Tangled

by Emma Chase

  I smile. “Hi, sweetheart.” Then I scowl. “What the hell did you do, Alexandra?”

  Her eyes widen innocently. Like she’s surprised. “Me? I came to meet my husband for lunch. Is that a crime?”

  When I was in junior high, a kid named Chris Whittle sucker punched me when I was coming out of trigonometry. I had hooked up with his girlfriend. She had talented hands.

  Anyway, the next day, Alexandra paid Chris a little visit—and made him piss his pants.

  Literally.

  See, according to The Bitch Code, she can fuck with me all she wants to, but no one else is allowed. Now do you see why I’m concerned?

  “You went to see Kate, didn’t you?”

  Mackenzie answers for her, “We did, Uncle Drew! She’s great. Kate gave me dees balloons and a calculator! See?” She holds it over her head like it’s the Stanley Cup, and I can’t help but smile.

  “That’s terrific, Mackenzie.”

  Then I glare at Alexandra again.

  She’s not concerned. “You said you wanted Mackenzie to meet Kate.”

  If you put two pregnant hamsters in the same cage, you know what they’ll do? Eat each other. Female hormones are like undetonated warheads. There’s just no way to tell when they’re going to go the fuck off.

  “Yes, I wanted Mackenzie to meet Kate. I didn’t want you meeting Kate until I was done smoothing things the hell over.”

  Mackenzie takes my friend the Bad Word Jar out of her backpack and holds it up. I put two dollars in.

  She sticks her face in the mouth of the jar and looks up at me with a frown. “Um…Uncle Drew? Bad words no cost one dollar no more. They cost ten.”

  “Ten? Since when?”

  She’s excited. “It was Kate’s idea. She say the maconomy is bad.”

  What the hell is the maconomy?

  “She call it in…in…”

  “Inflation.” Alexandra finishes with a smile.

  “Yeah, that.”

  Inflation.

  Great.

  Thanks, Kate.

  I raise my brows at Mackenzie. “Do you take American Express?” She giggles. I pay my fine in cash. “How about you add up the rest on your calculator, honey?”

  She’s going to need it. I have a feeling this little discussion is going to put me in the triple digits.

  “What did you say to Kate?” I ask Alexandra.

  She shrugs. “We talked, one woman to another. I appealed to her business sense. It went well. You really don’t need to know all the details.”

  “Why don’t you let me decide what I need to know. Considering you shouldn’t have fucking talked to her at all.”

  Tap-tap-tap goes the calculator.

  “Ungrateful much? I was just trying to help.”

  Dr. Kevorkian was just trying to help his patients too. And we all know how they turned out.

  “I don’t need your help. I have a plan.”

  Alexandra’s hands go to her hips. “Right. Your master plan that entails what, exactly? Annoying Kate until she agrees to go out with you? You gonna call her names on the playground too? Pull on her braids? I have to admit, Sister Beatrice was an interesting touch. I can’t believe Kate isn’t falling on her knees, begging you to take her back after that. Very romantic, Drew.”

  My jaw clenches. “It’s. Working.”

  She raises a brow. “That’s not what Kate said.”

  And there she is. Take a good look.

  The Bitch in all her glory.

  And you thought I was overreacting.

  “Did she say something to you? About me? What did she say?”

  She waves her hand in the air. “Oh, this and that.”

  You know how some kids like to tease their dogs by showing them a bone and then yanking it away before they can bite it? My sister was one of those kids.

  “Goddamnit, Lex.”

  Tap-tap-tap.

  “I like her, by the way,” she says. “She really doesn’t take any shit does she?”

  Tap-tap-tap.

  “How do you know she doesn’t take any shit?”

  Tap-tap-tap.

  “Did you give her shit, Lex?”

  Tap-tap-tap.

  “What kind of shit did you give her, Alexandra?”

  Tap-tap-tap.

  She laughs. “My God, would you relax. I haven’t seen you this wound up in…well, never. Now that you’re not pathetic and sad, it’s actually kind of fun.”

  My status with Kate at the moment is like a house of cards. I’ve managed to build myself up a few floors, but one small tremor and the whole damn thing falls apart.

  “If you fucked this up for me, I’ll—”

  Tap-tap-tap.

  “You know stress causes premature gray hair. If you keep this up, you’re going to look like Daddy before you turn thirty.”

  “I’m glad you find this so amusing. I don’t. We’re talking about my frigging life here.”

  That sobers her up. Her head tilts to the side. Appraising me. And then her voice isn’t teasing anymore.

  It’s tender, sincere.

  “I’m proud of you, you know. You’re sticking this out. Seeing it through. You’re…all grown up.” She smiles softly. “Never thought I’d see the day.” And then she hugs me. “It’ll be okay, Drew. Promise.”

  When I was eight, my grandfather had a heart attack. After my parents left for the hospital, Alexandra promised me everything would be okay.

  It wasn’t.

  “Did Kate tell you that?”

  She shakes her head. “Not in so many words.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  She shrugs again. “It’s the estrogen. It gives us ESP. If you had a vagina, you’d know too.”

  Mackenzie raises her hand proudly. “I have a bagina.”

  I smirk. “Yes, you do sweetheart. And someday, it’s gonna help you rule the world.”

  “Johnny Fitzgerald has a penis. He say his penis is better than my bagina.”

  “Johnny Fitzgerald’s an idiot. Vaginas beat penises every time. They’re like kryptonite. Penises are defenseless against them.”

  My sister puts an end to our discussion. “O-kay. That’s enough of that lovely conversation. Although I’m sure Mackenzie’s preschool teacher will enjoy hearing all about it. Right before she calls Child Protective Services on me.”

  I put my hands up. “I’m just trying to tell her like it is. The sooner she realizes the power she has, the better off she’ll be.” I check my watch; I need to get upstairs. I look at Mackenzie. “What’s the damage, sweetie?”

  “Eighty dollars.”

  Ouch.

  I need to start billing my clients more. Or work out some kind of payment plan.

  As the bills fall into the jar, Alexandra takes her hand. “Come on Mackenzie, let’s go to the American Girl store and spend some of Uncle Drew’s money.”

  “Okay!”

  They walk across the lobby but stop at the double doors. Mackenzie whispers something to Alexandra and hands over her balloons.

  Then she runs back to me.

  I scoop her up and hold her tight as her little arms come around my shoulders and squeeze.

  “I love you, Uncle Drew.”

  You ever drink brandy? Usually I’m more of a whiskey man myself. But a good glass of brandy warms you all over, from the inside. And that’s me—right now.

  “I love you too, Mackenzie.”

  She pulls back. “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Kate ask me what I wanna be when I grown up.”

  I nod. “And did you tell her you want to be a princess?”

  Her forehead creases adorably, and she shakes her head. “I no wanna be a princess no more.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. What do you want to be?”

  She grins. “A banker.”

  “Fantastic choice. What made you change your mind?”

  Her fingers play with the collar of my shirt as she tells me, “Well, Kate is
a immessment banker, and you say you be proud of me to be jus’ like her. So tha’s what I wanna be.”

  After her words sink in, I ask her seriously, “Mackenzie? Did you tell Kate that I said I wanted you to grow up to be just like her?”

  You see that smile? That’s not the smile of a four-year-old child. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the smile of a genius.

  “Yep.”

  I close my eyes. And chuckle. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this myself. Mackenzie is the perfect weapon. My very own baby Borg. Resistance is futile.

  “Sweetheart,” I say, “you did Uncle Drew a huge favor. Anything you want for Christmas—name it and it’s yours. And I mean anything.”

  Her eyes widen at the possibilities. She glances at my sister and then whispers conspiratorially, “Can I have a pony?”

  Oh, boy.

  I think about it for exactly one second.

  “Absolutely.”

  She squeezes me tighter and squeals.

  “Only…don’t tell mommy until after it’s delivered, okay?”

  I may have to enter the witness protection program after this one.

  Mackenzie kisses my cheek, and I set her on her feet. She skips back to Alexandra, and I wave as they walk out the door.

  Chapter 25

  I WALK INTO KATE’S OFFICE like a soldier storming the beach at Normandy. She’s at her desk writing rapidly on a yellow legal pad.

  “I’m back. Miss me?”

  She doesn’t look up. “Desperately.”

  Sarcasm is the oldest defense in the book. I play along. “I knew I was wearing you down. What put me over the top? Sister B?”

  Kate pushes back from her desk and crosses her legs. She’s wearing new shoes. I didn’t notice before. Black Mary Janes with a wicked high heel and a strap around the ankle. Good God. They’re the perfect blend of naughty and nice. Sweetness and sex. And my poor neglected cock convulses as I picture all the fantastic—and semi-illegal—things I could do to her in those shoes.

  I’ve never had a fetish, but I’m thinking about starting one.

  Kate’s voice drags me away from my impure thoughts. “No. It was the visit from your sister, actually. Subtlety doesn’t run in your family does it?”

  Uh oh. I was afraid of this.

  “Alexandra has deep-seated psychological issues. She’s unstable. You shouldn’t listen to anything she says. No one in my family does.”

  “She seemed completely lucid when she was here.”

  I shrug. “Mental illness is a tricky thing.”

  Her eyes squint doubtfully. “You’re not serious are you?”

  Crap. No lying.

  “Technically, she’s never been diagnosed. But her ideas about justice and revenge are certifiable. Imagine Delores…with a decade more experience to perfect her technique.”

  Kate’s face goes slack with understanding. “Oh.”

  Yep—welcome to my world, sweetheart.

  “She brought me coffee,” Kate says. “Should I drink it?”

  We both eye the Starbucks cup on her desk suspiciously.

  When I was thirteen, I auctioned off a pair of Alexandra’s underwear in the boys’ locker room. Dirty ones. When she found out through the grapevine of older sisters, she played it cool—never let on that she knew. And then she spiked my Coco Pebbles with chocolate-flavored laxatives. I didn’t leave the bathroom for three days.

  Now, I realize she’s not carrying that kind of grudge against Kate, but still…

  “I wouldn’t.”

  She nods stiffly and slides the cup back away from her.

  “What’d you think of Mackenzie? I really wanted to be here when you met her.”

  Her smile is warm and genuine. “I think she’s amazing.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to hear she used your calculator on me when I ran into them downstairs.”

  Her smile widens. “That’s nice.”

  I shake my head, and Kate says, “I see now why Alexandra started the Bad Word Jar, since you seem to spend so much time with Mackenzie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shrugs. “She talks like you. It’s not every day you hear a four-year-old say Prince Charming is a douchebag who’s only holding Cinderella back.”

  That’s my girl.

  “Swearing is good for the soul.”

  Kate stifles a laugh. And she looks so tempting I can’t help but lean over her chair, trapping her with my arms. Small talk is over. Time to get back to business.

  “Come for a walk with me.”

  My voice is low. Persuasive.

  “No way.”

  And utterly ineffective.

  “Come on, Kate, it’ll just take a minute. I want to show you something.”

  She snorts. “What’d you do? Hire Ringling Brothers to do a show in the lobby? Organize a ticker-tape parade in my honor?”

  I laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t do that.”

  Kate raises one skeptical brow.

  “Okay, you’re right—I would so do that. But not today.”

  She pushes me back and stands up. I let her.

  “You’re not scared, are you?” I ask. “Afraid you won’t be able to control yourself if you’re alone with me?”

  To people like Kate and me, a dare is kind of like a hooker at a sex addicts’ convention. There’s almost no chance they’re going to get turned down.

  “If you mean am I afraid I’ll kill you if there aren’t any witnesses to testify against me, then the answer’s yes. Although I must admit, twenty-to-life is looking like a small price to pay at the moment.”

  Do you think she enjoys the verbal foreplay as much as I do? She’s got to. She’s so good at it.

  She circles around, putting her desk between us.

  “Look, Drew, I have a new client. I told you that. You know how it is. I can’t afford these…distractions right now.”

  I take that as a compliment. “I distract you?”

  She huffs. “That’s not what I meant.” Then her face changes. And she’s imploring, “You have to stop this—” her hands wave in the air “—this mission you’re on. Just let it go. Please.”

  When Steven was eleven, he ran into a tree during a game of touch football in his backyard—and busted his forehead open. For as long as I live, I’ll never forget the sound of him begging, pleading with his mother not to take him to the hospital. Because he knew he needed stitches. And stitches just—suck. At any age.

  But Janey Reinhart didn’t give in. She brought him anyway. Because even though Steven was terrified—even though it wasn’t what he wanted—she knew it was what he needed.

  You see where I’m going with this?

  “The ball’s in your court, Kate. I told you that from the beginning. You want me gone, all you have to do is go out with me on Saturday.”

  She bites her lip. And looks down at her desk.

  “Okay.”

  Come again?

  Sure, I’d love to. With Kate.

  Okay—not the time to joke.

  “I’m sorry? Could you repeat that, please?”

  Her eyes meet mine. They look hesitant but resigned. Like someone waiting in line for a rollercoaster. Determined to get on but not exactly sure what the hell they’ve gotten themselves into. “I said yes. I’ll have dinner with you on Saturday.”

  It’s official. Brace yourselves. Hell has actually frozen the fuck over.

  “After talking with your sister, I realized a few things…”

  You love me? You need me? You can’t live without me?

  “…I think you need closure, Drew.”

  Oh no. Not closure. Anything but fucking closure.

  Closure is a made-up word that women invented so they can overanalyze something and talk about it—to death. And then, after it’s been blessed and buried, closure gives them the excuse to dig the poor fucker up and talk about it—some more.

  Guys don’t do that. Ever.

  It’s over. Fade
to black. The end.

  That’s all the goddamn closure we need.