by Kim Karr
With a concerned look on his face, Cam runs a hand through his hair. “You got it all wrong, Keen—he brought me.”
I blink a few times and try to process what he just said.
For whom?
Maggie?
But why?
I fucked all of that up.
There is no way I could get her back now.
No fucking way.
Is there?
The hot little cocktail waitress steps in my path, and this time she has a big pink heart pinned right to her ample chest with the little K on it, which stands for Keen. “Your drink,” she says with a smile and a wink. And I know just what the wink is for. Not that I intend to do anything about it. I keep playing along, though.
Like a missile redirected, Cam’s even quicker movement cuts off the quick outstretching of my hand. Before I can blink, he has my scotch grasped in his hold, is lifting it to his lips, and then has the nerve to down it, all before setting the empty glass back on the tray.
Her eyes grow wide and I think my valentine might be crushing on my best friend. She shouldn’t be shooting her Cupid’s arrow in his direction—he’s taken. Fallen madly in love with the girl next door. Blah, blah, blah.
Grabbing two chips from my grasp, Cam smiles at her. “Thank you for that, but my friend here has had enough.” Then he drops the two thousand dollars in chips on her tray. “And this is for your trouble.”
With that little ditty, she walks away.
Looking over Cam’s shoulder at all the pink and red decorations, I want to call her back, but know I won’t. Instead I meet Cam’s stare. “What the fuck? That was my drink, and she and I have a date later.”
His finger is in my face. “First of all you reek of alcohol. When was the last time you were sober?”
I shrug. “Does it matter?”
With a huff, he wags his finger at me. “And secondly, do you even know her name?”
Now that question I can answer. “Do I need to? She’s my Valentine’s date.” Not that I planned on taking her out. Truth is, I’ve been avoiding her, but fuck, Cam doesn’t need to know that.
He shakes his head. “You’re a piece of work.”
“Hey bro, I’m not feeling the love.”
Leaning in close as if to make sure I can hear him, Cam whispers, “I’ll show you the love. I’ll give you five minutes to go jerk off in the bathroom if you have to, but Emma sent us to bring you home, and I, for one, don’t plan to piss her off.”
The door is opened wide for us as we approach and the sweet sound of slot machines drowns out the ringing in my ears. “My mother?” I ask in shock just as I exit the high-stakes poker room. “How did she know where I was?”
Cam is about six two, only an inch shorter than me, but I swear his size has morphed or I’ve shrunk when he says, “Some big movie producer you played with yesterday called her.”
All of a sudden I’m twelve, not twenty-seven. “Played with? Like outside, as in Cowboys and Indians, basketball, or is this some chick trying to pull some crazy sex scandal that can’t possibly be true?”
That fucking Cam smirk lights up his face. “It was a guy, you dumb fuck. And cards.”
What.
The.
Fuck?
Someone from Bobby’s Room called my Mommy Dearest? Are you kidding me?
It’s not until we’ve fully cleared the poker room and entered the din of the casino that I can see anything but red.
Glancing around, I take a minute to try to remember who it was. You know, in case I see him; I’ll promptly remind him that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. And also I think I’ll have to enlighten him about my mother. Emma Fairchild might be a hotshot director who rules Hollywood, but to me, she is nothing more than the vessel that birthed me.
End.
Of.
Story.
Brooklyn approaches with apprehension in his eyes, like I might just pound him into the ground for doing our mother’s bidding. For once, I have no intention of doing that. Instead, when he’s close enough, I pull him in for a hard embrace. Needing him more than I ever thought I could. “Little brother, good to see you.”
When he steps back, my brother’s face is so somber you’d think he was standing at someone’s grave, not smack dab in the middle of all the action at the Bellagio. “Why the fuck haven’t you called me back?”
There is absolutely no reason I should be laughing, and yet I am. “Someone drowned my phone a while ago. Just haven’t gotten around to getting a new one.”
Brooklyn narrows his eyes at me. “It’s not funny, Keen. I’ve been calling you for weeks. Called your apartment building; they told me you moved out. Called that chick Sarah you used to hang with every now and then; she told me she hasn’t seen you since your father died. Finally I called your office, and they told me you were fired six weeks ago.”
“Quit,” I mutter under my breath.
“What happened?” he asks in a tone that is somewhere between fury and concern.
Standing in the middle of the casino, everything seems to suddenly be slowing down.
Exactly how long have I been here?
Seven days?
Ten?
Wait. Two weeks?
No, three.
Four.
Fuck.
Without conscious thought, I clench my brother’s shoulders, which seem so much stronger than they did last month. “I honestly don’t know,” I answer.
And that’s the truth.
Somewhere between my old man dying almost two years ago and subsequently deciding I wanted to become the next Wolf of Wall Street, time flew by, and so did life.
All I did was work.
Night and day.
Fell out of touch with the people I knew.
All because I had defined success as that pie-in-the-sky dream.
And then in the blink of an eye, I’d lost it.
When I thought I had nothing left, I packed what I needed into my Porsche 911, put the rest of my shit in storage, and then drove west. I’d intended to head to Laguna, but decided I should pull myself together first, and in my delusional state, I figured why not in Vegas.
Brooklyn gives me a hard shove. Man, is he grown up. The skinny teen from the hit MTV reality series Chasing the Sun is a man. And by the amount of women eyeing his James Dean look, he’s a real panty dropper. “Don’t ever disappear like that again, asshole,” he hisses.
Fuck, I guess he really does care.
Moving past the shitty feelings I have about my life, I take a breath and give him a smirk, knowing that what I’m about to say is going to make all his anger disappear. “You know, this was just a pit stop on my way to California.”
“No fucking way.” Brooklyn smiles.
When I swing my gaze over to Cam, his jaw is hanging open. “Catching flies?” I ask.
“Absolutely fucking not. Just please tell me you are finally going to take me up on my offer and come work for Simon Warren?” Cam asks, his enthusiasm breaking down the wall I’ve had up.
Feeling overwhelmed, I have to pretend I’m unsure to hide my emotions, when fuck yeah—if after all this time the offer is still on the table, I am taking it. And besides, Maggie is there, and maybe she’ll be willing to forgive me for going off the radar while I figured my shit out.
Putting on a show for Cam, I tilt my head to the side in contemplation. I hadn’t really considered it, totally forgot about it to be honest, but fuck, it just happens I need a job. And getting out of New York City for a while wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
Cam’s wheels are turning in true Cam form and I know I’m screwed unless I say yes anyway.
Swinging my arms around my brother and my best friend, I answer. “I’m willing to give it a try. Just a try. Nothing permanent out of the gate.”
Cam looks over at me. “How about this? We label it as interim. I’m in over my head right now and could really use the help. If you can just stay onboard until I pull all my assets together a
nd align proper management, that would help. And then if you don’t like it, you leave. If you like it, you stay. But no pressure.”
No pressure—now that’s a deal I can handle. “Just so we’re clear, I don’t know shit about running a men’s apparel division, but if you’re willing to put your faith in me then you’d better fucking believe I’m ready to find out.”
“C’mon, you’re Keen Masters. I have no doubt you can turn this company around.” Cam grins.
“Thanks for the confidence boost. I appreciate it. Now what do you two losers say to a few drinks while we sit at a blackjack table? And then maybe hit a strip club a little later?”
With a move I have to say I didn’t see coming, Cam untangles himself from my hold and wrenches my arm behind my back.
Over my shoulder, I whine, “Fine, you can skip the strip club now that you have a girlfriend, but that doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for Brooklyn and me.”
Thought I’d test the waters, see if Brooklyn would back out because he has a lady at home, but looks like that plan has been shot down and I’m going to be left hanging.
Cam hisses in my ear, “The only place you are going is in the back of my Jeep.”
“But my car,” I protest.
Brooklyn dangles a set of keys in front of me. “Already had the valet pull it around. And I’ll be happy to drive it.”
“Yeah, well all my shit is up in the penthouse.”
That smirk on my brother’s face tells me he already took care of that too. “Shit’s loaded and in the Jeep.”
Cam lets go of me and removes a tin of breath mints from his pocket. He pops one in his mouth and then shoves the tin my way. “Here, you need the whole pack. In fact, if there’s a self-service car wash anywhere nearby, I think I’ll stop and hose you off.”
After giving him the finger, I run a hand down over my stubbled jaw. Yeah, I could probably use a shower and a shave.
Brooklyn is laughing so hard that he has to hold his stomach.
Sizing up my best friend and my brother against my drunken condition, I consider my options. I could run. Or try to. Probably not the best course of action right now. Or I could just go with them.
Fuckers.
Honestly, my liver could use a period of detox.
Snatching back my shades, I slide them on my face before I turn and head for the exit, muttering over my shoulder, “You two are assholes.”
Their response comes in unison. “And so are you.”
Just as I reach the glass doors and step out into the hot Nevada weather, I turn back and look at what might have been my kingdom.
When my gaze lands on Cam and Brooklyn, I realize I didn’t lose everything in my life.
And for the first time in six weeks, I take a deep breath and feel like I’m able to breathe.
It’s all or nothing.
All or nothing.
9
WE ARE NEVER EVER GETTING BACK TOGETHER
Maggie
My tiny beach bungalow looks like love has thrown up all over it.
Literally.
I’m not kidding.
Red foil hearts hang from the ceiling. Bowls of candy kisses and those stupid conversation hearts are everywhere. You know—the ones that read, “Kiss Me,” or “Hubba Hubba,” or better yet, “Be Mine.”
Seriously, I’m not sure in my gray state of mind I can handle this right now.
My thoughts are interrupted by the familiar tune of my cell.
Sighing, I try to hold all the grocery bags with one arm while I pull my ringing phone from my purse and look at the screen.
The name Elliot flashes before me. Elliot owns a men’s store on Melrose Avenue that only sells jeans.
Not suits.
Just jeans.
And much to my dismay—no, scratch that, I’m trying to be positive, so I will say much to my delight—he only wears denim. And I mean he wears denim—like from head to toe.
Elliot’s sense of style aside, I went out with him last week, and we had a pretty okay time. More than okay; I almost had fun. Yet, when he tried to kiss me, I found myself pulling away. Feeling almost blue, I couldn’t let anyone else touch my lips because I wanted to keep remembering Keen’s lips on mine.
Honestly, I can’t take this state I’m in. I need to forget him. And yet, I can’t. It’s never taken me this long to get over a breakup. Usually within three days I’m on to the next guy, a week at the most. Besides, what Keen and I had doesn’t even qualify as a breakup.
Ring.
Ring.
Elliot’s name continues to flash on my screen. I still don’t answer it. I like him. I do. Still, I don’t answer his call.
Don’t look at me like that.
It has nothing to do with him.
Seriously, I can’t.
My hands are full.
Even though it’s been almost two months, I still crave Keen’s touch. Man, letting go of something that I never really had is so much harder than I thought it would be. Than it should be. And it’s pissing me off.
Working has helped a lot. I’ve thrown myself all in. I’m a fashion merchandiser for Simon Warren. It might be a few levels under fashion merchandiser, more like a grunt. And sure, I got the job through nepotism. Still, I’m really good at working with men’s apparel as opposed to women’s.
I think I finally found my niche.
Simon Warren sells the sexiest men’s dress apparel. Fitted shirts. Flat-front pants with the lowest waists. Tailored jackets. Ties in the brightest colors and boldest patterns. Always on trend. Always modern. Always so yummy. I can’t help but talk them up. After all, I’ve been around these lustful objects my entire life.
You see, my mother started working for the company when it first opened its doors right here in California. And that was before I was even born. When I wasn’t even quite a teen, she moved us to New York City to launch the women’s division, and I mourned the loss of menswear. I’m pretty certain she did too because not even ten years later, she moved back to West Hollywood.
Once I finished college, and got fired a couple of dozen times, I moved to California to be closer to her. And since my grandmother had passed and left me her beach house, it made sense. So for the past few years I’ve lived in Laguna Beach, and up until two months ago earned a living by lifeguarding until I decided it was time to reenter the real world.
Sadly, my mother had to return to New York City last year when the company started experiencing financial distress. I really miss her.
That’s all about to change, though, with Cam now at the helm. I just know he is going to turn things around.
Rounding the corner into the galley kitchen, all I can see is food. Bags of chips and containers of salsa are on the counter, trays of something or other that once had faces are sitting on the stove, and something that smells a lot like hot dogs or wieners are in the oven.
Gross.
Setting my bags full of kale dumplings, veggie sticks, hummus, pita chips, and black bean dip down, my eyes land on the massive stack of heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. The ones that contain all those fillings that as a kid I poked my finger inside of before I ate one, then left the ones I didn’t like in the box for someone else.
And the covering of the boxes is satin.
Satin!
My blood starts to boil. “Makayla!” I scream over the music. Not just any music, either. “Little Things” by One Direction. A love song.
A. LOVE. SONG.
At an Anti–Valentine’s Day party!
It’s outrageous.
When Makayla doesn’t answer, I yell even louder for her to account for what the hell she is up to.
The timer on the oven dings and I open it. On a tray are at least two dozen hot dogs wrapped in crescent rolls. I turn it off and shut the door. “Maakkaayyllaa!” I shout one more time.
Here’s the thing—I don’t believe in love. Lust, yes. A million times over, but love, no—it’s not for me.
When there is n
o answer, I go in search of her. The house my grandmother willed to me is small, but nice. With a galley kitchen, family room, and master bedroom downstairs and second bedroom upstairs, it’s plenty big for two but not that big that I shouldn’t be able to locate her whereabouts.
When I don’t find her anywhere inside, I head back to the kitchen and step out onto the outdoor patio.
Oh.
My.
Fucking.
God.
All put together in tight skinny jeans and a red silk top with silver pointy flats, Makayla is up on a ladder streaming red heart lights all across the patio. To make matters even worse, there are red plates and red wineglasses on the bar. Oh, and red rose petals are sprinkled everywhere.
The sound of the door slamming closed behind me makes her twist around, and the waves of her light brown hair move with the same grace she carries. “Maggie, you’re home from work early,” she says with a smile.
Just starting her jewelry company, Makayla works from home. Now that I have a full-time job, I drive to either the headquarters of Simon Warren on Melrose, the distribution center in Santa Monica, or our locations up and down the West Coast. Depending on my whereabouts that day, sometimes I stay overnight at my mother’s house in West Hollywood. Sometimes I come back home. Since today is Friday, and I’m having a party, I came home.
Hating to crush the cloud she’s floating on, I take a deep breath and try to control my ire. “Yes, for the party,” I respond. Okay, so the word party might have come out through my teeth.
She is staring at me.
I look down at myself in my tight white blouse and even tighter black pencil skirt. “What?”
She shrugs. “You just look so—”
“Plain.” I cut her off.
Every day, I feel like I’m playing dress-up in my mother’s clothes. That’s probably because they are hers. Right now, buying a new professional wardrobe is way beyond my means. Besides, like Makayla, my mother has always had style, unlike me. She’s just shorter than I am, and a little thinner, too, so everything looks—different on me.