Just What I Needed (The Need You Series)

by Lorelei James

  “Former Senator Carlson,” I corrected, as Trinity had done. “A word, please.” I looked at his lackey and said, “Alone.”

  He started to sputter but Robert said, “It’s fine, Paul. I assume Mr. Lund and I can have this … word right here?”

  “Whatever.”

  Paul slunk off.

  “So, son, what’s on your mind?”

  “I am not your son. And I’d like to know why you decided tonight, of all nights, to meddle in Trinity’s career.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Lund.”

  “I saw you go into the Stephens party. At some point you attempted to bribe the curator into hanging some of Trinity’s work at the Walker. I know that you don’t give a damn about art or you would’ve known that is not done.” I stepped closer. “So was that your intent? To prove what a big man you are that you can destroy your daughter’s career?”

  “Destroy? That’s a little dramatic. I merely informed the man it would be financially beneficial to everyone. The visibility for Trinity—”

  “Isn’t as important as the visibility it would bring you, right? You get to pretend you’re supportive of the arts because, hey, look—my daughter’s an artist and I support her.”

  “I fail to—”

  “Yes, you’ve failed her over and over again. Going behind her back? Total dick move, Senator.”

  “And you’re so sure of that?”

  “One hundred thousand percent sure. All the years she’s struggled and accomplished everything on her own merit and talent doesn’t matter because you suddenly decide Trinity has value to you? She hasn’t needed you and hasn’t wanted anything to do with you for years, which should be clear from the obvious slam of not using your last name in any professional capacity. That’s when you stroll in and fuck up her career?”

  He sighed wearily. “Fine. I’ll contact the man and withdraw my offer.”

  I laughed. “Withdraw your offer. It was too late as soon as you made it. There are some things you cannot buy, and your attempt to do so put a black mark on Trinity’s name for every gallery in the region.”

  “You have no idea the power my name wields, do you? I can have things back to the way they were with a few phone calls.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “But if not—” He shrugged. “Maybe she should see this as an opportunity to do something more substantial with her life.”

  “Substantial,” I repeated.

  “Did she tell you her IQ is 185? She could’ve attended any college and earned a degree worth something. Instead she chose … art.” He shook his head. “What a waste. Just like her mother.”

  One punch, dead center on his smug mouth—that’s all it would take.

  “But perhaps … now that she’s involved with you … she won’t have to work at all. You have the means to support her since this ‘art’ phase likely won’t pan out.”

  A red haze filled my vision. My hands were on his chest, pushing him back before my actions registered.

  People surrounded us. Things were shouted.

  But I heard only one voice. My father’s.

  He curled his hand over my shoulder and said, “Easy, son.”

  Robert straightened the collar of his shirt and smoothed his tie. “Ward. I’d suggest you keep a better eye on your son, but I understand he isn’t under your purview at LI. So I appreciate you stepping in to stop him from making a big mistake.”

  My father gave Robert the nastiest look I’d ever seen from him. “That’s where you’re wrong. If he wants to take a swing at you, I won’t stop him. I’m just here to hold his coat.”

  Robert’s mouth fell open, but he recovered quickly. “Encouraging violence isn’t something I’d expect from you, Ward.”

  “I’ve spent my life not giving a damn about anyone’s expectations. If you ever fuck with my family again, I will bury you. And you know that is not an idle threat coming from a Lund. Understand?” He turned away and waited for me to do the same.

  We’d almost made it to the door when I saw the stepmonster lurking by the buffet table. I said, “Hold on one second,” and strode over to her to say my piece.

  I expected Dad would try to lure me back to the Lund party to decompress. My feet felt encased in cement. Ash, Nolan and Jensen were loitering by the door. Upon seeing us, they started to approach, but Dad shook his head.

  Then he led me outside to the valet stand. “You driving that hot rod tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not anymore. I’ve been itching to get behind the wheel of that baby.”

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Dad faced me and scrubbed his hand over his face. “You may think you need to track Trinity down and have it out with her tonight, but you need to let it go.”

  “Fuck that. I’m not letting her go.”

  “I didn’t say let her go, son. I said let it go. Neither of you are in a place to have a rational discussion tonight.”

  “But I’m too damn restless to just go home.”

  He studied me. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “One shot of tequila two hours ago.” Had it only been two hours since my life had imploded?

  “I’m sober too, so we’re good to go.”

  “Go where?”

  “The best places for man therapy. Let’s hit the racetrack, then the gun range, and if we’re still angry and restless after that, we’ll spend time in the batting cage.”

  “It’s ten o’clock at night. Are any of these places open?”

  He smirked. “They will be for us.”

  “Dad. You don’t have to do this for me.”

  “Who said I’m doing it for you?” He loosened his tie. “You’re not the only one who gets pissed off at your brothers.”

  “But you never fight with Monte or Archer.”

  He laughed. “Wrong. Guess you’ll learn some new things about your old man tonight.”

  I lifted a brow. “Mom is okay with this?”

  Dad lifted a brow right back. “I don’t need permission from my wife to spend time with my son. Especially when she understands I need this more than you do.”

  Not expecting that. Nor was I expecting the valet to hand my dad the keys to my car.

  Dad grinned at me from behind the steering wheel. “Better buckle up, son.”

  Twenty

  TRINITY

  Monday morning when I showed up at the country club, I half expected Walker to be there.

  I hadn’t spoken to him since Saturday night. He hadn’t tried to get in touch with me yesterday. If he’d called, I would’ve talked to him. If he’d shown up at my house, I would’ve let him in. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have run away like I did. Every time I thought about the ferocity in his eyes and what he’d said right before I’d bailed, my chest ached, my throat got tight and I called myself ten kinds of fool.

  In the banquet room, I scrutinized the guys Esther had hired as the takedown crew. Although this piece had been crafted on a chunk of fence, it was delicate. Earlier in my career I would’ve trusted the workers knew what they were doing and not interfered. But after a near disaster with another piece, I no longer assumed anything. I insisted on being on-site to ensure my instructions were followed.

  What I was seeing didn’t make me happy. “Whoa,” I called out as I crossed the room. “Do not attach that chain there. You’ll pull the wire too taut and the frame on the front side will pop out.”

  The guy holding the chain looked at me. “Who are you?”

  “The artist. There’s a hook on the back side. In fact, if you’d bothered to look, you’d have seen all of the hooks for stabilizing it are back there. Use them.”

  He said, “Yes. Ma’am,” tersely.

  Esther spoke to him before she approached me. “I’m glad you’re here. I really wish I could’ve had the crew that installed it take it down.”

  “Me too.” Thinking about how diligent Walker had been caused that pang of gu
ilt. “So you’ve cleared a place in your home to display this?”

  “Michael spent all day yesterday rearranging his home office. Then he decided to display it in one of the main living areas of the house. Our construction expert is coming over to figure out if structural changes are needed. He’s used to our unusual requirements. We commissioned an Uhlman piece two years ago carved out of Minnesota limestone that weighs 12,000 pounds.”

  “I can’t wait to see that. I love Uhlman’s work.”

  “So that means you’ll supervise final installation?”

  I squeezed her arm. “Of course. I’m relieved Michael is so thrilled with the piece.”

  “We both are, Trinity. It’s incredible. And easily the most personal piece we own. Thank you.”

  “Truly my pleasure.”

  Esther put her hand on her hip. Her gaze was on the workers, but that wasn’t where her focus was.

  Crap. Had these guys already broken something and she was figuring out a way to break the news to me? “Esther? Is everything all right?”

  “No. But I need to tell you something that might upset you.”

  My stomach tightened. “Okay.”

  “We’ve been friends with Dagmar Kierkegaard for years. Our love of art is a common interest, although we disagree frequently on style. I booked this venue for Michael’s birthday as soon as I knew the piece would be ready. I didn’t consider there’d be other events going on at the same time and I should have. This place was a zoo Saturday night.”

  “I thought security did a good job keeping looky-loos out of the room.”

  “Not all of them.” She watched me closely. “You must’ve been out in the hallway when your father came in.”

  The knot in my stomach tightened. “My father?”

  Esther set her hand on my arm. “Sweetheart, I know you don’t broadcast the fact that Senator Robert Carlson is your father. In fact, I find it interesting that you don’t use the Carlson name at all professionally. Anyway, Michael and Robert are acquainted, and when he ran into Robert, he invited him to the room for a drink. Evidently Michael was showing Robert the piece when Dagmar approached them. After making introductions Michael got called away …”

  Leaving my father alone with Dagmar Kierkegaard.

  “When Michael returned, he noticed Dagmar’s agitation when Robert kept trying to get his attention, which Michael found odd. So I think something might’ve been said that had to do with you.”

  Guilt stopped my mouth from opening and spewing my tale of woe regarding Kierkegaard essentially blackballing me. I cringed, remembering how I’d believed, even for a moment, that Walker would’ve had any part in Saturday night’s fiasco. Of all people, Walker understood what it meant to make it on your own, in your own time frame, on your own terms. Even if he had somehow mentioned me to Kierkegaard? It would’ve been out of love and pride, not for his own gain.

  That’s the only explanation for why my father had done something so stupid. I didn’t for a minute believe he’d had an epiphany and decided to prove he supported—and acknowledged—me. Nor did I believe he’d done it out of spite; he’d simply never cared enough about me one way or the other to be bothered. No, former Senator Robert Carlson had seen an opportunity to make himself look like a patron of the arts—what better proof than to help showcase his daughter’s work?

  “Trinity? Are you all right?”

  No. I needed to call the love of my life and apologize for being an idiot and pray that he’d forgive me. Again.

  I shook my head. “I knew someone had spoken to Kierkegaard. He made sure I knew bribery didn’t work and he added a black mark by my name.” I swallowed hard. “I was upset and sort of … accused my boyfriend of doing it. Then we had a big fight.”

  “I imagine you did. But you are talking about the Lund boy who accompanied you?”

  Lund boy. Except there wasn’t a boyish thing about him; he was all man. “Yes.”

  Esther ran an agitated hand through her hair. “That pompous little prick.”

  Immediately I bristled. She had no right to say that about Walker. She didn’t know the first thing about him.

  She touched my arm. “I’m not referring to Walker.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ve tolerated Dagmar because of Michael’s friendship with him. But the man doesn’t have a clue about what real art is or what it means.” She looked at me, her eyes fierce. “You create because it drives you, but there has to be a balance between conceptualizing in private and commerce. Your work has to be out there in order for it to be noticed. If you’re good, art lovers will buy your work and support you. Taking commissions allows you to make a living, which in turn might spur you to create a unique piece that appeals to curators like Dagmar. He’s wrong. Take pride in the fact he’s wrong a lot. Men like him are dinosaurs. The only reason he still wields any power is because people let him. He has no power over you. Remember that.”

  I hugged her and whispered, “Thank you.” Then I stepped back and wiped my eyes. “After I had time to mull it over, I came to that same conclusion. It stung that Kierkegaard summarily dismissed the ‘type’ of art I love creating. While it’d be an ego boost to tell people I have a piece hanging in a prestigious gallery, I’m more proud of this creation since it’s art that has personal meaning.” I paused to admit something I’d been reluctant to give voice to. “I got sucked into the mind-set that only art in galleries and museums has value and the little projects I do are just filler. Not all art has to have the same value. I’d like to believe the person who buys one of my funky folk art pieces for a hundred bucks at the state fair loves it just as much as you do this piece.”

  I heard a grinding metal sound and turned to face the crew. Dammit, had they even listened? “Not like that! Even on the dolly all the weight has to be spread evenly across the back—nothing on the front.”

  An hour later the piece was on a truck headed to the Stephenses’ house on Wayzata Bay. I supervised the unloading process and spoke to the structural carpenter about ceiling suspension versus wall attachment. So by the time I left, it was two thirty in the afternoon.

  I checked my phone. No new messages or missed calls. My heart raced and my mouth went bone dry as I called Walker.

  The call went to voice mail.

  It went to voice mail fifty-four times over the next two days.

  Part of me didn’t blame him for ignoring me. Part of me was worried about him.

  The worried part won out.

  Thanks to Walker’s insistence I pay attention to who signed my checks, I knew where to start looking to track him down.

  Twenty-one

  WALKER

  I’d just started to drift off for my second nap of the day when I heard two blasts of an air horn. It wasn’t the lake patrol guys. They’d already been here once this morning to make sure I wasn’t passed out drunk on the boat or I hadn’t fallen overboard and they’d have to drag the lake for my body.

  Cheery thought.

  Four more annoyingly loud blasts sounded and the noise was getting closer.

  Go the fuck away.

  When the air horn didn’t get my attention, the next thing I heard was a bullhorn.

  “Prepare to be boarded. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.”

  Why’d they give the bullhorn to smart-ass Trekkie-like Brady?

  A motor cut off. Something bumped the boat. Then it pitched and swayed as several pairs of feet landed on the deck.

  I opened my eyes and shifted in my chair.

  Brady, Jensen, Nolan, Ash and Jaxson were on board, with a cooler.

  “Little early for a social call. Especially since I’m not speaking to any of you ass-monkeys, so go the fuck away.”

  “It’s not an early social call for you,” Nolan said, ignoring the last part of my statement, “now that every day is one big partay since you’re living the life of a boat bum.”

  Living. Right.

  “Do you know how long you’ve been out he
re?” This from Brady.

  “Without a word to any of us?” Jensen added. “Jase said you haven’t been at work all week.”

  I raised a brow. “What do you care? I didn’t see any of you assholes filing an itinerary with me when you went on vacation. But then again, you would’ve only let me know if you wanted me to water your plants.” I sipped my water and tilted my head back, dismissing them all. “And yes, that was a shot at all of you. Now you know I’m still pissed, so get the hell off my boat.”

  “Your boat?” Nolan said. “It’s joint ownership, so I can be on my half anytime I want.”

  Without lifting my head, I pointed to the front. “That’s your half. This”—I made a box in the air, denoting the back half of the boat—“is mine. Respect my space. And try to keep it down.”

  My declaration was met with silence.

  I heard chairs scraping and the hiss and pop of cans being opened.

  “What should we address first? What happened with her?”

  Don’t you even say her name or I will lose my shit.

  Jensen belched. I didn’t have to look to know it was him. From the age of eight he’d made it a personal goal to belch the alphabet—a feat he’d accomplished by age ten. Funny that the Vikings PR department did not list that factoid on his stats sheet.

  “At least he’s not drunk,” Brady said.

  “How can you tell?” Nolan asked. “With the beard and the hair and his clothing he always looks like he’s been on a bender.”

  Tempting to flip him off. I opted to ignore him.

  “What’s he been eating? The guy at the marina said he hadn’t docked for two days,” Nolan said.

  “Maybe he brought a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread,” Jaxson said.

  “Think he’s been catching fish and eating it raw? Do-it-yourself Minnesota sushi?” Brady suggested.

  “I think he’s totally lovesick,” Jensen said, “and he’s not eating anything—just drinking his own bitter tears.”

  “Nah. That’d be love-starved,” Ash corrected. “And since I can see empty chip bags and beef jerky wrappers in the garbage … the boy ain’t starving.”

  Then I heard someone rustling through the trash. “Jesus. There are candy wrappers everywhere,” Nolan said. “He should have chocolate poisoning after eating all of this.”