by Jo Barrett
Like most Texas women, Shelby Lynn Pierce had two dirty little secrets of her own. The first was that Shelby Lynn had been “biblical” with the only man Kat had ever loved.
Dylan Grant and Shelby Lynn had enjoyed a brief fling on a vodka-soaked weekend back in college that probably neither of them remembered all that well anyway. Dylan didn’t know that Kat knew. And Shelby Lynn didn’t know that Kat knew. But Kat knew everything that happened around her, which was often a burden, if Kat were to tell the truth. It had happened so many years ago, Kat had decided to forgive the indiscretion. Dylan’s heart beat in alignment with her own, and about this, there was no question.
The other dirty little secret was that Shelby Lynn’s husband, Tate, had been spotted in an elevator of the Lancaster Hotel with a stripper from Treasures, who was of the Asian persuasion. Apparently everybody knew this, except Shelby Lynn. Because if Shelby Lynn knew her husband had dipped his finger in the soy sauce, she would’ve certainly stormed out of the restaurant.
Shelby Lynn crinkled her perfect little nose and set her fork down. “Kathleen, you can’t drench arugula like this!” she tittered. “It makes the leaves wilt.”
It’s a salad. Not a crisis, Kat thought. She’d talk lettuce with Shelby Lynn Pierce for hours, as long as this most powerful of Guccis bought a table at the Annual Foundation Dinner. The children’s hospital needed new lab equipment, and Kat badly wanted to fund another clinical research unit.
“Sweetie, I thought we’d do something different this year,” Shelby Lynn drawled. She was tugging the diamond stud in her ear, which was as big as a Volkswagen.
Kat sucked in her breath. Shelby Lynn was always the last person to write out a hundred-thousand-dollar check for her table. And the Gucci always felt the need to “participate” in planning the Annual Foundation Dinner with Kat, as if Shelby Lynn herself was in charge.
Each year, Shelby presented Kat with a “cute little idea.” Usually along the lines of a theme party. And each year, Kat would pretend to mull it over, pretend like it was the greatest idea in the history of ideas, pretend, period.
Last year Shelby had suggested bringing Angelina Jolie and having a theme party called “Houston’s Cambodian Carnivale.”
“We can turn the ballroom into a jungle,” she’d said. “And have someone build a miniature Angkor Wat. And have little baby elephants that everyone can take turns riding on!”
“What kind of food would we serve?” Kat had asked.
“French,” Shelby Lynn replied, without hesitation. French food was always Shelby Lynn’s first answer, although she didn’t eat cheese, meat, or heavy cream.
Kat pushed her salad away and summoned the waiter. He appeared and silently cleared the plates. Shelby Lynn leaned forward, accidentally flashing Kat some exposed cleavage compliments of Dr. Franklin Prose, plastic surgeon to die for according to those in the know.
“What’s the single greatest invention of the century?” Shelby Lynn asked, tapping her perfectly manicured fingers against the table. She tossed her blond hair over her shoulder like a model from a shampoo commercial and fixed Kat with a purposeful stare.
Kat was hoping the question was rhetorical, but Shelby Lynn continued to stare at her with those wide blue moony eyes and waited for Kat to guess the answer.
“Microsoft?”
Shelby Lynn wrinkled her nose. “No, silly buns. Not computers.”
“I don’t know, Shelby.” Kat shrugged. “How about the airplane?”
“The miracle of flight is only a miracle if you fly private, hon.”
Shelby Lynn covered her mouth and giggled at her own little joke. The Pierce family flew private even if they were headed to their ranch, which was just a hiccup outside Houston.
“No, sweetie. I think the most influential invention of the century is electricity,” Shelby Lynn said, taking a dainty sip from the straw poking out of her Diet Coke.
Kat smacked her palm against her forehead theatrically. “I forgot about the light bulb.”
“Our theme could be ‘Bright Lights, Big City,’” Shelby Lynn said, waving her hand across the air like a banner.
“Interesting,” Kat replied.
“Really?” Shelby Lynn sounded hopeful.
“Yes,” Kat said magnanimously.
“I thought we could adorn the ballroom with thousands of itty-bitty little white lights, and have a bunch of cute little waiters dress like Thomas Edison, you know, with those adorable little round spectacles that were so popular back then.”
Kat took a deep breath. “It’s unique. I don’t think anyone’s done it before.”
“Nope,” Shelby Lynn said. “Not even in New York.”
New York black tie fund-raisers were the gold standard to which even the wealthiest of Texans compared themselves, even though they acted like they didn’t.
“Shelby, I truly adore your idea,” Kat said, lacing her fingers underneath her chin, “and as usual, I welcome all your efforts to help raise money for the King Foundation, but at the end of the day, I think Pa Pa would’ve wanted me to keep it simple.”
This was Kat’s secret weapon. Uttering her granddad’s name—the venerable Cullen Davis King—was akin to saying what the Lord himself would’ve wished for the annual dinner.
Shelby Lynn sucked her straw, practically slamming the rest of her Diet Coke. The Gucci knew there was no point arguing with the wishes of the recently deceased Lord Almighty himself. She chewed the bottom of her lip tentatively.
“Shelby Lynn, I would love for you to decide which type of food we should serve,” Kat said, with all the earnestness in the world.
Shelby Lynn didn’t hesitate.
“French. I think we should go with French this year,” she said, her eyes lighting up at the thought of all that delicious food she wouldn’t be eating.
“French it is,” Kat said, smiling.
Shelby Lynn flashed a genuine smile, plopped her oversized Hermès crocodile clutch up on the table, and pulled out her checkbook.
“Who should I make this out to?”
“The King Foundation Annual Fund.” Kat watched Shelby scribble out a one followed by five zeros.
Shelby handed Kat the check. “Here you go, sweet pea. Don’t spend it all in one place.”
“I guess this means I’m buying lunch,” Kat quipped. She watched in pleasure as Shelby Lynn Pierce threw back her beautiful blond head and laughed at the ceiling.
Twelve
Time to get down to business, Dylan thought. Enough fiddle fucking around.
He bumped down the slow lane of I–10 in the rusted Toyota pickup that Gary the Snake had talked him into. The truck smelled like a roadside bar after closing time—a mixture of stale beer, old cigarettes, and the cover-up scent of that puke-lemon industrial-grade cleaner.
Dylan had traded in Wyatt’s Bugatti, testing the limits of the fine Italian motor on the highway, before informing Gary Crumpacker that no more money, hookers, or trips to Vegas would be forthcoming from the younger Mr. Grant.
“What other cars do you have for me?” Dylan asked, as the Snake escorted him around the lot and tried to sell him a sleek new supercharged Mercedes S-class.
Dylan had put his hand up and said, “Let me tell you something, Gary. I wouldn’t buy a Mercedes in brown. Do I look like a soccer mom to you? And second, I’m looking for something to bump around town in. I’m talking low-end wheels, bottom of the barrel, here.”
Gary the Snake had then tried to sell Dylan a fully loaded Chevy Tahoe complete with custom rims and calf leather seats.
Dylan had stared Gary the Snake straight into his needlepoint black eyes and announced that he had three thousand dollars in his pocket and not a penny more.
That was when Gary took him to the back of the car lot, in a dusty area marked off with a rope and a sign that read, “Service Entrance Only,” and presented Dylan with the Toyota truck.
“Sweet ride,” Dylan joked, as he jumped up into the driver’s seat of the sme
lly cab.
“Look, I’m not trying to sell you this piece of junk,” Gary said, shaking his head. “But for three grand, this is about all I can show you.”
“It’s perfect. I’ll take it.” Dylan flipped Gary a roll of hundred-dollar bills tied with a rubber band, and peeled out of the dealership, calling out the window for Gary to send him the title in the mail and make it snappy.
As Dylan plowed down the highway, he was suddenly gripped with an unfamiliar feeling. Panic? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he was panting like a dog in a desert, and he couldn’t figure out why.
The physical symptoms that manifested themselves were akin to what Dylan felt when he thought about Butch Grant for too long. He broke out into a rolling sweat, and his heart began thumping wildly.
Maybe I’m having a heart attack?
Dylan flipped on the A.C. and frowned at the smelly lukewarm air shooting out of the vents. Damned A.C. is broken, he thought, cursing Gary the Snake under his breath. He had half a mind to turn the pickup around and go beat the crap out of Gary for all the advantage the Snake had taken of people over the years. Dylan figured he’d be doing folks a public service by showing Gary why he’d been nicknamed “the Terminator” back in high school.
But Dylan didn’t have time for street justice, today. He had to tell Kat what was what. And he had to devise a plan to fix the damage that the dead Butch Grant had inflicted on him and Wyatt.
Dylan raced into the front circle driveway of the Royal Arms.
He stepped out of the truck and tossed the keys to Achmed.
“How do you like my new ride, man?” Dylan asked.
Achmed caught the keys in midair and smiled broadly at the joke. Dylan had left the building a few hours earlier in a rare Italian Bugatti, and returned in a rusted-out Japanese truck.
“Very fine automobile,” the valet said, in his deep, singsong voice.
Dylan liked how Achmed enunciated his words and referred to cars as “automobiles.” His accent sounded very Queen’s English, as if he’d grown up in Britain.
Achmed hopped up into the truck, and expertly squeezed it between two Porsches that were blocking the drive.
“How’d you learn to drive like that?” Dylan called out.
Achmed leaned out of the Toyota’s driver’s side window.
“I was very good driver in my country! A professional driver for top VIP peoples. And sometimes I had to drive around the bombs very fast.”
“The bombs?”
“People want to kill the VIP peoples in the car.”
“No shit?”
Achmed grinned. “No sheet,” he announced, in his proper Queen’s English.
Dylan admired Achmed’s expert maneuvering as he slid the car into a tight parking space.
Dylan walked toward the sliding doors of the Royal Arms.
He could already make out Poor Eddie’s bald head inclined toward the glass—watching the entire Toyota truck drama unfold as if it were a Saturday Night Live sketch.
Not today, my man, Dylan thought as the concierge punched the electronic entrance button, causing the sliding glass doors in front of Dylan to whoosh open.
“Mr. Grant!” Eddie exclaimed, as if Dylan were Cary Grant or Hugh Grant, or someone famous like that.
Dylan wanted Eddie to know about the car.
“Check out my new ride.” Dylan pointed toward the Toyota.
Eddie rubbed his liver-spotted hand over his bald head and smiled blandly.
“I assume this is a gift for Ms. Kathleen?” Eddie said, going along with the joke.
“You think she’ll like it?” Dylan asked.
“I think she’d prefer a diamond ring, Mr. Grant,” Eddie replied with a temerity that Dylan found shocking.
Dylan stopped in his tracks. Has Kat been talking about engagement rings?
Impossible, he thought. Kat would never share something so intimate with anyone outside her inner circle.
Dylan pointed to the green and white striped Whipley’s box tucked behind the FedEx packages on Eddie’s desk. “I think you need to lay off the doughnuts.”
Eddie shuffled his feet and stared down at the floor.
“Can’t be good for your cholesterol,” Dylan added.
“I pass Whipley’s every morning on the way here. Ahh, the chocolate custard, Mr. Grant. They catch me coming and going.” He sighed.
Dylan watched the building concierge motion for him to come closer. Eddie’s face broke out into one of his about-to-share-a-rumor smiles. He leaned toward Dylan and lowered his voice to a stage whisper.
“You know, Mr. Grant, the Whipley heir just moved into the building. Penthouse floor,” Eddie said, winking slyly as if this was groundbreaking news.
“A doughnut heir in the penthouse, hey Eddie?”
“Land of opportunity,” Eddie quipped.
“Yes it is.”
Dylan clapped Eddie on the shoulder and walked toward the elevator. With the morning he’d just had, he needed an ounce of peace.
He needed calm.
He needed Kat.
He just wanted to hold her firm little body in his arms, tell her how much he loved her, and stare into her warm, all-encompassing eyes. Kat was his everything. And Dylan felt as long as he had this woman, this beacon of light in his life, it wouldn’t matter where he lived, what he drove, or how much money he was able to bring in for the family.
He and Kat could live just like those people in the movies. In a cozy apartment. Maybe even in New York City. They’d participate in all that “urban angst” Kat was always talking about.
“Real artists suffer from urban angst,” she’d say.
Perhaps Dylan could get a job waiting tables at a steakhouse. Who knew?
He rode the elevator in silence, thanking his lucky stars that in a few moments he’d be with the woman he’d always loved.
And then, everything will feel all right.
Dylan stepped off the elevator and strode down the hall with a renewed vigor. He’d deliver the news to Kat about his impending financial crisis, and then they would just deal with it. Together.
As Dylan stepped inside the apartment, he realized that he’d forgotten one huge detail. A huge detail that was now sitting on his living room sofa, size twelve feet propped up on his coffee table.
“Look who decided to surprise us,” Kat said, motioning toward the couch.
“Hi, brother! Don’t get too excited, now! You look like you just got raped by a chicken!” Dylan’s brother, Wyatt, leaped from the couch and bounded toward him. He grabbed Dylan in a bear hug, picked him up off the ground, and physically shook him up and down like he was dumping out a lawn bag.
“Hi, Wyatt! Long time no see,” Dylan said, clapping Wyatt around his shoulders. “Let me take a look at you.” Dylan stepped back and regarded his younger brother. Wyatt was still Wyatt. He was taller than Dylan, with a wide barrel of a chest and thick, muscular shoulders. He had the physique of a professional athlete, and with his tousled hair, chiseled chin, and perfect dimples, most people assumed Wyatt was somebody famous. Like a Hollywood actor.
In Las Vegas, where Wyatt lived, he often wore dark sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low over his brow to help perpetuate this myth.
In short, Wyatt was gorgeous.
“You’re still ugly,” Dylan declared, with a smile.
Wyatt threw his head back and laughed. “And you’re still the luckiest sonofabitch who ever lived,” he said, motioning toward Kat. “Tell me, Kathleen, why haven’t you dumped this guy?” Wyatt roared.
Kat stood in the kitchen and poured boiling water into her nifty little French press. Dylan noticed that Kat was being rather dainty, holding the kettle with her pinky in the air.
“He cast a spell on me,” Kat said fondly, handing Wyatt a steaming cup of her famous Guatemalan brew.
“Awww. Ain’t that sweet,” Wyatt joked.
“You take milk in it, right?” Kat asked, in her most darling little voice. She’s a
lways like this around Wyatt, Dylan thought.
When Wyatt was in town, Kat the “starving artist” became Kat Betty Crocker.
“Kathleen, you don’t have to make a fuss,” Wyatt said, as he waited for Kat to pour a little milk into the top of his cup. “Oh, and I’ll take sugar cubes if you’ve got ’em.”
“Of course I have sugar cubes!” Kat exclaimed, pressing her hand primly to her chest. Dylan watched as the Lady of the Manor opened up each cabinet in a desperate search for a box of sugar cubes that surely did not exist. He was surprised when Kat pulled down a box and said, “Here we are.” She plopped a cube into Wyatt’s cup and handed him a little stirring spoon and cocktail napkin.
“Where’s the scones?” Dylan asked dryly.
Kat giggled, skipped straight toward Dylan, and slapped him hard on the rear end. “Isn’t this great to have the whole family here?” she said, giving Dylan a nice little welcoming peck on the lips.
Some family, Dylan thought, throwing his arm around Kathleen’s shoulder. In a way, Kat was right. This is our family, Dylan thought. Even though he and Kat weren’t married, or even engaged, she was as close to blood as Dylan had.
Dylan watched his younger brother limp back toward the couch. It always pained him to watch Wyatt walk. Ever since the accident, his younger brother had always tried so hard to make his gait seem normal. His exertion was apparent in every step he took. He rounded his left leg just a little to keep up with the right, swinging his arms wide to make people focus on his upper body, not his lower.
Wyatt lunged into the burnt leather sofa, and took a sip of Kat’s coffee.
“Better than crack,” he proclaimed, causing Kat to blush and break out into a sheepish little grin.
“Wyatt brought presents,” Kathleen announced. On the kitchen counter, Dylan saw a gift bag with tissue paper poking out of it. Kathleen stuck her hand inside the bag and plucked out a sea blue cotton T-shirt that read “Malibu Is for Lovers.”
“Nice,” Dylan said, as Kathleen tugged the T-shirt over her head and modeled it around the living room.
“Don’t worry. There’s one for you, too,” Kat said, holding up another shirt.
