Chapter 34
BY THE TIME THEY ARRIVE in Seaside, Cecily’s assistant has managed to book them two rooms at a three-story motel that Cole remembers as being rundown and a bit sketchy.
Thankfully, that isn’t the case anymore.
The Inn-on-the-Beach has been completely renovated, and with its fresh pink exterior and tropical green decor, it’s giving retro Beverly Hills Hotel vibes.
“This is . . . cute,” Cecily says as she eases into a parking spot. “But there’s no security. Is this really all that’s available?”
“The amusement park just reopened,” Cole says. “You’re lucky they had a last-minute cancellation.”
“I’ll make it work,” Cecily says as she opens her door, managing to sound both weary and magnanimous at the same time. Noticing that Cole hasn’t moved, she says, “Aren’t you coming?”
“I have a couple things I need to do,” Cole says. “Okay if I borrow the car? I won’t be long. When I get back, we’ll get dinner, my treat.”
Fifteen minutes later, Cole is standing on the sidewalk on Main Street.
The downtown area has been transformed since she last saw it, with trees and flower beds planted on both sides of the street for several blocks.
The coffee shop is new. There are multiple restaurants she’s never seen before.
And right on the corner, now painted in black, is a building that used to be a hair salon.
The blue neon sign over the door says killer ink, and they’re open.
Despite its moody exterior, the interior of the tattoo studio is quite bright.
Large windows flank the back wall, and there’s plenty of LED lighting throughout.
Two rows of hydraulic tattoo beds line each wall, each of them flanked with a rolling workstation tool cabinet.
Cole counts eight beds. Five are occupied with clients lying in various positions as their artists work on them, outlining and shading and coloring their pieces using a machine resembling a very thick pen that injects ink at a rapid pace into the dermis.
Cole only knows this because Ray explained it to her once when she lived with him in Seattle.
The young woman lying on the bed with her arm up over her head and her torso exposed sighs loudly as her artist shades in an intricately designed dragon along her rib cage.
“Christ,” Cole says to herself under her breath. “That’s gotta hurt like hell.”
“Fuck yeah, it does,” a voice responds, and she turns around, coming face-to-face with a six-foot-two, well-muscled, now-bald man she hasn’t seen in almost three years. The last time they were together was in Seattle. For Sara’s funeral.
“The fuck are you doing here?” her brother asks, a wide grin spreading over his face. Before she can answer, Ray grabs her in a bear hug and lifts her a good six inches off the ground. “Are you lost?”
“No, that would be your hair.” Cole reaches up to pat the shiny pate of his scalp. “When the hell did this all fall out?”
“It didn’t all fall out,” Ray says, indignant. “Some of it fell out, the rest I shaved.”
“You look like the Michelin Man.”
“I was going for the Rock.”
“You’d need to work out more.”
“Why are you so short?”
“I’m wearing flats.”
“I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too. Sorry I’ve been a shitty sister.”
Ray pauses. “I wouldn’t win Brother of the Year, either.”
“You’ve been a little busy,” Cole says, thinking of Sara and all the years Ray took care of her. All the years that she should have been there for him, but wasn’t. “I should have helped.”
“I wouldn’t have wanted you to,” he says. “So really, what are you doing here?”
“I was on my way to rehab.” Cole lowers her voice slightly when she catches a couple of the artists looking over at them curiously. “I guess you don’t read the gossip sites.”
“Fuck no. And I don’t watch your show, either,” Ray says, but he looks concerned. “Rehab for what?”
“I drink too much,” she says, unable to say the word alcoholic. “Quan wants me to do thirty days at this treatment center in Oregon.”
He frowns. “Thirty days is a long time. You really need that? What about AA meetings?”
She shrugs. She doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Well, how long are you in Seaside for?” he asks.
“Not sure.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At the house, dummy,” she says. “Our house. In case you forgot, it is half mine, dickwad.”
When her mother, Deanna, passed away, the house passed to their father. But with Richard in prison, the house was then transferred to his two children. Both their names are on the deed, which means their childhood home belongs to both of them.
Cole’s totally messing with Ray—she’d never stay in that house. But she clearly hasn’t been around her brother enough lately for him to get that.
“Uh . . .” Ray takes half a step back. “About that . . . I’m just finishing up renovations. It’s livable,” he adds quickly. “And of course you can stay. But, uh . . . there’s someone else there, too.”
“Oh,” Cole says in surprise. She looks up at her brother with a smile, feeling the first stab of genuine joy she’s felt in years. “Dude, that’s so great. Seriously. I’m really happy for you. What’s her name? I can’t wait to meet her.”
“It’s not a her, it’s a him.” Ray shuffles his feet, looking away. “And you two have already met.”
“Wait, what?” Cole’s not sure she understands. “You’re dating a man? Since when? Wow, we really need to catch up.”
“No, ding-dong,” Ray says. “It’s Dad. He made parole six months ago. I’m letting him stay in the studio above the garage. But you know the property’s not that big, and there’s no kitchen in the studio, and so he’s . . . always around.”
Cole is speechless. And she’s never speechless. After seven seasons on a reality show, Cole has become a master of the clapback and zingy one-liners. She can always think of something to say, in any situation. Except, apparently, this one.
She had expected to see her brother, yes. And she’s aware that she needs to brace herself for the looks and whispers and judgment of the townspeople she’s either grown up with, or who’ve watched her on Trophy Wives. But she isn’t prepared to see her father.
There’s no way to prepare for Richard Montes.
“But you hated him as much as I did,” she finally says. “I can’t believe you’d want him anywhere near our house. I have so many questions right now.”
“Save them for him,” Ray says. “He’ll be glad to see you.”
She snorts. “That’s hard to believe.”
“It’s true. He watches you on Trophy Wives every week. He said it was a popular show in prison.” Ray smiles. “He was—is—proud of you. Of the life you’ve made for yourself. He’s not the same father we knew, Nic.”
“It’s Cole now.” She glares up at him. “And I’m shocked you would fall for his bullshit after everything he put us through.”
“He’s been sober for twenty-five years.” Ray touches her arm. “He’s not the same person you remember.”
She can hardly believe they’re having this conversation.
“You mean the one who was in a biker gang and did shitty things and was a fucking menace to us all? The one who made Mom miserable and turned her into a raging alcoholic, too? The one who missed almost my entire life because he was either drunk or high or stoned or in jail? That one?”
Behind them in the studio, everyone’s head has popped up, artists and clients both watching them.
Her voice is loud, but she doesn’t care.
Let them stare. Let them hear it. She’s spent the last seven years on television pretending to be someone else, but here, in Seaside?
Fuck that. Let them see her as she really is.
And besides, nobody here gives a shit anyway. Which is why she left. Other than maybe Barb, nobody was even here to notice she was gone. And certainly nobody was here to miss her.
“I can’t believe Dad is here and you didn’t tell me,” Cole says, feeling defeated. “I always thought we were on the same page when it came to him.”
“Had I known you were coming, I would have.” Ray studies her. “If you’re sticking around for a while, you’re going to have to talk to him.”
“What would I even say?”
“Whatever you want to say. He’s different now, I promise.”
“You can’t promise that,” Cole says. “That was always the problem, Ray. When it comes to Dad, all bets are off.”