by Ivy Carter
I grew up on them.
Plain with mustard. No ketchup or onions. No freshly grated cheese. Just a good old-fashioned wiener stuffed into a mostly-stale bun. They’re not worth the six bucks I just paid for them, but to see the look on Mason’s face when he bites into one? Priceless.
I quicken my pace, anxious to get them to him before they’re cold and soggy.
A man in a hat steps to the side to avoid a cyclist and BAM! His shoulder knocks against mine with enough force to jostle the hot dogs free. They land face down on the concrete, mustard splattered like blood spray across the sidewalk.
“Shit.”
“Double shit,” the guy says, crouching to pick them up off the ground. “That was totally my bad. I wasn’t paying attention and—” He looks up, our eyes connect. He smiles when recognition hits. “Miss Landers! Imagine bumping into you.”
Buck Andrews. His hair is longer since our brief interaction in Hawaii, but he looks more mature, almost haggard. Patchy stubble peppers his jaw. His eyes are bloodshot.
I glance over my shoulder, nervous someone will see us together. Mason’s office window faces this street, and if he happens to look out—I shudder to think what he’ll assume. “Buck…right?”
He nods with enthusiasm. “Good memory.” Mustard smears his wrist. He glances down at it, helplessly, and shrugs. “Let me buy you a couple more.”
“It’s fine,” I say, with an effort not to seem disappointed. There’s no time for me to stand in line at Nate’s, and a hot dog from any other vendor isn’t the same. “I’ll just grab a sandwich from the kiosk.”
Buck dumps the hot dogs in a nearby garbage can and wipes his hands on his tan slacks. A yellow streak smears his upper thigh, the color of baby shit. He follows my stare. “Good thing I’m not heading into the office.”
Good thing, indeed.
“You’ve got quite the appetite,” he says, grinning.
I lift an eyebrow.
He nudges his head toward the trashcan. “Two hot dogs.”
“Oh,” I say, chuckling. “They weren’t both for me. Mason has…” My voice catches as I realize my mistake. Damn it. “I really should be going.”
Buck rocks back on his heels. “Mason, is it?” He winks. “Looks like things are going well between you.”
My cheeks go warm. “I really have nothing to say to you.”
Buck nods. “Understandable.” He pinches his chin, as though in thought. “I imagine Daylight Savings forces its employees to sign a strict non-disclosure agreement.”
My spine stiffens. “NDAs are common practice with hedge fund firms.”
“Right, right.” He bobs his head like a chicken. “Lots of secrets at Daylight, though, given the history of the owners.”
“I really have to go.”
I spin around, but Buck grabs my wrist. I yank it free and clutch it to my chest.
“Listen, Olivia,” he says. “May I call you that?”
The question sounds rhetorical, so I don’t bother answering. My heart hammers against my ribs. We’re in the middle of the sidewalk blocking traffic—people have to step out of the way to pass. But for some reason, I’m paralyzed, as if we’re the only two people in the city. The hair on the back of my neck stands at alert.
“I like you, so I’ll give you some unsolicited advice,” the grizzled reporter says. “Be careful.” I open my mouth to protest, but Buck cuts me off. “Mason and his partners are hiding something about that school shooting. In my experience,” he says. “It’s always safest to assume that there’s more to the story than meets the eye. Especially in this case.”
I shiver runs up and down my spine. “I appreciate your concern,” I say. “But there’s no need.”
Buck smiles thinly. “I hope, for your sake, that’s true.”
“I have no doubt.”
The words come easily, but the tremor in my voice that betrays the lie. I’ve suspected Mason hasn’t told me everything about that tragic day—but hearing my suspicion confirmed from another source makes me quiver with unease.
What if everything I’ve thought about that day—about Mason—is wrong?
Chapter 26
There is nothing on TV.
I flip back and forth through our only three channels, curling my lip with more disgust at each pause. It’s either a praise Jesus sermon, Casablanca, or golf. I go for option four and flick off the remote.
Renee’s fashion magazines fan out on the coffee table. I scoop one off the top and move over to the polka dot couch, sinking into the well-worn cushions. Gwen Stefani stares at me from the cover of People, posing for the cameras in a sleek black gown that slits all the way to the top of her thigh.
It looks like something Renee would design—though with more color.
I glance over at the row of mannequins lined up by the window, each in a new Renee original. It must be weird when people look up at our suite, seeing the same girls in the same positions day after day.
At least they’re not in the closet anymore. One nightmare too many, as far as I’m concerned.
My cell rings, causing me to startle.
I look at the caller ID and smile. “Hi Mom,” I say by way of greeting.
“Olivia?” Her warm voice worms through the line and tugs at my heartstrings, immediately making me long for home. Since Renee moved in, I haven’t called much. Maybe she’d be fine with her living here—she claims to have no grudge against my sister—but it’s not a topic I’m itching to tackle. Nor is the subject of Mason.
“Why do you always ask?” I say, grinning. “The odds of it being anyone else are staggeringly low.”
She laughs, making me miss her even more. For the first few years after Dad left, Mom didn’t smile often. Laughter, as it turns out, isn’t always the best medicine. Especially when the patient is unwilling to give it a chance.
I get it. Dad was the love of her life.
But he’s gone now, and eventually that has to sink in.
“Someone else could have possibly answered,” she says.
“Like who? The maid?”
Her voice perks up. “Olivia! You can afford a housekeeper?”
Trust Mom to believe the most ridiculous things. People prey on that kind of naivety, she should know. Dad was the worst vulture in the bunch.
I survey the dusty shelves and unwashed dishes in the sink. “If I’m paying one, she isn’t doing a great job.”
Despite the unkempt state of my apartment, I’d never spend money on someone to clean it. I make a great salary at Daylight Holdings, but I know better than to spend without thought. I’m building a nest egg. Enough money to pay for five months of bills should Mason choose to terminate my contract for any reason. I learned that from Dad, who felt a person should always have six months’ worth of living expenses in the bank at all times. A rainy day fund.
Or in his case, an “I have to support my family” fund.
Because that’s exactly what he took from the joint account when he walked out on me and Mom. I shake loose the bitterness. “Anyway, I was being sarcastic.”
“It’s been so long since I’ve heard from you, I’d forgotten what you sound like.”
Zing! I grip the phone tighter. “Now who’s being sarcastic?”
“Tell me everything that’s been happening for you lately,” she says. “Leave nothing out, especially not the part where Renee is living with you. Are things going well for you two?”
My heart stutters. “Who told you? Was it Renee?”
“It should have been you,” she says, quiet, but with an edge of annoyance that takes me back to my childhood. Mom never got mad, not even when I fucked up. She just got disappointed, which is way worse. “You know I’ve always liked her.”
Not true.
Mom never could look Renee in the eye—said she reminded her of “the other woman.” It doesn’t matter that she shares the same eyes as me and Dad, she shares nothing of my Mom, and while she may have accepted the affair and doesn’
t mean to punish Renee, there’s a quiet hatred that simmers just under the surface of her practiced tolerance.
“Well, since you know about Renee, you’re all caught up,” I fib. I walk to the kitchen and pour myself a soda, and then settle back into the couch. “It’s good living with her,” I say finally, which is the truth. “She’s at a fashion event today.”
“On a Sunday?”
I grin at Mom’s shock. “New York doesn’t sleep.”
“Right,” she says, her voice drifting.
Okay, now I know something’s going on. “Spill it, Mom. This is definitely not a checking in call.”
“It was,” she says, but then adds coyly, “Of course, I do have some news.”
A cough in the background makes me tense. It’s definitely male—and somehow familiar. “Mom, do you have the TV on?” I can feel dread unfurling from my core. With a shaky hand, I set down my glass, and curl my knees up to my chest. “Mom?”
“Liv, I want you to listen,” Mom says.
My pulse ratchets up. Blood rushes to my head, making me dizzy. “He’s there, isn’t he?”
She sighs. “Yes, but…”
Heat spreads up the side of my neck. I clutch my hand into a fist. “Why is Dad at the house?”
Our house.
He should be in Oregon with his Renee’s mother, not back with Mom, twisting her emotions into knots. Damn him.
“We’re reconciling,” she says. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
Bile begins to creep up my throat. I take a sip of soda. Fuck. I’m going to need something a little stronger. Vodka. Whiskey. Maybe even the bottle of tequila Renee has stashed at the back of the cupboard for a special occasion.
Shit. Renee. Does she know?
Of course not.
If she did, it would be big news and I’d have heard as well.
I quickly check my cell phone, positive I must have some text from her, but the screen is blank.
My voice goes cold. “Wonderful isn’t quite the word I’d use.”
In fact, my parents reconciling is the exact opposite of wonderful. Because not only is my father a scoundrel, a bottom feeding cad--he’s a lying, cheating asshole about to break another woman’s heart. Not to mention Renee’s.
I’m pissed.
And scared.
Because no text from Renee means she doesn’t know, and this phone call is my father’s subtle way of manipulating me into breaking the news to her.
She’ll be crushed.
Renee and I avoid the topic of Dad like it’s the bubonic plague.
I’m convinced that careful avoidance is the secret to our half-sister sibling success.
But even I know she worships him. Renee is daddy’s girl—has been since he first held her in his arms. I don’t know that he ever looked at me the way he stared at her, his eyes glistening with tears. A humbled man.
Mom and I never saw that.
Over the years, I just accepted it. Everything happens for a reason, and maybe Renee needed a dad more—even if he was mine first. I was letting go, had let go. And now—
No. I’m not willing to let him back in.
“I understand this is difficult to accept right now,” Mom says. She keeps talking, but her voice turns to white noise, drowned out by thoughts of Renee’s anguish, the tears I know she’s going to cry.
“Your father is the love of my life,” Mom is saying now. “We belong together, Liv. Can’t you see?”
I really can’t.
“And if we can work this out—if I can forgive and forget—maybe someday, you can too?”
The tears I’ve been holding break free. I swipe at my eyes with the back of my hand. “No, Mom. I don’t ever think I can.”
I hang up before she can respond.
Chapter 27
Renee starts to laugh when I tell her about our father reconciling with my mother.
“That’s in really bad taste,” she says, and then she sees the expression on my face, registers my tear stained cheeks.
“Renee—“
“You’re not fucking joking, are you?” she says.
She’s standing in the entrance of our apartment, still flush from being outside in the streets of New York City, looking glamorous and perfect for this time and place.
And I’m breaking her heart.
“I’m as shocked as you,” I tell her. “I don’t know how anyone can stand to be around him, let alone bring him into their home after all he’s done.”
“Your mother has always been intent on getting him back,” Renee says, her voice strained. “And it looks like she got her wish, finally. At my mom’s expense.”
“That’s not fair, Ren,” I say. I can’t believe she’s taking it this way. Lashing out at me. “We should be sticking together, not fighting amongst ourselves. We’re all victims of his behavior.”
Renee drops her purse on the table. “I’m so tired of hearing you badmouth him, and insinuating that everything he’s ever done is bad because he fell in love with my mother.”
“And left his family!” I say, my voice rising despite myself.
“Shit happens, and you need to get over it,” she replies. “Instead you and your mother act bitter and treat me and my family like second class citizens. We have as much right to happiness as you.”
“I’ve never said any of that.”
“Well now you have him back. Happy?”
“No. I never wanted him back.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” she says, rolling her eyes and then turning away from me and walking to the couch, sitting down and texting on her phone.
“So that’s it? That’s all you have to say? You’re just going to blame me, kill the messenger?” I say. “I let you come and live with me. I’ve always treated you like my full sister.”
Renee laughs bitterly. “Lucky me. I wonder how you’d treat me if I was a stranger.”
And then I’m grabbing my pure and heading out into the night, hailing a cab, wiping at my eyes, knowing I can’t stay in the apartment with Renee after the heated words we’ve exchanged.
“Miss, where will you being going tonight?”
The cab driver’s voice lulls me out of my misery. When I ran out of the apartment, I didn’t know where to go, just that I needed to run away. I have no friends in New York, no one to talk to. Nowhere to go.
I give him Mason’s address.
I’ve been to Mason’s penthouse enough times for the bellman to recognize me. He waves me into the elevator without acknowledging the mascara streaks on my cheeks. On the long way up to the thirty-ninth floor, I peer into my compact, and try erasing some of the signs of my distress. Foundation covers the surface, but it can’t heal my bruised heart.
Mason hasn’t answered my texts, and I knock tentatively at the slightly open door. I’m on instant alert. Mason is borderline obsessive about security. I wedge my way into the foyer and squint. The suite is mostly dark, save the soft lights around the waterfall and two fluorescents over the kitchen stove.
I call out his name.
Nothing.
“Mason?”
Yielding no results, I tip toe into the kitchen and find a crumpled piece of paper on the counter. I skim the penmanship—bold printing—heart catching at my throat as I see the signature at the bottom.
Samuel Kratky.
Scanning my memory, I’m fairly certain that’s the son of the teacher killed during the tragic shooting.
I’d read he’d disappeared for a while after the murders, spending a few years in foster care, and then in a treatment center for addicts after he turned to drugs to cope with his grief. In the letter on the counter, he thanks Mason for taking care of the expenses, as well as his family while he is in recovery. Mom would have been grateful for that—she always said you were one of her favorites.
Samuel goes on to talk about his kids and how his daughter reminds him of his Mom. We think she’ll grow up to be a teacher.
There’s a family picture taped t
o the back, as well as a photo of Mrs. Kratky, who I recognize from the newspaper articles. I stare at her face, getting lost in her kind eyes, mourning for a life taken too soon.
Quietly, I set the letter down and pad down the hall, peering in each of the rooms for Mason. When at last I reach the master suite, my stomach is a twisted mess. He isn’t in bed either, but the door to his private theatre room is wide open. I peer inside.
Mason is sunken down on one of the couches, his legs sprawled out wide in front of him. An empty bottle of whiskey rests on a side table next him. The Outsiders plays on the giant movie screen.
“Mason?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t lift his head.
It’s possible he’s passed out, but I’m not going to leave him on the couch in a drunken stupor. With a deep breath, I wind my way to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “Mason?”
He peers up at me blearily. His eyes go wide, and then cloud over. Wet streaks mark his cheeks. I run my hand through his hair but he groans at me in response. “I want to be left alone,” he slurs.
I almost leave when I notice his laptop beside on the couch. The screen is open to an active trade, and my heart picks up speed. “Come to bed, Mason.”
A strangled sob comes from deep in his chest. “I said leave me alone.” His fingers move across the keyboard, and the screen switches to an investment page showing a trade totaling just over 100 million dollars. Any transaction over five million dollars needs approval from the three partners—and I have a gut feeling Mason hasn’t cleared this.
“You’re drunk,” I say, firmly. “Come on.” I look closer at the screen, relieved to see the transaction deadline isn’t for another two days. “Why don’t you take another look at this when you’re sober.”
“I’m the best in the business,” he says. “I can trade better drunk off my ass than ninety-nine percent can do on their best day sober.”
It’s probably the truth, but I’m not willing to let him have the chance.