“Clichés are based in truths.” Amber tapped a gold pen on her blotter. “Your weakness is powerful, handsome men.”
Couldn’t argue with that, but to be contrary – because when it came to her sister, old habits died hard – Cora did, softening her comeback with a small smile. “Isn’t everyone’s?”
Amber ignored her, running the pen tip down the list. “Tom Langston is a member of the Church of Scientology, so he’s out. You only do bad boys, which means I’ll need to reassign a new life coach to at least one of these four men…based on your expression.”
Damn, Amber was good. The only thing she’d missed was Jack Gordon’s estranged wife.
Time to suck it up. Cora leaned forward to review her new assignments again with one last protest, “I don’t make a face.”
Blue opened the door. “Do you need me at Jack Gordon’s meet-and-greet tonight?”
“No.” Amber set the list aside. “Cora’s transitioning to working with the Flash and she’s taking Vivian Gordon from your list of clients.”
“Viv.” Blue shuddered dramatically. “I hope you have better luck with her than I did.” She’d told the L.A. Happenings column that Blue had problems in the sack. Their clients weren’t just head-cases, they were vindictive head-cases. “Viv’s a no-win scenario. She still loves Jack.”
“Impossible,” Cora scoffed. “Money’s the only thing left unresolved between those two.”
“You always did learn the hard way.” Blue’s certainty made Cora wonder. Before he’d gotten engaged, he’d been a lover-and-leaver of women, but he knew a woman’s mind.
If Blue was right, coaching Vivian would be a waste of time, not to mention stressful. What if Viv found out Cora had slept with Jack? It’d be best to remove her from the list. But if Cora requested it, Amber would know she’d had sex with one of their biggest clients. Jack kept them on retainer for his basketball players, and the bulk of his payment was now accruing in Cora’s billing column.
“Well?” Amber asked after Blue left, “Who am I taking off the list?”
Cora drew a breath and focused on the most troublesome of her exes. “It’d be better if you reassigned Cal Lazarus and Jean Claude Zagal.”
“You slept with…” Amber’s slender eyebrows went up. Way up. “But Cal requested you.”
“He wants more than I’m willing to give.” Yep, present tense. Cal was still stalking her by text, hopeful for another hook-up. When Amber remained incredulous, Cora edged her words with warning. “Maybe next time you’ll check before you assign male clients to me.”
Amber’s green gaze hardened. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice about sleeping with a guy who’d make a good client.”
“Thinking twice was never my strong suit.” Cora stood, twisting a lock of long, dark hair over one shoulder. “Besides, in Hollywood, every man makes a good client.”
~*~
“Will there be women at this Flash meet-and-greet?”
The age-worn, smoker’s voice grated on Coach Trent Parker’s last, tightly strung nerve. “You’re not talking to any women, Dad, especially young, attractive ones. That’s how you always get into trouble.” And this time, Archie Parker had been caught – hooked, gutted, and filleted.
“If I hadn’t fallen in love…” Archie flashed a toothy grin and added more Southern twang to his tone. “I wouldn’t be in Beverly Hills, bonding with my – as yet – only child.”
If Dad hadn’t gotten that co-ed pregnant…
Trent repressed the need to punch something. He’d repressed a lot lately. When he’d imagined his NBA coaching debut, his father hadn’t been standing beside him on the sidelines in the role of player development.
His other coaching assistant, Randy Farrell, limped closer to the hotel lobby window, giving the two Parker men some privacy while they waited for the valet to bring Trent’s car around. Randy was another departure from his visualization. An assistant coach with no coaching experience. He’d just graduated from college, just finished playing Division One ball, just blew out his knee and Achilles and a shot at NBA greatness. He brought little to Trent’s staff, beyond balm to the recent wounds of Trent’s past.
Trent should have been solidifying the foundation of his big career move. He’d coached the men’s basketball team at Holy Southern Cross University to a Cinderella win at the Final Four last March. He’d met the President of the United States. He’d ended a stifling, ten-year marriage on good terms. He’d been offered a coaching job with the L.A. Flash. The world should have been laid out like a smooth red carpet at his feet. Instead, his toes kept snagging on creases, and he couldn’t stop tripping.
The valet brought around Trent’s black, 1967 Ford Fairlane. As per its ornery character, it backfired when the man put it in park.
“For the love of God, buy a new car,” Archie grumbled, following Trent out the door into the late summer afternoon heat.
“I’m not selling Mom’s car.” It was the last thing he had of hers. Trent tipped the valet, and opened the car door, pulling the seat forward so Randy could fold his six-foot-six frame in the back.
“Coach Parker without his Fairlane would be like Bert without Ernie,” Randy said, a young prophet in the making.
Trent winced.
“This is how you plan to succeed in the NBA?” Archie settled in the front passenger seat next to Trent. “By hiring a former college football coach about to marry a college co-ed and a former college basketball player who references Sesame Street?” His old man shook his head. “Son, straighten out your priorities.”
Trent glanced in the rearview mirror, noting Randy’s paling complexion. “You’re suggesting I fire you?” He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “If I don’t do what’s right, who will? You?”
“I’m marrying Mary Sue Ellen,” Archie groused. “I don’t need your charity.”
“And yet, you took it.” Trent edged onto Wilshire, which was congested with Thursday afternoon traffic. Almost immediately, they were at a standstill. He missed Holy Southern’s sparsely filled streets.
“I could have landed another coaching job.” Archie. Still grumbling. Still lying to himself.
“Not until the furor over your eighteen year-old, baby mama dies down.” Trent’s mother must be spinning in her grave. It was likely she’d been spinning mere months after she’d passed on.
“My son, the saint. No wonder they call you Reverend.” His father was the one person who knew the Reverend was a sham. The one person who didn’t buy into Trent’s pious persona. The one person who could ruin everything.
Trent ground his teeth. He’d been given the nickname while playing basketball at BYU. It had nothing to do with his religious beliefs, or his too-young marriage to the daughter of a televangelist. He’d earned the title due to his dedication to the sport of basketball, and the pep talk he gave before each game, which his teammates had labeled “the sermon.” When Trent took on the mantle of the Reverend, people took notice. Without the Reverend, he’d be nothing.
As long as he kept up the façade, everything would be fine. People who believed in the Reverend listened to what he had to say. Players sacrificed their bodies for him. Those sacrifices were the only tarnish on his public record, the only seed of doubt in his mind. But he had no room for doubts. He had to play his cards right, reclaim the Reverend’s halo image, save his father from ruin, and give Randy a new NBA dream.
Archie thumbed at Randy in the backseat. “He’s a college graduate. There’s no need to let him draft in your exhaust.”
Half turning in his seat, his father didn’t let up. “What was it you studied, boy?”
“Physical education,” Randy mumbled.
Archie huffed. “That and a cup of coffee will get you a job at your local gym. You may not be able to play ball anymore, but you sure as shootin’ can sweep up during the night shift.”
Randy stared out the window in silence.
Pressing his lips together, Trent counted to ten, during which
time he reminded himself he’d promised his mother he’d watch out for Archie.
He’d made it to the NBA. Things could only get better from here.
Chapter 2
“We’re being Punk’d, right?” Evan, Amber’s husband, glanced at the special delivery envelope Cora held with a hand that trembled.
Cora didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer.
It wasn’t every day her father sent her a letter from the grave. His name might not be on the return address, but there was no other reason for this special delivery from Daddy’s lawyer.
Luck was double-dutching the middle finger today. First, the new client list with ex-lovers. Now, just as she was about to face Vivian Gordon, a letter from Daddy. She couldn’t make her hand stop shaking.
Voices and booming laughter spilled out the open windows of Jack’s house in fits and bursts. The Flash owner’s meet-and-greet was in full swing. Brutus poked his head out of her shoulder bag and growled. The special courier paused at the sidewalk, turned, and saluted them.
“Really?” Amber gestured toward the courier, unaccountably annoyed. “You can’t get a cup of coffee without some signature gesture or phrase from a wannabe actor who wants to be remembered.”
“This has to be a joke.” When no camera crew revealed itself, Evan shrugged. His tall, muscular body would have made him immediately recognizable as a professional athlete, if his famous, product-endorsing face did not. “Why else would someone be waiting for Cora’s signature at Jack Gordon’s meet-and-greet?”
“Gemma probably told them where to find her.” Amber’s gaze drifted from Cora’s face, to the envelope, and back. “Are you okay?”
Cora shook her head.
Amber reached, ready to pluck the letter from Cora’s fingers. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
“No.” The cream-colored envelope shouldn’t have been heavy, but the last time Cora received a missive via special courier from Kremer, Hurley & Smythe, it had been a summons to the reading of their father’s will.
The tremble worked its way up her arms.
Amber twisted her long red hair over one shoulder. With her other hand, she waved to Ren Du, the team’s seven-foot tall, South Korean center, who’d just turned up the driveway. “You have to open it.”
“No, I don’t.” It might change her life’s course again. She was just getting used to working full-time at the Dooley Foundation, just coming to care for her siblings after years of resentment. “You know it’s from him.”
Meaning their father. Dooley Rule had sent them each personal letters to accompany his will. When Blue and Amber met their sales goals and the other stipulations of their father’s last wishes, they’d each received another letter with their inheritance. Cora was only halfway to reaching her sales quota. And Dooley had been notorious for changing the game on Cora.
“For your own good,” he’d said, duct-taping one hand behind Cora’s back during a game of tag at some long-forgotten friend’s birthday party. She’d lost her balance chasing after a younger target and skidded on her knees.
“Adversity builds character, especially in girls,” he’d said, pushing her into the sparring arena, forcing a challenge with an older, larger opponent – a boy, who snap-kicked Cora in the stomach, landed a roundhouse blow to her shoulder, and planted his glove in her face.
Each game change made Cora more wary. Each defeat made her more closed off. Until she became a rebellious, guarded ten year-old, who’d grown up to be a rebellious, guarded – yes, it needed to be said – bitch. All she’d ever wanted – then and now – was for Daddy to love her.
“My Evening Star.” Ren stopped beside Cora and wrapped his long arms around her in a much-needed hug.
She nearly choked on Old Spice, but it felt good to be held and she snuggled closer, careful not to crush Brutus in her bag.
“Evan, why don’t you go in with Ren?” Amber tiptoed to kiss her husband’s stubbled cheek. “We’ll catch up in a minute.”
Ren released Cora, and patted Brutus’ head. Then the seven-foot tall human bottle of cologne hugged Amber. “My Moon. I have not seen enough of you.”
Amber grinned. “As soon as the season starts, I won’t see much of my favorite Flash players, either.”
After Ren released his wife, Evan pressed a kiss to Amber’s forehead. “Don’t be long or the ice in your drink will melt.” He tugged a lock of Cora’s long, straight hair, as if she was five, not twenty-five, and headed inside with his teammate. The noise level grew more raucous as the NBA team welcomed their captain and their gentle giant.
“I need to leave.” Cora sounded little-girl-lost. She’d thought she’d erased that voice from her repertoire when Daddy died.
“You can’t leave. We have business inside.” Amber looped her arm around Cora’s waist, leading her away from the front door and toward the curved, sloping driveway. Their heels clacked on flagstone, their steps too delicate to crush Cora’s resurging insecurities. “As your boss, I’m telling you to open that letter, because it might concern the Foundation.” Amber lowered her voice. “But as your sister, I’m telling you to open it because Dad can’t hurt you anymore.”
That was a big, fat-saturated lie. Right up there with telling a kid that chubby Santa Claus didn’t have diabetes or clogged arteries.
Daddy had been a brilliant life coach, serving egotistical Hollywood celebs, slumping sports personalities, and obscenely rich, Beverly Hills residents. Where had he come up with his unorthodox techniques? He’d used his children as guinea pigs. Turns out, tough love was lucrative.
Dad can’t hurt you anymore.
Cora wanted to believe Amber, but there was only one way to prove it.
She opened the letter with fumbling fingers.
Dear sweet princess…
The nickname filled her with unwanted longing and unfinished business. He’d died before she’d had a chance to say goodbye.
I thought you’d need a pep talk midway through fulfilling my last requests. Congratulations on getting this far. By now, you know life coaching isn’t easy.
No shit, Daddy. But according to Amber and Blue, she was good at it. A regular chip off the old cracked block.
I know you can reach your goal, and when you do, my legal counsel will identify three more of my children.
Cora’s heart plunged beneath the heels of her zebra Badgley Mischkas. The edges of the letter crumpled beneath her fingers.
More children?
The shakes increased, making it harder to breathe. Amber hugged her close, but not close enough to stop the memories that suddenly took on new meaning.
Daddy postponing a visit, the high-pitched voices of children a backdrop to his phone call.
Daddy rushing in late, missing Cora’s fifth-grade dance recital, a Little League shirt and cap on. Odd, since Blue didn’t play baseball.
Daddy’s fingers stained the colors of the rainbow, glitter on his cheek, as he refused to let her inside when she’d shown up unannounced one Saturday, seeking refuge from her mother.
Hurt, sharp and bitter, scaled Cora’s throat with claws that slashed at her breath. Was that why her father never seemed to love her unconditionally? Because there’d been other kids who were easier to love? Athletic and charming, like Blue? Or kind and beautiful, like Amber?
Cora, with her boring brown hair and plain brown eyes, didn’t stand out, couldn’t compete for her father’s affection, just as she hadn’t been perfect enough to win her mother’s love. Cora was ordinary in a land where extraordinary was worshipped. She’d tried to be everything Dooley wanted – brave and strong and smart. But she’d usually ended up with skinned knees and black eyes, which had given her mother, who prized perfection, more reason to disdain her.
More kids? Would they resent Cora as much as she did them?
She gripped the letter so tight, her fingernails punctured paper.
“I was wondering how to tell you about the others.” Amber broke into Cora’s pity party, transfo
rming hurt into something hotter and self-destructive.
“You knew?” For years, Amber had taken the brunt of blame for everything Cora felt was wrong with her relationship with their father. Amber took the brunt of her anger now. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“Blue and I found out a few weeks ago.” Amber managed to look hurt and guilty at the same time. “Blue hired a private investigator, but so far they’ve uncovered nothing. The only way we’re going to find the others is if you meet your quota.”
Cora shook her head. She wanted to walk away. But she wasn’t ten. She didn’t back down anymore. “If you don’t think you can tell me things like this, I quit. And I don’t want an inheritance if it means…if it means…” That she’d find out her father had a secret life with another daughter he called princess.
“He had enough love for a hundred kids,” Amber said earnestly.
“Like hell he did.” Cora stiffened her shoulders, finally ridding herself of the shakes. “When I was in high school I never spent time alone with him. Our visits were shared with you and Blue, or his younger clients, like Portia Francis.” A troubled Disney star.
“Really?” Amber’s tone was curious, not challenging. “Who else did he share you with?”
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
“I’m not.” Amber dropped her voice lower still, looking around as if to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “He never took Blue or me to see clients. He never encouraged us to draw. And he kept his secrets in his drawings.” Pictures of gardens hiding his high profile client list and his coaching techniques. Her gaze bore into Cora’s. “He taught you things. Maybe he was introducing you to the others.”
“There’s no way Portia is a Rule.” Her former best friend was more of a bitch than Cora was. “I’m not having this conversation.” To do so meant to validate Amber’s suspicions and put faces, names, and personalities to Daddy’s betrayal.
“Read the rest of the letter,” Amber said quietly.
Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015 Page 2