by Linda Kage
He hadn’t changed much from the boy he’d been. He might’ve grown up to like the ladies a little too much for his own good, but he still had his unrepentant sweet tooth and annoyingly perky personality. And I loved the kid more than I thought possible. Somehow, his time under Lana’s thumb hadn’t changed or hardened or darkened him. Underneath his flirty, skirt-chasing manner and cocky grin, he had a heart of pure gold.
I think I was more relieved by his preserved personality than I was saddened by the way life had changed and hardened and darkened mine.
Shaking my head, I forced my mind from such thoughts and returned it to business.
Except a knock on my door interrupted me.
Bruno poked his head into my office. “Morning, Mr. Hayden. You got any trash for me today?”
“Always.” I automatically reached for the small black receptacle located under my desk and pulled it out to hand to him. There was actually very little inside since Bruno was so fastidious and usually made his trash rounds once or twice a day, but he wouldn’t mind. I think he made so many rounds because he just liked to talk to everyone.
Bruno had actually been the first employee hired by Marcella and Arthur Judge when they turned their two-person operation into a company. He was also the only employee still remaining with JFI after Lana has taken over, other than myself and Brick, that is. Maybe she hadn’t fired him because he lived on the spectrum with high-functioning autism; she didn’t think he could be any kind of threat to her throne. But she was wrong about Bruno. The old man was a smart, loyal, and dependable employee. He could’ve done anything he wanted here. Knowing Arthur as I had, I’m sure he’d offered Bruno advancement, except Bruno just wanted to remain where he was as the building’s caretaker.
If I had asked him why he’d always stayed where he was, he probably would’ve told me—in a lengthy, detailed way—but for some reason, I never did. He seemed to enjoy his life as it was, and that was more than most people could ask for. More than I could ask for, it seemed.
“Still sticking to the granola bars, I see,” he mused, examining what I had to offer him as he dumped my trash into his rolling cart.
He always made a comment on the contents of my trash can.
Some people collected stamps; Bruno nosed through people’s waste.
“That’s good.” He nodded his approval when he handed the can back. “You’ll live longer than that crap-eating brother of yours. I tell you, there’s nothing but candy remains and chip bags in his bin.”
“Sounds about right,” I answered as I retrieved my receptacle.
“I don’t know how he stays as healthy as he does,” Bruno went on, turning away only to snap his fingers and point in the air before pausing and turning back. “That reminds me; speaking of health issues, I thought that old lawyer of Arthur’s was dead.”
I sat up, lifting my eyebrows, because I totally hadn’t expected to hear such a comment. It’d almost been two years since anyone had spoken Arthur’s name in my presence. Hearing it now, caused something to shift and then constrict in my chest.
God, I missed the sharp, old bastard.
“He is,” I answered, shaking my head in confusion as I frowned at Bruno. “Why? What made you bring him up?”
Randolph Finley, my stepfather’s lawyer had died not long after Arthur himself had. I’d actually been trying to get into contact with Finley to ask more about the will he’d drafted for Arthur when the news had come through that he was gone. It’d been a harsh blow for me in my quest for answers, since I had a feeling Finley—or Fin Tin, as Arthur had always called him—could’ve helped me discover a lot.
“Well, I was wiping up a tea spill in Ms. Lana’s office this morning,” Bruno answered, lifting his eyebrows with meaning, which told me the spill had most likely not been an accident but one of Lana’s temper tantrums where she’d no doubt tossed it across her office, probably at someone—that someone most likely being Kaitlynn, her unpaid intern. “And she called some bugger on the phone Fin Tin.”
“What?”
With a single blink, I stared at him, my skin going ice cold. Then I shook my head slowly. “That—that’s not possible.”
Except all the while I murmured the words, thoughts and questions raced through my mind.
Fin Tin wasn’t a common nickname. Who else would she have called that?
Damn, was he still alive? I guess I’d never questioned it or gotten it confirmed. Why the hell had I never gotten confirmation? But why would someone fake their own death?
And why would he contact Lana of all people if he was still alive? I wasn’t even aware the two had known each other that well. Unless—unless they’d secretly been in league together.
And maybe he’d altered Arthur’s will for her without Arthur’s knowledge about it, in which case, hell yes, he’d have to fake his own death afterward to escape any kind of consequences in case the truth ever came out.
Holy shit.
Across the room, Bruno was shrugging. “Ah well.” He pushed his cart toward the door. “Maybe I heard her wrong. She could’ve said Fenton or something like that. My ears aren’t what they used to be, you know.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” I nodded, blindly agreeing as he meandered from my office, shutting the door behind him and leaving me stunned and full of new conspiracies.
Staring straight ahead, I sat in silence with nothing but racing thoughts banging around the inside of my head.
“Fin Tin,” I repeated aloud.
Was it possible he was still alive?
If he was, this changed everything.
Chapter 3
Gabby
TWO WEEKS LATER
You knew you’d hit rock bottom when you were desperate enough to accept a date with a man for money.
Actually, I had no interest in money per se. But medicine, chicken noodle soup, saltines, maybe a bottle of Sprite, and a box of Kleenexes. Now that would be heaven right about now. And since a person typically needed money to procure such things, I was prepared to do what I had to do for the cash that could get them for me. So here I was, approaching the ritzy side of town on foot after nine on a Saturday night. During Halloween.
“Hey, lady! You got any candy?”
Slowing to a stop as two pint-sized humans raced up to me—one dressed as Iron Man, the other Captain America—I deflated, realizing Miguel was totally missing out on trick-or-treating tonight. Not that we’d made him the best costume, though it had taken forever to cut up cardboard boxes, then tape them back together, and cover them in aluminum foil to make the robot he had planned to be. I just hated that having the flu was making him miss out on the opportunity to get out and be a kid. He didn’t deserve that. Poor guy already had enough on his plate.
What’s more, the boys gazing up at me expectantly didn’t need any candy; the buckets they were toting were already overflowing. But telling them to get lost felt a little rude, even for my taste. So I sighed impatiently and paused to open the purse I had dangling over my shoulder.
“Just a sec. Let me check my stash—Aha.” I found an open pack of gum with three pieces left. Extracting two, I held out one in each hand to disperse them equally. “And they’re orange flavored, huh,” I said, wiggling my eyebrows to make my gift look more appealing than we all knew it was. “The best.”
The two boys exchanged incredulous glances, then turned back to me. “Gee, thanks, ya lousy cheapskate,” one said, before they both reached out, snagged their one piece of gum each and tossed their booty into their crowded buckets before they took off, racing away from me, already intent to harass—er, find—another willing sucker to give them stuff.
I stared after them and shook my head sadly. They were going to grow up to be such male chauvinist little assholes, I could already tell. It was a shame, really. They’d been total cuties, too.
“Hey, happy Halloween, you guys,” I called, unable to help myself when I snidely added, “Don’t choke on a Kit Kat and die or anything.”
They didn’t even bother to turn around as they flipped me off over their shoulders.
Yep, I’d totally called it. Assholes in training.
“Well, bless their hearts,” I murmured, turning away and starting back up the sidewalk.
That had become my go-to expression lately because this new girl at the café, Mary Louellen, who’d started last month bussing tables on many of the same shifts that I waitressed, said it so often. She came from the South and had a thick-ass accent to prove it. It hadn’t taken me long to realize her “bless your heart” phrase was really secret code for “go fuck yourself.” Adoring that, I had adopted the saying for myself as a way to clean up my own language a little. Plus it was kind of fun to toss around, especially because so many people in these parts actually thought I was being nice to them when I said it.
Yeah, I was wicked; it was awesome.
And now I was about to turn into a hooker, selling my body for a couple bottles of pain relievers. Or did that make a girl a crack whore? Sex for drugs?
Oh well. It was worth it to help Miguel.
Not that I was actually going to sleep with Diego, mind you, because eww, gag me.
But he’d been begging nonstop for a date for going on four weeks now. I figured it wouldn’t kill me to finally accept, once, then try to be present and amiable during my time with him, then maybe allow him a goodnight kiss. Maybe. But that was it; definitely no second-base action. From my limited knowledge of him, he seemed a bit too slimy and grope-y and totally not respectable-to-women enough to go too far with. Honestly, I didn’t want to go anywhere with him, but to help relieve my little brother through his flu symptoms, I’d deal.
I’d already tried to beg my neighbors for a small loan or Tylenol, knocking on door after door in my building. But being Halloween, they were closed up tighter than Fort Knox tonight. Even bleeding-heart Kaitlynn up on the fourth floor hadn’t answered my call. I guess people expected more tricks than treats in our neighborhood on All Saints’ Eve.
It was just as well Miguel hadn’t been well enough to go out in his costume. He wouldn’t have gotten shit for candy. And he wouldn’t have been able to eat most of it either, what with his diabetes. But it had been the principle of the matter. I hadn’t wanted him to feel left out or not normal.
I checked the street numbers as I approached an intersection and had to wait at a red light. Four blocks left to come up with a smooth way to ask Diego for money, you know, after accepting that date with him. Not a lot of cash, just a small loan I planned to pay back with interest as soon as I got paid next Friday. Maybe forty, fifty bucks tops, would get me what I needed. That was all.
He’d never miss it. I mean, the guy had to pay twice that amount for each bouquet of flowers he constantly brought to the café and gave me. This would be nothing for him.
That wouldn’t make me too awful, would it? I mean, it was for my sick brother, which I wasn’t going to tell him about. Who would agree to date a chick who’d been exposed to the flu? And I mean exposed, as in Miguel had coughed on me, sneezed on me, and cuddled up in his bed flush against me while he’d had the chills. I was very likely a walking time bomb of sick right about now. I mean, probably not. My immune system was actually awesome. But still, probably best not to mention any kind of sickness to Diego.
None of this really helped ease my conscience, however, even though the dude could obviously afford to part with a bit of cash, because seriously, those roses he bought at least once a week to give me were first class. And he was constantly bragging about the posh condo he lived in, as well as how pleased he was about his exploding filmmaking career.
It was kind of eye-roll worthy how thick he laid it on to impress me. I’d never had any plans to actually fall for his lame advances, but here I was, a block from the Preston Estates building, to finally say yes, I would choke up my pride and [love to] go out with you.
Preston Estates loomed above the other condos around it, newer and grander, like some kind of modern, pompous highbrow. If I were in any other frame of mind, I would’ve snorted over the white-stoned opulence with gold-framed windows and doors, and I would’ve muttered compensating much? As it were, a little jump of anxiety leapt in my stomach. Nerves, I realized. I was freaking, fracking nervous. About talking to that ass.
Yep. This was definitely a new level of low for me.
“What am I doing? What am I doing?” I muttered from between gritted teeth as one block narrowed to a hundred feet, then fifty. Twenty.
Oh God, here I was.
“Evening, ma’am,” a pleasant doorman greeted, flashing me a wide grin when I made eye contact with him. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?”
Oh, wow. He was actually nice. Thank God. This was going better than I imagined it would. I grinned back, relieved by his welcome as he held the door open. For me.
“It really is,” I said, thanking him from the bottom of my heart, and not just for opening the door but because his smile had helped bolster my resolve more than anything else.
But then I entered the building, and all my resolve dissolved like sugar dumped into a cup of hot water. Poof. Gone.
Because, holy shit, seriously, what was I doing in a building like this?
I swear, the carpet was made of velvet. Bloodred velvet. All the decorative tables had beveled marble surfaces with fresh flowers in ancient-looking vases on them. I wouldn’t be surprised if the ugly paintings on the walls were actually originals by famous artists. It was all so far out of my pay grade, I’m surprised the lunatic doorman had even let me into the building. Preston Estates was the last place I belonged.
When a deep, condescending voice cleared its throat before saying, “Ahem. May I help you?” in a thick French accent, I almost peed my pants, wondering if it was the Almighty Himself, ready to shoo me back out the door, until I glanced around, only to find a thin, ancient male standing behind a reception desk. He wore a red jacket and white gloves.
I was about to tell him, no, thanks, I’m good, then flee back out into the night. But a picture of Miguel’s sunken face as he slept fitfully in his narrow bed, sweating and shivering through his fever, filled my head. He was so miserable right now. He already had a tough enough life as it was with the diabetes they had diagnosed him with eight months ago and the insulin pump that was hooked up to him twenty-four hours a day. I just wanted to make him as comfortable as possible until at least this passed. And one pill—one tiny little pain reliever—would do him a world of good.
Okay, fine. I was doing this. Wearing an old black hoodie, yoga pants, and tattered gray sneakers, I approached the thin, saggy-faced man. His gold name tag read André.
“Yes, hi. I, umm. I’m here to see Diego Hernandez.”
André sent me a distasteful frown, his eyebrows puckering as he roved a patronizing glance over me, his expression reminding me of a person who’d just tasted sour lemons.
Finally, with a crinkle still marring the surface of his long nose, he answered, “In the ballroom, I believe.”
The ballroom. Wow, Diego must be hosting one of his galas he was always telling me about, trying to impress that new producer who’d just taken on his latest film, no doubt.
Which didn’t boost my insecurities. Nope. Not at all.
I self-consciously tugged at the hem of my hoodie and offered receptionist André a tight smile. “Thanks.” I turned away, only to remember one minor detail, which caused me to spin back and clear my throat as I set my hands on the edge of the counter. “Um, sorry. But one last question.”
André blinked in shock at my fingers that dared to touch his countertop, my chipped blue nail polish clearly more than his delicate sensibilities could handle by the way he reared away from them.
I removed my hands from sight, tucking them into the front pocket of my hoodie. “But could you tell me exactly where the ballroom is?”
I got a blink. Once, twice, three times. And yes, I was still there after all that. Too bad for André, blinking did not make me disappe
ar.
Sighing impatiently, he said, “Down that hall to the end, then left.”
“Perfect,” I said, smiling at him so brightly he actually frowned in suspicion. Yeah, he knew I was mentally blessing his heart right now. “Thank you.”
But when I turned away, he cleared his throat again. “Typically, it’s frowned upon for staff to fraternize with friends at Preston Estates while they’re working.”
I glanced back, sent him a confused squint and then nodded. Alrighty then. No idea what that meant. But I said, “Okay, thanks for the warning.” And I went on my merry way.
For some reason, it didn’t even occur to me to realize that André had just called Diego part of the staff until way after I’d actually made it to the ballroom and stepped just inside the entrance, only to plow to an uncomfortable halt and gape incredulously at the sight before me.
Talk about black-tie affair. I totally didn’t belong here.
I looked like a freaking homeless junkie in my hoodie and yoga pants.
The good news was that no one had noticed me yet, so I inconspicuously started backing toward the doorway even as I scanned the faces of every male in a tux, looking for Diego. He was impossible to spot among the sea of fancy dresses and silver trays of champagne and caviar. I was about to give up completely when I heard an irritable voice snap, “Hernandez.”
Oh, thank God. Relieved to hear his name being called, I glanced over and even took a step in that direction, only to jerk to another halt when I saw him toting one of those fancy silver trays with the champagne glasses on it with one hand. When I realized his pristine, pressed suit matched the rest of the waitstaff, I frowned in confusion.
What the what?
The woman who’d barked at him, rattled something off in Spanish that I couldn’t completely follow. I blushed as I tried to decipher everything, because it felt as if I should understand more. But my dad had been so lax in teaching Miguel and me his native tongue that I basically knew nothing.
