It’s close to two in the morning when I finally roll up to our house. The whole ride down here, I’ve thought of nothing but that comment.
Maybe you need to find an apartment.
Was that real? Had my wife, my only true love, just told me to move out? Was it the Cuervo? The emotions of this one crazy night? The prospect of Alec, that smug-nosed little twerp?
Of course I have no defense—no one to blame but myself. If I’d done the right things all along—avoided the IM’ing with Anne, decided not to squeal to BusinessWeek, protected my equity in FlowBid—the geeks would’ve had nothing on me, and Kate wouldn’t be hurt. Sure, we’d still have our issues, but our lives wouldn’t be like houses teetering over an eroded beach cliff during a violent storm, seconds away from collapse.
Yeah, it’s my fault. All of it.
Bare-chested once again, I ease myself out of the van, my midsection throbbing, and glance across the street to Larry’s place. No sign of my Corolla. Larry’s house is dark.
God only knows where he’s—
Then, from his covered porch, a red ember.
I squint into the blackness. “Larry?”
The ember fades.
This is what Larry does most nights—turns off the lights and sits on his covered porch facing our house, smoking and drinking. You can’t see him, just the glowing red ember of his pipe.
I start to cross the street. “Larry?”
Faint traces of Alvin and the Chipmunks slip from his garage, their high-pitched squealing just barely cutting the silence.
All around the mulberry bush,
The monkey chased the weasel
The monkey thought it was a joke,
Pop goes the weasel
I bite my lip, take a few more steps.
“Larry,” I whisper. “The detective called me.”
The ember glows.
From the garage, an electronic buzz-snap, followed by hissing and popping and the high-pressure release of liquid. Muffled distress.
“Larry?”
The ember fades.
“Larry?”
The ember glows. “Come here.” His voice is strong, like he’s not asking.
Wet, squishy noises echo from the garage.
The ember fades.
I come closer, but I still can’t see him.
“Larry.” I step closer. “We can’t get too crazy with these guys.”
The ember brightens, and finally I see the outline of his face. Just a moment, a glimpse of his cheekbones, his brow, his chin, the contours of a mouth that seems paralyzed.
The ember fades, and he returns to darkness.
“Larry, listen. We need to cool it with these guys, okay?”
Nothing.
“I know you don’t like people following you, and I know you hate big money. But if these guys don’t come back fully functional, we’re wearing orange jumpsuits for ten to twenty.”
Nothing.
“Plus, I think we’d regret it.”
“Daniel.”
“Larry?”
“Daniel, I have never regretted anything.” The ember brightens, then fades. “Ever.”
The sound of splashing in the garage.
I look back at my house. It seems so sweet and cute from Larry’s place, the porch light on, the bushes trimmed. “Calhoun said some shady characters were snooping around my place. Maybe Baldy’s buds. Did you see anyone?”
Silence.
“Go easy on ’em, Larry. I mean it.”
Larry says, “It’s been a while.”
“While? What while?”
“Since Mr. Wetty has had visitors.”
“Mr. Wetty?” My heart thumps hard. “You have someone in there with them?” My breathing goes shallow. “We can’t have more people in on this, Larry.”
The ember brightens. “Mr. Wetty is an Adirondack.”
“A chair?”
“Mr. Wetty likes visitors, and he likes to get wet.”
“Larry?”
“So I think he was quite pleased to have company tonight.” The ember fades. “Which is why it will be my pleasure to give the boys turns on Mr. Wetty.”
Okay, maybe I don’t want to know this.
“Larry?”
Silence.
“Larry, where’s my car?”
The ember glows.
“Larry?”
Finally, peace.
My face has melted into my pillow. A warm blanket of black comfort, this sweet nothing, seeps through my skull and soothes my brain. It’s thick and black and solid, and it halts everything—dreams, radiating aches from my nether regions, outside stimuli.
The slumber is so sweet.
Until someone lifts me off the bed.
I jolt awake, look at the clock. 4:57.
A large figure twirls me in the air and crashes us into the wall. When I open my eyes, on my back, the shadow looms over me.
“Where is he?”
When I open my mouth, he forces his hand in, fingers my tongue, and pulls it out just enough to make me convulse.
“Where is he?”
My tongue twitches in his grip.
“You’re gonna answer.” The shadow lets go, whips me around so my head is sticking out of two enormous, hairy, interlocked arms. “Where is he?”
I feel absolutely helpless. Hell, I am absolutely helpless.
“I am not going to ask you again.”
“Where’s who?”
The arms tighten. “I’ll take you . . .”
I gurgle.
“. . . and leave you where archeologists will find you.” He squeezes, and I moan. “A long . . . long . . . time from now.”
I claw at the arms. “Please.”
The arms constrict like a hairy boa, and I shut my eyes in overwhelming pain. “Please? That won’t buy you the morning paper, hotshot. Where is he?”
“The bald dude?”
The arms hold tight. “There you go. See, you do know who.”
“I . . .” Tiny breath. “. . . don’t know.”
“Oh yes, you do.” He squeezes harder, takes a breath. “You know exactly where he is.”
I’m starting to feel dizzy. I’m not getting the air I need, and the pain is paralyzing. I gasp, “Please stop.”
“You control that.” The arms tighten and bulge. “Where is he?”
Saliva bubbles from my lips.
The arms tighten. “Where—”
Then, in a flash, some overwhelming force seizes control of both of us. Together we stiffen and shudder, frozen into paralysis. I feel his head jerking, his jaw shuttering, as a current of spiked pain shoots through my body and stays there, launching bullets of agony to the core of my chest.
I can’t even moan or open my mouth.
Finally, it ceases. He releases and topples over as I slide to the floor, my twitching limbs so heavy I can’t move. But I can smell something. That smoky hint of vanilla and rum. And then the cocoa-butter lotion. From my angle, I roll an eyeball for a view of the ember. The red ember brightening over us.
Larry pulls the Taser probes off us. “There we go,” he says in a soothing voice.
Larry cuffs my attacker and throws a pillowcase over his head. “The probes did not align,” he says.
I whimper on the hardwood, try to get a look at my attacker. He’s massive—maybe six foot five, three hundred pounds—with hands the size of catcher’s mitts. His power had been overwhelming, but now he’s a mound of dead weight.
“One probe landed on you, and the other on him. The current danced between you.” Larry reaches behind his jeans, pulls out an extra-large choke collar, something for St. Bernards. He pulls the pillowcase tight, collars his captive with the choke, and attaches a leash. It’s a move he’s obviously done before. He yanks on the leash, and his captive shrieks and scrambles to his knees. “A simple conduction of electrical current from his body to yours.”
I roll on the floor, moaning.
He says softly, “That was not my intention.”
The smoky vanilla wafts through my room.
He yanks again, and the captive follows. Larry leans against my dresser, and the captive settles at his feet like an obedient dog. “Some pets,” he says, looks down at the massive figure kneeling before him, “learn quite quickly.”
I sit up. My skin feels like it’s on fire. I scratch uncontrollably. “Larry,” I rasp, and lower myself back to the floor. “How’d . . .?”
“I’ve been watching him . . .” He pauses. “. . . watch you . . .” He produces a cloud, studies me through the haze. “. . . for hours.”
I try to sit up again, decide against it.
I moan, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Larry puffs, stares at me. “This is better.”
“Larry, we need to think about this a second.”
“I’ve decided.” Larry gazes down at me. “I’d like another date with Kate.”
“Larry. A date? Larry, you’re not dating my wife.”
He softens and whispers, “It would please me.”
“Let’s just focus on the matter at hand.” I nod to Larry’s captive and shudder at what I’m about to ask. “You have room for him, Larry?”
He allows the slightest of nods. “I can introduce him to . . .” His eyes seem to moisten. “. . . Mr. Wetty.”
From under the pillowcase: “We can pay you. A lot.”
Larry stiffens, looks at me and yanks the leash as he turns toward the hallway. “I do not like . . .” He yanks again, harder. “. . . big money.”
“Larry.” I sit up, rub my face. “We’ll need him back.”
Larry hums his little snippet of Bach as he leads his captive down the hall.
“Larry,” I snap.
Distant humming. I hear the door open, the choke collar snap.
“I need all those guys back, Larry.”
The door clicks shut.
I squint at the clock. 5:12 A.M. My head throbs, my left eye twitches; my energy is at an all-time low. I crawl back into bed, every inch of me aching, and let my head sink back into the pillow, thinking, Two more hours of sleep before I really need to get up. And realize—for a millisecond—the absurdity of it all, that I’ve grown so comfortable with all this insanity that I’m able to drift off just minutes after getting Tasered. But the thought vanishes as the absolute requirement for sleep dismisses all analysis in short order.
A sing-songy whisper. “Rise and shine, Mr. Danny.”
It pulls me out of the slumber. I am so tired—my head throbbing, my eyes burning, my limbs heavy. I open an eye, look up . . . to Calhoun’s puffy, pink face. He’s curled around me, stroking my arm. “There’s my sleepyhead,” he soothes in full-on baby talk. “There he is.”
I scramble out of his embrace. Daylight is streaming through the blinds. Holy shit. My heart hammers. I’ve overslept. I look at the clock, squint—7:45 A.M.—and exhale. It takes a few seconds for my brain to unscramble the confusion. Just fifteen minutes late. Okay. I can make that up. Just need to be at the jet center by nine. I can do that.
Calhoun bounces off my bed, straightens his robe. “I made you waffles.”
“Calhoun.” I scratch my head, glance at him. “What are you doing?”
Calhoun mocks offense. “Your little lover sent me.”
“Kate?”
“She tried calling you this morning, to wake you for your little plane ride. I guess she thought little Danny Boy might be so tired that he’d oversleep. But it seems like someone cut Mr. Danny’s phone lines, and his little cell-phone battery was dead because her wakeup calls kept going straight to Mr. Danny’s voice mail.” He looks at me, does the silent laughter thing that makes his tits shake and quiver. “So Kate called sweet ol’ Calhoun to the rescue.”
I rub my face, think about Larry leaving my house with the big guy. “Was the front door unlocked?”
Silent laughter. “Yes,” he wheezes, “which gave me the opportunity to start charging your cell phone and make some big, fluffy, juicy waffles for my Mr. Danny.” He tiptoes to me, slaps me on the butt, and gives me his side. “You go get ready, and Uncle Calhoun will keep those waffles warm.”
I head to the bathroom, but the entire middle region of my body—from thighs to abdomen—feels about as flexible as a two-by-four. So I shuffle into the bathroom, search for my Vicodin. “Fine, fine. Waffles. Fine. I just need to be in the car in twenty minutes.”
Calhoun jumps for joy and dances down the hallway singing in baritone, “Danny’s gonna get his waffles on,” then in a high tenor, “Danny’s gonna get his waffles on.”
The thing about showering when you’re severely sleep-deprived: It takes longer. Your brain is slower, and your body works at half speed, which you really can’t afford, because if you didn’t have to be up showering, you’d be back in bed with your head in a fluffy pillow. Today I shower in cold water, yelping and yipping and shuddering as I race through the routine.
When I open the shower door, I’m confronted by an enormous wedge of moist waffle, dripping long strands of buttery syrup. Calhoun makes an airplane noise, says in the baby voice, “Open wide for Mr. Waffle.”
Either I open wide, or my face is smeared in syrup. I choose the former.
Calhoun pads closer with his waffle plate. “Tell me it’s not absolutely delicious.”
I snatch my towel, wrap myself up and swallow. “Just give me a second.”
Calhoun follows me as I put a dab of gel in my hair, slide on some deodorant, and waddle back to my room. I slowly step into a pair of black slacks, pick myself out a pair of black leather shoes and a dark blue dress shirt. I grab my blazer, pull a huge wad of cash from my cedar money box on the dresser, and scan the room for my travel bag and the recording device it contains. Oh yeah. Left it in the van out front.
Calhoun darts up to me, shoves waffle into my mouth.
“Cahouuu.” I grab my suitcase, look for my keys, try to swallow. “Enoughh.”
My cell rings in the front room. Calhoun darts out of the room, slams into something, and gallops back with the phone. I take it, look at the screen. It’s Fitzroy.
“Hi, Stephen.”
“You okay for this trip, Danny?”
“Of course.”
Calhoun gets closer, giggles to himself, and shoves waffle into my mouth.
“I’m not so sure.”
I chew hard, swallow. “No, I’m fine. It’s just been—”
“I looked at what you did for this pitch tomorrow.”
Calhoun presses his face up to mine, makes the airplane noise as he forces another piece in.
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“And I don’t like it.”
Calhoun watches me, laughs through a closed mouth, his tits shaking.
Big swallow. “Okay, we can—”
“It’s not the right pitch.” His voice is rising, the irritation heavy. He always gets this way before a speech. “These guys are expecting thought leadership, not the same old babble.” He pauses, collects himself. “Let’s dope it out on the jet with the new guy. He’s got some new ideas we can use.”
New guy. That’s right. The new guy.
“Okay, Stephen. I’m sorry about this. We’ll get it right on the plane.”
Calhoun comes at me with more waffle. I swat it away, send everything sailing across the room. Calhoun stomps a foot, blows a raspberry at me, and giggles.
Amusement in Fitzroy’s voice. “But if you’re not doing well—you know, if you’re dealing with some issues at home after yesterday’s fiasco—you can skip this trip, Danny. The new guy and I can dope this thing out on the flight.”
“No, I’m goo—”
“Okay,” he mumbles, and hangs up.
Calhoun dances toward me, forces me into a corner, fingering a piece of waffle. “You’re not getting away this time . . .” He scrunches his face in mock annoyance. “. . . you little pistol.”
I grimace and grunt to the van.
Larry lazes on his porch, nursing a coffee, observing me.
I throw my stuff into the van, cross the street to Larry. Streaks of water darken half his driveway as tiny ripples escape from under the garage door. I glance at the garage as something inside hisses and pops and sprays; a larger ripple of water eases from under the door and down the driveway.
Larry sips his coffee, gazes into space.
“Hey, Larry.” I make it pleasant, as if he hadn’t been in my bedroom and Tasered my home invader. “Still at it with Mr. Wetty?”
Larry looks up at me, thinking, his mind a thousand miles away.
“Listen, Larry, I can’t emphasize this enough. Those guys in there? I’m going to need them back. I mean, in about twenty-four hours.”
Larry says, “We’ll release them in the high country.”
I think of park rangers tranquilizing a bear and relocating it hundreds of miles away.
“Well, maybe it’s time to give Mr. Wetty a rest.”
Larry shifts, sips, and squints into space.
“Larry?”
Slowly, his eyes turn to me. They seem hollow.
I look at my watch, realize I need to hit the road. I can’t worry about Mr. Wetty. But I’m hoping he can help me with one last thing.
“Larry, you said you extracted the details out of that little guy.”
Still staring at the ground, thinking.
“It’d really help me if you told me what he said about Tampa. So I’ll know what I’m walking into out there.”
Still staring.
“Larry?”
Stroking the whiskers.
“Larry,” I snap, “tell me what that guy said about Tampa.”
He stands up, glances at my shoes. “Just do as they told you.”
“They?”
“The little people.”
“Larry. C’mon. I need more than that.”
Larry opens his front door, then turns and looks me over one last time, nearly deflated. “I have work to do,” he says, and shuts the door.
No matter how many times I fly with Stephen Fitzroy, the spectacle never ceases to strike me.
I leave my tiny peninsula house of chipped hardwood floors and battered, stained furniture; step into my old Corolla and merge into the hordes of commuters on U.S. 101; pass the long-term parking at SJC and drive to the opposite side of the airport, to another world. I park the Corolla in front of Atlantic Aviation, the operator that provides support services to the dozens, if not hundreds, of private jets that fly in and out of San Jose each day. And just like that I’m in another world, one I never thought I’d see.
I waddle through the doors, nod to the familiar faces.
“You can join the others on the plane if you’d like, Mr. Jordan.”
My heart stops. I turn to the young attendant with her fresh face, her freckles and giant green eyes. “He’s here? Don’t tell me he’s here.”
She smiles, her pleasantness unflappable. “No, he’s not here.”
“Thank God.” I push through the doors and begin to waddle across the tarmac, headed for Fitzroy’s Gulfstream 5, enormous and gleaming, the morning sun giving it a glossy blue-and-white sheen, its engines idling in a high-pitched purr. A smiling male attendant in a dark blue windbreaker takes my bags and walks me to the jet, which always gets me—I’m not some fancy boy who needs someone taking my bags and treating me like royalty—but I know it’s his job, and the last thing I want to do is come off as an unappreciative prick.
“How are you today, sir?”
I make eye contact with him, nod and smile. “I’m doing great.” A flash—Larry lazing on his porch this morning, gazing into space. “Beautiful day for a flight.”
He nods eagerly. “A perfect day, sir.”
As we approach the G5, the engines drowning our voices, I think about the family van just fifty yards away with the ripped seats and sun-bleached dashboard, think of my simple little house on my modest little street, and shake my head in disbelief.
How in the hell did I get here?
I climb the stairs, greet the pilots—Jim and Earl, Fitzroy’s own—and turn into the cabin. Everything here is beyond luxurious: leather recliners, polished cherry paneling with recessed lights, gleaming tables offering fruit, coffee, tea, and the morning papers, a dining area and a long couch that turns into a bed.
Beth Gavin is seated in the second most prestigious spot on the plane—the left-front, forward-facing chair, directly across from Fitzroy. She’s bent over her cell phone, punching numbers and listening to voice mail through an earpiece, scribbling onto a notepad, probably recording the very latest adjustments to Fitzroy’s schedule—or, as I sometimes suspect, listening to old messages to make herself seem busy and important. Hell, I’ve felt that urge.
She doesn’t look up.
Facing her is the new guy. Shiny black jeans and a skin-tight, solid-black, cotton long-sleeve, dark shades still in place, dark brown hair wavy, and extreme, lean, veiny hands covering his knees.
I look down at him and nod, no idea if he’s staring straight ahead or even awake. Finally, he looks up at me, betrays his stoic look with the smallest of grins. “Ah . . .” The grin widens a little, nods slowly. “The lover of the buttocks.”
I shrug, roll my eyes.
Beth looks up from her phone, glances at me, then at the new guy. “That e-mail was disgusting.” She looks at me a split second. “If you reported to me, you’d be fired.”
The new guy pulls his head back, puckers. An eyebrow rises from behind the shades.
I stop, lower myself to Beth’s level, let her see how red and saggy and tired my eyes are. I stay there a second, stare at her wide mouth and long teeth, allowing the disgust to contort my face, and harden my stare. “Let me tell you something, Beth. I will never, ever report to you.” I study her wide-eyed reaction. “Ever.” Her face darkens as I get up and walk away.
I head for the dining table, where I plan to set up—we always leave the seat opposite Fitzroy open, to give him leg room.
The new guy smiles wide, gets up and follows me. He comes in close, slaps an arm around me, and whispers into my ear, his breath like fresh pine. “There are worse fates than being an ass lover.” He pauses, shakes me around for emphasis, and nods to the back of Beth’s head. “You like her ass?”
“It’s got no personality,” I mumble. “Just like the rest of her.”
The new guy grins, nods to himself. “Speaking of no personality, we need to pull that speech apart and rewrite it completely. I spoke to Fitzroy about it.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you even know anything about the audience for this event? For that matter, who are you again?”
Grin widens. “I’m helping Stephen out.”
I grin back. “You’re a consultant.”
Grinning. Slightest of nods.
“Someone with Hill, Knowland, and Davis send you over? Little twerp named Duncan?”
The grin fades. He shakes his head. “I’m with Robards International.”
Liar.
“What’s your practice at Robards?”
“Paradigm rationalization.” He places a hand on my shoulder, like he’s saying, This is above you. “High-level stuff. Tectonic-plate-shifting stuff.”
Yeah, whatever, dude.
“David Duncan hooked you up with Stephen, huh?”
He puts his hands out, steps back.
I look at the shades. “You’re an executive chaperone, disguised as some kind of hip business mind fluent in catchphrases. ‘Paradigm rationalization,’ my ass.”
“Listen.” He chuckles and comes in closer, so I can feel his deep, calm voice. “I’m here for Stephen these next two months, like it or not.”
“Two months, huh? Gee, that’s a coincidence. It’s just two months until Knowland, Hill, and Davis can sell its first block of FlowBid shares.”
The new guy chuckles, looks away.
“You’re a babysitter.”
He shakes his head.
“Are you with Stanislau?”
The new guy turns back to me. “I think we’re finished, dude.”
Earl, the pilot steps into the cabin, announces, “He’s here.”
Beth straightens her things, glances over her notes—ready, no doubt, to rattle off all the items she’s managing for him. I stoop and squint out the window. Fitzroy has pulled up beside the jet in a gray Porsche said to be worth $110,000. He hands his bag to one attendant, tosses the keys to another, points out something on the dashboard, a big stupid smile on his face.
I step in to the new guy. “Either you tell me if you’re with Stanislau, or I go to Stephen before these wheels are up.”
The grin freezes. “I can call Duncan right now,” he says. “Get you fired.” He bites his lip, thinking. “Get you off this plane before that door shuts.”
“I’m afraid . . .” I poke him in the chest, get him in the sternum. “David Duncan . . . isn’t taking calls the next day or so.”
His forced grin disappears.
“And neither are his goons.”
Fitzroy climbs up the stairs.
The new guy says, “I don’t know the first thing about Stanislau. I mean it.”
I look at him, thinking, Could be. Stanislau is the muscle. This guy? He’s intel. Duncan’s high-priced babysitter.
“What’s your assignment?”
“Danny!” Fitzroy enters the cabin, hollering, happy. “My ass man.”
The new guy grimaces. “The same as what yours should be.” He nods to Fitzroy, who’s plopped into his chair. “Keep this guy out of trouble another two months, save thousands of people millions of dollars. Not just Knowland, Hill, and Davis, but everyone—investors, employees, partners.”
Fitzroy yells into the air, “Wheels up, gomers. Let’s go.”
I will say this about Fitzroy: As much as he might abuse you, there’s a soft side to him.
He’ll call you names. He’ll shred your work to pieces. He’ll do that pyramid routine on you as you hover over his speech with the new guy, rewriting a perfectly good pitch just because the new guy has to seem like he’s adding value. He’ll make you sit there and nod and smile and look away as he speculates on your ass preferences to Beth, the new guy, and Sally the flight attendant, everyone laughing. He’ll run you ragged with work and harassment.
But then he feels guilty.
You can see it softening his face, deflating his glee. Soon you’re the recipient of rare bottles of wine, backstage passes to the hottest acts, sometimes even spot bonuses. Which explains why, somewhere over Texas, Fitzroy has Sally set up the bed in the back so I can I slip my aching body into its silk bedding, lower my throbbing head into an enormous down pillow, close my cherry-red eyes, and slip slowly into three of the sweetest hours of airborne slumber I will ever know, melting in this bed of Big Money, the absurdity of it all striking me in these final moments of lucidity, swaddled in opulence some forty thousand feet up, dozing off in this flying luxury suite like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
If Crazy Larry saw me now in my Big Money bed, I’d be in his garage, too.
And then, thick black nothing.
Until a light slap to the face rouses me. “Danny,” Fitzroy whispers. “Wake up.”
I open an eye, grunt. “Hey.”
Fitzroy is sitting beside me, like a parent. “We’re descending.”
I rise up on my elbows. “Okay,” I rasp. “Thanks.”
He puts a hand on my chest, pushes me down gently. “It’s okay, we have a second.” He studies my face. “You feeling better?”
I nod, realizing how long I slept. “I needed it, I guess.”
He looks at me. “You’re not doing so well, kiddo.”
I look away. “I know. It’s been a tough couple—”
“You’re walking funny, too.”
“Well, that. I got a—” The last thing I need is for Fitzroy to know I’ve been snipped; I’ll never hear the end of it. “A little injury.”
He whispers, “You sure you’re okay, Danny? Because if you’re not, you gotta let me know. I could help.”
I open my eyes, sit up “No, I’m good, Stephen. Thanks.”
“I’ve got IT investigating that e-mail. We’ll nail ’em, whoever did it.”
“That’s okay, Stephen. I just want to put it past me.”
“It is past you. Doesn’t mean we can’t nail ’em, quietly. Let ’em go.”
I get a memory flash of my e-mail to BusinessWeek, shiver. “Thanks, Stephen.”
“Listen.” He looks around, scoots closer. “Do me a favor tonight.”
“Sure.”
He glances back to the front of the plane. “Keep that clown away from me.”
“The new guy?”
Fitzroy nods. “Tonight. Take him out or something.”
And here I was thinking Fitzroy loved him.
“Sure, Stephen.” I rub my eyes, straighten up a bit. “Yeah, whatever you need.”
He nods, looks back at the new guy.
“So why do you let him shadow you and coach you and all that?”
Fitzroy leans in. “Because I’m doing ‘the dance.’ Something you need to learn.”
“The dance?”
He leans in for emphasis. “The dance. The act of humoring folks.”
I look at him, nod.
“Humoring folks you need to humor.”
“Okay, but . . .” I swing my feet off the bed. “. . . who are you humoring here?”
Fitzroy looks away and blinks, like he’s trying to ignore a foul odor. “A couple of bozos on the board.”
I’m thinking David Duncan and his partners at Knowland, Hill, and Davis.
Fitzroy adds, “And Beth.”
“Beth?”
He whispers. “She brought him on, but I know where this originated. Beth is working with these guys on the board.”
I’m tying my shoes. “Knowland, Hill, and Davis?”
Amused. “Not bad, Danny. Not bad.”
“So you’re doing the dance with these folks? Beth, too?”
“I’ve got multiple sources telling me she’s pumping them for outside investment opportunities.”
“You mean, she passes along tidbits about you and they give her a chance to sink some dollars into the next Google before everyone else knows about it?”
He nods and rolls his eyes.
“And you have to do the dance with these guys?”
He sighs. “They own more of this company than anyone, Danny.”
“They want you to follow the new guy’s counsel?”
“Nah, he’s full of shit.”
“Then?”
He looks away, deflated. “They’re just trying to keep tabs on me, make sure I don’t screw up in these final two months.”
Just like the new guy said.
“And they don’t know that you know?”
He sighs again. “Who knows?”
“So they have Beth planting spies, basically?”
“It’s like my entire circle has been tapped.” He turns to me. “No one’s reached out to you? No one from Knowland, Hill, and Davis, or even outside?”
Oh man.
I meet his gaze, shake my head.
Fitzroy looks at my mouth, thinking. “Did you know this guy Duncan called me the other day and suggested I let you go?”
“What?”
“That’s what I said.”
My face reddens. “I mean, why?”
“I just don’t think they trust anyone, Danny.”
I look away, my mouth open. “Me?”
And then it makes sense: If Duncan pushes me out, I’m useless to the geeks.
Fitzroy picks at a cushion, shakes his head. “They have no faith in me, Danny Boy. No faith.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“So do me a favor. Keep him away tonight, okay?”
“Sure. Of course.” We sit there a second, and I add, “You think bringing security along would give you some separation?”
“Nah. That’d just muddy things up more.”
We sit there until I can’t stand it any longer. I can’t help it. I have to ask. Hell, I need to videotape Fitzroy tonight, and I still have no idea what to expect. This is my best chance.
“You have something planned tonight? A customer meeting or something?”
He blinks hard, swats away the question. “Don’t worry about that. Just handle the new guy for me, all right? Keep him busy.”
“Yeah, of course.”
He leans in closer, the coffee breath hitting me hard. He whispers, “I had Sharon switch my hotel. You three are still at the Grand Hyatt, but the driver will take me to another place. Just to get some separation from those two.” He looks to the front of the plane, adds, “Don’t tell them. I’ll say something in the car.”
I give him my earnest look, nod. “Good for you, Stephen. I’ll keep the new guy away.”
My gut surges.
Now, how am I supposed to end up with Fitzroy tonight if I don’t even know where he’s staying? I swallow hard, feel my heart pound. I’m toast.
He nods, squints into space. “Beth won’t be a problem. She’ll be working in her room.” He nearly mumbles. “I loaded her up.”
Long silence as we sit there.
“Stephen?”
He turns, looks at me.
“Where will you be staying?”
Still looking at me, settling on the shovel cut on my forehead.
“You know,” I say. “I was thinking. You know, after I take care of the new guy, maybe I should come over so we can review tomorrow’s pitch one last time. You know, with all these changes.”
Looking at my chin, then back to my cut. “Nah,” he says. “We can take care of that in the morning.”
Damn.
As we come to a stop, a large, black Escalade waits thirty feet away. A thin, middle-aged chauffeur in a black suit packs our luggage into the back as Fitzroy, Beth, and the new guy pile into the vehicle.
I’m last to emerge from the jet. Having never been to Florida, I’m struck by the tropical humidity. Squinting from the sun, I saunter over to the chauffeur at the back of the SUV, the roar of the jet engines silencing my steps. I reach into my front pocket and finger my roll of cash. When he shuts the back door, I approach, pull out my roll, and peel off two twenties, tuck them into the front pocket of his suit jacket. I have to admit it feels pretty good, like I’m a wise guy or something.
He’s unfazed. “Thanks.”
I look into the SUV. Beth and Fitzroy have cell phones pressed to their cheeks, and the new guy is watching the ground crew service the jet. “There’s more, if you can help me.”
He glances into the SUV. “Yeah?”
“You sticking with Mr. Fitzroy tonight? Taking him to his evening appointments?”
He nods. “I am at his call. All night.”
“You have a card with a number I can reach you?”
Nods.
“I’m hoping we can stay in touch tonight.”
Slight nod.
“You know, I’ll call you and you will tell me where he’s at, who he’s with.”
He’s looking me up and down. “Oh yeah?”
I look around, pull out my roll again, and peel off two more twenties, stuff them into the same suit pocket. He looks down at it, offers an exaggerated I-don’t-know look.
Bastard.
I peel off two more, stuff them into his pocket.
“Okay.” He reaches inside his suit jacket, pulls out a business card. “We’re in business.”
By the time I get settled in my room, it’s nearly six, three in California. I call Kate’s cell, get sent immediately to voice mail.
“Hey, honey. Just wanted to let you know I’m here.” I pause. “I’d tell you all the crazy shit that’s happening, but . . . Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I’ve been thinking. You’re right; the IMs were probably some kind of symptom. I know we never see each other. All I know is, life’s gotten lonely these past few years, and I miss you. So maybe it just felt good to have somebody—” I stop myself, take a breath. “So maybe that whole thing caught me at a weak moment. If you want me to move out or stay someplace for a while when I come back, let’s talk about it. But just know I love you more than ever, and if that little twerp ex of yours contacts you again, tell him to leave you alone or I’ll find him and beat the shit out of him. Okay, honey. I love you, okay?”
I end the call, roll my eyes, and sigh. Yeah, that was smooth. Nice job, Danny.
Next I pull out the chauffeur’s card, dial him up.
“Randy.”
Long silence. Annoyed. “He’s still here.”
“And where’s that?”
“The hotel.”
“Yeah, but which hotel? That’s the whole point. I don’t know where he’s staying.”
He pauses. “I don’t want to get caught up in something illegal here.”
“No, no. Nothing illegal.”
“Nor do I want to ruin my reputation. This gets out, I’m out of work.”
“That won’t happen, Randy. I promise. Now c’mon. I paid you.”
Long sigh. “The InterContinental.”
“InterContinental?”
“And I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”
“Okay, that’s all I need to know.”
“We’re square now?”
“Almost.”
He grunts.
“Just text me if you take him someplace.”
He grumbles, clears his throat. “Just be aware—sometimes these guys sneak out on their own. You know, take a cab? They’re a lot less noticeable that way.”
“Don’t worry about that. Just let me know if there’s any action over there.”
After the call, I pick up the hotel phone and ring the new guy’s room. His voice is heavier, like he’s in bed.
“If I’ve caught you rationalizing paradigms, I can call later.”
A chuckle. I can almost see him lying back in his hotel bed, shades still on.
I can hear the grin in his voice. “You’re not well, you know?”
“Actually, I was thinking maybe we could get some food, start clean over a beer or two.”
“Yeah? Now that Fitzroy has ditched you, huh?”
“Well,” I say, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe we have the same interests after all.”
“Finally realized that, eh?”
“Meet you in the lobby in fifteen?”
Lazy voice. “What about Beth?”
“Dude,” I say, “she’ll never sleep with you.”
He chuckles, but it’s unconvincing.
“You don’t have nearly enough money.”
“Women are drawn to more than money, Dan.”
“Not that one.”
“I’ll call her,” he says, and hangs up.
Knowing I may never make it back to my room tonight, I shuffle into the bathroom with the button camera and its taping apparatus. As I stand there bowlegged, stringing the wire, I realize that I’ve forgotten to bring my black collar shirt with the black buttons. All I have is a dark blue shirt with off-white buttons.
The button camera is black. I’m hosed.
I find the roll of Scotch tape I packed, tape the wire along the inside front of my shirt, and secure the small tape box against my waist. I’ll have to wear my blue blazer and hope it will hide the bulge on my lower back. I button up the shirt but leave the top button undone. Sure, it looks like I’m trying to bring back the seventies, but at least this way my black “button” isn’t showing. I’ll have to fasten it into place before I see Fitzroy later.
As I’m heading out, I catch a glance in the mirror. Eyes dark-rimmed, sunken, and bloodshot. Face fatigued and sagging. Shoulders slouched. Hair a little disheveled. I should be in a zombie movie.
I take a deep breath, close the front door. Down to the gift shop.
Then my date with fate.
Emerging from the hotel gift shop with four packets of laxative powder, I spot the new guy lounging on an enormous white chair. He’s wearing loose brown cotton pants, with huaraches and a short-sleeved white collar shirt.
I walk over to him. “No Beth, eh?”
He grins. “These things take time.”
I look around the lobby, finger the packets. “Why don’t we just order something from the lobby bar? I’m exhausted.”
The shades study me. “You do look awful.”
I ignore him, walk toward the lobby bar, glance back. “C’mon.”
We sit near the grand piano and suffer through the awkward silence, sipping Amstel. Finally, after a salad for him and sushi for me, he stands up, stretches, and scans the lobby. “Be right back,” he says. “Need a restroom.”
If my plan works, he’ll need one all night.
I look around, then pull out the laxative packets, rip open all four in one motion, and dump the powder into his beer glass. To mix it in better, I pour some of my beer into his glass, which causes his ale to foam over.
Fuck.
I try to soak up the suds with my coaster napkin.
I look up. The new guy is sauntering my way, his head down, studying his cell phone. Thank God. I force myself to lean back and act cool and relaxed.
By the time he sits down, the head on his beer has deflated. Still looking at his cell, he says, “You really know how to live it up, don’t you, Danny?”
I notice an older lady at the bar. She’s devouring him.
“Yeah?”
“It’s your first time in Florida—like, ever—and you’re chilling in the Grand Hyatt lobby bar in your uncle’s blazer, getting ready to turn it in.” He reaches over and takes his glass, hoists it toward me. “Danny’s going crazy-town.”
“Yeah, well, like I said . . .”
He takes another drink. “Actually, I suspect there’s more to you than meets the eye.”
I force a laugh. “Really?”
Another sip. “I called David Duncan.” The shades regard me. “You were right; I couldn’t find him.”
I cross my legs and smile. “So what’s the deal? Duncan wants you to report in to him about Fitzroy and his ‘behaviors’?”
He shrugs.
“And what kind of behaviors are we talking about?”
“You tell me, hotshot.” He takes another drink. “You’re the one who knows where he is tonight.”
I look back at him, grin.
“So you’re really gonna hit the sack, eh?”
Shit, he really has no idea what I’m going to do. He’s lost.
I wait a moment. “Dude, you said it yourself. I’m wiped out. I need some rest. And that room up there? You have no fucking clue. Absolute silence, no crying kids, no crazy neighbors. And I intend to take full advantage.”
He polishes off his beer.
“Well.” He smacks his lips. “In case you change your mind and try to slip out of here, just know I’ll be right here with my friend, watching those elevator doors and waiting for you.”
The lady at the bar is still staring at him.
“Friend, huh?”
He stands up and cracks a happy grin. I’ve got to admit he looks pretty striking—thick wavy hair, the strong facial lines, the long athletic body, and that indefinable charm.
“Soon-to-be friend.”
The lady at the bar smiles coyly as he sways toward her.
At which point I notice I’ve left the empty laxative packets on the table. I palm them, shove them in my pocket, and head for the elevators. “Hittin’ the sack, dude. Behave.”
Standing in my room, still wired, I gaze out at the view of the bay. Any other time, it would have been breathtaking: the expanse of blue dominating my vision, the orange hue glowing from the west as the sun sets. But tonight it all sails through me.
My mind is racing with questions:
Do I call Fitzroy first or just show up?
How do I get his room number?
How do I prepare for something I know nothing about?
And how long before the laxative kicks in?
Plenty of questions. Not a single answer.
My cell rings. It’s High Rider. He says, “It’s time to mobilize.”
I look at my watch. 7:37. “Do you realize he’s at the InterContinental?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
High Rider muffles his phone, says something to someone. Finally, he says, “Make it work, Daniel. Just make it work.”
“Dude,” I shout. “How am I supposed to get to his room without calling him and blowing the whole operation? It’s clear he doesn’t want me or anyone else from FlowBid with him.”
More muffled noises. He’s snapping at someone. Then: “Proceed to the InterContinental, and call me when you arrive in the lobby.”
“You’ll have the room number?”
I can hear him pounding on a keyboard. “Let us try a few things.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
The keystrokes stop. “Then you find a way to join him in his room. Otherwise, our arrangement is dissolved and we will be forced to—”
“Okay, okay.” I hang up and rush out the door.
Here we go, baby.
I walk past the lobby bar as quickly as possible, glancing over once—the older lady is sitting solo, smirking, glancing at her watch. No sign of the new guy. I stop, pivot, and run-walk to the woman.
She gives me a blank stare.
“My friend? The guy you were talking with? Do you know where he went?”
She shifts on her stool, regards me with narrowing eyes. “He just stood up, practically midsentence, and said he needed to use the restroom. That was fifteen minutes ago.”
I back away, ready to bolt for the front door. “And he seemed okay?”
“He was more than fine, until he stood up and walked away.”
I keep walking. “If he doesn’t return, send someone in there, okay?”
She nearly yells to me. “How about you?”
“How about no?” I say, and turn the corner.
I dial High Rider.
“I’m here,” I say, and finger the button camera hidden in my shirt. “You have a room number?”
High Rider says, “Are you ready?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Eleven eighteen,” he says, and hangs up.
Okay, here we go.
I head to the elevators, mumbling to myself, “Eleven eighteen. Eleven eighteen. Eleven eighteen.”
In the elevator, an older couple studies me as I reach behind my back, lift up the back flap of my blazer, and try to fiddle with the tape deck through my shirt.
“Shit,” I mumble to myself, a little too loudly. “I’ll do this in the can.”
They look away, and I mumble, “Sorry.”
They get off on the seventh floor. The doors close on me as I hear myself whispering.
“Eleven eighteen. Eleven eighteen. Eleven eighteen.”
Bing. Doors open.
It’s like I’m on autopilot. One foot in front of the other. My face feeling fat and puffy, my brain in the clouds, the reptilian part taking over.
My vision narrows as I search the doors, looking for his suite.
“Eleven eighteen. Eleven eighteen.”
The sounds of music and laughter bounce toward me.
I stop and squint at the door.
“Eleven . . . eighteen.”
I step closer, force myself to snap out of it, blinking hard, squeezing my fists.
Here we go. Here we go.
Laughter and hip-hop music.
I knock hard.
The laughter stops, then the music. Total silence, then a few giggles. Finally, Fitzroy’s voice behind the door. He’s looking at me through the peephole.
“Danny?” He’s angry. “Danny?”
I gaze into the peephole. “Stephen, I need to come in.”
Long silence. “Danny?”
I plead to the peephole. “Stephen . . . Please.”
“How’d you find me?”
“Stephen, it’s a long story.”
“Go back to your hotel, Danny.”
I reach out and nearly stroke the peephole. “I really need you to let me in. Kate’s not talking to me, and I might have to move out, and all this crap with the board of directors is freaking me out. . . . Plus, there’s other things.”
Silence.
A young woman’s voice: “Aw, he looks sweet.”
Fitzroy is cussing in the background.
“Better to bring him in than have him outside your room whining like a stranded puppy. That’ll definitely draw security.”
“Fine,” Fitzroy snaps.
The door swings open, and I am hit by a wave of fruity perfume.
Fitzroy is buzzed, maybe drunk. His lids are low, his speech is slurred, and his head is wobbling.
“Don’t ruin this for me, Danny.”
His suite is packed with college girls. At least a dozen—all of them pretty, all of them in either bikinis or panties and bras. He’s fully dressed on the couch, reclining into a tangle of giggling girls. It’s nearly too much to comprehend.
A hotel suite of sexed-up college girls?
I mean, how did he . . .
I watch as the girls pet his scalp, stroke his arms. He burrows in deeper and coos.
What are they gonna . . .
“You hear me?” he says, his voice lazy. “Don’t ruin this, Danny Boy.”
“Of course not,” I say. “I’m just so confused. I knew I had to find you.”
Fitzroy sounds like he’s about to pass out. “Danny,” he lazes. “Not tonight.”
He sinks deeper into the girls.
“Huh?”
“No marriage crap, Danny.” He eyeballs a slender brunette in a blue bikini as she pads toward him. “Not tonight.”
The brunette sits at his feet, snakes a hand up his leg, and strokes his calf, smiling. Fitzroy frees a hand, digs into a front pocket, and pulls out a hundred-dollar bill. The brunette slips it into her bikini top.
Fitzroy watches my reaction, smiling. “They know I have a lot of those. A lot.”
I nod, still not quite believing.
“So don’t go thinking I’ve got a bunch of desperate souls here,” he says. “Every one of these young women is a college student, and they’re all smarter than us.”
I nod.
“Each of them is receiving a base payment of eight hundred dollars.”
The girls cheer and laugh.
“And each is eligible to receive hundreds more if they play nice.”
A smattering of giggles.
“But if you’re gonna stay here, Danny Boy, you need to join the fun. No judgment from the sidelines.”
“No judgment,” I assure him.
“You can never tell a soul about this. Never.”
“Of course.”
A freckle-faced girl with silky red hair swings over to me in a flimsy orange two-piece, plops down real close, smiling as she sips on a drink, and whispers, “You okay?”
Fitzroy says, “That’s what this whole night is about. It’s about taking a delightful . . .” He reaches into the tangle of flesh and squeezes two knees. “. . . break from reality.”
“Fine.” I look away; I have to. “I just need to use your bathroom.”
I stand up, and the redhead pouts. “Hey,” she says, the girly voice scaled up for effect, and sticks out her lower lip.
“Don’t worry, honey. He’ll be back.” Fitzroy cackles. “He likes girls, believe me.” He cackles harder. “We all learned that this week.”
In the bathroom, I twist and reach and fiddle until I’m sure I’ve activated the taping device. I can almost hear High Rider’s instructions echo in my head: This red switch here activates the power. The orange button activates the recording mode. I secure the box back into place, then snap the tiny lens into my final buttonhole. I check myself in the mirror one last time; the button camera is darker than the other buttons but it’ll have to do.
When I get back, Fitzroy is splayed out on the couch. The girls are all over him, rubbing themselves against him and petting him. He slides his face against someone’s arm, his face red and shiny and grinning, releasing a strange throaty sound.
Swear to God, he’s purring.
And it’s disgusting, the sight of this sickly, bug-eyed, balding man pressing himself into this tangle of young, sexy sweetness, this mass of fresh faces, perfect skin, toned bodies, and healthy hair. I grimace as I study the scene. Some girls seem to be enjoying themselves, drunk from the booze and cash, perhaps; others seem amused, and others are clearly trying to stay back and limit the contact, their faces tight in strains of disgust.
“Daddy likes,” he moans, chin in the air. “Daddy . . . likey soooo . . .”
They giggle.
“. . . goodie.”
I realize he has his cash roll in his hand.
Another girl rubs near his crotch. He makes the kind of happy noise you’d expect from a cartoon squirrel, peels off two hundreds, and slips them to her.
“C’mon, Danny,” he says, his eyes nearly closed. “No judging. Just fun.”
I return to my seat near the redhead. It’s a perfect spot, as I can sit there and point my chest in Fitzroy’s direction.
As the hands get closer to his crotch, he purrs louder.
“C’mon, Danny.”
The redhead gets real close, whispers into my ear in a way that sends shivers throughout my body. “You’re cute.”
“Thanks,” I say, “but I don’t have his kind of money. And I’m married.”
She produces a bored look.
“I’m married, and I don’t wanna screw up again.”
“Well,” she says, “he paid me three hundred to stay here with you, so don’t ruin it for me.”
“Ruin it?”
From the flesh tangle, a female yelp followed by a Fitzroy cackle.
“I need this,” she whispers. “This is like serious rent money for me. Money for something besides PBJ dinners.”
“Fine, it’s just that I’m married and . . .” I feel my throat tighten. “I love my— I just want to be good.”
She’s looking at me different. “Aww.”
My voice cracks. “It’s just been a tough couple of days.”
She scoots closer, takes an arm. “Just let me sit close to you, so Mr. Perv over there doesn’t demand his money back.”
I finger the button camera toward Fitzroy. “Fine.”
We watch the spectacle before us. One of the girls is running her fingernails over his crotch, stopping to scratch his boner, which is unmistakable through his slacks. The redhead nods to her and says to me, “Bethany will do anything for money.”
“You’re all here for money.”
“I’ll put on a bikini and dance around with a bunch of my girlfriends for one old man in a luxury suite—for eight hundred dollars. Yeah, I’ll do that. If I’m cool with going to the beach and being ogled by a bunch of gross old men, I can certainly do this with my girls.”
From the tangle, another yelp.
“And how exactly did you all come to be here?”
“Bethany,” she says. “She organized one of these for this guy when he came down here last year. She dances to pay for tuition, and he met her there, told her about his ‘fantasy,’ gave her this ginormous tip, asked her to make it happen.”
I shake my head, smile to myself. Fitzroy.
“So this year she asked me to join. I guess he wanted more girls.” She cuddles closer, adds, “I just can’t do everything they’re doing over there, not with an old man like that.” She touches my knee. “But you’re cool.”
“And married,” I say, and look into her eyes. “With kids.”
She breaks the stare and nods to Fitzroy. “Who is he? He won’t even tell Bethany.”
I shrug.
“He must be somebody, to be able to drop this kind of money, to have this suite with all this booze. To afford all of us.”
From the tangle, Fitzroy hollers, “Danny Boy looks bored.”
“No, no, no, no,” I say. “I’m fine with . . .” I whisper to the redhead, “What’s your name?”
“Krista.”
“I’m fine with Krista here, Stephen.”
Fitzroy emerges from the girls, sits up, and regards us. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
Fitzroy gives Krista a long look. “Come over here a sec, honey. I think I know what Danny wants.”
Krista pauses a second before getting up and walking over, her tush shifting sweetly right in front of my face. I force myself to look away.
“Danny likes the hindquarters,” he says, peeling four bills off his roll. “Why don’t you give him a lap dance?”
Krista looks back to me and smiles. “Nah, I think his heart’s at home.”
A collective awwwww from the flesh tangle.
Fitzroy thrusts the money above his head. “Who wants to make four hundred dollars lap dancing for Danny here?”
Half a dozen hands shoot out of the tangle.
“Me.”
“Me! Me! Me!”
“No, me!”
Finally, a hand reaches out and snags the money. It’s a big-boned blonde in a peach bikini. She easily has the largest, most muscular buns in the room—burly buns, you could say—and she’s already dancing in front of me, popping her buns, bouncing hard as she backs them toward my devastated crotch.
With the exception of Krista, the girls cheer her on.
“No,” I cry. “No. . . . Please, no.”
Burly Buns isn’t listening. She backs in closer—a huge, toothy grin on her face—reaches down and uses my knees as handrails, pushing them apart, the cheering of her friends intensifying as she thrusts her monsters into my firepit of a crotch.
Fitzroy slits his eyes, yells, “The Eagle has landed.”
Holy shit, the pain. The pickax blows shooting from my swollen, traumatized testicles. The pain nearly paralyzes my body, makes my bile surge, makes me see stars. I try to push her off, but she only shakes her head no and pushes harder, nearly grunting as she presses her burlies into my groin.
Fitzroy says, “Either you sit there and enjoy it, Ass Boy, or I’m gonna pay three more girls to go over there and strip you naked.”
They cheer.
“And you know I’ll do it.”
I can only imagine the looks on their faces when they tear off my shirt and find the camera wire streaking across the fabric, the lens in my shirt, the tape box under my belt. Not to mention my shaved, purple-and-yellow genitals. The thought makes me queasy. “Fine,” I grimace, and push against her lower back. “Just ease up a little.”
Burly Buns looks back, her lids low, and grinds harder.
“Please,” I moan.
Her crushing dance continues, and I feel like I’m seconds from passing out. The room narrows and the sounds go hollow. I lock my jaw and growl.
Fitzroy hollers into the air, “He’s gonna blow.”
From the tangle, a collective “Eeeeeee-eeeeew.”
I lean forward and try to close my knees, reducing the contact for a few seconds until Burly Buns pushes them open again and burrows back into the center.
“On the knee,” I whisper. “On the knee. Grind on the knee.”
“What’s wrong?” she says, and laughs. “Gonna blow?”
Krista watches, her arms folded, her brows low, her mouth tight. “That’s disgusting,” she mumbles and looks away. “He said he was married.”
I quiver and moan. I feel tears welling.
Fitzroy says, “Here he comes.”
More eeee-ews and cheers.
I decide to go with it. Hell, might as well fake it and end the torture now. So I hiss and oooh and ahhhh and shudder, to a chorus of louder cheers and eeee-ews, until I cross my eyes and force myself to go limp. Louder cheers and louder eeee-ews as Burly Buns stands up, picks her bikini out of her crack, and struts away. “Got ’im.”
Krista notices the tear streaking down my cheek. “Hey, you’re . . .”
I crawl to the bathroom.
I’m hugging the toilet, about to retch. The pain is still launching convulsions of agony through my body, and I feel my stomach surging.
The door opens and shuts. “Hey.” A gentle whisper. “You okay?”
I look up. It’s Krista taking tiny steps toward me, her face drawn.
“You’re not okay, are you?”
I sniffle, wipe my eyes. “Been better.”
“What are you doing here?”
I feel it coming, so I lean into the bowl right as I vomit.
Krista is touching my shoulder. “It’s okay.”
I retch again, and she flushes the toilet.
“C’mon,” she says, tugging at my blazer. “Let’s get this off you before it’s ruined.”
I let her do it, and spit into the bowl, gasping, “I gotta . . .” Spit. “. . . get . . .” Spit. “. . . out of here.”
She hands me a wad of tissue, and I wipe my mouth and spit again. Finally, the pain is fading a little, and maybe that’s why I’m able to hear my cell vibrate and ding with a new text message. Shit, it’s probably High Rider with more instructions. I struggle to pull it out, glance at the message.
This is an automated reminder from Dr. Douglas to be a real man and meet your commitment tonight: Don’t forget to make Kate a proper full-course meal—and remember, NO MEAT PLATTERS.
Krista flushes the toilet again, kneels beside me, and rubs my back. “Who is that guy?”
“An asshole,” I gasp, and pocket the cell. “A very rich asshole.”
Her hand settles on the small of my back, and before I have my wits about me, she’s untucking my shirt . . . and pulling on my tape box.
Her voice sharpens. “What’s this?”
I try to swat away her hand, but it’s too late.
“What the fuck is this?” She yanks the wire. “You’re taping us?”
I struggle to stand up right as she lands a roundhouse into my mouth. “That’s . . .” I manage to yank the tape box from her before she uses her other fist to land another roundhouse into my nose. “. . . mine.”
My nose explodes, driving nails of pain into my eyes.
Empty-handed, her face cherry-red, she turns and runs out of the bathroom. “He’s got a camera. He’s got a camera! He’s been taping the whole thing!”