Graham: Dinner tonight. You. Me. Soraya. Penelope. Our place. Chloe is at her mother’s. Lorenzo is with Soraya’s mom.
I text him back that we’ll be there at eight, and then I wait patiently until I see him walk out.
“Tomas.”
He turns around and looks at me with little recognition at first. I take off my shades, and that’s when he realizes who I am.
“Dylan. Dylan Carlyle, how are you? What are you doing here?”
“Long story, and the last name is Murphy—even longer story.”
“I’m confused.”
I’m sure you are. “I’m not surprised. I would be too. You got caught up with the wrong people. This is all bullshit just to keep you quiet.”
“Chandler Daniels?”
“Who else,” I tell him. “This whole thing is a sick game, Tomas, and you’ve been a player in it whether you realize it or not.”
He takes a deep breath. “I’m starting to see that.”
“So am I—so are all of us. But don’t worry,” I tell him, putting my hand on his shoulder. “So far you’re losing. But I do have a consolation prize that might make the game worth your while.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks.
I smile before I hand him his prize. He raises an eyebrow but all I can do is smile. He knows what it is, I just hope he knows just what to do with it.
42
Graham
Later that night
This is the second ‘family’ dinner that I’ve taken Penelope to. The first was with my actual family, and it went about as well as an introduction dinner can go. And even though Soraya can’t hold a candle when it comes to Nonna in the kitchen, Graham and Soraya have become like a second family to me. Even so, this one is still a little weird. They both know Penelope already, but like most people, they only know her as Chandler’s fiancé.
I’m hoping that tonight they can get to know the woman that I’ve come to know, and to understand why I’m risking my ass to be with her.
“Soraya, how are you feeling?”
“Besides the constant vomiting, I’m really good. You’re sweet for asking.”
“Here, these are for you. I almost died when I saw them. I had to get them.”
Penelope may have come from the same place as I did, but she’s adjusted to parts of this life that I still struggle with—namely the etiquette stuff. I’m an action guy—the one you dial when things have gone wrong and you need something done quickly. I’m a fixer. I never bothered to learn the finer points of how rich people actually behave in little interactions like this. I can fake it, sure, but coming with a set of onesies that are perfectly wrapped is something I would never think to do. Maybe that’s not rich people stuff, maybe I’m just a caveman.
Regardless, Penelope makes a good first impression. Soraya hugs her tightly, and thanks her for coming. “You really didn’t have to bring me anything. But I’ve got to be honest, I love these.”
“I’m really glad. And congrats again, to the both of you.”
Graham is standing in the room looking concerned. Even though I’ve been through some pretty crazy situations with the man, sometimes he’s really hard to read. I know I see concern on his face, but it’s hard to tell who that concern is for. That’s what I’ve been struggling with this entire time. Part of me feels like he’s disappointed in me for making what he feels is a stupid decision. Another part of me worries that I’ve caused him problems in his own social network of Manhattan billionaires.
But the last part of me—the part I hope is correct about this situation—thinks that he’s really concerned for me, and that despite his hard exterior he really wants to help me work this out. Why else would he have sent me his lawyer to defend Tomas when I asked? But, still, it’s hard to tell.
“Thank you, Penelope. And Soraya’s right, you really shouldn’t have. We’re happy to have you both here. We wish it was under better circumstances.”
We sit down as Soraya puts all of the dishes she’s been preparing out on the table.
“So how did you two meet?”
It’s the weirdest thing, but hearing Penelope ask that is the first time I realize that I don’t know the answer. Graham and Soraya have always just been Graham and Soraya to me—so I never bothered to ask how they met. More etiquette stuff I guess. But now that she’s asked, I have to admit, I’m curious.
The two of them look at each other and smile, as though there’s a lot to tell. Graham motions to Soraya. “Why don’t you take this one. You’re the better story teller.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “I might tell it differently than you remember.”
“Oh, I’m sure that you will. That’s when I’ll jump in with the truth.”
Soraya snickers and then turns back to me and Penelope. “So, I used to take the train to work. . .”
I listen to this incredible story as it goes on for over fifteen minutes. It’s filled with love, sex, death, scandal—everything that makes a great love story great. It seems like something out of a book, only it’s their real story. As promised, Graham jumps in every few minutes to fill in his version of the narrative.
It’s sweet to see them banter like they’re doing. Graham seems almost human when he’s with Soraya—not some stuck-up-suit with world domination on his mind twenty-four seven. It’s funny to see him laughing, joking around, and talking about his personal life with me. It’s like he finally trusts me enough to share all of it around me.
“Wow,” Penelope says when Soraya finally finishes. “Just wow. That’s an incredible story you two have.”
“One day you’ll have one too.” I don’t think Soraya meant to touch a nerve, but Penelope thought she’d have the dream ending with Chandler, but life intervened. I hope she’s not bothered by that comment.
I look over at her and expect to see that tense face she makes whenever her ex comes up, or maybe even tears at Soraya celebrating the very thing Penelope lost. But that’s not what happens. No tears. No tense expression. Instead, I feel her hand slide across my leg and take my own hand. She squeezes me so tightly as she looks into my eyes and smiles. “I think I will. I know I will.”
Just as we finish our meal, Penelope’s phone goes off in her purse. She apologizes as she pulls it out, then stares at the screen. After a few seconds of her staring, I notice her expression as it changes from normal to really tense. “What is it?” I ask.
She jumps up from the table. “Excuse me. I. . . I need to go.”
“Are you sure?” Soraya asks. “We haven’t even had dess. . .”
“I’m sure,” she says abruptly. “I have to go, I’m sorry.”
She literally runs to the front door, and I look at Graham and Soraya. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
“I think you should go and find out.”
Soraya’s right. I don’t want to be rude but I jump up, thank Graham and Soraya for their hospitality, and follow Penelope out. She’s standing just outside of the elevator door, hitting her thumbs against the keyboard as tears are forming in her eyes.
“Pen, what is it?” When she doesn’t respond, I know something’s really wrong. “Penelope?”
“I can’t,” she says. “I just can’t do this anymore.”
“Slow down. You can’t do what anymore? Is it Chandler? What is it?”
“I just can’t!!!” Her yell is startling, and she drops—actually, more like she throws—her cell onto the ground before walking away. “I’ll take the fucking stairs.”
Before following her for a second time, I pick her phone up off the floor and look at the screen for myself. It is Chandler. Of course it is. “Fucker.”
By the time I get to the staircase, Penelope is already running down. I know where she’s headed. “Wait, hold on,” I yell. She looks at me, only for a second—just long enough to let me know that she plans on ignoring me. Her eyes are weepy but her face isn’t sad—it’s something closer to a blind rage. I know exactly what she’s going t
o do, and I need to stop her.
I move my ass down the steps as fast as I can until I catch up to her. I’ve called her name three times but she didn’t pay any attention to me. Finally, I get close enough to grab her by the arm, and as soon as I do she turns around right in the middle of the steps and starts yelling at me. “Get off of me. I need to go see that piece of shit.”
“Woah, woah. I’m going to let go of you, okay. I don’t want to restrain you, but I need you to calm down and talk to me before you do something you’re going to regret.”’
“I’m not going to regret anything. He needs to be stopped.”
“Chandler?”
“Of course Chandler! Who else?”
“Listen,” I say, “I know he’s an asshole. Trust me, I know. But I’m asking you to let me deal with whatever it is. Please.”
“Do you know what he just sent to me? Do you know what he’s going to do?”
“I don’t,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice as calm as possible. “Why don’t you come to my place and tell me. Tell me everything and we’ll figure it out, together. Can you do that for me?”
“Dylan, I need to. . .”
“Come back to my place and talk to me? I know. Remember when you said that you trust me. I need that trust right now. Come tell me what’s going on.”
She pauses for a second and takes a very deep breath. “Alright,” she tells me. “Let’s go before I do something stupid.”
“Come on.”
I take her hand and we walk back to my place, her anger seeming to settle while mine is sharply on the rise.
43
Dylan
When I was a kid, I only ever got into one real fight.
That’s unusual for a boy who grew up where I grew up.
There were plenty of opportunities to have a scrap or two, trust me. I just always found a way out of it without fists needing to be thrown.
With one exception.
There was this kid from around the neighborhood named Erik LaGallo. He was a bad kid even when we were little, and by ‘bad’ I don’t mean just a typical kid who did dumb things. He was mean. He was cruel. He took pleasure in causing other people harm. The only good thing about Erik is that he never made the mistake of messing with me.
Then, one day over the summer, Nonna came home from the grocery store looking upset. Pop was out at work, and it was just me and her home that day. I’d offered to go with her to the store, but Nonna was stubborn and liked her routine of getting the groceries herself, so I stayed home and did some of my summer projects for classes I was taking in the fall.
When she got home, there was a tear in one of the bags, and she was struggling to keep everything from falling onto the floor. I jumped up from the couch as an apple went rolling across the floor and grabbed the bags from her.
When I asked her about what happened to the bags, she told me that some kid had been waiting outside of the grocery store. That, when she stepped out, this kid had run over and knocked her bags to the ground—nearly knocking her over in the process—and then run away.
“What?” I asked, pissed off as I’d ever been in my life. “What kid?”
That’s when she described him. “I don’t know,” she told me. “It was hard to tell because he was wearing a black hoodie and looked just like every other kid this time of the year. But he had this scar across his face.”
That’s when I knew it was Erik. He was the only kid at school who had a scar like that—it ran the length of his face, from the top right of his forehead to the bottom left side of his cheek. His crazy abusive father had taken a knife to his face in a drunken stupor when Erik was seven and he was very self-conscious about how he looked. It had to be him.
I didn’t say anything to Nonna—I just told her I was sorry that happened and helped her unpack everything. But in the back of my mind I knew exactly what I was going to do.
Later that afternoon, I headed back over to the park where I knew Erik and his friends hung out. Even though we were in the same grade, I was much taller and more filled out than most kids my age. They used to call me a gentle giant, but when someone messed with the person I loved, I could just be a regular old giant.
I’ve been proud of that personal statistic for a long time—I took pride in the fact that even though I was big enough, strong enough, and tough enough to take on anyone, I liked using my mind to solve problems and get people to do what I wanted them to do.
But some people are different—a rare few in this world don’t respond to reason or logic. And when those people wrong you, there’s only one language that they do understand.
I won’t get into what I did to Erik that day—you can use your imagination. All I know is that it’s nothing compared to what I’m going to do to Chandler.
I left Penelope curled up in my bed after taking almost a half hour to calm her down. She snuggled up, tired and emotional, and the last words I left her with was that I would take care of the situation.
And as my fist goes to knock on Chandler’s door, that’s exactly what I’m about to do.
44
Dylan
Five hours later
I’ve never been to jail before.
It’s not that bad.
But then again, I’ve only been here for a few hours.
I’m surrounded by drunks and guys covered in blood, and all sorts of people who look like they’re straight out of central booking from an episode of Cops.
I barely notice. My hands are in too much pain for me to care about the crazies surrounding me, or the smell that is like some weird hybrid of piss, body odor, and Lord-knows-what else. I look down and see the blood on my knuckles starting to dry and scab over and I realize why boxers and MMA fighters wear gloves—it’s not to protect the other guy’s face, it’s to protect the fighter’s hands.
I understand that now. I’m not sure, but I may have broken something in my right hand. I’ll get it looked at when I get out of here, which shouldn’t be too long now. My personal savior is on his way, and I know that he’s going to be pissed off.
It’s a price I’m willing to pay to stand up for her—I’m willing to pay any price there is, and sometimes that means doing bad things you probably shouldn’t do.
It’ll be a few minutes, which gives me time to sit and reflect on what happened. In the moment, it was all a blur, but now that I have the distance of a few hours I’m starting to remember the details, little by little.
It started with a knock on Chandler’s door. A hard one.
Really, though, it started before that. My knock was the first punch of the fight—an aggressive slamming of a clenched first against an object that just happened to be a door, but the fight began before that. It started when Penelope told me what Chandler had text her after I finally got her to calm down and come back to my place.
“What is it?” I asked. “What’s going on?”
“He said he stopped payments on my sister’s place, and that she has to be out by the end of the month.”
I sighed. “I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t know what to do, Dylan. My parents are older and they can’t afford private care. Not only that, my sister is too severe for them to actually take care of her anymore. This whole thing is stressing me out to no end, and he’s doing it to punish me for the other night.”
That was how it started. Just a combination of words—but those words were enough to set me on a path of crazy that led me to Chandler’s door with my fists clenched. Just as I start to remember what happened next an officer comes into the holding cell.
“Murphy, Dylan.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Come on, you’re free to go.”
I know what that means. It means that Graham Morgan is waiting for me outside. Something tells me he’s going to be less than thrilled with what got me here.
45
Dylan
My eyes get as wide as golf balls when I hear the words that came out of Graham’s mo
uth when I tried to apologize to him outside of the precinct.
“Shut the hell up. I don’t care about all of this. I just need to know what your plan is to deal with Chandler.”
“Wait, what?” I ask, totally confused. “Deal with him? I thought you were going to tear me a new one.”
“I’m not your boss anymore, Dylan. Sure, you live in my building rent free and I pay you a handsome salary to keep things in order with the other tenants, but you’re your own man.” He stopped and looked me right in the eyes. “And, man to man, I would have beaten him to death.”
I was so shocked that I couldn’t really think of anything to say so I asked Graham for coffee, and that’s where we’re sitting now. “Listen, I’m not unappreciative or anything, trust me. But you’ve been giving me shit about this situation for a while now. What made you turn around?”
“Penelope,” he tells me. “Penelope turned me around.”
“Meeting her, you mean?”
“Don’t get me wrong, Dylan. She’s a beautiful, smart, sexy woman who’s really nice to have dinner with, but our little bonding over eggplant parm is hardly enough for me to change my entire opinion on a topic like this.”
“Alright,” I tell him. “Fair enough. But you still haven’t answered my question. What changed your mind to the point that you’re coming dangerously close to becoming a co-conspirator with me in the guy’s murder?”
“Let’s not get crazy, Dylan. I don’t want him dead—and, quite frankly, neither do you. Penelope, on the other hand—she might have a case if anyone does.”
I take a sip of my coffee. “What are you talking about, Graham?”
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