Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
Nash
My name is called in all directions as I stand near the doors of Envy. I sign a few things and pose for a handful of photos with people, some of whom are already drunk and probably shouldn’t be let inside, but I’ll leave that decision to the discretion of my security team.
It’s ten fifteen before Colt Fowler finally approaches, adjusting the cuff on the sleeve of his suit jacket.
His lateness is a power play. I’ve been in enough meetings with the man and have observed him for enough years to know that he is on time to the second unless he doesn’t want to be.
He was most likely hoping that I would sweat it out waiting for him, but he’ll be disappointed to know that I’ve been just fine.
Regardless of his opinion, I’m going home to his son.
“Fowler,” I greet him with a nod.
“Nash.”
The two of us walk past the security check-in and into the club, met with loud bass music and flashing neon lights.
I think that most people expect me to love nightclubs because I own them, but I would truthfully rather be anywhere else.
Between the horrible noise these people call ‘music’ and the sheer volume of bodies, this is my nightmare.
I lead Colt toward the stairs that lead to the upper VIP level of the club, guiding him to table two, and I motion for him to sit as we approach the couch.
“My wife won’t be thrilled that you asked me to meet you in one of your brothels,” he tells me as he crosses an ankle over his knee.
“Won’t it be nice for you, then, to be able to tell her that the service hasn’t been available for three months.” I motion toward the security guard ahead of us, snapping my fingers in wordless instruction to send up our servers. “And she can thank your son for that.”
“Oh? How so?”
I nod as I pull a menu toward myself. “He reminded me of something that no one else could have.”
If I were speaking technically, the seed was planted before Emmett and I ever had that conversation, on a day that Fowler’s attack dog came into my office and referred to me as a ‘pimp,’ but I’ll never give credit to him for that aloud.
Two women dressed in brightly-colored bodysuits join us, each of them putting on a display of fawning over us because they’d like to show off for their boss and show me what great service they provide.
Really, their only purpose here is to show Fowler that I’ve done away with the blues that my VIP girls were to wear in the past.
I order a cocktail, but Fowler insists on drinking nothing stronger than sparkling water, which is only slightly annoying. With his fingers tapping along the side of his glass, he finally leans back in his chair and asks, “What was it that Emmett did?”
“It was something that he said a few nights before we parted ways,” I explain. “We were having dinner together and I’d been telling him that I was frustrated with the girls hired to replace the ones that— Davis had taken because they were complaining.”
“As was their right,” he interjects.
Holding up a hand to quiet him, I continue. “Anyway, he’d looked at me as if I’d started speaking in tongues and told me ‘well yeah, they’re people, Nash.’”
A proud smile spreads across his face as he listens, and I try to hide my own that wants to join his.
It was such a simple thing for him to say, and it was something that should have been obvious.
I’m not sure when I stopped seeing my employees as people; I’m not sure when I became so desensitized to them.
Those five simple words flipped a switch in my mind and forced me to reconsider everything that I’ve done and worked toward over the past decade and a half.
The week after Emmett walked out of my life, I started a trial run of strictly-voluntary VIP service, which served a dual purpose: to see if the clubs could function well without it and to see which of the women working for me were unhappy with their jobs.
When only two of them continued working the VIP section across all of my clubs, I had my answer, and the decision was made for me.
“My son seems to see something in you that the rest of us don’t,” Fowler tells me. “I have a maxim: don’t let someone tell you who they are, make them show you. If you care about him the way you say you do, you’ll be willing to put in the effort to show us whatever it is that he sees.”
“And how would you suggest that I do that?”
With another pull from his drink, he taps his fingers on his glass again.
“Start with your former employees. Shred their NDAs. Find them and apologize to them in person. Write each of them a personal check; not for a few thousand, either.” He rests his glass on the table in front of us and leans back in the cushions, draping his arms along the back of the couch.
“Listen to their stories, should they choose to share with you. You put them through years of abuse and exploitation, and you owe them the space of hearing that. Should they need it, cover the cost of their counseling.”
“That’s quite a list of demands you’ve got, Fowler,” I joke.
“And I’m not finished,” he tells me. “Once you’ve done those things, I want to see you do something publicly good. Something that benefits you in no way, like a charity gala. I can give you a list of vendors and entertainment if you need them.”
“Let’s say that I go down your little list and tick off all of the boxes on it,” I muse. “The point of it is to…?”
“The point is to show us that you’re capable of being more than a selfish and cruel person.” Pushing himself to a standing position, he tells me, “Put in the effort for Emmett, and I might be inclined to believe him.”
His hand extends to me and I rise to meet him, giving a firm shake of his hand. “This might be the most civilized conversation we’ve ever had, Fowler. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“That makes two of us.”
·
A strange sense of comfort washes over me as I push the front door open, greeted on the other side by both Moose and Clover. They’re as opposite to each other as Emmett and I are, but also like us, they work well together. I honestly think that Moose will be crushed when we go back home.
The earthy smell of marijuana smoke hits my nostrils as I pass the living room, heading for the hallway that leads to Emmett’s bedroom.
One of those incredibly stupid cartoons that he likes so much plays on the TV – this one featuring a cat and dog fused to one another – and my pretty boy lays in his bed with his bare back exposed as he sleeps with his head on his arms and his comforter stopping low at his hips.
I pull my own top over my head, dropping my slacks and stripping until I’m left in nothing but my boxer briefs.
Climbing onto the bed and over top of Emmett, I press my lips to the small of his back, working my way up with soft kisses to his flesh until I reach his shoulder.
I lower my body onto his, forcing a tired groan from him. “It’s done, pretty boy,” I whisper into his ear. “No more hiding. No more sneaking around or looking over our shoulders.”
He moves to roll beneath me, letting out a satisfied sigh as I press my lips to his. “I’m not a hundred percent yet,” he tells me with his voice thick with sleep. “I don’t even think I’m fifty percent. I don’t want you to regret this.”
“The list of things that I regret in my life is miles long,” I admit truthfully, “but you aren’t on it.”
I dive into his mouth with my own, teasing his lips with the tip of my tongue until they part to let me in.
I chuckle against the flavor of sweet mint on his tongue as I taste him; either a thoughtful gesture because he knows that I dislike the taste of marijuana smoke or a greedy gesture, knowing that I would come home to him and he would want me to take his mouth.
“No more hiding?” He asks, and I offer a shake of my head.
“No. In fact, you’ll be my date to a very public party.”
“Public could be nice.”
A smile crosses my face as I brush his hair back, staring into his honey eyes. “Public will be very nice.”
I’ve loved before. I’ve even experienced what I thought at the time was a great love; but nothing that I’ve ever felt for anyone could compare to this. Emmett reached into a hole that I’d fallen so deeply into and pulled me back out of it; and I don’t think that he has any idea.
·
As I sit at the small kitchen island sipping on a cup of coffee, the front door opens. Emmett’s child-stepmother pushes it open further with her foot and walks into the house with containers stacked tall in her arms and two bags draped over her shoulder.
“Oh,” she says when she sees me. “Where’s Emmett?”
Jerking my head toward the long hallway, I tell her, “He’s still asleep. Can I help with those?”
“No.” Scanning me with her eyes, she adds, “I got it.”
I watch as she brings her haul to the island, setting everything on top of it before opening the refrigerator and loading the containers that she was carrying onto the shelves.
Unloading the rest of her things in an uncomfortable silence, she rests a small book on the island counter and I pick it up, flipping through the pages.
“‘I am deserving of the love that I give and receive?’”
“They’re positive affirmations,” she tells me, as if I’m supposed to have any idea what the fuck she’s talking about. “To help him be nicer to himself.”
I flip through a few more pages before closing the book and setting it back down in front of her.
The air is thick between us while she finishes her task, occasionally glancing to a bulky watch strapped around her wrist. After folding the reusable grocery bags and setting them neatly on the counter, she reaches for a stool and pulls it around the island to take a seat opposite me with a heavy sigh.
“Do you actually love him?”
I nod. “I do.”
“He’s my best friend,” she tells me, “so if you think he didn’t tell me the horrible things you said to him, you’re wrong.”
“I know he did,” I answer. “And I also know that you’ve likely already made up your mind to hate me.”
Her hand fidgets with the ring on her left hand, twisting it in place around her finger.
Long, tense moments pass between us while I watch the wheels turn in her head.
Emmett’s father didn’t intimidate me, but somehow Fowler’s mousy wife has the hair standing up on the back of my neck and a feeling of unease settling itself into my gut.
“Well he told me the good stuff, too. I think people can come back from bad things. But those people have to put in the effort to earn forgiveness.” After another moment, she stands and gathers her things, inclining her head toward the refrigerator.
“The pasta and the enchiladas can go in at three fifty for half an hour. Don’t let him skip meals. Or sleep all day.”
Pulling my wrist up to check the time on my Rolex, I let out a chuckle. “He has twenty minutes.”
“Okay.” With a deep inhale, she offers me a firm nod and starts toward the front door. “I really hope you follow through. I saw how he was when he was with you before; I think maybe there’s someone in there who can be good for him. So be that person.”
After she leaves, I finish my coffee and wait out the twenty minutes that I’ve allotted for Emmett to sleep in before I move toward his room with a glass of water and one of his pills in my hand.
I set the items on the nightstand next to him before draping my body over his, a hand trailing over his arm.
I wake him with my hand on his cock, waiting through his sleepy groans of protest for him to finally take his pill and get out of bed.
In the kitchen, I watch as he flips through the small book that his friend left behind, the corner of his mouth ticking up into what looks a lot like a smile if you look closely enough.
He flies toward the refrigerator and opens the doors to reveal all of the foods that were dropped off, pulling out one of the larger trays to lift the foil from the top of it. Now he’s properly smiling.
“This is ‘I forgive you’ in Rowan-speak,” he chuckles.
“When I finally apologized to her for being such an asshole about dating my dad, she showed up at my apartment with a big-ass thing of ziti and we ate the whole pan and watched movies all night. It’s friendship ziti.
” He hefts the container higher as he puts it back into its place on the refrigerator shelf. “We’re eating that tonight.”
I smile as I watch him move through the kitchen, fixing himself a cup of coffee and munching on a slice of toast.
“So tell me about this party we’re going to.”
“How does April twelfth sound?” I ask him.
His eyebrow arches in response. “Awfully coincidental.”
“You’ll need a new suit,” I tell him, standing to meet him in a kiss.