Chapter 35 #2
Voices picked up outside, and she waited until they faded.
“It looked plain at first, but inside the flap was a snake eating its own tail and the number thirteen. Subtle and, well, creepy.”
“Okay.”
“I Googled it. Didn’t find much, but I couldn’t shake the feeling there was something to it, so I used some of that money you gave me to hire a PI.”
I arched a brow. “You mean your emergency fund?”
“Please don’t be mad, Holden. I didn’t have a choice.”
“I’m not mad. I just wish you would’ve told me. I could’ve helped.” I rolled the key between my fingers. “I’m assuming they found something.”
“It turned out to be an underground sex club for the ultra-rich. Not just any club, either. This place caters to men with…unconventional interests,” she said with air quotes. “Think role-play scenarios you’d never want made public.”
My stomach turned. “And Dad was a member?”
“Probably still is. Long story short, an ex-employee caught wind someone was sniffing around and was itching to talk. And she had receipts—financial records, photos, names.”
“Dad’s name, obviously.”
“Him, and others—Maddox, Whitmore…” She met my eyes. “Langford.”
“Langford? As in Terry Langford?” I gripped the vinyl armrests. The Langfords were my godparents. Mom was friends with his wife.
Cara nodded. “But she especially loathed your father.”
I pull up to Wilshire Plaza, in all its glass-and-steel glory, and take the elevator to the floor my father’s leased since I was Hannah’s age. Same fake ficus in the lobby. Different receptionist, or secretary, as Dad insists on calling every woman who works for him.
“Good evening, Mr. Crenshaw,” she says, pushing back in her chair as I charge past her, all the evidence I need to take down my father clenched in my fist. “If you could just wait a moment—”
“It’s Shaw.” I shove open Dad’s door, and she catches it.
“Thank you, Madison,” he says, and she quietly returns to her desk. “Have a seat. Scotch?”
“I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself.” He takes a slow sip from the glass in his hand. “Where’s your sister?”
“At home,” I say, though I don’t specify which one.
“Good thinking, son. We need to discuss Ashes of Eden. Sure you don’t want to sit?”
He reclines his chair and leans back, completely unbothered by my decision to stand, eyes fixed on me as I take in his office a final time. It’s enormous, probably bigger than my whole house, with a postcard view of the Santa Monica Mountains tapering into the Pacific.
Evening news plays silently on the TV above a pool table I’ve never seen him use. Framed photos of all the children he’s fathered—and the one he didn’t—line his desk.
It makes me laugh.
“Something funny, son? I don’t have all night. We’re meeting Terry and his wife at the club in”—his gaze drops to his ever-present Rolex—“thirty minutes. Shit.” He sits up to buzz whateverthefuck her name is. “Let Terry know I’m running late.”
“Right away, Mr. Crenshaw.”
“Why don’t you join us?” he says, like he didn’t just announce his plan to ditch Hannah the night of her mother’s funeral. “We can talk shop over cocktails.”
Acid rises in my throat. I tighten my grip on the thick manila envelope I’m holding, the crinkle loud enough to get his attention.
He juts his chin at my hand. “What’s that?”
“My freedom,” I say, slapping it down in front of him. “And Hannah’s.”
His brow furrows. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about this.” I pull the matchbook from my pocket and flick it onto the envelope. It’s the only thing Cara gave me that I don’t have a duplicate of, but judging by Dad’s face, I won’t need one. “I take it you know what that is.”
He picks it up, looks at it, drops it. “Not a clue.”
I don’t even bother arguing.
“So here’s how this is going to go.” I plant my palms on his desk and lean in.
“Hannah’s going to stay with me. Indefinitely.
You’re hardly around her anyway, so it’s not like anyone will notice.
To the world, you’re still her father. She’ll keep the Crenshaw name and all the privilege that comes with it.
She’ll get a car at sixteen, a trust fund at twenty-one, and an inheritance, if you’re the least bit concerned about your legacy. ”
He pushes to his feet, but I still tower over him, even hunched over his desk.
“Do not speak,” I warn, pinning him with a glare that stops him cold. I press my finger to the matchbook and slide it across to him. “You may show up for the big stuff, if you feel it’s necessary. And we’ll make our appearance at the annual Crenshaw holiday shoot. But that’s it.
“In return, I’ll keep your secret—and your friends’ secrets. But if you even think about fighting me on this, I’ll expose you and everyone else in that envelope. Don’t think for a second that I won’t.”
He takes a step back, and for the first time in my life, my father looks powerless. Possibly even scared.
I only know what Cara told me. I never looked at the contents. I didn’t think I could stomach it.
Guess I was right.
“Actually, I think I’ll hang on to this.” I grab the matchbook and pocket it. “Terry Langford, right? Tell him his godson says hi.”
“I’m home,” I call from the kitchen, dropping my keys in a bowl on the counter. I grab the bottle of TX Amar picked up for me and pour a finger. Drain it. Pour another.
The house is as dark as it is quiet, except for the soft glow of Wicked paused on the screen. I flip on a lamp and kill the TV. Empty takeout cartons litter the coffee table, the scent of Chinese still hanging in the air.
My stomach rumbles. I ignore it and drop onto the sofa, exhausted but wired. Today wore me out. Wore me slap out, I think, with an ache in my chest.
These past couple of months, I’ve gotten pretty damn good at compartmentalizing. Most days, I keep my feelings for Maggie locked up tight. But sometimes, when nobody’s around, I let them out. Sit with them in the silence.
Which is why I’m not getting over her.
Time only heals the wounds you leave alone.
I pull out my phone and connect it to the sound system. “Henry” thrums quietly through the speakers. I never learned it, and I doubt now I ever will.
Doesn’t mean I won’t torture myself with it.
Despite what Gabi says, I didn’t make a “Maggie Mixtape.” I just like to twist the knife, and there are a handful of songs that’ll do it. “Maggie May” is one of them. For obvious reasons.
A shape appears in the hallway. “You’re back,” Gabi says, wringing her wet hair with a towel. Her face is scrubbed clean, and my old Hozier T-shirt from a million years ago slips off one shoulder, the frayed hem brushing mid-thigh. “How’d it go?”
“Better than expected. You?”
“Poor thing was so tired she barely made it through dinner. She’s looking forward to Hawaii, though. It’ll be good for her to get away.” She drapes the towel over a chair. “Are we drinking?”
“We are,” I say, tipping my glass toward her. “Help yourself.”
“Hell yes.” She disappears into the kitchen. I hear the cabinet door click shut, the handle of bourbon thud against the counter. She returns a minute later with the bottle and her glass. “Got sauce on my dress,” she says, plopping down beside me. “Stole a shirt.”
“I can see that.”
“Think I may keep it.”
“It’s all yours.”
She takes a sip, a smirk curling around the lip of her glass. “We’re doing this again?”
“Doing what?”
She gestures vaguely, and I know she means the music. “Still haven’t talked to her, huh?”
I stretch my legs across the coffee table, slouching deeper into the couch. “She hasn’t called, so no.”
“I bet she’d be a good listener, is all I’m saying.” Gabi’s tone softens. “Someone to talk to. About Cara.”
Just thinking about Cara makes it hard to breathe. I’d rather focus on Hannah.
“I don’t need someone else to talk to,” I say. “That’s what I have you for.”
“But you don’t talk to me about her. You barely even say her name.” She traces the scar above her knee, the one she got skateboarding when we were kids. “If Maggie were around, maybe—”
“She’s not,” I snap, but Gabi’s undeterred.
“You could call her,” she sing-songs, and I swear this has become her mantra.
“I’m not calling her,” I sing-song back.
She blows out a sigh. “Because you don’t have her number. Give me a fucking break, Shaw. It’s not like you can’t get it. Artie—”
“Will not give it to me.”
“Loretta would.” She turns her glass in her hands. “What about social media?”
“She doesn’t use it, and that’s not the point. No contact—her decision. I have to respect that.” I set my bourbon on the end table and turn to face my friend. “Gabi, I’m fine. I swear. It’s Rod Stewart, not Patrick Swayze. I’m not curled up in the dark sobbing to ‘She’s Like the Wind.’”
Not yet, anyway.
“Oof,” she says. “Did you just reference Dirty Dancing?”
I groan. “Never mind.”
But the second Mazzy Star comes on, Gabi whips her head toward me. “This…this is the one that worries me.”
“‘Fade Into You’? I thought you liked this song.”
Her brows shoot up. “I did—the first thousand times you played it. Now it makes my ears bleed.” She lets out a quiet laugh, glass poised at her lips. “I’d rather listen to the horny bull song.”
“Jesus, Gabi. I think you’re the one we should worry about.”
She drags her fingers through her damp hair. “Why don’t you ever play the one we danced to?”
Because that one doesn’t just twist the knife. It carves me inside out.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Guess I like this one.”
I close my eyes, letting the haunting melody wash over me.
“It’s about unrequited love. Did you know that?” She reaches for my hand. “You know that’s not what happened, right? That woman loves you. The only reason you’re not with her right now is circumstance.”
“No, Gabs,” I say, my shoulders sagging. “You weren’t there. When I told her I couldn’t come to Texas anymore, it was like…she was relieved. So pragmatic. No emotion whatsoever. And I think the fact that she hasn’t called confirms it.”
Gabi sits back like she’s mulling this over. “No emotion? Like…nothing?”
“Not even a glimmer.”
She frowns. “I don’t know. I talked to her. She just seemed scared.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Because her heart wasn’t in it.” I pick up my glass. “I saw her after the wrap party. There were no tears, no let’s figure this out. No nothing. It was just the remnants of a relationship that had run its course. That’s all.”
She pulls her legs up, tucking them beneath her. “I think you’re being a little naive, but okay. I’ll lay off.”
“You want to know what I think? I think you care about me, and you want to see me happy. So you read into something that was never there. Just like I did.” I take a long swallow, feel the burn all the way down.
“It’s all good, though. This’ll do wonders for my rom-com roles.
Next time I’m cast as the dumpee, watch out. Academy Awards, here I come.”
“God, Holden. I hate this for you.”
Yeah, I fucking hate this for me too.
I slide my feet off the coffee table and lean forward to pour another finger. I toss it back in one go, the earlier ache dulling into something warm and pleasantly numb.
“You should try it sometime,” I say. “This unrequited love thing. Highly recommend.”
Gabi goes still, and I can tell I’ve stumbled onto something.
“No way.” I top us both off. “Who is it? Someone I know? Please tell me it’s someone I know.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Shaw?”
“Who didn’t return the great Gabrielle Martin’s affections?”
She tries to sit up, but I hook an arm over her folded legs.
“Please stop,” she says, and I let her go.
“Fine. You win.”
She takes a drink, then sets the glass down. “I should get home.”
“Gabi, wait,” I say. “I didn’t mean to push.”
“I know.”
“Did this happen recently?”
A dry laugh slips out. “Not quite.”
“When, then?”
She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “About thirteen years ago.”
I blink. Her words land a second later, and mine don’t come at all.
“Please don’t look at me like that,” she says. “I’m not hung up on you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Why haven’t you ever told me?”
“Why would I? It’s not like I wanted anything to happen.
We’re too different.” She pulls her shirt (technically, my shirt) farther down her thighs.
“I like galas and openings and fine dining. You’re a homebody who eats fast food.
My dream vacation involves high-end hotels and Michelin-starred restaurants.
And didn’t you mention wanting to buy a camper last week?
” Her nose wrinkles. “Even if you had feelings for me—which thank God you don’t—it would never work. ”
“I love how you just assume that.”
“Holden, you don’t have to get defensive,” she says calmly—and shit, I guess I was.
“Let’s take stock for a second. You’re heartbroken over Maggie and shoving it down to raise a grieving kid.
And newsflash, you’re grieving too. But you insist on hiding it, which I know is killing you.
And even though we’re together constantly, you’re lonely.
You spend almost as much time with Mazzy Star as you do with me. ”
“It’s just a song, Gabs.” But we both know that’s bullshit.
“All I’m saying is, you don’t want a relationship with me. You want a distraction. And I get it.” She gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “We’re friends, so I can be that for you. We can hang out, grab dinner. Even In-N-Out, if that’s what you want, though, gross.”
I manage a smirk, even as my chest threatens to cave in. “So I’m guessing friends with benefits is out.”
She lets out a sharp laugh. “You do remember the sex scene we filmed in Houston, right? So, yes.”
I snort. “Hard to come back from that.” We’d done kissing scenes before, but that was a first. And it was awkward as fuck.
“That reminds me.” She grabs the remote off the coffee table and powers on the TV. Lifetime pops up on the home screen. My face flames. She clicks on it—because of course she does—and there it is: The Babysitter’s Seduction. “Are you aware Hannah’s watching this?”
“Nah,” I say, my throat going dry. “Must’ve been Cara.”
“This was recent. Do you want me to talk to her?”
“No—no.” And Jesus. It comes out way too loud.
Gabi narrows her eyes, studying me for a long beat. I can only imagine how red my ears are.
“No fucking way. Holden Shaw’s a Lifetime junkie.” A soft smile appears in my peripheral. “Huh. We actually do have something in common.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m a junkie. More of a…neophyte.”
She continues, unfazed. “Have you seen Death of a Cheerleader? It’s a classic.”
The movie starts up, and I kill my Maggie Mixtape. “No, but it was on my list.”