No More Masquerade

by Angel Payne

  “You look like shit.”

  I didn’t look up from my phone. “Nice to see you, too.”

  “No. I’m serious. I think I may actually be worried about you.”

  I nodded back toward the mall. “Go tell the guys at the little kiosk with the crystal thingies. Maybe they can engrave it on a bunny’s butt for you.”

  A weird sound emanated from her. If I wasn’t so sleep-deprived, I’d have thought it a soft snicker. But the woman didn’t dole out props like that. “Have you heard from Killian?”

  It was official. My brain really was shedding cells. Now I could’ve sworn there was real concern in her voice. Just a trace, but…whoa.

  “No.” I decided to ignore my hallucinations. I wanted to get started on tonight’s bottle of wine, and that plan didn’t include a sparring match with her.

  “I’m not the enemy, Claire.”

  She kept up the soft tone, though seemed uncomfortable with it. My own disquiet thickened the air. Tears burned my vision as all too clearly, I remembered the same words spilling from me, not so long ago. Kil, I’m not the enemy.

  Paris. Him. Me. The City of Lights. The stage for such darkness. We’d fought so hard, when we should have been treasuring our love. Gone now. We’d wasted it…

  My shoulders sagged. I looked up at her, daring to give her a glimpse of my grief, certain I’d regret it. “Of course you’re not,” I muttered. “I’m sorry.” Hell. I’d regret that, too. “It’s been shitty lately.”

  I expected the tigress any second, pouncing on my weakness like a gutted gazelle. Instead, she tugged her bottom lip between her teeth and mumbled, “Do you want to grab a drink?” Then blatantly blanched. “Or something?”

  I flipped a once-around for the camera crew. Had Margaux Asher—Mary Stone—just asked me to go for a cocktail?

  “Actually, I was just heading back to my place for a bottle of wine. The paparazzi have been more ravenous than usual. Public and stationary aren’t pretty for me right now.”

  “Then can I be gauche and invite myself over? All the sidewalks are cracked in my frontal lobe, too. Things with Moth—err, Andrea—have been pure shit lately.”

  I was shocked to feel a sympathetic grin at my lips. “So I’ve heard.”

  She swallowed hard. “Home is definitely not where the heart is.”

  I sensed she had more snark to release on that subject. The idea made me smile. It was a moment of insanity I’d surely live to condemn myself for, but I answered, “Sure…why not?” And yes, I’d really just done that. How long would it take the woman to use my act of kindness against me? At the moment, I didn’t care. It actually felt nice to be looking forward to some company.

  “Are you still at the same place in Mission Hills?”

  I just nodded while pressing the key fob to the car, then climbed in as the A8’s lights came on. At my place, Margaux parked her Mercedes right behind me then followed me up the walk. Hal and his buddies were there, recording the start of our girl’s night for posterity, though both of us barely waved in greeting. The guys knew I’d give a few words when I was good and ready. Right now, I wasn’t ready.

  First thing to go for both of us were our heels. Our purses quickly followed, dumped on my entryway table, though I still gripped my cell phone. It was always in my hand now, in case—well, just in case. I excused myself to go change into pajamas, and when emerging back into the living room, found Margaux sitting on my sofa, both feet tucked under. Two of my biggest wine glasses were already filled, with the bottle standing between them like a very brave soldier, ready to take on a night of girl talk. After tossing out an appreciative groan, I picked up a glass, handed Margaux the other, and pulled the throw blanket off the back of the sofa. Margaux reached for the blanket’s other end, tucking it in before raising her glass.

  “Wait,” I interjected. “We need a toast.”

  She tossed a perplexed glare. “Huh?”

  “We always need a toast.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “My house, my rules. And my rules say there’s always a toast.”

  She abandoned the glare for a full eye roll. “You’re weird, Montgomery.”

  “Thank you.” I extended my glass toward hers. “To Killian coming home.”

  Delivering about her twelfth shocker of the day, my stepsister nodded and softened her features into a smile. “Okay,” she said softly. “That’s actually a good one. To my—” Her lips trembled a little. “To my brother coming home,” she finally murmured.

  After we both took a hearty swallow, I closed my eyes and let my head fall back. “Oh, that’s good,” I groaned, letting the warmth permeate my bones.

  “So. He’s really gone, huh?” Her voice carried the same quiet concern she’d hinted at in the parking structure, only more of it. I opened my eyes just to make sure it was still the same woman sitting there. I’d never heard that voice out of Margaux. Ever.

  My head felt made of lead as I sat up and nodded. “I…don’t know what happened. We were at that grand opening party for the new club over by the university.”

  “Was he drinking?”

  “You mean donating his liver to Glenlivet distillery’s bottom line?” I stared at the waning sunset outside the window. “Yeah. You could say that.”

  While Margaux showed her appreciation for my snark with a little smirk, she stated, “That still doesn’t seem like him, though. Killian’s always held himself to a limit.”

  “You mean Killian Stone held himself.”

  “Ahhh.” As she took another sip, sadness glimmered through her eyes. “The holy-crap-who-am-I thing. I actually relate.”

  “Well, he was definitely getting in touch with the turmoil. After he turned one of the kids there into his personal primal aggression toy, I hauled his gorgeous but wasted ass out to the alley while I went back for my car. When I pulled around to pick him up, he was gone. Literally here one minute and gone the next.” My voice cracked. Maybe the wine and girl bonding thing hadn’t been such a great idea. Of all the people to show weakness in front of, Margaux was the very last person on my list. Still, I babbled on, “I don’t know if he even wants me to try to find him. I don’t know if he’s in danger, or if he just needs time, or—shit.” A lone tear slid down my cheek, and I was pretty damn sure it was the last one I had left. I was so drained and angry—

  And now frustrated as hell. Margaux’s giant green eyes were enough to get used to in their bitter and bitchy mode. But this wave of soft and understanding from her…

  Dammit.

  “Oh, for the love of God,” I snarled.

  “What?”

  “Don’t you pity me too, Margaux. I just can’t take it.”

  “Pity you?” She blew out a dainty snort. “I don’t pity you, Claire. I envy you. You’re so caught up in your own shit you can’t recognize the difference.” Though the words were sarcastic, her tone was gentle.

  For a moment, I only blinked. Then laughed. “Okay. You can be serious now.”

  “I am serious.”

  “Margaux, at what point in your life have you ever felt envy…for anything?”

  “Do not make me call you a brainless bitch for real.” She paused to take another long sip. “For nearly a year, the entire world has been watching that man trip over himself in love with you. Tell me this is not fresh news, little girl. Tell me you know that he’s become a fucking fool for love, all in the name of Claire Allyn Montgomery. You have the most delectable, eligible bachelor in just about the entire free world eating out of the palm of your hand, and everyone sees it but you. How is that?”

  Looking proud of herself for the mini speech, she threw back the rest of her wine then leaned forward to refill our glasses. Well, hers. Remarkably, the craving for the stuff just wasn’t in me tonight.

  “So is that part of your girlish charm?” she went on. “Just…be innocent in it all? Hmmm. I haven’t tried that bit yet. Maybe I need to. Mother always taught me to be confident and independent, that me
n loved a woman like that. Look where that got the fucked-up bitch. Look where it’s getting me.” She frowned like her wine had gone sour and flopped back against the sofa. I was stunned when she pulled my legs across her lap like we were really girlfriends hanging out at a sleepover.

  “Margaux—”

  “Hmmm?”

  Shit. What to say now? I’m really sorry your Mom lied to you about your real dad your whole life, and that your birth wound up as the by-product of spite, regret, and a secret psycho power play?

  Rewind.

  “I…just know things must really be turned upside down for you right now, too.”

  “You think?”

  Her bitterness was actually comforting. A commiseration of sorts. “This isn’t a fun situation for any of us to be in. The Stones have certainly lived up to their damn name. They’ve dropped a few five-ton bombs lately.”

  She propped her glass in the crevice between my calves. “Amen, sister.”

  “It had to have been catastrophic for you and Andrea. I know that, and I really am sorry. Please believe me when I say that.”

  She cocked me half a smile. “Yeah, you dork. I do.”

  I wriggled my legs, threatening to topple her wine. After she replaced “dork” with “bitch” and we laughed, I continued, “I know we don’t have the best history. I also don’t expect to be in your ‘Top 5’ on your new phone plan or some crazy thing like that, but I get how devastating that day must’ve been for you.”

  She accepted that part in silence. An easy pause extended between us, probably as we both struggled to process all the shit that had gone down in the last three weeks, which felt like three decades by now. I supposed the adage was true. Misery did love company. Hell, all we were missing was a cat. And maybe a Duraflame log in my little fireplace.

  She finally broke the quiet with a wistful murmur. “Okay…this is going to sound strange…”

  I cocked both eyebrows. “You know all about the last month of my life and you dare to say that?”

  She smiled before dropping her next soft-spoken shocker. “I actually like being Mary Stone now. Well, the name itself still sucks balls, but the bigger point of it…learning there was more to my life than what I knew about…it makes sense somehow, though I can’t explain why.” She slowly shook her head. “It probably sounds stupid, or like the wine is talking. And by the way, this is damn good wine.”

  As she leaned to look at the label, I cracked, “You’re never going to believe this, but I wasn’t raised in a barn.”

  “Well, hell,” she volleyed. “There go my summer vacation plans. A week in the country was just what I dreamed of…”

  “I’ll hook you up with Michael, then. He was raised on a farm. I’m sure there was a barn involved in there somewhere…”

  Before I could figure out why her face quirked so weirdly at that, she went on. “Most of my life was spent being molded into Andrea Asher’s ‘mini me’—but the whole time, I was being forced into something that wasn’t me. I turned me into a really bitter person. I always felt like I never really fit or was good enough, and didn’t know who to be pissed at for that…except maybe myself.” She turned her gaze out the window just as I had a few minutes before. Her forehead furrowed and her lips twisted. “But after a while, even self-hatred gets old. So I fought back at the whole world, pissed at everyone that I was being forced into being something I never chose.”

  “Wow,” I murmured. “That explains…a lot.” And also lifted her a few notches out of the bitch pit, in my mind. It had taken courage to confront all that about herself. Guess I hadn’t been the only one staring at the stars in one-woman therapy sessions lately.

  Margaux shrugged. “I guess it does,” she replied. “All I know is that this feels like a second chance. A big one.”

  She glanced at me then, and I caught the glint of desperation in her gaze. Or perhaps confusion. Or simply commiseration. “But your mom—” I halted for a second, taken aback by how fast the glimmers in her eyes turned to razor blades. “Come on, Margaux. Do you think you’ll be able to take it all away from her now?” I explained. “She spent her life raising you. Even if it was messed up and weird, maybe she really thought she was doing all the right stuff for all the right reasons. But maybe it’s too early to see it all that way.”

  She slanted her gaze into her wine glass. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure it is. And maybe I’ll just never understand.” She shrugged again. “But Killian had to deal with no better, right? How does anyone take a kid and deliberately turn him into someone else completely, no matter what damn ‘empire’ is at stake? I mean, this isn’t the middle ages, where a shiny crown has to be passed down in a straight line and kids are dying right and left from plague and shit. What the hell were they all thinking, expecting him—and Trey and Lance, for that matter—to grow up keeping a secret like that?” She wasn’t so ladylike about her snort this time. “Seems like child abuse to me. At the least, it sure as hell wasn’t right—just like what my mother did. Lives being moved around like pawns on a board. And now the world has two more fucked-up adults because of it.”

  I battled between yearning to hug her and grabbing a second bottle of wine for her. “There’s no doubt that it wasn’t right,” I conceded instead, “but I also think the world they all moved in was a different place than what we know. When people are used to getting what they want, especially if they think it’s the right thing, they’ll do anything to make it happen—even manipulate birthrights and outcomes of pregnancies. I know it sounds weird, but everyone, in their own way, really thought they were choosing the best course—in your case and in Killian’s.”

  My sister sat eerily still while I gave the explanation. In the tense set of her mouth, I could see the inner war she still waged about all this. She was so hurt by the things Andrea had withheld from her that healing wouldn’t occur in the space of this conversation. She and Andrea would have to rebuild their relationship damn near from scratch—if that was even what they wanted anymore.

  She nudged my knee with hers, a blasé attempt at affection. “You know this is part of it, right?”

  Now I was lost. “Part of what?”

  “What he loves so much about you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Killian. And his love for you. And why. You have an amazing ability to see the good in just about anyone.”

  “Oh, I don’t know—”

  “I know. You’re fair to a fault, Claire, and I would bet my favorite pair of Zanottis that this is one of his favorite things about you.”

  I took my second sip of wine of the night as a way to deflect the comment. It was difficult to take a compliment from anyone, let alone Margaux. Despite this little Kumbaya, it was still hard as hell to trust her. I was happy about the effect Mary Stone had on her but would it stick? There were times, plenty of them, when she’d inflicted some deep pain on my life—and done it with glee. It was best to keep up the battle shields, at least at half strength, for a while longer.

  Still, she’d been doing most of the drinking tonight. I wasn’t at the point of asking for her keys but concluded a more subtle approach might be effective. “Hey, why don’t you just stay in the guest room tonight? I know it’s still early but they graduated a load of Marines today, and there’s that huge boat show starting tomorrow, so I don’t want you out on the road with those crazies.”

  It was the right thing to do, even if it sounded beyond odd to my own ears. Margaux looked as surprised at the offer as I was, making me feel strangely guilty.

  “That’s…pretty cool,” she stammered, as awkward as a twelve year-old. My heart clutched. She’d probably never gotten the chance to make friends the normal way. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind? I’ll stay out of your hair. I’ve had a lot of this wine—and I really want more.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. There are towels in the bathroom under the sink, and I have about fifty pods stocked for the brewer.”

  A timid smile curled her lips. “Okay, then.
Thanks.”

  I looked up, realizing it was later than I thought—almost midnight. I was actually tired for once. After leaving Margaux in front of the TV, taking advantage of the ten thousand pay cable channels my over-the-top boyfriend had paid for a year in advance, I headed down the hall to my bedroom.

  I picked his old MIT shirt as my pillowcase tonight. He’d left behind eight T-shirts and I rotated them as my sleeping surface, using the remnants of his Armani Code as part of my relaxation technique every night.

  I was about to start the next phase of that routine, listening to all of his voice messages, when my phone rang instead. Though the screen displayed a San Diego area phone number, I gave serious thought to letting it go to voice mail. More tenacious members of the press had been hacking records and getting my number, but they normally wanted to catch me in a good mood, instead of my crabby and tired side. Still, something urged me to pick up the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes. Hello. Is this Claire Montgomery?”

  “It is.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you so late. My name is Karin Nelson. I’m an ER admissions nurse at Mercy Hospital in San Diego.”

  “How can I help you?” I forced calm to my voice. Panic set in that something had happened to Dad. I knew the drama with Andrea was bleeding over into his life too.

  “Well…this is so unusual for us to do, but…”

  “What? It’s okay, Ms. Nelson. I’m awake.”

  “We’re holding a man here, brought in through the emergency department about two hours ago. He was carrying no identification, and was rather incoherent at the time. Looks like public intoxication but the police didn’t want to handle him because it appears as if other factors are at work.”

  I sat up straighter, mind racing. The behavior was so far removed from anything Dad would do I truly had no idea why she was calling me. But the same instinct that nagged me to pick up the line now urged me to echo, “Other factors? Like what?”

  “Well, he was extremely agitated. And strong. Most of the homeless or mentally ill that we receive have distinctly atrophied muscles.” She let a pause go by before laughing nervously. “This guy…well, his muscles are not atrophied.”