Bad Liar (The Reed Rivers Trilogy Book 1)

by Lauren Rowe

  “Oh, I was off yesterday.” She peers at the tiny blonde figure as he plays with a red ball in the hinterlands of the grassy park. “Wow, one meeting with him and your mother’s already put him into one of her paintings? He must have made quite an impression. It took me working here eight years before your mother finally made me an ice cream vendor in one of her paintings.”

  I shrug. “She’s always loved babies. It’s when they get to age seven or eight that she has no fucking clue what to do with them.”

  Tina flashes me a look of sympathy, before returning to the canvas. “Why do you think your nephew is way off in a corner like that, so far away from everyone else? I would have thought she’d at least let one of her sisters throw that ball to him.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I say. But I’m a liar. I know exactly why my mother has banished my nephew to a far corner: it’s a sign of his paper-thin connection to “her” family. But why would I admit that to Tina? Especially when, like Tina said, the fact that Mom’s included him at all, after only one visit, is a sign of progress, however small.

  “She adores you, you know,” Tina says. “She talks about you all the time.”

  I smile politely and shove my hand into the pocket of my jeans. But I know the truth. If my mother talks about me at all, it’s only to brag about my money. The truth is, my mother isn’t capable of loving me in the way other mothers love their children. But that’s okay. She doesn’t need to be capable of it. I’ve long since stopped hoping for, or expecting, motherly love from her. All that matters to me now is that she is, in fact, my mother, and that I love her. All that matters is she’s on the short list of people I’d do anything for, protect until my dying breath, and love unconditionally, forevermore, whether she’s capable of returning my devotion, or, shit, even simply liking me... or not.

  Chapter 19

  Reed

  In the yoga room, I discover Mom at the front of the class with her boyfriend, Lee—a paranoid schizophrenic who’s so heavily medicated, I’ve never heard him say more than four words during any given visit. At the moment, the class, including Mom and Lee, are attempting to do the Warrior Two pose, although what they’re managing, to be generous, isn’t exactly the stuff of yoga instructional videos.

  “Reed is here,” the instructor says to Mom, making her turn around. And when Mom sees me standing in the doorway, she claps, rises from her pose, and makes her way over to me.

  When Mom arrives, I squeeze her frail body into a tight hug and tell her I love her. She doesn’t return the words, but that’s not a surprise. She once told me those words aren’t in her vocabulary, because whenever she says them, someone dies. So, really, I suppose I should consider my mother’s refusal to tell her only living son she loves him a gift. She’s merely trying to save her son from dying, after all. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

  “I can’t stay long today, Mom,” I say. “I have to catch a flight back to LA for a concert. For work.”

  For Georgina.

  Again, the force of nature that is Georgina Ricci flashes across my mind. I imagine her showing up backstage tonight at the RCR concert, excited to begin her first day on the job with a press pass around her neck... and then being greeted at the backstage door by... me. Oh, God, I can’t wait for that delicious moment when our eyes meet again. When she realizes she’s got to play nice with me, whether she likes it or not. In truth, I’ve been obsessing about it all week long.

  “LA,” Mom says with disdain. “I never should have let Terrence convince me to leave my family here in Scarsdale to move to LA. That was the beginning of the end for me.”

  I take a deep breath and bite my tongue. Mom says something like this every time I visit, and it’s a whole lot of crazy. First, let’s be real here: the fire was the beginning of the end for her. Doesn’t she realize her family perished long before she even met Terrence Rivers? Which means my father didn’t “convince” her to leave her family, or anyone else, to move to Los Angeles. Actually, as far as I understand it, my thirty-five-year-old father convinced his deeply troubled, but stunningly beautiful, pregnant nineteen-year-old bride to leave Scarsdale, in the hopes she’d be able to leave her traumas far behind, and embrace the new life growing inside her. To begin a new chapter, in a new place, with a new husband.

  Or, shit, maybe Mom is simply acknowledging she would have preferred to stay in Scarsdale forever, with the ghosts of her dead family, than move to California and become the mother and wife, and then, unhinged ex-wife, she ultimately became.

  Either way, the comment annoys me whenever Mom makes it, because it’s my mother’s dead family that presently ties her to this facility in Scarsdale. And that’s a huge fucking inconvenience for me. I’ve begged Mom, more times than I can count, to let me move her to an even better facility in Malibu—a place right on the cliffs overlooking the glittering Pacific Ocean. But, no. She won’t do it. No matter what I say or do, or how many brochures of the Malibu facility I show her, Mom says she won’t leave her “family,” ever again. Plus, she steadfastly refuses to leave Lee, her “boyfriend,” so, it’s a double non-starter. Of course, I’ve offered to move Lee to Malibu, along with her, on my fucking dime, by the way—which wouldn’t be cheap—but she always says Lee won’t leave his brother, who apparently lives in the City. A fact she’s apparently been able to extract from a man so medicated, he constantly drools down his chin and says not more than six words a day.

  “You have to stay for lunch,” Mom says brightly to me. “They’re serving chicken pot pies. Your favorite.”

  They’re not my favorite. In fact, I rarely eat carbs. “Maybe next time,” I say. “I’ve got to keep this visit short, like I said.”

  Mom frowns. “Your last visit was short, too.”

  “No. Last time, I spent the entire day with you. We watched Jeopardy and played Scrabble. Remember?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Last time, you had to leave because of some awards show.”

  Oh my fucking God. The Grammys thing was months ago. During my most recent visit, Mom had a terrible meltdown, so I stayed the entire day with her, holding her hand. Listening to her talk. Trying, and failing, to make her smile. And then, finally, when she calmed down, we watched Jeopardy and played fucking Scrabble. And, by the way, I did all of this, even though I had so much on my plate at work, I hadn’t slept more than three hours a night in a week.

  And while I’m cataloging recent visits in my mind, the visit before the most recent one was a long one, too. During which, as I recall, I joined Mom’s yoga class, let her win in checkers, and listened to her read mind-numbing poetry by Sylvia Plath. But, of course, Mom doesn’t remember my last two extra-long visits. All she remembers is the time, months ago, I had to make it quick because Grammy nominations had just been announced, and my artists had collectively received more nominations than ever before—and I had to blow out of here to manage the happy chaos of my life.

  “Come,” Mom says, putting out her hand. “I want to show you my painting.”

  I take her hand and let her lead me to her room, and then “ooh” and “aah” as she shows me the picnic I’ve already seen.

  Simply to make conversation, I ask, “Once you finish filling in the grass and trees, will it be complete? Or is there something else you’re planning to add, after that?”

  Shit. Tears instantly well in Mom’s eyes. “I can’t finish the grass and trees because I’m out of the right color green!” she blurts. “And the only place they sell it is Sennelier!”

  And that’s it. She melts down. Which is so fucking crazy, I can’t stand it. Sennelier isn’t Mars, for fuck’s sake. It’s a renowned art store in Paris, with an easy-to-navigate online store—the place I order all Mom’s uber-expensive art supplies. And yet, she’s just said the name of the place like it’s located in another dimension.

  I grab a tissue off Mom’s nightstand and hand it to her. “I’ll order whatever you need online, Mom. There’s no need to cry.”
/>   “How? You can’t help me because you’re going back to California.”

  I can’t help chuckling at the way she just said “California,” as if she’d said the word “Satan” in its place. “Mom. Take a chill pill, would you? I’ll pay whatever it takes to get it here overnight. Come here. Watch this.” I pull her sobbing frame to the bed and sit her down, the same way I’ve done countless times. Calmly, I get onto my phone and head to the French art store’s website—a site I’ve already bookmarked for easy access—and then place an outrageously expensive order for rush delivery of every single shade of green in their store. “See? Aucun problème, madame. Whatever your heart desires, I’ll always get it for you. No need for tears.” I put my arm around her frail shoulders and hug her to me and she cries a river of tears—a torrent that obviously has nothing to do with her needing a few more tubes of green paint. As Mom’s tears continue flowing, I covertly check my watch. Fuck. “I’ve got to go, Mom,” I say, my stomach twisting. “I really can’t miss my flight.”

  “Because you have to go to California.”

  “Because I need to work.”

  “But you haven’t had lunch yet.”

  “Next time. I’ll eat on the plane.”

  She sits up and levels me with her dark, piercing eyes. “You’re staying for lunch, Reed Charlemagne,” she declares. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

  I take a deep breath and bite my tongue. God, how I hate that fucking expression. She’s said it my whole fucking life, as long as I can remember, and whenever I hear it, no matter the situation, the only thing I want to do is scream “No, no, no, motherfucker!” like a toddler with a very dirty mouth. But, because I’m an adult, and I really shouldn’t call my mother a motherfucker, I take another deep breath, squash my instinct to rebel, and say, “I’ll stay for a quick lunch. But no dessert. I’ve got to watch my girlish figure.”

  Sniffling, Mom wipes her eyes. “You don’t have a girlish figure. You’re a strong, muscular man. Just like your father.”

  “It was a joke, Mom. It’s called sarcasm.” I rise from the bed. “Stay put. I need to make a quick call to arrange a later flight, and then we’ll head to the dining room.”

  “But you’re coming back?”

  “Yes, I’ll be right back. I promise.”

  Pulling out my phone, I dip into the hallway.

  “Howdy, boss,” Owen says, answering my call.

  “Change of plans, O. I need a new flight to LA, about an hour and a half later than the original one. Book me private, if necessary. I don’t care how much it costs, just as long as I make it to the RCR concert before it starts.”

  “What’s up?”

  “My visit with my mother is taking a little longer than planned. We’re going to enjoy chicken pot pies together.”

  “How lovely. My favorite.”

  “Believe me, I wish you could be here to take my place. So, listen. Since I won’t make it to the arena as early as planned, you’re going to have to be the one to greet the new Rock ‘n’ Roll reporter when she arrives.”

  “No problem. I met with her yesterday and showed her around the office. Her name is Georgina. She’s great.”

  Georgina. In a flash, I’m flooded with images of her again. Those earth-quaking kisses. Her mouthwatering tits peeking up from her tank top. Her ass in those tight jeans when she bent over. And, of course, those blazing hazel eyes as she raised her middle fingers into the sky.

  I clear my throat. “Personally escort her around backstage, okay? And do not, under any circumstances, leave her alone with Caleb. You got me? That’s your top job. If you fuck that up, I swear to God, you’re fired.”

  I can hear Owen smiling on his end of the line. As he well knows, there’s virtually nothing he could do, or not do, to get canned by me. Which is why I feel comfortable threatening him with it all the time, but only to emphasize when a particular task is especially important.

  “I got it, boss,” he says. “Georgie gets no alone-time with Caleb.”

  “I can’t emphasize this enough, O. Georgina is exactly Caleb’s type and he just broke up with some airheaded supermodel, so he’s gonna be especially on the prowl. A thousand bucks says he’s gonna pounce on Georgina the second he gets a clear shot. So, for the love of God, make damned sure he doesn’t get a clear shot.”

  “So, you’ve seen Georgina, then?”

  Shit. I remain mute, feeling like I’ve been caught red-handed.

  “So... hmm,” Owen says. “I’m sensing Georgina might not only be Caleb’s exact type. Could it be she’s also someone else’s exact type, too...?”

  I grimace sharply to myself at my implicit admission, but, nonetheless, forge ahead in a businesslike tone. “I’ll be heading straight to the concert from the airport,” I say evenly, “so be sure to tell the LA car service about the change in my itinerary.”

  “Will do, boss. No problem. Enjoy the chicken pot pie with your momma. I’ll text you the new flight info. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure Georgina meets the entire band, all at once.”

  “Good. Don’t fuck it up, O. Your job depends on it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After hanging up with Owen, I text the change of plans to my driver, Tony, out front, and then return to my mother’s room. When I get there, I find my mother staring blankly out her window at the garden.

  “Mom?”

  She doesn’t flinch.

  I place my palm gently on her shoulder. “Ready to eat, Mom?”

  She turns her head. “Who’d you call?”

  “Owen.”

  “The gay man who works for you?”

  “The gay, smart, loyal, reliable, funny, organized, creative man who works for me.”

  “I like that you have a gay male secretary.”

  “Owen’s not my secretary. He defies traditional description.”

  “So do I.”

  I laugh. I meant that Owen’s job defies traditional description, thanks to everything he does for me and the label. But Mom’s retort was too funny—and accurate—to correct. “That’s true, Mom. You most definitely defy traditional maternal description.”

  “Have I met Owen?”

  “No. But guess what? His last name is French. Boucher.”

  She gasps. “Butcher! He’s from France?”

  “Not Owen himself. But somewhere along the line, someone in Owen’s family tree was French. He told me about it once, but I forget the details.”

  “Yet another reason for me to meet this man. My instinct tells me Owen Boucher and I would be kindred spirits. He’s got a French butcher somewhere in his family tree and I’ve got a French carpenter in mine. We’re soulmates.”

  “Owen’s name is ‘yet another reason’ you’re soulmates?” I say. “What’s the first reason?”

  “He’s gay,” she says matter-of-factly. “And I’m an artist. Artists and gay people always get along. We share a common understanding of what it means to be an outsider in this dark and lonely world.”

  I smooth a lock of her gray hair. “Maybe I should bring Owen the Butcher here to have chicken pot pies with Eleanor the Carpenter some time, eh? You two can sit in the garden and talk about art and sexuality and Sylvia Plath and being outsiders until your heart’s content.”

  “And our French lineage.”

  “That, too.”

  “I’d like that.” She frowns sharply. “Seeing as how my son hardly ever visits me because he’s too busy going to rock concerts and awards shows in California.”

  I close my eyes and pray for strength from a God I don’t believe in. “I visit as much as I can. If you’d let me move you to—”

  “I’m not moving to Malibu, Reed. My home is here.”

  My gaze drifts to Mom’s painting again. To my nephew on the outskirts of the grassy park—the first new “family” member she’s ever painted. And it’s enough to keep me from going completely mad. Barely, yes, but it is. “If I bring Owen to visit, will you promise to include him in your pa
inting that week?”

  Mom shrugs, as noncommittal as ever. And I know in my heart, even if I were to fly Owen to Scarsdale to have chicken pot pies with her, even if they were to have the best conversation in the world about art, sexuality, ‘outsider-ism,’ Sylvia Plath, and France—a torture I’d never subject Owen to, by the way, unless I were paying him a hefty bonus—she wouldn’t paint him in that week’s opus. Because he’s not family, and she’d need years to shift gears enough to let an outsider, even an exceedingly pleasant gay one, intrude in her reality.

  I also know something else as I stand here with Mom. A thought I quickly stuff down and push away the moment my brain conjures it: no matter how many “Owens” I might arrange for my mother to talk to, or what fancy French paints I might buy for her on rush delivery, none of it will ever be enough to make her love me. At least, not like most mothers love their children. Not the way she loved a certain four-year-old who never grew up to become imperfect in her eyes, who never grew up to remind her of his father, Terrence—a dashing, charismatic, broad-shouldered man who, many moons ago, promised to take care of and love a gorgeous, tempestuous teenager named Eleanor... but, instead, only wound up shattering her already broken heart.

  Chapter 20

  Reed

  I slide into the backseat of the car picking me up from LAX and confirm with the driver he’s taking me to RCR’s concert at the Rose Bowl. Logistics sorted, I pull out my phone to answer the million and one unread emails and texts requiring my attention. But I can’t concentrate on them for shit. Because... Georgina. Yet again, that woman has hijacked my thoughts. Only this time, now that my body senses it’s once again in the same city as hers, that I’m mere minutes away from actually being in Georgina’s glorious presence again, I literally can’t think of anything but her.

  If only I hadn’t been a pussy and agreed to stay for lunch with my mother, I would have arrived at the stadium in plenty of time to personally greet Georgina when she arrived, her shiny new press pass around her neck. Damn. I really wanted to see the look of excitement and anticipation on her face in that moment, and then watch with amusement as her features instantly morphed into anxiety when she saw me and realized that, maybe, those double-birds she flipped me a week ago weren’t such a good idea, after all. Oh, God, that moment was going to be such a turn-on for me. But thanks to those chicken pot pies, and my eternal soft spot for my mother, I missed it.