Richard's new wife, Linda, hadn't stood for that. "If I'm going to live in a ridiculously oversized house with a million rooms," she declared, "I'm at least going to make sure that every room has comfortable furniture. None of this overpriced crap that no one can sit on for more than five minutes without slipping a disc."
Richard had protested weakly, arguing that some of the older furniture pieces had been in the Stone family for generations, but any argument against Linda was doomed from the start. She had the psychologist's background for handling arguments, and she also carried Richard's heart in her pocket. The poor man couldn't even win an argument against his wife over what to eat for supper.
So now, Richard sat on an upscale but supremely comfortable couch that swallowed him, sinking down a good three inches before the cushion equalized. He lifted the glass bottle in his hand up to his lips, waiting for me to answer.
"Not as of late," I had to admit. "I've been totally dry for the last few weeks, now, and nothing I do seems to break the dry spell."
"And by dry spell, you're referring to writing, aren't you?" Richard frowned at me. "This isn't some sort of bedroom comment?"
I shook my head. "Creativity focused, although the bedroom side of things has been pretty dry, as well. But you don't know how painful it is to be sitting here in front of my computer, to have all the time in the world to write – and there aren't any words coming out! It's soul-crushing!"
Richard didn't look nearly as sympathetic as I'd hoped. "All the time in the world," he echoed, eyeing me from his seat with upraised eyebrows. "I'm letting you live in my mansion for free, aren't I? I thought the deal was that, in exchange for free room and board, you'd be keeping this place cleaned and in good shape."
"I am!" I protested, feeling a bit guilty. I wasn't really holding up my end of that bargain, to be honest. I'd moved in with the assumption that it would just take a half hour or so of light dusting each week to keep the Stone mansion clean.
I hadn't realized the scale of the project I'd just accepted. The mansion had somewhere in the vicinity of fifty rooms, and all of them had dozens of surfaces that seemed to magnetically attract dust. The only vacuum in the mansion was old and inefficient, and its ear-splitting rattle gave me a headache every time I plugged it in. I still tried to do my best to keep the mansion clean, but even in my most optimistic moments, I still had to admit that I was fighting a losing battle.
From the look on Richard's face, he didn't believe me. "Right," he said, dragging out the word to emphasize the doubtful tone.
Seeking to change the topic, I shifted my gaze over to the brown glass bottle in Richard's hand. "That's not a beer, is it? I thought you gave up drinking."
The ploy worked. "I did," Richard said, glancing at the bottle, "but I still like the taste. This stuff is non-alcoholic, and it's actually got a pretty decent taste. All the flavor, none of the hangover the next morning."
I forced myself to finish my set of twenty sit-ups, then struggled back up to my feet. My stomach ached, but my mind still felt totally empty as I dropped down into my chair across from Richard, picking up my laptop. I stared at the blank page on the screen, desperately hoping that a flash of inspiration would hit me.
No ideas appeared. I waited for the count of thirty, then groaned and pitched back to slam against the cushions.
"Are you sure it works like this, Tanner?" Richard's voice asked. I heard the couch squeak, and knew without opening my eyes that he'd stood up. "I hate to be the one bringing a dose of harsh reality, but have you ever written a novel before?"
"Not as such," I hedged, squeezing my eyes even more tightly shut. "But it shouldn't be that hard, right? It's the same as writing anything else, just longer."
"But that's not proving to be the case, is it?"
I didn't want to answer him. Hell, everything about this writer's block sucked, drove me crazy. I had a whole plan for my life, and it should all be working out – except for this killer lack of inspiration!
I'd grown up fascinated by writers – Cormac McCarthy, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, other greats. English classes had been the only thing that kept me returning to high school each morning, and I decided to forgo college and instead seek out the kind of harrowing, real-life experiences that would help turn me into a better writer. I traveled around the United States, working odd jobs and throwing myself into all forms of manual labor. I pictured how I'd shape these experiences into a truly great novel, one filled with the full length and breadth of the human experience, one that would capture the minds and hearts of readers and inspire a new generation of minds to pick up pen and paper and write.
When I left my high school graduation, plan in mind, I'd been completely confident in my future. I didn't know the details, but so much passion burned in my chest that I couldn't even conceive of failing. I'd become a writer. No question about it.
But now, close to a decade later, that huge avalanche of passion had been reduced to little more than a dribble. I still wanted to write that great novel – but all my ideas that I'd written down in notes and journals felt amateurish, too flat and uninspired. I couldn't bring myself to write even a single page about those earlier ideas, much less pen an outline. An entire novel felt out of the question.
"It's going to happen," I insisted, not wanting to admit to Richard that, at night, I sometimes felt self-doubt threatening to overwhelm me and wash me away. "Sooner or later, I'll finally meet my muse, have that moment of inspiration."
"Maybe you should trim your beard before you meet her," Richard suggested, and my eyes snapped open.
"Not literally," I sighed, looking up at him. "My muse, as in the Greek goddess of inspiration! I just need her to visit me, bestow upon me an idea, and then the rest of it will fall into place. That's all I need."
"Greek goddess, right." Richard still looked skeptical. "I'll keep my eyes open for any of those, point her towards you if she shows up looking lost. Does she carry a bow and arrows, like Cupid?"
"The mockery really doesn't help, man." I pushed the computer's screen down and set it beside the chair on the ground. I simply had no ideas for what to write, and I couldn't force out words without an idea.
Richard still stood near me, tilting his head slightly to one side as he regarded me. "Weren't you doing some side work for that café place, with Seb's wife?" he asked.
"River's Edge Café," I filled in. "Yeah, but it didn't really work out. Things between me and Tori's best friend kind of turned sour. I'm giving her some distance."
"Distance?"
I sighed. "She fired me and told me that if I ever showed up at the restaurant again, she'd dump boiling hot coffee on my balls."
Richard made a curious noise, and I looked up to see him fighting a losing battle to hold back a laugh. He hurriedly turned it into a cough, but we both knew that he wasn't fooling anyone. So much for the vaunted discipline he claimed to have gathered from his years of military service.
"Well, how about something to distract you?" Richard tried next.
"Let me guess. You want me to go around and scrub out all the toilets with a toothbrush."
"Besides that. How do you feel about parties?"
I looked suspiciously up at him, trying to figure out what sort of trick he was pulling on me. "I'm not sure where this is going."
"Parties. You know, lots of people celebrating, conversation, alcohol flowing, dancing, music, lots of input that could give rise to a new story idea?" Richard gave me a wink that looked so corny, it left me amazed he wasn't already a dad. "I'm planning one, and I need you to help me out."
"This feels like a trap," I said, but I still sat up a bit. Maybe a party could help stir up some inspiration. "What's the catch?"
"No catch," he assured me. "Have you ever heard of the Poverty Ball?"
"No, but it sounds awful." I felt my forehead crease as I frowned. "To be honest, it sounds like some sort of sexually transmitted disease among the homeless."
"Well, it isn't."
For a second, Richard lost his train of thought at the mental image I'd put in his head. "It's a charity ball, where all the rich and famous turn out to pledge money to help fight poverty and provide donations for low-income aid programs in the area. My family used to throw it regularly, and it was the social highlight of the year."
"Sounds exhausting," I commented.
"To be honest, I agree with you." Richard shook his head. "But Linda found out about it, and she instantly latched onto the idea. She wants to bring it back, host it here and invite everyone we know."
Ah. If Richard's wife decided on something, it was going to happen. The assortment of new furniture in the Stone mansion spoke to that fact. "So just hire a party planner and make it happen. Shouldn't be too much of a hassle for a billionaire like yourself, right?"
"Already ahead of you," Richard nodded. "But I'm also going to need your help, especially on the night itself."
"To do what?"
He shrugged. "Circulate among the guests, keep conversation flowing, watch to make sure that no one wanders off to deface any off-limits rooms of the mansion, alert the other party staff if any issues come up. That sort of thing." He waved a hand at me. "I'm sure that you'll have no problem with helping out, especially since you're living here in my mansion for free."
I sighed at how he emphasized the last phrase of that comment. "This isn't a choice for me, is it?"
Richard smiled as he clapped me on the shoulder. I'd started to rise from the chair, but the impact of that hand pushed me easily back down. I might have been spending more time as of late in the mansion's gym, working out my frustration and writer's block, but Richard had twenty years of corded muscle from his time in the military, and his light tap felt like a hit from a tree branch.
"I'm glad that you understand," he said to me, still smiling. "The Poverty Ball's going to be in a month, and the event planner will probably want your input regarding working in the house. I told her that you're the head of my staff."
"Way to make it sound dirty," I said. "And what staff? You make it sound like you have servants!"
"We'd never employ servants," Richard countered, not holding back a smirk. "Linda wouldn't stand for inequality like that. But we'll help out a writer who's down on his luck, in exchange for some minor chores. That's not servitude, it's charity. Totally different."
"Doesn't look like it from where I'm standing," I muttered.
Richard just gave me one last grin, tilting his non-alcoholic beer towards me in a mocking salute before leaving the room. I thought about going after him, trying to argue, but I guessed that I didn't stand a chance at winning that conflict.
I reached up and scratched my beard. I hadn't bothered trimming it in the last couple of weeks, so it stuck out raggedly in all directions. Once or twice, I'd even scared myself when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror. I'd probably need to clean it up. A writer could be permitted to have a wild, unkempt beard. The head of household for a billionaire, even if he didn't hold that position by choice? The holder of that role probably needed to trim his facial hair.
"Poverty Ball," I groaned. "Perfect. Just what I need right now. Another distraction."
Chapter Three
HELEN
*
"Poverty Ball? Ugh, that sounds so gross!"
I didn't bother to scold Champagne for reading over my shoulder. "It's not as bad as the name sounds," I said, tilting the invitation slightly so that she could better read the details laid into the heavy cardstock in gold leaf. "It's a charity function. Used to be a really big social gathering for the city, back before it stopped a few years ago."
Champagne reached pat me to pluck the card out of my hands, taking a couple steps away to flop down on my bed. "Charity functions are always so boring, though," she drawled, kicking her bare feet up in the air. "And so, like, depressing! They're always showing all these pictures of sad people."
I couldn't help rolling my eyes at that one. "Those are the people who need your help, Champagne. That's why they're raising money. For charity. You know?"
"Whatever." She rolled over onto her back, holding the card up in the air so she could look up and examine it. "It's a pretty hefty invitation, though. Feels expensive. Who's throwing it? Someone fancy?"
"Richard Stone."
She gave me a blank look. Circe "Champagne" Phillips was the master of blank looks, especially since they often perfectly expressed her mental state. But then again, she hadn't gotten to her current, pampered position through mental ability.
No, she'd landed herself in the lap of luxury thanks to other attributes, most of which were now on blatant display as she flopped back on my bed. I cast an askance eye over her outfit – or lack thereof, really. She wore a hot pink sports bra that strained to contain her gravity-defying breasts and a pair of yoga shorts that might as well have been painted on her ass with black paint. She looked like every teenage boy's wet dream.
"Richard Stone," I said, "is the oldest member of the Stone family. They've lived here in the city for generations, and they're worth well north of a billion dollars."
That made Champagne sit up. "Been here for generations?" she repeated. "So they're like royalty, yeah?"
I sighed. I didn't have a hope of explaining to Champagne that, here in America, we didn't have royalty, didn't have any real comparison to the gentry from England. "Yes, Champagne. Something like royalty, yes."
"Maybe this party is worth attending, after all," she said, turning her attention back to the invitation still in her slender fingers. "Oy, what's this part mean? 'Dress is underclass, in sympathy of their plight'? What's that supposed to be?"
"It means that you dress in cheap clothing, as inexpensively as possible," I answered. I remembered that from the last Poverty Ball, one of the few social functions I'd attended with Marcone-
I closed my eyes at that unexpected detour down a dark and miserable memory lane. Even now, years later, tears still sprang up in the corners of my eyes, and I had to force myself to take deep breaths to keep from sobbing. I wanted to block out all memories of that time, exile it completely in my past.
Champagne, fortunately, hadn't noticed my near-breakdown. She looked up at me, eyes and mouth both open in little circles. "Dress cheaply?" she exclaimed, the words sounding almost like a curse from her mouth. "Like, off the rack?"
Of course, she didn't get it. "No, Champagne. Like shopping at the thrift stores, or wearing the clothes you would have otherwise thrown out as rags."
Her eyes grew even wider, her mouth opening wider. "But why?"
Because it was supposed to remind the city's wealthy that not everyone had as many options – or any options – in their closets, that the poor suffered more than they could even imagine.
"It's just always been the dress code for the ball," I answered, knowing that I could waste hours trying to explain the deeper concepts to Champagne without success. "Instead of trying to out-do each other by spending more on their outfits, attendees try and be the one to look the shabbiest, to spend the least."
I waited for Champagne's next uncomprehending look, her next confused question. Instead, she blinked, and her features tightened in intense thought.
"Maybe I could make that work," she murmured. "Shabby chic, we could call it!" She pronounced those two words so they rhymed with each other. "Get some black dresses, maybe with some fringe – that's so, like, two years out of style – and then put it with one of those shawls that peasant people wear..."
I listened to her brainstorm how to turn cheap clothing into a high-class outfit with a mixture of amusement and regret. "I hate to ruin your fun," I finally cut in, once she paused, "but you'll be going to this on your own."
She blinked at me. "What do you mean?"
I sat down on the bed beside her, plucking the invitation out of her fingers. A little part of my brain wanted to tally up the differences between us – I was prim and proper and scrawny and thin in a rather loose black dress, while Champagne look
ed like a Playboy centerfold in her sexy stretch getup – but I ignored that urge. Champagne might have the kind of looks that made every other woman immediately and instinctively hate her, but she was still a good friend to me.
And I didn't have many friends left, not after everything that happened. I couldn't afford to lose her, too.
"I'm not going," I answered her question, turning the invitation sideways so that I could rip it in two.
She grabbed it back from me before I could destroy it. "Not going? Why not?"
I turned to look at her. "Come on, Champagne," I sighed. "You talk to other high society ladies. You know that I'm not exactly popular among most of the city's other rich families. If I show up there, it's just giving them another chance to mock and shun me."
"What, because of your husband? Come on, no one remembers that any longer, do they?" Champagne frowned. "Helen, that was, like, years ago!"
"I remember him!" I snapped, anger flaring up and making my fingers tighten into fists. I saw Champagne's eyes widen, realized belatedly that I'd raised my voice to a shout. I took a deep breath and let it out, focusing on remaining calm. Carefully, I pushed the mingled anger and despair out, flattening it beneath serenity.
"I remember him," I repeated, a little softer this time, "and others do too. They also still think that I had a role in... in what happened to him. You know that I've got a stupid nickname, even."
I saw Champagne's lips shape the words, although she didn't say them aloud. I still knew them, read them on her lips. The Black Widow. A ridiculous, petty-minded, awful nickname for me, one that cut me like a knife every time I heard it.
"If I go to this party," I finished, "I'm just inviting everyone else to remember why they hate me. I'll get mocked and cold shoulders, and I'll have a miserable team. I can just as easily send in my donation as a check, stay home." Where I'm safe, I added silently inside my head to the end of that sentence.
Champagne sat up, and I tried not to notice how the movement made her jiggle in ways that would probably drive any man completely crazy with lust. "Come on, Helen!" she pleaded, reaching out to hold one of my hands between her own. "You've been locking yourself up here in this old, moldy house for, like, ever! You need to get out, or you'll just die in here! Cats will probably eat you or something."
For Love of Passion (Stone Brothers Book 4) Page 2