Chapter 6 The Sense of Humor Upstairs
THE SENSE OF HUMOR UPSTAIRS
Brendan
It was fate. It had to be.
As a nominal Catholic, I didn’t believe in predestination. Providence was another thing altogether. Our Sunday school teachers taught that God plans our choices, but it’s up to us what we do with them.
Simone Bishop was clearly my choice for today.
I considered tracking her down after watching her catch the bus downtown.
It wouldn’t have taken much. A small donation to the CARE program in exchange for her contact information, or another well-placed bribe with one of the nurses for the exact location of her bar.
But when Mac picked up, the directive froze on the tip of my tongue.
Instead, I’d told Mac to keep me updated and had asked my driver to take me for a quiet drink away from Beacon Hill. Figured it would be better to weather a few shots of whiskey than my family’s sniping.
Now she was here. In a basement lounge in Back Bay, a beacon against the mahogany wainscoting, maroon leather booths, and bowls of peanuts that had probably been there since 1976.
From a jukebox, Dean Martin serenaded men who looked like they had probably attended some of the Rat Pack’s original shows.
All of them lit up like Christmas trees whenever she stopped by.
The scrubs were still gone, of course, along with the big gray coat. Here, she wore black jeans, a black button-down, and a black apron. Simple clothes that couldn’t do a damn thing to hide hips that swayed like tall grass and tits the size of ripe peaches.
Yeah, God clearly wanted me to do something with this one.
I couldn’t stop looking, but I couldn’t figure out why.
She wasn’t anything special. Shorter-than-average height.
Smaller-than-average size. Yes, her blue eyes shimmered like aquamarines even through the bar’s dim lighting.
And all right, every time she smiled at one of her customers, it seemed like a spotlight was turned directly on her.
But lots of people had blue eyes. Plenty of people smiled.
Neither fact explained the twinge in my chest where most people would swear I didn’t have a working organ.
I had watched from my corner as she made her way down the bar. Everyone was eager for her attention. She knew several of the patrons by name, and others seemed keen to learn hers. A brief touch on a hand put a customer immediately at ease. A quick smile lessened a coworker’s load.
So it wasn’t just me. Simone had a gift for putting people at ease. An incredibly undervalued talent in this cold, cruel world.
There were other things to learn about her as she chatted. Words like “sister” and “debt” floated my way. Darned holes in the knees of her jeans told me she probably fixed her clothes because she couldn’t afford to replace them. She was sweet, yes. But poor.
That I could use.
Now, those ocean eyes blinked slowly, and for a split second, I wondered if I’d made a mistake putting an offer out there.
This should have been an easy sell.
And yet…I paused.
“Have a drink with me,” I said, instead of asking the question that immediately came to mind. “On me. Consider it my thank you for this afternoon.”
Simone blinked, and I wasn’t surprised when she shook her head, causing wisps of hair to sway around her heart-shaped face. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m working.”
I peered at the other bartender, a greasy-looking man with a handlebar mustache and paunch that threatened to split his shirt, who tossed back tequila shots with another customer.
Simone followed my gaze, then sighed. “Okay. But I still don’t drink with customers. It, um, gives them the wrong idea.”
Was it fucked up that for a split second, I actually considered sitting at this bar for the rest of my life, ready to chase away any man who got the wrong idea about this angel?
Probably, since it only took me another half-second to realize I was no different than them.
Just one drink in, looking for another, getting ready to propose…
well, something that definitely qualified the “wrong idea.” Simone was wary of them, and now she looked wary of me.
I couldn’t fault her that. And I didn’t like it either.
What was the matter with me? I didn’t care what others thought of me. Certainly not this girl, a nobody, right?
Right?
“Just as well. I don’t really drink much anyway,” I said to my whiskey. “Today is an…exception. Given the circumstances with my dad.”
The second the lie came out of my mouth, I knew I did care. At least a little.
At the mention of my father, she softened visibly. “How is your father?”
“Still asleep, apparently.” I gave her a wry smile. “Might be what’s best for him, given what’s waiting for him in that room.”
“Your family.” She started wiping down glasses from a sanitizer and putting them away. “Is that who they were?”
I nodded.
I waited for her to tell me she knew how I felt, just like anyone else might in a half-hearted attempt at empathy or some bullshit. Explain away my troubles. Feed me some line about how everything would be okay, that my old man would wake up, and our family would be just like it was before.
But she didn’t. Simone was patient. Used to waiting for people to sort things out on their own, I guessed. At ease with the silence while they did.
For the first time, I was the one who couldn’t take the silence. “I’m Brendan,” I said suddenly. I stuck out my hand across the bar.
Simone examined it for a moment, then took it. Her palm was warm against mine, her grip firm but gentle despite the heat of that something again, sizzling between us.
“I know. You introduced yourself at the hospital. Just before the, um, others arrived.”
“My brothers. Animals, all of them.”
Simone took back her hand. I gripped my glass to stop myself from grabbing it back.
“We can’t control our siblings’ behavior,” she replied as she went back to drying glasses. “I’ve tried with my sister. It’s impossible.”
Again with the sister, the one with debt. Someone particularly difficult in her life. I filed that bit of knowledge away.
“Everyone knows who you are.” She changed the subject naturally, like she was used to doing that with other people. Misdirection to avoid something she didn’t want to discuss.
I decided to let her. “Everyone, huh? Including you?” I should have anticipated that she might have seen me in the Herald or whatever garbage tabloid had me on its cover that week.
“Not really, but the nurses were making a big deal about what a celebrity your father is. I didn’t know he had such a big family.”
Relief. That’s what was flooding my chest.
But why?
“He’d hate being called a celebrity,” I told her.
“That’s kind of funny. Most people want to be famous.”
“Dad’s a…paradox. He thinks most celebrities aren’t famous for having actual talent. Ergo, that kind of fame is beneath him even though he’d expect you to know who he is regardless.”
“What about entertainers?” Simone enumerated examples with clean, unpainted fingers. “Actors? Musicians? Artists?”
“‘Shallow, meaningless, bullshit’,” I listed right back.
I could just hear him giving this diatribe.
“His words, not mine. Dad’s not exactly a devotee of the arts.
He thinks they’re all talentless hacks obsessed with their reflections, even though he’ll still pay them to model his clothes on the red carpet and candy up his arm at events. He even married one just for that.”
“He’s a designer?”
“Oh, fuck no. We’re just involved in the business, among other things.” I studied her. “You really didn’t look us up after the nurses told you who he was?”
Simone shook her head. “Most of the patients I work with don’t exactly have the ability to consent. What right do I have to pry into their lives when they’re unconscious or ill?”
Christ, she really was a saint, just like her coworker said.
This girl had no idea what kind of information she actually had, being Dad’s caretaker.
The board didn’t even know about his condition, and if she were the type, she could demand a king’s ransom to keep quiet about it rather than delivering the news to the papers for a handsome fee.
“Blackguard Holding just bought into a big fashion conglomerate,” I told her.
“But we also invest in a lot of other things. The lion’s share of our profits this year came from chip manufacturing and water rights, if you can believe that, but we’re involved in almost any industry you can think of. It’s my father’s life’s work.”
A rare surge of emotion swelled within me. Christ. Dad almost died, and he wasn’t out of the woods yet.
What if he didn’t survive this? Or, maybe worse, what if he did, but never woke up? Just stayed this shell of himself, hooked up to those machines, lying helplessly in the hospital bed?
“Hey.”
I looked up to find that Simone had rounded the bar to stand beside me. Even sitting on the stool, I was taller than her, but we were almost eye-to-eye now.
“Tell me if I’m overstepping. But, Brendan, you look like maybe you need a hug.”
I opened my mouth. To say what, I wasn’t sure. Maybe that she didn’t know what she was talking about. That I was Brendan goddamn Black. I didn’t need kindness or love or fucking hugs, for Christ’s sake.
But I couldn’t speak.
Then she stepped between my knees, lifted herself up onto the toes of her sneakers, and wrapped her slender arms around my neck.
Her body pressed to mine, allowing the warmth that seemed to radiate out of her soul to wrap around me like a blanket, cocooning me in this unlikely angel’s light, love, and grace.
In other words, she gave me a hug anyway.
I don’t think I hugged her back.
I don’t think I even blinked.
It wasn’t until she pulled away that I realized I’d just sat there like a dead tree, motionless. Lifeless.
And having lost my chance to return the favor.
A pang of regret pierced my heart, and tears—actual tears—pricked my eyes.
What the fuck was going on?