by Penny Reid
“Steven.”
“Kat. Think about it. He’s actually perfect for the job.” My friend gave me the impression he was talking himself into this idea in real-time, as we sat on the couch. “Dan won’t care about Caleb’s threats, and Pharma Bro won’t scare him one iota.”
I stayed silent because Steven was absolutely right. Just the thought of Caleb trying to intimidate Dan was laughable. The stocky security executive’s reaction to Caleb’s threats would almost be worth the abject humiliation of asking Dan for help.
Almost.
But not quite.
Steven was still speaking, “. . . hilarious. And deserved. Have you ever seen Road to Perdition? It would be just like that, but with less trench coats and hats. Also, Dan will be impervious to bribery. He has enough money already. He’ll be impervious to it all—”
“Yes, but I’m not impervious to him.” My face crumpled and I covered it with a hand.
“Oh, lamb chop.” He placed his fingers lightly on my shoulder and I shrugged them off.
Taking three deep breaths, I stood from the couch, moving out of Steven’s reach. Wally followed, standing from where he’d been curled next to my feet.
I spoke when I was sure I had myself under control. “I’m sorry. I still like him. A lot. Even after he left me in Vegas. Even while he dated Tonya. I avoided him because I like him so much. Do you really think it’s a good idea for me to ask the guy I haven’t been able to move past in two years to fake-marry me?”
“Yes. I do.” Steven also stood, reaching for and holding my shoulders, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Honey, you’re out of options. And even if you weren’t, I think it’s the best idea I’ve had all month. And that’s saying a lot because I just bought a gorgeous new rug.”
I shook my head, but before I could offer new objections, he cut me off. “You said it yourself, you haven’t been able to move on from Dan. Honey, that’s nuts. It’s not normal, as an adult, to be hung up on a guy for over two years and never do anything about it.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Stop avoiding him. Marry him. Confront the situation. Think of this as killing two birds with one stone. He’ll be impossible to avoid. Once you actually know him, then you’ll let go of this super unhealthy fascination with a man who, yes, is very hot, and nice, and funny, yada, yada, yada, but who isn’t worth your unrequited affection. You can move into the safe and neuter-feeling friend zone.”
“You realize this suggestion makes absolutely no sense.”
“You realize this suggestion is genius.”
I groaned, moving farther away, wanting to pull my hair out. Wally again followed, shadowing my movements and wagging his tail. “I don’t have time to debate this with you. I need to—”
“Then I have a proposition. You ask Dan, today. Wait for him here. When he gets home, ask him. Tell him the minimal amount of information required to get the importance of the situation across. If he doesn’t immediately say yes, if he hesitates at all, then I’ll marry you.”
“Of course he’s going to hesitate.”
Steven held his hands up. “Then I’ll marry you.”
“And what about your boyfriend?”
“I’ll talk to him tonight. He’ll understand, or I’ll make him understand. I hope. Don’t worry about it.”
“No. No. That’s not fair—”
“Like I said, you ask, and if the words out of his mouth aren’t an immediate, ‘Yes. Let’s do this,’ even if he pauses for a moment to deliberate, then tell him it was an early April Fool’s Day joke, call me, and we’ll go to the County Clerk’s office tomorrow.”
“Steven.”
“Trust me. I insist.”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. If I tried to speak, I had a feeling I’d end up screaming instead, and I didn’t want to do that.
Swallowing my pride, I nodded. My lungs were on fire.
I would wait here for Dan. I would ask him to marry me. It would be humiliating. In the end, I had no doubt Steven and I would be the ones getting married.
Chapter Three
Mental incapacity. 1 :an absence of mental capacity. 2 :an inability through mental illness or mental retardation of any sort to carry on the everyday affairs of life or to care for one's person or property with reasonable discretion.
Merriam-Webster Dictionary
**Dan**
“What did you just say?” I checked my watch again. I didn’t have time for this shit.
After ten on a weekday. I was running late on one of the rare nights I’d get to sleep in my own bed. Steven needed to get home.
We were at the East Randolph Street property, on the north side of Millennium Park. Our main office was downtown, but we’d moved the data center to the apartment building a few months ago. Since Cypher Systems owned the whole building—and controlled all access points and ports in or out of it—Alex, Quinn, and Fiona believed the apartment building was the more secure option.
So here we were, in the apartment building where I lived, working late into the night, and I hadn’t yet had a chance to go home. Unbelievable.
Quinn glanced over his shoulder, giving me a look. “I said bring a Tonya. It’s a couple thing.”
I crossed my arms, returning his evil eye. “Tonya and I split.”
Quinn did that thing, that stupid thing where he waved his hand in the air like he was shooing away a bug. “I know.”
This was a stupid thing he’d been doing since we were kids when he didn’t want to talk about something. What did he think? That I wanted to talk about this shit? I needed to go. Now.
“Why do you want me to bring Tonya?”
“I meant a Tonya.” Again with the hand wave. “Bring a Tonya.”
“Bring a Tonya?” I scratched the back of my neck, not following. “You mean someone who looks like Tonya? Why does my date need to look like Tonya?” Checking my watch again, I rubbed my wrist. Steven hadn’t called, but I didn’t like being this late. Unfortunately, more and more over the last month, this had become the norm.
“I don’t care what she looks like as long as she knows how to act at these things.” More hand waving. “Like Tonya.”
Ah. I got it. Okay. No biggie.
But if he thought he could give me the impatient hand wave, then that was my cue to annoy him. “You’re going to bring up my ex-girlfriend and that’s all I get?”
“What?” His tone clipped, he glared at me.
“The least you could do is offer me tea.” I shrugged, sniffed. “What if I’m still emotionally unstable about the breakup?”
Alex made a sound, like he was trying to hold in a laugh.
Quinn wasn’t laughing.
“Hey, I have feelings.” I mimicked his stupid hand wave. “We were only together two years, but—”
“No, you weren’t,” Quinn grumbled.
“Yeah, we were. We hooked up just after New Year’s, and—”
“You weren’t together. You were passing time.”
“She had a toothbrush at my place.” I was pushing the issue for no reason, but something about his easy dismissal of Tonya pissed me off. It also made my neck itch. My neck only itched when I felt guilty about something.
“So?”
“So, toothbrush residence-sharing equates to a serious relationship. Everyone knows this.” I didn’t know who I was trying to convince, him or me.
“That’s bullshit. You were never serious.”
Of course, he was right. We were never serious. “Fine. But, again, in my defense, we were together for only two years.”
“Only two years?” Quinn glanced at the back of Alex’s head. “Two years is a long time.”
“No, it’s not.” I shook my head.
“Yeah. It is.” Quinn nodded his head.
“No, it’s not. Two years is long enough to be infatuated with a person, sure. But definitely not long enough to know whether something is real, or whether it’ll last.”
Quin
n’s frown of annoyance became a glare. “Are you fucking with me right now?”
“I agree with Quinn.” Alex said this without turning from his computer. By computer, I mean a wall of monitors and shit that buzzed.
I caught myself before rolling my eyes. “You always agree with Quinn, Chachi.”
Alex pivoted completely around in his chair and glared at me. I tried to glare back but I swear, the kid’s glare was unnerving as hell.
“Don’t call me Chachi.”
“Fine. Fuck you. I’ll call you Joanie.”
His unnerving glare intensified and my phone buzzed. Pulling it from my pocket, I checked the screen, and then did a double take, growing sick to my stomach.
Mom: I assume you’re dead since you can’t be bothered to call your mother on her birthday. Tell Quinn we’ll send flowers to the funeral home since we don’t know where to make a donation in your name. I hope your mourners aren’t allergic to calla lilies. Love, Your Mother, who gave birth to you after 42 hours of labor.
Mom: Call me. If you can spare the time.
“Who’s that? What’s wrong?” The kid sounded like he was on high alert.
I closed my eyes, muttering under my breath, “Fuck a fucking duck.”
After moment of inspecting me, Quinn said, “It’s his mom.”
I opened my eyes. Quinn was wearing his little shit-eating grin. It was so little; someone who hadn’t grown up with him would need a magnifying glass and some really good light to spot it. But I’d known him since either of us could remember.
“Oh.” Alex turned back to his wall of buzzing shit without another word.
Quinn stepped closer to me and lowered his voice. “You didn’t call her?”
“No, I didn’t fucking call her.” This was a disaster. I was dead. She was going to murder me with guilt. Speaking of which, my neck itched.
His freaky blue eyes moved over me. “I called my mom this morning.”
“I know.” The shithead.
Quinn’s mother and my mother shared a birthday. That meant we always reminded each other to call our mothers every year on their birthdays. Even though a few years back Quinn went through a period of time where he didn’t call his mom at all—because they weren’t talking to each other—he’d still remind me.
“I reminded you this morning. I reminded you during lunch. Janie said she sent you a text.”
“I know that too, fuckface.”
Janie was Quinn’s wife and currently hugely pregnant with their first kid. She was also on bed rest for some kind of medical something, which made Quinn crazy. Quinn had been taking this crazy out on me. Additionally, I’d been doing all his travel plus mine, which meant I usually didn’t know if I was coming or going.
Meanwhile, he’d been spending more time with his hot wife, probably also driving her crazy.
I’d planned to call my mother this afternoon while checking in with the team at the Fairbanks building, but then Kat Tanner had shown up. Basically, I’d had difficulty concentrating on much after that.
Kat Tanner was . . . fuck. I didn’t even know how to describe her.
She was that girl—that idealized, wicked-smart, wicked-nice, wicked-hot girl—you knew all your life, from pre-school to high school. At first she had you convinced that she had no fucking clue how fucking amazing she is. She was humble, kind, salt of the earth, good people. You watched her with her friends and thought, fuck, she’s a goddamn diamond. Even her laugh sounded amazing.
Let me explain. I’d never had what some people call “a type.” I loved all women. I loved looking at them. I loved talking to them. I loved them talking to me. Didn’t matter young, old, tall, short, chunky, thin, red, brown, blue, gray, I have a steadfast admiration for females.
That might be because my mom was a super lady, basically raised all us kids on her own while my dad wasn't around much. A career Navy guy, he was deployed more than he was home, but that’s not why he wasn’t around.
My love of women might also be because my sisters were angels, whereas my brother was a worthless piece of shit. Sure, my sisters had their dramas, but those dramas were mostly caused by undeserving men who mistreated them.
Whatever. Women were fucking amazing, I loved them all, and I'd dated all kinds.
But I'd never felt the shitty feeling in my chest until I met Kat Tanner. Like I couldn't draw a full breath when she was around. Actually, scratch that. I couldn't draw a full breath sometimes when I simply thought about her.
Why her, I didn't know. Could be her pheromones did strange stuff to my pheromones, messed up my endocrine flow, or Chi. Whatever.
Could be, I just really liked the way she looked, her dark thick hair, her big brown eyes, how her lips were the exact shade of the roses in my grandma’s garden, her skin’s olive tint, the way she walked, the curve of her ass, how she looked down and always sounded a little guilty when she laughed. Whatever. It was everything.
But then I found out she was some kind of frickin’ billionaire heiress.
So I thought, Hey, she doesn’t make a big deal about it, why should I? So what if I grew up on the other side of the tracks? So what if I was in and out of jail and gangs when I was a teenager? So what if I have a GED instead of a high school diploma? So what if I never went to college, and meanwhile she’d gone to University of Chicago for some fancy degree?
People were just people when you got down to it, right? No biggie.
But then I woke up next to her one morning in Las Vegas, after holding her hair the night before while she threw up, only for her to tell me she’s not into monogamy.
For the record, I had nothing against polyamory. I had an aunt on my dad’s side who lived up on a compound in Vermont. Aunt Becks had, like, three lady friends and six gentleman friends—that’s what my mom called them—something like that. They all seemed to get on just fine with each other for the most part. Shit, she’d lived there for twenty years and she’d always seemed happy.
When I was old enough to understand her lifestyle wasn’t typical, I’d asked her why she was into it. She’d said something similar to what Kat had said that morning in Vegas: “I’ve never been very good at monogamy.”
My father’s family hadn’t been any more or less dysfunctional than my own, and none of us had chosen the polyamorous lifestyle. My brother had, but it was different. He just dicked around with a bunch of different crazy women who didn’t know he was dicking around; not the same thing as a consensual committed relationship with a bunch of different sane people.
But that kind of lifestyle wasn’t for me. Knowing myself as I do, I wouldn’t be able to stomach seeing some other guy or lady touching the woman I loved. Furthermore, I’d probably beat the shit out of that other guy.
I wouldn’t beat the shit out of the lady, though. Likely, I’d give her a seriously dirty look.
But that’s just me.
So, yeah. I saw Kat this afternoon after not talking to her for six months. Seeing her reinforced the fact that she was still a goddamn diamond, and she still gave me that shitty feeling in my chest. We’d talked briefly. As usual, she couldn’t wait to get away from me. Afterward, I’d been distracted and irritable, and I hadn’t called my mom on her birthday.
Quinn’s smile spread. He tried to hide it by clearing his throat and covering his mouth with a fist. “You want me to call your mom? Tell her you’re on assignment, out of the country?”
“I’d have to be on Mars, resurrecting both JFK and Bing Crosby from the dead, for her to give me a pass. Short of that . . .” I shook my head. Fucking disaster.
He hesitated for a second, then asked, “Is your dad in town?”
“No.” And that was all I was going to say about that.
Even though my father had retired from the Navy some years back, he was still never around. To say he and my mom had a complicated relationship was an understatement. The long and short of it was: he had a kid—my brother Seamus—by another lady who he loved, that lady left him and the
baby, and my mom stepped in, raised Seamus as her own, and my dad had been so grateful.
So damn grateful. The only problem was, gratitude wasn’t the same thing as love.
“I could tell her you were doing something for Janie and the baby.”
“No.” I groaned. “That would only make it worse, give her a chance to point out you’re married and giving your mom grandkids.” And I wasn’t.
“There’s got to be something she wants.” His face was now sober. “Diamond earrings?”
Quinn remembered the last time I hadn’t called my mom and the tempest of ignominy and shame that she’d rained upon me.
I’d been seventeen and in jail. She didn’t care that I’d had no possible way to call her. She didn’t care that I’d taken the fall for Seamus. She didn’t care that I’d bribed a guard an ungodly amount of cash to have flowers sent, along with her favorite perfume. She didn’t care that I’d organized her party and to have the rest of my siblings—including Seamus, who, let me point out again, should have been in jail in my place—take her to church, make her cake, and treat her like a goddess.
I hadn’t called; therefore, I was Judas the Betrayer. I’d take fire and brimstone over Eleanor O’Malley’s unrelenting, passive-aggressive guilt squall any day of the week.
May God have mercy on my soul.
Quinn shrugged. “Let me know if I can help.”
“I need a miracle.” Exhaling my frustration, I turned and left without another word.
Glancing at the screen of my phone, I re-read her message as I walked out of the room and down the hall. Pressing the button for the elevator, I decided I couldn’t call her and tell her I’d forgotten. That was not an option. So I ran through the list of things my mom wanted the most, ranked highest to lowest:
Me getting married and settling down.
Me giving her more grandkids.
Me moving home to Boston and buying a house on her street.
Me going to stay for every major holiday for the rest of my life.
Me asking her advice about every major decision for the rest of my life.
