11. Rae
11
RAE
T he next morning, there’s a message on my social profile asking for an interview.
I message back:
If this is about what happened in the spring, I don’t do interviews.
There’s a reply almost instantly.
I want to talk about your new gig in Ibiza. You’re causing a lot of buzz. When can we meet?
I’ve never done face-to-face interviews, which are outside my comfort zone because it’s harder to control the conversation, so I tuck the phone away without responding.
I shift out of bed and trip over to the door, catching sight of my still-sprayed hair in the mirror. The makeup that didn’t quite come off my face last night after the party.
The party.
It all rushes back. Playing Cinderella. Pretending to be part of that world.
And the feeling of seeing Harrison with his ex.
As I step out into the hall, I expect to hear him, but there’s nothing.
His office door is closed, and so is his bedroom.
“Looking for Mr. Moody?” Ash calls from the dining area downstairs.
I lean over the railing. “Maybe. What’re you doing here?”
“Got back last night to find our club’s villa trashed. Tripped over bottles and naked tourists to come over.”
I pad downstairs and eye the green smoothie Ash is drinking. “That looks disgusting.”
“So do you.” He ruffles my hair. “But last night, you were stunning. Everyone noticed.” He pauses. “He left for business this morning.”
“Oh.” I try not to feel disappointed he didn’t tell me. “For how long?”
“Who knows?” His eyes narrow. “But there’s something in the kitchen for you.”
I look where he’s pointing to see a huge stainless-steel espresso maker.
“Shit. Does it do laundry too?” Up close, it’s even more impressive, and I run a hand over the levers and dials before reaching for the instruction manual next to it. “He must have decided he likes good coffee,” I say as I thumb through the pages.
Ash’s snort has me looking up. “Yeah. He bought it for himself,” he says dryly.
I set the instructions on top of the machine, spotting a Post-it note stuck to the stainless steel.
There’s a number scrawled on it.
Eleven hundred thirteen.
It’s the door from Thursday’s show—up from eight hundred when we started. Two thousand is capacity, so while it’s trending in the right direction, we’re nowhere near selling out.
“Maybe he bought it for when he returns?” I wonder aloud.
“If that’s what you think, you’re daft.” Ash is watching me with a grin and folded arms. “There’s something going on between you and my brother.”
I match his posture. “It’s called a grudge.”
“That might be how you both started, but it’s not why you were upset last night.”
“A month off from soccer and you’re a shrink?”
He plows on, unmoved. “I was twelve when our parents died. Harry showed up at the door of my boarding school. You know the first thing he said to me?”
I shake my head.
“‘No matter what anyone says about them, they loved you. That’s all you need to know.’
“That day, everything fell to him, legally and practically. He kept me out of the investigation into their deaths. Dealt with their business interests dissolving. It didn’t make him crumble; it made him more resolved. You can call him lots of things, but when he commits to something—someone—he’ll see it through or die trying.”
My chest aches as I think of Harrison, younger than Ash and I are now, being ripped from his education and confronting not only his parents’ deaths but the fallout.
“I still hate him half the time,” I admit.
“It’s the other half that’s interesting.” He pauses. “While they were engaged, Eva tried to get Harry to step back from his business, supposedly because she wanted time together. Turns out it was so Mischa could get a toehold in markets where his business was strong.
“La Mer would be the final nail in his coffin. It’s the biggest venue in the world, the most prestigious. Harry gets it, Mischa loses. It won’t bring our parents back, but he thinks it’s something.” Ash rubs a hand over his jaw. “Most people want to be near my brother for his money or his reputation. You see the man he could be, like I do.”
The invitation hangs between us.
It’s impossible to forget that amidst Harrison’s compulsive desire to empire-build is a genuine protectiveness for his family, a desire to do right by the people he loves.
Because he does love, in his way.
He put his brother first in a time when he himself was grieving and broken. He buys cars for Toro that the old man adores. Hired Leni as his right-hand woman and allows her to be her quirky self.
Judging by the champagne bucket of waters that arrives when I start to lose myself in a set, he even intervenes on my behalf.
“And if he succeeds in growing his business and buying La Mer, you think he’ll be that man?” I ask.
“I think he can let go of his grief and have a chance at it.”
I stare at the coffee machine, the encouragement implied by it. “Eleven hundred thirteen isn’t enough.”
“Enough for what?” Ash demands.
“It’s nowhere near,” I say, ignoring the question as I grab the note and crumpling it up before tossing it in the trash.
I pull up my social and message the reporter back to say I’ll meet her.
* * *
Harrison
“This is everything.” It’s a question, but it comes out like a statement as I stare at the manager of BLUE, my LA club.
“Every incident report filed against the club in the past three years,” he says.
The stack must be fifty pages thick.
I flip through and skim dates, names, looking for patterns. The only pattern is that there is none, except perhaps for the bare-bones information.
These aren’t “reports.” They’re bookmarks with handwriting on them.
Judging from the paperwork in front of me, the staff here sees their primary job as making things go away.
“I asked for this information a month ago,” I say.
“I’m sorry, Mr. King. Staffing is tight.” He presses his lips together. “There’ve been budget cuts the last two years?—”
“Fine.” I’d told my managers to tighten up on existing properties to allow us to expand new operations.
Don’t be sorry. Be better .
Rae’s words echo in my head.
Traveling on business has never felt strange or lonely, but this week feels like both. I’ve gotten used to having her around my house and around me.
The gala was days ago, and I can still feel Rae’s presence. I swear I catch her scent on the air when I step out of a car or off a plane.
Which is fucking crazy.
Rae’s not here, and there’s no reason she should be. She’s doing what she’s supposed to be doing—making me money.
So, why would I give a wardrobe full of designer suits for a glimpse of her across a lobby?
“Mr. King?”
I glance up at the manager’s voice, realizing I was staring off into space. “Hire more people. Whatever you need to ensure this issue is properly addressed.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. Would you like me to send you any new reports?”
I consider it. “Only if you can’t manage them yourself. But if I have to make another request for information like this one, they had better be robust fucking accounts. If a patron so much as gets a drink spilled on them?—”
“We’ll take care of it.” He nods as I shift out of the seat and start for the door. “Your car is waiting outside. It’s too bad you’re leaving LA so soon and can’t stay for this evening’s show.”
I cut a look over my shoulder. “I’ll be in Miami tonight.”
“Enjoying your venue?”
I smile tightly.
“Doing the same damn thing we did here,” I mutter under my breath on my way out.