by Cecy Robson
“I didn’t work as hard as I did to make friends. I was running a business, creating an empire.”
“And you were damn good at it,” I agree. “But you don’t want to be perceived as an elitist, heartless, rich boy. We have enough of those. So, let me portray you as you are; a man who did his best to earn the love of his family. Who struggled to find his place in the world and succeeded against all odds.”
“Damn it, Becca. Do you have any idea what it took for me to tell you what I did? Especially after all our time apart?”
“I think I do,” I answer quietly. For all the horrible things we’ve endured, all the words meant to hurt and the actions that left impenetrable scars, here I am, still willing to bleed for him and make sure he recovers. We’re friends at heart, Hale and me. Regardless of everything, that’s who we are.
“I don’t know what you hope to accomplish, aside from making me look like a pathetic whiner with Daddy issues and a drunk for a mother.”
“Some people will call you a whiner,” I reply, refusing to paint too rosy a picture. “They’ll see you as everything you described and worse.”
He nods. “Great. You are damn good at your job, Becks. Don’t know what I’d do without you, girl.”
“But the majority won’t,” I add. “They’ll see you as a hero. As a man who could have easily succumbed to his pain, instead of embracing the American dream and kicking all the excuses to fail in the balls.”
Hale just stares, pegging me with a sick amount of resentment I should be used to by now. But the emotions he feels aren’t the result of anything I’ve done or said, but from what life has done to him. It makes it easier to take, but not much. For all I think this is the right direction, I’m asking a great deal and walking a fine line between exploitation and friendship.
“You’ve returned to the only place you’ve ever called home,” I remind him. “Where you grew up and did your best to fit in. There’s beauty in that and it’s something many people will relate to.”
“But how’s it going to look when the world finds out that my brothers can’t stand the sight of me? I can’t come out of this looking good. Not with both of them against me.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“How can you say that, Becca? My brothers won’t even speak to me.” He runs his finger along the stamp of the bottle. “The last I spoke with was Carson. He called me, drunker than hell, the night Forbes released their magazine with me on the cover, just to tell me how much he hated me. How much they both did.” Hale works his jaw. “I’d taken my staff out to dinner at Tavern on the Green to celebrate, and every last one of them heard him screaming into the phone. Good times, let me tell you. Good times.”
For a moment, I just gape. But this incident is another reminder of what needs to be done. “We can address that, too,” I say, adjusting the blanket against my shoulders.
He cocks his brow. “On film?”
“Preferably.” I pause, the next few words hard to say. “I’d also like to get their perspective if we can.”
“You’re off your rocker, woman.”
“No,” I reply. “Just strategic.”
“Becks, at best, Carson will be too drunk to talk and Emer won’t shoot us. No good will come out of reaching out to my brothers, and you know it.”
I dump my empty bottle in the garbage. “No. I don’t know it, Hale.”
“You didn’t see my mother at the end of her life. She was a broken woman who drank her calories. A fact my brothers sure as shit blame, and will never forgive me for.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because, unlike my daddy, I wasn’t sure I could forgive her. After our talk, I left. Went back to New York to try to forget everything I’d learned. She’d call sometimes. I’d reach out and ask her if she needed anything. But it was all pretend. We knew there was no going back to the family I thought I had.”
“How was she when you spoke with her?”
“Different.” Hale glares at the fire. “Drunk. Always drunk. She tried to deny it. I begged her to get help. After a while we . . . I don’t know. I gave up on trying to convince her and she gave up on life.”
“Did you try to see her?” Hale winces. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” I add, carefully. “I’m trying to understand what happened.”
“She didn’t want to see anyone. She locked herself up in the house. The only one she’d let in was some asshole she paid to deliver her booze. It’d been a few days since my brothers had heard from her. They broke into the house when she wouldn’t answer the door and found her.”
I expect tears. No. I want tears from Hale. They don’t come.
I swear under my breath. I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes things are too sad for tears. I didn’t see his momma near the end of her life, but I’d heard enough. Alcoholic liver disease is as ugly as it sounds.
Hale lowers his half-empty beer to the ground. Seconds pass. Minutes pile up. And the storm vanishes far away from us. I know we’re done talking. At least for now.
I stand and fold the blanket, clearing my throat. “I might not see you for a couple days. There are things I need to do and people I have to reach out to.”
“I thought you were done with all the prep work?” he asks.
I was. Until I realized how much more he needs from me and how much Mr. Singleton still expects. “I think we need a tad more,” I say, keeping my tone professional.
I’m not blind to his pain and I’m not heartless. What I am is good at my job. “Hale, you’re a victim of manipulation and greed. But you’re not a victim of life and circumstance. I’ll make sure you come across as the champion you are.”
He frowns. “Why?” he asks.
I need to leave before I say too much. “Because you would help me if you could. Just like you offered to that night.”
I walk through the house and out the door. Trin’s house is less than a mile away. I need the air and I need the distance. Hale knows which night I mean. Like him, my memory is long and the pain I hold lingers unbearably close to the surface.
Chapter Nine
Hale
“What the fuck is that?”
A black and white creature, more mop than dog, blinks up at me from my doorstep. I can’t see his eyes through all the fur covering them, but I’m pretty sure he’s giving me the stink eye.
“Hey, Hale!” Becca waves and hops out of a white van. “Good mornin’, darlin’.”
Becca’s hair looks the way it used to. Back when she didn’t bother blowing it or whatever it is women do to make it movie-star perfect. It’s messy in all the right ways, like when she used to let her sea-soaked strands dry in the bright summer sun.
There’s a hint of waves and natural highlights most women drop hundreds in salons to achieve. I never told her it’s how I like her hair best. Maybe I should. Hell, maybe I should start with a simple good morning, though not everything about it is good.
I barely slept. The shit I’m dealing with surrounding my court case gets less shitty each day. That’s the good part. To me and my legal team’s shock, all but one of the insider trading charges were dropped, and the ten counts of fraud charges were reduced to four. The bad news is the judge granted the feds another five months to strengthen their case.
“What case?” I asked Mason. “It’s obvious they don’t have anything to stand on.”
Mason agreed. “Our problem is, it’s turned political. The head of the agency wants to keep his job. When we prove he wasted time, resources, and money on a bullshit case, he’s done, Hale. The judge knows it, but gave him the time anyway.”
“Why?” I pressed.
“Because when we either prove your innocence in trial or get everything dropped, which is where we’re headed, the judge can say he’s given the feds enough time.”
“What about the supposed informant who turned me in and led them to the so-called evidence?” I countered.
“They can’t produce him.”
“Can’t or won’t?” I asked. “Big difference there.”
“We thought they had some kind of ace up their sleeve with this informant,” Mason explained. “But even though he reached out to the feds several times, and sent them after you, they never pinned down who he was.”
“What?”
“Tell me about it.” Mason made a face. “These idiots never clarified who he was or how to find him. He provided plenty of tips and information about you, but then he disappeared. They couldn’t even determine if “he” was a he. It’s a good thing for us. No witness, no evidence, no case. Our dilemma remains that the Head Fed can’t go down like this, so the agency is trying to find the informant and anything that justifies your arrest and the media circus this whole thing became.”
“What about us? Can we find him?” We, meaning them.
“We’re trying,” Mason said. “But we have less to go on than the feds. This is their Hail Mary.”
“Damn,” I said.
“Yeah,” Mason agreed. “But if they can’t find him, they have to let this thing go sooner, rather than later.”
In the meantime, I’m the one who looks bad, not the feds. I’ve spent the last few weeks making calls back and forth with Neesa—trying to keep the staff and what’s left of my business going—paying their salaries in the hopes I can return. Except, as insane as it sounds, this whole experience is not what’s keeping me up at night.
I told Becca what really happened with my folks. I’m still not sure why I did it. Maybe being around our friends and talking about the good times over supper triggered it all. Maybe it was Miss Sylvie’s pot roast, warm and savory and full memories of better days. Maybe it was the ocean. The way the waves soaked the beach, bringing me back to a time where I was a Wilder, a real one, and everything made sense.
Or maybe it was just Becca.
Okay. I’m really starting to hate that word “maybe.”
I’m not sure how I went from practically setting her pretty clothes on fire with just one dark look to spilling my soul like I would a slippery glass of milk. But Becca’s always had a hold over me, long before I kissed her, and now, years later, when I want to do a hell of a lot more.
I lean against the doorframe, watching and waiting for her to explain why she’s here with a dog who already assumes his place is with me. After a three-hour conference call with Neesa about what to do with the clients who have stuck by me, I’m ready to go for a long run and not stop until my worries are nothing more than a blur.
Too bad I can’t. Too bad the woman who can suck my heart clean through a straw lingers mere yards away with some guy wearing enough pastels to shame a flower. Jesus, what a morning.
Becca and all her raving beauty surprisingly don’t hold my complete attention. The sixteen-year-old looking dude, the one with the camera, pastels, and more eyeliner than should be humanly possible, brought friends. And when I say friends, I mean more than one mutt.
A fluffy white dog with (Lord, help me) barrettes on her ears like pigtails. wags her tail enthusiastically as Becca coos at it. Can’t say I blame the dog. Becca could have that effect on the world if she cared enough about what the world thought of her.
“Momma will be right with you, baby,” Becca says. “Oh, yes, she will.” She turns to pastel guy, her voice all business as they fumble with some equipment in the rear of the van.
The black and white dog is still sitting beside me, watching, waiting, and apparently torn between looking for a good place to raise his leg, or going for my throat. I suppose that’s the effect I have on the world.
I return the dog’s expression and look back up toward Becca. “Becks, I asked you what the fuck this is?”
“A dog,” Becca answers.
“I know it’s a dog. But what is he doing on my doorstep eyeing me like he wants to chew my leg off and bury it?”
“Oh, you’re just imagining things,” she says, batting her hand dismissively.
“I am not. Look at him!” I say, pointing.
As if totally taking her side, the big mop of a dog whines at me.
“Hale Wilder, you’re scaring him,” Becca accuses.
I watch the dog hunker down at my feet, his head down. “I wasn’t trying to scare you,” I tell him. He whines, earning me another reprimanding glare from Becca. “Okay, pooch, now you’re just making me look bad.”
I bend, letting him sniff my hand. He wags his thick tail, hard enough to send the leaves the breeze stirred along the night to flutter away. But when I stroke his head, his tail really starts thumping. This dog is a hot mess and I can so relate.
“Tootles,” Becca says. “Do you think Hale needs more cutesy?”
“Tootles?” I ask, giving the poor mutt a good scratch behind his ears. “Damn, Becca. The poor thing has it bad enough looking like a giant rug with a tongue. Did you have to call him Tootles?”
The photographer in pastels blinks back at me, horrified. He glances briefly at Becca. “Um. I’m Tootles. The dog’s name is Twinkles.”
I rise, ready to shut the door in everyone’s face when Becca shoots forward. Her ball of fuzz in barrettes bounces up and down in her arms, appearing excited just to be alive. “I recognize that look,” she says, all enthusiastic-like. “You don’t think this is a good idea. I’ll have you know, it’s only because you haven’t given it enough thought.”
“Are we talking about Tootles or Twinkles?” I mutter.
“Maybe both, shug,” she replies through her teeth. “He’s a good boy.”
“The dog?” I ask. He wags his tail when I look at him. “I suppose.”
“A very good boy,” the photographer says, like that will somehow change my mind about wherever Becca is headed. “He’s already licked me twice and we just met.”
“Well, he does seem right friendly, Twinkles.”
“I’m Tootles. Benji Tootles. The dog is Twinkles,” he reminds me.
This poor fucker. I don’t know if his momma or daddy are alive. But if they are, and depending how the next few hours go, I may have to drive to their house and smack the shit out of his father for giving him such a stupid name.
“You used to get beat up on the playground, didn’t you, son?” I ask.
Tootles’ face turns roughly the color of his pink scarf. “Um. Yes. But I went to a school that didn’t appreciate creativity or fashion.”
As soon as he says it, I feel bad and offer him my hand. “I don’t appreciate them as much as I should either, Tootles. But if you went to my school, I wouldn’t let anyone fuck with you.”
I mean as much. Me, Becks and our friends, we were pretty well known in school as the cool kids to be around. But we were never cruel. Not like some of the kids a man like Tootles must have seen in his time.
Tootles smiles at Becca as he releases my hand. “You’re right. He’s nice.” He motions to me. “I wasn’t certain when I first spotted you.”
“Hale’s bark was always worse than his bite,” Becca assures him. She tosses her hair and me a look that informs me I need to behave. “Tootles was intimidated when you stepped out of the house and growled.”
“I didn’t growl,” I say, all the while likely growling.
“What do you call asking me, ‘What the fuck is that?,’ instead of a decent good morning?” She skips past me. Twinkie, or whatever the dog is called, follows behind her, tail wagging and trying to keep up. What the hell? I thought me and him were starting to bond.
Becca puts the prissy dog down and rubs her hands. “It’s chilly in here. But that may work to our favor, seeing we’re going for a more wintery feel. Hale, did you get the linen pants and the light white shirt I sent over this morning?”
I stop in the middle of making coffee just to raise an eyebrow at her. “Those things were for me?” Shit. I haven’t seen her in a few days, so I was hoping she was having clothes delivered here with the expectation of staying.
“And linen breathes really well, in case you were worried,” Tootles adds.
“Yeah. That’s what I was worried about, Toot.”
“It’s Tootles,” Becca tells me. “That’s his professional name in the fashion industry. Kind of like Law Roach.”
“Who?’ I ask.
“Just put on the damn pants, Hale,” Becca says, showing more teeth than either of the mutts. “We need to get this fabulous day started.”
Translation: shut the hell up before I kill you in front of Tootles and the dogs.
I chuckle into my shoulder, trying to keep from full-out cackling. This little hellcat hasn’t changed one bit. “Why the linen? I thought you preferred me in little to nothing at all?”
Tootles gasps, throwing up his arms and growing flustered. “You didn’t tell me we were doing nudies. I think I’m going to need more light.” He whips out his phone. “Stefan? Did you leave yet? . . . What? . . . Go, back . . . that’s right. We need more light!”
Becca doesn’t bother correcting him, even though he appears close to losing his mind. She’s too busy grinning at me with a smile capable of roasting testes on an icy tundra. “Hale, I have a vision.”
“Does this vision involve dogs?” I ask, bending down to scratch the giant moppy head that rubs against me. “You plan to have me and Trusty on the cover?”
“Twinkles,” Tootles interrupts. “Precious, I need you to connect. This dog needs to feel like he belongs.”
Damn, he’s stressed.
Becca ignores me, bending down to pick up the prissy dog running in circles at her feet. “Her name is Anarchy,” she says.
“I would expect no less,” I say.
She laughs softly, her gaze lingering on the wooden floors. The sweater she’s wearing shouldn’t be doing anything for her. It’s light brown, almost gold, unlike the bright, bold colors she normally wears. But this one has a low neckline. Not too low, just enough to allow the eye to travel over the swell of her breasts. The color may not do anything for her skin, but it does bring attention to her pretty face and is more than enough to make me take notice. And those tight jeans she’s in? Y’all, Becca has always looked good in jeans.
