Problem Child, page 20
“Hell yeah.”
“Have you ever had a manicure?”
Her brows dip into an angry V like she thinks I’m making fun of her.
“We’ll do mani-pedis too. Girls’ day. I’ll call the front desk and ask for recommendations.”
“What’s this about?” she demands, but I walk away to get some work done. I’ve got a lot of emails piling up from the office. Seems something big is going on there.
I hear the bathtub start up as I open my laptop, and I hum happily to myself. At least she’s willing to wash, even if she’s not particularly self-motivated.
I open an email from one of the partners and exclaim “Oh no!” into the empty room. I even put a dramatic hand to my chest and try it again with more feeling. “Oh no!”
It seems Rob’s client has run into some huge problems! A scandal, even! And, horror of horrors, it was caused by Rob himself!
He made a classic mistake, really. He was trying to forward some documents to two of the school districts interested in the deal with North Unlimited, but he attached the wrong files. And one of them—oh, Rob—one of them contained evidence that the frozen raw chicken product originates in China and not in Brazil as the client promised!
The deal has completely fallen apart. There’s talk of a lawsuit from the state prison system. And the school districts are horrified. This company was putting children—vulnerable little children—in danger of consuming adulterated, smuggled food!
All because of Rob. My God. This is a fatal mistake. A career ender, even.
The client has been assured that swift action will be taken. Rob will definitely get fired, but I doubt anyone is the least bit worried about him. He’ll land on his feet and find work again soon. He’s great at nothing if not selling himself.
The important thing is that Rob will never again stand in my office, talking and talking and passing along work that he should’ve been doing himself. And he will never, ever lie about me to another client.
I type out a quick email to the partner, letting him know that things are still dire here, but my missing niece has been located, and I should be able to help do damage control this evening once I find a place to stay and get this little girl settled.
Please don’t hesitate to call me. I’m familiar with this case and I’ll do whatever I can to help. I can step outside her hospital room to take your call if needed. Please know I’m here to assist during this crisis, and I’m very sorry I’m not there to do my part right now.
Once that’s sent, I take my time reading through the rest of the emails. I cc’d myself on that email I sent from Rob’s address, so I’m able to take in all the alarm and recrimination from the two sides. And of course the most delicious dish I’ve ever been served is Rob and his many exclamation points, swearing that there was some sort of sabotage afoot. He never sent that email or that file!!! It wasn’t him!
As if any of the parties cares how this came about. The deal is over now. And so is Rob.
I tried to help him. I honestly did. Well, not that honestly. I helped him because I thought it might help me, but Rob had to go and screw that up. He made his bed, and now that he’s unemployed, he’ll have plenty of time to lie in it. Sweet dreams, Rob.
I did this for myself, of course, but it’s really a service to every person who’ll ever encounter Rob in the future. Without this setback, he would have spent his whole life leaning on others and taking all the credit for himself. That tactic was working very nicely for him. He became successful because of bad habits, and those habits needed to be corrected.
Now, when he finds work at another, lesser law firm, he’ll be the low man on the totem pole. Forced to be on his best behavior to make up for his tarnished past. Forced to try hard and get better.
You’re welcome, Rob.
I hear a shout from the bathroom and tip my head to concentrate. “What?” I yell back.
“What’s the Wi-Fi password?” she screams.
I yell it out for her, then open the email that has just dinged in from the office. Thank you so much, Jane. This is wonderful news about your niece, and we all hope she will be okay. Please take time with your family today and I’ll call this evening if we need anything urgent from you. We’re eager to have you back as soon as you’re able, of course. Rob’s cases will be redistributed, and I know you are familiar with most of them.
I type back a quick and earnest reply before closing my laptop with a grin. What a day.
I’ve already showered, but I want to change into something more stylish for our shopping trip, so I carry my luggage to the bedroom. When I pass the bathroom door, I hear the dulcet moaning and tinny grunting of porn being viewed through a small-screen device. I guess the girl has needs, and it’s none of my business, but I make a note to use the shower tonight instead of the tub.
I dig out some black skinny jeans and a pink sweater to wear with my black boots; then I settle in with the room service menu to plan a delicious lunch. Flatbread, a spicy-chicken-and-avocado sandwich, french fries, and several desserts. I also add a glass of wine for me and a Coke for her, and then I stretch out to doze until the food comes.
A drop of water wakes me. I open my eyes slowly to find Kayla standing over me, wrapped in a robe, her hair hanging in wet ropes like the goddamn ghost child from The Ring. “What?” I snap.
“There’s someone at the door.”
“Yeah, it’s room service. I ordered lunch. Answer it.”
“It could be the cops,” she says calmly.
“Why would the cops be here?”
She shrugs, and I elbow her out of the way so I can answer it. It’s room service, just as I thought.
I don’t trust Kayla not to steal it, so I sip the wine as the server is laying out the meal on our dining room table. I offer Kayla half the sandwich and half the flatbread, and she happily accepts both and pulls the platter of french fries to her side of the table.
Fine. I’ve got my wine.
“This place is cool,” she says between bites.
“You like it?”
“Yeah. It’s nice.”
“It is nice. Tell me why you were worried about the cops. You didn’t seem concerned when I knocked on your door this morning. Is this about Brodie?”
She shrugs and stuffs more food into her mouth.
“Kayla, I want you to be honest with me.”
“Why?” she asks simply, and it’s a great question. I’m sure she’s never been truthful with anyone in her life—and, really, what is the point of truth?
Who have I ever been honest with? No one.
Luke has no idea I’m a sociopath, just as he has no idea of the double life I was leading when we reconnected in Minneapolis.
My best friend is dead now, but when she was alive, I mostly told her what she needed to hear so that she’d keep being my friend, because she was my only anchor in this world.
I tell people things that benefit me and keep them close, and I’m sure Kayla has learned the same trick. If she and I are going to get along, it will take months of proving to her that she can be herself with me. Maybe years. And I do want us to get along.
This is a shallow, reckless idea, but that’s my specialty. That was how I ended up with my cat, and look how happy we are together.
And now a family. Just for me.
Some people want to have children so they can create people who will have to love them. People they can be around constantly, with no question of divorce or betrayal. A spouse is fine, but a child . . . That’s so much more permanent. Any tiny thing can send a friend or lover or spouse far away, but you really have to screw up to lose a child completely. They’ll love you through your worst days, even if the “worst” is just your natural personality. I’ve seen it a million times in the warped relationships of those around me.
But I don’t want love. I want that other big thing people search for in their own children. Themselves.
She is like me, I’ve decided. A wild little me. A flattering, fascinating mirror. A legacy. That’s what I see in Kayla. That’s what excites me. This wouldn’t be settling down, not at all.
Just look at her, stuffing her face. Her friend died, a boy she spent countless days with, a boy she used for her own benefit, and she hasn’t missed a step at the news of his death. After all, he was likely in the act of betraying her when he was murdered. Why should she care at all? I get that. I feel it in my deepest spots. I wouldn’t care about him either.
Kayla has been taking on grown men since she was fourteen or fifteen at most, shaking them down for their money. Imagine what she could do at twenty. At thirty. With education and class and an expansive understanding of how the world works, she could have it all. Because of me.
I’ll need to be careful. The girl is lightning in a bottle, and she could be very, very dangerous to me. But danger is intoxicating, isn’t it? What’s the fun in living a safe life?
That was what I was resisting with Luke, after all. The stultifying horror of settling down. As far as I can tell, settling into your life is just waiting patiently for death. Slowing everything down until you just don’t care and you welcome the sweet embrace of eternal darkness.
Screw that. I’ll fight that nothingness until the day it violently strangles me into submission.
Kayla isn’t nothingness. She’s excitement. Possibility. Risk. If I take her under my wing, who knows what could happen? What a little treat she could be. Maybe there could even be affection between us and real understanding.
People think we have no feelings at all, but that’s not true. We get lonely. We crave companionship. We chase after it, hoping for a real connection just this once. Kayla and I might click together like dangerous puzzle pieces.
I push the desserts at Kayla and tell her to pick one. She snatches up the fried ice cream sundae without saying thank you. She hasn’t said it once. She’s waiting for the moment when I reveal the catch, because this girl knows damn well that nobody in this world is nice without a reason. There will be a catch, so why offer gratitude and then look like a gullible idiot later?
She’s right. Even love comes with strings attached. We fall in love with people because of how they make us feel. We don’t just fall in love with any random kind person we encounter. It’s more than admiration. It’s sizzling need. Your need, not theirs. Your crush, your wants, your desire for them.
Everyone is a monster, as far as I can tell. I’m not alone in this.
Luke is a good and decent person. He works hard and does the right thing, and he loves his brother, and his brother-in-law, and his adorable niece. He loves them all so much because they bring warmth and joy to his life. His mother? He stopped loving her when she became too much of a nightmare to live with, and good for him. It’s more than most normal people can manage.
But do you want to know why he loves me? I know. It’s because my coolness reassures him after years of his mother’s erratic, obsessive love. Because I pump up his ego when he needs it and I make him laugh. And because I give the most mind-blowing blow jobs he’s ever experienced and I’m down for sex at the drop of a hat.
That’s it. That’s love. No need to write poetry about it; I’ve solved the riddle.
So no, I don’t need Kayla’s love. But I really, really want the spark of her companionship.
I smile widely at her as she hums over her first giant bite of ice cream. “When you’re done with lunch, we’ll go shopping and get you all fixed up. Some new clothes. A haircut. Beautiful toes.”
Kayla nods and smiles back, a dollop of whipped cream adorably perched on the end of her little nose. But her eyes stay cold and careful, waiting.
Good girl.
CHAPTER 19
We have a fantastic day on the town. There’s no need to relive the boring details and write them in our diaries. Everyone knows what a fun shopping day is like.
Kayla’s hair has been tamed. It’s nearly the same length, but it’s cut at a sharp angle now, the front sliding about two inches longer past her shoulders than the back. The dirty blond is brighter too, with a few light streaks near the front that Kayla asked for. Her eyes look less muddy and more green.
Her fingers and toes are aqua blue with tiny green crystals on the pinkie nail of each hand. They look nice against her expensive new jeans and white rhinestone flip-flops. Her new ruffled black shirt cost nearly one hundred dollars, and it makes her pale skin glow.
She’s flushed with excitement, and the rush of blood has chased away her sickly waifishness. Now she looks like a healthy little colt of a girl instead of a hungry child raised on the streets. This relationship might be just what we both need.
“Do you want to go out for dinner or order in?”
She glances around the living room with an assessing eye as we drop our bags next to the big dining table. “I liked the lunch here,” she says.
“It’s good food, but it’s much more exciting to go out and show off your new hair and nails and clothes after a big day. You get to enjoy the fruits of someone else’s labor.”
“Can we go somewhere fancy?” she asks, her jaw jutting out as if she’s ready to challenge any denial.
“Obviously. I already checked Yelp and found a high-end Northern Italian place nearby. Does that sound good? Or would you prefer steak?”
“I like meatballs,” she says, so I shrug and grab a reservation for fifteen minutes from now. Northern Italian or not, I trust they know that folks in America would expect meatballs.
“I reserved a table. Let’s go.”
When we get back to the lobby, her flip-flops slap the granite with the same echoing volume of her old shoes, but at least these sparkle and shine as she walks. I watch her gaze slide over the happy hour crowd in the hotel bar. There are dozens of men in there, all in dark suits, all loosening up their already loose morals with booze. Her eyes narrow as if she’s counting their money.
“Come on, girl. You’re off the clock right now.”
“What?” she snaps back in a sharp whine. “I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Do you think you can get past this sex-scheme phase, or is this it for you?”
“Whatever,” she mutters. “I was just looking around.”
“Okay, sure.”
The wind has picked up since we were out shopping, and she’s obviously cold as we walk, but she doesn’t admit it because I told her to grab a sweatshirt or something and she didn’t. She doesn’t want to cover up her cute new clothes. I understand that completely, and I admire the way she just clenches her fists and refuses to even cross her arms against the wind. I grin at the mountains of goose bumps that erupt on her skin as I lead the way around the corner.
A few minutes later we’re sliding into a booth with a street view. I order myself a fancy gin fizz and tell Kayla to try an Italian crème soda. The server brings bread, and Kayla grabs a slice as if she’s afraid he’ll return to take it back.
Chewing, she watches me with a cool stare.
“Warming up yet?” I ask.
She ignores that and lifts her chin. “So are you going to explain what all this is about or not?”
I tilt my head and study her for a moment. “Do you like your nice clothes?”
“Sure.”
“Your new hair, new nails?”
“Obviously.”
“You can tell when people have money, right? You can see that they look different and carry themselves differently?”
She shrugs.
“They pay for that look. The shiny hair, gorgeous nails, perfectly hemmed and tailored slacks. They look good because they can afford to pay for those things. They can afford suites at the Skirvin and massages to help them rest and relax. They get vacations. Time off to lie on the beach. Skin care. Personal trainers.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You can have that too. You don’t have to scramble every damn day of your life. But you have to be willing to work for that money.”
“I already—”
I hold up a hand. “Not that way. Not if you want real money, Kayla. Sex has its place in ambition, but it’s not the only tool.”
“Whatever,” she growls.
“I came from the same place you did, and look at me.” She doesn’t. “I mean it. Look at me. Look at my hair, my skin, my boots. I own a gorgeous downtown condo. I drive a nice car. I go out to dinner anytime I want. Travel overseas. Shop without a budget. And I do it all on my terms, not by negotiating with some wrinkly-sacked sugar daddy who’ll throw me a coin now and then. It’s mine, Kayla. You get that?”
She turns her eyes resentfully in my direction.
“I earned this life. I’m not rich, not by one percent standards, but I sure as hell will never again in my life need to hitch a ride with a pervie truck driver so I can get out of some shit town. Never.”
“Good for you. So . . . what? You’re going to write me into your will or something?”
“Boy, that would be a huge mistake, wouldn’t it?” I grin until she finally grants a tiny smile before ducking her head to hide it. Not out of shyness, but because she can’t conceal the hard amusement of picturing me dead and passing on my belongings to her.
“Thankfully,” I say, “I’m smarter than that. No, what I’m saying is you need to work hard in school and learn to control yourself if you want a better life.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she moans, eyes rolling so hard, I wonder if she strained them.
“This isn’t a pep talk, so shut the hell up, little girl.”
The server was sliding up along my side to take our order, but I watch him freeze and hesitate now.
“We’ll need a minute,” I say, then wave at Kayla to look at her menu. “Decide what you want.” Picking mine up, I spy lobster ravioli, but I’m sure it won’t be the lobster ravioli I like, so I take a few minutes to study the food. “Osso buco,” I say aloud.
Kayla frowns. “What’s that?”
“It’s sort of like the best pot roast you’ve ever had in your life. But don’t ever explain it that way to anyone. They’ll think you’re hopelessly ignorant.”
