“I’m going to have to run down to the market,” he says, running his hand through his messy blond hair. “But I’ll make you a nice dinner, Sam. We’ll hang out tonight like old times, okay?”
I nod and give him a closed-mouth smile, silently mourning the old times. They’re gone. Never coming back.
All we have is ambiguity and a distance between us that grows further each day.
Chapter 7
BECKHAM
“I warned you about redheads.” Xavier Fox sips artisan beer from a frost-covered mug, his eyes glued to the sports reel flashing on a TV above my head.
I’ve just filled him in on my last twenty-four hours, or at least the condensed version because we’re men and we stick to the facts.
“You did,” I say.
“And you didn’t listen.” He takes another sip.
“You’re not right about everything.”
His eyes meet mine. He smirks. “I was right about the penthouse I sold you.”
“And you never let me live that down.”
“It’s not everyday you sell a ten million dollar penthouse and watch it nearly double in price over the next three years.” He slams his fist against the table, cheering at the TV along with a handful of men at the table over.
I never got into sports, and it might be because I never saw a TV screen until I was almost sixteen or an actual football until I was seventeen. Regardless, I grew into a man who preferred to get his hands dirty in ways that satisfied on carnal levels.
“You got lucky,” I say.
“It’s called knowing the market and striking while the iron’s hot.” Xavier is as cocky as I am. Can’t imagine having a mild-mannered schmuck for a best friend. “I can’t help it if I’m fucking amazing at my job.”
“Didn’t Magnolia tell you about that neighborhood? And the Green Quarter Revitalization Project?”
His face pinches. I shouldn’t have brought up Magnolia Grantham.
“Why’d you have to mention her? We were having a nice time, drinking our beers…”
“You need to get over her.” I slip an extra cardboard coaster between my fingers, flipping it and examining the gaudy beer logos on each side. “It’s been, what, a few months now?”
“I am over her.” He attempts to say it with conviction but falls flat on his ass.
“There are plenty of other women. Women who’d kill for a night with you.”
“You act like I’m sitting at home every night just ‘cause I’m not at the bars with you looking for my next lay.”
He acts like I’m a drug addict. I wouldn’t say women are my addiction. I wouldn’t even say sex is my addiction. Hobby maybe. Addiction? Absolutely not. Hobbies are fun, done purely for enjoyment. Addictions imply a lack of control.
“When was the last time you got laid?” I ask.
“I don’t keep track.”
“Right.” I call bullshit.
His gaze snaps to the TV, his fist clenching in the air for a second before he returns his attention to his beer.
“Don’t ignore my question.” I sit up straight. “You’re too wrapped up in Magnolia. You need to get her out of your system.”
Xavier juts his lips out, nodding side to side. He agrees, but he won’t say it. I’ve been there before. Saying it the first time is fucking terrifying. Saying it out loud makes it real. Making it real forces you to act, make a decision, and move on.
Watching a man like Xavier sit there like a deflated balloon is too depressing for me to deal with, especially on a Friday night. I need to see to it personally that this man gets some ass tonight.
“Come with me to Pellegrino’s.” It’s always been a lucky spot of mine. Three blocks from here. The girls that frequent that bar would be all over someone like Xavier. Dark hair, clean cut, and well-dressed, permeating with success and overpriced cologne.
“You want me to get laid that bad, huh?”
“We either go there or I’m finding someone to hang out with who doesn’t depress the fuck out of me.”
“You brought her up.”
I swallow the last of my drink and rise, pulling my jacket over my shoulders before slapping some cash on the table. Xavier finishes his beer, hesitates, then follows suit.
“Did you meet that crazy redhead at Pellegrino’s?” he asks when we hit the pavement.
“I did.” I smirk. “But in my defense, I’d never seen her there before. She’s not a regular.”
Xavier needed a nice, big-breasted blonde to keep him warm tonight. Magnolia, his ex-business partner and former flame, was a leggy brunette with a southern accent. Something new and adventurous tonight would make him a new man. The last thing I need is him plowing some cheap knockoff of the girl who broke his heart.
Xavier slips out of the bar, his hand on the small of the back of some petite blonde with a pixie haircut and a short dress the color of sunshine. She couldn’t be any more different from Magnolia.
I’m proud. My work is done.
I slip the bartender my credit card and take care of the tab.
“Going home alone?” he asks, returning with my receipt and a pen. Eric knows me well.
I’m all about being a shameless, modern day man-whore, but I don’t do two nights in a row. My self-respect runs a little deeper than that. And furthermore, I’m still spent from my sleepless evening with Odessa.
“Been a long day.” I rise from the barstool and replace my wallet. “I’ll see you next week.”
Eric sends me off with a salute and a nod, and I spend the bulk of my ten-minute walk home appreciating the crisp fall air and ignoring how lonely this time of year always feels.
I don’t permit myself to feel lonely, and if that unwelcome sensation happens to creep into the corners of my mind, I don’t let it stay long.
I’ve been in Xavier’s place before, and I’ll never go back there again.
The man who took my brother and me in at fifteen once told me to do everything with eyes wide open and to never compromise my beliefs to make someone else happy. The one instance in my life when I refuted Leo Fickbaum’s golden rules, I paid the price and then some.
“You’re too arrogant for your own good, you know that?” Uncle Leo said to me the day my twenty-one year old self packed my belongings into the back of a Mustang and drove from Utah to New York. “But you’re going to be the King of New York by the time it’s all said and done.”
“That’s the plan, Uncle Leo.”
“Remember the Golden Rules,” he called out as I left a trail of gravel dust down his country road.
The first thing I did the second I arrived was change my last name from Townsend to King, because I needed a fresh start and the name was only fitting.
The second thing I did was fall in love with a hotel heiress by the name of Sophie Glass.
Chapter 8
ODESSA
“Odessa, what’s that on your finger?” Beckham’s question kick starts my attention on this particularly foggy Monday morning.
My thumb and middle stop mindlessly spinning the diamond ring currently adorning my left ring finger.
Shit.
I put it on this morning, after spending a lovely Friday night with Jeremiah and a relaxing, tear-free weekend with myself. I’d only meant to wear it for a second, see how it felt. If it still fit. I was alone. No one was supposed to see. I was going to take it off the second I walked out the door, but my phone rang and by the time I finished chatting with my mother I must have forgotten it was still on my finger.
My mother was frantic, upset about the wedding being in limbo and how she was going to tell my father. His tired, failing heart is set on walking me down the aisle in six months and giving me away to the only man he’s ever deemed worthy.
“Tell me you’re not fucking engaged.” Beckham’s heavy words match the storm brewing in his eyes.
“I’m not engaged.”
“You wear a diamond engagement ring for fun?”
“No.” I laugh,
only because his accusation is comical. I’ve known girls who do that, and I am absolutely nothing like them. I tap my notebook with the tip of my pen. “Back to the website…”
His steady palm lifts. “No. Not until you tell me why you’re wearing an engagement ring.”
“My personal life has absolutely nothing to do with this consultancy, and to be frank, it’s none of your business.”
“Were you engaged when you slept with me last Thursday?” He has that wild glint in his eyes, the one I first noticed the second I flipped him off on his pretentious private elevator.
I can only hope he’s not about to do anything crazy.
“Nope.” I pull out a word cloud I made last Friday consisting of a bunch of energy conservation buzzwords I harvested from various Internet articles. “We need to incorporate these words into the write-ups on your new website. Some of these could even be interactive headings and–”
“Odessa.” His mouth forms a straight line as he sits up, cocking a disappointing look at me. “Don’t ignore my question.”
“Your question was ignored because it’s not relevant to what we’re doing here.” I clear my throat. “Which is polishing your brand so we can focus on your first PR issue, which your brother filled me in on this morning.”
“You’ve already spoken to Dane this morning?”
“He emailed me over the weekend. Why didn’t you mention the issue with Charity Falls last week when we first sat down?”
“I figured we’d get to it.”
“Charity Falls hates your corporation and your plans to build a wind farm that obstructs their picturesque little community. That is a huge issue to fix, Beckham.” I sigh, grateful to take his focus off my ring for a moment.
“Bet their tunes will change when their little energy bills are slashed in half.”
“But they don’t see it that way,” I say. “To them it’s an eyesore.”
“It’s not my fault they’re stuck in the past. Wind farms are popping up all over the country, improving lives. Creating jobs and saving the environment is more important to me than whether or not the entire one-thousand-and-seven inhabitants of Charity Falls hates me.”
“Please tell me that statement of yours isn’t on record anywhere.” I lift my brows.
“You think I’m that big of an idiot?”
“I think you’re missing a filter. And a sensitivity chip.” I may as well ad insult to injury.
“Now I’m tactless?”
“Sometimes.” I lean back in the guest chair. “This is why you have me for the next three weeks. You’ll work closely with me. Pay close attention to how I handle this situation because this won’t be the last time you have to convince some little chocolate-box town to welcome your energy initiatives with open arms.”
“So what now?”
“I’ll see if they have a newspaper. We can set up an interview. Maybe we can plan a town hall meeting?”
“If I have to go to Vermont, you’re coming with me.”
“If it’s in the next three weeks, then yes.” I brush my hair over my shoulder and lean in. “My goal is to ensure that even without me sock-puppeting you, you’ll be able to carefully select the right combination of words to ensure you don’t come across as a pompous windbag.”
“You’d be hard pressed to find someone who remotely considers me a pompous windbag, Odessa.”
“Really?” My nose wrinkles.
“Present company excluded. Obviously.”
I snicker. Three more weeks. No. Two weeks and four business days.
“You still need to tell me why you’re wearing that ring.” His eyes linger on my glittering rock.
I twist it until the glimmering rock is inside my fist and then clench my hand.
“I don’t sleep with taken women. You told me you were single at the bar.” His expression narrows.
“I am single.” I draw in a sharp breath. “I was engaged. He told me a couple weeks ago he needed some space. The engagement is called off. He moved out. I’m not sure what’s going to happen, but I was not engaged when I went home with you.”
“You love him?”
I’m not sure why he cares. My face pinches. “Of course I love him.”
“No, you don’t.”
We should be discussing this website, not my love life.
“Yes.” My words sharpen against my tongue. “I do love him. And please don’t suggest otherwise. You and I are hardly more than strangers.”
“Right. I don’t know you. But I do know that a woman in love doesn’t run out and sleep with the first guy she meets at a random bar.”
“Should I be doodling hearts? Skipping? Humming love songs?”
“You look miserable,” he says.
“So do you.” It’s not true. He looks perfectly content with his single-in-the-city lifestyle. “I love Jeremiah, it’s just difficult not knowing what’s going to happen with our relationship. I just want an answer, and he’s not ready to give me one.”
“Why would you waste your time with someone who doesn’t know if he wants to be with you?” Beckham’s eyes squint. “Makes no sense, especially for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“You don’t take shit from anyone, but you’re going to take it from some asshole because he got down on his knee and gave you a ring?”
The last thing I expected when I came to work this morning was to have to defend my commitment to making things work with Jeremiah.
“We’ve been together since college. I can’t imagine spending my future with anyone else.” I speak about Jeremiah with a tone void of emotion because I refuse to get worked up about this here, in front of Beckham. “His circumstances have recently changed, and he’s re-evaluating his life goals.”
“Let me guess, he’s coming into his career, got a taste of success, isn’t sure he’ll have the time to commit to your relationship now, and it’s not fair to you.” Beckham leans back, threading his fingers behind his head with a proud smirk across his lips.
My jaw hangs, rendering me speechless.
“He fed you that line of bullshit, did he?” Beckham’s smirk fades.
When Jeremiah said those words Friday night they made perfect sense. His touch was tender, right along with his delivery.
I want to believe it was authentic.
“Odessa. Come. On.” Beckham leans forward. “I fucking invented that line. Please tell me you didn’t fall for it. He’s stringing you along until he finds something more exciting. Guarantee you he’s got something in the works and he’s keeping you on ice in case it falls through.”
My bottom lip trembles, the hint of a tingle zipping across it as my eyes burn. I’ve stayed strong, and I’m not about to lose my cool in front of him of all people.
I drag in a cool breath and force it away, summoning every ounce of strength I have. I refuse to appear weak in front of Beckham. For all I know, he’s still hung up on me, and he’s looking for an ‘in.’ Can’t think of a more perfect opportunity than a broken hearted girl fresh off a called-off engagement.
“Believe me, my eyes are wide open. I’m not naïve,” I say, fighting the burn in my throat. “But when you love someone, you fight for them. You believe in them. You trust them to do the right thing with your heart.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“You have it all wrong.”
“I have what all wrong?”
“Everything.” He rises, adjusting the knot of his tie after tugging on his collar. His jester expression dissipates, and he takes weighted steps toward his window. “Don’t live in a bubble, Odessa. All those people out there...” He slips his hands into his pockets, peering out his window toward his expansive view of the city. “Those people don’t give a fuck about you or me or anyone. Everyone’s in it for themselves. The sooner you accept that and the sooner you do the same, the happier you’ll be.”
The room feels darker, heavier.
Last Friday whe
n I Googled Beckham, I didn’t find much beyond some old online gossip articles about his engagement with a hotel heiress named Sophie Glass. Nothing but rumors and speculation about the details surrounding their cancelled wedding. I’d meant to sift through the photos but Devin called before I had a chance and later I scolded myself for wasting my curiosity digging into Beckham’s ancient history.
For a moment, I wonder if he’s thinking about her.
I rise, gathering my folders, papers, notebook, and tablet. I need to go back to my desk and get some real work done. “I’m going to see if I can get Charity Falls on the phone. Line up that interview.”
He says nothing. I leave.
Chapter 9
BECKHAM
“I’m flying you and Sam to Salt Lake City for a couple days.” My brother informs me Tuesday morning.
“Wait. Why?”
“We can get more done if we meet in person, and Beckham, before you suggest that I Skype into the meeting, I’m going to go ahead and say no.”
I can think of a million places I’d rather visit than Salt Lake City.
“And it’s Uncle Leo’s birthday. The three of us haven’t gotten together in a couple years,” Dane says. “He’s not getting any younger.”
Dane’s flat tone serves to remind me that Uncle Leo’s lifetime of smoking menthols and drowning in Miller Lites every night haven’t helped his aging process.
“He’s almost seventy,” Dane says. “Look, I know we’re both busy, but it’s no excuse.”
My brother neglects to say what he and I both know. We wouldn’t be where we are if it weren’t for the kindness and generosity of a gruff old bastard named Leo Fickbaum. The truth is, he’s not our uncle at all. He deserves a better title than that. I shudder to think of the man I’d have become if it weren’t for the unexpected benevolence of a middle-aged bachelor who owned a diner in Middle of Nowhere, Utah.
That was the name of the town, too. It was about a ten mile walk from the FLDS compound I’d lived in my entire life with my fifty-plus siblings and half-siblings.
The Perfect Illusion Page 31