Tightwad (Caldwell Brothers Book 2)

by Colleen Charles

  Taryn looks all business, so I manage to quash the feelings of tender emotion swimming in my stomach like nervous fish. She directs Bailey and Marcella to wrap up the clothing we’ve made in velvet garment bags, and then she leaves for a quick shower and nap before the show. I already feel the loss of her by my side as we work together toward a common goal.

  “Nixon said something about a brunch in the conference room,” Marcella says. “You want to come with me? I feel like I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

  “I know the feeling, but after this, everything should calm down. That is…if Dante can be corralled for a while.”

  “If anything can get that done, it’s this,” she says, yawning again. “So, you coming to brunch or not?”

  I shake my head. “I’ll help Bailey take everything over to the venue. Why don’t you go lie down?”

  Marcella looks relieved. “Thank you. That would be wonderful.”

  Bailey raises an eyebrow. “You turned out to be quite the tailor. I never would have guessed.”

  “Well, you know,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets under the weight of the compliment. I’m not sure I want to be known for sewing ladies clothing in the middle of a shit storm.”

  But I’d do anything for Taryn.

  “I’m not sure I do,” she says, stepping forward and gently taking an armload of garment bags. “You really like hanging around, don’t you?”

  “Nixon needs my help,” I say. “Dante’s hard to deal with on your own. And Nixon doesn’t have to explain himself to me. I’m his brother, and we share a history. A past.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t see Nixon sewing on any beads,” Bailey replies. “I think you’re here because of Taryn.”

  I can’t help but smile.

  “You’re totally into her,” Bailey says. “You’re falling for her. I can tell.”

  “I want to help,” I say, forcing a shrug to keep it nonchalant. “That’s all.”

  “So, what’s going to happen when you go back to New York?” Bailey asks, not letting me change the subject. She gestures for help, and I pick up the other pile of garment bags. For such delicate clothes, they seem oddly heavy. Together we carry them out of the back room and load them into the back of a truck Taryn rented for the occasion.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Reagan,” Bailey says, giving me some side eye. “Don’t be a douche.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Tell her,” Bailey says. “If you’re falling for her, you need to tell her. Taryn’s a little thick-headed about these things. She needs the words.”

  For once, I can’t find the words to reply.

  She gives me a soft smile. “Because she’s totally falling for you, too.”

  “Wait, she told you that?”

  Bailey rolls her eyes as if I’m the biggest dipshit on the face of the earth. Or in Las Vegas. “Men are so dense,” she says, tossing her hair in annoyance. “But no, Sherlock, she hasn’t. She hasn’t needed to say anything. I can totally tell, just from the way she looks at you.”

  My heart sinks. “So, you don’t know for sure.” I’m a lawyer. I stick to the facts and the evidence before making my decision about something.

  “Reagan, trust me,” Bailey says. She narrows her eyes and leans in close. “She’s crazy about you. She hasn’t even mentioned a dude in…well, I can’t even remember. She thinks you’ll go all weird because of her past. That’s why she hasn’t said anything. Some asshole back in the day confronted her after a show and called her a tramp. Claimed he was going to put the pictures in the local paper back in South Dakota. She’s really gun shy about it because of her family. It really haunts her.”

  I blink, not quite understanding. Being from Vegas, I’m having a hard time imagining what would be so awful about a perfectly respectable photo of myself expressing my talent for dance making it in the local paper. “Her…her past? You mean making a living by singing and dancing?”

  “Yeah,” Bailey says, giving me an imploring look. I remember hearing Bailey’s from a small town in the Midwest just like Taryn. “She’s embarrassed, you know. Because she used to dance.”

  “So?” I shrug. “Why does that matter? Dancers are beautiful. Dancing is beautiful. I can’t even imagine the athletic ability, drive, and determination it takes to make it to a prestigious Vegas show as a dancer. Dancers from all over the world come here to audition. She never worked in a seedy strip joint. Why is her family so uptight about it a legitimate profession?”

  Bailey shakes her head. “I don’t know. You know Taryn. She has some hang-ups, probably from growing up in that super conservative Catholic family of hers. But she thinks you’re like them – she thinks you only like her now because she’s hot, but you’d never consider her for anything more because of her past.”

  I already see her as the mother of my children.

  “That’s not true at all. I really…” Before I can say it, I bite my tongue.

  Bailey’s triumphant smirk could light the room. “See,” she says in an annoying sing-song voice. “You’ve fallen for her. Just tell her, okay? And tell her before you leave – before it’s too late. I know it’s a long-distance thing, but where there’s a will, there’s a way. You can work something out if you really care about each other. Maybe you could even consider…coming home?”

  Before I can ask Bailey what she means by ‘too late,’ my phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Reagan, this is Ford,” my brother says. “I got the program coded. All you need to do is stop by my room and take the thumb drive over to Dante’s tent at the venue.”

  “That’s awesome. You’re incredible.”

  Ford scoffs, but I can tell that he’s proud of his handiwork like usual.

  We hang up, and I hand Bailey the keys to the van. “I’ve got to meet Ford. Can you get this stuff over to the venue?”

  Bailey grabs the keys and salutes. “Aye, aye, Captain Caldwell,” she says. “Do me one favor?”

  “What?”

  “Tell Taryn,” Bailey says brightly before hopping into the driver’s seat. “Please. It would kill me inside if both of you let this opportunity to be happy slip through your fingers.”

  As soon as she’s gone, I take a steadying breath. My heart throbs, and I feel like I need about six cups of espresso to make it through the day without collapsing. But I’d do it all over again if it would help Nixon and Taryn. The show starts soon, and I have to be at the venue to meet Nixon…not to mention sabotage Dante’s display.

  I wonder if Bailey’s right. Is Taryn really ashamed of her past? It would explain a lot. Like why she got so steamed when I made a couple of innocent jokes about dancing…not to mention that time she did her Mike Myers impression before we were supposed to go to lunch.

  But I can’t wrap my head around it. Why would anyone as gorgeous and strong as Taryn be ashamed of anything? She’s worked so hard to get where she is today, and I admire her more than any other woman.

  I guess everything isn’t as simple as I thought.

  I go back to my hotel room and take a quick shower, forcing all thoughts of Taryn out of my head. If we have hope for a future, we’ll deal with it before I leave.

  Together.

  Then I hop downstairs, grab the thumb drive from Ford, and catch a cab to the venue.

  By the time I get there, the outdoor amphitheater swarms with press and people. I have to push my way through the crowd to the large, gaudy booth where Dante’s show is going to be held. It’s easy to create a distraction by ‘accidentally’ knocking my bottle of water onto the mother board. A nerdy kid in horn-rimmed glasses shrieks in surprise and runs away to grab rolls of paper towels. While he’s gone, it only takes a few seconds to push the drive into the laptop waiting at the DJ booth, download the virus, and shove the tiny flash drive back in my pants pocket.

  “Reagan…psst!”

  Turning around, I see Nixon motioning me toward him. Darting awa
y from Dante’s DJ booth, I join him.

  “Hey. It worked.”

  Nixon raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? Are you sure? Maybe we should have had Ford plant the virus.”

  “No way,” I say, proud of my 007 impression. “I’m much more nondescript. Since Ford hasn’t been here in years, he’d attract attention. He slipped me a thumb drive, and I just put it in the laptop running Dante’s sound system. A little spill on their motherboard didn’t hurt, either.”

  Nixon grins. “Excellent. Is Ford coming?”

  “He gave me some bullshit excuse about finishing an app. I just think he wants to stay on the down-low. Like Haylee would actually be here. I haven’t seen her in years.”

  Nixon snorts. “Our family is a competition of workaholics, but we should have a beer. Come on, I’ll take you to the VIP booth. And about Haylee. She works for me.”

  “She works for you? Where?”

  “In the café. She’s a great server, and I’m lucky to have her. She’s worked for me for years. I was always surprised she succumbed to the Vegas lifestyle of quick money and didn’t do anything with her degree. Haylee’s smart, and she has a great personality. Go figure.”

  “Maybe our dipshit brother broke her heart to a point where she never recovered. Ever think of that?”

  Nixon gives me an odd look. “No. Haylee’s tough as nails. That can’t be it.” Standing on his tiptoes, Nixon points to the other end of the amphitheater. “And by the way, speaking of broken hearts and ghosts from the past, Taryn’s over there manning her own booth and runway. And don’t even think of distracting her right now. She needs her head in the game. That girl’s going places. I sense a meteoric rise to the top in her future. And neither Dante nor you are allowed to sabotage her.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” I say, all innocence and deflection. I’m a big, fat, fucking liar because my legs itch to walk over there just so I can watch her. But my remark isn’t enough to wipe the suspicion from my brother’s face.

  “You can talk to her after this, I promise. Just leave her alone for a little bit longer.”

  I follow Nixon to the VIP booth, where we join Marcella and a handful of other Las Vegas business owners. Nixon hands me a pale ale, and I crack it open, enjoying the beer as it caresses my tongue. Another couple of these and I could probably fall asleep right on my feet. We sit down just as the lights dim and the music begins to blare.

  “This is it,” Nixon hisses in my ear. He clinks the neck of his beer against mine. “Cheers, bro. To getting shit done.”

  “Cheers,” I echo before taking a long swig.

  I can see Taryn’s runway from my vantage point, and I’m incredibly relieved to hear the loud cheers from the crowd as Eva Blake and a few well-known local models take the stage.

  “Hey,” I say, jabbing Nixon in the ribs. “I made that.” I point to the silk blouse. Taryn styled Eva in it with a short leather skirt and sky-high platform heels. I wonder if it’s ironic that a woman I slept with is wearing my handiwork.

  Nixon rolls his eyes. “You’re a strange man, Reagan,” he says, shaking his head. “Only you would be proud of a chick skill set. Did you get your balls sheared off during the dressmaking last night?”

  Anything for Taryn. Hell, I’d be out there modeling myself if it would somehow help her. Except not in a skirt.

  “Yeah, well,” I say, sipping my beer. “Give me a few more beers, and I’ll pull my pants down and let you inspect my junk for definitive proof.”

  Nixon narrows his eyes. He doesn’t reply, but the music blares and reverberates at an ungodly volume by now so I wouldn’t have been able to hear him anyway.

  Taryn’s show is a huge success. The crowd is packed with women and girls, holding their phones out and snapping picture after picture of the supermodels wearing Taryn’s own designs. I feel pretty proud – I managed to actually help, and not just by dissecting some legalese.

  When it’s over, Nixon stands up. “That was great, man,” he says, stretching. “What a fucking relief. We had to have raised at least six figures.”

  “I’m going to go find Taryn,” I say, tossing my empty beer bottle into a recycling bin. “There’s something I need to talk to her about. I can’t wait.”

  My brother’s laughter follows me until I’m completely almost down the steps to the grass.

  Asshole interruptus.

  Dante storms toward us, his face shiny and red with rage, and when he sees Nixon, he balls one hand into a fist and throws a messy punch. Nixon darts out of the way with ease, and in a matter of seconds, he’s got Dante in the half-Nelson.

  “You motherfucker!” Dante yells. “You ruined everything!”

  Nixon releases his nemesis, who staggers backward, rubbing his ears with both hands. I can practically see the steam shooting out of them. We must really have him up in arms because throwing punches in public isn’t his normal modus operandi. He’s much more slippery than that. Dante likes to do the crime without doing the time.

  “What?” Nixon asks. I throw him a sly glance because he’s got the wide-eyed, innocent thing down pat like Olivier. “What happened, Dante?”

  Dante narrows his eyes and snorts like a bull. For a moment, I think he’s about to lower his head, paw the fake carpet, and charge at Nixon. Then I see him holding an iPhone in one of his chubby, hairy little hands.

  Payback’s a bitch, shithead.

  “Tech back at the Mona Lisa says we have a virus!” Dante hisses through clenched teeth. “I don’t know how it got downloaded, but it fucking ruined my show!”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Nixon says, keeping his expression deadpan. I’ve got to hand it to the elder Caldwell, he’s a master at pushing Dante’s buttons. He eyes me, and it’s all I can do to keep from cracking up and ruining everything. But I have to think of Taryn and not my own selfishness. I make my expression a twin to Nixon’s.

  “My fashion show!” Dante grunts angrily. “My fucking fashion show, it’s all ruined, whelp!”

  “What happened?” Nixon gives Dante a sympathetic look. “Did Fernanda Maxwell not make it?”

  “Not only that,” Dante thunders. “I want to know why the hell the computer went haywire halfway through!”

  “Maybe you hired an incompetent DJ,” he says, throwing his hands up. “You should’ve really thought about preparing more thoroughly. Our show went off without a hitch. That’s what happens when preparedness meets opportunity. You should try it sometime instead of throwing your weight around trying to sabotage everybody else. Now that the shoe’s on the other foot, is it feeling a little too tight for you? Be happy it’s just your toes in a vice grip and not your cowardly balls.”

  Dante’s face turns from red to purple, and he growls. “That doesn’t explain why Tupac rose from the dead in a motherfucking hologram over the runway and started spouting epithets in a rousing explicit edition of ‘Hit ‘em up,’” he screams.

  “Uh oh,” Nixon says, shrugging. “Yeah, Dante – you probably should’ve picked another soundtrack. A lot of people don’t like hearing the c-word,” he says, leaning in close like he’s giving Dante a business tip. “It’s considered very offensive now. Bitch and whore don’t go over well, either. Especially, not at a women’s event.”

  I can’t help it. Something comes over me when I have the opportunity for a perfect comedic barb with my play on the Hit ‘em up lyrics. Sarcastic lawyer style.

  “Great song choice. Hmm…that must be why you don’t have any motherfucking friends, Dante.”

  The man sputters and screeches with rage. He throws the phone on the ground and stomps on it with his tacky Armani shoes, cracking the screen and metal into the grass.

  “This isn’t over, Caldwell. Not by a longshot!” Dante threatens. “This is just the beginning. You want to play with me? You think your balls are big enough, little boy? We’ll see about it, won’t we? You’re nothing but a poser. A tiny chip off the old block.”

  Nixon turns to me. “Well, I t
hink we can handle that,” he says smoothly. “Can’t we, Reagan? After all, we managed to handle that porta potty incident pretty well with our gigantic balls still in the nut sack.”

  A trace of the rage melts from Dante’s face – now he just looks confused.

  “What the fuck are you talking about, whelp?” Dante growls. “What porta potty incident?”

  “Yeah,” Nixon says. I have to admit that Dante’s Olivier might be even better than my brothers. Either that, or he really doesn’t know about the blue sanitizing liquid ruining our original designer looks for the show. “What, you don’t remember?”

  Dante growls and shakes his head.

  Nixon laughs. “Yeah. Funny little thing, a porta potty crashed into the display for my benefit. But it’s okay, Dante. I really should be thanking you instead. Taryn’s original designs brought in a hell of a lot of money for Helping Hands & Hearts. Six figures.” For emphasis, Nixon opens an e-mail on his phone and makes the figures bigger. “Here…seems you made zero. Zip. Nada.”

  Dante sputters with rage, shaking his head and spitting like a cat. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he blusters.

  “Oh?” Nixon raises an eyebrow, not even slowing down. “So, you’re saying that deliberate sabotage was an accident?”

  “I’m saying you’re going to be sorry you were ever born,” Dante growls. “You’re going to wish your father had taken himself deep before he ever stuck his puny cock between your whore mother’s plump thighs.” And with one final blustering expression of anger, Dante turns and stomps away.

  Nixon turns to me and shakes his head. “Complete piece of shit.”

  I frown, scratching my chin. “So, wait. That whole thing, with the porta potty truck? That really was an accident? How could that be possible?”

  Nixon shrugs, clearly not caring that we just fired the first shot at the grassy knoll. “Guess so,” he says, giving a cheerful little whistle. “Doesn’t really matter now, does it? We got Dante where it hurts. I don’t think he’s going to be a problem, at least for a while. You can go home to NYC, hot shot. Go sue some people.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hey, come back to my office when you’re done, you and Taryn. Marcella ordered a ton of champagne, and we can post-game a little bit. Then I’m taking you and Taryn out to celebrate. My treat.”