Rumor has it that Mr. Bucks ditched her after she got in a car accident.”

  “Why? Was it her fault?” Something in him recoiled at the thought that she might have been driving too fast, or drunk, or under the influence of Botox.

  “Nah. It was winter, there was ice, you know the story. But she got pretty banged up. You ever notice the way she walks? Or how her smile doesn’t quite match?”

  If he said he had, Ram would give him grief for paying attention. “Can’t say I have.”

  “Yeah, well, those are the leftovers. But good ol’ Kendall didn’t want anything less than perfection from his trophy wife, so as soon as she was out of the hospital and on her feet again, he kicked her cute little ass to the curb.”

  “So much for the fairy tale.” Cole wheeled a chair toward the desk. “How do you know all this, anyway? I don’t remember you being such a gossip addict.”

  “I’m not. But Nonny and her friends are.”

  Great. Now he was getting info from the Granny Gossip network. It should have made him cringe.

  So why was he trying to figure out if he could make room in his schedule for a visit with Ram’s Nonny?

  Chapter Four

  A few days later, Jenna waltzed into Bree’s tiny apartment with a box full of leftover muffins, a laptop, and a mission. Well, really two missions. One she wanted to accomplish and one she wanted to duck.

  Unfortunately for her, Bree was more interested in the one that Jenna would rather avoid.

  “So you saw him.” Bree opened the box and frowned at the selection. “Honestly, when will Kyrie start carrying some low-carb stuff in the shop?”

  “She does, but it’s kind of hard to bring an egg-white sandwich with me. So suck it up and have a muffin.”

  “Blueberry . . . blueberry . . . crap. I was hoping for a green tea and ginger. How did he look?”

  Jenna wasn’t sure how to answer that one. She had a feeling her big sister wasn’t interested in a physical description of their father. For that, all she would have to do was hit Google Images.

  “Here. You’ll like this one. Pistachio chai.”

  Bree frowned but took the muffin from the box, thankfully bypassing the almond poppy that Jenna coveted. She grabbed it fast and took a bite before Bree could change her mind. Jenna might have lived the life of the pampered and indulged for a few years, but nothing could erase the lessons garnered over a lifetime with four sisters.

  “So I brought all the materials you wanted,” she began, only to stop when Bree shook her head.

  “Uh-uh. You’re avoiding the topic.”

  “No, I’m not. We’re here because you, awesome older sister, volunteered to help me with my résumé. I, in return, am feeding you muffins and begging for a glass of milk.”

  Excellent sibling that she was, Bree took the hint, reached behind her, yanked open the fridge, and grabbed the milk, all without leaving her chair. Jenna arched an eyebrow.

  “I’m impressed.”

  “There are benefits to living in a place the size of a Barbie Dreamhouse. And I’m not looking at anything until you tell me about our so-called father.”

  Fine. Bree would hound her until she gave in, so it was best to get it out of the way. And to be honest, Jenna wouldn’t mind getting another perspective. It had been very nice having Cole’s support in the immediate aftermath, but Bree could understand better than anyone else.

  “He was only there about five minutes. Long enough to tell me how to find him. He tried to bribe me with a pack of Juicy Fruit.”

  “Seriously? Did he think you were still five years old?”

  “Well, it’s not like he would have any idea of what I like and don’t like these days.” Probably just as well. If he had brought a bottle of vodka into the shop, Kyrie would be pissed.

  “Kind of pathetic, isn’t it?”

  Jenna forced a laugh. “I don’t think there’s any kind of involved.”

  “Yeah. I just don’t understand how he could think, after everything he put us through . . .” Bree stared intently at her muffin, pinching tiny bits off the wrapper and dropping them to the table. “I mean, I guess it’s natural that he would want to reconnect. He’s approaching the end of his life. It makes sense that he would want to apologize or explain, try to make amends while he can.�
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  Jenna wasn’t sure what bothered her more—Bree’s analysis, or the way her own heart kind of stuttered at the thought of Rob dying. After all, he was dead to her already.

  “Don’t know how to tell you, but those prison gyms must be better equipped than I thought, because he actually looked like he was pretty sturdy. I don’t think you need to be talking end-of-life at this point.”

  “It’s an ages and stages thing.” Bree broke a piece off her muffin. “Erikson’s theory of psychosocial development says that Rob is in the final stage, integrity versus despair. It’s a time of looking back at your life to right the wrongs and feel you’ve made a difference. If you do a good job, you end up as a font of wisdom. If not,” Bree shrugged and raised her muffin chunk, “you end up as Rob Elias.”

  “That’s seriously depressing.”

  “Hey, it’s just a theory.” Bree grinned. “Of course, so is gravity.”

  “Not helping. Can we talk about my résumé now?”

  “In a minute. You left out the most important part.” Bree leaned across the table, one warm hand on Jenna’s arm. “How are you doing with all this?”

  “Fine.” It came out reflexively, automatically. She might as well have saved herself the breath. Bree wasn’t going to buy it.

  “Like you were fine after the accident, even though you had seven broken bones and needed about twenty gazillion stitches?” Bree peered out from beneath lowered lids. “Or fine like you were after Ken Doll showed his true colors?”

  Sisters. God.

  “Okay. Seeing him wasn’t fun. It hit me harder than I expected.”

  “Go on.”

  Jenna squirmed. “Honestly, Bree. You’re not a shrink yet, so stop acting like one.”

  “And for the umpteenth time, I remind you that a PhD in psychology, while leading me to be Dr. Elias, does not make me a shrink. However, I can still recognize avoidance and defense mechanisms when I see them.”

  “You are such a pain in the ass.”

  “But you love me anyway.”

  Unfortunately, that was also true.

  “Look. Like I said, he wasn’t there that long. He walked in, he said his bit, I told him to leave before I called the cops, Cole stepped in and offered backup, and—”

  “Whoa whoa whoa. Time-out.” Bree leaned forward, a new and terrifying light gleaming in her eyes. “Who is Cole?”

  Oh, hell. “A customer. Comes into the shop every once in a while. Remember, I asked about him the night Mom called the Family Council? He’s the one running for mayor. His campaign headquarters are just a couple of doors down from us, so he and his crew,”—emphasis on crew—“come in pretty regularly.”

  “Ah.”

  “Hope you’re not waiting for it to get more interesting, because that’s it.”

  “How did he offer backup?”

  “He offered to call the cops on my behalf. Then after Dad—Rob—left, Cole made sure I was okay. You know. He was being a nice guy.”

  “You do realize that you just equated a politician with being a nice guy.”

  “So he’ll probably lose. Whatever.” Though she hoped not. It would be a treat to see someone with a heart actually win. “The point is, he appeared, saw there was no need for a knight in shining armor, made sure I was okay, and then he left.”

  “That was it?”

  “Sorry. Except”—she hesitated, then decided it was too funny not to share—“he asked if I would like to volunteer on his campaign.”

  Bree burst into laughter so hard and loud that Jenna feared the muffin was going to go down the wrong pipe.

  “Seriously? He asked an Elias to help with his campaign?” Bree snorted and wiped at the crumbs now littering the table. “He’s certainly clueless enough to be in office.”

  “Cynical much?”

  Bree shrugged.

  “In fairness, I never told him my last name. Any of them. And nobody mentioned Dad’s—Rob’s—name, so I’ll give Cole a pass on this one.”

  “Dare you to take him up on the offer and see what happens.”

  “Hey, he was nice to me. I’m not going to do that to him.”

  “Okay. I suppose you’re right. But damn, that would be a Punk’d moment for sure.”

  Jenna crumpled her empty wrapper with a sigh. “Listen, I have class in an hour, so could we move on, please? Maybe even talk about the résumé?”

  “You are such a killjoy.”

  “Which is saying a great deal for someone who used to party like I once did, so admire me and look at the damned résumé.”

  “Fine.”

  But not ten minutes later, Bree shoved the papers and laptop aside and fixed her gaze on Jenna. “You need more.”

  Ah, hell. She’d been afraid of this.

  “Can you be more specific?”

  Bree frowned. “Let me explain how things would look to someone receiving this résumé. I’m going to be playing devil’s advocate, so don’t get bent out of shape.”

  “Okay.”

  “The first thing anyone is going to wonder is why you’re just getting your degree now. We can work around that by eliminating the parts about high school—nobody cares about that anyway—and ditch this, where you mention the year you started university.”

  “Okay. That’s an easy fix.”

  “But you need to pump it up. There’s a whole crop of folks out there looking for PR jobs, and you need to stand out. If you eliminate everything that makes it obvious you’re not the average undergrad, there’s not a lot to set you apart.” Bree tapped the page. “And when you do get an interview, folks will look at this and expect to see Suzy Senior Class walking in. Not that you’re ancient, but no one is going to look at you and think you’re fresh out of school. So the question becomes, why is your résumé so skimpy and what are you hiding?”

  “I thought nontraditional students were welcomed with open arms these days.”

  “They are, if they’re bringing relevant experience to the position. Now, you and I both know that you did a boatload of charity work while you were with Kenny Dearest, but unless you list that—”

  “No.”

  Bree sat back. “Jenna, come on. I know you don’t want to feel like you owe him anything, but you did do the work, and it could be relevant, depending on where you apply.”

  “I’m not including anything on there that will lead anyone to connect me with him. Not in any way, shape, or form.” Jenna raised her hand as Bree began to protest. “Look, I understand what you’re saying. I really do. But this is more than just me being stubborn, okay? Anyone who has done business with him knows what a repulsive ass he is, and if they find out I was married to him, they’re going to seriously question my judgment. I don’t need that.”

  Bree looked like she wanted to push the point, but after a moment she shook her head. “Okay. Whatever. I think you’re making a mistake, but you have your reasons, and I won’t force you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But that still leaves us with the issue of an underwhelming résumé.” Bree tapped her pen against the papers. “I mean, I can massage this thing until it gets a woody, but I can’t make it jump up and sing. In this market, you need the song. And the dance.”

  Great. Nothing like telling a woman who was happy that she could still walk that she was supposed to be dancing.

  “Any suggestions?”

  “Are you doing an internship in the fall?”

  “Nope. Mine are done.”

  Bree looked back at the résumé. “You mean to tell me you couldn’t get placements anywhere other than Joe’s Used Cars and the honey wagon place?”

  “You mean to tell me that you’re surprised that not everyone in this town is falling all over themselves to take on an intern with the last name of Stirling? Or Elias?

  “Sorry.”
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  Not as much as Jenna was.

  “Well then, you need to either bust your butt getting some amazing grades and awards—not that those will do you any good until graduation—or you need to pick up some relevant and juicy experience. A combination of the two would be even better.”

  Jenna drained her milk. “I’m giving the classes everything I’ve got,” she said quietly. “I’m doing better than I ever did before, probably because I’m not sitting through them with a hangover.”

  “Or drunk.”

  Sisters. Did they have to remember everything?

  “The point is, I’m happy to be getting the grades I am. Would I like to knock every assignment out of the ballpark and be the top in every class? Of course I would. But I don’t think I can reasonably expect to get much higher.”

  “Okay, so that means experience. Would you consider volunteering at any of the places you did stuff for when you were with—”

  “No.” Jenna placed a hand over the résumé, as if to protect it from the Curse of Kendall. “If it happened when I was with him, I’m not using it.”

  “Jenna, you organized amazing fundraisers. You threw events that left people feeling involved and generous and ready to hand you blank checks. Those organizations would fall all over themselves to have you work with them now.”

  “Except I don’t have big bucks anymore. Nor do I hang with the big bucks crowd. My useful days are over. And,” she added when Bree seemed ready to protest, “I don’t want to work anyplace that’s only taking me on because they owe me. That only leads to stuffing envelopes and helping with the filing.”

  “Again, I disagree, but—”

  “No buts. It is what it is.”

  “Fine.” Bree sat back in her chair, a look of mild triumph on her face. “In that case, I suggest you trot your cute little heinie down a couple of doors from the shop and see if Mr. Dekker was serious about having you volunteer.”

  “Cute, Bree. I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work.”

  “And what, exactly, am I doing?”

  “Trying to make me go to the old places. Trying to make me realize how desperate I am. Trying to scare me off.”