I sink into my chair. “That sounds like the sort of vague thing Harvey Weinstein would suggest,” I say with an awkward laugh.
This is greeted with utter silence. Apparently, I’ve once again derailed a conversation with one of my misplaced attempts at humor.
“No,” he finally says. “But there may be things about my lifestyle you find distasteful.”
“You mean the turrets?” It just comes out. I internally cringe at my lack of filter. I need a muzzle. “Never mind. I don’t care about the distasteful stuff. It’s fine.”
“Okay,” he says on a heavy, disappointed exhale. Clearly, he was hoping I’d walk away on my own. “You can stay on until Jonathan gets back. And I’m sure he told you this, but let me reemphasize: no one gets my personal number. No one.”
Jonathan already explained this to me, with the urgency of someone discussing nuclear codes. I’m to take messages if anyone calls, and forward any texts that seem pertinent, personal or otherwise. But the only people who actually have Hayes’s number are his friend Ben, Jonathan, and now me…so he’ll know who’s to blame if it gets out.
“Make sure people leave you alone. Jonathan told me.”
“Exactly,” he replies. “Yourself included.” And then he hangs up without another word.
I heave a deep sigh and close my eyes. It’s going to be a really, really long six weeks.
3
There is, I’ve discovered, no day so bad that passing my ex-boyfriend’s new billboard can’t make it worse. As I weave past hipster coffee shops and organic grocers on the way to work, Matt’s pretty face smiles down at me from the side of a ten-story building, conveniently positioned so I can’t avoid it without taking my eyes off the road entirely.
Matt’s first big break was in this Vietnam-era movie, Write Home, playing a young soldier whose death had viewers weeping. His pretty face is what first caught people’s attention—the lush lips, the blue eyes, the perfect features. But I think what won people over is that he’d basically played a version of himself: sweet, earnest, well-intentioned. A simple guy who cared about those around him and just wanted to return to his girl back home.
It’s the face I still see when I look at that billboard: The high school sophomore who fell, inexplicably, for a bookish fourteen-year-old. The sweet boy who took me to prom, who got almost every “first.” Shouldn’t I see the lie in him when I look up and see his face now? I really hate that I don’t. Because if I still don’t know where I went wrong with Matt, how will I ever know with anyone else?
I arrive at Hayes’s house. Newspapers are gathered, the alarm is turned off. I’m not letting Matt ruin my day.
Hayes’s coffee is placed on the counter with the sugar already added. Wouldn’t want him to tear and stir it on his own, like an asshole.
I brace myself when I hear him coming down the stairs, anticipating more of that sour attitude I got the day before, but he barely glances at me when he enters the kitchen. In spite of his obvious exhaustion, he is hard to look away from and I respect myself less because of it. Those broad shoulders and pouty mouth of his don’t make him a decent human being.
He takes a sip of coffee and closes his eyes. “Advil,” he demands. “Drawer to the left.” He speaks at half-volume, his voice raspy.
Once upon a time, I might have felt some pity for him. But I’m a little focused on keeping my pity for myself at present, and he’s old enough to know what happens when you drink yourself into a stupor.
I find the bottle and slide it to him. “How did you get home?” I ask.
His eyes narrow. “Unqualified and judgmental. Such a winning combination,” he mutters, pouring way more pills in his hand than he should. “There’s a service that will bring your car home if you’ve been drinking. Where’s the schedule?”
I cross the room to pull it off the printer. Though Hayes generally has one surgery day and one in-office consult day a week, his claim to fame—the part not involving his dick, anyhow—is what occupies every weekend and any free weekday: house calls. Celebrities don’t want to risk getting photographed with a bruised and bloody face, so Hayes goes to them, making home visits like some pioneer doctor, albeit one who focuses more on inflating lips than amputating limbs.
He frowns when I hand it to him. I have no idea if that frown is my fault or the schedule’s, but Jonathan did warn me Hayes is extra cranky on house call days.
Which are almost every day of his week, so Jonathan could have just said he’s always extra cranky, for the sake of efficiency.
He rises. “There’s a woman upstairs. Make sure she leaves after she gets up.”
My jaw falls open. I suppose this is one of the things he referred to so obliquely yesterday. “You don’t want to, you know, say goodbye to her?”
He raises a single, imperious brow as he reaches for his coffee. “Why would I, when I’ve got you to take care of it for me?”
“And how exactly am I supposed to get her out of your house? Is there a firearm available, perchance?”
I hear a soft grumbly noise which may be a laugh or is perhaps his way of saying shut the fuck up without actual speech. “Just take her to breakfast,” he replies, like a man who’s done this a thousand times before. “It’s best to never end things on the property, in case they refuse to leave. Oh, and send her some flowers.”
My eyes roll so far back I’m worried they’ll get stuck that way. “What should the note say?”
He shrugs, rising. “I don’t know. You’ll come up with something, I’m sure.”
“Don’t expect a call,” I suggest.
He rubs his forehead. “How silly of me, thinking you might be able to handle that one detail without guidance. Just thank her for a lovely evening or something.”
“Fine. What’s her name?”
He stops in place, staring at me while he thinks, as if he expects the answer to appear on my forehead. “Lauren?” he suggests. “Or Eva?”
“Are you seriously telling me you don’t even know the name of the woman you inserted your penis in last night?”
His gaze lands on my mouth for one long moment and then flicks away as he releases a slow, controlled breath. “Are you seriously telling me I can’t ask you to do one goddamn thing without hearing your opinion about it?”
I guess he has a point, but I can’t seem to let it go. “I just can’t imagine you don’t actually know her name.”
“I only date women who know to expect nothing from me,” he says, turning to leave. “Learning their names would create false expectations.”
“I’ll make sure she’s gone,” I reply, frowning as he walks away. It’s exactly the kind of bullshit I’d expect him to say. I just didn’t expect him to sound quite so…unhappy about it.
The housekeeper, Marta, arrives an hour later. We met yesterday but didn’t have the lengthiest conversation, given my knowledge of Spanish is entirely gleaned from watching Dora the Explorer with my niece, which isn’t particularly useful in my current situation. I don’t recall a single episode where Dora has to tell Boots the Monkey there’s a naked woman upstairs.
“Senorita,” I say, pointing toward the second floor before I mime sleep, pressing my face to a pretend pillow. “Dormir.” She seems to understand. Odds are, it’s par for the course around here.
I give Lauren/Eva a few hours to sleep, hoping she might leave the house all by herself, but when that fails, I give up and go to Hayes’s room. Unlike the rest of the house, his bedroom looks pretty lived in right now, between all the clothes on the floor and the completely naked blonde in his bed. I step carefully in her direction—I really don’t know what I’d do if I stepped on a used condom. Amputate my foot, most likely.
“Hey,” I say when I reach her. “Lauren? Eva?”
There is no response.
“Abby? Gwyneth? Dame Judy Dench?”
I clap my hands. There is still nothing. I start to wonder if she’s dead, which is when my writer’s brain runs away from me. I see it all
flash before my eyes: realizing she’s stiff, reaching for the phone to dial 911 and having Hayes’s voice answer on the other end. “I knew you couldn’t be trusted,” he’d say, as a gate comes down, locking me in. “I warned Jonathan you’d fail the test.”
I reach out and shake her shoulder, increasing my volume until I’m practically yelling.
She finally raises her head. Makeup is smeared all over her face and Hayes’s expensive sheets.
“Why are you yelling at me?” she murmurs.
Her head starts to sink into the pillow again. Who the hell sleeps this hard in a complete stranger’s home? “I’m sorry,” I reply. “The cleaning lady needs to get in here. It’s ten thirty.”
Her eyes go wide and suddenly she’s springing out of bed, snatching her bra off the ground. “Shit, shit, shit. I’m due in court. I don’t have time to get home.”
She picks up the tiny red dress on the floor. “I’m trying a sexual assault case today. Oh, Jesus, this is bad.”
I’m still processing my shock—I’d assumed anyone who came home with Hayes would be on the wrong side of the law—when her eyes flicker to my brand-new, purchased-for-this-job outfit.
Please don’t ask, I think. Yes, I’ll earn twenty-four grand if I make it the full six weeks, but even that won’t quite cover what I owe if I don’t finish the book.
“Can we trade?” she pleads. “I’m begging you. Please trade clothes with me.”
“I can’t wear, uh, that all day,” I reply, flinching. “I just started this job and—”
“But isn’t he at work?” she asks. “He’ll have no idea.”
I want to say no. I’m never getting my clothes back, especially once Hayes fails to call her again. But she looks so worried—and I’ve had enough times in my life where a small mistake felt like the end of the world—that I reach for the red dress.
It’s not like anyone’s going to see me anyway.
“I need you to meet me in Malibu,” Hayes says exactly fifteen minutes later.
It’s a plot turn I should have absolutely predicted, given the way my year has gone.
“Umm…okay?” I look down at the red dress, which barely meets my thighs.
“Is there a problem?” he asks. We haven’t exchanged ten words and he’s already put out. “Or the better question might be is there any part of this job with which you won’t have a problem?’”
“No problem at all.” Unless you have an employee dress code. “I’m on my way.”
I gather the supplies he’s requested and get in my car, wondering as I weave through the city how the hell I’m going to explain why I’m wearing what amounts to a sexy nightgown.
Despite the coming humiliation, something eases in my chest as I turn north on the Pacific Coast Highway. How could it not with the ocean to my left and the cliffside jutting toward the sea ahead of me? With my windows down and a warm breeze blowing in the scent of salt water and sage scrub, all feels right with the world, even if it’s a world in which I am mostly naked.
I meet him in front of a beach house that probably costs more per year than I’ll earn in my lifetime. I pull the requested cooler of filler and Botox from the back and turn to find him standing rigidly beside his car, staring at me.
“Are you...are you wearing my date’s dress?” he asks, horrified.
The silver lining to having nothing left to lose is that...I have nothing left to lose.
“Do you like it?” I whisper, raising nervous, hopeful eyes to him. “I disposed of her, just like you asked.”
He’s frozen. There’s confusion in his gaze, and the tiniest seed of dawning terror.
“What?” he barks.
I bite my lip and clasp my hands together like a penitent child. “I thought you’d like it. Now we can be together forever.”
His mouth hangs open and I can read his thoughts so clearly—This can’t be happening. Oh my God, what has she done?
I want to keep it going but I sit back against the hood of my car and start to laugh instead. “Holy shit. I wish you could see your face. Your guest was late for court and asked to wear my clothes.”
A low breath escapes him. “Bloody hell.” He runs his hands through all that pretty hair, making a mess of it. Man, I’d love to do that to his hair just once. “Wait. She asked to borrow your clothes, and you said yes?”
I shrug. “She was really freaked out.”
He stares at me as if he’s awaiting further explanation, and when it doesn’t come, he reaches between us to grab the cooler. “That was nice of you,” he says, his face tight with displeasure as he walks away.
Weirdly, he seemed more comfortable back when he thought I might be a murderer.
4
I like to think of myself as someone who puts family first, but when my older sister’s name appears on my phone, I consider letting it go to voice mail. Until my father’s death last summer, Liddie was my closest friend. Now, however, it feels like the impasse between us is so wide it can’t be breached, and the last thing I need after a long day at work is one of her inevitable lectures about Matt.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” she says each time we speak, because to her, Matt is family—her husband’s best friend, a fixture of our adolescence. She says it feels like something’s missing when we’re all together, minus Matt. I wonder if it’s ever occurred to her that it might feel like something’s missing for me too. That when I watch her and Alex together, playing happy family with their daughter, I’m seeing where ten years with someone was supposed to wind up.
I’ve barely said hello before she launches into her latest ovulation/pregnancy update, yet another source of irritation for me. Not that I mind her trying to get pregnant, but her single-minded obsession with it irks me. Sometimes it seems like she didn’t even mourn our father—the funeral was barely over before she was flipping through a book of baby names, as if she’d simply washed her hands of the whole thing.
“I thought I was ovulating but I did this test and it says I’m not,” she tells me. I climb onto my bed with a cup of ramen noodles. Matt thought he was being generous, letting me keep all our shitty old furniture, but I had to downsize after he left. Our king-size bed takes up so much of the room there isn’t space for anything else, and therefore serves as couch, desk, and dining room table all in one. “But you know, they say when your cervical mucus gets thick—”
“Liddie, I’m eating,” I say. “And you know how I feel about the words cervical mucus. Have you talked to Charlotte?”
Our youngest sister, now in her fourth month at a residential care facility, claims she isn’t lonely there. Liddie tends to take her at her word, for reasons I can’t begin to understand. Charlotte is the same kid who told us she was fine, again and again, before swallowing an entire bottle of aspirin.
“Not this week. I’m so busy with Kaitlin during the day, and it’s hard to catch her at night. How’s the new job?”
Because she insisted this job was a terrible idea, I’ve got no choice but to claim it’s going well, though that may be a bit of a stretch—Hayes clearly didn’t think today’s stunt was quite as funny as I did. “I’m seriously being paid four grand a week to answer phones.”
“With the mouth on you, I wouldn’t count on it lasting,” she says. “I still don’t see why you had to give Mom your entire advance.”
My eyes close tight. Liddie isn’t able to help ease my family’s financial woes in any way, but she sure doesn’t mind criticizing me for trying. “I didn’t realize I wasn’t going to be able to write the book,” I reply, the words clipped. I gave my mother the advance to pay her mortgage. If I’d known I’d wind up putting all of Charlotte’s treatment on credit cards I can’t pay off, I might have thought better of it.
“You’d still have time to finish the book if you hadn’t taken the stupid job,” she says. I hear the clink of flatware in the background. “And you wouldn’t need to if you’d just ask Matt for the money. Talk to him. He’s family.”
My teeth grind so hard she can probably hear it all the way in Minnesota. “No. He’s not.”
And even if I were poisoned and Matt was the only one with the antidote, I wouldn’t take his help. If I were drowning and he threw me a flotation device, I’d use the last of my energy to give him the finger. That half of what he said at the end appears to be true doesn’t lessen my rage. I remember the fire that burned through me after we split up—I’ll show him, I said a hundred times a day. That fire is still there, but whenever I see him in a magazine or being gossiped about online, it feels as if he’s already won.
“Let him try to fix things,” she begs.
“The things he broke can’t be fixed.” Not by him, anyway. Probably not by anyone. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him throw money at the rest of it to absolve himself of guilt.
5
Hayes is just getting downstairs when I arrive the next morning. It’s his in-office day: consult, filler, consult, Botox, consult…all day long, in fifteen-minute increments. He appears to have prepared for it by drinking large quantities of alcohol and getting little sleep. I’m only three days in, but I already expected nothing more.
“You look terrible,” I tell him.
“Was judging me on the list of your job duties?” he asks, pressing his fingers to his temples as he slides onto a barstool. “I can’t quite recall.”
I set two Advil next to his coffee and slide him the schedule. One of these days I’m going to attach a pamphlet on functional alcoholism.
“You saw the message from your, uh, new lady friend? Keeley?” I ask.
His eyes remain on the schedule, but he nods. I still can’t believe he gives these women his assistant’s number. It’s wrong in so many ways.
“So, there’s really no one who gets your number?” I probably sound more exasperated than I should, given that he’s called me judgmental every single time we’ve spoken.
A Deal With The Devil: A Steamy Enemies-to-Lovers Romance Page 2