Lucy would have anticipated Gray's hesitance in this matter. Lucy had been Gray's second employee, after Danny. “No,” he decided, on another sigh. “Give him what he wants. Within reason. I can't go around policing the backgrounds of every major player this casino has."
"Okay."
"But I want extra reports on him."
"No problem. Also, Rosie stopped by looking for you. Pouted a whole hell of a lot when I said you weren't around, because she's going out of town to shoot for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue."
"Rosie?” he repeated. “What could Rosie possibly want?"
"Gee, I wonder..."
"We broke up a whole month ago."
"In your mind. In her mind, you became an idiot and needed a little time to come back to your senses."
"Damn. Women are more trouble than they're worth, Lucy."
"You're just hanging out with the wrong kind. Feel better, Gray,” she said as she breezed out of his suite.
Oh, yeah, right. “Thanks,” he called after her.
It hit him then. He'd left Hugh's Red Sox cap in Aubrey's hotel room.
Women were a lot more trouble than they were worth. Even tiny redheads who drove him wild in bed. Idiot.
Chapter Four
New England's parlor, a region's nightclub, and the Olde Towne Team's hearth. To generations of Americans, going to Fenway Park has been like coming home.
—Curt Smith, Our House: A Tribute to Fenway Park
Idiot, Aubrey thought to herself, and then said it out loud for added emphasis. “I'm an idiot."
No matter how many different ways she did the numbers, the result stayed stubbornly the same: she could not afford to quit her job. Much as she wanted to, she just couldn't do it. New York was too damn expensive to live in.
Between the divorce and the silly splurge of her disastrous trip to Boston—well, disastrous if it was rated in terms of baseball instead of in terms of sex—she was out of savings. The alimony was definitely not enough for her to live on for any amount of time. As it was, she could barely last the week without some sort of income.
So. She could either go crawling back to Paul and beg for her job back, or wait tables at a restaurant. Neither alternative seemed especially appealing.
She turned on the television, looking for guidance, and found the news talking about the Yankees’ preparations for the World Series. Could she hate these people any more? She changed the station, finding a talk show with a bunch of guests who looked like they actually had worse problems than she did. Nice to see.
She settled down to watch it but her phone rang, and when she picked it up, her mother shrieked at her. “You quit your job?"
Oh, no, thought Aubrey, and closed her eyes briefly. “Yes, I—"
"Is this some sort of misguided reaction to the Red Sox thing?” her mother demanded severely. Her mother had raised three boys. She expected them to be crazy over sports. She had never understood how her only daughter had turned out the same way.
"No, of course not. I think it's just a misguided reaction to the fact that I can't keep working with Paul. How'd you find out?"
"I called you at the museum and Karla told me. Poor Aubrey. You've had a tough year, darling.” Her mother's voice was now soothing, which was nice. Aubrey needed a little soothing. Hadn't her interlude with Gray been evidence enough of that? she thought ironically. When things fell apart, she needed to somebody to understand, whether that meant crawling onto Gray's broad chest or into her mother's softer—and far less exciting—embrace.
"Come home for a while, darling. Forget about New York. We'll spoil you, until you can figure out what to do."
This would, of course, be her mother's solution. Her mother had never wanted her to leave home in the first place. And she couldn't come slinking home in defeat. “Not just yet,” said Aubrey. “I'm going to figure something out."
"Aubrey, don't be—"
"I'll figure something out,” she insisted. “I'll call you again if I get really desperate."
"Well, it's good to know your family is still your absolute last resort,” her mother remarked dryly.
"Why were you calling me at the museum?” Aubrey asked.
"Just to chat. Your brothers have been moping around and I wanted to see how you were doing."
"Well, it turns out I'm considerably worse."
"I see that,” said her mother. “Aubrey, you're sure you're okay? Maybe I should come out and visit you."
Oh, yeah. Just what she needed. More to deal with. “Not right now. Maybe when I get my feet under me a little better."
"Please don't be proud and stubborn, Aubrey. You should ask for help when you need it."
"I will. I've got everything under control for the time being.” She waited for God to strike her dead for such an obvious lie. “I will talk to you later."
"Yes, remember to call,” her mother warned, because Aubrey frequently forgot. “I love you."
"I love you, too,” she said, and hung up the phone.
Moping wasn't her style. She needed to get out of this apartment. Grabbing the gift she'd bought for her best friend Kaye's newborn, Aubrey went to visit her.
The baby was tiny but absolutely perfect, and Aubrey told her so.
Kaye, looking exhausted but glowingly happy, smiled. “Yes, we think so."
Aubrey felt jealousy. She was jealous of this little baby she held in her arms. She was jealous of Kaye's fabulous lifestyle, of the husband who adored her, of the job she enjoyed with its steady stream of income, of her ignorance of events in the baseball world.
These days, Aubrey decided, she was jealous of just about everything.
"Why aren't you at work?” Kaye asked. “Not that it isn't lovely to have a visitor in the middle of the day—"
"I quit my job,” Aubrey answered abruptly.
"I see,” remarked Kaye slowly. That was how Kaye processed things. She mouthed a platitude, drawing out the time until she could make a decision about what she'd just been told. “And why did you that?” she asked finally, after a moment.
"Paul was micromanaging everything I was doing. I couldn't sneeze without Paul asking me if I thought that was a good idea, because clearly it wasn't. How can I go on working like that?"
"I think you were a saint for trying it in the first place,” Kaye informed her dryly. “After how messy the divorce was."
"Did you think it was messy? I thought—compared to the rest of my life—the divorce was admirably tidy. It was the marriage that was messy. What an idiot I was for marrying my boss in the first place."
"You weren't an idiot. You were young and compassionate and Paul was quite the sob story. Everyone makes mistakes."
"No one as spectacularly as I do. I know why my marriage to Paul failed."
"Because you didn't suit at all?"
"Because the sex was incredibly bad. I think now that Paul didn't even enjoy sex. It was like, ick, let's get in and get this over with."
"I'm sure that's not what Paul thought,” said Kaye.
"Don't try to make me feel better."
"I'm not. You're an attractive woman. Men will make fools of themselves to have sex with a lot worse."
"I probably should have had a job lined up before I quit."
"You don't have one lined up?"
Aubrey shook her head.
"Well, that's typical Aubrey."
"I guess I could wait tables at a restaurant."
"That doesn't sound like such a good idea to me."
"Why not?” Aubrey asked, affronted. So what if she thought the same thing...
"You're not the most graceful woman I've ever met."
"I'm plenty graceful!"
"Aubrey, you're downright clumsy."
Aubrey frowned darkly.
"What does it matter? You don't want to wait tables anyhow."
"No, I don't. But I'm not feeling encouraged by the job market. I called around a bit, and it doesn't seem like there's anything open. So I think I'm going to have to
wait tables for the time being. It's better than running home. And I'm going to paint on the side. I might be able to sell a few things. Especially if I paint with money and not art in mind."
"This sounds like a foolproof plan,” said Kaye.
She was probably being sarcastic. Aubrey ignored her. She said instead, “There's another little thing. I might be pregnant."
"What?"
Getting an exclamation out of Kaye was quite an accomplishment. Aubrey grinned. “Okay, I don't really think I'm pregnant. The timing is all off. But I have recently had unprotected sex. And the irony of it is that I told the guy not to worry. He must have assumed I was on the pill. Which I'm not, because sex once a year doesn't seem to me to be worth the money for the prescription."
"What guy?"
"This guy I met in Boston."
"Cute?"
Cute wasn't the word. But he was definitely something. So much of something it almost hurt to think of it. “Very,” she affirmed.
Kaye's smile was wide and happy. “This is great, Aubrey. This is progress. And you've even slept with him? When can I meet him?"
"Be kind of difficult to arrange, considering I have no idea who he is."
This gave Kaye more pause, but she had recovered enough to fall back into character. “I see,” she drawled. There was the customary pause while she sorted the pieces in her head. “So you had sex with a stranger. Unprotected sex. And then you told him not to worry about pregnancy."
"Timing's off,” Aubrey reminded her.
"You don't seem particularly worried about sexually transmitted diseases."
"He didn't seem like the type. He was a high quality one night stand."
"Isn't that an oxymoron? What would possess you to have a one night stand?"
Aubrey was annoyed. “Why can't I have a one night stand? Women do, you know."
"Drunk women. Not twenty-eight-year-old divorcees."
"I was a little drunk, I'll have you know. And—"
"And he took advantage of that?"
"Well, maybe he took a little bit of advantage of the drunkenness, but he was equally emotionally vulnerable, and really, he tried to be a gentleman but I ... kind of ... started stripping."
"You started stripping?” Kaye's voice sounded strangled.
Aubrey nodded and frowned. “I'm not sure I did a good job. When women strip, don't they usually wear a dress? It seems much easier in a dress."
"You took your clothes off?"
"Yeah."
"That's all a man is really looking for."
"Probably not this one. He was a little out of my league. Really good-looking. Movie star good looks. He had a stomach as hard as a rock."
"I see."
Aubrey grinned. “I made a very conscious decision that I wanted a brief, uncomplicated fling. Have you ever had one? It makes you appreciate sex."
"Sex with people you know?” Kaye's tone was so dry Aubrey was surprised she didn't choke on it.
"No, sex. The act of sex, without all the messy emotion cluttering it up. Sex, you know, is very enjoyable."
"I've noticed. I can't believe you had to sleep with a stranger before you noticed. What sort of idiot was Paul, anyhow?"
"Paul was every sort of idiot. But that's not really the point."
"What is the point?” Kaye's tone was still desert-dry.
"The point is I feel free. Liberated. Maybe a one night stand is just what I needed to put the divorce behind me. I came back from it and immediately quit my job, got rid of that last string tying me to Paul. I am now the new Aubrey Thomas. I'm delightful and independent."
"Delightful and independent?"
"Yes."
"The independent I understand. Why the delightful?"
"Because I've always wanted to be described as delightful."
"So you're starting a whole new life."
"Yes,” Aubrey affirmed.
"Waiting tables at a restaurant."
"Even the longest journeys, Kaye, start out with a single step,” Aubrey informed her solemnly.
* * * *
Gray had met Mark when Mark had arrested Doug for drinking and driving when Doug had been a troublesome eighteen-year-old and Gray had just moved to Vegas, just come into the stock Hugh had left him, and had had no idea what the hell he was doing.
It was an unlikely friendship, and it had unexpectedly blossomed. Gray was glad of that. Without a friend in Vegas, he might have died those first few years. So what if he was the Chairman of the Board of a Fortune 500 company and Mark was just a local police detective? It worked for them. And Mark was one hell of a sparring partner.
"I thought you were joking about your foot,” Mark said in surprise as Gray limped beside him.
Gray glared at him. “You didn't beat me that badly last time out."
"That's not what the tape shows."
"The tape?” Gray repeated in disbelief. “You got the tape?"
"How often do I beat you?"
"Never,” Gray reminded him. “You never beat me."
"Sometimes I beat you. Especially now that you've lost a step, old man.” Mark glanced back down at the foot Gray was favoring and quirked a smile. “Several steps, it seems."
"Shut up,” Gray told him sourly.
"What the hell did you do to it?"
They stepped outside into a bright-as-day Vegas night. “It's not interesting. Can you drive? I don't want to take the limo and I can't drive myself."
"Your not-interesting stories are always the most interesting,” Mark commented, handing the claim ticket to the valet.
"I kicked a wall."
"Ah. And you don't know your own strength."
"Apparently not. It's much better than it was."
Because Mark used the gym at the Bienvenue so often, and because it was well known that he was friends with the boss, his car was always close at hand. It pulled up to them smoothly and Gray maneuvered himself into the passenger side.
"So who is she?” Mark asked, pulling the car out into Strip traffic.
"Who's who?” Gray asked in surprise.
"The girl. You've got that smug I-just-had-sex smile that bachelors get."
"Is that a trace of jealousy I detect?"
"No, that smile is a matter of fact, my friend."
"There's no girl."
"I interrogate people for a living, Gray, and I think you're lying."
"There's not really a girl. It was silly. It was stupid. I was a little drunk and she was, I think, a lot drunk."
"And you didn't play noble as usual?"
"I tried, but she started taking her clothes off. And she was a redhead."
Mark laughed. “You and redheads. A redhead is going to be the death of you one of these days, you know."
"Never."
"Marriage is fun, Gray. You might like it. Not all marriages turn out like your mother's marriages."
"Are we going to have dinner or a pop psychology lecture?"
Mark smiled. “Just dinner. Actually I invited you to dinner because I'm concerned about you. I am sorry, Gray."
What Gray mostly appreciated was that he said it without the least bit of tongue in cheek. Mark was a sports fan. He understood. “Thanks."
"I thought they had it. I really did. I was thinking of how off-the-wall happy you must have been."
Gray winced with a pain that was almost physical. “Please, let's not talk about it."
"Monica's barbecuing."
"Barbecuing. Perfect,” said Gray, as Mark rolled to a stop in front of his house. It was a pretty two-story, identical to all the other houses around it. Typical Vegas house and Gray loved it.
Maybe Mark had a bit of a point when he talked about his mother's marriages. Maybe Gray's scattershot upbringing was the reason he had never looked at a woman and thought, Yes. That one. She's perfect for me. Maybe if he'd been raised in a nice little house like this instead of a hotel, he'd be living a normal life like Mark—instead of the completely ridiculous life he led.
The air did indeed smell like barbecue, and they walked around the side of the house to the back. The baby, Madison, all of two years old, was sitting in the sandbox under the lights in the backyard, concentrating on sifting sand. Mark detoured over to her. Gray limped his way up the couple of steps leading to the patio.
Mark's wife Monica watched him in amusement. “What happened to you?"
"Oh, travel casualty,” he said dismissively. “How are you, Mon?” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “How's the baby-making?” He laid a casual hand fondly on the swell of her belly.
"Oh, the fun part was over four months ago. Now I'm just fat and tired. And I still have five months left to go."
"Fat.” Gray sat heavily in a wrought-iron chair, propping his foot up. “Don't be silly."
"I'm making you a cheeseburger,” she said, turning back to the grill.
"Thanks."
"He'd help you,” said Mark, walking up the steps with the baby in his arms, “but he's milking his hurt foot for all it's worth."
"Unc-ray!” exclaimed Madison, squirming out of her father's arms and into Gray's with what passed as a joyful “Uncle Gray” in her language.
"How's my favorite girl?” Gray asked her and tickled her stomach the way he knew she wanted him to.
She giggled in delight and ran back to her father and Gray, watching as Mark casually picked her back up then held a platter for his wife to load with hamburgers, felt an uncharacteristic twinge of envy.
He had been out with Mark the night he had met Monica, had spent the entire evening buying himself drinks and drinking them alone while Mark had fallen all over himself trying to be charming. And he had not been jealous.
He had been best man at the wedding. And he had not been jealous. He had not been jealous when Madison was born, when she took her first steps, when she first started saying “Da-da."
It was awfully strange for him to be jealous now, out of nowhere. And he felt a little guilty over it.
"So what did you do to your foot?” Monica asked with interest as she sat opposite him.
Gray dug into his cheeseburger voraciously. His stomach had, unexpectedly, not been quite settled enough to handle food earlier in the day. He felt like he'd been surviving on pure caffeine for the whole workday. “It really doesn't—"
"He kicked a wall,” said Mark, cutting a hamburger into tiny pieces for Madison.
Twenty Hours in Boston Page 6