Hilariously Ever After

by Penny Reid

  There aren’t words for it anyway.

  Well, maybe there are.

  I stand and pull off my own clothes with much less ceremony, looking her over, laid out for me. Her gaze looks drugged. She presses a foot to my belly while I take off my pants.

  I roll on a condom. I crawl over her and worship her. She kisses my biceps as I press her hands over her head, as I settle between her legs, spread open for me.

  Not for Henry Locke, Most Eligible Bachelor, but me.

  She watches me with those brown eyes, watches me as I guide myself into her. I push low and deep into the hot grip of her body, trembling all the way in.

  She lowers her eyelids, gone with pleasure. Her groan, when I'm fully inside her, is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

  She squeezes my ass as I move inside her, rocking gently into her. I change my angle until I hit that spot that makes her gasp, sweet and sharp, and then I stay there, moving at it, watching the way her eyes glaze over. Taking her clear over the edge with me.

  Afterwards, I throw on a robe and go around to the veranda to fire up the hot tub.

  “I didn’t know this was over here,” she says, coming up behind me and circling her arms around me. She’s wearing one of my shirts. It makes me want to walk her right back into the bedroom. Maybe the wall.

  “Little-known secret of my veranda.”

  She dips a toe in. “Mmm.”

  It’s a cool, crisp day—the kind tailor-made for a veranda hot tub.

  “Go on. Get in. I’ll grab the beers.”

  She narrows her eyes. “I thought you weren’t supposed to drink alcohol in these things.”

  “Maybe you can look into making a citizen’s arrest later on,” I say.

  She grins. “I think I will look into that.”

  When I get back, she’s in there, eyes closed, head tipped back. I hand her the beer and sink in next to her.

  “I should get Smuckers,” she says, sounding relaxed. “I really, really so should.”

  “April can handle Smuckers,” I say. “Also, I don’t think Smuckers would be fun in a hot tub.”

  “Not to mention how bad it would mess up his hairdo.”

  I'm in my living room later on, waiting for Vicky to come out and weigh in on where to go to dinner. We’re planning on picking Carly up as soon as her rehearsal is done. We might even try to catch part of it. We did a lot of line running with her and Bess over the long weekend, and she had a great presence. I’m looking forward to seeing her in action. We make a plan to sneak in the back to catch the tail end of the rehearsal.

  I grab my phone and I’m scrolling Instagram when the elevator doors open.

  It’s Brett.

  I stand, teeth gritted so hard I'm shocked they don’t break. I haven’t contacted him. I’m too angry.

  “Dude,” he says, coming in.

  “Dude?” I get in his face. “What the hell were you thinking? You knew who that was and you brought him in?”

  “Of course I knew. But you’re the one who stole the show. That punch? Stroke of genius. The ultimate good cop move.”

  “You bring him in?”

  “We didn’t even need him. I just got off the phone with Malcomb. Her lawyer contacted him about terminology questions for papers for signing off ownership for a dollar. I underestimated the powers of the Henry Locke dick.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The company. She’s giving it back. For a dollar. And you’ll be happy to know that I smoothed everything over with Denny. We own a parcel of land up north that the Woodruffs want for something. Small price to pay for keeping him quiet about a dog and Vonda O’Neil on our board because please, that would be a disaster.”

  My mind reels. She’s giving it back for a dollar?

  “You deserve an Academy Award, brother. We don’t even need the competency hearing now.”

  “That’s not—”

  My words die out as his face drains of color. He’s looking over my shoulder.

  “Competency hearing?”

  I spin around and there she is, hair still wet, but she’s dressed. Except for the naked pain shining in her eyes.

  Her voice shakes. “Competency hearing? Operation good cop?”

  “It’s not what you think.” I go to her.

  “Get away from me!” She pushes me. “All that was an act?”

  “Of course not!”

  “What’s operation good cop? Is that a thing?”

  “It was,” I begin. “A stupid thing.”

  “What’s the competency hearing? Is that also a stupid thing? A hearing?”

  I exchange glances with Brett.

  The wounded look in her eyes kills me. “You were going to put me on trial? For competency?”

  “That’s not how it is.”

  “You said you trusted me.”

  “I do trust you. I was going to call it off.”

  “But it’s still on. As of now.” She searches my eyes. “Is it still on? As of this moment?”

  My heart feels like it’s cracking. “I was going to call it off.”

  “Please, just say. Is it still on? As of now?”

  “Yes. Technically it’s still on.”

  “Technically.” She snorts. “And all this time, were you guys gathering evidence? To destroy me?” She holds up a hand when I take a step toward her. “Awesome performance. I guess that’s one thing Brett and I can agree on. It was absolutely award winning. Bravo.”

  “I wasn’t performing.”

  She grabs her purse and her jacket and heads to the elevator door, then stops.

  I stop behind her, heart pounding. Is she reconsidering? Remembering what’s between us?

  “Vicky,” I say.

  Slowly she turns, but the warmth is gone from her eyes.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll still give it back. I’ll sign and deliver those papers I drew up. For half a million.”

  “Don’t,” I whisper, when I realize the significance of the number.

  “That’s my offer.”

  “Henry—” Brett starts to say something. I shut him up with a quick look. He widens his eyes. He wants me to take it. It’s way cheaper than the millions we offered a few weeks back.

  “This isn’t you,” I say. “You fight for things.”

  “I didn’t get the half mill the last time around. So you’ll pay it to me, and if you don’t, the world will learn that Vonda O’Neil and Smuckers run your company.”

  “Vicky.”

  “It’s Vonda,” she says. “I’m Vonda O’Neil. And I have to say, keeping me on good behavior with the good cop act while you gather evidence for the hearing? Very effective. Who knows what I would’ve done. Maybe even painted those cranes pink, with Smuckers’s face—”

  “We’ll pay!” Brett says.

  “I don’t want you to go,” I say. “Brett is going.”

  “A bank transfer.” She fishes out a checkbook and tears off a deposit slip. “Five hundred thousand and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  “I wasn’t pretending—you know I wasn’t. Feel the truth of that. Of us.”

  Her eyes are cold. “If you follow me or try to contact me, I’ll tell the New York Tribune the story of Vonda O’Neil and a dog and their hold over Locke Worldwide.”

  I get between her and the elevator door, but I don’t touch her. I’m not Denny. Except it’s too late. “I know what this looks like to you.”

  “Do you?” she asks. “Please understand when I ask you to leave me be. Respect me on that. Have the money in my bank account by bank open tomorrow. With that you’ll get my silence and your company back.” She stabs the elevator button. “If the money isn’t there, you can kiss the stability of the Locke name goodbye. You’ll learn firsthand about the power of the Vonda name.”

  “Screw the company. I want you,” I say.

  Brett grabs my shoulder. “Dude.”

  I shake him off. “We got this, Vicky.”

  Her eyes shine as she b
acks into the elevator. She stands in there alone, finger stab-stabbing the button like she always does.

  “It doesn’t actually go faster when you do that,” I whisper, but the doors are already closed.

  Chapter 30

  Vicky

  “The day after tomorrow?” Carly is inconsolable when I tell her we have to leave. Her eyes shine wild. “It’s my junior year,” she says. “We can’t just leave!”

  “We have to.”

  “But we can’t! Please…”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She collapses in a heap on our ratty green couch. “And our show just went up. And Bess…oh my god, I’ll never see Bess again!”

  “You’ll see her again.” I hope. I think. I wrap my arms around myself.

  “All my friends. Our whole life. If I leave school they’ll never let me back in.”

  “I know, baby.”

  “Isn’t there some other way? There has to be! You always think of something. You always do.”

  The hope in her eyes kills me. “I thought about it long and hard. This is the best I can do for us.”

  She flops back, staring listlessly at the ceiling.

  I’m letting her down. I tried to take too much. I tried to fly too close to the sun and I got torched. I wipe the thought of Henry from my mind’s eye. He might be calling, but I’ve long since blocked him.

  “All our stuff,” Carly says.

  I want more than anything to wrap her up in a hug, to give her the hug that I actually really want for myself, but she’s not in the mood. “I’m sorry.”

  “What if I finished out the semester living at Bess’s place? And then maybe it all dies down…”

  “Connect the dots, Carly. Denny will spill. He lives to make my life miserable. Or somehow it gets out—too many people know. And Mom hears. She’s going to want you back. Especially if she sniffs the money—she’ll want you back and she’ll figure out an angle.”

  “She’s a drug addict! She didn’t even file a missing persons report. Won’t they see?”

  “She’s your mother and I’m Vonda—that’s what they’ll see. They’ll put you back with her. You’re leaving New York with me or her. You know I'm much more fun.”

  She picks up a bright green scarf and a soft sob escapes her lips. Deep down, she knows I’m right. She was young, but she remembers the scary guys, and they’re still there. We know this because we secretly follow Mom on Facebook. We see her pictures, most of them from the inside of a bar or somebody’s trashy living room.

  I sink down next to her. “We can go a lot of places with that money. Where do you want to go?”

  “Nowhere. I want to go exactly nowhere.”

  “Me, too,” I say. I look around, despairing. Aside from the couch, the furniture isn’t ours, but we collected a lot of little treasures over the years. We fought hard and we made a life.

  “We’ll never see the sad mimes or fierce protector guy again.”

  “I know.” I set a hand on her forearm. “Let’s think of a cool place to go where you can continue your theater training.”

  We go out to get stupid-amount-of-candy ice cream, passing the sad mimes on the way. We hug them and get white paint on our cheeks.

  We talk plans at the ice cream place. I nix Los Angeles—it has to be overseas. I already spoke with my ultra-expensive fake ID guy—he feels like he can swing overseas work visas under different names.

  We settle on London. It’s the theater scene that sells it to Carly. And it's a big city like New York. A place to get lost.

  We look for VRBOs on our phones, and when we find one, we pay a random neighbor to arrange it; that way we won’t leave a trail.

  We’ll head to an airport hotel ASAP and arrange the rest of the move from there. It’s important not to leave a trail, because if the story about me and Smuckers and the company pops, the media spotlight will be relentless.

  Brett seems to think he has Denny contained, but he doesn’t know that piece of shit like I do.

  I leave Carly at our place, packing boxes to ship. A classmate of hers and her mother are taking over our parrot-sitting gig, because long-term pet sitting gigs on the Upper West Side are easy to fill. She’s going to introduce them to Buddy and show them how it all goes.

  I head out to meet Latrisha at the studio. It’s dark outside when I get there. I thought I’d feel sad when I walked into the place, but I feel strangely proud. The space and the community made my life better. It was a family when I had none. I wander around, just connecting with people one last time, not doing the big dramatic goodbye.

  Bron over at the smithy gives me a beer and tells me how my order will be ready in a week. I tell him that I know it will be amazing.

  Of course I tell Latrisha I’m leaving. She senses it’s trouble. She thinks it’s Henry. I promise her it’s not. She wants to rescue us, put us up in her high-security building, circle the wagons. She’s a total Joan of Arc that way.

  “You’ve been such a good friend,” I say. “Trust me. It’s better this way. A storm could be coming.”

  I make her come over to my space and look at my toolboxes to see if there are any tools she wants. I’ve got some great ones she can use for inlays and fine work.

  “I hate this,” she says. “It’s morbid. You’ve been collecting these for years. You have to take them.”

  “I’m going on a plane with a dog and a teenager. I can’t take my tools, too.”

  “How are you going to make jewelry?”

  I swallow. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “I’m taking them all,” she declares with tears in her eyes. “And I’m keeping them for you for when you return. You belong here.”

  It’s a sweet thing to say, but in the back of my mind, I think, You don’t know about Vonda.

  On the way back, I have the Lyft drive along Central Park past Henry’s building. I make him stop across the street and I look up there, wanting to catch a glimpse of him. The kitchen light is on.

  Is Henry there? Is he celebrating?

  I wasn’t pretending.

  I’d be a fool to believe that. He lives for that company. He protects what’s his.

  I wasn’t pretending. We got this, Vicky.

  I sit there and let myself sink into the feeling of his words being true, like trying on a plush and beautiful coat that you can never afford but you want to feel it around you, and for a second, maybe you even believe.

  And it feels so good.

  Chapter 31

  One month later

  Henry

  It’s three twenty-two in the morning and I’m lying in bed, thinking about her. Missing her.

  I build a lot of residential projects, create a lot of homes for people, but the home I found with Vicky was beyond anything even I could’ve dreamed up.

  Now it’s rubble.

  And not the cool kind you can turn into furniture. It’s toxic and twisted up with unbearable loss, not to mention anger with myself.

  And every time I see a griffin, or that ice cream she likes, or a mime, or a hundred other stupid things, that rubble pile gets deeper. And every time I get the urge to tell her some interesting news or a funny realization, I remember I can’t.

  And the pile gets deeper.

  Why did I listen to her when she told me not to go after her that day?

  Well, I know why. I wanted to give her a little space. I wanted to respect her in a way that the world hadn’t.

  Fool move.

  I underestimated the trauma that sixteen-year-old Vonda endured, underestimated how deeply it burned.

  A day later it was too late. She and Carly were gone. Vanished. When Vicky vanishes, she doesn’t mess around.

  I got the company, just like she said I would. I got it back—full control. Cold comfort.

  I pour myself a scotch and wander out onto my veranda where she fed me cookies and joked about tea cozies. I know what they are now. I looked it up.

  The night is mild for late October. I st
are up at the moon, wondering if she might be looking at it this very moment. A cliché.

  It’s unlikely she’s moongazing. It’s probably daytime where she is; that’s what our PI thinks. He had a lead for Hong Kong. A few continental European cities. Nothing panned out.

  In the dark of the veranda, I open up my laptop. Before I even check my email, I click to a section of bookmarks that’s all jewelry. It’s a morbid ritual, perusing the latest debut designer collections of high-end boutiques around the world. I also look at solo designers.

  She wouldn’t be so stupid to start up her sequined dog bowtie business again. And she probably wouldn’t create that Smuck U line I so loved and hated, either, but she has to do something.

  She’s a maker—it’s in her bones—and women’s jewelry was her passion.

  She told me so many things. I could’ve told her about the hearing and the good cop thing, explain that I’d abandoned it. Was some little part of me holding all that back to protect my advantage? Covering my ass? Needing to arrange things to come off perfect to her? Not wanting to rock the boat of our time together? Not trusting her to understand?

  I click through collections. It’s not the names I’m looking at; it’s the pieces. I feel sure I’ll see a necklace or a pin or something, and I’ll recognize her vision in it, her sense of humor, her spirit—something essentially her bubbling up out of the pages of baubles, unmistakable as a fingerprint.

  I stay out there until dawn, clicking through the images. Then I switch to coffee and get ready to deal with the world.

  Over the next few weeks, Latrisha completes the cool-as-hell furnishings for the Moreno, and we collaborate on the installation and interior finishes. I make sure the website is updated with plenty of pictures, just so Vicky can see.

  Or should I call her Vonda? I don’t know, but what I do know is that she’ll check. She won’t be able to help herself.

  I throw myself into the Ten redesign. It feels good to do the place right. The neighbors are excited—we’re experimenting with bringing them into limited sections of the process. Maybe it’s arrogant, but I have this idea that one of these days, Vicky will pull up the website for that, too.