Brother's Best Friend Unwrapped

by Aria Ford

  I tap notes into my phone. He calls again.

  “Doyle here,” I bark into the phone.

  “Griffin, It’s Randy Simpson. How are you today?”

  “I’m stuck in fucking traffic. You didn’t just call to chat. What is it?”

  “I can’t make it on Saturday. My brother and I co-own the club, obviously, and we don’t make decisions without the other partner, so neither of us will be there. I’ve had something come up.”

  “Are you unwell? If you’re ill, we’ll reschedule,” I said, waiting. I knew he wasn’t ill.

  “No, it’s not that. I’ve just—”

  “You gave your word. We’re having a face-to-face to discuss the terms of a buyout.”

  “I know, and we’ll sit down and do that soon,” he whines.

  “No, we’ll sit down and do that Saturday. I’ve cleared my calendar for the entire night. I’ve closed the club for the evening—that’s thousands of dollars of revenue, by the way. I hired Epicurean Advantage to do the meal.”

  “We just planned this a week ago. How could you get them? They’re impossible to book.”

  “Not if you’re me, they’re not.” I said smugly, “I assure you it will be an evening well worth your time.”

  “I don’t think Saturday is going to be possible…” he said.

  “Saturday is settled. We’re meeting. You will attend as promised.” I said and hung up the phone.

  By the time traffic was moving, I’d replied to all my emails and instructed my secretary to push my appointments back another hour.

  My sister Gina, who just turned sixteen, calls. She’s safely at a nice New England boarding school known for high SAT scores and tight security.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “It’s Cameron—” She breaks off, sobbing.

  I try not to roll my eyes. Cameron is her boyfriend, and the best I can tell, he’s a douche. Her school has social events with a boys’ school nearby and she met this boy who apparently looks like some singer she likes called Niles or Giles or something else British. At least once a week, something dramatic happens with Cameron—usually he doesn’t answer her Snapchat or didn’t notice her new highlights—and I get a phone call. She’s a roiling vortex of high-strung emotions around the clock. I love my baby sister but I find her exhausting. She doesn’t do calm and rational.

  “Can I kick his ass this time? Please?” I say, knowing it will make her laugh. She giggles, and I feel better at the sound of it. If this were serious, if he gave her genital warts or got her pregnant or something, she wouldn’t have laughed at my lame joke, so I’m reassured.

  “No. He’s just being a boy, I guess. But it just breaks my heart that he doesn’t love me as much as I love him. I sent him three texts this morning before school—three!” she says, and the crying starts again, “He never answered me.”

  “Did you ask a question? I don’t answer texts unless there’s a direct question.”

  “Griff! He’s not like the CEO of all the bars in the world like you are. He’s in school. He has free time!”

  “They’re nightclubs, not bars,” I correct her, “and I’m sure your communications teacher has explained to you that women place too much emphasis on rapport exchanges rather than the report interactions favored by men.”

  She snorts. I have a feeling she didn’t like my lofty explanation, although I thought it was pretty good.

  “First of all, my communications teacher would never say that women put too much emphasis on anything. Especially since most of the oral tradition of ancient cultures was preserved by women because the men only grunted about fire, hunting, and sex. Which isn’t much different than today if you replace fire with ‘cars’ and hunting with ‘sports’.”

  “Very funny,” I said. “People have different communication styles. Maybe Cameron doesn’t text a lot.”

  “Right. Let me screenshot these and—”

  “No!” I say. “Do not screenshot anything. The last time you did that my phone blew up with thirty-five images of your messages and snaps, and I’d prefer to think you spell better than that, considering what I’m paying for your education.”

  “You’re not paying for it. Mom is, or she was. So my inheritance—”

  “Is in trust for you until you’re twenty-five. Until then, I’m paying. That way, I know you’ll finish college.”

  “Come on, Griff. It’s not like I couldn’t get a job. I speak four languages!”

  “But can you spell properly in any of those?” I demand, shaking my head. At least she’s off the topic of Cameron breaking her heart for the moment.

  My phone beeps, and it’s the office, “I’m getting a call. I have to go. Message me later and let me know you’re okay. Go to class.”

  “Fine. But you won’t answer if I text you.”

  “If you ask me a question, I might,” I say.

  My secretary has called to tell me that Jay Goulding, my financial advisor, won’t stop calling. I tell her to inform him I’m out of the country for the next two weeks, and I hang up. I don’t want to deal with Goulding. In fact, if I never had to think about him or my mother’s money again, it would be too soon. Now my heart’s hammering, and I’m sweating.

  I need to burn off some stress at the gym. I tell Ronald, my driver, to take me to the gym. I stalked in and asked for Enid, my trainer.

  “She’s getting ready for a client. She’s booked today.”

  “Tell her that Griffin Doyle is here and needs a session,” I said.

  The receptionist calls Enid, and in five minutes I’m in the locker room, changing.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Doyle,” she says when I come out, “I had to get another trainer to take my nine thirty.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  I have to admit, I kind of get off on the fact that I can get whatever I want and people apologize for making me wait, like they’re the ones who are being assholes and not me. I own that. I don’t do it all the time, but I do enjoy pulling rank, getting special treatment. Like a last-minute booking with Epicurean Advantage or an extra session with my trainer…hmm…maybe I do it all the time after all.

  My mother must be spinning in her grave. She never raised me to be like this. To want the power more than the money, to want the money for its own sake and not the good that can be done with it. I banish the thought and get back to my circuit training. After half an hour, my head is clear, and I feel better. I pay Enid double for the half session because she worked me in, and because I know I was a bastard about it. I hit the showers and make my way to the office.

  As soon as I step off the elevator I see him. I shake my head, hands fisted in my pockets. He shouldn’t have done this.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I told him to leave. Should I call security?” my secretary says. I shake my head again.

  “Goulding,” I say, “I said I’d make an appointment when I was ready.”

  “It’s been over a year, Mr. Doyle. That money—”

  “Not out in the open, for God’s sake,” I say, indicating my office.

  He sits without being invited to. I can’t sit down so I pace. I don’t care if it makes him nervous. He couldn’t be more miserable than I am right now. My mouth is dry, and my palms are sweating. I’m about to sweat through an Armani shirt. If I had my wish, this guy would stand up and leave without saying another word to me. He’d never call me again.

  “You’ve inherited a considerable fortune, Mr. Doyle. It’s my role as a fiduciary to act in your best interests. To let this money remain idle in a…a mutual fund!” He says the words like another person would say “meth lab.”

  “I don’t care if you keep it in a shoebox under your bed. I don’t want to discuss it.” I storm off, raking a hand through my hair. “I never wanted this money. I wanted—” I break off. I’m not talking about this. Not with him or anyone else. “Leave it where it is. That’s my final decision. Should my views change, I will be in contact with you. Until that time, you
are not to call or come to this office. If you require any documentation for tax purposes, you may email my secretary. Good day,” I said.

  When he leaves, I think how much I’d love to have a drink. It’s only eleven. This week has been a fucking joke. If I didn’t have meetings, I’d go for a run. Or go test all the vodkas in stock at one of the clubs just for quality control purposes, of course. I’d test them until I had to be carried to the car if I had my way. But I have a job to do.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Caleigh

  I have one nice pair of black pants. My mom got them for at Ann Taylor in the mall because I had to have something for an awards dinner. I got the Distinguished Freshman Designer prize that first year for my high-low skirt in silk chiffon with hand painted birds of paradise. She insisted on getting me nice slacks, as she called them, and said that with my fashion acumen I knew how to appreciate a well-cut garment.

  I wore them to the funeral, when I buried all three of them. I haven’t worn them since.

  Tonight I’m putting them on with a black blouse I borrowed from Amy. It’s too big, but it’ll have to do. I had to iron it twice because it’s a crappy cotton shirt, boxy cut and the cuffs are fraying. I could make a better shirt in an afternoon, but that requires money, a sewing machine, and a free afternoon, none of which I have to spare. The pants are too tight around the ass. You’d think I’d be skinnier since I’m poor now. When I was in college, I had a PE class, and there was a pool in the fitness center. I worked out and ate better. Now I eat nothing but carbs—leftovers from a bread basket, some pasta that someone sent back, or frozen pizza when I’m at home. So the nice slacks my mom bought me are too tight around my ass. I wear them anyway, but now I feel even worse about myself.

  I get to the venue, and I realize I’ve never seen this club quiet at night. I’ve been by it on the bus lots of times and there’s always a line three or four deep and out to the corner, two big bouncers with earpieces and a velvet rope. Now it’s silent as if it was empty. I wonder who could afford to buy it out for the evening. The cover is fifty bucks. One of the bus boys at work has been there—his ex-girlfriend was a bartender there for a while and sneaked him in.

  Here I was, walking through those beautiful doors—rosewood, intricately carved with roses and twisting vines. I want to touch the carving, but I think that’s probably not allowed. I go around to the back entrance and come into the kitchen. Marilyn isn’t there, but someone called Devan is the event manager and he tells me what to do. There’s one other waitress, Heather, and a wine steward whose name I don’t catch. Heather fills me in—there’s only one table to serve, so it’s much smaller than most of the events that EA caters. This one’s ultra-private, and we’ll probably get a big tip.

  “Here’s another tip,” she said conspiratorially, “undo two more buttons. Here, try my eyeliner. Bathroom’s over there. If you look a little sexy, the tips are better. I don’t mean give anyone a lap dance—your eyes just got so big! What did you think I was telling you to do?” She laughs, but I don’t mind.

  I put on eyeliner and scrub my hands. The table is set and two men arrive, obviously brothers, dark haired and expensive looking. These men are obviously wealthier than the clientele I’m used to at Benito’s. We get some finance bros once in a while, but it’s mostly a family place. I grab a clean towel and polish the water glasses out of habit and fill them. I glance at Heather who nods for me to go ahead and take the water out.

  “Good evening,” I say. Suddenly I don’t know if I’m supposed to introduce myself like I do at my day job or if I’m supposed to try to be invisible like those servants in old movies.

  One of the men nods. I place his water glass carefully and notice that his suit is very fine. The lapels are unusually narrow and quite beautiful. I study them, trying to guess the designer, when I notice that I’m staring and he’s looking right down my top. I want to pull my shirt closed but I remind myself I’m working in a different arena tonight. Heather said this was how you got better tips. Judging by the way he’s smiling at me, predatory and a little slimy, I could get a big tip out of this. Or else I’ll wish I’d brought my pepper spray. I didn’t think I’d need it in this part of town, but men are men everywhere you go, I guess.

  In the kitchen, Heather is assembling salads made of so many shades of deep green, purple, and red leaves, arranging them artfully enough to be a flower bouquet instead of just a salad. They’re so pretty I want to take a picture of one, and I tell her so. She laughs and says she’ll show me how to put everything together while the cook is finishing the soup.

  “It’s not a sous chef gig, but you learn a lot about presentation when you work for Marilyn. She’s a total genius, and the way everything’s served on a plain black dish, matte not shiny—it just looks sophisticated. You’ll start to think other people’s food is ugly,” Heather tells me.

  “He’s here,” the wine steward says.

  I wonder who ‘he’ is. The host, I guess. Maybe someone famous. It would be so cool to meet a celebrity on my first banquet job. Not that I could tell anyone because confidentiality was part of the contract I signed as a part timer for EA. I can do this. I’ve waited tables for a while now, and I’ve never dropped a single coffee cup. I have good balance and nice manners. I tell myself I’ll be fine.

  Heather takes the new arrival a glass of water and greets him. I wait with the salads. When she nods to me, I bring them on a tray.

  I am not fine. Not. Fine.

  There are not real people who look like that. There aren’t even actors on TV who look like that. The only people who look like this man exist solely in Photoshopped ads of luscious, muscled godlike men emerging shirtless from the surf in ads for designer cologne. And they’re Photoshopped. They’re not really real. This man—I swear I look up at the lighting to see if there’s something funny about it that might make someone look more attractive than mere mortals. I mean heavenly. Like a perfectly formed archangel, but a dirty one who might have tattoos and a motorcycle.

  My knees are shaking.

  He hasn’t even looked at me yet. I’ve only seen him from the side. But he’s so gorgeous. Dark hair swept back from a high forehead. Perfectly chiseled nose and jaw, a full, sensual mouth. He has beautiful hands, I see, as he gestures when he speaks. I want to fall on my knees. I am pretty sure I would shamelessly do anything he asked me to.

  I can’t drop this tray.

  Am I still holding the tray?

  Did I remember to bring the tray? Or did I just wander over to the table without it like a psychopath because I saw him from a distance and moved toward him like he was a magnet and I was a really stupid scrap of metal?

  I tear my eyes away from him very reluctantly and notice that I do have a tray of salads in my hand. I have also stopped walking so I could stare at him. I guess that’s a little less humiliating than getting right up in his face to see what color his eyes are. They’re blue. I’m betting on blue.

  This place is all red and black, velvet and plush, so lavish and sensual. He seems at home here. Like it’s the perfect frame for him.

  Oh, Christ.

  He turned and looked at me. It knocked the breath right out of me. He is too beautiful to be here, in a room with me and a lot of other regular humans. It crosses my mind that he might be a vampire. Weren’t vampires supernaturally handsome in that one movie? I start to laugh at myself but it comes out as a snort.

  I snorted. In front of this total sex god.

  I consider dumping the tray on the table and running out. It couldn’t be much worse than snorting on the embarrassment scale. I try to pull myself together. I serve the other two men first, just so I can look across the table at him longer. Then when I get to him, I make sure to square the plate perfectly between the utensils. All of a sudden, I tip it too far, and I see Heather’s hand dart out just in time to keep me from giving this man a lap full of salad greens and dressing. My eyes about pop out of my head when he looks at me. I pull my hand back as if
I’ve been burned. I almost dropped food on him. Of all the people I’ve waited on who maybe were jerks and deserved to have food spilled on them, this was the one time I got clumsy. Of course. Because the snort wasn’t bad enough. I’m also incompetent now.

  Back in the kitchen, Heather assures me it’s fine. “I know he’s a pretty thing, but you have to keep your cool.”

  “I can’t. I go stupid when I see him.”

  “I noticed.”

  She takes a bathroom break, and I stand at the doorway to the kitchen waiting to see when they’re finished with the salad so I can clear it away and bring soup. Or beg Heather to bring the soup so I don’t give the hot guy third degree burns when I spill it all over him.

  The men are arguing but I’m not eavesdropping. It’s just pretty hard to miss when the shorter guy, Nice Lapels, drops a loud goddammit, Griffin. Heather comes back and crooks an eyebrow at me in question. I shrug, not knowing what they’re arguing about. I ask her to take the soup and she fortunately does. I’m loafing around, polishing wine goblets when I hear a chair overturn. I look out to see what happened, and it looks like Nice Lapels stormed off, maybe to the bathroom or maybe to leave. I go back to my goblets and wait for Heather to return and give me the gossip.

  Nice Lapels peeks into the kitchen, “Excuse me, miss,” he says, nice as can be, “I have a problem, could you…?”

  I set down the glass I’m wiping and go with him into the hallway. I hope there’s not a problem. Long blond hair in the salad is what I’m guessing. I touch my ponytail self-consciously.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask. “I’m sure we can fix it—”