21. Jack ‘J’
21
JACK ‘J’
J had finally made his way to Magdalena Nicolo. She’s an esteemed journalist in her sixties from a well respected newspaper most people would trade an organ in exchange for a good review from. J tempted her with a small fortune to remain at the bar for the night so she’d be able to experience all the riches Midas had to offer.
By eleven, she’d already made a couple of vague comments to suggest her approval. And now she’s talking about the beauty of the statues and how much they remind her of her late grandparents’ art collection. “Romantically nostalgic” is the phrase she uses.
J’s signature smirk makes an appearance at the prospect of seeing those words crop up in her review. He’s already mentally picking out the frame he’ll immortalize the article in.
However, his dream bubble of making the headlines is violently ruptured by piercing cries followed by a thump with gonglike qualities. Everyone in the vicinity halts their conversations to gawk at several frenzied bodies scrambling to peel a woman from the floor, before finally hoisting her back to her feet.
A muscle in J’s jaw tightens as he watches her waddle like a newborn foal. Staggering, and pawing at the bar with clumsy outstretched fingers. A man with a solid build supports her waist until she’s able to steady herself. She twists on the spot, emerging victoriously like she’d struck the final blow to a dangling pinata. She takes a bow, lapping up the cheers from several onlookers—as well as flipping off those who sneer at her—all while a photographer documents the entire charade.
Magdalena turns to J, a look of concern followed by intrigue sweeps across her dark features as she waits to see how he’ll handle the outburst.
“Excuse me, Magdalena. I need to check if everyone’s alright.” The muscle in his jaw practically vibrates as he grinds his teeth. Carefully straightening his tie, he heads for the upsurge of bodies surrounding the girl.
With the knowledge that his every move is being scrutinized, he forces a neutral expression as he cuts a path through the crowd and continues to move toward the scene.
To his relief, by the time he reaches her, most people have turned their backs and are distracted by waiters who are carrying trays of champagne flutes topped with golden tufts of cotton candy.
When he discovers that she’s accompanied by none other than Sara and that guy she was with earlier—the one who was apparently in her hotel room in Maine—he can’t help but crank his neck to the side while taking a long-drawn breath.
“I hope no one was hurt?” J grits out. “Perhaps we can get her some water?” He signals to the bartender who’s already working on the task .
“She’s fine,” Sara replies, a sheepish grin on her face. “She just had a little too much. Sorry, I hope we didn’t cause a scene.”
A scene. J’s eyes darken. A scene is no doubt exactly what they intended to cause. For what, an insurance claim? Publicity? Kandi’s sure to be close by, orchestrating the whole thing.
“I’ll go get her a cab.” The guy from earlier, the one with the flashy dentistry and muscular stature calls whilst hooking an arm around the drunk girl and guiding her away. He’s closely followed by another shorter guy in the most luminous green suit he’s ever seen.
Which leaves just him and Sara. She’s looking up at him, wide eyes blinking an apology.
“Time to drop the act,” J growls at Sara. “I know what you’re doing.”
Sara shakes her head. “What act? I really am sorry. Why is this such a big deal, Jack?”
“Don’t call me that.” Frustration rises in his voice. “You don’t get to use that name anymore. In fact, you and your friends need to leave.”
“What?” Fresh confusion spills onto her features.
“I mean it Sara,” he says firmly, his voice raised. “You’re trouble. Take it somewhere else.”
She blinks, visibly startled by the order. She opens her mouth to say something but stops herself. Her eyes dip to the floor, then back to J one final time before she’s creating distance between them and disappearing into the crowd.
A heavy feeling settles in J’s stomach, and his limbs suddenly feel like they’re made from lead. He swallows thickly, then summons the waiter behind the bar, signaling for another drink. It’s delivered a moment later, but before he can place the crystal to his lips, he feels a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, really sorry about that man.” J turns to see the Ken doll with the muscles standing behind him. “Got the cab, but apparently we’re missing a purse.” The guy humorously rolls his eyes before bending to retrieve an item from the floor. “Got it!” he says, scooping up a black clutch with silver jewels. “I’m Drew by the way. Big fan of this place. Big fan of all your places in fact.” He extends an arm.
The guy seems genuine. Which is why J shakes his hand a little tighter than necessary.
“A friend of Kandi, I assume?” J makes no attempt to hide the contempt in his voice because this whole entourage is putting on quite the convincing show.
Drew is motionless, his still demeanor apparently sensing the hostility. He appears to shrug it off regardless, continuing to flash his ultra white teeth while running a hand through his perfect, shiny, hair.
“She’s a colleague, yeah.” Drew pulls back his hand, stretching out his crushed fingers. “You know Kandi too?” He laughs, “I’m trying to get my head around how you’re all connected.” Drew scratches his head. “Hey, did I hear that you and Sara met on the trails?”
Bored with the innocent act, J downs his scotch, and sets the empty glass down on the bar. Hard .
The abrupt gesture causes Drew to stop in his tracks.
“So,” J growls. “Where is she? Gone to file a negligence report? Talking to the press? Or out back deciding how much money you think you’ll get out of me. How did you even get past my security?”
Drew raises both hands, he’s smiling, the gesture leaning more toward shock than humor. “Hold on. You think we planned for Amber to fall on purpose to get money out of you? Damn.” Drew’s eyes narrow. “We’re here tonight because your marketing team invited us.”
J’s murky eyes stare holes into Drew’s stunned features as he steps forward, bridging the gap between the pair. He’s unaware that a crowd has formed all over again, surrounding them with curious eyes as they whisper behind cupped hands. Not to mention the lurking photographers with their fingers poised to capture further chaos.
J growls, the rumble worthy of shattering concrete. How dare this guy continue with this ruse.
But now Drew is stepping forward, his posture morphing into something like a big cat defending its territory. “You know, for a second, I was stoked to finally meet the famous J Vandenberg. Turns out you’re a complete jackass.” J’s eyes widen. “In fact, from what I can see you’re nothing but an overrated bully.”
And there it is.
The fatal trigger.
The thrashing red flag to the charging bull.
A word he can’t stand being directed at him.
Bully.
There’s no way he can allow this man to throw that word around so callously with such disregard for what it truly means, for what it implies. He isn’t an aggressor or an intimidator or anything that falls under its cloak.
He is not his father.
His pupils flare as rage practically roils from him like vapor dispelling from liquid nitrogen.
He’s a hairline fracture away from combusting when a petite waitress with first-day-on-the-job nerves squeaks, “Mr. Vandenberg, the girl who fell just vomited on the statue of Midas. What should I do?”
No sooner are the words out of her mouth, when the waitress is swiftly dragged from the scene by two other colleagues who scold her for bothering him with such trivial details.
It’s not the thought of the vomit sliming his statue that sends him over the edge. It’s not even the press who rush to photograph said vomit-slimed statue.
It’s the oily smile that curls onto the Ken doll’s face that finally does it.
Sense and reason leave J’s body to make way for a rumbling and lengthy, “FUUUUCK!!!”
After a cacophony of frenzied gasps and incessant blinding flashes, two large security-types intervened to diffuse the situation. The guy in the luminous suit whisked Drew off into the crowd, helping him narrowly escape a manhandling which kept him from being implicated in the outburst.
Now J’s perched on a stool with Enrique fixing him a fresh scotch at the other side of the bar, ironically reminiscent of old times.
“So, you had a hissy fit on your opening night?” Enrique shrugs. “You’ve done worse over the years.”
J drags a hand down his face because no , he’s sure nothing worse than this has occurred over the years. Exhibiting confrontational body language in front of his peers and guests, cursing while he shook with rage in the middle of the bar, all while having the entire thing captured on film.
The damage control he’d have to do would be more painful than a root canal.
As he swirls his glass, he notices Enrique’s eyes glance behind him. He twists toward the swell of bodies clustered at the bar, his eyes immediately tracking the figure in the red dress heading his way.
“The cherry on the cake.” J growls as Kandi forms a crimson barricade around him.
Kandi giggles. The sound is entirely false, all part of her charming facade.
“Look at you, comparing me to a cute little cherry. You know I’m sweet enough.” She winks.
J clears his throat. “It was a metaphor. If you’d like me to make a more accurate comparison, I’d say you’re more like a fallen apple, left to rot in the heat.”
Kandi’s face drops, her eyes narrowing fiercely, revealing a more practiced side. She smiles darkly. “Oh, stop. I wasn’t so rotten all those years ago. Don’t worry, I’m not offended. Although, I’m a little insulted you’d think I’d involve anyone else in our liaisons. Especially that nauseating Sara Kirby. Your paranoia really got the better of you, huh?” She sneers.
J’s stomach twists because what is she saying? That Sara isn’t involved?
“Tread carefully.” He eyes Kandi with caution, like she’s a loose wire about to deliver a thousand volts.
“Not my style,” she says as she pulls a bottle of perfume from her purse, spraying herself liberally. “Now’s not the time for discussions, but you know what I want.” She turns her back on him, flicking her head back to say, “So you better be in touch.”
He can hardly give chase. He’d already have to perform a miracle to get the night back on track; he couldn’t afford to cause another scene.
Instead, he inhales deeply as he returns to the bar.
He rests his elbows on the counter, his eyes snagging on an item that should have been cleared away.
A napkin .
Folded in half, with the corner upturned just enough to reveal some letters. J absently reaches out to retrieve it before unfolding it to inspect it further.
His brows shoot up an inch when he finds a drawing that looks like it belongs to a preschooler.
At the top, it reads, Sara’s daydreams, followed by a terrible illustration of a car, nose-diving from a cliff. Beside it, a stick-figure man carries a stick-figure woman. Arrows point to Jack and Sara. At the bottom, he can just about make out the patchy words, I owe you a lot more than Jeep $$ . His eyes dart to the bottom corner, where the letters IOU bleed out onto the cloth.
J blinks several times because, Christ, the napkin’s a fucking IOU. Sara wants to pay him back. The girl he’d just publicly accused of extortion is trying to pay him for a debt she believes she owes.
“Is everything alright?” A smoky voice asks.
Magdalena stares at the napkin before brushing an aged hand across the stick-figure couple. The corner of her eyes wrinkle as she appears to enjoy the illustration.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” J collects himself. “I apologize for my outburst, it seems I went temporarily insane for a moment back there.”
She exhales a croaky laugh. “I never had you pegged as an eccentric, but welcome to the club.”
Sensing there’s a chance he has her back on his side, he relaxes. “Can I get you another martini? Some champagne?” He signals to the bartender.
“Oh darling, don’t worry about getting me a drink. I’m Magdalena Nicolo, every sucker in New York wants to buy me a drink. You should be worrying about what you did to deserve the scorn of that sweet girl who spent an entire five minutes creating that piece for you.” She taps the napkin again.
Of course Magdalena had been observing Sara. She looked nothing short of beautiful tonight, someone worth watching.
J folds over the napkin, keeping it in his hand, careful not to crush it. “I…handled things poorly,” he admits before tapping the napkin. “This was supposed to be a joke between friends.” He recoils as he hears himself. He’d publicly made sure that Sara knew they were no such thing. She’d never speak to him again after tonight.
“A joke?” Magdalena shakes her head. “No such thing. That handy work probably holds more meaning than half the art on these walls.” Her words are scratchy, a smoker’s voice. “Which means there’s a chance you can fix it. If you keep a lid on the crazy this time.” She winks before dragging a tendril of black hair away from her face, tucking it neatly into her bun. It’s a tell-tale sign that she’s about to break some bad news. She was renowned for her famous Hair Tuck of Doom .
“I don’t like that Parker Jennings,” she declares without a single care of who should happen to overhear. “He spent the night filling that poor blonde with alcohol. He likes his girls drunk and helpless.”
J’s brows come together, and he feels his expression darken. He’d seen Sara’s friend with Parker, and now he’s pissed he didn’t put two and two together.
Fury courses through him. Sara’s friend, not a drunk but the victim of that asshole. Perhaps he’s destined to cause another scene tonight after all.
“I’ll take care of him.”
“No need. I sent him home.” Magdalena drums midnight- blue nails on the bar. Her knuckles are taut, decorated with chunky silver rings on every stiff finger. She has a slight Brooklyn accent that tends to come out when she’s a little tired. J would have to get her a car soon; he’d already pushed it by making her stay out this long. “I’m writing an article on his firm, specifically how he’s driving it into the ground. He’ll be ruined by next week. Shame, nice family otherwise.”
J eyes her carefully. He’d dealt with her many times over the years, mostly to plead for her to not run a story or to change her mind about her wording.
He’d learned early in their professional relationship that she couldn’t be bribed or swayed. It made him like her more than all the other reporters. She’d never manipulated facts or lied to gain traction. Even though there had been times he’d been furious over the things he’d read about himself under her name, he can admit that she’d only ever written the truth.
“Alright Vandenberg, you paid me double for a reason,” she huffs out while taking a seat at the bar. “Why don’t you talk to me about this big announcement before I pop a couple Xanax and check out for the night.”
Ah. The announcement. The reason he remained at Midas instead of offering himself to a den of starved wolves like he’d been inclined to do after his outburst.
“Yes, that.” He deliberates for a few moments before continuing, “I’ve decided to make Midas not for profit.”
Magdalena inclines her pointed chin. “You know, I think I’ll take that drink.” She nods to the bartender. “So you’ve turned to philanthropy? Why in the hell would you do that?”
Yes, why indeed? He wonders if he should get into the gnarly details right here at the bar. How he’d only set up his last restaurant to cover the bill for this one. And how he’d set up the bar before that to cover any extras the last restaurant didn’t manage to scoop up. How he now had three establishments that, give or take, didn’t make him a single dime.
Though all of that is very much how, and Magdalena had asked why . The why is a much simpler answer that didn’t require producing several business plans and a quarterly forecast.
“Because I have a responsibility.”
Magdalena inspects him with dark, beady eyes, then downs her champagne before summoning the bartender to pour her something stronger.
“What’s the cause? Obviously something important for you to bleed out that much coin,” she asks casually, even though her twitching eyebrows suggest she’s extremely intrigued.
“A charity that helps those who struggle…to help themselves.”
“That’s usually the point of charity. Quit being cryptic, would you.” She draws out a case of cigarettes. He’s losing her, better get it out quick.
“It’s a foundation. Its mission is to provide education and guidance, financial aid too.”
“You know colleges are a thing, right?” She takes a short crystal glass from the bartender,
and gulps its tawny contents.
J dips his head, shuffles from one foot to the other. He’d gone over the details a thousand times. Why is this so hard to get out?
Because he’d never wanted anything to succeed so much in his life.
“It’s for…parents.” Bumbling. He’s bumbling like a fool pi tching to a room full of suits who want nothing to do with him.
Despite this, Magdalena leans in. “Go on.”
“Single parents,” he says confidently as he finally finds his nerve. “Or ones who want to be but can’t because they’re trapped financially in a shitty marriage for example. Because they have kids to think about. We take care of that. Give them the help and therapy they need to live the life they deserve.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Magdalena taps a cigarette against the marble surface, her lips pursed together, the line between her eyes softer. “How long’s this been in the works?”
J can’t help but think what she really wants to ask is why this particular cause? He digs both hands in his pockets. “A long time, a really long time,” he admits.
Magdalena studies him, and for a moment he can’t tell what the look on her face represents. Was it apathy or approval? God, he wishes she’d just say something.
Finally, she draws in a shallow breath, “Alright, I guess you might be on to something. But you might want to refine that a little before you go up there, the jabbering back there almost gave me an aneurysm.” Magdalena grins as she tips her head toward the staircase where a podium is in the midst of final set up. “I guess we can talk about this later.” She nudges him with a veiny hand that loosely grips the unlit cigarette between two fingers. “Single parents, huh? There’s more to you than temporary insanity and fancy crockery.” She slides the crystal glass across the bar where the bartender catches it just in time before it crashes to the floor.
Indeed, there was more to him and the foundation, but explaining all that in detail meant allowing others to peek at a vulnerability, a corner of himself he’d kept hidden behind high walls.
Which is why the plan is to be brief and concise. Focusing on the bar itself. People loved to be told they were doing a good thing, so that’s what he’ll tell them. That just by walking through the bar’s doors, they’ll be doing just that.
“I can always assign a share of the profit to the preferred charity of my favorite journalist,” J offers deviously.
Magdalena waves her hand in the air. “Relax, I’m writing up a decent review of the place. Get off my ass, would you.” J helps her from the barstool, but she bats him off. “Your flare-up won’t make it into my story, I’ll leave that to the tabloids.” She points to a trio of nearby journalists, each appearing visibly affronted by the insinuation. “Vultures.” Magdalena wheezes out a laugh before looking at her oval-faced watch. “What time is it? Get me a car, Vandenberg, your party’s killing me.” The corner of J’s mouth ticks upwards. He’s about to arrange that car when Magdalena narrows her eyes. “You’re planning on fixing that other thing too, right?”
Immediately, he knows she’s talking about Sara.
He gives her a casual, non-committal nod, despite the surge of adrenaline he feels when he thinks about her.
He glances at his watch, noting it’s time for his speech.
He’ll take care of Magdalena, entertain his guests for another ten minutes, tops. And then he’ll turn the city upside-down until he finds the girl he prays he hasn’t driven away for good.