by Sandra Brown
“I think Dad was on to you. Why else would he retain Mr. Sutherland? I think he knew you were dirty-dealing. Maybe he even had proof. When he confronted you with it, you killed him.
“I hope you haven’t committed murder in the hope of securing a deal with WorldView. Because if you have, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. Understand this, Noah. Matherly Press will remain autonomous, just as it always has been.”
“Be very careful, Maris.” His voice was low, but it vibrated with menace. He reached up and took a strand of her hair, winding it tightly around his index finger. To anyone passing by who happened to glance at them, it would look like an affectionate gesture. But he pulled the strand of hair taut enough to hurt.
“It’s you who needs to understand this,” he said. “Nobody is going to prevent me from having everything I want.”
She had been right to fear him the night before she left for Georgia. The latent violence she had sensed in him then hadn’t been imagined. She had glimpsed an evil component of Noah that was no longer content to lie dormant.
But, oddly, she was no longer afraid of him. He had lost the power to intimidate or frighten her. She laughed softly. “What are you going to do, Noah? Push me down a staircase, too?”
“Daniel alone was responsible for his death. He lost his temper, reacted recklessly, temporarily forgot his physical limitations, and suffered the consequences. If you want to place blame, place it on him. But,” he continued silkily, “I’ll admit that his death was very convenient.”
She recoiled and, because he still had hold of her hair, the sudden movement caused a painful yank on her scalp. It was sharp enough to bring tears to her eyes. But she hardly noticed. Because the yank on her memory had been even sharper.
Actually, her death was very convenient.
She’d read that line a dozen or more times. It was a key piece of dialogue, so she had dwelled on it. She had played with ideas on how the statement could be improved or enhanced, but after trying several changes she had concluded that it didn’t need improving or enhancing. It was perfect as it was. Its cold candor was deliberate. It made the statement all the more shocking. Parker had used that simple sentence to provide a revealing sneak peek into the dark soul of the character. Realization slammed into her.
“You’re Todd.”
Noah’s chin went back. “What? Who?”
Thoughts were snapping and popping in her mind like a sail in a high wind, but one thought isolated itself and became jarringly clear: This could not be a coincidence.
With more ferocity than she believed herself capable of, she said, “For the last time, Noah, let go of me.”
“Of course, darling.” He uncoiled her hair from around his finger. “You’re free to go. Now that we understand one another.”
She slid into the driver’s seat and started the motor. Before pulling the door closed, she said, “You have no idea how well I understand you.”
“Envy” Ch. 22
Key West, Florida, 1988
It was one of those days when the words simply would not come.
Roark pressed his skull between his hands, squeezing it like a melon, trying to force the words out through his pores. To no avail. He came up dry. So far today, he had contributed exactly two and one-half sentences to his manuscript. Nineteen words total. For the past three hours, his cursor had been stuck in the same spot, winking at him.
“Mocking little bastard,” he whispered to it now. Deliberately he typed, The grass is green. The sky is blue. “See, you son of a bitch? I can write a sentence when I want to.”
It made little difference that yesterday, his day off from the club, had been a productive one. He had put in sixteen hard hours of writing, going without food or drink and taking bathroom breaks only when absolutely forced. He had over twenty pages to show for his labors. But the euphoria had lasted only until he awakened this morning to discover that evil spirits had sneaked in during the night while he slept and robbed him of yesterday’s talent. What other explanation could there be for its overnight disappearance?
His frustration was such that he considered shutting down for the day, taking in a movie, or going to the beach, or getting in some fishing. But that kind of retreat was easily habit-forming. It was too convenient to surrender to a momentary block. It might become a permanent block, and that was the dreadful possibility that kept him shackled to his chair, staring into a blank screen while being taunted by a blinking cursor that didn’t go any-goddamn-where.
“Roark!”
The door slammed three floors below and Todd’s running footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Lately, he had been working through the restaurant’s lunch hours to earn extra money. Roark welcomed the time Todd was out, when he was left alone in the apartment to write without the distraction that even having another warm body nearby could create.
He turned around in time to see Todd barge through their door. “What’s up? Is the building on fire? I wish.”
“I sold it.”
“Your car?” That was the first thing that popped into Roark’s head. Todd was constantly bitching about his car.
“My book! I sold my book!” His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were feverishly bright, his smile was toothpaste-commercial caliber.
Roark just looked at him, dumbfounded.
“Did you hear what I said?” Todd’s voice scaled upward to an abnormally shrill pitch. “I sold my manuscript.”
Unsteadily Roark came to his feet. “I… th-that’s great. I didn’t even know you… When did you submit it?”
Todd somehow managed to look abashed while maintaining his wide grin. “I didn’t tell you. I sent it on a whim about two months ago. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it because I was afraid—Jesus, I was positive—I’d get another rejection letter. Then today, just now, less than an hour ago, I got this call at work.”
“The publisher had your work number?”
“Well, yeah. In my cover letter, I listed every conceivable way they could contact me. Just in case, you know? Anyway, the manager of the club, that fag we hate, prances over and tells me someone wants me on the phone in his office. He says that personal calls aren’t allowed and to please limit the conversation to three minutes. Like we were busy,” he snorted.
“I hadn’t parked a car in half an hour. I figured it was you or one of the babes calling.” To Todd, their neighbors had collectively become “the babes.” “Overflowing toilet or something, you know? But instead, instead, this guy identifies himself as an editor, says he’s read my manuscript, says it blew him away. Those words. ‘It blew me away.’ Says he wants to publish it. I nearly shit right there, man.
“Then, for a heartbeat or two, I thought you or somebody, maybe the fag we hate, was jacking with me, you know, playing a trick. But no, this editor goes on and on about my story, calls the characters by name. Says he’s willing to offer in the neighborhood of high five figures, but I’m sure that was only his starting point. As much as he raved over the book, there’s got to be wiggle room to up the ante.”
Suddenly he puffed out his cheeks, then emptied them like a bellows. “Listen to me, will ya?” he chortled. “Holy shit! It hasn’t even sunk in yet. I’m standing here talking about negotiating an advance, but I haven’t even grasped it yet. I’ve sold a book!”
Roark, forcing himself to move, forcing elation into his expression, crossed the room and gave Todd a mighty hug, thumping him on the back, lifting him off the floor, congratulating him in the spirit of a good fraternity brother and colleague. “Congratulations, man. You’ve worked hard for this. You deserve it.”
“Thanks, Roark.”
Todd pushed him back, looked him square in the eye, and stuck out his hand. They shook hands, but the solemnity was short-lived. Within seconds Todd was whooping like an air-raid siren and bouncing around the apartment with the jerky, disjointed hyperactivity of a rhesus on speed.
“I don’t know what to do first,” he said, laughing.
; “Call Hadley,” Roark suggested.
“Hadley can go fuck himself. He didn’t show any confidence in me. Why should I share my good news with him? I know,” he said, vigorously rubbing his hands together. “A celebration. Blowout party. You and me. On me.”
Roark, feeling less like celebrating than he ever had in his life, was already shaking his head. “You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to. Tonight. I’ll make all the arrangements.”
“I’ve got to work.”
“Screw work.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve sold a book. For high five figures with wiggle room.”
The statements jerked a knot in the rhesus’s tail. Todd stopped bouncing and turned toward Roark. He treated him to several moments of hard scrutiny. “Oh. Now I get it. You’re pissed because I sold before you did.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, that’s good,” Todd said sarcastically. “Because if you were pissed, you might be acting like a jackass instead of my best friend on the happiest day of my life.”
True. He was acting like a jackass. Rank jealousy had turned him into a prick, and he was running headlong toward ruining the happiest day of his best friend’s life.
Not that it would be any different if the situation were reversed. Todd would behave just as badly, probably worse. He would sulk and mouth about life’s injustices. He would be resentful and caustic, and then he’d turn cruel.
But since when was Todd Grayson his standard for good behavior? He liked to think he was a finer person and better friend than Todd. He liked to think he had a stronger character and more integrity.
He plastered on a fake grin. “What the hell, I’ll call in sick. Let that fag we hate fire me. What time’s the party start?”
* * *
Todd said to give him time to make a few arrangements, and Roark said fine because he needed to close out his work for the day anyway. As soon as Todd flew out to run his errands, Roark surrendered to his dejection. It set in with a vengeance.
He stared into his computer screen, wondering why he had been cursed with a burning desire to do something creative but shortchanged the ability and opportunity to do it. Why would God play a dirty trick like that? Entice you with a dream, provide you with enough talent to make it appear reachable, then keep the dream just this side of being realized?
Like a mantra, he repeated to himself how happy he was over Todd’s success. And he was. He was. But he also resented it. He resented the sneakiness with which Todd had submitted his manuscript. They hadn’t made a pact to inform each other whenever they submitted work, but it had certainly been their habit. Todd hadn’t actually violated a sacred agreement, but that’s what it felt like.
Uncharitably, Roark wanted to attribute Todd’s success to luck, fluky timing, a slow book market, even to an editor with lousy taste, all the while acknowledging that such thoughts were unfair. Todd had worked hard. He was a talented writer. He was dedicated to the craft. He deserved to be published.
But Roark earnestly felt that he deserved it more.
* * *
Todd returned within an hour bringing a bottle of champagne for each of them and insisting that they drink them before moving to phase two of the celebration.
Phase two included Mary Catherine. One Sunday afternoon shortly after her miscarriage, Roark had taken her out for ice cream. Seeing the promenade of young couples with babies had caused her to get weepy. She confided that Todd had fathered the embryo she lost.
“Son of a bitch must’ve had a sixth sense about it. He’s avoided me ever since.”
Months went by. The two were civil to one another but cool. Eventually they reestablished themselves as friends but only friends. To Roark’s knowledge they hadn’t slept together again. He assumed by tacit agreement.
Today, the rift and the cause for it were distant memories. Wearing three postage-stamp-sized patches of electric-blue fabric that passed for a bikini, Mary Catherine arrived ready to party. She got there just in time to help them polish off the champagne.
“Foul!” she cried petulantly. “I only got two swallows.”
“There’s more where that came from, sweetheart.” Todd rubbed her ass and smacked his lips, first with appreciation, then regret. He turned her around and gave her a gentle push toward Roark. “She’s all yours tonight, pal. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
“Consolation prize?” The good-natured question had only a trace of an edge.
“Can you imagine a better one?”
Mary Catherine looped her arms around Roark’s neck, mashed her breasts against his chest, and massaged his crotch with hers. “Fine by me. I’ve had a lech for you for a long time.” She poked her tongue into his mouth.
Courtesy of the champagne, he had a lively buzz going. She tasted good. She felt damn good. He liked her. He had sustained a blow to his ego, and Todd was trying to make it up to him. He’d be an asshole to decline his friend’s gesture of condolence.
He applied himself to kissing her.
“Hey,” Todd said after a few moments. “Am I gonna have to turn the water hose on you two?”
Laughing, they clomped downstairs and piled into Todd’s much-maligned car. He drove them to a marina where he had chartered a boat from an old salt named Hatch Walker. They’d leased boats from him before. His rates were the cheapest in Key West, and he got only mildly abusive if you stretched your contract time and came in late.
Walker wasn’t long on charm anytime, but today he was particularly querulous. He was wary of turning one of his boats over to three people who had obviously been drinking. Roark was just drunk enough on champagne—and wildly aroused because on the drive to the marina, Mary Catherine had given him a private lap dance in the passenger seat—not to care about the old man’s opinion of them or the amount of their alcohol intake.
As soon as the rental agreement was signed, Todd jumped aboard and climbed the steps to the pilot’s chair. Roark staggered aboard, then turned to lend a hand to Mary Catherine, who managed to stumble against him as she stepped onto the deck. “Oopsy-daisy,” she giggled as she squirmed against him. She gave old Hatch a gay little wave as he untied the ropes from the cleats and tossed them onto the deck.
“Crazy kids,” he muttered.
“I don’t think he likes us,” Mary Catherine whined.
“What I think is, you have on too many clothes.”
Roark reached around to untie her top. She shrieked and slapped at his hands, but the protests were all for show. Roark came away with her bikini top and waved it like a banner above his head as Todd slowly guided the boat out of the marina. As soon as the craft cleared the channel, he gave it full throttle and it shot into the Atlantic.
Todd had proclaimed this would be a celebration none of them would ever forget and obviously he meant it. Roark was surprised by his friend’s extravagance. The coolers he had brought onboard were stocked with brand-name liquors. The food came from a deli that had the self-confidence to call itself Delectables.
“This is a mean shrimp salad.” Roark licked spiced mayonnaise from the corner of his lips.
“Let me do that.” Mary Catherine straddled his lap and sponged away the mayo with her tongue. She had taken her role as consolation prize to heart, devoting herself entirely to entertaining him and granting his every wish. That or converting him into a hedonist. Either way, he wasn’t fighting it.
The shared secret of the miscarriage had forged a special bond between them. When they were alone he called her Sheila. She’d given up on the mermaid idea as impractical because “the tail would probably be itchy.” But she was considering a chambermaid routine and had asked him to come up with a catchy name for her.
Although they flirted frequently and outrageously, the friendship had remained platonic. She’d made subtle overtures, but Roark had pretended not to notice them because he hadn’t wanted to mess up a good friendship.
But as she sucked at his lips,
he asked himself what would be so terrible about altering their friendship to include sex. Be friends with Sheila, but don’t have sex with Mary Catherine. Who wrote the rule that you couldn’t be both friend and lover?
Why not make happy with the iron hard-on he was sporting, compliments of her incredible proportions and her agile tongue and her hands, which were keeping themselves busy inside his swim trunks?
Maybe Todd had paid for her services today. So what? She was a good kid, trying to make a decent living using the assets she’d been given.
It was also possible that she was coming on to him only to make Todd jealous. He wouldn’t let that bother him, either. In fact, he wasn’t going to let anything bother him tonight.
Fuck writing. Fuck getting published. Fuck words that wouldn’t come.
Fuck Mary Catherine. That topped his things-to-do list. Definitely. He was sick to death of being such a damn Boy Scout. Nose to the grindstone all the time. For what? For freaking nothing, that’s what.
He was going to eat this rich food until he puked on it. He was going to get slobbery drunk. He was going to let Mary Catherine perform on him every debauched act in her extensive repertoire. He was going to have a good time tonight if it killed him.
* * *
Roark woke up with Mary Catherine draped across him. After a bout of rowdy copulation in the small berth, they had both passed out. Thirsty and needing badly to pee, he wiggled out from under her. She moaned a garbled objection and reached out to hold him back, but it was a halfhearted effort.
He successfully extricated himself and retrieved his trunks from the floor. It required some challenging concentration and a few fumbling attempts, but he finally managed to get his feet into the legs.
He was still pulling on the trunks as he stumbled up the steps to the deck. Todd had a bottle of Bacardi cradled in his arm and was staring at the constellations. Hearing Roark, he turned and smiled. “You survived?”