13. Sienna
13
SIENNA
I spend the rest of the day painting, transferring all my niggling insecurities onto the canvas where I can make better sense of them.
I don’t message Nick. If the information given to Kyle is correct, and he’s dealing with family matters, he won’t want to be disturbed. I intend to take advantage of his silence by shutting him out of my mind completely.
Him and Kyle.
I was almost ready to take Kyle up on the generous offer of using an executive suite at the Wraith temporarily.
Almost.
Until he dropped his bombshell about the family conference in which I was the main topic of conversation. Does he have any idea how it feels to know that people are talking about your life as if they’re the ones in control? Or is being in control such an intrinsic part of his life that he can’t see it from my point of view?
I block my father from my thoughts too.
But when I’m cleaning my paintbrushes at the end of the day—one of my favorite jobs as it’s so therapeutic—the uneasiness creeps back in.
Kyle’s suggestion that my father felt guilty for leaving me alone in his apartment all night sounds feasible, but the niggling feeling like an itch behind my eyeballs is telling me he’s wrong. Guilt has never featured in my father’s vocabulary before, so why now? And if he felt bad about leaving me knowing that I was being followed, why did he go out at all?
No, the lure of the casino was greater than his daughter’s needs.
Which brings me full circle back to why he lied about what time he got home.
My stomach twists when it occurs to me that he might not have been lying. What if he snuck in at midnight as he claimed, but with company? What if he brought a woman home with him, and the sounds I heard at 5 a.m. were her trying to leave before I woke up?
I don’t know which is worse. Him lying to me, or the mental image of him fucking a woman in the other room while I’m there. And if that’s the case, is it going to be a regular occurrence?
Closing the gallery for the night, my movements grow sluggish as lack of sleep catches up on me. I’ve always been independent. I had to grow up fast when my mom died, and I’ve always looked after myself, but I feel like a lost and lonely sixteen-year-old again. I’m afraid to go home, but the thought of going back to my father’s apartment for a second night doesn’t exactly fill me with holiday cheer.
I retrieve my coat and purse from the office and check my messages. They’re all from Victoria, begging me to call her back. I know I should. She has a newborn baby to look after, she doesn’t need her best friend adding to her already overloaded stress levels. But tiredness is crashing through me in waves, and I don’t have the energy to tell her everything that has happened.
I message her instead, to stop her from freaking out:
Sorry V, been super-busy. I’ll call you tomorrow. Give the baby a big kiss from me.
I haven’t even met Holly yet.
My best friend is experiencing the most momentous, life-changing experience, and I’ve not been there for her. I’m a bad friend. I’ve let the situation with Nick and Kyle get out of hand and I’ve taken a backseat in my own life.
Well, not anymore.
I’ve got this.
I’ll go back to my father’s apartment, grab my stuff, and then I’m going home. Kyle promised to protect me, so now’s his opportunity to show me what he can do.
I feel like a bird released from its cage, and I practically float towards the door. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner—there’s no reason for me not to stay in my own apartment if Kyle’s men are guarding me. I don’t need to be in the Wraith. Wherever I go, they’ll go too.
I take a taxi to Queens. It’s an expense that I could do without, but I’m still riding on the buzz of taking charge of my own life again. The holidays are almost here. I’ve given my dad more effort than he deserves. And there’s no possibility of Nick turning up at my apartment with a reservation for dinner in some swanky Manhattan restaurant.
Tonight, I’m going to make some grilled cheese and sleep.
Tomorrow, refreshed, I’ll start looking for another apartment.
“Didn’t your key work?” my father asks when he opens the door to let me in.
“What key?”
He stands aside, and I join him in the narrow hallway. No lights are on in the apartment, I notice, and I can see the flickering lights from the TV in the living room.
“I gave you the spare key this morning.” He closes the door and turns the key with a click that jangles my nerves.
“No, you didn’t. You must’ve forgotten.”
He stands too close to me, and I can smell his stale breath.
“I left it in the kitchen for you.” He sniffs loudly.
“It’s probably still there. Shall we go and check?”
I lead the way. I need some time to think without having to stare at his hunched shoulders.
I’ve no idea how old my father is, but I would guess he’s in his mid to late sixties. Is he too young to start showing signs of early dementia? Or was he simply suffering from a massive hangover this morning and there’s an enormous black hole where his memory should be?
Something spicy is simmering in a pan on the stove and my stomach growls, reminding me that all I’ve eaten today is a slice of cold pizza.
I turn around to face him. “Where did you leave the spare key?”
“In the fruit bowl.” He gestures to an empty dish with nothing but dust and fluff collecting in the bottom and then stirs the food in the pan with a wooden spoon.
“Maybe you left it somewhere else.”
“I remember giving it to you, sweetheart. We swapped keys. I’ve been to your apartment today to collect some more of your stuff like you asked.”
My heart starts thudding sickeningly. “I didn’t ask you to go to my apartment. I’ve still got my key.”
I pull my keyring out of my purse and fumble through them to find the one I’m looking for. The silver key that fits my front door, and the heavier key that lets me into the building. They’re both gone.
“Did you take my keys?” My breathing is speeding up, and I’m too hot in my coat with the heat from the hob.
He half-turns, dripping Bolognese sauce onto the floor. “You gave them to me, sweetheart. You stood right there and?—”
“No.” I shake my head. Why didn’t I notice sooner that they were missing? Because now I realize how light the bunch of keys in my hand feels. “I didn’t give them to you. I’m going home. Why would I have asked you to bring my clothes here?”
His bottom lip droops. “But I’ve made spaghetti Bolognese. Your favorite. I used to make it for you when you were a little girl.”
I have a vague recollection of sitting at the kitchen table when I was a kid, pushing pasta around a bowl because it tasted like tomato, and tomatoes make me gag. They still do.
“I can’t stay. I only came to collect my stuff.”
“I made it especially for you.”
“I don’t like spaghetti Bolognese.”
“But it was your favorite.” His face scrunches up in confusion.
“It wasn’t. I only ate it because…”
Because I was afraid that you would hurt me if I didn’t.
He stares at the wooden spoon in his hand, and the steam hovering above the pan. Then his expression crumples. “I fucked up again, didn’t I?”
“It’s okay. I’m not hungry.” Liar. “I just want to get home and go to bed.”
“I’ll cook something else. I can run down to the bodega on the next block. Tell me what you want, and I’ll go and get it.” The desperation in his voice bites into my already jagged nerves.
“No, please don’t. I’m tired. It’s been a long day. Can I have my keys back?”
I hold out my hand, and he rummages in the pocket of his loose-fitting jeans. I don’t breathe until he drops them into my palm. They’re warm from his body heat, and I try not to think about it as I reattach them to the keyring. I still have no idea how he got them, but I park that problem for now.
“Where did you put my stuff?”
“In the spare room.”
I don’t waste a beat. My father’s proximity and the smell of the tomatoey sauce are making me feel claustrophobic. I can’t even remember why I came here last night, and it’s even more unthinkable to me why I accepted his offer to stay.
Twenty-four hours, I said. Or is that another memory that will differ to his?
A black sack is on the bed in the spare room. I open it and peer inside. Sure enough, it’s filled with my clothes, and I’m tempted to leave them here because now I have to live with knowing that he rummaged through my closet while I was painting in my studio.
What else did he touch while he was there without my permission?
He said that I asked him to collect my stuff. I know I’m tired, but I’m pretty fucking certain I’d remember exposing myself and everything that I possess to the man who hurt my mom.
Securing the black sack with a knot, I drag it into the hallway. I peer around the kitchen door at my father who is glugging beer from a bottle.
“I’m going now.”
He wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “I wish you would stay. I won’t go out tonight. We can get noodles or a kebab, whatever you want.”
“I can’t.” I soften my tone, but I’m not apologizing for leaving him.
I never asked him to come back into my life, but all I want to do now is draw a line under the past and move forward. Alone. And he can congratulate himself on putting things right which is no doubt how he’ll remember this.
He walks with me to the front door.
Outside, I hesitate. Will he accept that this goodbye is final? Or should I walk away and then block his number?
“You can return my spare key when you find it, sweetheart.” Before I can remind him that I don’t have it, he adds, “And the next time you need to borrow some money, all you’ve got to do is ask.”
Then he closes the door in my face.
That night, I sleep for twelve hours. I wash all my clothes to cleanse them of the smell of my father’s apartment. I paint. I throw myself into PR for the gallery.
I don’t look for Kyle’s men outside my building.
I don’t dwell on my father’s parting comment that I stole money from him. I’m not angry or frightened. I don’t feel sorry for him—I don’t feel anything at all—but I realize now that he needs medical assistance, and that I don’t owe him anything.
A couple of evenings later, I have a meeting with a client at the gallery, a restaurant owner looking for some pieces to hang in their foyer. The woman, who is in her forties with fine, pale hair caught up into a sleek ponytail, and the casual elegance of someone who knows the clothes that suit her, is approachable and talkative. Within minutes of entering the gallery, she tells me that I’m the artist she’s been looking for all her life.
I feel my smile growing wider as the meeting progresses. She wants to commission enough pieces for me to put a down-payment on a new apartment, and I finally feel as if the world has started spinning the right way again.
Until my phone rings, and I see Kyle’s name on the screen. He has kept his distance, as promised. If he’s ringing me now, he must have a good reason, and I instinctively know that it won’t be good news.
“Please excuse me,” I say to the client as I hit the green button.
“Sienna.” Kyle’s voice sends a shiver of excitement down my spine, and I hide my face from her. “I need you to come to the Wraith.”
“Now?” I switch my phone to my other ear. “I’m in the middle of?—”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to call you, but your father insisted.”
“My father?” I lower my voice. “Kyle, can I call you back?”
“I wouldn’t have bothered you if it wasn’t urgent. If you don’t want to get involved, just say the word. But I’ll have to let my security team deal with him.”
“Why?” I glance at my client who is studying her own phone and pretending politely not to listen. I can’t afford to lose her, but I need to know what’s going on. “What has he done?”
“I’ll explain when you get here. He’s refusing to cooperate until you arrive.”
Is this how it feels to have someone like my father in your life? Does trouble follow him around or does he not know any other way to exist?
“I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
I end the call and face my client, who is already sliding her phone into her purse and rising to her feet.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “It’s a family emergency.”
“I understand. Family must always come first.” She produces a gold-embossed business card and places it on my desk. “I’ll be in touch. It was a pleasure meeting you, Sienna. We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other in the future.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. At least I haven’t lost the first promising customer to walk through my door since Bash.
I watch her climb into a red sports car and drive away before I lock up and hail a passing taxi to take me to the Wraith. I’m not sure why Kyle didn’t involve his security team before calling me, but I guess he must have his reasons.
When I arrive, the concierge ushers me straight through to a private room in the casino where I find my father seated at a table with his head in his hands, and an empty brandy glass in front of him. A guy with long gray hair tied back into a low ponytail sits opposite him. I can’t see his face, but from the broad shoulders, thick neck, and black suit, I guess he must be security.
Kyle comes rushing over to me and pulls me into a booth so that we can speak in private. “I’m sorry, Sienna. Your father was escorted from the casino earlier.” Pause. “He was cheating.”
At this point, nothing surprises me, but then I recall his forgetfulness and his allegation that I’d stolen money from him.
“Kyle,” I keep my voice low, “do you think he understands what he is being accused of?”
Kyle’s eyes flicker momentarily. “He understands. This isn’t Rain Man . You don’t count cards and then plead ignorance when you get caught.”
“He was counting cards?” I don’t know what this means exactly—my knowledge of card games is restricted to Rummy for beginners and Crazy Eights—but I do know that cheating will never be tolerated. “Will you ban him?” Maybe it would be the best thing that could happen to him.
“It isn’t that simple. He owes a lot of dangerous people a lot of money, and I can’t just let him walk out of here with a verbal warning to stay away. I have to let these people know, do you understand?”
“I think so. Is it some kind of casino-owner code? You know, like a pirate code?”
Kyle smiles. “Something like that.”
“Why am I here, Kyle?”
“He refused to go anywhere until he saw you again.”
I shake my head. “He does realize that I’m not responsible for him, right?”
“That’s why I wanted to speak to you in person.”
My phone vibrates then. It isn’t a call. It’s something I’ve only heard once before, when the new alarms in the gallery were being tested.
I stare at the screen. “Fuck. I’ve got to go, Kyle.” I’m already sliding out of the booth. “Someone is trying to break into the gallery.”