Don't Let It Be True

by Jo Barrett

  The Royal Arms was the only condominium high-rise that had ever been built inside the 77019 zip code—the prestigious River Oaks neighborhood where Houston’s old guard elite lived in sprawling mansions with gated, manicured lawns.

  Dylan swung his car into the circular drive and waited for one of the valets.

  “What’s up, Achmed?” he said, stepping out and tossing his keys to one of the red-uniformed men. Or was it Abdul? They were all from Jordan or Syria, all earnest, and all their names tended to start with an A.

  Dylan felt relief as he saw the gold name tag that confirmed it was Achmed.

  Who could blame him for forgetting their names? He was one of the biggest tippers at Christmas, and he knew this because the valets always went the extra mile. One of the Abduls would even wash Dylan’s car, as long as the big boss man, the Senior Abdul, wasn’t around. The Senior Abdul liked to keep the lesser Abduls in check.

  Dylan strode up to the glass doors and waited for Poor Eddie to buzz him in. Poor Eddie, the building concierge who sat behind an antique mahogany desk, sneaking Cheetos and Twinkies and Twix bars when no one was looking.

  Dylan had nicknamed him “Poor” Eddie not because of his wages, but because Eddie always had a sob story about his health. His knee had gone bad. His hearing. His teeth. Poor Eddie had an array of physical ailments. Each week it was something different. Dylan liked Eddie, but hated feeling obligated. Hated having to stand at the concierge desk while Eddie regaled him with another tale about his glaucoma, his high blood pressure, his prostate.

  He wondered if this happened at the fancy Park Avenue buildings in New York City. Did those Manhattan Masters of the Universe stand around for twenty minutes while some building concierge driveled on about his goddamned cataracts?

  The secret to getting past Eddie was to look hurried and preoccupied. Often Dylan would pretend to be on his cell phone as he hustled past the front desk. But today he was in no mood to fake it.

  “Eddie,” he said, nodding briskly as he strode through the lobby.

  Eddie broke into a broad grin and rubbed his liver-spotted hand over his bald pate. “Mr. Grant,” he breathed, with those deep pools for eyes pleading for Dylan to stop and chat.

  Dylan winced. Eddie insisted on calling him “Mr. Grant.” Eddie called everyone else in the building by their first name. And so, as Houston’s rich and overprivileged new money crowd swooshed through the glass doors and past the entrance garlanded with a fresh flower bouquet every morning, Eddie would call them all out by name. Heralding the wealthy residents of the Royal Arms with his cheerful siren call:

  “Morning, Karen.”

  “Morning, Charles.”

  “Morning, Tom.”

  But when Dylan walked by, it was, “Morning, Mr. Grant.”

  It has to be the car, Dylan thought. That damned car. The other cars in the building were nothing to sniff about, the valet lot always jammed with six-figure wheels. Porsches, Range Rovers, Mercedes, and not one but several Ferraris, but Dylan’s car stood out from the pack. It was the worst kind of car, in Dylan’s opinion. A car that screamed: Look at me, everyone! Look at what I’m driving! I’m stupid rich!

  It wasn’t his fault, of course. It was the fault of the younger Mr. Grant. Dylan’s brash younger brother. He’d been trying to rein in Wyatt for years, but it was like putting a leash on a wildcat. His brother had done the unthinkable and just left the car at the building. Just left it for Dylan to take care of. Just left it for Dylan to drive. Just left it. Period.

  Wyatt.

  Young, rakish, partyin’, good ol’ boy—God bless him—Wyatt.

  Wyatt Grant had left a brand-new Bugatti for Dylan to drive. A cool million dollars on wheels. A moving bank. A damned liability if you asked Dylan.

  His younger brother had moved out to Las Vegas to “become a real estate developer,” which Dylan knew for a fact meant that Wyatt wanted to get laid by hot, baby-oil tan chicks. In Wyatt’s words, Vegas was a great place to “prowl for new skirt.”

  Dylan smiled at the thought of his brother. Had he not suffered so much hardship as a child, Wyatt would’ve been pure asshole. But because their father had been a disaster—a Titanic on two feet—Dylan had to give his younger brother a break. Wyatt never stood a chance. Not after taking a round of shotgun shells in the leg at the mere age of nine that caused the Younger to walk with a limp even to this day. Alcohol and shotguns didn’t mix well in the hands of Butch Grant.

  Good thing Dad is dead, Dylan thought.

  Four

  Kathleen knew there was a bottle of vodka hiding somewhere. She padded into the kitchen and proceeded to open all the relevant cabinets. Dylan didn’t like to keep liquor in the house, which was understandable with the type of father he’d grown up with, but Kathleen enjoyed a little nip now and again.

  “I see you,” she said, as she spotted the miniature airplane-sized bottle. Stashed behind a box of Keebler saltines that were surely stale by now.

  Kathleen twisted off the cap.

  The drink of champions, she smirked—taking a swig directly from the bottle.

  She rarely drank, but today had been one of those days when a person needed a little nectar to kill the pain.

  Dylan will be home soon, she thought. She just wanted her raging headache to subside. She needed to be there for him. She needed to make love to her man. She needed to forget about dirty little secret number two.

  Kathleen padded around the kitchen, waving the bottle of vodka in the air like a wand, and considered her fate. What series of unfortunate events had led her to the doctor’s office this morning? How had she come to be the last remaining person in her entire family?

  And why—of all people—me?

  The Kings had been plagued with the same Greek tragedies as those of other powerful clans, like the Kennedy family, and even the royal family in England.

  It read like a bad movie…

  Kathleen’s mother had died from ovarian cancer when Kat was still in elementary school. Five years ago, her father had been killed in a gangland shooting at a mall in Dallas. Kathleen’s younger sister, Meredith, had lost her life when she was just fifteen, the very day she received her temporary driver’s license in the mail and jackknifed into an eighteen-wheeler on Interstate 10 during the typical teenager joyride.

  Kathleen’s venerable grandfather, Cullen Davis King, had some staying power, but even this great man had died in his sleep a few years back—of a massive heart attack.

  There was no one left but Kathleen. After her grandfather’s death, she lived and breathed the foundation. What else was there?

  Kathleen checked the clock on the microwave.

  He’s going to be walking in the door any minute now.

  She took another sip from the vodka, and then chunked it in the trash—underneath a newspaper.

  Then she stripped off her clothes and waited.

  Five

  Dylan stretched his arms out wide and felt a pop in his back. It’s been ten minutes, he thought. Eddie was rambling on. Glancing at his watch, Dylan realized he’d been listening to Eddie for not ten, but a solid twenty minutes. It was time to cut to the chase.

  “How was your doctor’s appointment?” he asked.

  Poor Eddie shook his head grimly. He cast his eyes downward, rubbed his bald head, and lowered his voice a notch.

  An Oscar-worthy performance, Dylan thought.

  “Not so good, Mr. Grant. Doc says my cholesterol is out the roof. I’ve gotta start on the Lipitor. But my insurance won’t pay…”

  Dylan listened as Eddie trailed on. Something about Eddie’s arteries.

  Just then, Dylan spotted them. Hidden discreetly behind the FedEx packages at the concierge desk. A half-eaten bag of deep-fried pork rinds and the crumbling remains of a Snickers.

  “How much for the pills?” Dylan asked.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Grant. Could be a hundred. Maybe more.”

  It used to be fifty, Dylan thought. He flipped out
a hundred-dollar bill from his money clip and dipped it into Eddie’s sweaty palm.

  For such a sickly dude, Eddie was quick on the uptake. Fast as lightning when it came to pocketing a Benjamin.

  Dylan watched as the cash disappeared into Eddie’s thick commercial-grade trousers.

  “Thank you, Mr. Grant,” Eddie breathed. As if Dylan had just given him a kidney.

  “Don’t mention it, Eddie. I’d lay off the snacks if I were you.”

  Eddie pressed the button on a set of glass security doors. Dylan walked to the bank of elevators that would whisk him up to his sweet twentieth-floor pad.

  That was fun, Dylan thought.

  Dealing with Eddie had been a pain, but that wasn’t the problem. Thinking about his father had gotten Dylan’s blood pressure up and he felt his heart pounding firmly in his chest. Butch Grant had a way of reaching his cold hand out from the grave and squeezing Dylan’s lungs, until his breath grew short.

  As Dylan stepped into the elevator and stabbed at the button, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a smell. Cheap cologne. It was a cologne that reminded Dylan of the eighties. Of high school kids in Jeep Wranglers listening to Head like a hole. Black as your soul. I’d rather die than give you control…

  Who the fuck is wearing Drakkar Noir in this building?

  The answer arrived in a cloudburst. It swept into the elevator. And it was dressed to the nines.

  It was Steve.

  The Katrina guy.

  Terrific, Dylan thought. What next?

  Mr. Louisiana had been displaced by Hurricane Katrina, moved to Houston, and set up shop. Mr. Louisiana—a white guy wearing a black guy’s clothes. Crocodile-skin loafers. A pin-striped suit too long for his body. Gold everywhere. He looked like a drug dealer or rap artist, this guy Steve. A white guy in a black guy’s clothes.

  Steve stuck out his knobby forefinger and punched the button to the third floor.

  Figures, Dylan thought. Steve was the type of guy to enter a high-rent building only to get a low-floor discount.

  Steve regarded Dylan, just as Dylan regarded Steve. They both stood in the confined elevator. Their arms crossed across their respective chests, staring each other down.

  Elevator gunslingers.

  “So,” Steve said finally, breaking the ice that was building up. The testosterone raging inside the small enclosure.

  “So,” Dylan echoed.

  “You made any money yet today?” Steve asked, all testosterone and balls.

  Dylan glanced lazily down at his watch. It was two o’clock in the afternoon.

  “Day’s still early, brother.”

  Steve’s eyes became like needles—perhaps because Dylan had called him “brother”—but then Mr. Louisiana allowed a chuckle to escape his lips.

  “Aw, hell,” Steve shook his head. “What business you in, dawg?”

  Dylan winced. Steve talked like he was Ice Cube or Ice-T or Vanilla Ice, or one of the ices.

  “Family business,” Dylan said, trying not to breathe. The cologne was worse than a Mexico City nightclub.

  Steve persisted. “You the doughnut guy?”

  “Nah, man. I’m not the doughnut guy.”

  Nah, man? Dylan found himself talking the talk. The Steve lingo. He probably smelled like Steve, too. Drowning in Drakkar.

  Jesus. This guy Steve is one infectious sonofabitch.

  “’Cause I heard a rumor this new dawg moved into the building who’s richer than shit. I’m talking loaded. You know Whipley’s? Those doughnut shops out on Memorial Drive. Hell, they’re even serving kolaches now. They got everything.”

  The elevator stopped on Steve’s floor, but Steve stabbed the open button with his nubby forefinger. Much to Dylan’s chagrin, the door alarm started to ring.

  Ding! Ding! Ding!

  Mr. Devil-May-Care didn’t seem to mind the noise, and kept his finger firmly pressed on the button.

  Dylan hesitated. “I’m not the Whipley guy. I’m in oil and gas.”

  Being “in” oil and gas was Dylan’s favorite tagline. It could mean anything. And usually, people didn’t pry.

  Of course, Steve the Infectious Disease wasn’t most people.

  “Lucky, dawg! I’d kill for some of that mailbox money. We should get together, you and I. Talk shop.”

  Ding! Ding! Ding!

  “Gotta bounce, brother. Let’s meet downstairs for coffee,” Steve said. As if they were fast friends all of a sudden.

  Not a chance, Dylan thought. He couldn’t catch a break. As soon as he set foot inside the building, he felt like Bill Gates at a titty bar. Everyone flocked to him because of the damned car.

  Dylan watched the elevator doors whoosh close. A few more floors and I’ll be home, sweet home.

  Six

  Stepping inside the condo always took Dylan’s breath away. The view alone was worth the trouble. Boasting a sweep of floor-to-ceiling windows facing east—smack-dab on the Houston skyline—it was priceless. Not to mention that the condo was made all the more dramatic with blond hardwood floors and soaring ceilings.

  “What’s up, buttercup?” cooed a sweet voice. Dylan strolled into his main living room and admired the view. She was naked, of course. Lying on one of her canvases. Right in the center of the floor.

  Kat.

  Good ol’ Kat.

  God, I love you, woman, Dylan thought.

  She was his sweetheart, ever since she’d punched him in the nose in the fourth grade. Dylan had deserved it. He’d called her “Pudding Face.” And she’d responded with a swift right hook that left him bleeding next to the jungle gym.

  Yet something tugged at him. They weren’t married, and the subject had never come up. It wasn’t like Dylan was a commitment-phobe. It’s just that marriage itself seemed like a major headache. Heck, they’d been living together since college. What did a piece of paper matter?

  Kat was always working on different projects. This week, she’d decided she was Marc Chagall.

  “How did it go?” she murmured.

  “It was a blast,” Dylan said dryly. She was no stranger to death in the family. She’d offered to go with him to the funeral home, but he’d vigorously protested. The last thing you need to deal with is something like this, he’d told her.

  Now Kat was trying to get his mind off things by being naked and pretending like he hadn’t spent the afternoon with the grim reaper’s close cousin—Mr. Ned Greely.

  “I learned that a flower vase is not an urn,” Dylan said.

  “Oh, sweetie,” Kat said. She continued painting in the nude, but looked up at him as if he were a wounded animal on the side of the road. Dylan had instructed her not to hug him, kiss him, or do anything when he got home that wasn’t normal.

  Pretend like it’s any other day, he’d told her when he left for the funeral home. Otherwise, I’m gonna lose it.

  “Don’t give me those pity eyes,” Dylan scolded. “You know I hate that.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Absolutely, one hundred percent. Let’s spend all evening rehashing my father’s wonderful parenting job, my fun-loving childhood, and the fact that his death is a tragedy not only to me, but to all mankind.”

  “Oh, sweetie. Get over here,” Kat commanded him.

  Dylan watched her roll onto her back and drip the paintbrush across her lithe body. Her breasts were small and firm—not the silicone balloons favored by his brother, Wyatt, and most other men whom Dylan knew. Kat was tiny, small-framed, and stubborn as a bull.

  Kat flicked the brush in his direction, sending splatters of hot pink paint all over Dylan’s jeans and the hardwood floor.

  “Hey now! You’re spilling paint all over the condo!”

  “It’s water paint, you nutcase,” she said. “It’ll wipe right off.”

  Dylan scowled as he approached her, staring down at Kat naked on her canvas.

  “You painting your butt or something?”

  Dylan knew it was a stupid question. But with K
at, you never could tell.

  “Yes, I’m painting my butt,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Dylan Grant! Why on Earth would I be painting my butt? Do I look like a butt painter to you? This is a tree, silly. See the branches?” She traced her finger along the paint.

  Dylan wondered why Kat was painting a hot pink forest.

  “Trees are green, aren’t they?”

  She drummed her fingers impatiently against the canvas. “I’m waiting for you to get your ass down here and make a woman out of me.”

  Kat rolled on her back, flashed a come-hither smile, and gave him The Look. Dylan had come to know The Look quite well. It meant, Let’s have sex right this minute or else you’re not getting any for the rest of the week.

  Watching Kat drip paint across her firm little tummy, he was more than happy to oblige. Hell, it had been a long day. Anything to get his mind off the recently deceased Butch Grant was a welcome reprieve.

  He bounced around a minute trying to get his shoes off, then stripped off his T-shirt and kicked off his jeans one leg at a time.

  Dylan slid down on top of her and cupped her breasts in his hands. He suddenly felt something wet slide across his privates. It was Kat. Rubbing her paintbrush back and forth.

  “Hey!” Dylan grabbed Kat’s little wrist and stared down at himself. He was now, officially, Hot, Hard, and Pink.

  She tittered and wriggled her body underneath his. “That looks cute,” she said. “Now stick it on the canvas!”

  “I’m not sticking anything on any—”

  Kat grabbed him and pressed his hardness against the canvas, right underneath the leaves she’d painted.

  Dylan glanced down and allowed a fleeting smile to escape his lips. Leave it to Kat to get his mind off the unbearable.

  “Thank you for providing my tree trunk,” she announced.

  It ended up being a large splotch that even Dylan had to admit, he was proud of.

  Seven