The Rivals

by Allen , Dylan

  “You’re the one who cares about how deep my pockets are. And no, she’s not leaving him. I just don’t want this anymore.” I point between us. She curls her lip in disgust.

  “So, after you spent the weekend humiliating me by mooning after her and practically making out with her on the dancefloor, you’re breaking up with me?” She laughs humorlessly.

  “I’m sorry.” I say with as much contrition as I can muster.

  “No, I’m sorry. That I didn’t dump you first.” She throws her napkin down.

  I blow out a breath, “Me, too.”

  We stare at each other. She’s beautiful. It would have been a lot more convenient if I’d fallen in love with her.

  “I won’t take you back,” she says after eyeing me. Her is voice even. She’s not threatening me. This is the truth.

  I nod in agreement. “You shouldn’t. You deserve a man who can love you. That’s not me.”

  She sits down across from me, crosses her legs and assesses me coolly. “I’m not looking for love. I don’t believe in it the way you do.”

  “The way I do?” I lean back and look at her like she’s grown horns.

  “Yes. I’ve been very surprised at how sensitive you are, Remington.”

  “I am not sensitive,” I growl. That gets under my skin. Because after this weekend, I feel raw.

  “It’s not an insult, it’s just an observation,” she says evenly.

  “I’m not insulted. It’s just not true. And if you don’t want love, why do you want to get married so badly?”

  “I want power and freedom.”

  “You’re already powerful, Joni. And I don’t see any shackles around your wrists.”

  “Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they’re not there. And the only power I have is because my father is powerful. I’m just his daughter. I have ambitions greater than that. And there are some doors that will only open to me if I have a powerful, wealthy man beside me.”

  “Well, shit if that’s all you want, there are about a hundred men in this hotel who fit that description.”

  She scoffs. “Ninety-nine percent of them are either, too old, gay, or psychotic. It’s hard to find a good-looking, wealthy, young, straight man. If I’m going to let someone lock me up in the proverbial tower, I would at least like to enjoy the view.”

  She looks me up and down like I’m a horse she’s considering buying. And I feel like I’m seeing her, really seeing her, for the first time.

  “You’re cold, Joni.”

  “As a brick of ice.” She clears her throat, but otherwise, she appears completely unfazed.

  “So, you don’t really care that we’re breaking up?” I ask surprised.

  She gathers her purse and phone from the table and stands.

  “Like you said, there are a hundred men in this hotel who will do the job. I’ll miss the view but I’ve got my pride, Remington. And I won’t miss the constant reminders that you were settling for me.”

  She looks me up and down and shakes her head. “What a waste.” She says before she walks out of our hotel room and out of my life.

  As I board my flight back to Washington, I feel like I’m living in a whole new world. The hope-fueled torch I’ve carried for Kal has been snuffed out.

  We’re not getting our happy ending.

  I fucked-up.

  She’s moved on.

  Somewhere between those two facts is our full story.

  A story held together by a mortar made up of my mother’s manipulations and her mother’s fuckups, my idiocy and the unpredictable twists of fate.

  Look at what love does to people. Look what it did to me. I don’t care what Joni thinks, it’s the last thing I want to fuck with again.

  I’m in the middle of a crucial, final year in law school. I’m competing for a federal clerkship that would put me on the path to US Attorney or Assistant Attorney General.

  I’ve busted my ass in law school and not only am I number one in my class, but I’ve already established myself as one hell of a litigator in training during our moot court hearings.

  People thought basketball was my gift.

  I used to think so, too.

  But, how good I am on the basketball court is a mere trifle compared to how good I am in a courtroom.

  Advocacy is my gift and deciding to follow my convictions and go to law school was the best thing I ever did.

  And now, it’s the only thing I’ve got. I feel sick as I think about Kal being with someone else. It’s not the future I imagined. But, I’ll make it be enough.

  Part III

  Again

  Present Day

  Chapter 22

  CONCRETE JUNGLE

  KAL

  New York City

  Eight years later.

  * * *

  “Dammit, ouch!” I reach out to grab the yelping, stumbling woman I just plowed head first into, while I grab my throbbing forehead. “Oh my God, are you okay? I’m so sorry, I snagged my hose on something and I was looking—”

  “Look where you’re going,” she yells, the red of her wool knit cap seemed like the perfect accessory for her ruddy face, which is pinched in pain. She pulls out of my grasp and stalks away, with an angry glare over her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to her retreating back and then step out of the flow of pedestrian traffic on East Twenty-Eighth Street and duck into the drugstore.

  I dig in my coat pocket for the pack of tissues that’s taken up permanent residence there this winter. My nose has been running pretty much nonstop for two months and I haven’t been able to find the time to go see a doctor about it.

  “Welcome to Duane Reed,” a young girl behind the counter calls without looking up from her phone.

  “Where are your pantyhose?” I ask.

  “They’re in the same aisle as the travel-sized stuff.” She points in the general direction of the back of the store.

  Without looking up from her phone.

  I want to tell her that when I was her age, I would have killed to have a job at a nice drugstore in Manhattan.

  But today, my own life is such a mess that I can’t scold anyone.

  For anything.

  My phone rings as I stalk down the aisles looking at the hanging signs above them for a clue about where pantyhose might be. I yank it out of my purse and feel a jolt of panic when I see my lawyer’s name flashing on the screen.

  “Hey, Fallon. I’m sorry I haven’t paid your invoice—”

  “Yeah, me too. Too bad sorry doesn’t pay my kid’s tuition.”

  Mine’s either.

  “If you don’t pay me by the end of the month, at least half what you owe me, I’ll have to turn your account over to a debt collector. I can’t have this sitting on my books.”

  I knew this was coming. She’s one of the Peters I robbed to pay Paul last month.

  “Okay. I understand. I’ll get paid by then, I’ll just shuffle some other stuff—”

  “I like you, Kal. I do. But we all have bills.”

  “I know, I appreciate you letting me pay monthly in the first place.”

  “I want to help you, kid. But that ex of yours is a special kind of asshole. It was time-consuming to answer all of his fucking motions. Next time you get married, get to know him a little better before you sign your life away.”

  “Oh, Fallon. I can’t even imagine a next time.” I sigh into the phone.

  “That’s what they all say. But most people are a sucker for a good old romantic heartbreak. Not complaining— keeps me in business. Let me know what you want to do.”

  She hangs up without saying goodbye.

  I trudge up to the counter and hand the girl, who has still yet to grace me with the gift of a single glance, my box of tights and my credit card.

  I pull up my phone while I wait for her to complete the sale and try to find Fallon’s last invoice.

  “It was declined. You have another one?” She hands the card back to me. She’s finally
looking at me. Her expression is impatient and annoyed.

  “Try it again,” I say, but without any real confidence because it’s quite possible that I don’t have enough money in my account to cover the thirteen-dollar price tag of pantyhose I’m trying to buy.

  “Okay.” She shrugs and swipes it. I watch the machine and when it gives that single beep I gulp back a ball of humiliation and stick my hand out for my card.

  “Don’t know what’s wrong. My bank must have made a mistake.” I sound so lame and she quirks her lips in a “yeah right” and then looks past me.

  “Next,” she calls to the customer waiting behind me. This is a new low for me—buying pantyhose from a drug store. That appears to be the theme of my life right now, new lows are all the new year has brought me.

  I gather my purse and the shattered fragments of my pride and walk out of the store. I duck into the McDonald’s next door and hurry into the bathroom. I take the pantyhose off and stuff them into my purse. I tell myself that it’s fine to go without pantyhose in early February in New York City. But the sharp bite of winter wind against my bare legs as I walk to work, tells me very differently.

  It’s not fine.

  Nothing is.

  I’m officially a disaster. And by the time I get to the Fifth Avenue office building I’m freezing, despondent, and on the edge of a panic attack.

  How am I even going to eat tonight? I hope I have enough money on my fare card for the train ride back home. Bianca’s supposed to be with me tonight and I was planning on grocery shopping.

  Shit. How in the world is this even my life?

  I blow my nose before I get onto the elevator and ride up to the twentieth floor with a knot in my stomach. Thank God for this job. The pay is shit, but it’s better than nothing and it’s just a stepping stone for me. I’m up for a producer’s position that’s being vacated and if I can get that job, it will relieve some of the financial pressure of starting over the way I’ve had to since Paul and I got divorced. But it’s also a huge opportunity career-wise.

  It’s a viral new show on HBO where the hosts travel the country investigating unsolved mysteries and disappearances. It’s like it was written for me and I have a chance to become a producer and curate content. I’m breathless thinking about being back in my field after so many years away.

  “Hey… you’re late. And where the hell are your tights?” my office mate and my best friend, Kelli, greets me as soon as I walk through the door.

  I pat my purse. “In here.”

  “Glad they’re nice and warm while your legs are freezing.”

  “I snagged them on something on my way up the stairs from the train. Couldn’t get a new pair but couldn’t walk in here looking like I’d slept in the park so, I took them off.”

  “How bad could the hole have been? You can’t be outside like that. You’ll catch your death.”

  “Bad. If I’d walked in here like that Jules would have sent me home.”

  “I’ll run to Macy’s at lunch and grab you a pair to put on,” she says.

  “Thank you so much, Kelli.” I run over to hug her. Kelli’s such a mother hen. I love it. My mother remarried last year and moved to Atlantic City. It’s nice to have someone who cares enough to fuss.

  “Don’t thank me so fast. Jules has been in here twice looking for you.”

  “She has?” That can’t be good. Jules is our editor in chief and she detests anyone being late. “I wonder if they’ve made a decision.” I give her an anxious smile and shed my navy blue pea coat, drop my purse and riffle through for my things.

  “Maybe, I saw Slugman come out of there just before she came here to find you.”

  I hold up my crossed fingers and she returns the gesture with a smile. “You better get up there before she has to come back.”

  I grab my notebook and pen and hustle out of the door.

  “You wanted to see me?” I ask as I poke my head in Jules’ office.

  “Yes, come in. I’ve never come to look for you in the morning. Are you always late?” She folds her arms across her chest and doesn’t hide the fact that she’s completely unimpressed with me. Her sharp gray eyes are like chips of steel and feel just as sharp as she trains them on me and waits for me to answer.

  “No. Never. Today has been extraordinary in lots of ways. I’m sorry.” I hope my apology sounds sincere because it’s really not. In reality, I’m less than ten minutes “late.” Every other day, I’m in the office by 7:30 a.m.

  Of course, the only day it actually matters, I’m late.

  “The rest of the hiring committee wants to hire Jon Slugman instead of you.” She cuts straight to the chase.

  My stomach falls like an elevator car cut loose from its cables. I clutch the notepad to steady my hands and fight the tears that sting the back of my eyes.

  “Oh.” My voice is trapped in the panic clogging my throat. I clear it and try to look her in the eye.

  “Can you tell me why?”

  “Because he’s a man. This business is a boy’s club.” She says dispassionately.

  “I see,” I whisper to my hands. That feels worse than knowing that I fell short somehow.

  “Thank God money is mightier than sexism. And my husband has more of it than almost anyone. I write the checks around here. So, it’s my vote that counts,” she says in her cool silky way.

  My head snaps up. I’m afraid to hope, but I clutch at the tiny ember of it she just threw my way. “And how are you voting?”

  “He’s good.” She says and shrugs. My shoulders fall.

  “I think you’re better.”

  That ember roars to life.

  “You do?” I gasp.

  She nods.

  “I detest tears,” she hands me a tissue and I dab at the tears I didn’t quite manage to stem.

  “I’m sticking my neck out here, Kal. You need to show the rest of the editorial board that you’re the best person for the job.”

  “How? If I haven’t managed to do that already—”

  “You’ve written some great pieces. But you’re holding back. Dig deeper into the stories, find the human aspect. Give your audience some hope while you deliver the gloom of the story. You need to be twice as good as him. Bring your A-game.”

  I thought I had been. But clearly not. I swallow a ball of disappointment.

  “I’ll try harder.”

  “You fucking better. I’m throwing you a big bone.” She steeples her hands under her chin and nods at my notebook.

  I open it.

  “I got a lead today and I think you’re the perfect person to pursue it. If you can bring it home, it would be the making of you.”

  “Wow. Thank you. Your faith in me is—”

  “Please, don’t prove it misguided,” she says with no warmth at all. “I’ve been waiting for a woman I could champion. You’re it. Do not let me down.”

  “Okay.”

  “If you don’t come back with this story, not only will you not get the producer’s position. You’re also not going to have this job anymore. We’re making cuts to junior staff and your current role is on the chopping block.”

  “Tell me about the lead,” I say, getting straight to business. Getting fired isn’t an option. I need this job. If I lose it right now, I won’t be able to sell my place fast enough to keep us from losing everything. No, nothing will stop me.

  “You’re from Houston, right?”

  Surprise straightens my spine. “Yes. I mean… I haven’t lived there in over fifteen years, but yes.”

  “Wonderful. There was this weird little news story out of there a couple months ago. A shooting. Gigi Rivers, oldest daughter of Houston’s founding family. She was the family’s black sheep. She’s lived in Italy for thirty years. Suddenly, she’s back in Houston and she wasn’t there very long before she was shot right outside the Riverses company headquarters.”

  “Someone shot her?” I gasp. I remember that family. Remi told me their families were rivals.


  “Yes.” She raises a scandalized eyebrow. “Word is, the bullet was meant for Hayes Rivers. The official story was that it was a disgruntled former employee looking for revenge. It could be, right? I mean it’s Texas, they love guns, right?” Her wide eyed stare is expectant, so I nod.

  “But, what if it’s more than some whacko who got fired? His aunt made a full recovery but instead of scurrying back to the safety of her Tuscan villa, where not even the police have guns, she’s still in Houston.”

  “And?” I ask impatiently. I’ve got so many ideas for the part of the series I’d be producing called “Bad at Love” looking at cold cases where crimes of passion had been suspected.

  This story sounds a little Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous to me. I know that right now, beggars can’t be choosers but I’m confused by the assignment.

  “Jules, this sounds intriguing, but it also sounds like gossip. I want to investigate things that matter. I’m not a gossip columnist. We’re not a gossip magazine. We report on real people and when they go missing it rips a hole in the lives of the people left behind.”

  She purses her lips in disappointment.

  “They are one of the most powerful and influential families in America. Their influence is vast and people care about them. We need viewers, or we can’t sell advertising. And if we can’t sell advertising, none of us will have a job. So I’m sending you after a story that to you feels fluffy but is exactly what our viewership wants. You know how much interest there is in this family.”

  “Yes, and between E! Television and People Magazine, they get all the information they need.”

  She leans back in her chair and raises a haughty eyebrow at me.

  “Please don’t do me the insult of thinking that I would be suggesting we report this like it’s salacious gossip. I’ve got another interesting tidbit from my source, and that’s what I’m sending you to Houston for. According to a credible source, there was a DNA test ordered for Hayes Rivers last fall.”

  I gawk at her. You don’t have to live in Houston to have heard of the return of The Rivers King, as they call Hayes Rivers, from Italy. It was big news everywhere. They are one of the last remaining true family dynasties in the United States. And the fact that they all look like movie stars, only makes them the subject of intense interest.