by Sidney Ivens
Biological fact: A man’s dick responds to visual stimulation. I look away and think of Elena, Thanksgiving, her mittens. Her beautiful face.
“Mister Smartass isn’t going to make a joke? I’m disappointed.” Lexi tilts her head. “I’m very funny, you know.”
“No. You’re mean. There’s a difference.”
“Viva la difference.” She pushes away from the desk and squares her shoulders, smiling. That wasn’t just any cat-ate-the-canary smile. She ate a condor. She lifts her left hand and flutters her fingers. Around her long-nailed ring finger is a diamond rock. “I wanted you to be the first to know. Your daddy popped the question.”
Inside, I’m stunned. Thousands of needles numb my feet and hands, and I shift uncomfortably in the chair. How did this happen, and so fast? Most girls couldn’t get past the old man’s security detail. Believe me, a power player like him, regularly featured in Crain’s Chicago Business, on the cover of Fortune magazine? Dozens of women have tried.
Outside, I’m casual. I lean back farther in the seat. “Does the current wifey know?”
She plays with the zipper pull of her dress, a large gold circle, perfect for a man’s fingers to tug down. “Nick’s getting a divorce. My Nick. Not you.”
“Your Nick. Well. Congratulations on your nuptials.”
“I told you. I always get what I want.”
“The conqueress. Tell me, conqueress. Is there a trap door under my chair? Because that’s the feeling I’m getting.”
“I kick ass.”
“You’re using female wiles, not kicking ass. Gotta tell you, Rhymes With, it’s not terribly original.”
“No, I do kick ass, especially yours. Your father’s had me take over the management at Division One.”
Zzzzing. It’s like I just touched an electrified fence. Game face now. Game faccce.
“Oh.” She cups her ear. “I just heard the boxing match bell.” Her upper teeth settle into her lower jaw with a click, the whites of her eyes magnified by the eyeliner and false lashes. “Tell you what. I’ll let you empty the waste bins after everyone’s left the bar.”
I don’t respond. Twiddle my fingers.
“A little bird tells me you’re hanging out a lot at the bookstore.”
“A little bird? Or some private investigator you’ve hired on my father’s dime?”
Her eyes laser in on me, as sharp as any high-powered telescope. “Ohhh. Now I get it. You’re into drab turtlenecks.”
“Watch it, Lexi.” My voice is low, guttural.
“That’s enough.” A light filters in from the adjoining room, Miss Tompkins’s office. Hands shoved in his pockets, Dad pauses at the door frame, shaking his head. “I’d better stop this before there’s blood on the floor.”
Freshly tanned, he’s wearing a gray Kiton sharkskin suit, a robin-egg color tie. He grins and meanders to where Lexi’s standing. Everything about the old man overpowers, his height and stocky build, a sharp hair part for his thinning dark hair, barrel chest and square jaw, broad forehead. Even his cologne arm-wrestles the air.
At the desk, he nudges her aside to reclaim the cigar in the crystal ashtray. “It’s a sin to waste a great Cuban, Alexandria. Give Nick and me some one-on-one.”
Lexi leaves, putting an extra swing in her ass.
I glance over at my father. “You heard everything and you’re still going to marry her?”
He shrugs. “She’s a tigress. She’s got big appetites, so what? I like that.” He re-lights the cigar and exhales a long smoke stream. “You used to.”
I decide, screw it. Blast the tension wide open. “I want my own bar.”
“That dump?” My father snorts. “That dump? You don’t know the first thing about building a business from nothing.”
“I’ve launched three sports bars of your most successful locations. Way exceeded the projected profit margins. I work my ass off, and you’re going to hand it over to her?”
“Don’t be so eager to pat yourself on the back. The profits come from my name.” Cigar between his fingers, he points at the steel “Z” logo flanked between ten-feet-high bookcases. “I run 325 luxury hotels, resorts, and bars across six continents. Remind me again, hotshot, how many do you manage?”
Go on, old man. Knock me down. I’ll get back up. I’ll find the money somehow. I’ll do day trading if I have to. Trade on oil. I’ll have to risk part of my nest egg.
Now I had to push her aunt to ink a signature, make the sale official. Next major task: winning that contest.
I have to get busy.
Ejecting myself, I send the swivel chair into a spin. I put on my jacket and adjust the collar flap. “The guys will stage a mutiny once she takes over.”
“Then keep the peace.” He flicks ashes into the crystal basin. “Be smart and stay where you are.” His dark eyes intensify. “Or learn the hard way.”
Lexi’s spite is one thing. My father’s got titanium strength behind his threats. My thoughts scatter. For moments, I revert to being a kid, scared shitless after Mom died. I went to live with him, in that tomb of a house, subjected to household staff whose pinches left bruises. I told the old man about their nastiness, but he didn’t care. They kept their jobs and laughed when I started to cower from them.
I think of the non-disclosure I signed. I’ve always wondered why. Maybe. . . maybe it has something to do with Mama. “It was a low blow, what you did to her. And I’m not forgetting it.”
“Always re-treading the same thing.” The old man grinds the cigar out, and I mean, he smashes that tobacco down to a stump. “You won’t see it coming. You won’t.”
He’s wrong. I will see. When it comes to my father, I’ve learned to see it coming. The shock of seeing my clothes packed, luggage waiting at the open door, ready for transport to boarding schools, military academies. Then I was a kid. Now? Prepared for any curve ball he pitches.
I toss a glance over my shoulder. “See you around, Longshanks.”
I exit through the all-glass reception area and exotic plants. Past that is the elevator bank, where I hit the down button. The dark marble’s veining rises toward the fourteen-foot high ceilings. On top of a marble console table is a tall black vase holding white lilies. Although the flowers are fresh, alive, they look cold.
Heels clack on the high-polished marble tiles.
Round two.
“Leaving your betrothed’s side?” I ask. “That’s not a good start on the honeymoon.”
“You and I could’ve made a real splash in this city. Been Chicago’s power couple.”
I jerk back. “What?”
“But you blew it.”
“Obviously you wayyy overrated our hookup, honey.”
Lexi’s breathing hard, fake breasts rising and falling. “I’m going to convince your father that we must, absolutely must, have that bookstore for our next hotel. Not because I want it. Because you want it.”
If Elena’s aunt gets a higher offer, she’ll have to go with it. Anyone with an operating brain would. My throat’s the Sahara, but I swallow and continue the blasé act. “Boy, you take rejection personally.”
“You’re already estranged from your father. He doesn’t even like you.” Her voice lowers with her vocal fry. “Once I’m his wife, you’ll get nothing in the will. Noth-eeng.”
I stare straight ahead at the dark marble section separating the elevators, the wide veins splintering like my nerves. How long does this effin’ elevator take?
She jabs at me with her long nails. “You pissed off the wrong girl, Nicky, and your little declaration of independence is going to cost you.”
“Better to live one day as a lion than one hundred years as a sheep.” Mussolini said that. Of course, the guy was a fascist and wound up hung upside down from a metal girder, but she doesn’t have to know. “Now I get why you’re so obsessed. You wanted to rule the empire with me.”
She strikes me on the shoulder with a fist. Her sharp knuckles hurt. Eyes blazing, she follows that with
several punches on my arm, more breathless and enraged with each strike.
Vicious little shrew. I dig my feet into the floor, determined not to flinch or move. “Be careful.” I hold up a forefinger. “Careful you don’t overrate yourself. Dad bores pretty fast.”
“Douchebag. No man ever forgets me.”
“Lexi, Lexi. You can’t forget me.” I turn to look at her, eyebrow raised. “To go to these lengths to get even? Engaged to a man thirty years older than you? Viagra by the boatloads won’t make that a happy outcome.” The elevators open, and I step inside. I lean over to punch the button with a knuckle. Then I look at her and give her a toodles, wiggling each finger as I wave.
“You bastard!” She grabs the black vase and hurls it at me, the lilies pitch forward, green leaves shaking. The vase smashes the mirrored wall inside the elevator, and shards and wet leaves scatter across the tile. Fortunately her aim’s lousy, the vase landing inches from my feet.
A tsunami of bad luck is attached to mirrors.
Like a shattered compact.
But I shake it off, and the elevator doors close.
Bright stickers popped from various covers and shrink-wrapped items. PUP BITES! spotlighted sale items in bins near the cash registers. PUPPY LOVE stickers flagged well-reviewed releases.
Lucky Pup’s central lecture area resembled a cozy talk show. Two new caramel-dyed leather armchairs occupied the former space belonging to the podium, and the microphone had been lowered to seat height. Behind the chairs, a Tiffany-inspired dragonfly standing lamp bathed the area in a pleasant light, and the small round end table piled with magazines included a book review of Hannah Reed Colter’s bestselling memoir.
Auntie Rob gave Elena’s shoulder a squeeze. “She’ll make up for Black Friday.”
“Hope so.” Elena’s feet were still swollen from standing at the register over the weekend, and she hated to see the receipts for those buttery leather chairs.
“You haven’t even noticed.”
“What?” Elena asked.
Her aunt nodded toward the glass entry. The plywood patch was gone. A sparkling new panel replaced the broken glass. Aunt Robbie smiled. “At this rate, I’m going to start calling him Saint Nicholas.”
Angry heat flushed through her. She hadn’t heard from him since Thanksgiving, which was several days ago. She felt oddly rejected, as though she’d been stood up at the prom . . . because he was under the bleachers with the cheerleader squad.
“Come on,” she said. “He’s fixing up the bookstore for his own purposes.”
“Well. It still feels as though he’s being kind.”
“I bet he’s grinding his teeth over the unsigned contract.”
“Helen’s due back tomorrow from her vacay in Sicily.” Her aunt had stalled signing the real estate sale until her attorney friend Helen reviewed the paperwork. Auntie Rob glanced at the polished wood parquet floor. “Did you hear from Hannah’s publicist yet?”
“I’ll try again.” It made her nervous that the publicist hadn’t returned her phone calls to confirm tonight’s appearance. Calling again might make her pushy and desperate, but they had a lot riding on this. Her cell from her slacks pocket rang, and she reached for it.
Nick.
Her heart did that irrational lurching again. But his disappearing act annoyed her, and so she deliberately let it ring. Once. Twice. Almost three rings—
“Have a long hot shower yet?” His deep suggestive voice rumbled at the other end of the line.
Her heart sped up to expressway speed. God, she hated how fast she responded. “The company you sent over did a great job. Our plumbing problem has been conquered.”
Silence.
“You still there? The problem’s conquered.”
“My father’s getting remarried.” His tone was clipped. Formal.
“Oh. Congratulations.”
Another round of silence.
“Is that why you’ve been AWOL for the past few days? You’re helping your dad plan his wedding?”
“Aww. You missed me.” He switched back to the usual Nick, the smile in his voice unmistakable.
“I’m way too busy to miss you.”
His sexy laugh made her fingers and toes tingle. “Your famous author’s coming tonight.”
“I’m surprised you remembered.”
“I remember a lot of things, Elena. Including how soft your mouth is.”
The hair raised on her arms and along her nape as she remembered his lips on hers, the sensation of his hands. Get a hold of yourself. This is just a man, not a sex deity. “Her publicist hadn’t returned my calls today, which worries me a little.”
“Get her on the phone pronto. Demand to know what’s going on.”
“I can’t be obnoxious with a famous author.”
“It’s not obnoxious; your sales ride on this. Do you have a Plan B?”
Phone pressed to her ear, she paced back and forth. Back-up plan?
Wait a minute. She hadn’t heard from him in five days, and suddenly he was dispensing advice on how to run a business he knew nothing about? “I’ve got things under control.”
“Call her, Elena Glynn.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“See? Nice to everyone else but me. But I know how you can make it up to me.”
He hung up.
She stood there, aggravated and sweaty in spite of the cold room and ice-crusted windows. The man was a microburst, appearing and disappearing with a dizzying suddenness that left her wind-torn.
She looked up, disgusted that her backbone sagged more the ceiling.
I am not too friggin’ nice.
She straightened her shoulders. Huffed at her bangs and punched in numbers on the phone pad.
This time the publicist picked up, mumbling Anna or Deanna.
“Could you give us an approximate time Ms. Colter will be here?”
“S-sure.” Whatever was left of the publicist’s chipper hello died, replaced by an awkward pause. “Uhm, one moment.”
Uh-oh.
There was a shuffling at the other end.
“Excuse me. I understand there is a problem?” Hannah Reed Colter said and then cleared her throat.
Talking to a famous person now. Nationally known, on TV many times, dined with U.S. presidents. Elena’s legs began to jitter, her heels bouncing against the stool’s legs. “We’ve got everything set up for your signing tonight, Ms. Colter. We promoted it heavily on social media and other outlets like the local library and college campuses. We printed up bookmarks with your book covers and our logo.”
“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.”
Elena’s stomach contracted, as though she’d been on a plane that dropped two hundred feet.
“I thought my publisher booked me at Vickerson’s.”
Billed as one of America’s best bookstores, Vickerson’s sat on prime real estate in downtown Danvers Point—an upscale Chicago suburb consisting of gated communities and multimillion-dollar homes.
“I’ll be in Chicago later this afternoon and will be headed there.”
There? There? “Ms. Colter, you can’t—”
“Excuse me? I will appear when and where I want to, and certainly where my publisher believes I’ll get maximum publicity.”
“But I’ve ordered three boxes of books for you to sign, and eighty people have confirmed they’re coming.”
“Send them over here.”
What? She couldn’t send their customers to a competitor. “This only gives us a few hours to find a substitute.”
“Send out a Tweet and cancel.”
“Not everyone is on Twitter, and it’ll be a longer commute for them.”
“Well, this is a special occasion, isn’t it? They shouldn’t object too terribly to a longer drive. Send my readers over here. I love my readers.”
Coming from her, “readers” sounded awfully close to “admirers.”
“My aunt is one of those readers, Ms. Colter.” To her h
orror, her voice cracked. She swallowed to steady her voice. “She’s such a big fan of yours and was looking forward to meeting you.”
“Invite her, too. There is plenty of time to re-direct everyone to Vickerson’s. Plent-tee.”
“Perhaps you could go to Vickerson’s and then come here.”
“I cannot, Linna.”
“Elena.”
“Whatever.” An exaggerated sigh came from the other end of the line. “You’re fortunate that more people are self-publishing these days. I’m sure you’ll find a local author eager for the exposure. Look, Linna, I’ve got to run. I’m about to be interviewed by Trevor Noah. So very sorry.”
The connection went dead.
So very sorry. As though adding “very” would make a difference. She rolled her eyes. Marie Antoinette was more sincere.
A sour taste clung inside her mouth. Breathing hard, she flung aside a pile of postcards they’d printed with Colter’s smiling face. An utter waste.
She tapped a fingernail against the counter, glancing around the store. From the walls, black-and-white photos stared down at her—an imperious Truman Capote, Norman Mailer, brow furrowed in a mulish glare, and Eudora Welty, hair parted to one side, tight curls from a bad perm, a weary smile lifting her lips.
Those old photos were of people who seemed more real. Unlike the bland poster of Hannah Reed Colter, her blonde head tilted. Airbrushed and utterly posed.
Elena hustled around the checkout counter and pulled over one of the bookstore laptops. Logged into their private network and skimmed through a spreadsheet of local writers, mostly self-published. She made twenty-five calls. Out of these authors, only one could appear at such short notice, an expert on creating the “home spa.”
At this point, she’d be grateful for an expert on dirt.
She felt like a taut balloon, stress stretching her tight, on the verge of popping. Her jean snap dug at her waist, and she released it, but no relief of air came out.
Now what?
Cancel the Hannah signing via Twitter. She sent an alert under the Lucky Pup logo and issued a blanket e-mail to their customers. She texted and called. Soothed upset customers.