Time's Up

by Janey Mack

  Fuck.

  I didn’t know what hurt worse—Da’s Judas routine or my own mortifying state of utter cluelessness. My entire life was family. Because the family always has your back. Except, I guess, not always.

  My face itched.

  The doors opened, I took four steps out into the shiny granite-pillared lobby and froze.

  Apparently hallucinations are a side effect of extreme humiliation.

  Six-foot-three of steel and sex appeal in a slim-fitting black suit and open-necked slate-colored shirt was simultaneously charming a maroon-blazered page and a receptionist.

  “Hank?” My voice rasped like a rusty gate.

  He looked up.

  The maroon blazer hustled past me, catching the elevator I’d just vacated. Hank said something to the receptionist and came over to me.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “I figured you might need me.”

  Pretty much the coolest moment of my entire life and I couldn’t pull myself together enough to enjoy it.

  “You figured right,” I said.

  He put an arm around me. “Let’s go home,” he murmured against my hair.

  I nodded.

  He walked me out of the studio building, put me into the backseat of a waiting Lincoln Town Car, and waited curbside as the maroon-jacketed page scurried out of the building with my things. Hank tipped him, put my purse and backpack at my feet, and slid in next to me.

  The chauffeur stowed my suitcase in the trunk and got behind the wheel.

  “JFK, sir?”

  Hank’s sleet-gray eyes scanned mine. I couldn’t handle it and looked out the window. He put his hand on mine, and I started to shake.

  “You’re okay,” he said.

  I nodded and tried to swallow. Keep it together.

  He squeezed my hand.

  I am defined by my disasters.

  Mine is the Hindenburg without the girth.

  Hank let go, removed his cell from his inside suit coat pocket, sent two quick messages, and replaced it.

  The drive to the airport was uneventful. Hank merciful. Cooler than glacier water, he didn’t say a word, letting me find my center. People are rarely ever really quiet. I know I’m not.

  Besides, I couldn’t say anything without bawling, and honestly, what was there to say?

  You were right. I’m an idiot.

  Not like he hasn’t heard that before.

  Inside JFK, we walked right up the first-class line to the Delta counter, bypassing the gajillion customers who didn’t think paying an extra $886 was really worth a free drink, unlimited peanuts and seven more inches of legroom.

  If I’d have been able to care, I might have thought about the obscene number of miles he used to purchase my first-class one-way ticket home.

  The gate clerk entered our information on a keyboard hijacked from a 1970s middle-school computer room and asked if I wanted to check my suitcase.

  “No, thank you.” Hank picked up the suitcase by the handle and we walked away.

  “It has wheels,” I said.

  He smiled and shook his head. “Silly rabbit.”

  We hit Security and he flashed ID and some sort of pass. We bypassed the regular-schmo line and got the preferential wand treatment by the two TSA agents who never step in and help the other TSA agents no matter how busy Security is.

  Fifty yards farther, Hank stopped at an unmarked door in the wall, took a card out of his wallet, and swiped us into a posh reception area.

  “Hello, Mr. Bannon.” The attractive woman behind the desk smiled at him. “So nice to see you again.” She nodded to me. “Welcome to the Sky Club.”

  Hank handed her our tickets.

  “Delta flight thirteen-seventy-five, gate seven. I’ll make sure an attendant notifies you twenty-five minutes prior to departure, Mr. Bannon.”

  We moved out of Reception into a clubby lounge with soft music, dim lighting, flat-screen TVs running close-captioned and intimate living room–style groupings.

  An oasis in the airport desert of noisy, panicky humanity.

  Hank set my suitcase down in front of me and pointed at a couple of armchairs in a private corner. “I’ll be over there.”

  Huh? “And where am I supposed to be?”

  “You look as cute as a button, Slim, but are you sure you want to be serving peanuts on the flight?”

  Aww for cripes’ sake!

  I was still wearing that horrible meter maid costume.

  “There’s a restroom at the end of the hall.”

  The sky lounge’s bathroom was pristine, modern, and thankfully empty. I dumped my gear on a leather bench, went to the sink, and unpinned the Project Runway reject excuse of a hat. I grabbed a couple of thick paper hand towels and scrubbed the pancake makeup off my face, careful to avoid smudging my triple-layer false eyelashes. No sense in wasting Chazz Blue-Hair’s professional makeup magic just because my life was circling the drain.

  And it wasn’t entirely.

  Hank came here. For me.

  I grinned at myself in the mirror.

  Suck-it, glass half empty!

  I had an eternity to think of my family’s betrayal. And I’d rather slide down a fifty-foot razor into a pool of rubbing alcohol before I was going to do that.

  I shimmied out of the suffocating polyester tube of a mini, put on the skirt of my snappy Marc Jacobs I’d planned to wear in the interview, and unbuttoned the uniform shirt. The pale blue poly didn’t move, clinging to my skin like perfectly hung theater curtains off the tops of my breasts.

  It took both hands to free each side of the blouse from the secret-agent movie-star adhesive.

  Who knew Super Glue made tape?

  I looked at myself in the mirror. Not bad if I ignored the ghastly bruise spreading across my abdomen. Black push-up bra with two palm-sized pieces of double-stick tape riding on the tops of my breasts. I peeled at the edge with my thumb. Nothing doing. I worked up a lip of the adhesive and yanked. Not much.

  This is going to smart.

  I took a deep breath, dug my nails under both tape edges with both hands, exhaled slowly, and yanked.

  “Aaaaaiih!” Tears filled my eyes. I scraped the tapes off my hands onto the counter and jammed my palms against my breasts, breathing in short pants. It stung so bad I couldn’t even swear.

  Cool paper towels didn’t ease the sting or lower the raised red skin squares.

  Super. Every nerd’s fantasy. A Minecraft version of breast tattoos.

  I put on my suit coat sans shirt, and found Hank. He was watching the market ticker on FBN, two vodka martinis—three olives—on the rocks on the table. I sat down in the chair next to his.

  “Ouch.” His eyes flickered over the exposed corners of the red squares on my chest. “They set you up with a little defibrillator action back there?”

  “Ha. I could have used one after Juliana.” I pulled my jacket open a little wider. “Wardrobe tape.”

  “Nice,” he said. “Liquid soap didn’t loosen the adhesive?”

  “Might have.” I sucked in my lips in a combination of chagrin and regret. “Except I didn’t think of that, Mr. Science.”

  “Should’ve called. I’d have been happy to help.”

  Oooh. I wanted to say something flirty back but my throat closed up. I picked up my glass.

  Hank raised his and clinked it against mine. “Here’s mud in your eye.”

  I took a drink and didn’t stop until it was gone. Vodka. The water of life. I planted the glass with a clunk on the table.

  Tangible proof that God loves me and wants me to be happy.

  He sat back and signaled the hostess, who immediately brought me another.

  “God, you’re wonderful,” I said.

  “Check your messages yet?”

  “I can’t bear to.”

  He tapped his finger on the table. I got the iPhone out of my purse and slid it across the table to him.

  He scrolled through the text messages, lis
ting the senders. “Mom, Flynn, Cash, Mom, Rory, Mom, Grandma, Pads, Cash, Koji, Mom, Grandpa, Lee Sharpe, Mom, Lee Sharpe, Declan, Mom, Mom.”

  No Da.

  “And voice mail?” I asked.

  Hank swiped through the screens. “Three from your mom, J. Lince, Cash, N. Peat, Lee Sharpe, and Sterling Black.”

  I raised the plastic sword with three olives to my mouth. “Wow. I’m practically famous.” I bit one off.

  He smiled. “Practically.”

  “Are you sure there isn’t one from Coles?”

  “He probably left that on Leticia’s phone.”

  “Funny.” I swiped my thumb through the condensation sweating up the glass. “Give it to me straight. Was it as bad as it felt?”

  Hank tipped his hand from side to side. “Yes.”

  Shit.

  I drained the second martini to make sure I wouldn’t be bothered by it.

  “Another?” Hank asked.

  “It’s ten-oh-five in the morning and I can’t feel my teeth.”

  He caught my chin in his hand. “I’m the cavalry, Baby Doll. Walking, weaving, or wedged, I’ll get you home.”

  Home.

  “Hit me,” I said.

  Hank caught the hostess’s eye and jerked his head back.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” I asked. “That’s why you told me to quit.”

  “Not for certain.”

  I put my elbow on the table and rested my chin on my hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Hank’s mouth went tight. “Not my place.”

  Ouch. I squinched my eyes shut. I’m already down. Why bother kicking when stamping on my heart is so much easier?

  “Sport Shake,” he said. “It may not feel like it right now, but you’ve pretty much won the lottery of life.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “No one has a family like yours.”

  “Then no one is a one hell of a lucky son of—”

  Hank laid two fingers across my mouth. “Don’t say it.”

  A snake of anger roiled inside my belly, twisting my guts tighter than a Speedo on a Euro-trash sunbather. I bit the insides of my cheeks, hard.

  I’m a happy drunk, dammit!

  I clinked the ice cubes from side to side in my empty glass. He slid his hand up the nape of my neck, and I almost melted onto the table. Riding the Duncan Yo-Yo string between humiliation and elation.

  “Sorry to interrupt.” The hostess stopped at our table. “Twenty-five minutes until your flight departs, Mr. Bannon.”

  Chapter 33

  “Thank you, Hank. For this. For all of it.”

  Hank pulled the seat belt across my lap and clicked it home. “I don’t mind a reasonable amount of trouble.”

  We took off.

  Is it just me or is the first-class cabin suddenly getting smaller?

  I fanned myself with the inflight magazine.

  I ordered another drink. Old enough to know better, numb enough not to give a red robin.

  The first-class flight attendant brought me my fourth martini of the morning. I got it halfway to my lips, and my hand shook so bad I sloshed a half ounce on the tray table.

  Hank took the glass from my hand, flipped up the armrest, and pulled me into his side. I cried all the way back to Chicago. Not the bawling, noisy kind, but the stream of tears that just wouldn’t stop.

  I’m sure it was the martinis.

  It had to be the martinis.

  I took stock in the vanity mirror of the passenger side of Hank’s G-Wagen. Only semi-hideous. Red nose, splotchy cheeks, eye makeup remarkably intact.

  Cheers to you, Chazz Blue-Hair.

  Hank opened the driver’s-side door, and I closed up the visor. “Okay?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He waited until we were on the freeway. “Call your mother. Tell her you’re on the way home.”

  Kind of not at all how I thought this John Hughes event-of-romantic-magnitude would end.

  “To my house,” Hank said.

  It took me a mile to calm down enough to get my phone out of my purse. I hit Home on the screen and waited as the phone rang.

  Thierry, Thierry. Please let it be Thierry.

  “Honey?” Mom said, “Where are you?”

  “Chicago.”

  “Daicen said Hank was bringing you home. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I could hear the hitch in her throat. “And how it happened . . . I can’t believe the twins and I missed the setup. What were we thinking? Of course Dhu West would do anything to save Coles. Anyway, I’m cancelling all my afternoon appointments, and when your father gets home, we’re going to sit down and—”

  “I’m going to Hank’s.”

  “You’re confused and upset, but—”

  “Upset? Try wrecked!”

  “That may not be the wisest course of action,” she said gently. “Are you sure you want the man you’re not even sure you’re dating to see you like this?”

  Nice. “Thanks, Mom.” A low blow with a heaping side of sting, because—as always—she was right.

  “You’re in a fragile emotional state—”

  “And I don’t know that?” I said. “You think I don’t know that?”

  Hank put a hand on my thigh.

  I sat there, dead air humming between my mother and me, as far apart as we’d ever been. Mom spoke first. “How long will you be staying with Mr. Bannon?”

  I looked at Hank. “Until he tells me to go home.”

  My phone started vibrating as we pulled into Hank’s driveway. Flynn. I turned it all the way off. No way was I going to start fielding pressure calls from the Black-Irish gang.

  Hank pulled into the first stall of his three-car garage. Pristine tan epoxy floor with matching cabinetry. The Super Bee was in the second stall. The third bay was extra-deep and empty except for a workbench and a line of black Craftsman tool chests.

  He turned off the truck. I waited while he got my gear from the trunk and followed him inside, joy shriveling faster than a grape in the Gobi as we passed his bedroom and the living room. All the way to the other side of the house. To the guest room.

  He planted my suitcase at the end of the bed. “You want some sweats?”

  I had some in my suitcase, but the idea of wearing something of Hank’s was more than my wretched self could resist. “Sure.”

  He left and I sat down on the guest bed. Midcentury modern cool, queen, graphite-upholstered headboard, with ink and gray sateen bedding. Disconcertingly recognizable. I’d seen this room before, but where?

  I stood up and walked to the far corner of the room and got the full effect. Purposely mismatched nightstands. One an accent table with a mercury glass lamp, the other a steel-based ebony nightstand with a large, empty stainless-steel picture frame. And then I knew.

  The catalogue.

  Guest room by Room & Board, living room by Restoration Hardware, basement by Soldier of Fortune. I giggled.

  “What’s so funny?” Hank stood in the doorway with a neatly folded stack of T-shirt, sweatpants, and hoodie.

  “Nothing.” I coughed and gestured at the room around me. “So, what page is this? Thirty-seven?” I made a grab for the clothes.

  Hank jerked the sweats away and scowled. “252, smart aleck.”

  I laughed, palms up. “I mean, it looks great—”

  “Of course it does.” He grinned and held the clothes out of reach. “Room and Board pay people to design their products. Then, they spend even more to art-direct those products to sell them. So why try and improve on what sold me in the first place?”

  Hank logic. Devastatingly beautiful in its simplicity.

  Of course, most people don’t have the resources or the mentality to purchase an entire room en suite.

  He offered me the sweats in a mock-football handoff. “Get changed.”

  I changed, brushed my teeth, washed my face again, used a healthy amount of primer under a new layer of makeup to
cover the tear streaks, and sucked down three Excedrin scavenged from the bottom of my purse all the while telling myself to pull it together.

  Hank was in the kitchen. “You all right?”

  “Sure.” I took a seat at the counter. “You ready to tell me why Da had me kicked out of the Academy?”

  “Beer or vodka?”

  I was finally sharpening up. Now was not the time to go as dim as an energy-efficient light bulb. “How about a Coke?”

  He took a Budweiser and a Coca-Cola out of the fridge, popped the tops with a bottle opener, and handed me mine.

  Hank came around the counter and sat down next to me. “I don’t know why. Just that he did.”

  “Yeah, about that . . .”

  He took a long pull from his beer. “I hinted.”

  “Uh-huh.” You’ll have to do better than that.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Who am I to mix it up with your clan?”

  “My friend?” Wishing, of course, for a heck of a lot more.

  “I am.” He swiped the comma of dark hair off his forehead. “I got the tip the day it happened.” He shrugged. “I didn’t see a copy of the paperwork for another couple weeks.”

  We sat there, silent. Me, tracing invisible skull and crossbones patterns on the granite countertop while Hank finished his beer. “At least”—he got up for another—“you weren’t expelled.”

  Hold up, Mr. Wonderful. We’ll have no thieving of my silver-lining-finding thunder.

  “But why would he do this to me?”

  “Christ, Maisie.” Hank popped the cap off the beer.

  “What?”

  “Aside from putting your life on the line every day, the only people you come in contact with are the scum of the earth and the people they’ve victimized.”

  “I know what the job is.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want that for you.”

  “But it’s fine for my brothers?”

  “I don’t want you to be a cop, either.” He looked me straight in the eye. “But I don’t have the right to tell you what I want. Because I’m not the guy for you, Princess.”

  The darkest day ever just keeps getting darker. Payback in some sycophantic, Philistinian, karmic way for my can-do attitude.