Thirty-Nine
IN THE REFUGE OF THE HALLWAY RESTROOM, I CHECK MY PHONE.
Rook
Quinn quit
Hasn’t left the welding
*Welding
**Wedding god damn
Currently getting wasted at the open bar
Yes. Perfect.I welcome the logistics like I’m collapsing onto a hotel comforter after a long flight. The job is what I can cling to in the chaos.
I collect myself, gazing into the mirror, letting my shoulders unwind. I want to look at ease for what happens next. Comfortable in power. When I’m ready, I exit into the hallway.
King
I’m on my way.
In the dark of night, the patio is deserted. Everyone is in the tent for dinner, where the servers have started carrying out the main courses. No one occupies the bar except the people I need.
I inspect Quinn Rhodes, realizing, while I never wanted to know my father’s assistant—former assistant—familiarity with the gangly thirtysomething would have helped me now. Instead, I have to rely on the characterization I can construct from quick observation. Generic undercut. No creativity in execution despite wanting to look cool. Cheap tux. Here for business. No interest in or sense of opportunity for wedding hookups, not while leashed to my dad’s whims.
Drink in hand.Not his first, from the dull abandon in his eyes.
Acceptable conditions for information extortion, I guess.
Getting closer, I notice he doesn’t just look drunk—he looks like he’s having fun. Deonte does, too. Despite their conflict earlier, he’s clearly sold Quinn on commiseration over their recent unemployment. He’s relaxed, palling with Quinn as if they’re playing pickup football on the lawn instead of ignoring the wedding celebration.
The fact that Deonte has managed to make friends with someone he just doused in champagne does not surprise me at all. From the cake to the flawless phone drop to the incident with Mr. Rhodes here, Rook is shaping up to be the MVP of my crew. I understand it, motivationally. While McCoy is here for revenge, Cass and Tom for their own dark whims, Deonte is the only other person here out of devotion to the person he cares for most in the world. I note to cut him some extra.
Assuming there’s money in the account.
I can’t even contemplate what I’ll do if there isn’t. How I’ll pay my crew.
Sidling up to the bar, I shut out the idea. Quinn does a quick double take when he realizes who I am, then leans away in unambiguous displeasure.
“Nah, she’s cool, man,” Deonte interjects. “Olivia’s the one who got me this gig.”
Quinn eyes me in concession, clearly not convinced I am “cool.” He still smells like champagne, I note.
“Olivia,” he greets me, his voice like curdled milk. “Congrats on the new stepmom.”
“Quinn.” I match his introduction. If he’s spoiled cream, I’m cotton candy laced with arsenic. “Rough night?”
“Don’t pretend you’re not pleased.”
I laugh lightly, reaching for the peanuts in the dish on the bar. God, I’m hungry, I realize. Jackson and freaking useless Jerry Hausman have cost me the miso-marinated black cod everyone else is enjoying right now.
Quinn is right. I’ve never hidden my resentment of him. We cross paths when I’m over for dinners and he’s finishing running down the podcast guest list with Dash or planning my dad’s next whatever. I would often outright glare.
How could I not, when every glimpse of him reminded me of how he helped and covered up my dad’s cheating on my mom?
He knew everything. Every plan. Every schedule. He helped my father make them. He didn’t hesitate.
Well, here’s hoping his insider status helps me now.
“I did hear you quit,” I say, making a mockery of sympathy.
He knocks back his amber drink. “He was going to fire me, but after all these years”—he shakes his head like, no way—“I had to be the one to leave. It was past time. Your dad kept promising me a job at Hub, but I doubt he ever meant it.”
“He didn’t,” I say honestly. Why Quinn would ever want to work at the online “listener companion platform” my dad developed for his podcast, which has devolved into a few hundred of his wannabes ranting at one another, I’ll never understand.
It doesn’t matter. I have my angle now. I know exactly how I’ll play this conversation.
“He said you were support-staff material,” I recall, “and nothing more.”
Quinn’s lip furls.
Even Deonte winces. “What a dick.”
“Hey, I didn’t ask to be born to him.” I shrug. “Quinn actually applied and interviewed to be his little minion.”
My insult glances off—exactly as I’d hoped. Quinn is preoccupied, fuming. “Well, I guess I’ll have my revenge in drinking as much top-shelf liquor at his wedding as I can,” he says.
Deonte’s eyes flit to me.
“What if you could do more?” I ask innocently.
Quinn’s gaze moves to me. Perfection. Not even hotel sheets compare to the exquisite indulgence of plans perfectly executed. Yes, Quinn Rhodes is sniveling and selfish. It doesn’t mean he’s senseless. Even inebriated, he understands I’m offering him an invitation I haven’t yet opened. His silence is intended for me to continue.
I do. “Lexi is here tonight.”
His expression slackens a little. “Lexi Lexi?”
I can’t resist. “What, surprised Lexi is somewhere she’s not supposed to be? I can’t imagine,” I drawl.
Although the corner of his mouth pinches, Quinn doesn’t reply. Good.
He waits, and I continue without my sarcasm. “She wants to collect on her prenup’s infidelity clause. What with how you covered for Dash with my mom”—I say, casually bringing into the open the ugly source of years of resentment I’ve had for the slight man in front of me—“I figured you might have done the same when he and Lexi were married.”
The look Quinn gives me is no longer displeased. It is, however, incredulous. “You’re helping your stepmom get money from your dad,” he recaps, “by proving he cheated on her.”
I crunch down my peanut dinner. “Oh, is that unhealthy? Do you think we need family therapy or something?”
Quinn laughs—not ruefully for once, I notice. “Why are you even here?” he asks with humorless incredulity. “You hate your father. I doubt you have fonder feelings for Maureen.”
I shrug, projecting nonchalance despite how his question has levered open complications I’m working desperately to ignore, ones Mitchum’s revelation have only heightened. “He’s my dad,” I say. “Where was I supposed to be?”
“Family, man.” Deonte nods—in support, I recognize, of my insubstantial cover story. “Family means everything.”
I catch his eye, understanding his comment comes, like the sharpest strategies, from somewhere genuine. The anguish of family has driven us here, in our separate ways. “For better or worse,” I reply. Deonte lifts his drink in agreement.
Quinn’s gaze goes distant while he considers my inquiry into Dash’s infidelities. Hope speeds my heart rate until he frowns as if I’ve struck out. “There wasn’t anyone else I knew of during Lexi’s short-lived reign as Mrs. Owens,” he replies. “I think getting caught really shook him.”
While I catch Deonte’s face fall, I won’t admit defeat. I grasp on to the only opportunity Quinn’s response provided. Getting caught. As if he was used to not getting caught. As if—“So he cheated on my mom with more women than Lexi,” I say.
Quinn studies me. “Do you really need to ask?”
It’s funny—I’m no longer hungry. Not when my stomach has dropped straight to the patio stone.
I’m not just hurt, I realize as I reassemble my composure. I’m angry at myself. I won’t easily forgive my own naivete. Cheaters never cheat just once.
I push past the pain of the realization. I need to focus on the objective. “Who’s Abigail Pierce?” I ask, the night’s new multimillion-dollar question.
Quinn finishes his drink. “How do you know that name?”
“I’m Dash’s daughter,” I reply, hoping the non-answer is enough.
It isn’t. He narrows his eyes, as if he’s half appalled, half impressed. “You really are,” he says, his voice hollow.
The words douse me. He doesn’t mean them complimentarily.
I push the comparison aside. If I have to be like Dash to steal from Dash, then fine. “You know who she is,” I say, pressing my point.
Infuriatingly, Quinn Rhodes only shakes his head.
“I don’t,” he replies, his voice devastatingly genuine. “I just know she’s your competition.”