by Jo Barrett
“Shit, dawg! I’m sorry. What happened? You get nailed by a shark or something?”
“Yeah, something like that,” Wyatt said.
Dylan watched his brother limp slowly through the store aisles, and his mind flashed back to the fishing trip. They were only kids at the time.
“We’re gonna go blastin’ and castin’, boys!” Butch Grant shouted, chugging down whiskey and chasing it with eer. Blasting and casting was a well-known Texas pas time that involved shooting birds while simultaneously fishing from a small motorboat and drinking Miller Lite or Bud straight from the can.
Butch had rounded the boys into a small leaky boat, set out for the middle of Sabine Lake, and once in the deep water, tossed his sons overboard. Then Butch Grant had told them to swim. Fast! He’d slurred. He’d cast a fishing rod out, letting it sail over the boys’ heads, and then took aim with his shotgun and started shooting fish.
Wyatt’s leg got in the way of a speckled trout. Dylan remembered his brother screaming, the blood rising up in the water just like in the Jaws movie, both of them treading to stay afloat. He remembered how his father yelled that Wyatt was just a “lil’ whiney girl who needed to stop cryin’.” And then Butch Grant had done the unthinkable. He’d set off in the motorboat, leaving Dylan and Wyatt to make it to shore on their own. Wyatt, losing blood. Dylan, his arm around his younger brother’s neck, dragging him onto the pebbly shore, the rocks as jagged as broken bottles beneath their feet.
Maybe he wasn’t quite Hitler, Dylan thought. But still. Butch Grant was better off dead.
When they reached the cash register, Dylan felt his body retreat into a cold sweat. He had no way of paying for the space heater. C. Todd Hartwell had already sprung for lunch, and in guy terms, this meant that the next round was on someone else.
Dylan looked at Wyatt, who shrugged helplessly.
The cashier rang up the total and it wasn’t cheap.
Steve reached for his wallet. “Wanna split this, dawg?” he asked Dylan, which made things more embarrassing. Just last week, Steve had seen Dylan drive up to the Royal Arms in a million-dollar car. And now what? Dylan couldn’t spring for half of a damned appliance?
“I’ll spring for the Mylar suit,” Dylan said, thinking on his feet. “Wyatt and I will order it off the Internet and I’ll put a rush on delivery.”
“I need one with a hood,” Wyatt piped up.
Steve reluctantly pulled out a few Benjamins from his alligator money clip, and flung them toward the cashier.
“Keep the change, doll,” he told her.
Hauling the heater into the parking lot, Dylan and Steve worked furiously to cram the large box inside C. Todd’s Hummer. It barely fit but they finally squeezed in around it.
“We look like idiots,” Dylan remarked.
“You’re the one wearing a Zeus T-shirt,” C. Todd Hartwell said smugly.
“Yeah,” Dylan retorted. “Because I’m the Greek god of fuckups.”
When they arrived back to the Royal Arms, Dylan made everyone swear a pact. “We’ve got to promise we’re not gonna go shooting our mouths off.”
Dylan cast an eye toward C. Todd Hartwell. “Can we trust your girl?”
“She’s gonna give me the key after she locks up on Friday. I told her I’d take her to Cabo,” the oilman said, rolling his eyes.
“Good. Then it’s settled.” Dylan flagged down Achmed.
“Gentlemen, let me introduce you to our getaway driver.”
Achmed ran to the Hummer. When he arrived in front of Dylan, he was breathless.
“Hello, Mr. Grant. What may I do for you?”
Dylan decided not to beat around the bush. “The four of us are going to steal some shit from this guy’s office.”
Achmed scuffed his black shoe along the pavement. “Why are you telling me?”
“We need a getaway driver, and I thought you’d be interested.”
“One thousand dollars. Flat,” Achmed said.
Funny, Dylan mused, how everyone was a capitalist.
“Saturday,” Dylan said. All the men stuck out their hands and shook on it.
Twenty-seven
Kathleen adhered to the mantra of “Those with Family Names.”
These rules were hard and steadfast and were taught nearly at birth by mothers of “Those with Family Names”:
Rule number one: Never apologize.
(As in, “Sorry I’m late.” Or, “Sorry, I forgot to call you back.”)
Rule number two: Never explain.
(Explaining is unnecessary for Those with Family Names. As in, “The reason I couldn’t join you at the luncheon is that I was having my eyelashes filled.” Or, “I’m dressed like this because I just got back from the gym.”)
Rule number three: Never lower your chin.
(As in, Never look at the floor. Never stare at your feet. Never show humility. For example, if you have an awful blemish on your forehead the size of Oklahoma and happen to be caught wearing tatty jogging clothes and no makeup in line at Starbucks, you must, under every circumstance, maintain the strength of character from within—so that by the time the Gucci finishes sizing you up, she wishes she had a blemish on her forehead, tatty jogging clothes, and no makeup on. In fact, this Gucci—in her little Marni pants and Chloé top—should feel drastically overdressed to be in line at Starbucks at this hour. This Gucci should lower her head in shame, and rush back to her Range Rover, head low to the ground.)
The problem was…this Gucci happened to be Shelby Lynn Pierce. And while being a King beat being a Pierce on any day of the week, Kathleen would show her girlfriend due respect.
Upon leaving Smith & Wollensky, she’d called Shelby Lynn and asked her to meet for an afternoon tea. It would be difficult broaching the subject that everyone was talking about but pretending not to—that is, the subject of Tate’s blatant infidelity.
But Kathleen wanted to know for sure whether Shelby was “back on the market.” This was information she needed. And she didn’t want to disappoint Bo Harlan by giving him false hope.
Kathleen had considered that Shelby and the oilman might make a good match. It was just something she felt. An intuition about their respective personalities.
Kathleen’s main reason for inviting Shelby Lynn for tea was to ask if she wanted to decorate Bo Harlan’s office for a photo shoot with Houston Modern Luxury magazine.
This request was a no-brainer. Shelby Lynn would drop everything for the job. And not because she needed the money. The Houston socialite was from one of the most prominent families in the city, with the Pierce Building downtown, the Pierce wing on the new contemporary arts museum, and the Pierce Library at the university.
What Shelby Lynn Pierce desperately wanted was recognition—recognition for her talent as a decorator, a “theme-tress,” if you will. Her taste was big, expensive, and over-the-top, but it fit her personality to a T. Shelby Lynn was all about flair. Which was why Kathleen was startled when she saw this most famous of Pierces appear inside the Starbucks wearing the Marni pants, the Chloé top, and…a diamond tiara.
Kathleen stood from her seat and tried not to let her jaw drop. “Shelby, how darling you look,” she said. Shelby fluttered up to the table and gave her two dramatic cheeky air kisses.
“I’m starting a new line of tiaras,” Shelby said, easing into her chair and dropping her oversized Chanel bag onto the floor. “And I’m using real diamonds, of course.”
She took the tiara off her head and handed it across the table to Kathleen. “Try it,” she commanded.
Kathleen giggled and said, “Don’t mind if I do.” She placed the tiara on her head and said, “It’s mine now, Cinderella, and I’m not taking it off.”
Shelby smiled and tugged at her large diamond chandelier earring. “Keep it for a while, girlfriend. It suits you.”
Although Starbucks wasn’t known for having table service, Shelby Lynn motioned to the guy behind the counter to bring her a tea, as well. He nodded and left a li
ne of customers to deliver Shelby her tea nice and hot.
“Mmmm. Tazo chai with honey. Just like I like it, Tom,” Shelby said, smiling up at the barista.
He blushed and said, “Thank you, Shelby Lynn.”
Kathleen tried not to smile. Shelby Lynn was good. She could have someone serve her tea and then thank her for the privilege.
She and Bo Harlan would make a good pair, indeed. It wasn’t that they were mean or bad people in the least, it’s just that it was difficult for a super hyped-up Type A personality to find his or her equal in this world.
Shelby Lynn took a sip from her tea and said, “Tate and I had sex.”
That ends that, Kathleen thought.
“When?” she asked.
“Last year,” Shelby Lynn drawled, and then laughed. “I just read this research study on Google. Did you know that twenty million married couples in the United States have sex less than ten times a year?”
“So they’re more like roommates?”
Shelby Lynn slapped her palm against the table. “Exactly.”
Kathleen eyed her friend. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“You know as well as I do—as well as the entire world.” Shelby shrugged. “Everyone knows about Tate and his little affair at the Lancaster.”
“Is it serious?” Kathleen asked. She’d long since believed Tate was a scoundrel.
Shelby Lynn pursed her lips. “He moved into a suite at the Hotel ZaZa last month. The last I heard, he was getting on a flight with her to Miami.”
Kathleen shook her head. This just wasn’t right. It was one thing to have a quiet affair, but quite another to leave the mother of your two children while you jetsetted off to south Florida.
Shelby Lynn summoned the guy behind the counter, and he nearly toppled over himself trying to get to the table. She held up two perfectly manicured fingers. “I’ll have two slices of lemon pound cake for me. Kathleen, you want anything?”
Kathleen knew it would be verboten not to indulge, especially since Shelby Lynn was about to do the unthinkable by eating not one, but two! slices of cake.
“I’ll have the blondie,” she said.
“Coming right up,” the barista guy said, as if he were working at a five-star restaurant. A moment later he reappeared with the snacks.
Shelby Lynn smiled up at him and said, “You are the sweetest thing, Tom,” to which he once again replied, “Thank you, Shelby Lynn.”
Kathleen picked a piece of coconut off the top of her blondie and flicked it into her mouth.
She watched as Shelby Lynn—who never ate anything—gobbled up both slices of pound cake in a matter of seconds.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Shelby said, after it was over.
Kathleen lowered her voice. She reached her hand out and touched Shelby gently on her wrist. “Shelby, you can’t stay at home and mope. You are a young, beautiful, vibrant woman with a great head on your shoulders. It’s time you did something for yourself for a change.”
Shelby Lynn burped and covered her mouth. She was wearing a huge antique ruby on her wedding finger, instead of her diamond band.
Kathleen took a deep breath. “Shelby, I would love if you helped me plan the foundation dinner this year.”
Shelby sat back in her chair and tried to hide her emotion. For a woman of her stature, blasé was the way. But Shelby broke out into a gleaming super-white smile.
“I have so many great ideas!” she tittered. “I mean, the whole harem girl and camel theme is over. And people have killed the biker ball disco. I was thinking we could do something more along the lines of ‘New Discoveries.’”
“I like that,” Kathleen said.
For the next few minutes the two women discussed the dinner, and then Kathleen brought up Bo Harlan’s office-redecorating project.
“Wild Bo. Ick.” Shelby Lynn wrinkled her nose at the sound of his name, and let out a small burp.
“He’s not bad. In fact, I had lunch with him today,” Kathleen admitted. She knew that if Shelby Lynn hadn’t heard about Kathleen’s appearance at Smith & Wollensky by now, the society princess would certainly hear it from the grapevine by the time dinner rolled around.
“You did not!”
Kathleen held up her hand. “As God is my witness.”
“What’s he like?”
“Short, clumsy, and one heck of a talker. But you know something, Shelby, I sort of like him. I mean, I know he’s a shrewd businessman who’s screwed everybody under the sun, including Dylan’s father, but you know how those boys play when they get in the mud.” Kathleen bit her lip. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s got a bad reputation because he wins all the time.”
Shelby Lynn thought for a moment. “Okay, Kathleen. Tell him I’ll do it.” She wagged her finger in Kat’s direction. “He’s got to pay me, of course, just like he’d pay any other professional decorator.”
“Of course he’ll pay you, silly.” Kathleen knew Bo Harlan would pay Shelby twice the going rate, if not more.
“How about this weekend?” Shelby asked.
Kathleen smiled. “Sounds perfect.”
Shelby Lynn took a sip from her tea, bent sideways over the table, and threw up into her Chanel purse.
Twenty-eight
Kathleen arrived back at the apartment and found Dylan sitting on the bed in his boxer shorts. Her heart melted at the sight of him, looking boyish and vulnerable and sexy all at once. Without his shirt, Dylan’s chest was perfect. Not too hairy, and cut with fine, lean muscles that rippled down his abdomen.
He looked up at her and said, “Why are you wearing a crown?”
Kathleen rushed into the bathroom and checked herself in the mirror. She’d completely forgotten about Shelby Lynn’s tiara. In fact, she’d left Shelby Lynn more than three hours ago and run several errands around town. She’d picked up the dry cleaning, bought milk, and zipped into the post office…in a tiara.
“Oh Lord,” Kathleen said, plucking the tiara off her head and setting it on the bathroom counter. She spritzed herself with a small dab of perfume and brushed her teeth.
She walked back into the bedroom and kissed Dylan on the top of his head. He moved away from her and scowled.
“I saw you at lunch today,” he announced, as if it were some surprise.
“I saw you, too, honey,” Kathleen said sweetly.
For a moment, Dylan’s face measured a range of emotions. He seemed flustered at first, shocked, and finally, angry. Kathleen could tell he was mad because Dylan always stared down at his feet when he was angry, and never looked her directly in the eye. It was if he couldn’t stand the sight of her.
“Bo Harlan! Bo Harlan of all people! Here I am telling you about what he’s done to my family, how he stole the Clarissa from my dad, and the next thing I know, I see my woman having lunch with him! He’s the reason we’re broke, you know!”
Kathleen took a deep breath. The rules didn’t seem to apply when it came to her man. The rules of never explain, never apologize, and never show humility. But she wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Dylan had to start learning how to trust her judgment. She was no wallflower. And if that was what he wanted in a woman, he could find someone else.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Kathleen said firmly.
Dylan jumped off the bed. In his boxer shorts, he looked so fine, Kathleen really wanted to leap on top of him. So she attempted just that. She lunged toward him, threw her arms around Dylan’s neck, and tried to kiss him, but he pushed her away.
He was holding on to her wrists so tightly, it startled Kathleen.
“Let go of me!” she squealed.
Dylan clapped his hand over her mouth and whispered in her ear. “Be quiet or you’ll wake Wyatt up, and that’s the last thing I need!”
Kathleen nodded her head and Dylan let go of her wrists. She’d never seen him this riled up before. He was pacing in front of the bed. Stomping, more like it.
“Bo Harlan is not that bad,” Kat
hleen said. She knew it was the wrong thing to say. She knew it as soon as the words tumbled from her mouth. But she couldn’t help herself. It was the truth. And she always spoke the truth.
“Not that bad? Not that bad, Kathleen!” It was now Dylan who’d raised his voice. His entire body was shaking as he circled in front of the bed like an alligator on a leash.
Kathleen thought he looked so adorable that she had to stop herself from giggling. She’d only make him angrier if she laughed.
“He’s really pulled the wool over your eyes, hasn’t he, Kathleen? I mean, you’re a smart woman. Don’t you see what he’s trying to do? He’s using you!”
“Of course he is, honey.”
Dylan stopped in his tracks. “I can’t believe you go and meet him in public! In front of me, and all the world to see? Do you realize how many people are going to be talking about you, Kathleen? Behind your back?”
“Bo Harlan just wrote a half-million-dollar check for the foundation,” Kat said. She realized, suddenly, that she was tired. It had been a long day.
“And you invited him?”
Kat pulled her dress up over her head, stripped off her panties, and kicked off her shoes.
“Don’t try it,” Dylan warned. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m tired.” Kathleen sighed and walked over to the nightstand. “I’m getting ready for bed.” She pulled one of her T-shirts from the drawer and put it on. Dylan’s antics were trying her patience. She needed to end this.
Dylan continued his frantic pacing.
Kat climbed into the bed, flipped on the reading light, and picked up a novel she’d been reading.
“So it’s like that,” Dylan said.
Kathleen placed the book in her lap and looked at him. “You need to trust me,” she said. “I’m not some idiot, you know.”
“I…I…Kathleen…I didn’t mean…”
It was almost too cute, really.
Kathleen took off her T-shirt, and threw it on the floor. She began rubbing her breasts and making funny kissy faces at him.
