Finding Truth

by Ripley Proserpina

  Did you steal technology for your father?

  Why did you hack the patent office?

  What did you take?

  Someone pounded on the door, and his father whipped out his phone, calling into his company to request security to come to the house.

  “I’m sorry,” Matisse said, tripping toward the stairs. As soon as he hit the first one, he sat.

  They weren’t giving up. One reporter appeared in the window, rapping on the glass. Nicole whipped the curtains shut and cursed under her breath. “Go upstairs, Matisse. Stay away from the windows. Don’t answer your phone. Got it?”

  “Got it,” he repeated distractedly, taking one backward step upstairs before hauling ass to his bedroom. His room was at the back of the house, but he still followed Nicole’s directions. Lucky for him, since he’d already been in a dark place, he hadn’t bothered to open the curtains this morning.

  He dropped his head into his hands. He’d fucked up so bad. Thought he was so smart. There was no way to fix this. The most he could hope for was someone figuring out how to minimize the damage.

  21

  Matisse

  Four Months Later

  * * *

  “You need to talk to the press.”

  Matisse snorted, draping one suit clad arm over the back of the chair where he sat across from his father. “That’s a bad idea.”

  “We’ve got it all set. You’ll have a script. You read from it. It’s done.” Dad’s earnest tone only made him roll his eyes and shake his head, but his father interrupted. “We give them something, they leave us alone. The public relations department of the company has a plan. All you have to do is what I tell you.”

  Rolling his head back to bang it against the chair, he laughed. “Whatever.”

  “This is going to help everyone,” Bentley assured him and smiled conspiratorially at his father.

  “So I guess I should just be grateful for the billion hours of community service and being tried as a minor?” he asked.

  Four months had passed since the morning Matisse’s family had been besieged by the press. Ole Miss’s orientation had come and gone, and the summer flew by while he hid. A week of being accosted by reporters no matter where he went was enough to teach him to stay at home, inside with the doors locked and curtains drawn.

  “So what is the point?” he asked, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder. “I say, ‘Sorry. I was fooling around.’ And then what? Everything goes back to normal? I put on my blue jumpsuit, pick up some trash and that’s it?”

  His father and Bentley exchanged another look, and it irritated Matisse that he couldn’t figure out what it meant. If he’d learned one thing through this debacle, it was he didn’t know shit about people. He thought the years he’d spent learning facial expressions and body language would help him make sense of their behavior, but nope. Right here was a prime example of his inability to decipher the code.

  After clearing his throat, Dad began. “We think—the PR department thinks, if you appear before cameras, dress up, smile and generally act the way you usually do, people will forget about the business and focus instead on you.”

  “Why the hell do I want them focusing on me?” He spread his arms out. “Because holed up here has been so much fun? No computer, no bike. No college? My life is fucking over, Dad. The last thing I want is the press focused more on me.” He sighed and raked his hand through his hair. Staring at the door, he willed his mother—someone—to appear. “And what do you mean? Act like me?”

  Bentley, his father’s constant shadow since the spring, held up a hand, and Dad waved him ahead. “What he means, Matisse, is your attitude—devil-may-care, haughty playboy—will work in your favor. People will see you as a kid with too much money and too much time, who got in trouble, distracting them from anything nefarious.”

  “Nefarious,” Matisse muttered. “And what about that guy? The one whose patent I stole? Where’s he? What’s he going to think?”

  Bentley’s eyes got wide, and he stood up to exit the room without another word.

  “Jesus, Matisse. Keep it down,” Dad commanded.

  “Oh sorry. Like he didn’t know.”

  “There’s knowing, and then there’s knowing.”

  That was for damn well sure. There was knowing his father was a selfish asshole, and then there was seeing it in 3D. His future trickled down the drain so Dad could be a titan of business.

  Why was he still putting up with this charade? If he lived here, he’d come undone.

  Abruptly, Matisse stood and walked to the bookshelf of the study to read the titles. “I do this and I want something from you.”

  “I think I’ve given you enough,” Dad mumbled.

  “You’re going to make it impossible for me to stay here.” Narrowing his eyes, he stared over his shoulder. “The least you can do is set me up somewhere else.”

  “Where?” Dad folded his hands, fingers linking as he considered the idea.

  “Montreal. McGill. I want an apartment and an allowance, and I want to go to school, and I want everyone here to leave me the fuck alone until I say so.” Crossing his arms, he regarded Dad, waiting.

  “I’ve got auditors and the state looking at my books. Cash isn’t as available as it used to be,” Dad said.

  “I’m not asking for a lot. But if you want me to be the playboy”—what a fucking joke—“then I should act the part.”

  Dad drummed his fingers on the desk, the hollow sound echoing through the room. “Fine,” he answered, and pushed his chair back to stand. “I’ll get you the speech, and we’ll set it up.”

  Matisse smiled, but it felt more like a grimace. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  As the plane taxied down the runway, the force pushed Matisse back in his seat. The roar of the engines screamed in his head, and he let out a sigh of relief.

  He was leaving everything.

  Dad had stayed true to his word, and he’d stayed true to his. He smiled, bandying words with the press, generally being an ass, and they’d lapped it up. After his press conference, he’d spent a month in Mississippi, doing interviews and photoshoots.

  The PR department had certainly earned their paychecks this month. Shockingly, they’d been right. Once he’d smiled crookedly at the camera, doing his best Tony Stark impression, he’d gone from nerd-hacker to anti-establishment It-boy.

  There was still fallout. The community service, and the black mark on his juvenile record, not to mention his father losing some of his autonomy to the company’s board of directors. But in the end, it seemed to be worth it.

  Now he was on his way to Montréal, ready to start the spring semester. Each minute that passed took him farther from Bijoux Shores and the role he’d been forced to play. Never again would he lie for someone else. He’d barely made it out without going completely nuts.

  Matisse opened his phone and stared at the apartment on the screen. Dad had come through. He had a wide-open loft near McGill and a meet-up with a potential roommate later tonight, someone who’d gone to the same prep school as his for the short time he’d been Montreal after Katrina.

  Opening the social media app, he called up the guy’s page. Seok Jheon. He hoped he spoke English. He peered at the photos he’d posted, mostly of furniture or lumber. His profile said he was a business major, so maybe he was really into interior design. If he was gay, Matisse didn’t really care, but that was making an assumption just because the guy liked interior design. As long as he didn’t smell and didn’t care if Matisse kept weird hours, they’d be fine.

  At first, he wasn’t on board with the roommate idea, but housing in Montréal was hard to find, and this apartment was just far enough out of his price range and the advance his father had given him to make it necessary.

  Easing his seat back to recline, he stared out the window. Above the clouds now, the sun shone blindingly bright, reflecting off the wing of the plane. He wasn’t nervous about the move. He was leaving anxiety behind him
in Mississippi. There were the people who betrayed him, put him way down on the list of things that mattered, and taught him a hard, but probably important life lesson—he could only count on himself. If people had a chance to save their own skins, they’d take it.

  It wasn’t fair to lump his mother and sister into this group, especially not Genevieve, but even Nicole had encouraged him to do interviews, to “take the heat off Dad.” No matter if it placed it squarely on him.

  Sighing again, he rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck from side to side and closed his eyes. It was time to put it all out of his mind and focus on what was ahead.

  22

  Matisse

  Seok was pretty freaking perfect as far as Matisse was concerned. The man went to school, went out with friends, or holed up in his room.

  And he had kickass clothes. As soon as he’d buzzed up to the loft and walked inside with teal hair and a leather jacket, Matisse knew they’d get along. He didn’t care if it was girly, but when Seok asked to borrow his velvet smoking jacket, he’d been flattered.

  His roommate was quiet, studious. He still hadn’t figured out the furniture thing, except that every so often Seok would show up with an end table or bookshelf. The loft had come furnished, with little room for extra odds and ends, but Matisse preferred the touches Seok added. It made the space seem warmer, like home.

  No.

  Better than home.

  Nicole called from time to time, but she seemed to understand he needed space and limited her calls to quick check-ins.

  He hadn’t talked to Dad.

  “Hey.” Seok broke into his thoughts, and Matisse let out a grateful breath.

  “Hey,” he answered.

  “I’m going to Places des Arts for a show. Want to come?”

  Pushing back against the chair where he sat, Matisse shrugged. “You’re not going to see the Phantom are you?”

  White teeth flashing, Seok chuckled. “No. Firebird.”

  “Ballet?” He considered it, and finally, smacked his knees with his hands and stood. “I’m in. I didn’t take you as a ballet lover,” he continued as he got his coat from the hall closet. He handed Seok his.

  “I’m not. But this is for business.”

  The word business made Matisse’s stomach clench. “I didn’t know you had a business.”

  Pushing his arms through the sleeves of his long wool coat, Seok stared at the floor. “It’s my family’s. My father has associates in town. I’m the dutiful son bringing them to the ballet.”

  “Should I change?” Matisse glanced down at his black trousers and white shirt and hesitated.

  Seok raised an eyebrow and flicked his teal bangs out of his eyes. “Neither one of us will impress them. It is more about being polite and showing respect.”

  “Then maybe I should stay,” he went on. He’d never been good at either of those things, and they’d take a distinct and focused effort on his part.

  His roommate peered up at him, twisting a scarf in his hands. “I’d appreciate it if you came. But I understand if it makes you uncomfortable.” There was no subterfuge in his words, but there was an edge of anxiety in his tone.

  Reaching past him for his own scarf, Matisse nudged Seok toward the door. “I’ll do my best,” he said as he wound his scarf around his neck. “But I cannot guarantee a blunder-free evening.”

  His roommate smiled, holding the door open for him to pass. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Matisse answered. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to help someone, and it felt good to do it.

  A car waited for them at the curb. “We’re picking up two of my dad’s business associates at their hotel. They both speak English, but will probably use Korean. I’ll translate for you.”

  “You’re Korean?”

  “South,” Seok answered. “Hardly anyone gets out of the north. I’ve been in boarding school in Toronto, and then Montréal, since I was twelve, and before that I was in international schools in Seoul.”

  “But your family is in South Korea?” Seok had been really young when he left his family if they sent him here without them.

  “My father exports Canadian timber to South Korea, so he was often here. But yes, they live in South Korea and only visit here when business makes it necessary.” Seok’s voice became sharper. “We’re here,” he observed as the car came to a stop and the driver opened the back door for two men not much older than he and Matisse.

  Speaking in rapid Korean, Seok bowed his head. He then gestured toward Matisse and introduced in English, “Matisse Boudreau, this is Ha-bin Joon and Kwang-sik Su. Gentlemen, Matisse Boudreau.”

  The men bowed to Matisse. “Nice to meet you,” he said, making sure to smile pleasantly.

  After the initial introductions, Seok inquired about their flight and accommodations, made sure they’d eaten and inquired after their families. Matisse listened with interest; this was a side of Seok he’d never seen. He was distant and icily polite. Studying his roommate intently, Matisse realized Seok was uncomfortable. Whatever this was, whatever he owed his family, Seok didn’t want to do this.

  “Should we see how the car is stocked?” he asked when the conversation lulled. He opened the wet bar and found a bottle of gin and chilled tonic water. “Gin and tonic?” He pasted the smile he used only for the cameras on his face, but the men didn’t know him to recognize his insincerity.

  They nodded enthusiastically while Matisse made them all drinks, sure to add more gin and less tonic to Seok’s.

  “Thank you,” he said when Matisse passed him the glass. Taking a sip, he closed his eyes for a brief moment then leaned back into the seat. “We’ll be seeing Les Grands Ballets perform Firebird. Tonight is opening night, and my father has secured for you two of the best seats this theater offers.”

  Business Seok didn’t suit his roommate. As the night wore on, Matisse watched the fire fade from Seok’s eyes, leaving them glassy, empty. Before the ballet, they’d had drinks in the pavilion at Places des Arts. Matisse absently people-watched, one ear tuned to the conversation taking place in Korean. Seok had done his best to include him, and Matisse had done his best to be polite, but eventually they reached a tacit agreement that Seok would entertain his father’s associates, and he would smile politely.

  Having never been to the ballet, Matisse wasn’t sure what he was in for. Two hours of nonstop tiptoe boredom with an atonal soundtrack or something more?

  Firebird was something more. As soon as the first notes sounded, he was hooked. The sheer athleticism amazed him. He was man enough to admit ballet was hard. At intermission, Seok’s guests spoke excitedly about the dance, and bowed often to Seok. It seemed the night was a success.

  The principals took the stage for a second curtain call, and Matisse caught Seok’s eye. His friend smiled tightly, clapping politely then, when the applause died out, gestured to the men to proceed in front of him.

  “You okay?” Matisse whispered low, studying his friend’s pale face. The bright lights of the theater reflected off Seok’s hair and the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

  “Yes.” Nodding once, he walked faster to the coat check to hand in their tickets at the counter.

  The ride back to the hotel was much less boisterous than the drive to the theater. The businessmen stared at the brightly lit city streets, replying briefly to whatever polite comment Seok made.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said to Matisse as the car pulled into the hotel drop-off.

  Through the window, Matisse watched his friend walk, stiff-backed to the front doors. He bowed deeply, shook the men’s hands, and returned to the car. Seok slammed the door shut, and then, as if exhausted, he dropped his head into his hands. When he finally peered up, his dark eyes glittered angrily. “I fucking hate business. Ass-kissing and kowtowing.”

  “I get it.” Didn’t he, though? Here he was, living a life he’d never expected because of his family’s business.

  “I figured you would.
Both of us are at the mercy of our family, dependent on their money. Doing what they want us to do.”

  How did Seok know that? “But—I’m not dependent.”

  “Aren’t you? You affording this loft on your own?” He gestured to the building where the car had stopped.

  Rather than answer, Matisse got out, brushing past Seok to reach for the door. As Seok passed him, he replied, “You’re right. I am. I don’t want to be, and I am. I’m not even sure how I’d live. I have a trust fund set up by my grandparents. It kicks in at twenty-one, but even then it trickles out. A monthly payment to offset any inclination I might have to spend it all at once.”

  “If I refuse to follow the path my family has chosen for me, I’m cut off,” Seok whispered distractedly. The elevator chimed, and the steel doors slid open. The two of them got inside, silent as the numbers flashed by.

  Once inside the loft, Matisse went to the kitchen, found a bottle of wine in the cabinet and opened it. “You?” He held up the bottle and Seok nodded.

  Pouring a glassful, he stayed silent, thinking about what his roommate struggled with. It struck him with no small amount of irony that they were in the same situation.

  “I’m majoring in fine arts and engineering,” Matisse said. “They’ll pay for school and expect I return to Mississippi. Because of my situation, my dad’s business is being monitored, but a smaller off-shot, one my grandfather started, that’s where I’ll focus. I don’t hate it.”

  “I will be the Canadian arm of my family’s business, visiting Korea when I am called. All of my actions impact my family,” Seok whispered the last part, swallowed his wine and shook his head. The smile he fixed on his face was false, tense. “At least we have a five-year plan, right?”

  Chuckling politely, Matisse nodded. “Right.” But at the edge of his mind an idea was forming, one that could put him back in control of his life.