by Poppy Dunne
But all I can think of is Dahlia Rossi. All I can think of is how I can’t stand waiting until Thursday to see her.
I don’t like this feeling of dependence. Since I was a little shitheel fresh out of college and with big plans for the world, I’ve tried to avoid getting tangled up in anything this intimate. Getting tied up during intimacy is one thing, but tangled? Bad idea, kids.
I’m still brooding on my hot woman dilemma when Pete hangs up the call. “Everything good?” I ask him. I’m holding a tennis ball and racket—because I can—and whack a soft one in his direction. He grabs the ball and nods.
“The kids are going to be back at Evelyn’s tomorrow. The lawyers got her to come home early, and she’s not allowed to leave town any longer without first consulting me. It’s good.” He sits opposite me, grabs a beer, and starts chugging. He coughs, since he’s not as accustomed to impromptu boozing as I am, and wipes his mouth. I wouldn’t encourage my brother to become an alcoholic to solve his problems, what with the kids and all, but using booze to help calm down can be a wonder. It’s like a tonic, but with the gin.
Add the gin is what I always say. Live a little.
With a sigh, he says, “I think I should get home today. I want to be at Evelyn’s as soon as she gets in.” He wants to be there to show her that he’s not going to back down or be anything less than vigilant about this. Good man.
“Ten four, small brother.” I pound back the rest of my beer and crush the can in my grip. I am a classy bastard. “I’ll have the jet prepped in an hour.”
“You want to come with me, see the kids?” Pete gets that sly, shit-eating grin. “Or do you want to wait for Dahlia to call.”
Fuck, he sees through me, the monster. He knows the secret part of me that can’t stand being away from her even this long. Truth is I’m not going to feel entirely easy until I know Dahlia’s in the back of my town car, winding her way up the long and twisting road to the estate. But I don’t want to get too comfortable too fast with this arrangement. After all, if women know they’ve got you by the balls, they can make any kind of play they want.
I should know. Dahlia wrote that rule herself.
Well, maybe I will pop down to LA for twenty-four hours. Maybe I’ll stay through to Thursday. My car will pick her up whenever she wants, and if I’m not home by the time she rolls in? I’ll be back soon. As long as I don’t get held up by anything too important, that is. It’ll probably be good for her to be waiting on me, just so she doesn’t get ideas. So she knows she doesn’t call all the shots.
I know these are not the loving thoughts of a tender paramour, but I’m horny, nervous, and pulling in to the neighborhood of drunk. Right now, I’m doing the best I can to stay awake and one step ahead of everything.
“I’ll prep a flight for two, see the kids, then come back right after.” I shrug, pulling out my phone. “No big deal. But you have to do something for me, Pete.”
“What’s that?” He frowns, concerned.
“There’s a bottle of Macallan in the liquor cabinet, aged and never opened. We need to get through it between the east and west coast, and we’ll only have an hour to do so. I hope you’ve trained for this.”
Do you know what a genius I am? Do you know? Know what? I’m such a genius I can’t even remember my name.
Macallan was a mistake. And by mistake, I mean it gave me a hand job because of how awesome I am. Pete’s asleep now. He’s sprawled out on the couch in his house, like a sprawled thing that looks like my brother. I’m not asleep. Fuck no. I’m the king.
The king would like to do something wild and insane right now, to solidify his king status. But what can I do? Poor Pete. He’s flat on his back and drooling out the side of his mouth. He doesn’t deserve all the pain he’s had this last year. Evelyn’s the reason, of course. She’s a reason for the season. The season of shit.
I can’t wait until we roll up tomorrow, Pete ready to see the kids and me nursing a hangover the size of Montana. I should buy Montana just to spite her. Don’t ask me how that works. I do not know!
While standing in the kitchen and eating peanut butter out of the jar, I get a sudden brilliant idea: Harry Potter. No, I don’t mean I’m going to invent it. That train’s long past. But Gabby loves Harry Potter; she lives Harry Potter; she is Harry Potter, but female and American. Why shouldn’t her whole house be Pigwarts, or whatever that castle place’s name is? Why don’t I make sure that happens for her as a surprise?
I am drunk enough to make this work.
Tonight. I need to do it tonight, while Pete is still snoring on the couch and before he wakes up with a massive hangover in the morning. Because that’s the kind of brother and uncle that I am. I will break into someone else’s home for my little Gabby to have a happy birthday.
Caution to the wind, baby. Throw it. Like Yoda, that was.
That’s what Georgy’s birthday will be: he already loves Star Wars. I’m gonna turn the whole house into the Dagobah system. Swampland, baby. Plug all the sinks, turn on the water full blast, and let the house flood.
But that’s for later. Right now, I stumble not at all drunkenly to get my phone. Pete turns over on the couch, making a restless noise. Sweet dreams, baby brother. I’m off to do the thing only stupidly rich uncles can do: turn everything to beautiful chaos.
I dial the phone as I slip out the front door and stand on the lawn under the moonlight. Man, everything swims around me. Scotch is a beautiful thing.
“Liv? It’s me. What do you mean it’s four in the morning? What do you mean I don’t pay you enough for this? Did you hang up?” I blink at the phone. Well, I know who won’t be getting a World’s Best Employee mug this Christmas. Grumbling, I find the number of my go-to event planner, and call his home line. I only have to call back a couple of times before he howls blindly into the phone, and I hear something break on the other end of the call. Probably knocked over a vase. It happens.
“Esteban? I’m having a stroke,” I say, nodding to myself. “No no, not an actual stroke. A stroke…of genius.” I grin, then frown. “What do you mean you wish it was an actual stroke?”
Regardless, I get Esteban to agree to my idea. He starts putting the call out, and I summon my driver (who, incidentally, was also asleep. It’s like people sleep at night or something.)
Pretty soon, I’m speeding up to Ventura County, grinning like a madman. When I arrive, the men are all waiting outside to be let in. I’ve got the access code, so we don’t have to worry about tripping the alarms when I let everyone inside. This is the point where a tiny part of my brain starts bleeping with concern. After all, we don’t have permission from Evelyn, and it is her house.
But when they take the Hogpimple bouncy castle out to the backyard and start setting it up, my heart swells. It’s not about Evelyn. It’s about Gabby, and Pete, and all of them having a good time together. The way nature intended. With British wizards.
We turn the kitchen into some kind of witch’s sanctuary, complete with bubbling cauldrons and steaming vials of jellied frog’s eyes or something. All the while I brew some magic of my own in some strong black coffee, and sip while the castle goes up around me. The coffee is starting to speak to me, and it sounds like Dahlia’s voice. Mmm. Nothing like a cup of hot, strong caffeine to make you think of sex.
But the coffee-Dahlia voice doesn’t sound too pleased with me. In fact, it’s nagging me pretty hard. ‘You’ve broken into somebody’s house’ and ‘You’re going to get in trouble’ and ‘Put creamer in me baby, oh yeah, right there’ flit through my mind. Dammit. I can’t get horny and concerned at the same time.
But I’m worried, because my brain is making sense right now and I don’t want that. This is what Dahlia still doesn’t completely understand: you need to live life in the now and the here. Or the here and now. If you wait for permission your whole life, where does that get you? A pine box or an urn, your final remains sitting there having done only half of what they were capable. Is there any greater defi
nition of hell? I mean, besides the hangover that is beginning to buzz right behind my eyes?
More coffee sex, stat.
Besides, I shouldn’t be thinking about Dahlia this much, not when I have to go up the stairs and personally help hang some scary Death Eaters in black crepe fluttering robes. I shouldn’t be thinking about what she’d think about all this, or how she’d probably react like I’m out of my mind. A man can’t be tied down by a beautiful woman when he’s got something impractical and stupid to attend to. A man has to sort himself out.
A man has to decide whether or not to decorate a little girl’s room in Gryffindor or Ravenclaw colors. I’m pretty sure Gabby said she was a lion, so Gryffindor it is. Another hour, just as the sun’s peeking over the lip of the horizon, and we’re done. The men head out, grumbling to each other but gratefully accepting a generous cash bonus from yours truly. I’m left in the quiet of Evelyn’s house, savoring the early morning peace that’s only interrupted by the tick of the kitchen clock.
I have to be honest with myself, now that everything’s set up and the ravens and bats are hung and the castle’s ready for bouncing out in the yard: why did I do this?
It was for Gabby, sure, and maybe Pete in a roundabout way. But it was also for Dahlia, maybe. Or rather, it was an answer to Dahlia.
I don’t want to feel like you’re roping me in, Ms. Rossi. I still want to be my own independent man.
So I decorated everything in Harry Potter as a reply.
Christ. Maybe I do need Dahlia in my life. Maybe she’s the only one who can stop the rampaging beast when he’s got a crazy idea in his head. Maybe that’s why I’m still here, at the scene of the whimsical crime, instead of getting my ass out of dodge. I want to tell Dahlia I don’t need her that much, because admitting that I do…well, that’s about the scariest thing I could admit.
So that’s it. I rinse out my mug, grab my jacket from the back of a kitchen chair, and head out the front door…right into a couple of police officers in starched blue uniforms.
Oh. Oh no.
“Sir? We’ve received a call from a neighbor who saw multiple trucks and vans arrive and depart from this residence, along with groups of suspicious men. Are you the owner?” the first cop asks me. All I need to do is say yes, but like a hungover genius, I reply,
“Well. It’s my brother’s ex-wife’s house. Does that count?”
As soon as I deliver that brilliant line, an animatronic goblin peeks up out of the bushes, flashes its eyes, and then crouches back down. Thanks for adding to the conversation, buddy. The cops look at each other, then glare at me.
“Sir. You’re going to need to come with us.”
Trespassing. Apparently there’s a law against that in California. Here, and just about everywhere else on the planet.
In conclusion, if you ever drink half a bottle of scotch on a private jet? Stay home and sleep it off. I have a lot of time to remind myself of that as I ride down the hill in the backseat of the cop’s car.
16
Jack
There she is, the last person I ever wanted looking at me as I sit inside of the public holding cell at the police station. Well, maybe second to last. Or third.
“I should’ve just stayed on the line with you at four AM,” Liv grumbles, her arms crossed over her chest. “Then I could’ve told you how stupid whatever you were planning actually was.” She’s managed to sleek her hair and apply her lipstick with icy precision this early in the morning. The woman is an efficient monster. “What did you do, exactly?”
“I turned Evelyn’s house into Hogwarts for Gabby’s birthday party.” I squint; the world’s still a little blurry around the edges. “I got that right, didn’t I? Hogwarts? It’s not Hogwiggle?”
“Your knowledge of how the kids talk these days is flawless,” she deadpans, drawing closer to the bars. “Good news. With a substantial and generous donation to the widows and orphans’ fund, they’re going to let you out of this with a warning.” Liv sighs, tapping her foot as a lumbering officer slowly, slowly opens up the cage and lets me out. I stroll out, rubbing my forehead with the heel of my hand. Hangovers, man. No rest for the wicked. “So after you pay them, and after you pay me for getting my ass up to Ventura simply to bail you out, you’re going to call Evelyn and apologize.” Liv groans as we walk out into the bright, acidic southern California sunlight. I hiss, throwing my arm over my eyes. That’s like a direct stab to the brain right about now. “What are you, a vampire now?”
“I’m thinking it’ll increase my allure,” I groan as I dive into the backseat of the town car. “Women like vampires and billionaires, right? Deadly combination.” Sweet, sweet tinted windows slide up as I close my eyes. Maybe we can stop by McDonald’s, hand them a bottle of pills, and get them to make an Excedrin Flurry. According to Dahlia, ice cream alleviates the worst life can throw at you. Liv huffs as she slides in beside me, and it sounds like she’s tapping something on her phone. Probably a text to her wife, asking why in the hell she ever agreed to work with me. Well, besides the killer 401k, the sumptuous benefits, and the fact that she secretly loves me like the idiot brother she never had, I really have no idea. I know, I know. I’m a lot to handle sometimes. But I like to think I make it worth her while.
“You’ll need to apologize to Evelyn. She called me and nearly exploded over the phone,” Liv says. Second time in five minutes I’m told that I need to grovel before the insanely expensive Italian-leather shoes of my harpy of a sister-in-law. This is doing nothing to improve my mood.
“Maybe Evelyn can start by apologizing to my brother for destroying his life,” I snap back. Sitting up, I struggle into my seat belt. Safety first. “I’m guessing she didn’t appreciate the castle aesthetic?” Aw, poor her. Likely she and Dominic didn’t like it, Dominic being the smug Fortune 500 scumbag she dumped Pete for. It’s his house, after all.
“Well, Gabby went nuts for it. So nuts that Evelyn apparently took all the credit. You’re lucky that all your hard work is being kept alive.” Then Liv nudges me. I open my eyes and find her staring, her lips pursed in a thin line. “But you do need to apologize. I can’t stress enough how important it is.”
“Because I need to prove what a swell guy I really am underneath it all?” I grab a bottle of water and my emergency stash of Advil from the compartment next to me, and do what I can to kill the invisible vice that’s cinched itself around my head. “Because I have to let that woman and the douchebag she’s shacking up with neuter me?”
“No. Because otherwise, it’s going to be awful for Pete.” Liv narrows her eyes. “I swear to God, why didn’t you think this through?”
Every muscle in my body feels like lead, and my blood chills. Fuck me. Fuck me in the ear canal with a chainsaw. I completely forgot about Pete in all of this. I was prepared to accept some flak from Evelyn on my own behalf, but…Pete?
“He didn’t have anything to do with this. He was asleep. On the couch. Drunk!” I realize that might not sound right in the context of ‘Pete’s a responsible adult who can look after his kids,’ so I amend the statement. “Not as drunk as I was, though.”
“So glad to hear that,” Liv drawls. She pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “You need to convince Evelyn that this was entirely your own plan, and with the greatest enthusiasm.”
If I fucked up my brother’s chance at joint custody, I will personally fly myself into the goddamn sun. Dahlia could have told you this was a stupid idea, the voice in my head whispers. What am I supposed to do, swat that bastard away? He’s right. I didn’t think. Damn it, I never think about things like this. Business? I’m like a laser with great hair when it comes to that shit. But the second we pull into the personal side of things, I’m like a drunk chimpanzee with his dad’s credit card.
Call Dahlia. Ask her advice. She’s good with this sort of thing. She can help.
That’s a great idea, brain, but here’s the problem: I don’t want her to know how bad I fucked it up. It’s a pride thing,
you understand. The difference between the brain and the balls cannot be overstated. It’s the distinction between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hard-On.
“In the meantime,” Liv says, pulling out some documents from her sleek leather briefcase, “here are the papers you need to look at for the widows and orphans’ fund.”
Eh, I don’t mind donating to an actually worthy cause, so I sign pretty fast and neat. Then, the moment I’ve been dreading. Bluetooth in my ear, I sit with my eyes closed and call Evelyn. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe she’ll accept I was a little, er, tipsy, and the house is fine, and Gabby’s delighted, and we can all laugh and understand—
“You son of a bitch,” she snaps in my ear, musical as nails on a chalkboard in the lowest level of hell.
“I’ve told you, only my closest friends get to call me that.”
Liv rolls her eyes and kicks me in the ankle. Ow. Way to kick a man when he is definitely in the wrong and needs a good kick, Liv. Sighing, I mumble,
“I’m sorry. I flew Pete home from my place in New York. He fell asleep, I had a few drinks, thought I’d stumbled onto a brilliant idea, then turned your house into the latest wizarding world adventure. I’ll hire the guys to come directly after the party to take everything down. But I’m sorry. Really.”
There. Could you ask for a more genuine apology?
“You son of a bitch,” she snarls.
Well, I guess you could ask for a more genuine apology. Jerk.
“Look, I said I was sorry, I’m willing to pay to clean it up, I spent a couple of hours in the county jail, and the widows and orphans are going to be a little more looked after from now on. What else do you want?”
Liv inhales quickly through her nose. I know that sound; that’s the sound of me fucking up an already fucked up situation. Honestly, I don’t know why she lets me do anything. I should sit in a room, eat Saltines, and work. That’s about all I can manage on my own without stepping in shit.
