The Perfect Illusion

by Winter Renshaw

  “Maybe.” Bellamy’s eyes snap to the counter.

  “He’s not worth it, whoever he is. They never are.”

  “I know.”

  I smirk. “If you know, then why’d you let him get you all worked up?”

  “It wasn’t really him; it was mostly the way he spoke to me. It was hurtful, and he wasn’t supposed to hurt me. At least he said he wouldn’t.”

  My eyes roll. I could strangle the asshole that disrespected this adorable little angel. She has naive written all over her, which makes her an easy target for heartbreak and rejection. “That’s what they all say, and you know what? They’re all a bunch of fucking liars. Pardon my French.”

  Bellamy’s lips almost twitch into a smile. She draws in a cool breath, her shoulders shaking as she exhales. Her cheeks are less red than they were a minute ago, which is good.

  “You want to get coffee or something? Are there any good coffee places around here that don’t have a green mermaid as a logo?” I point to the door.

  Bellamy’s jaw falls, her lips dancing in hesitation. “I don’t know. I should get back to my desk. My boss is probably wondering where I am. I’ve been in here a while.”

  “Who do you report to?”

  “Dane.”

  “Oh, I’ve got this. You’re going with me. I’ll deal with him if he gives you any shit.” Dane might intimidate everyone else, but not me. He’s harmless. A kitten. Rapists and murderers are what keep me up at night, not affluent businessmen who rarely smile.

  I take Bellamy by the arm and lead her out of the restroom and toward the elevator.

  “I don’t have my purse,” she objects as we stride in step.

  “Good thing I have a company credit card.”

  “How long have you been working here?” I pull up a chair at a table next to the front window of a small coffee shop.

  “This is my first week.” She sits down and takes a sip from her small latte. “I’m his concierge.”

  Her emphasis on the word concierge tells me everything I need to know. One of my friends back in the city did the same thing, only the man paying her was old enough to be her grandfather and married and everything was on the low. I bet she’d have killed to be on her knees for someone as striking and virile as Dane Townsend.

  “You’re shitting me.” I place my cup on the table, sitting up and squaring my shoulders. The corners of my mouth curling a delayed moment later.

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  I study her, trying to picture what might make a young, beautiful girl like Bellamy agree to be a bought-and-paid-for, modern-day courtesan.

  Her hand claps across her mouth. “Odessa, please don’t tell anyone what I just told you.”

  “Were you crying over Dane then?”

  Her chin dips, and her see-through blue gaze drifts toward the window.

  “Please, tell me you weren’t crying over Dane.” Poor thing. He should’ve picked someone older, more experienced. Someone who wouldn’t have let her heart get in the way of a business arrangement.

  “He’s intense.” She squirms in her seat like she’s unable to get comfortable. “We have an agreement, and I’m just not sure I’m what he needs, and I need this job.”

  “You’re probably his type.” She angles herself in her chair, and her tone is flat. “Blonde. Blue eyes. Pretty. An innocent ingénue ready to be shown the world…”

  What hot-blooded man wouldn’t want that?

  “I didn’t know he had a type.”

  “Why do you need this job so bad? There are millions of other jobs out there. Don’t work for someone who treats you like crap. You’ve got to have more respect for yourself.”

  “It’s complicated.” She lifts her Styrofoam cup and swirls it around to gauge how much is left. “Again, just please don’t tell anyone, okay?”

  “Anyone I might tell probably already knows.” I shrug and peer outside, my eyes following a striking man in a gray Macintosh jacket and wayfarer sunglasses who passes by. Our eyes lock and he smiles.

  And then he’s gone forever.

  As my mind is stuck on the panty-melting smile I was just gifted by that gorgeous stranger, it occurs to me that I haven’t thought of Jeremiah all day.

  I’m not even sure that I miss him.

  “Who would you tell?” Bellamy asks. My gaze jerks back to her.

  “Well, Beckham.” I shrug. “We tell each other almost everything.”

  Or at least it feels that way.

  “Are you and Beckham together?” she asks.

  A robust laugh originates deep inside, as if it’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. “Absolutely not. And please don’t ever ask me that again.”

  Bellamy watches me laugh. So do the patrons at the next table over.

  “Been there. Done that. Got the t-shirt.” I pull my small clutch from my lap and yank out my phone. “Speak of the devil.”

  Beckham asks where I am and tells me Dane wants a quick meeting with me before they leave to visit Leo.

  “I guess we have to head back. I have to go with Beck to see his uncle in hospice.”

  I may not be invited, but I’m tagging along anyway. He needs my strength. He was silent the entire flight this morning, wearing nothing but a casual linen suit and the solemn face of a soldier going to war. Inside he’s got to be falling apart.

  “Oh?” Bellamy rises.

  “That’s why we’re here,” I say, standing up and tilting my cup back to get the last drop. After I toss it in a nearby trashcan, I whip out a tin of Rosebud Salve and coat my lips before popping in a stick of gum. “Want one?”

  “Sure.”

  “So Dane didn’t tell you about Uncle Leo?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “I’m shocked. The man practically raised them, well, since they were teenagers.” That’s pretty much all I know. I’m sure he’d have opened up to me more had I not been so adamant about not being friends.

  We leave the coffee shop and stroll back to the office. A break in the clouds above allows for sunlight to filter through and warm the chilly air. Inside, I’m filled with warm coffee and sadness. My heart breaks for Dane and Beckham.

  I need to call my dad later.

  We used to talk on the phone every Sunday night. I stopped picking up the phone the second Jeremiah walked out. I can’t talk to him about it. He loves Jeremiah. On a larger scale, my heart knows that Dad’s waiting for me to marry off before he departs this earth. He’d never admit it, but he doesn’t need to. I see it in his eyes. I hear it in his words.

  “I wish you could’ve met Uncle Leo in his better days.” I sound like I go way back with him. Despite only meeting him two weeks ago, he’s the kind of person who leaves their footprint in your heart. Warm and outspoken and dispensing unsolicited advice with every breath he takes, he’s the old bachelor version of a stereotypical Italian mother.

  “Is there anything I should do for Dane?” she asks. “Anything to help him cope?”

  My lips purse as my pointed heels click the cement sidewalk with steady strides. “I doubt it. If he hasn’t mentioned anything to you yet, he probably doesn’t want to talk about it. The doctors say it’s going to be any day now. If Dane’s a little more on edge than usual, that might be why.”

  “I see.”

  We trek into the lobby and approach the elevator, and when we hit our floor, we walk side by side past the reception desk where a gaggle of gawking girls stare us down. I shoot them my best New York bitch glare, and they all glance away, convincing me they share a brain.

  “You ready?” Beckham rounds the corner and hooks his arm into mine. There’s a streak of misplaced playfulness in his stormy eyes. Maybe he had a chat with Dane that lifted his spirits? Or maybe he’s pretending, for his own sake, that everything isn’t actually falling apart. “Where’d you go?”

  “Coffee.” My arm retracts. “And it was on you, so…thanks.”

  “My pleasure,” he teases, one eyebrow arched.
r />   “It was great meeting you, Bellamy.” I place my hand across the side of her arm. “I’m not sure how long we’ll be around this week, but I’m sure I’ll run into you again.”

  I follow Beckham to the conference room where Dane waits, scrolling through his phone with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. He’s frustrated about something, Bellamy perhaps. His uncle.

  God, these men are resilient. And stone cold. Their personal lives are in shambles and yet they’re sitting here ready to discuss work as usual.

  “Let’s make this quick,” Beckham says. He doesn’t want to be here. I see it in his eyes. I spy him pulling out his phone. His expression falls as he reads a text. Everything about him feels a touch darker than before. “I need to see Uncle Leo.”

  Dane puts his phone aside and starts the meeting. I fire off answers, my attention tuned to Beckham. He gazes to the side, his fingers mindlessly toying with a silver ball point pen.

  He’s somewhere else entirely.

  Before the meeting concludes, I bring up the job offer, asking for a six-figure salary. Dane doesn’t as much as blink before declaring we have a deal. We shake on it, and I thank them for the opportunity, before Dane checks the time and mentions a two o’clock conference call. I’m not sure how he can be so focused and robotic with so much on his plate.

  “Ready?” I say to Beckham. He snaps out of his fog and squints at me from across the polished table. “I’m going with you. You’re not doing this alone.”

  He rises. “That’s really not necessary.”

  “It’s okay to ask for help sometimes.”

  His expression darkens, hardening as if he takes offense to my offer. “I’m perfectly capable of visiting my uncle on my own.”

  “No, you’re not.” I fold my arms though I may as well be hugging a cactus.

  He tucks his pen into a pocket behind his linen lapel and strides along the lengthy conference table like a man on a mission.

  “You’re seriously just going to walk away right now?” I should go easy on him. I know. But the burn in my chest is causing a rapid boil of words in my head, and they’re all coming to the surface at once. “Let me be a friend here. It’s all I’m trying to do.”

  “What’s the point?” He storms toward the door. I lurch forward, half-wanting to chase after him but knowing I should let him go. My feet plant, and I watch as he stops. His fists clench and release as he grips the doorway.

  I hold my breath, waiting for him to speak.

  But he says nothing.

  And in an instant, he’s gone.

  Chapter 29

  BECKHAM

  I hold the old man’s hand for hours.

  I’ve never held another man’s hand in my life, but I refuse to let go. I watch him sleep. Sit with him. Tell him goodbye in case it’s my last chance. When the nurse checks on him and leaves, I tell him about Sadie. The whole story. I leave nothing out.

  I close my eyes after that, bracing myself for advice that never comes. I’m not sure I’ve ever needed his advice more than I do now.

  Visiting hours end at eight, and I head back to Golden Oak, immediately greeted with the sound of pitiful baby cries echoing off the vast mansion walls. Sprinting up the winding stairs, I follow the noise to Odessa’s room.

  “What’s going on? Is she okay?” My heart hammers.

  Odessa turns around, Sadie screaming in her arms. A half-finished bottle rests in her hand, and Odessa wears an apologetic wince.

  “I thought I could get her to stop fussing,” she says. “And Elizabeth needed a break.”

  I rush to Sadie, taking her from Odessa’s arms. Lifting her to my shoulder, I adjust the blanket and rub my hand in circles across her tiny back. Despite my best efforts, the crying won’t subside.

  “Does she need a doctor?” My stomach twists at the thought.

  Odessa bites her lip and shakes her head, reaching for Sadie’s back. How she can stay so calm in all of this is beyond me. “She’s not warm. Her temp is normal. I checked an hour ago.”

  I walk around Odessa’s room, holding Sadie close and shushing her. Funny how the most unnatural thing that could ever happen to me suddenly feels organic.

  “My niece, Aubrey,” she says. “She had colic, and my sister would take late night drives to help calm her down. The fresh air helped I think. And the car noise.”

  I grab Sadie’s diaper bag and slip it over my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  Downstairs Odessa buckles the baby into her car seat, and I grab a set of keys from the cabinet by the garage. Ten minutes later, we pull onto the desolate road that surrounds my brother’s estate. Glancing up, I see every star in the sky. Most people would consider that a beautiful thing to see.

  Not me.

  It reminds me too much of home.

  My first home.

  The Zion Ranch.

  New York at night is alive. Vibrant. Lit. Buzzing with life.

  The dark and quiet of the Zion Ranch at night was the devil’s playground. He danced between the shadows and lurked among his innocent victims. His bidding was done under the shade of black night and a starry sky. During the day he’d hide in plain sight, parading around with his security and a handful of his young brides and jutting his hand out so whosoever wanted to kiss it had easy access. The devil I knew had a name: Mathias Moon. Everyone else called him The Prophet.

  The crunch of gravel beneath the car as I turn onto another dark road brings a soft rumble. Sadie’s cries soften, morphing into whimpers.

  “The vibration’s calming her down already,” Odessa says, twisting back to check on her. “She’s wearing out.”

  My knuckles clench around the wheel, turning white even in the dark.

  I hate that Uncle Leo is dying and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  I hate what Eva did. I hate her for bringing an innocent baby into a fucked up situation. I hate the flood of warmth that wraps into tightness in my chest every time I think of Sadie, and I hate the dread that nauseates me at the thought of someone taking her away.

  I hate that Odessa’s still being kind to me after what I said earlier.

  Most of all, I hate the part of me that wants to run from it all. Push it all away. Shove it in a box, close the lid, and sink it to the bottom of the ocean with a cinderblock.

  The headlights illuminate a green sign telling us Claxon is sixty-eight miles ahead. I never realized Golden Oak was that close to the Zion Ranch.

  “I wasn’t kidding when I said I had fifty-five brothers and sisters.” My statement fills the quiet space between us. Her emerald gaze carefully washes over me. “I grew up on a FLDS compound north of Claxon. It’s not too far from here actually.”

  Odessa says nothing, but I suppose there’s nothing to say.

  “Dane’s my half-brother,” I continue. “Different mothers. Same father. We were born somewhere in the middle. Last I knew there were fifty-six of us. I’m sure there are more now.”

  “Were you close?”

  I huff. “As close as you can be when there’s an entire village of people sharing your last name. So…no.”

  “What about Dane? Were you close with him?”

  I shake my head. “Not until we were exiled.”

  “Exiled? Like kicked out of the community?”

  “Yes. The elders like to control the population, ensuring there’s an overabundance of women at their disposal.”

  She shifts her body toward me, folding her arms. “Horrific. And your father allowed this?”

  “Our father gave us his last name and nothing else. He wasn’t even our father. Not biologically.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Prophet called them ‘seed bearers.’ Twelve worthy-blooded men hand selected by Mathias Moon to propagate the community.”

  “Wait, what do you mean?”

  “If a woman wanted to have a child,” I say. “She had to get permission from Mathias first. He’d send a seed-bearer to her home during her fertile peak. Husbands had t
o hold their hands and watch.”

  “I’m going to be sick.” Odessa’s hand flies to her face, her words muffled through trembling fingers.

  “It’s normal to them. They’re taught to believe it is. They know nothing else.” I exhale, my hands sliding down the wheel. I haven’t spoken about Zion Ranch in almost a decade. Talking about it brings a lightness I never anticipated.

  “How old were you when they…?”

  “Fifteen.” The pit of my stomach twists hard, the way it always does when memories of that day flood my mind. “Dane was sixteen. A group of us boys were carted a few miles outside the property line like a box full of puppies and set loose. A sack lunch. Twenty bucks. Not so much as a good luck.”

  “Must’ve been terrifying for you.”

  “It was the best fucking thing that ever happened to me.” Back then I’d rather have been homeless than spend another night with those sick bastards.

  From the corner of my eye, I see her wipe a tear on the back of her hand.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me, Odessa,” I huff. “Please. Fuck. Don’t.”

  “It’s shitty what happened to you. Nobody deserves that. Certainly not an innocent child.”

  “I’d say I came out ahead in the deal, wouldn’t you? Jesus, Odessa.” On what planet does a homeless kid with an eighth grade FLDS education grow up to be a billionaire playboy with the entire city of Manhattan for a playground?

  “Do you miss your mother?” Her hand flies to her chest, her eyes laced with sadness despite my specific instructions not to feel sorry for me. I’m positive the mother she’s picturing in her head is nothing like the one I knew.

  “Nope.” I don’t miss a beat. “Hardly knew her. Barely remember what she looked like.”

  The memory of her face fades in and out of my memory. Every year that goes by makes it harder to remember if her eyes were blue or gray. She was going gray at the temples. I recall that much. And she always smelled like baked bread.

  My father, at least the one who headed the fifty-plus children and eight wives who shared his name, was another story. Desperate for approval and acceptance from The Prophet, he auctioned off his daughters like cattle and handed over his spare sons with a crooked smile on his wrinkled face and not so much as a second thought.