I sit at my desk, sifting through a series of scanned documents on my laptop, ensuring they're properly filed for our audit. The click of heels outside my office assures me that Stephanie is nearby, and as she enters, she closes the door behind her. She glances around as if she's worried someone might know what she's up to. Why is she acting like a secret agent?
“What's wrong?” I ask.
“There's a bit of a problem. That's a lie. There's a huge problem! I'm just trying to tell you before Mr. Farcon—”
“Where is she?” booms behind her.
Mr. Farcon, all three feet of him, rounds the corner, a grimace on his face, his usually pale flesh red as a tomato.
Oh, no. Whatever it is, it's really bad. Stephanie stands beside the door as he rushes in and stands right before my desk. I start to get up when he screams, “Sit down!”
I've seen him do this with Stephanie before. This is how he responded when he discovered we needed to perform the audit for the last event. I look to Stephanie as if I need her to psychically project to me what he's about to fuss at me about before he can.
“The Frenly Brothers are backing out,” he says.
“What?” I ask.
“Evidently one of them had a skiing accident. Broke his arm.”
“Oh, God.”
“Yeah, you're gonna need a God to get us out of this one.”
“Can't you just show them that they were supposed to...” Stephanie says behind him, trying to step in and defend me, which is nice, but useless.
“At the end of the day, is that going to bring money in?” he asks. “If we can't sell tickets and get people at this event, we're screwed. And if we're screwed, you're out of a fucking job! You got that?”
My face must be as red as his, but for a totally different reason. “What am I supposed to do?” I ask. It was a miracle that I booked them, and it's not my fault one of them had an accident.
“Fix it,” he says slowly, as if trying to calm himself. “Fix it real fast.”
He must know how impossible that is. However, rather than arguing with him, I decide appeasement is the best option: “Okay.”
“Good. And if you can't find me an act in two days, don't bother coming back in—even to pack your things, or I'll have you kicked out on your ass faster than you can say ‘severance.’ Understood?”
I nod. He growls, like he's about to bark at me, but instead, he stomps out, leaving Stephanie and I staring blankly at each other.
“I have to do this in a week?” I ask in a whisper, fearing he may still be close and be even more infuriated by my skepticism about my new task.
“Lana, you can do it,” Stephanie says, clearly trying to pump me up. “You got the Frenly Brothers. You can use that same entrepreneurial spirit and wrangle up some other act. Can't you?” Her tone is desperate, like she doesn't really believe I can pull this off.
“I can't—”
“Sure you can. Please. Just see if you can find someone. I have a file of plenty of local performers that you might be able to find someone from.”
I know the performers she's referring to, and I might as well not have an act. They're a bunch of wedding singers and no-names who won't in and of themselves draw an audience to the fundraiser. I don't have anything against their work, but considering we're in the business of selling tickets based on the acts we bring to the table, this isn't going to cut it.
“I'll see what I can do,” I say.
“Great, Lana. That's perfect.”
As she leaves me to my mess of work and the new mess of the fundraiser that was supposed to go on without a hitch, I want to bash my face against the keyboard of my laptop.
I start out the building, flipping through a green binder of performers that Stephanie gave me earlier. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to make this happen?
My phone vibrates, and as I pull it out, I see it's Jarek. Suddenly, he's not the most troublesome thing in my life right now.
“Hello?”
“You okay?” he asks. “You sound pissed.”
“The Frenly Brothers just canceled for the fundraiser, so now I'm totally fucked because I have no time and if people don't show up to this thing, I'm going to be fired for sure.”
Silence.
“Anyway,” I say, “I'd better go. I have a career that I have to watch go down the tubes.”
“Wait, wait, Lana,” he says. “What if I could help you get someone?”
“Who?”
“Will you meet me in an hour?”
“Jarek, don't worry. I can figure this out.”
“I know you can, but if this is something I can help you with, I want to help you. An hour?”
“Okay.”
I shouldn't have agreed. I should be doing everything in my power to fix this catastrophe, but I can't help but feel that wasting an afternoon with Jarek is just as useless as wasting it stressing over the end of my career.
Thirty minutes later, he texts me to wear something nice. Since I really have nothing to lose right now, I obey, and when he texts me to let me know he's arrived, I head downstairs. He's waiting in a navy-blue Mercedes. As I slip into the front seat, I glare at him. His face spasms, as if he's trying to figure out what my look is about.
“A fucking Mercedes? Really?”
“It's just a rental.”
“Exactly. Would a Toyota have killed you?”
He smirks. God, I could just slap him right now. “It really didn't even come up,” he says.
“I bet it didn't.” I set my purse on the floor and pull my seat-belt on. “Now Jarek, it really isn't something you need to worry about.” As appreciative as I am that he's offered to help, it's not his mess to fix.
“Not an issue,” he says. “Just relax.”
I try, but considering how stressed I am about this and the audit, I'm not sure I'm going to make it through today as a relaxed person.
He drives to the interstate and takes it south for fifteen minutes before he drives alongside a fenced off tarmac. The sight of a runway and small white planes makes me uneasy.
“What are we doing?” I ask suspiciously. I already know, but I can't wrap my thoughts around it. Are we seriously about to fly somewhere? I could kill Jarek. He should have warned me. I can't just leave. I have to be back at work tomorrow!
“You want to fix this problem?” he asks, obviously knowing he needs to curtail my frustration.
“Yes, but—”
“Then you need to trust me on this and get on this plane.” I'm even more concerned. I'm about to waste an evening, and for what?
He heads through a security gate and parks in a small parking lot. When we get out, he leads me across the tarmac.
Not fifteen minutes later, we're in the air, flying a private jet he's hired just for this trip. I'm wracked with guilt. He shouldn't have spent all this money on me. Considering the nature of our relationship, he shouldn't be spending any money on me.
Jarek snatches a magazine off a table before our chairs. I give him a frustrated look to convey just how uncomfortable I am with this whole situation.
“What?”
“Not everyone can hop on a private jet.”
A self-indulgent smirk creeps across his face, and I shake my head. “Where are we heading?” I ask.
“Don't you want it to be a surprise?” he asks.
“I'm not sure I do.”
“Oh, you do.”
“When will we be back? I have work tomorrow.”
“We're having a short outing. No big deal. Relax. Do you want a new performer or what?”
“You are just so frustrating sometimes, Jarek Dean.” His smirk broadens. I want to punch it right off his cocky face.
When we land, we have a car waiting for us. I think I liked it better when Jarek's riches were just something I heard about—an intangible mass of money. Seeing the evidence makes me self-conscious. What must he think of my life...of my crappy apartment? The old Jarek wouldn't have thought anything of
them. He would have thought I'd actually made something of myself. The new Jarek must think of me as the closest thing to a homeless person he knows.
In the distance, a city rises before the light blue of the afternoon sky. I recognize the spires of the Sears Tower from having visited Chicago a few times to see a friend.
The driver drops us off outside a large building. Condos, I think. Jarek leads me inside and checks in with the concierge, who fetches the elevator for us.
Jarek seems so comfortable living like this, having everything at his disposal. Not only has he amassed all this money, but he's acclimated to the lifestyle that comes along with it. We don't even exist in the same world. How can this be the boy I grew up with?
The elevator chimes as it stops on the thirty-fourth floor. “Thirty-four,” a female voice announces through the speaker. Jarek leads me through the hall to one of the rooms and knocks.
I have no idea what to expect, but by now I've given up trying to figure it out. I might as well let Jarek have his way with me.
The door swings open, revealing an older man in a sleeveless white shirt tainted with yellow stains. A pair of black skinny jeans sculpts around scrawny chicken legs. The man is barefoot, assuring me I'm not overdressed. As he sees Jarek, a broad smile sweeps across his face. He has rosy cheeks and long strands of white hair that fall just below his ears. How does Jarek think this guy can help me get a new performer?
“Garreth!” Jarek exclaims.
“You crazy son of a bitch,” the man says. “What brings you out here? Where are my manners?” He shifts his attention to me. “I'm Garreth Pulzer.”
Garreth Pulzer? The renowned pianist with double platinum albums and three Grammy Awards? That Garreth Pulzer? I've seen his picture a few times, but seeing him outside his suit and tie and well-groomed state completely threw me.
Did Jarek bring me here to convince Garreth to perform at the fundraiser? That's impossible. Garreth has lived in seclusion, refusing to perform for five years. Though I'm honored to be in the presence of a legend, if Jarek really brought me here to attempt to convince Garreth to help me out, not only will I not have an act by the end of today, I'll have humiliated myself in front of one of the greatest living musical artists in the world.
Those facts aside, I can see why Jarek thought enlisting Garreth's help would have bailed me out of my jam. Garreth is like the Streisand of pianists. People will fly from all over the country if they think they have a chance to see him perform live again.
But fat chance of that happening.
“Come on in, come on in,” Garreth says, waving us inside. He leads us into his condo, his bare feet padding against the coal-black, wood-paneled floor. The wall-length window overlooks the Chicago skyline as the sun sets in the distance. It's as if we arrived at just the perfect time to watch this magical moment.
Garreth approaches a cabinet and pulls down a door, revealing a mini-bar. He retrieves a bottle of red wine and a glass. “This comes from a beautiful winery in Italy. They don't have their license to sell it in the states, so it costs a fortune to have it shipped here. Please, have a seat.”
I settle on a gray couch before a wall with a piece of artwork, a three-paneled black and white photograph of a hippopotamus, which looks far classier than it sounds.
After he pours a glass of wine, he hands it to me. I take sip, my face cringing from the sour taste.
“You have a beautiful place,” Jarek says, sitting in a brown barcalounger before the windows.
“Thank you so much,” Garreth says as he prepares a glass of wine for Jarek. When he's finished, he hands it off to Jarek and returns to the bar.
“Now, what brings you all the way out here?” Garreth asks, pouring his own drink. “You said you needed to ask me for a favor?”
“Yeah,” Jarek says. “I kinda was wondering if you wouldn't mind performing again.”
I blush. How could Jarek be so tactless in his approach? Obviously, Garreth isn't just going to agree to perform as a favor to him. I want to die from embarrassment.
Garreth gives him the look I'd expect of a man who has a reputation for refusing to perform. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” he asks, his tone cold, severe.
“Probably, because I'd need for you to do it for free, too.”
My jaw drops. I drink as much of the red wine as I can manage, hoping it'll ease the tension that's steadily intensifying within me. Despite Jarek humiliating both of us with such a ridiculous request, I acknowledge that this sort of gumption is surely a part of Jarek's immense success.
The stern, insulted look on Garreth's face leads me to believe we're a few moments away from being escorted from his condo. He stares out his window and downs the glass he's made for himself before pouring himself another and drinking half of it. He sets the glass down on a side table beside him with such force I'm sure the glass is going to shatter.
“You came all this way to piss me off?” he asks, his face reddening. He glances at me, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “This guy's got real balls, doesn't he?”
I couldn't agree more.
Jarek motions to me, “It's for my...”
“Yes, what is this divine creature to you?” Garreth asks, again with that same wicked glint.
I'm eager to hear how he introduces me. His trick? His slut? His—
“Very good friend,” he says. I subdue a scoff. We aren't good friends, if only considering the amount of time that has passed without hearing so much as a word from him.
“Did he tell you how we met?” Garreth asks me.
“He didn't even tell me this was where we were heading. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to impose.”
“I assure you, madam, you are not the one offending me right now. It's this asshole who needs to be a little more careful with his words.” It's amusing that this prestigious musician can be so crude.
“I would think, considering our past, you would be a little more willing to help me out.”
“Really?” Garreth asks. “You're going to use that against me now?”
“You're welcome,” Jarek says.
“What's going on?” I ask.
“Oh, he didn't tell you?” Garreth asks. “Ha. Well, at least I know he has some discretion.”
“Of course,” Jarek says facetiously.
“We met six years ago. We were attending a party of Lady Granderly in London.”
“It was her and her husband's anniversary,” Jarek interjects.
“I remember the goddamn story. I can tell the details.” Jarek smirks. It's clear they have a very affectionate friendship, neither seeming to mind the other's teasing or insults.
“I was wasted out of my mind,” Garreth says. “Stumbling, falling over drunk. I don't usually get this sloppy, but Mr. Granderly and I have a history that I won't bore you with. Needless to say, our affair didn't come to a great end, but as society has always considered us to be good friends, I arrived and when he didn't so much as speak to me, I just kept downing the wine. Jarek took it upon himself to keep an eye on me, which was nice, but it didn't help.”
“He's got a bit of Janet in him,” Jarek explains.
“Since Frederick wouldn't speak to me, I chatted up his son, who I could tell from some glares and exchanges had similar tastes as his father, so we ended up heading to the restroom.”
“Which was a terrible idea, and I told him that.”
“Whatever. I was so loaded, I didn't care. Jarek played lookout and when Frederick was on his way to the loo, Jarek told him it wasn't working and walked him to another restroom across the house. So...he got me out of a pretty serious jam. I can't imagine the fight that would have gone down if we'd been discovered. At the very least, Frederick Jr. would have been disowned. At most, Frederick would have probably slit my throat.”
“That's a lot more scandalous than I was expecting,” I confess.
“Right?”
“So he kind of owes me,” Jarek says with a sly smile.
Garreth sta
res him down. “Jarek, if you knew what performing did to me, you wouldn't be asking me to do this.”
“What does it do to you?” I ask.
“The performances get to me. I head to an event and it nags at my nerves. There's so much pressure with a performance. My hands practically freeze up on the keys unless I have something to take the edge off. And I'm just a fit of nerves. It's a horrible feeling. When I used to perform, I had to drink—a lot. I began my career in the cellars of symposiums. Eventually, I realized I couldn't live like that.”
“So why didn't you just give up the drinking?”
“It's what kept me going! It's what made me strong enough to go out there.”
I think of Janet. “So you just gave it up?”
“Threw my career in the trash. I mean, look at me, I'm not suffering. I don't have to go out there and perform. I still play here, plenty. Enough for me at least, and here, I don't have to worry about the nerves getting to me. That said, I'm afraid I just can't play. It's too much for me. I don't have the strength. Not at this age.”
It's as I expected. He won't perform my fundraiser. Jarek looks disappointed, like he's failed me. Although, considering the lengths he went to get here, he should be more than disappointed. He pops up from the barcalounger. “You mind if I talk to you alone?” Jarek asks.
Garreth eyes him curiously. “What you got up your sleeve?”
“Come on,” Jarek insists.
“Alright, but it won't do a damn bit of good.”
“Humor me.”
Garreth excuses himself, and they step out onto the balcony. I glance around uneasily as they chat, looking out at the view. I can't tell what they're discussing, but I'm sure whatever Jarek has to say to Garreth, it's not going to change his mind. If nerves are his problem, and he hasn't performed live in so long, I doubt anything we say will encourage him.
After nearly five minutes, they step back inside. “You’ve got a performer,” Jarek says quickly.
Every Time He Leaves (The Raeven Sisters Book 1) Page 12