Vi wanted your praise, while Daisy wanted your opinion.
Vi wanted you to watch her. Daisy wanted to watch you.
Before I learned their personalities were different, I could tell them apart by their clothes. Vi wore the shortest skirts I’d ever seen, heels designed to make long legs look even longer, and enough makeup the bouncers rarely asked for ID.
Daisy’s look was simpler. All she’d wear on her face was something dark around her eyes and the lip balm she took everywhere. She dressed more conservatively in tank tops, sweaters, and skinny jeans. I don’t think she realized how little they did to hide her curves.
Vi would hold court on the dance floor, trying to draw every male gaze in the room and largely succeeding. Daisy would hang out by the bar, preferably on a stool where she could survey the room.
I don’t regret many things. Not figuring out sooner that Daisy was the one who’d ultimately fit me is one of them.
“Well,” Tris goes on, “if you’ve finally wised up and decided to lock that down, you’re smarter than I thought. I expect to see this new relationship in action on Wednesday.”
I force myself to focus on Tris’s words. “Wednesday?”
“We’re going out for my birthday. We have a booth already reserved.”
Nothing good ever started in a nightclub. “I can’t make it. But I’ll send my regards in alcoholic form.”
“You’re my brother.” The edge in his voice has me wondering why he even cares.
“Fine. She can’t make it.”
He laughs silently. “Listen. I’m not saying I don’t believe you. But something strange is going on. If you are really dating Daisy, you won’t let an excuse to show her off go by.”
The smug prick could be right.
Holt strides in, nodding to me and clapping Xavier on the back.
“Now that you’re both here, I wanted to congratulate you on your nominations,” Xavier begins.
I frown. “Nominations?”
Holt grins at me. “You didn’t think you were the only one from the firm up for this award?”
Yeah, I fucking did.
“I can only give my reference to one of you,” Xavier goes on. “Fortunately, I don't have to write it for three more weeks. So don't fuck up in the meantime."
It's not a joke, and the fact that Holt’s being considered for the same award tells me the coming month is even more important.
“Good. Well, if we’re ready to get to business, I’ve got a lead on something in services that will fit beautifully,” Holt says.
“Better than Ben’s proposal?” Xavier asks.
He snorts. “Their balance sheet is a mess.”
“But the tech is exquisite. Someone stands to make a fortune on them. I’d like it to be us.” I rise from my seat, fastening my jacket and preparing for battle.
But as I launch into my pitch, half of my brain’s stuck on the fact that my competition just got harder. Which means the importance and urgency of convincing Xavier—and everyone else—I’m dating Daisy just dialed up.
After work, I take my car to the Parkwood Rehabilitation Center. It’s a low building in New Jersey with sweeping green lawns. It’s meant to feel like freedom, but it’s anything but that.
The woman at the desk is in her twenties and wearing scrubs. She looks at me appraisingly, her gaze lingering on my body.
I don’t walk around assuming every woman is attracted to me, but I’m smart enough it doesn’t surprise me when it happens.
I co-run a VC. I’m the perfect combination of exciting and safe. The guy a woman can bring home to her parents who’ll still sneak up to her childhood bedroom and fuck her after dessert. If I ever got serious enough for a woman to let her make me meet her parents.
“I’m here for Ramona Douglas.”
“We have no one under that name.”
I drum my fingers on the counter. “Try Gable.”
I hold out ID.
After lingering look at me, she turns to type on her computer, then sighs. “Follow me.”
She leads me down a hall, casting a look over one shoulder to see if I’m following or maybe if I’m checking her out.
I’m not. Not that I can’t appreciate women, because I do. But love fucks you up, and I’m not into that. I’ve seen it happen enough, including when my dad jerked my mom around for years before eventually leaving her.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t convinced her so completely he loved her, hadn’t doted on her while leeching her money, while planning his escape.
The door to a room at the end of the hall opens and I step inside. Mom’s lying on a bed, wearing a tidy blue tailored pantsuit, legs crossed, shoulder-length gray hair styled.
I start to shut the door after the attendant, and she balks. “We’d prefer they be left open when people are visiting.”
“Right, because I came all the way to New Jersey to bring my mother drugs in rehab,” I say dryly. Still, I reach into my pockets, pull out the contents, and set them in a pile on the desk anyway.
The attendant shoots me a harsh look before leaving.
“I would’ve sent someone and smuggled them in the window,” I mutter as she goes.
My mom laughs, and I turn around. I survey my mother, a practiced study. Her eyes are bright, but the skin beneath is too smooth, concealed with makeup.
“I thought you wanted to marry Kirk Douglas,” I say.
“I changed my mind. Clark Gable would’ve been the one.”
“You were born thirty years too late for that,” I inform her.
“You were born right on time.”
That’s debatable. My mom got pregnant with me while she was still struggling to become an actress. She got her break when she was pregnant with Tris. Some casting agent wanted someone for the soap opera that made her famous and fell in love with Mom’s look. After years of bussing tables, her star was on the rise.
In some ways, that made it harder.
My dad was in sales and would come around for a few weeks at a time.
Mom did everything she could to look after us as a single mom in Hollywood. I never questioned her love. And from the time I was old enough to know how, I tried to fix whatever was wrong with her that week. I felt as if it was my job to do it. Tris never saw how things were before, never saw how strong and resilient she was.
Until what she called love broke her down, again and again.
“You were supposed to send money for the investment we talked about,” I remind her. “I was worried.”
“I’ve been looking into some other options. Your father sent along some ideas.”
The mention of him has my jaw clenching. “He’s not worth going on a bender."
At least, not enough of one that she felt the need to check herself into a facility instead of staying in her Upper East Side condo.
Tris thinks she uses drugs and lands herself in rehab for attention. I know it's not that simple.
I pace the room and pull open the closet door to reveal a half-dozen tidy outfits on hangers. Seems she’s planning to stick around.
“He doesn’t need another dime of your money,” I state. I’ve managed her money since I was old enough to know how.
“Neither do you. I heard about your award,” she comments.