“Y-you’re right, y-you’re right, y-you’re right,” Lucas stammered. She was right. He’d never touched himself in front of anyone else before, and he was embarrassed to do it now. But he’d opened himself up to this. Yes, remember? “Yes” is the word. He stood up and took his pants off. Then his underwear. He’d been fully erect since their eye contact a moment ago.
“Um, should I sit or stand?” he said.
“Whatever you fucking want,” she said. The deep breathing had returned.
He stood, his penis in his right hand and remote control in the left. They watched each other. Touching yourself in ways nobody else has seen you do—now that is intimacy. He loved the idea that the thing he does in his bed by himself—the loneliest of acts—is actually sexy, is something a woman like Carmen desires to see. God, this feels good. He squeezed both his hands harder. He was breathing heavily now, breathing out of his mouth; for whatever the hell reason, as he reached orgasm he always switched from nose to mouth. Easier to heave, perhaps.
His eyes widened.
What was Carmen doing? She looked—
His eyes shut. He couldn’t focus.
Release.
“Unnggh,” Lucas said involuntarily.
He opened his eyes. Carmen was still sitting in her chair, but she was now holding the vibrator, which sounded like it was about to blast off to outer space. He looked at his left hand; it was gripped tightly on the remote, practically crushing it. “What the fuck!” Carmen said.
“What! What happened?”
“You cranked this thing so high that it hurt,” she said. “And you didn’t hear me when I told you to turn it down. And then you blew a load on the carpet.”
He looked down. It was all true. Again, Empire would have a cleaning bill.
* * *
The next day, Lucas sat at his computer, trying to anticipate what Carmen would write. Was it possible that she’d be kind? Maybe, had he not gotten so carried away. His last column had actually worked—she read it, she thought about it, and she’d softened to him. But he blew it (literally), so she was guaranteed to come out swinging. And what would the readers think, with this new voting system? He won last week; he wanted to win again. But if he wrote another column admiring her and she revealed his carpet-staining bumbling, readers would turn on him. It was a prisoner’s dilemma.
“You can’t let go,” he finally wrote into his column, resigned to the continued war. “You can’t even sit back and let yourself feel good—because, I think, it would be an admission of failure. If this feels good, what else feels good? What else did you wrongly reject? Your whole persona, everything you’ve built your career on, is based on the piddling lie that you know what’s best. But maybe that’s just a lie you tell yourself.”
A few days later, the columns went live online and Lucas pulled Carmen’s up to see what the damage was. It started nice—talking about his last column, how perhaps she, too, should say yes more often, how it inspired her to go along with this week’s column. She described them sitting across the room, staring at each other: “I felt you, Nice Guy, in a way I’ve never felt your body. I felt you, and it felt good.” Lucas smiled slightly; so she was thinking the same thing he was. But he didn’t want to indulge in the moment; he was sure the sharp insults were just a paragraph away. The searing exposure. His flaws reflected back at him once more, this time as he held his dick in his hand.
“Until the end—when that vibrator almost buzzed my clitoris off—you’d given me the sex of my life,” she wrote, in the column’s last paragraph. “It was out-of-body—I was torn between sitting in that chair, letting you control me from afar, and wanting to summon you to me so I could feel the real you as I reached my peak. But I was selfish; I wanted to ride this feeling to its conclusion, and keep watching you as I did it. And so at no fault of your own, you pushed me to the painful edge as you achieved your own climax. All in all, this was good for us, Nice Guy: We needed time apart, and we got it, and you made the most of it. We’ll see what brings us together next week.”
And that was it.
It was the sort of column Lucas always wanted to read from her—honest and truthful but also, most important, kind. And yet he’d miscalculated. Missed the signs. But how could he have known? What reason did he have to trust her?
His phone pinged. A text from Carmen: “So that’s what I get for being nice? Noted,” she wrote.
More than ten thousand readers had already voted on whose side they were on. Lucas had 87 percent of them. He wished they hated him as much as, at this moment, he hated himself.
CHAPTER 24
Sofia stood in the lobby of The Ritz-Carlton wearing a drop-waist beaded dress with a sloping back. She kissed Lucas on the cheek.
“You look handsome,” she said, assessing his rented tux. The outfit, ordered from a new formalwear start-up, had set him back eighty bucks and the start-up clearly hadn’t worked out the kinks. The jacket shoulders were boxy and the collar too wide. Lucas knew Sofia would notice these things, but she said nothing. Which is to say, Sofia was being generous.
“You look stunning,” he said. It was a phrase he’d often heard in the movies but had never actually spoken. Certainly not to Mel. With her, he always felt restricted by his own history. Since he’d never used those words with her, he couldn’t abruptly start. It would sound forced, and she’d get mad. But with Sofia, he could start over. He was now a man who gave elegant compliments. And the words were true. He could have admired her for hours—and he must have been doing so now because Sofia laughed nervously and asked if he was all right. “Never better,” he said, and meant it.
This party was a badly needed hiatus from work. Lucas had never been so busy. In addition to “Screw the Critics,” his dates with Sofia, and his daily fact-checking duties, he’d been submerged in the Nicholas Spragg profile that Jays assigned him. He’d managed to sit Nicholas down for a couple of formal interviews, but more often than not, he was forced to collect information by chasing his subject around the city, often with Saint Regis the dog in tow. On the nights when Lucas stayed home, he scoured the database LexisNexis (using a friend’s password) for information on Nicholas’s family, Kingswood Hotels, and Apex, Idaho.
Tonight he was technically on the job, but he didn’t want to think of it that way. Tonight was about letting loose at the Roaring Twenties–themed fete that Nicholas was throwing for his twenty-fifth birthday. Tonight, thought Lucas, we should party like people who never saw the Great Depression coming.
The elevator doors parted and he and Sofia stepped into a sequined sea of inebriation. Flappers darted among a reef of cocktail tables, their feathered headpieces floating like fins, while schools of tuxedoed gents circled the ballroom’s three oval bars. The whole room was a quick-flowing current, moving in time to a sixteen-piece jazz band. The scene looked plucked directly from the pages of Fitzgerald.
But when the host appeared, he looked dejected, sadder than Gatsby after Daisy returns to Tom. Nicholas Spragg had a trust fund that rivaled the economy of a small country, and lived in an opulent hotel. But he looked very much alone. Nobody else seemed to notice. The small group nearest was having a merry old time, toasting one another.
“He is ugly,” Sofia whispered as she and Lucas headed over. Lucas had given her a full accounting of Nicholas’s awkward features and social ineptitude.
Nicholas saw Sofia approaching first, and his face brightened as though hit by a spotlight. Then he noticed Lucas beside her, and his excitement dimmed. Lucas let his annoyance go. Nicholas had never met Sofia, and he must have thought this stunning woman had taken a fancy to him. Spragg immediately masked his disappointment, however, and opened his arms in welcome.
“My dear friend Lucas Callahan,” he announced, clearly for the group’s benefit. “Superstar of Empire Magazine.” Lucas made to shake hands, but Nicholas pulled Lucas toward him and kissed him on each cheek. Sofia had barely managed to introduce herself before he’d done the same to her. �
�It’s the Mediterranean style,” he explained unnecessarily, not seeming to notice that the new arrivals were wiping their cheeks.
“You didn’t tell me that Nicholas had Mediterranean roots,” Sofia said. “My grandparents are Italian. Where’s your family from?”
Nicholas looked a little confused. “No, no,” he corrected. “I’m from Idaho. Or should I say that I’m a New Yorker by way of Idaho.” He leaned toward her with grave concern. “Do you think that sounds silly? I mean do you think people”—he glanced over at the small group of well-heeled individuals nearby—“would laugh at that description?”
“Lucas is from North Carolina,” Sofia said. “And I’m here by way of Connecticut. We’re all immigrants to this city.”
Nicholas nodded as though Sofia had just legitimized his very existence. Then he turned to the others and made a swift round of introductions. It was a strange mishmash: a hot young architect, whose name Lucas recognized from the magazine; his painter girlfriend, whose work was being shown at galleries that sounded impressive (but what the hell did Lucas know); a couple of preppy Wall Street types; a thirtysomething literary agent; and the twenty-eight-year-old CEO of a Silicon Valley start-up that had a $1.6 billion valuation, despite having yet to turn a profit. The only thing these people seemed to have in common, Lucas decided, was a mutual derision of Nicholas.
“Lucas is profiling me for Empire,” Nicholas said. “It’s going to be a cover story.”
“A whole feature about Nicholas,” said the literary agent. “Dax, didn’t you only get like five hundred words?”
The architect glowered. “And a photo shoot.”
“And Stephanie,” Dax continued, “I’m really sorry about Empire’s review of your writer—what’s his name, Anderson somebody?”
“Anderson Stedman. But nobody’s reading Empire for book reviews.” The agent flashed Lucas an obsequious smile. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Lucas said.
“Nicholas’s story is really fascinating,” Sofia said, and turned his way. “I’ve heard some of your history and it’s so fantastic—oh, I hope I’m not embarrassing you!”
Color shot to Nicholas’s ears. Lucas himself beamed with gratitude. A woman this beautiful could have been selfish and aloof. Instead, she was empathetic. She saw that Nicholas needed help, and knew just how to remold the conversation.
“Are you referring to my great-great-grandfather on my mother’s side?” Nicholas asked. “He was the archetypal self-made man.”
Lucas wondered if Nicolas was about to give his Bavarian/ Hungarian count/duke spiel—all of which Lucas’s research had definitively debunked.
“He came from nothing,” Nicolas continued. “Left his family in Missouri at the age of fifteen without a penny and trekked alone across the country. At nineteen, he founded the town that I grew up in. He called it Apex, the pinnacle of his dreams. He built a log cabin. And today, in that exact spot, is a Kingswood hotel—the very first. There’s wood in that hotel that’s nearly a hundred and fifty years old. He helped erect it with his own hands—in fact, he lost his life because of it, in a terrible, tragic accident.”
“What happened?” asked one of the bankers.
Lucas wondered what Nicholas was going to say. To his surprise, everything recounted thus far was supported by the historical record. During their first taped interview, Nicholas said that a grizzly bear had come out of the woods and mauled his great-great-grandfather to death. Another time, Great-great-grandfather Spragg was high atop the building in a thunderstorm and struck by lightning. When Lucas had raised this discrepancy, Nicholas shook his head with force. “It was absolutely, one hundred percent lightning,” he’d said. “I can show you the death certificate.” When Lucas followed up, Nicholas said the document was in Apex but could be accessed “shortly.” It had not materialized.
To Lucas’s amazement, if not quite his surprise, Nicholas was now giving everyone a wholly different tale.
“It was vital to my great-great-grandfather that he and his sons worked with the laborers on every part of the hotel’s construction. But there was a problem with the rigging on the crane. It snapped and a giant log crashed down. My great-great grandfather was crushed. Afterward, he was buried outside the hotel. A plaque lets all guests know that they are walking on hallowed ground. My great-grandfather was only ten at the time of his father’s death, but from that moment he, too, insisted on helping to build the rest of the hotel with his own bare hands.”
“He wasn’t crushed by any falling beams?” the architect asked, barely masking his sarcasm.
“Oh no.” Nicholas shook his head with complete sincerity. “He was killed in a duel over his mistress. It’s actually something of a family scandal.”
It was true, Lucas had read, that the great-great-grandfather was interred in the front walkway, but he’d died of a heart attack at the age of eighty-three. As for the great-grandfather, his death was attributed to lung cancer at the age of fifty-five. There was no public record of a mistress.
“So no other deaths by duel then?” the painter said, glancing sidelong at the architect, who, in turn, rolled his eyes.
“This is all pretty fascinating,” said the agent. She, unlike the rest, seemed genuinely intrigued. That or she was paying the toll of attending his party. Lucas couldn’t tell.
“Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I’ve got to get my friends Lucas and Sofia a drink.” At that, he turned on his spit-shined heels and pulled them away.
The band had gone on break and the guests encircled the three bars, pressing forward, four and five people deep. The bartenders looked a little fearful, like they were under assault. For his part, Nicholas looked downcast.
“What’s the matter?” Lucas asked. “Everyone seems to be having fun.”
“Perhaps so,” Nicholas said again. “It’s just that—I’m not sure any of these people like me very much.”
Lucas and Sofia looked at each other. He wasn’t so oblivious after all. Lucas felt a twinge of sympathy for Nicholas Spragg. Ignorance, for all its downsides, surely beat whatever state he truly lived in.
“Why would you say that?” Sofia asked.
“They don’t seem to like my stories. I’ve worked hard on them, you know.”
“So some of that stuff is … made up?” Sofia asked gently. Lucas knew she was the only person in the room who could have gotten away with such a question.
“Well, yes,” Nicholas said.
Lucas was stunned. Did Nicholas not realize that this admission could be printed in the magazine? Was he too drunk to care? He didn’t seem intoxicated. In fact, he seemed quite sober. He must have seen the perplexed look on Lucas’s face.
“I know it’s a, well, shall we say unconventional approach to one’s biography. But I’m reinventing myself, you understand. I certainly couldn’t have done that in Idaho, where everyone has known me since birth. Here you can be anything.”
Nicholas’s face expressed a mix of hopefulness and disappointment, and Lucas realized how cruel it would be to expose his subject’s naïve and fragile dream. Especially since Lucas was doing something similar. He just wasn’t so explicit about it.
“Why not reinvent yourself a little less dramatically?” Sofia asked. “See how that goes over?”
“Or just be who you are,” Lucas offered.
Nicholas observed the rollicking, flapper-outfitted crowd. “The city—it’s like this party, you know. You come here with an idea of who you want to be, you throw yourself into that idea, and eventually, it’s who you become. I guess I haven’t hit on the right idea yet—the one people will really like. I didn’t think it would be so difficult.” Nicholas drained the rest of his champagne. “Well, I’m going to be a good host,” he said. “Sofia, it was lovely to meet you—and please stay, because there’s much more to come this evening.” He kissed her on the cheek and, as he shook Lucas’s hand, Sofia wiped her cheek for a second time. Then Nicholas allowed himself to be swallowed into the cr
owd.
Lucas turned to Sofia. “Thank you for being so kind to him. You’re really amazing.”
“It’s nothing,” she said, but glanced away, as though evading his adoring gaze.
“Listen, Sofia…,” Lucas said, taking her hands. “I wanted to talk to you about something.” He hadn’t planned on broaching the subject of their relationship—certainly not right here. But something about the party, and Sofia’s kindness and even Nicholas’s own dissatisfaction, had stirred him to action. Lucas wanted to be real. He wanted to be up-front: They never talked about Carmen anymore or the columns. Not since the night of the casket factory. And surely that meant something. “I really like you,” he said. “I was thinking that we should make this—”
He was going to say official. But the band cut in, kicking off its second set with an abrupt cymbal crash. The horn section jumped headlong into a raucous, freewheeling Charleston.
“We should make what what?” Sofia bellowed.
“Official!” Lucas yelled, not quite hearing her.
“What do you mean?”
“You and me!” He smiled.
“What?” she shouted, possibly pretending not to have heard him.
But before he could answer, a waiter appeared, as though from thin air, proffering Lucas an envelope with his white gloves. “For you and the lady,” the waiter said into Lucas’s ear. Lucas opened the envelope and removed a piece of thick card stock. Inside, printed in gold, was a suite number and a time—“12:07 A.M.”
“Mysterious,” Sofia said. “And oddly specific.” She checked her watch; they had eight minutes. “We better get going,” she said, and turned toward the ballroom doors. Lucas had the uncomfortable feeling that she was anxious to get away.
* * *
The suite was lavish. Everything was braided and brocaded. There were two bars, one of them exclusively for shellfish. The other was devoted to whiskeys, along with a full array of muddled fruits. Women in fishnets and bustiers strutted through the room, offering cigars and chocolates. A magician in a top hat pulled coins from people’s ears.
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