She sure knows how to ruin a party, not that we were having fun. But now we’ll be having less fun. She’ll make sure of it. She walks into the living room, followed by Lance, who stands behind her almost like a security guard waiting to restrain her if she gets out of hand.
“Hello, Faith,” Dad says.
“Hello, John,” Mom snips, trying not to roll her eyes.
“Any luck?”
“No. And you?”
Dad shakes his head. “I was thinking we should coordinate our efforts. We’ll cover more ground that way.”
“Is that what you think?” Mom snipes.
Oh, geez. What is she, twelve?
“Please, Faith. Let’s not start. We need to find our daughter. Not fight about it.”
“I agree,” she smiles fakely. “Do you care to let us in on your master plan?”
“Mom! You’re not helping,” I groan.
“Your father seems to have this all figured out, so let’s let him tell us what to do. Isn’t that what you like to do? John? Order people around?”
Does she even hear herself? She’s such a hypocrite it makes me sick. I want to tell Mom to leave. She’s creating drama, not helping.
Dad stares at her. “Faith, can you try to calm down? I know you’re worried about Charity. I am too.”
“She’s on the street, John! Or did you forget that already?”
I hate her. No wonder Dad left. She makes it impossible to have any sympathy for her.
“I understand that, Faith. That’s why I dropped everything to fly out from Chicago. On top of that, I was up all night searching the internet for suggestions on next steps, so pardon me if I’m not handling things exactly the way you want. Now if you’ll listen for a minute, I can tell you what I have in mind.”
To my surprise, Mom shuts up and Dad refers to his pages and pages of notes on his yellow legal pad and explains to everyone his basic plan to organize, make fliers, create search grids so we cover the maximum territory, call runaway shelters, Child Protective Services, everything you could possibly think of. He also names off a bunch of non-profits that help families find missing kids and tells us we need to start making calls to all of them to get help. While he talks, Lance and Mr. McKnight both offer ideas that Dad likes and he jots them down on his legal pad.
When he finishes, Mom sneers venomously, “Aren’t you three just as thick as thieves. I guess you don’t need my help. You’ve worked out every last little detail without me.”
Dad hangs his head between his knees where he’s sitting on one of the folding chairs and shakes his head, muttering to himself.
“Are you praying, John? Because now would be a good time to start.”
Dad lifts his head, exhausted like he just fought a war. “I’m not praying, Faith. Believe me.”
“Then what were you doing?”
I turn to Mom. “Do you always have to be the center of attention? Is that it? Dad’s ideas are better than yours so you’re mad and you have to start attacking him and talking about church? Grow up, Mom. This is about finding Charity, not about you or church or anything else.”
“Oh, it’s not?”
“No, Mom. It’s not.”
“Hmph. Maybe if the three of you started praying, God would listen and bring Charity home,” she says self-righteously. “I can’t do all the praying on my own.”
Lance starts talking, mostly to himself. “There’s a thousand missing kids God never brings home, Faith. What about them? Doesn’t God care about them?”
Mom’s eyes fire. “That is the devil talking! You take that back!”
Lance stares at her. “It’s the truth, Faith.”
Mom’s face knots. “I don’t need to listen to your blasphemy! I’m leaving!” She turns and strides toward the front door.
Nobody rushes to stop her.
She takes her sweet time opening the door, like she can’t figure it out even though it’s the mirror image of hers next door. “Oh, this lock…” she grunts.
I scowl.
My phone rings, playing a Katy Perry Dark Horse ringtone.
Charity.
“Let me talk to her!” Mom shouts, grabbing for the phone before I can answer.
“Back off, Mom!” I wave her away and rush down the hall to Lance’s bedroom, where I close the door. I answer the call, “Charity! Please tell me you’re all right.”
“What up, Wazzy.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t tell Mom. Let her worry.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m… at a friend’s. For now.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yeah,” she groans. “Don’t worry about me. I promise, I’m fine.”
“Chair, people are freaking out. Dad flew in. He wants to start a nation wide manhunt for you. He’s worried you’re hurt or kidnapped. You really need to talk to him.”
She sighs, “Maybe I should. But I’m not coming home.”
Before I know what’s happening, Mom opens the bedroom door and sneaks up behind me and grabs the phone from my hand. “Charity! Are you all right? Please, baby! Tell me you’re all right.”
I wrestle with her. “Give me the phone, Mom!”
She yanks it away and twists around.
Dad and Lance crowd into the room, followed by Mr. McKnight.
Mom runs on top of the mattress, kicking up the sheets and cowering against the wall like she’s being attacked. “Charity! Where are you? Tell me so Momma can come get you. Charity? Are you there? Charity! Please, baby!” She starts to sob. “Please tell me where you are. Don’t hang up! Charity!!!!” She screams and clutches the phone to her chest, curled around it like the phone itself is Charity.
I can’t decide if it’s the saddest sight I’ve ever seen or the most pathetic.
Chapter 22
CHARITY
The metal door of the tool shed slides open suddenly, scaring the crap out of me.
Steve holds a flashlight under his chin making him look all Halloween. “Bwah ha ha ha haaaa.”
“Don’t. You’re freaking me out.”
He lowers the flashlight and squeezes into the shed and closes the door. “Sorry.” He points the light in the corner and it makes a dim glow inside the small space.
“What took you so long? I’m starving.”
He sits on the dirt floor beside the pile of blankets I’m lying on and crosses his legs. “My parents talked and talked after dinner tonight. Sean was really hungry and he ate everything. So no leftovers. I had to wait until my parents went upstairs to make you a PB&J.” He unzips his hoodie, reaches inside, and pulls out the sandwich which is folded in a paper towel. Then he pulls out a can of Mountain Dew. “We don’t have anything diet. Mom says the fake sugar is bad for you.”
“That’ll work.” I unfold the paper towel and gnosh on the sandwich. “Ew. This isn’t grape jelly.” I shouldn’t be complaining, but it tastes super weird.
“It’s orange marmalade. It’s all we have.”
“What’s marmalade again?”
“It’s jam. But with oranges.” He shrugs. “I like it.”
“I guess I’ll learn.” I take a careful bite and remind myself I like orange juice. Blech. Running away isn’t a picnic. At picnics they have normal PB&J.
“I should probably go. I think my mom might be figuring out something is up.”
“She probly thinks you come out to the shed to jerk off.”
He smirks. “Ugh, I hope not.”
“JK. Anyway, thanks for the sandwich.”
“No prob.” He stands and unzips his Affliction hoodie and hands it to me. “Here. You might need this. It’s supposed to be colder tonight.”
“Thanks.” I put it on over mine and zip it up.
“Sorry I don’t have a sleeping bag for you.”
“It’s cool.”
He steps outside and slides the door closed. Then he opens it enough for me to see his face in the moonlight. “You can come inside, you know. I p
romise my parents are cool.”
“Yeah, but they’ll call my mom.”
“Probably.”
We stare at each other for a second. Steve is really sweet. Without him, I probably would’ve gone home by now. Sleeping outside sucks. I start to feel nervous with him staring at me. “What?”
“Nothing. Night.”
“Night.”
He closes the door and walks away. I can barely hear his footsteps on the grass and he makes zero noise going back into the house. Where it’s warm.
Unlike here.
I pull the blankets up to my ears and shiver. The plastic painting tarp beneath the blankets crinkles loudly when I curl up. We figured out the tarp when I woke up this morning on top of damp blankets. Freezing. Steve found the tarp in his garage. At least today was hot enough to dry the blankets.
With any luck, I’ll be warm tonight.
The shed is completely dark with the door closed. I know there’s spiders in here with the lawn equipment and the garden tools, but they didn’t bite me last night, so hopefully they won’t tonight.
I hope there’s no mice.
They’re cute until they give you rabies.
I close my eyes and try to sleep. The smell of gasoline and motor oil from the lawnmower is annoying.
I’ll get used to it.
It’s better than Mom.
++++8++++
CHASTITY
Several hours later, Charity texts me:
Tell everyone I’m okay. I’ll be home when I’m ready.
Dad is in Lance’s living room talking quietly with Mr. McKnight because neither of them can sleep. Mom has already gone home. I show the text to Lance, who lies next to me on his mattress.
He says, “Better show your Dad.”
I’m already in yoga pants when I rush into the room because let’s face it, sleeping naked with your boyfriend when your Dad is talking in the living room is just weird.
“Dad! Charity sent me a text.” I hold out the phone and he reads it.
His eyes light up with hope. “That’s terrific. And you said she sounded okay when she called earlier?”
“Yeah. Same old Charity.”
“I wish your mother hadn’t’ve grabbed the phone like that.”
“Me too. Should we tell her Charity texted?”
Dad snorts a morose laugh, “I don’t want to go over there. Do you?”
“No.”
“She can wait until morning.”
“So, what’s your plan, Dad? Are you going to stay until Charity comes out of hiding or whatever?”
“That’s the plan. Hopefully she comes home soon. I only have so much vacation time. Maybe you can get her to meet up with me and you tomorrow?”
“That’s a great idea. I’ll text her right now.”
Me: Dad wants to meet up. Just him. No Mom. What do you think?
Her: Okay. Maybe tomorrow or the day after?
Me: I’ll tell Dad. Stay safe.
Her: I am. Laters.
Knowing that Charity feels safe, wherever she is and whether or not she actually is, removes enough stress from the equation that I’m actually able to sleep that night for a few hours.
The next morning, Lance whispers me awake. “Hey. I need to get to the office. You wanna come with or sleep in? Either is cool with me. If you need to spend time with your Dad, go for it.”
“Oh. Uh, well, do you need me to come in with you?”
“It never hurts to have a pretty face in the room when you’re trying to close six-figure investment money. But it’s up to you. Your sister is what matters.”
I’m touched that he’s so understanding. But I want to be there for him too. He dropped everything to help me find her. The least I can do is go into the office with him. “Can I have a few minutes to shower and dress?”
“Sure. Meeting isn’t until eleven. Take your time.”
Two hours later we’re on our way to Beverly Hills for the meeting. Once again, Micah drives his Mini Cooper and Beaver comes along. After we park the car and walk toward the office, I joke to Lance, “You really ought to consider getting your own car.”
“Money is tight right now, otherwise I’d buy you one.”
That catches me off guard. “Me? I meant you.”
“I meant you too,” he grins.
“Are you serious?”
“You need a car more than I do.” He sounds serious. “I have the bike.”
“That’s sweet, Lance. But I seriously meant you. Your dad looked uncomfortable on the back of your motorcycle the other day.”
“True. But you shouldn’t be dependent on your Mom or whoever else for a car. Anyway, we can worry about that later. Now we need to focus on this pitch.” He smiles, holding the glass door for me.
The modernist office building is on West Pico Boulevard near the Fox Studios and the Avenue of the Stars. The building is three stories, colorful and boxy. It belongs to a movie producer named Lou Buchanan who wants to expand his portfolio beyond feature films. So he agreed to take the meeting with Lance on the grounds that he could produce the video for Lance at cost in exchange for a hefty piece of the back end, meaning profits. I learned the term from Lance.
Unfortunately, Lou and Lance butt heads from word one. Lance has a very clear vision of what he wants. So does Lou, who is a silver haired guy who’s at least sixty, but has the energy of someone much younger. He bulldozes Lance into a corner, wanting to change Lance’s entire concept and asks for a much larger percentage of profits than Lance expected going in.
Lance is not pleased.
Lou smiles like the last-minute chameleon that he is. “With all that money coming out of my pocket, I need to make it worth my time. You understand.”
Lance gazes out the huge picture window of Lou’s third story meeting room at the golf course on the back side of the Beverly Hills Resort. He says thoughtfully, “Yeah, I understand.” He smiles. “I don’t think we see eye to eye, Lou.”
Lou hops to his feet. “Suit yourself, son.” He leans over the table and fires out his hand to shake Lance’s. “I’m sure you’ll find someone willing to take a risk on your idea.” It’s a subtle insult.
“No doubt,” Lance grunts, pumping Lou’s arm over the table.
“Pleasure meeting you, son. Good luck.” He’s out of the glass board room before I can even blink.
I whisper, “I think you insulted him.”
Lance scowls, “I think anyone who says no to Lou Buchanan is insulting him.”
“Good point.”
“He sure has a hot secretary,” Beaver says.
“Shut the fuck up, Beaver,” Lance groans.
“You should ask her out,” Micah says. “Since we have nothing to lose at this point.”
“Great idea!” Beaver grins.
We make our way downstairs. As Beaver said, the secretary is indeed an attractive brunette woman who’s just a few years older than me and looks like she belongs on a movie screen, not behind a secretary’s desk.
Outside on the busy street, I ask, “So what now?”
“We ask another investor,” Lance says. “And we keep asking until I run out of people to ask. Or someone says yes.”
“Do you have any more meetings lined up?”
“Not yet. But I’ll find somebody with money to throw around.” He looks around. “Where’s Beaver?”
The front door of the building opens and Beaver comes walking out.
“What the fuck, Beaver? Where’d you go?” Lance asks.
Beaver holds up his phone, “Digits! I got digits!”
“Bullshit,” Lance chuckles. “The only digits you got are the ones you jerk off with.”
“Huh?” Beaver says, confused.
Lance holds up a hand and wiggles his fingers. “You know, the ones attached to your hand?”
Micah and I both laugh.
I say, “Nice vocab, Lance.”
He grins and winks at me, “You like that? I’m a fucking dictionary when I w
anna be.”
I nod, still giggling.
Beaver shrugs, “I don’t care if you dicks don’t believe me. I got digits.” He jams four fingers at us like he’s flipping us off with all four. “These and hers.”
“We don’t believe you,” Lance chuckles.
I completely agree with Lance. The secretary was way too cute for Beaver, especially when he’s wearing vintage high-waisted striped polyester pants and a faded Dungeons & Dragons T-shirt that is so thin you can see his pale skin through the material. He looks ridiculous.
We all climb into Micah’s Mini and drive back to Lance’s downtown office.
Lance doesn’t mention the meeting the entire drive. He just stares out the window, lost in thought.
I think back to his comment about buying me a car. Especially the part about money being tight right now. I really don’t know the details of Lance’s financial situation. He keeps all that to himself. He could be teetering on the edge of bankruptcy and I wouldn’t know it. I mean, I haven’t even received my first paycheck yet.
Will it bounce when I try to cash it?
I don’t know.
++++8++++
LANCE
Fuck.
That bottom feeder Lou Buchanan the Douche Cannon was my last real shot at funding. I knew he was a long shot going in, but I didn’t expect him to piss all over my idea like that.
Now the only people I have left to call are small money people. No one big enough to fund the entire project. If I can get enough of them to sign on, maybe I’ll make my budget. The hard part is getting that first person to put their money on the line. No one small time wants to be the first investor. They need confidence that other bigger investors are willing to take a risk. So I’ll have to play a shell game and hope no one figures it out.
The fucked thing is, I’m running out of money quick. If I don’t find funding soon, I’m gonna have to close up the downtown office and work out of the house. I bet Chastity would love that. No more glamour. Just folding chairs and tables and the fucking cardboard boxes we still haven’t put away because fuck, I don’t have real furniture at home.
The Bad Boy Next Door: Lance & Chastity Page 24