22. Old Standards
22
OLD STANDARDS
Nick
I’m definitely not winning any parent of the year awards. Good dads don’t scramble to lift their son’s friend off the counter, then wash their hands while talking to their kid.
“What’s going on, kiddo?” Do I sound too chipper or what?
Layla doesn’t even look my way as she flies through the living room, toward the bathroom, presumably. Meanwhile, David says, “I got the sublet! I’m moving out.”
My first thought is embarrassing so I squash it. I won’t go there. I will not think that his absence will make it easier for my sex life.
You don’t have a sex life, man .
“That’s great. I’ll miss you, but I get that you want your own place,” I say, meaning it. I swear I mean it. I’m happy for my boy.
“I can move in tomorrow, but I don’t think I can get everything done tonight and still meet you guys. Can you ask Layla to swing by Kip’s home to get the golf clubs?”
Kip. Fucking Kip. Why does it always come back to the guy who gets to date her?
“Sure. Does she know where he lives? Wait. Just text it to her,” I say, since I shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t care, shouldn’t be involved in Layla’s dating life.
What I should do is send her on her merry way and ask my son how I can help with his passion.
“I sent it to her,” David says. “He’s on Central Park West. Not too far from her place, so it should be easy. Maybe she can grab it and bring it over tomorrow?”
“Sure. We’ll sort it out. And listen, I’m done with all those calls to guests. We’ve got lots of people coming. Why don’t you let me know what else I can do while Layla’s getting the golf stuff? What do you want me to pick up? I’m at your service,” I say, like that exonerates me.
Like my willingness to play gopher will cover up my sins.
My lies.
My ferocious appetite for his friend.
I drop my head, shaking it in disgust.
David clucks his tongue. “Actually, I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner. But maybe just see if Layla wants help?” Then he lowers his voice, perhaps in case she’s nearby. “She might not want to drag golf clubs around the city. She doesn’t love to be alone at night.”
Alarm bells sound. “I’ll go with her.”
We say goodbye just as Layla emerges from the bathroom. She’s put together again, her skirt straightened perfectly, her hair smoothed neatly. Her lipstick reapplied.
The evidence of our brief tryst is mostly gone, but now she looks too poised, like she’s trying to cover us up.
Another reminder I can’t keep pursuing her. I can’t make her lie through her presto-chango routine.
I have to focus on the task—helping my son’s friend. I clear my throat. “David wants me to go with you to get the golf clubs. I can order a car service to make it easier to grab them. Then I can drop you off and bring them back here.”
There. That was businesslike. Not rip-her-clothes-off-like.
She nods toward the door. “Kip texted me. He’s at their Greenwich home tonight. And I have a car.”
“You have a car?” No one in New York has cars—well, except for those who do.
As she picks up her bag, a fond smile tilts her lips. “It was my dad’s. He got it when he won a big case. It was custom-made from a guy named Max Summers. It’s electric. It’s red, a dream to drive, and hot as sin.”
Sounds like her.
“Let me drive,” I say.
She shakes her head, amused, but we both know she’s really saying yes.
We cruise along the highway as the sun dips lower in the late summer sky. Music blasts from the car stereo, a playlist Layla cued up. Alt music, she said. New and emerging bands her friend Ethan turned her onto.
I like…some of them.
“Are you a music person? Or are you more a podcast/NPR/news type of guy?” she asks. Then she shakes her head. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess.”
With one hand on the wheel, I toss her a glance like try to get it right . “Go for it,” I say, since this is better than talking about Kip, and dating, and my insatiable need to touch her.
This is safer.
Driving her. Taking care of her. Helping her.
She taps her chin. “Podcasts, I bet. On economics, and theories of the universe, and how stuff is made, and why certain micro trends portend the future of business, and how the universe operates, and we’re all connected.”
Whoa. Can you say mind reader? I crack up, then answer, “Did you just potluck my podcast tastes? Turn them all into a big business guy stew?”
“I guess I did,” she says, staring at me with anticipation in her eyes.
My lips twitch as I return my focus fully to the road. “You’re right,” I mutter. She nailed me.
She pumps a fist. “Knew it.”
“I’m that easy to read?” I ask, a little annoyed, but only because I don’t want to be predictable to her.
She shakes her head. “No. But I feel like I can read you.”
My chest warms. Dangerously. “Why?”
“I saw you speak. You like theories of the world and business. You like understanding why people do and buy and think what they do. And also, it makes sense. If you’re going to take chances on little companies, you need to understand the big picture.”
“I guess you can read me,” I say, then hold up a finger to make a point. “But I do like music too. I listen to a lot of tunes when I’m at the gym. Or when I’m cooking.”
“What do you like?”
“Besides polka, swing music, and old standards?” I tease.
“Obviously.”
With my gaze fixed ahead, I grumble out an answer. “Old standards.”
She laughs, tossing her head back. “That is fantastic.”
“Hey now,” I tease.
She pats my arm, then lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “I like old standards too.”
See? I can do this. I can just be with Layla without devolving into grunts or groans.
We can talk about likes and dislikes, and that’s all good. But there’s more I want to know about the woman by my side. I pat the dashboard briefly for emphasis as the GPS chirps, letting me know we’re a mile from the Greenwich exit.
“So this was your dad’s car?” I ask, careful as I broach a sensitive subject.
“I helped him pick it out,” she says, and she doesn’t sound sad, or distant like she was the other day. She sounds proud.
A sign to keep going. “Oh yeah?”
“He’d always wanted a sports car, and when he was researching makes and models, I suggested he try a custom-made electric. He liked the idea,” she says. “I’ve tried to encourage my mom to change some of her business practices—to make them more clean. But she never really did. My dad was open to it though, and that meant a lot to me.”
That’s a passion point of hers. David’s too. And honestly, it’s become one of mine. But I don’t want to pat myself on the back. I’d rather give credit where it’s deserved. “It’s nice to see your generation caring so much. Taking on a stewardship role.”
“My generation?” she asks, with an arch of a brow. “We’re fifteen years apart, Nick. I don’t think that’s a generation.”
It’s not the age though, really, that’s keeping us apart. It’s the person. And I can’t keep playing these bedroom games behind my son’s back. “Layla,” I say, my voice heavy.
She draws a sharp breath. Holds up a hand. “I know.”
I sigh again. “I can’t do this to David. It’s wrong.”
She nods, looking straight ahead. “I know,” she repeats, crisply.
“It’s not fair to him,” I add, flicking on the signal as I switch lanes to the exit.
“I know,” she says in a three-peat. But she sounds more clipped with each answer.
I steal a glance at her. Her lips are pursed. Her jaw is clenched. And I’ve upset my beautiful woman.
My heart is stretched in too many directions.
I shut up as I drive the rest of the way to Kip’s house.
I’m a good guy as Layla introduces me to the secret society Yale grad. I’m a great guy as I make small talk and thank the guy swimming in family money. I’m a fucking saint as I carry the golf clubs out to the circular driveway in front of said family’s Greenwich mansion.
The polished blond in the mint-green polo and khaki shorts reaches for the bag as Layla pops the trunk. “I can put them in there,” Kip says, reaching for the golf bag as dusk covers us.
Like that’ll happen. With a jovial grin, I hoist it in. “No worries, kid. I’ve got this.”
Kid . Ha. Take that, all you fuckers who’ve called me sir .
With the bag in place, I close the trunk, then offer a hand to shake. “Thanks again for the donation. The golf lessons will be in high demand. David and I truly appreciate it,” I say with genuine gratitude. I might not like this guy, but he is helping my son, and that’s something.
“So do I,” Layla chimes in.
The Ken doll looks me in the eyes and says, a little smugly, “You’re welcome, Mr. Bancroft.”
Fuck. You.
“It’s Adams. Nick Adams,” I correct.
“Oops. My bad,” he says, but he doesn’t sound apologetic one bit. Bet he doesn’t know how to apologize or why it’s important.
Yup. He’s an asshole. I was right.
When he lets go of my hand, he turns to Layla, holds out his arms wide. “It was so good to see you again, Mayweather.”
As he hugs her goodbye, I roll my eyes. I want to laugh at him. Good luck, Kip. No woman wants a man who calls her by a buddy name—her last name.
“Good to see you too, Kip,” she says, and I’m not truly irritated since I know Layla’s heart and body and mind, but I do want to rip him off her, because he’s touching her far too long.
If I can’t touch her, he sure as shit shouldn’t.
Finally, he lets go, flashing her a smooth operator smile. “I’ll see you after the auction.”
I glance down at the ink that I just couldn’t scrub off my palm. And that feels like a goddamn metaphor right now.
Only, I don’t know what to do with the figure of speech on my hand.
When we get back in the car, Layla’s quiet again as we drive away. But she’s the kind of quiet that says she’s working through something. When I come to a stop at the end of Kip’s road, she whips her gaze to me, sets a hand on my arm.
My skin burns with desire.
Just. Like. That.
“You’re right, Nick,” she says carefully, like she’s been mulling something over. “It’s not fair to David. Or right. But life’s not fair. And there’s a side road by the country club about a mile away. You’re probably going to turn me down. You’re probably going to say no. But what if we just?—”
“I’m there.”
I hit the gas and go.