by Sara Ney
The article continues. Abbott went to the same university I did, weird coincidence. There are photos of her at black-tie events, at grand openings, and on expensive vacations. One or two publicity shots with animals at a shelter, but none of Desdemona.
“Abbott’s middle name is Maureen?” I ask out loud, staring at the monitor.
“Uh…” Taylor’s voice drags. “That’s your takeaway from that article? Not the part about her grandfather being a tycoon or the fact that they practically own this entire city?”
He’s being dramatic.
“Shit, look.” Taylor’s finger pokes at the screen, and I brush his hand away because he’s blocking the words he wants me to read.
Abbott is a twin.
One of two fraternal twins, the only grandchildren of A. N. Margolis, they are the only children born to Gustav and Lidka Margolis. Abbott and her brother, Stuart, are both employed by Margolis & Co., located at 1611 West Broadway, Chicago, Illinois.
The article goes on to talk about her father, mother, and brother. Their birthdates. Other living relatives associated with the corporation. Where they attended college, where they’re employed now.
“Gross. Talk about living in a fishbowl,” Taylor finally says. “She’s way out of your league.”
He hasn’t seen her in pajamas, sitting cross-legged on her couch, eating Thai food with her fingers, but—whatever. “We’re not dating.”
“Then why are you creeping on her?”
“I’m not.”
His perfectly manicured brows shoot back up. “Then what’s all this?”
My sigh is loud enough to wake the dead.
Taylor leans over, elbows resting on the desk in front of the computer monitor.
I click the browser window closed and shove back in my desk chair. “Don’t you have shit to go do?”
“Yes, tons. Oodles of it. But this is way better.”
“I don’t need you hovering.”
“Does that mean you plan to keep digging once I leave?”
No. Yes.
Maybe, but I wouldn’t admit it out loud.
“No. I have shit to do, too.” Shit involving this new development, because I have a meeting next week to present my ideas to the investors.
One day, I’m going to be the one building and investing in my own projects…
“Whoa, someone suddenly looks serious…”
I give him a look. “Are you still here?”
“You’re the one who called me in to begin with.”
“Right, but I’ve told you to leave twice.”
“Not technically.”
Jesus, this kid is worse than I was at his age, and I remember being a huge pain in the ass when I was an intern—but I don’t think I would have sat and hassled a senior designer.
“You need to know when you’re wearing out your welcome.”
“I do, but you’re being passive-aggressive and I’m taking advantage of your weakness.”
“I’m being passive-aggressive?”
“Yes. Davis would have told me point-blank to get the fuck out.”
Alex Davis is my peer, a talented architect, and quiet as a church mouse. No way in hell does he say things like ‘Get the fuck out.’
“He talks like that?”
“Sometimes, yeah—when he’s trying to get stuff done.”
“Okay, well in that case, get the fuck out.”
Taylor tilts his head. “It doesn’t have the same impact when you say it.”
“Get out!”
I need to be alone with this new information about Abbott. Answer a few emails, text a few people back.
I have my eye on a few acres in the country, just outside of town, for the four-wheeler I’m going to win once I’m the last man standing in this bet.
Which reminds me—I should see if the guys are free to get together for a drink at some point soon. Real soon.
I make a note on a sticky and slap it on the wall above my desk.
Taylor is hovering.
“Why are you still here?”
He chews on a fingernail. “Just checking to see if there was anything else you needed? Help doing some basic math, perhaps an estimate? A calculation or two…study for the spelling test?”
I present him with my back.
“How about a coffee run, then?”
This perks me up and, resigned, my shoulders sag. “Medium iced coffee?”
“On it.” I hear him retreating.
“Hey Taylor?”
He pauses, footpads halting on the carpet.
“Thanks.”
He smiles. I can’t see it, but I can hear it in his steps as he bounds away.
Ugh. I hate when I’m nice…
“How’s it been going?”
Phillip is the first person to speak when our asses are seated around our favorite table in The Basement, three cigars tucked inside the breast pocket of his sport coat, drinks already ordered.
We’re all still dressed for work, having come straight from our offices, one week after the conception of the BBS.
“Shitty. My boss is being a fucker,” Blaine bitches, studying a menu, eyes skimming the appetizers.
“Maybe he just needs to get laid,” Phillip suggests, pulling the cigars out and setting them in the center of the table.
Blaine laughs. “He’s got to be in his sixties—no way is he getting laid.”
“Trust me,” I argue, siding with Phillip on this issue, “that dude is getting laid. He’s rich, drives a Bentley, and has a penthouse on the water.”
“What do women call those?” Phillip stares up toward the ceiling, searching for the proper term. “Silver foxes?”
Blaine’s face contorts. “Dudes, shut the fuck up.”
I throw my hands up in surrender. Don’t shoot the messenger. “I’m being serious. You’re probably getting less action than he is.”
“That makes me want to throw up in my mouth. Think about how shriveled up his dick is.”
“No, no—think about how shriveled your dick is going to look when you’re his age,” I suggest.
“My dick is never going to be shriveled!” Blaine pronounces, a bit too loudly for a guy who’s still completely sober.
“Yeah, you’re probably right—your dick is way too small to shrink. Did it actually fit inside Bambi?” I rub my chin, pondering.
“Fuck. You.”
Not gonna lie, I’ve seen Blaine’s dick, and it’s embarrassingly small for a guy who claims to have fucked his way through the city.
“You should call your finance guy and invest in penis pumps—they always say you should invest in things you believe in and would use.”
He scowls, slouching lower into his red, velvet-covered chair. “I hate you both.”
“No you don’t,” I tell him matter-of-factly. “You hate your pee-pee.”
“Can you please stop talking to me about my dick like I’m a child?”
Phillip sighs. “Fine. Let’s talk club business.”
“It’s a society,” I remind him, fully aware that my reminder is annoying and unnecessary. I’m right; they both glare.
“What I was saying was—I have something for you guys.”
Blaine and I both lean forward because Blaine and I both like presents, watching, spellbound when Phillip reaches behind his chair and produces a brown paper bag.
“What’s with the shopping bag?” Blaine immediately asks, impatient. As if we’re going to be kept in suspense all night.
I shush him, excited.
“Who’s ready to see the smoking jackets?” Phillip asks, giving the paper bag a few squeezes. It makes a crinkling sound, squishing everything inside.
I scowl, not wanting my shit wrinkled, while Blaine enthuses, “Jackets already? Dang, I thought it would take a few weeks!” He reaches over and punches me in the forearm. “Maybe Lisbeth has a secret thing for you after all.”
Phillip glares. “Shut the fuck up about that. He’s not sleeping with my siste
r.”
“Unlesss she wanted to sleep with me. Then I’d definitely bang her.”
“No one is banging anyone in my family, you got it?”
“No.”
“Do you want your fucking jacket?”
“Yes.”
“Then shut the fuck up about it.”
I cross my arms, pouting. “Fine.”
“Now, as I was saying—”
“Drumroll please!” Blaine cannot contain himself, rolling his tongue and banging on the table with his index fingers like he’s playing a set of drums.
The suspense is killing him.
“I want to punch you in the vagina so hard right now,” Phillip threatens, all the wind sucked out of his sails.
I pop a walnut in my mouth and chew. “Now now, girls, violence is never the answer.”
“Do you assholes want to see the jackets or not? Because I’m not going to sit here and—”
“Oh calm down,” Blaine interjects. “You’re so damn sensitive. Hurry up and show us. I’m tired of waiting.”
If Phillip could shank someone with his eyes, Blaine would be dead on the ground, bleeding from a stab wound to the rib cage with no one to resuscitate him.
The brown paper bag sits on our friend’s lap, stapled shut at the top and mocking us. This is the reason we’re here—these jackets. This comradery. This group.
“I feel so much freer now that I don’t have to worry about dating,” my friend says, breaking the seal on the bag and peering inside. “These are so fucking cool.”
“Didn’t you check them out already?”
“Yeah, I was wearing mine last night,” he admits.
“What the fuck!”
“What? I couldn’t help it. Lisbeth had them shipped two-day air, and I couldn’t resist.” He lifts the first one out and strokes the velvet fabric. “They’re so pretty.”
They really are.
He holds it high, turning it to face us.
“She didn’t have time to get the pocket embroidered—we can decide to do that once we have a logo or whatever.”
Shit, we should probably have a list of things we need to do to run smoothly, but for now, having the jackets and a meeting location is enough. The rest can come later.
The jacket is blue, a deep navy velvet. Better than Hef’s famous red one, with gold stitching lining the hem and the pocket on the right breast. Perfect for a cigar, a handkerchief, or condoms—for those of us who are actually having sexual relations.
I stand. Reach for the jacket and ask, “May I?”
It gets handed to me and I open it, sliding one arm in then the other, fabric gliding smoothly over my arm. The inside is satin—the same blue as the velvet—and cool to the touch.
“How did she get these so fast?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.”
“How much?”
“Uh, I didn’t ask. She said she’d invoice you.”
My brows shoot up. “Me?”
“I mean, we’ll split it, but yeah—she said she’d email you an invoice, including the cost to expedite procurement.”
That bitch.
“So Lisbeth is bending us over.” It’s a statement, not a question, because his sister is bending us over and fucking us up the ass on the cost of these jackets. I would bet money on it.
I already have, in the form of my grandpa’s season tickets.
“Basically fucking us up the butts.”
“Lovely.”
I slide my other arm in and adjust the garment over my dress shirt.
“Wow dude, that is so fucking neat. I wanna try mine on!” Blaine hops up out of his seat. “This is almost worth dumping my girlfriend over.”
I glance at him over the sleeve of my sweet new smoking jacket. “How did that go over, by the way?”
“Not good—she was super pissed. Like, I thought I was going to have to file a restraining order.” He’s happily sliding into his coat. “She’ll get over it.”
Phillip is putting his on now, too. “I feel like all my problems disappear when I’m wearing this.”
“Same,” Blaine agrees. “We look so handsome.”
“Where’s a mirror? I wanna see what it looks like.”
We abandon our seats in search of a mirror, locating one on the far end of the bar, affixed to the wall. The bartender eyes us with amusement as we shuffle to stand in front of it, squeezing in and fighting for room.
“Look at us. Just look.” I gesture to our reflection, at how majestic we look, the three of us peacocking in our finery.
Murmurs abound.
“Damn we look amazing.”
“You’re one handsome devil, Brooks Bennett,” Phillip tells me over my shoulder, standing behind me. Runs his hands along my shoulders, smoothing out the wrinkled fabric. “One sexy son of a bitch.”
“I’d fuck you,” Blaine decides out loud.
“I’d fuck you, too,” I tell him.
“I’d fuck both of you,” Phillip chimes in loudly. “And I’d fuck myself.” He runs a palm slowly down his bicep, admiring his arms in the mirror, turning this way and that. “Look at this velvet. It’s so silky smooth.”
“Like a freshly waxed pussy,” I agree, stroking my own chest.
“Nay,” Blaine argues. “Better than a freshly waxed pussy.”
The bartender clears his throat.
We stand idle, murmuring our approval at the fine fabric, the gorgeous cut and fit of our new smoking jackets.
“Philly, you still got those cigars?” I ask, never taking my eyes off my own reflection, hand tucked neatly in the breast fold, thumb exposed like I’ve seen a few royals do in the tabloids.
“I do.”
I extend a palm. “Hand me one, would ya?”
Nearby, the bartender—who’s obviously been eavesdropping on us this entire time—stifles our fun. “Gentlemen, there’s no smoking in the club.”
“It’s fine. The only smoking he does is from out of his ass after sex,” Blaine jokes, jostling me with a jab of his elbow. “Which is almost never.”
“He’s not a fan of the ladies.” Phillip joins him in roasting me. “We’re going to check his man credentials after this, as we’re not sure there’s anything between his legs anymore.”
“What the fuck, you guys?”
“Men-only club—sorry, society. No dating. No women. No commitments.” Phillip pops an unlit, uncut cigar between his lips and fingers the lapel of the jacket. Debonair and cool. Ticking off reasons he considers me a douche.
“Hey, we all decided to do this together—you wanted a jacket.”
He touches his, lovingly caressing the precious material. “I do like it,” he concedes with a smile. “I’m also gonna win me season tickets and a timeshare, and keep my four-wheeler.”
“No you’re not,” Blaine counters. “I am. No one is getting my prizes.”
“They’re not prizes—they’re incentives for following the guidelines set forth by the BBS.” If I have to keep correcting them, reminding them what the club is for, I’m going to lose my mind. “Besides, I’m gonna buy me some land so I can drive my newly acquired four-wheeler on it.”
That’s how determined I am not to fail, and to remain solvent. My focus is on my job—and nothing else.
“Land? You’re not serious.”
“As a heart attack. Where else am I riding the damn thing? I can’t drive it around the city—I’ll get arrested.” I turn my chin to the left. “Damn this color looks good on me.”
“Don’t do anything hasty. I broke up with Bambi, and Phillip here hasn’t had sex in a week.”
I roll my eyes. “You can have sex, dude. You just can’t date the same person.”
Phillip shrugs his shoulders. “For me it will be good not to mix those things up. Sometimes I confuse sex for affection, and if I get emotionally involved, then I lose.”
That’s true—he does confuse sex for affection more often than not. Once, he went on three dates with this girl Abby and
when she passive-aggressively gave him the red light on any future, he thought there was still hope to win her back. All because she let it slip that she loved him while they were fucking—but then dumped him. Anyway, he chased her like she was his soul mate, making an ass of himself, concocting all these scenes to get her attention.
And they’d only gone out three times.
He puts his arm in the air, fist raised high. “Balls to the wall.”
I put an arm around his shoulder and pull him in. “Balls to the wall, buddy.”
8
Abbott
I love my grandmother.
I love my best friend.
What I don’t love is having coffee with them at the same time.
I sigh, stirring a packet of artificial sweetener into my cappuccino, bored and deserted—at the moment, they’re more interested in talking to each other than they are in talking to me.
I sigh again, louder this time, infusing the sound with a higher pitch so it travels.
“Alright.” Nan sets her tea cup on its saucer, lips curved in a half-smile. “Is someone feeling neglected?”
She knows me too well.
Sophia reaches over and tweaks my cheek between two fingers, pinching it as if I’m a child and laughing at me. “Aww, you hate being ignored, don’t you?”
Yes, and they both know it. “Y’all always do this when we go out.”
“Well, Nan and I haven’t seen each other since summer and we have tons of catching up to do, so stop pouting!” Sophia argues, snatching a macaron from the three-tiered tray in the center of the table.
We’ve gathered for tea—one of my favorite afternoon delights, Nan holding center stage—and I choose a few delicately decorated cakes and sandwiches to set on my plate.
Bite into the corner of a cucumber sandwich and die a little inside from how delicious it is.
Yum.
“Okay dear, tell me your news.” Nan lifts her tea cup again and takes a dainty swallow.
“I don’t actually have any news.” I just wanted attention—is that so wrong?