Chapter 41 Lex
Lex
It’s almost eleven o’clock when I finally roll out of bed the next day, having spent the evening alone in my condo with a bottle of Barrique de Ponciano Porfidio tequila.
The only thing higher than its ridiculous price tag was my determination to obliterate the memory of Stevie’s devastated face as I left her alone in my living room last week with nothing but a broken heart and a six-figure paycheck.
Didn’t work.
All I managed to do was almost call her seventy-five times until I hid my phone somewhere to spare myself from the subsequent fallout of drunk dialing my fake ex-girlfriend and begging her to come back to me.
I have no idea where I put my fucking phone.
Running a hand through my mess of overgrown hair, I yank last week’s shirt from the laundry pile—still clinging to the faint scent of her coconut shampoo—and head downstairs. The plan? Drown this hangover in a flood of espresso strong enough to restart my soul.
But before my eyes have even adjusted to the harsh light of day, Rudy’s voice pierces my ears, laying the groundwork for a level-ten migraine. “Good morning, motherfucker.”
I glance into the main room and find my agent prancing through my condo holding a pink paper bag.
What the fuck?
My eyes pan to the feminine tote with a scowl. “What are you doing here? Aside from wanting to show me your collection of bubble gum blossom bath bombs.”
“I’m a zesty citrus guy myself, but nice alliteration. I brought scones. You’re lucky I’d already purchased them, or you’d be getting none.”
I grumble at the same time as my stomach does. “Any blueberry?”
Rudy tosses me the bag of scones. “No, but there’s an arsenic and chocolate chip in there for you.”
“Why are you here?” I discard the paper bag on the island top and press forward on my hands. I’m in no mood for Rudy right now. I have a hangover from hell and a pit of self-loathing to dive into like a trench of bloodthirsty piranhas.
“Well, Lex, tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and you’re basically family,” Rudy says, falling onto a barstool. “Figured we could put on our aprons and stuff a turkey together, since you won’t be stuffing anything else for the foreseeable future.”
My heart cracks open and bleeds, the piranhas drooling and ravenous. “Low blow.”
“I say it how I see it.” He pulls a scone from the bag and takes a bite, crumbs dispersing all over my counter. “Have you texted her? Called her? Sent her photographic evidence of how miserable you are without her? You look like you’re protesting your own existence.”
“I did text her, and she said she’s doing good. So fuck off.”
“Good means fine, and fine means you better start groveling before she starts posting sad-girl quotes on her Instagram stories and sending you cryptic messages in the form of Taylor Swift lyrics.”
This conversation is no less than a slow, painful death.
Luckily, my phone starts ringing from…
Somewhere.
I move around the island, opening cabinets, the fridge, the freezer, and looking inside bags of flour and brown sugar.
Rudy squints with concern from the island. “Did you hide your phone?”
“No.” I sigh when the phone stops ringing.
“It’s intervention time. You can’t keep going on like this. Also, you smell like those coconut macarons from Michelina’s. Are you wearing Stevie’s perfume?”
Ignoring him, I rifle through one of the open cabinets and pull out a box of Lucky Charms. “Why are you still here?” Tossing a bowl and a spoon onto the counter, I snag the milk out of the fridge. “Tell me you’re sad and alone without telling me you’re sad and alone.”
“A tangled web of lies,” he says breezily. “My future bride texted me this morning. Things are looking promising.”
My eyebrows dip. “Who?”
“Stevie’s sister.”
“Right. Joplin is not interested.”
“Also a lie. She told me my socks had an impressive pattern. She’s into me.”
“Why the fuck were you sending her pictures of your feet?”
“Getty Images, Lex. Feet pictures come with time, and things are still so new.” He props his shoes up on the opposite stool, eyeing the cereal. “And the socks were gold. There were llamas.”
Little does Rudy know, Stevie told me that Joplin has been profiling him from behind the scenes and has determined that he carries at least two traits that could make him a serial killer: charisma and a penchant for eating his cereal without milk.
“Pour me a bowl,” Rudy says. “No milk.”
Glowering, I reach for another bowl and tip the cereal box sideways.
My phone falls out.
I hate everything.
Rudy would likely be spouting off unproductive, sarcastic comments right about now, but he’s too busy laughing at me to muster any words.
My phone starts ringing again, and at first, I’m grateful for the distraction—until I cringe when my mother’s name brightens the screen. Jaw clenched, I reject the call and slam the phone down on the counter.
I flinch when it vibrates with a text message.
Mom: Walking into your condo! Thanksgiving prep.
My throat closes up, more from agony than dehydration now.
Fuck me.
“Dammit.” I rake a hand through my still-fucked hair, desperate for ten liters of water and a bottle of Ambien. “My mom is here with green beans and shit.”
“That’s my cue.” Rudy pops up from the stool, stealing another scone from the bag before he flies to the doorway.
“On second thought, you can stay.”
“You want me to stay and make green bean casserole with your mother?”
My eyes are pleading.
“I’d rather superglue a rare steak to my nuts and run naked through a pack of hungry wolves. But the desperation in your eyes is adorable.” He points at me. “Call me later if you need help disposing of the body after things go sideways.”
I shoot him a deadened stare. “Joplin would be a better candidate for that.”
“So hot.” Rudy sends me a salute and shoves the rest of his scone in his mouth before whipping open the door.
Unfortunately for both of us, my mother is already at the threshold, decked out in a hot-pink velvet tracksuit, her hair freshly curled.
Rudy beams brightly. “Veronica!” Then he turns toward me and covertly jabs his index finger underneath his chin and flicks an invisible trigger with his thumb.
Mom strolls through the doorway with multiple grocery bags, sending a flat smile to Rudy. “You look dapper today, Mr. Sinclair.” When she reaches me, she presses a kiss to my cheek and ruffles my bedhead. “You, on the other hand, look like you haven’t slept in weeks. Is the insomnia back?”
“It’s not a good time for visitors.”
“I’m hardly a visitor. I figured we could spend the next two days together for the holiday, now that your roommate has left for greener pastures.”
My roommate.
Right.
Mom tosses the bags on the counter and starts sifting through organic ingredients from Whole Foods. “I hope it was nothing I said,” she quips, scanning the nutritional label on a can of creamed corn. “I’d hate to have contributed to any discord between you.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Stevie needed to be with her family, considering an anonymous source leaked her parents’ address to the press and the vultures flocked.” My head tilts, eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that though.”
“Certainly not.”
Maybe that’s another reason I’ve yet to publicly announce the separation: the only thing worse than this heartache is the notion that my mother will think she won.
“Mr. Sinclair, will you be joining us for Thanksgiving?” Mom asks, her eye twitching as she glances at Rudy.
Rudy pales, and the smile he beams is a striking contradiction to the fear in his eyes. “Oh, sorry, I usually spend Thanksgiving untangling my grandmother’s collection of vintage Christmas lights. It’s been a tradition for years.”
“Mm, well, you’re here now. Help me assemble this green bean casserole.”
Sweet, sweet revenge.
I back away slowly, waving my hand like a send-off. “I need to hop in the shower. Be back down in a few…” Decades. “…minutes.”
Rudy discreetly flips me off before I trudge back up the staircase to the bathroom. When I’m safely secured inside, I collapse against the sink and blow out a breath.
I imagine what she’s doing right now.
Rolling dough by hand for homemade pies. Laughing with her sister in her cozy kitchen, her pretty autumn dress dotted in flour dust and cranberry stains. Playing the piano by candlelight while her family tells stories of Thanksgivings past.
My heart shrinks two sizes.
Sighing miserably, I pull out my phone again and open up my text messages. A million thoughts and questions spring to mind of all the things I want to say.
Are you sure you’re okay?
Do you miss me?
Did I do the right thing?
Do you really love me?
But even through the cowardly guise of digital correspondence and with multiple states between us, I can’t get the words down. All I can manage is a pathetic.
Me: Happy Thanksgiving.
She responds right away.
Nicks: You too.
Part of me wonders if we can still be…friends. Despite everything. The world feels cold without her in my life in some way. Ice cubes in my lungs. Glaciers in my chest. It’s an underwhelming existence in the aftermath of Stevie St. James.
I think about the possibility of still coming out of this as friends as I turn the showerhead on to full heat and scorch away my inner wounds until my skin nearly blisters.
It does nothing to warm me. The chill only festers as I methodically dry my hair with a bath towel and slip into clean clothes before finding the strength to head back downstairs.
Rudy and my mother have their backs to me as they chop vegetables on the counter near the industrial stove. I’m about to make a dig at Rudy playing homemaker when my curiosity gets the better of me.
“—had hoped our temporary move to Chicago would be a fresh start for him.”
Rudy feigns interest, his muscles tight and flickering with discomfort. “What made you leave LA again?”
“Well, there was an incident,” Mom replies.
“A misunderstanding, if you will. My sister lives in Highland Park, so we had a tie to the area, and we were still close enough to a big city with industry connections. I figured I’d give Lexington a little time off to decompress and reassess his priorities.
It was always our intention to move back here once he got a taste of normal living and was ready to buckle down again. ”
Wait.
An incident?
I never told her why I wanted to leave Los Angeles.
Rudy makes a noncommittal noise. “Got it.”
“I know I’m hard on you sometimes,” she continues, her golden hair bouncing at her back as a double-bevel knife thumps against a cutting board. “But I’m not oblivious to the way you’ve helped Lexington get back on his feet. I recognize your talent and assets.”
“Appreciate that.” He doesn’t.
“It’s just…I had a dear friend who was one of the best agents in the industry. She still is—a female powerhouse in a male-dominated field. Bianca was an excellent mentor to Lexington and could have gotten him further, faster.”
My stomach rolls.
She was an excellent mentor to me—at first. Bianca promised to take me under her wing, get my foot in the door, introduce me to opportunities that could change my life.
At a cost.
Then she ruined me instead.
“Yeah, I know her,” Rudy mutters, his tone lacking any inflection. “Lex doesn’t talk about her much.”
Mom hesitates, her head bowing slightly. “No. He wouldn’t.”
“Because of an incident?”
I never told Rudy about what happened.
The thing is…I never told my mother either.
I wedge my shoulder against the wall, the hairs on the back of my neck springing to attention, my hands tightening at my sides.
Mom sighs with dismay. “Yes, well, that was unfortunate. And highly inconvenient. Lexington had a meltdown over a silly misunderstanding and nearly derailed his entire career. He refused to show up to his work commitments and threatened to leave the industry altogether if we didn’t relocate.
That’s when we decided to move. A little break was necessary—I needed him to realize he was about to blow his big chance at stardom. ”
A dark feeling swirls inside my stomach, and my mouth goes dry like stale crackers.
A silly misunderstanding.
There’s no way she knows I was sexually assaulted by her best friend.
That would be fucking impossible.
Incomprehensible.
“It’s really not my place to share, but you understand the inner workings of this industry better than anyone. It’s a give-and-take world. Bianca may have made a little pass at him,” she explains, shrugging her shoulders. “It was nothing. I’ll never understand why he chose to run.”
Rudy goes still, letting the words register. Setting the knife down, he glances at her, pressing forward on the counter. “How old was he again?”
She flicks a dismissive hand. “We both know age is just a number in this city. We’re all forced to grow up fast.”
“Um…” As Rudy stares at her, his attention flicks to me, standing behind them. He does a double take, straightening his posture, rubbing a hand through his hair. “You know, I’ve got that thing I need to get to—”
“How about we just call it what it was,” I interject, pulling up from the wall, my throat on fire.
My mother whips around, her face going white when she spots me. “Lexington.” She clears her throat, fiddling with the zipper on her tracksuit. “Why don’t you help us chop these—”
“You can go, Rudy.” I send him a heavy look, my limbs vibrating with tension and rage.
Empathy shimmers in his eyes as he bows out, wiping his hands on a dish towel and retreating to the front door. “Yeah, man. Give me a call if you need anything.”
My eyes trail to my mother as she leans back against the counter, her gaze pinned on the porcelain floor.
The door claps shut.
Silence sounds, heightening the pounding of my betrayed heart.
She knew.
She fucking knew.