Tightwad (Caldwell Brothers Book 2)

by Colleen Charles

  His face is tense and stressed – lines of worry are etched on his forehead. It’s not a good look, and I wonder if some hoity-toity band has backed out of their contract or demanded dead bunny pelts in their dressing room. With creative talent, it’s always something.

  Frowning, I open the bag of food on my lap and start wolfing down my fries without even tasting them. Nixon makes a face, and I pass him the bag. He grabs a handful of fries and munches them, his frown growing even deeper with every second.

  I can’t stop thinking about Taryn. Is she ever going to open up to me, or are we stuck in a tense dance, slowly circling each other like sharks in the water waiting for the first drop of blood?

  “So,” Nixon says, hanging up and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “I have some bad news.”

  “What? Does it have to do with Taryn?”

  Nixon gives me a serious look. “Man, you’ve gotta keep your head in the game. Put some ice on your crotch for the love of God!”

  “I’m not lusting after her,” I lie. “She’s just been acting kind of weird, that’s all. I think Dante’s really getting to her with his antics. She hightailed it out of the store today, wearing some weird disguise and skipped lunch.”

  “Maybe she just doesn’t want you hanging around, panting after her pussy like a dog with a random erection,” Nixon says, rolling his eyes. “Well, the sponsors pulled out of the show. Dasani and Red Bull both – they were set to pay for the main stage, as well as a couple of bands to perform.”

  “Shit,” I mutter, reaching into the paper bag for my burger. I’m not even hungry anymore, but something about eating garbage food appeals to me. Maybe it’s because I’m in such a garbage mood. It’s almost like I want to punish my stomach, so it will ache as much as my heart. No good organ wants to be in pain alone.

  “Yeah,” Nixon says, giving his head an annoyed shake. I know that look he’s wearing. I’ve even put it on his face a time or two over the years. “It’s all because of this stupid fucking video! I feel like such an idiot.”

  I don’t have the pleasure of understanding what in the hell he’s talking about. “What video? What happened?”

  “Well, at first, I was almost tempted to think you were behind it,” Nixon says, spearing me with that older brother death glare that I hate. He reaches across his desk and grabs another handful of fries from my bag. “Given your penchant for practical jokes and trying to lighten the mood.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “The last practical joke I played was at Taryn’s expense, and you told me to lay off. I have. End of story.”

  “I know,” Nixon huffs and closes his eyes, leaning against the headrest of his chair. In the fluorescent light of his office, he looks almost ten years older. There are visible dark circles under his eyes and his skin is puffy and sallow.

  “What the hell happened to cause a viral video?” I ask. “Come on, Nix, I really don’t feel like being left in the dark today.”

  Nixon shakes his head and sighs. “You know how we got Ansel Elgort to DJ? Well, he was practicing, and some asshole just happened to be there to catch the whole thing on video. It’s been on YouTube for hours – it hit the front page of Reddit, too.”

  “So? He’s got fangirls,” I say, biting into my burger and chewing. “That can’t be a bad thing, Nix. Don’t you think it’ll just increase the amount of coverage we’re already getting?”

  “That wasn’t all that happened,” Nixon growls. His face starts to turn purple with anger. “Right when he was finishing the sound check, a porta potty truck crashed into the tent where all of the clothes were being stored. So they’re all fucking ruined,” Nixon adds in a loud, angry voice. “Everything’s fucking covered in that blue sanitizing liquid. It’s got Dante Giovanetti’s grubby little fingerprints all over it. Who else would think to cover our fashion show in shit spray?”

  If I were in a better mood, I think I’d burst out laughing. It is funny, Dante aside. I imagine the blue neon fabric carnage, but I know it’s nothing but bad news for the benefit. And for Taryn. I wonder if the high-end outfits are insured. I saw the four and five figure price tags on some of the runway looks.

  “Shit,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s fucked up.”

  Nixon puffs out his cheeks and blows an angry stream of air toward the ceiling. “I know,” he says, sighing the exhale of pitiful fool at the end of his miserable rope. “And since I’m the main sponsor, it’s my insurance doling out the payments. I know it was Dante. Piece of motherfucking shit.”

  “You’re right. It had to be. He must’ve gotten a copy of the rehearsal schedule.”

  “Yeah,” Nixon says. “And now we’re totally fucked.”

  I hate to agree with him about this, but who else would possibly be screwed up enough in the head to fuck over a charity benefit using portable toilets?

  “Don’t worry. We’ll think of something.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Reagan

  Nixon’s mood is ebony by the time I leave his office. For once, Taryn is the furthest thing from my mind – at least, sex with Taryn is the furthest thing from my mind. I have to believe she’ll be able to help, though. She’s whip smart, and she’s one of the strongest women I’ve ever known. If anyone can come up with a viable Plan B, it’s Taryn Mitchell.

  When I get back to my hotel room, I take a hot shower and sit down at the desk with my MacBook Pro. But after an hour of staring at a blank document, I know it’s time to call my brother and bring in the big guns. Since Ford’s a San Fran tech superstar, I hate to burden him with the minutia, but this type of thing is right up his alley, and I know he can help.

  Ford just won the Professional Award for Mobile App Development for an educational app he designed for autism kids. It’s all over Google how Ford Caldwell is the next Steve Jobs. Either way, he’s a fucking billionaire and a genius. As a kid, no one would have ever thought it. After our dad’s suicide, he left the love of his life, Haylee, behind and started running from the ghosts of the past. It would be nice if he’d stop running and come home. No such luck. But then again, I’m the master at putting distance between myself and Las Vegas as a diversionary tactic to avoid dealing with my feelings.

  I dial Ford and lean back in my chair, kicking my bare feet up on the desk.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s Reagan,” I say. “Long time, no talk, bro. You busy this weekend?”

  Ford laughs. There’s a lot of background noise, and I can tell that he’s in his office. “No more than the usual. Why?”

  I get straight to the point. “Can you come out to Vegas tonight on a red eye? Nixon and I are dealing with some…well, shit, I can fill you in on all the details when you get here, but we’re going to need your help. That brilliant techie head of yours is on retainer.”

  “Good timing. I was supposed to speak at a dinner, but it got canceled due to a flood in the venue. This is the first free weekend I’ve had in over two years.”

  Jesus Christ. It almost sounds like Dante sabotaged Ford’s event as well, but I know that can’t be true.

  “Shit. If you’re busy, man, don’t worry about it.”

  “No way,” Ford says. “You know I’d never let my brothers down. Besides, I miss Vegas.”

  “Seriously? What, the Bay Area isn’t doing it for you anymore?”

  “I’ll tell you about it when I get there.”

  “Alright, man. See you soon.”

  “Later, bro,” Ford says.

  We hang up, and I turn my attention back to my computer, trying to figure out how we can possibly save the benefit show from turning into a garbage fire. Nothing’s coming, though, so I get up and walk over to the bed, lying down, and wishing that Taryn were next to me.

  Hours later, I wake up. It’s dark outside – past eight-thirty – and I have no idea how I fell asleep. But I feel refreshed, and I have two messages from Ford telling me that he’s here at the Armónico, in a suite on
the same floor. I get up, take another shower, dry off and get dressed in a pair of slacks and a clean polo.

  Heading down the hall, I knock on Ford’s door. He opens it almost immediately and pulls me into a hug.

  “Holy shit, it’s been forever,” I say, stepping back and looking at my brother.

  Ford’s even taller than I remembered. He’s younger than Nixon and me, but leaner. His skin is pale from spending so much time in front of a computer, and his dark hair is tousled in a messy shag on his head.

  “Yeah,” Ford says. “I can’t believe it’s been five years since I was in Vegas. I really miss this place.”

  “So, move back. It’s probably cheaper.”

  Ford snorts and rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Probably,” he says. “I pay ten thousand a month for a condo I barely see. Did you know my junior developer bought me a sofa bed for my office because I almost never go home?”

  “No, but that sounds like you. Besides, maybe she’s still here? I haven’t seen her around since I just got here but I bet if you looked her up, she’d be open to catching up on old times and all that.”

  Ford’s expression turns dark, and I regret saying anything.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I haven’t heard from Haylee since I left Vegas. You know that. I doubt she’d be open to anything. I’m a shithead for leaving her without a backward glance. Women don’t take too well to things like that. Now, I’m older and wiser, and I know how badly I fucked up. Only thing is that it’s too late to say I’m sorry and beg for forgiveness.”

  “I know. Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Haylee was the love of his life. Hell, maybe she wasn’t. Ford and I don’t talk enough to know where he’s at now in his love life. But outside of the way he looks, I think he’s just a loner and a work-a-holic like me.

  The air between us feels awkward now. I force a smile. “So, are you working on anything good?”

  “Yeah. Sold an app to a chain of private schools that work with autistic kids. It went pretty well, but I don’t like that they won’t be public domain.”

  “So, make your own and release it,” I say with a shrug. “Or however that works.”

  Ford laughs. “Computers haven’t really ever been your strong point. Even though I imagine as a big shot lawyer you have your phone welded to your hand.”

  “Well, that’s why we have you. We should go over to Nixon’s office. I called Marcella, she’ll be there, too.”

  “Can you think of anyone else who should be in on this?” Ford asks. “Any of the major players running the fashion show side.”

  “Taryn Mitchell, but I’m not sure I want to involve her yet. She’s got enough on her plate. Dante’s been going after her with both guns blazing, but she won’t tell me the nature of his threats. I’m not sure if it’s the same old or if he’s added a new song and dance to his repertoire.”

  “Tara who?”

  “You know,” I say dryly. “Taryn Mitchell, from college.”

  Ford’s eyes widen as he remembers. “That smoking hot theater girl? Long, chestnut hair and piercing green eyes?”

  “Yes. The one and only. She owns a boutique in Nixon’s casino, fancy women’s designer fashion with equally fancy price tags.”

  “I always thought she was kind of musical theater nerd. Good for her.”

  “Yeah,” I say, thinking back to college Taryn. “Good for her.”

  Ford and I leave his room in silence. I’m still wracking my brain, trying to think of who else could help. Then it hits me – Bailey could help. She’s competent and good at following directions.

  “Hold on,” I say, pausing outside of Nixon’s office, and reaching for my phone. “I’ve got one more call to make.”

  Ford shrugs, then goes in and closes the door behind him.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Bailey, it’s Reagan,” I say when she answers from the store’s landline. “Can you come to Nixon’s office? I want to talk to you about something.”

  “Is this about Taryn?” Bailey sounds skeptical. “I already told you, I’m not going to talk about her with you. Girl code.”

  “Not exactly, but we need your help. It’s about the benefit.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Josie’s already here, so I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  We hang up, and I go into Nixon’s office, feeling more confident than I have in days. Ford, Nixon, and Marcella are seated at a small round table in Nixon’s office, leaned over a document and frowning.

  “We’ve got one more coming,” I say, walking over, and pulling up a chair.

  “I’ve been trying to think of things all morning, but nothing is coming to mind,” Marcella says, looking distressed and tired. “I’m sorry, Nixon.”

  Nixon waves his hand in the air. “Don’t be sorry, babe. It’s okay. We’ll think of something.”

  “What if…what if there was some kind of app we could design?” I ask. “Ford, how quickly could you get something up and running if we have a last minute idea?”

  Ford turns to me and narrows his eyes. “I could put every available employee on it but it depends on how detailed you want to be. Were you thinking about some kind of interactive schedule? Like maybe, you could download the app and then sign up for limited events? Like a meet and greet?”

  “Sort of,” I say. “But I also thought that maybe we could do something with the clothes. The primary target is rich women, right? Could we make scans of the clothes that will be shown on the runway?”

  “I don’t know,” Nixon says. “If everyone sees what’s going to be on display, there won’t be as much hype.”

  “No.” The wheels of my mind are churning. “Not like that. Like, okay – they can open the app during the fashion show, and then the clothes will appear as the models walk by on the runway. And whoever is using the app can take a picture of themselves, and see how they’d look in each outfit.”

  “That’s…brilliant,” Ford says, tapping his finger to his lips. He pulls a pen from behind his ear and starts scribbling something down on a yellow legal pad. “I can definitely do that. I’d just need to scan the clothes using professional photos, call my best designer and spend a few hours coding with him.”

  “Awesome,” I say, grinning. This is the most relieved I’ve felt since arriving. When the Caldwell brothers work together, we’re unstoppable.

  There’s a knock on Nixon’s door, and seconds later, Bailey walks in. When she sees me, she frowns. “I thought Taryn would be here. She didn’t pick up when you called? I’m not sure that it’s right for me to be representing Strict Necessaire without Taryn. She’s the owner.”

  “I don’t want to burden her until we have some kind of plan in place,” I say. “She’s obviously really stressed about the show’s success, and Dante bothering her isn’t helping. But we have an idea.” I tell Bailey about the app plan. “That’s not it, though. We’re going to need something else, something really special in order to stand out.”

  Bailey bites her lip, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know what that could be or how it involves me.”

  “Well, think. Has Taryn ever talked about what she sees in the future for Strict Nécessaire?”

  “Yeah, of course. She wants to design her own clothing and feature her own line. That was sort of the end game for her, but it’s a long time off. She doesn’t do much designing now – she’s too busy dealing with vendors. Even though her sketch pad is always handy, it’s usually empty.”

  “Holy shit, Bailey, that’s it,” I say, unable to contain my excitement. “We have to feature some of Taryn’s own designs at the fashion show. We won’t tell anyone – it’ll be top secret – and Dante will be knocked on his ass. This will be coming straight out of left field so he couldn’t possibly anticipate it.”

  Bailey’s cheeks turn pink, and she nods. “I think it could be the answer, Reagan. You’re really on top of things.”

  “You’re the brilliant one,” I tell her. “Thank you.”

&
nbsp; Ford looks up with a frown. “I can’t believe that Dante is still raising hell all these years after dad died. What the fuck? You’re all complaining so much about him you would think he’s larger than life.”

  Nixon sighs, then launches into the whole spiel, from Dante’s blackmailing Taryn to the porta potty video leaked online. By the time he’s done, Ford smiles, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that can only be described as mischievous. Ford’s pissed. And up to something.

  I can’t fucking wait.

  “So, we’ll sabotage him,” Ford says. “With my tech skills, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  Nixon clucks his tongue. “No, it’s not. You think I haven’t tried that before? I feel like I rented a barrel from Niagara Falls, filled it with guppies, got inside naked, and the only person shot was myself. In the fucking foot.”

  “I think he’s forgotten about this Caldwell brother.” He points a thumb to himself. “And fuck him for taking his eye off the ball. I can hack his servers before the show. And we can humiliate him in public. That should be enough to make him back off. At least for a few months. He’ll be so damn busy licking his open wounds he won’t be able to get up to something.”

  Marcella and Bailey look at each other with wide eyes.

  “That’s so illegal,” Bailey says in a hushed voice. “Won’t he find out that we’re behind this? I don’t ever think it’s a good idea to stoop to a bully’s level.”

  Ford grins, looking as smug as a cat. “He’s got it coming. Threatening, blackmail, and extortion are just as illegal. And if we’re careful, no one will know. And I’m very good at what I do.”

  I can tell that he’s really in his element – between talk of designing the fashion app and taking down Dante with an insider hacking job, my little brother’s brilliance shines through like a beacon of hope. I almost want to hit my knees and bow down. It’s no wonder he’s a billionaire developer – his brain is obviously wired just like a well-designed motherboard.

  “If you’re sure,” Bailey says, doubt shining in her eyes. She gives a little smirk toward Ford, looking slightly guilty. “I have to say, it would be really satisfying to watch him go down in flames. And I know it would give Taryn immense satisfaction.”