Chapter 67
Sixty-Seven
Remy attempts to speak to me all the way to his parent’s house, doubling down on his pleas for us to lie to Sherry and his folks, but it’s futile. I can’t hide that he stayed out all night…and I won’t add to his deceit or suggest it had anything to do with me.
I’m torn, of course. He’s my best friend, and the friend code is clear: we don’t rat each other out. But this is grave shit he’s mired himself in, and I’m not enabling this path of utter destruction.
When we arrive at the Remington mansion, Remy has zero chance to weasel out of this anyway. The welcoming committee—his wife—sprints out of the house and gets right in his face, spewing harsh words in low tones while I stride over to where Vinny’s parked the Camaro to give them privacy.
“I hope she drills his ass,” Vinny mutters.
I hazard a glance, and Sherry’s body language says it all, a combination of anger, worry, and despair. Ironically, I’m feeling all the same things. “Pretty sure this is the straw that’s going to break the camel’s back.”
We wait in silence for a few minutes. Remy’s expression morphs through his regular bag of tricks: charming, bobbing and weaving, repentant, and now hangdog.
Vinny shuffles his feet next to me. “Look, I need to motor. It’s Christmas Eve.”
I nod, only too aware of what day it is.
The front door opens and Mrs. Remington stands under the portico, glaring at Remy before her gaze lands on me. “Mick,” she calls. “Can I speak to you for a minute?”
“Be right back, Vin. Then we’ll split.”
“Thanks, man. Good luck.”
He means with Virginia, and I brace for whatever she’s about to say as I near.
“Mick,” she says, her eyes warming. A good sign.
“Mrs. Remington,” I greet her.
She heaves out a beleaguered sigh. “Thank you for tracking him down. I know you weren’t a part of his…latest disappearance.”
“No problem.”
“You’re a good boy,” she adds, squeezing my arm.
I shrug and shake my head, self-conscious about her praise and certainly dubious about being worthy of it. “I need to drive Vinny home, so unless there’s anything else, I’m going to take off.”
Her gaze fixes to mine, and maybe for the first time ever, desperation emanates from hers. “Can you come back? I’d like to talk, and even though it’s terrible timing—the house is turned upside-down for our annual party—I’d…well, can you? It’s important.”
“Oh, sure. Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
When I return to the Remington’s an hour later, it’s bustling with activity.
Caterers are setting up the buffet and bar, and maids add holiday decorations to what already looks over the top from my perspective.
Then again, this is on par for Virginia and Rick.
Their annual Christmas Eve bash serves as a reminder of how envious we should all be of their purported wealth and happiness.
That’s a facade poised on the brink of disaster with the Remy situation.
I highly doubt anyone will hear a peep about his crack escapades.
I wander through the various rooms, not recognizing a soul, and finally decide to stand out of the way.
A slap on the back has me whipping around to find Rick. I note his glazed eyes; he obviously started in early on the bourbon. “Merry Christmas, Mick!”
“Merry Christmas.” Despite lacking an ounce of holiday cheer, I can’t help greet him with a smile. Rick is so predictably, comfortingly himself.
“How’s life treating you?”
That’s a loaded question. “Can’t complain.” Or won’t, more accurately.
He chuckles. “That’s what I like to hear.” He lowers his voice. “So, our boy found himself in a fix, hmm?”
Interesting choice of words, not assigning Remy any blame. That’s Rick for you. I nod.
“Thanks for scooping him up. You’re a good friend,” he says, slapping me on the back again for emphasis.
“That’s what friends are for.”
“I know he can be a handful. He’s a little too much of a chip off the ’ol block.” He winks.
Does he not understand how serious this is? That his son’s in real trouble? If Remy’s BS works on anyone in this house, it’s probably dear old dad. In this case, you can bullshit a bullshitter.
Mrs. Remington emerges from the hallway and finds me midway through her scan of the area, eagle eyes likely accounting for every detail to see if they meet her exacting demands. I half expect her to whip out a white glove and test for dust. Instead, she joins us.
“Will you please bring up a dozen bottles from the wine cellar?” she asks Rick.
“The Stag’s Leap Cabernet and the Joseph Phelps’ Bordeaux, I think.
And for God’s sake, make sure there’s enough Domaine Chandon chilling.
I told the caterers we need a few cases, but we should have some additional bottles on standby, just in case. ”
“I’m on it,” he says, trotting off to do her bidding.
Her head cants ever so slightly when she addresses me. “Let’s go somewhere more private to talk.” She turns and heads toward her study, and I follow.
She shuts the door behind us, muffling the party preparation noises, and gestures to two stuffed chairs by the large window.
Sliding into one, I’m surprised by how dense and unyielding it is. I guess fashion comes before comfort.
Virginia sits next to me and gets right to it. “I don’t have all the details about last night yet.”
I doubt she ever will.
“But clearly Randy’s recovery is steadily declining. He’s in trouble, Mick, and I’m giving serious consideration to what we do next.”
“What do you mean?”
Her expression turns grim. “I need your help.”
My stomach twists. “How?”
“Today, I’d appreciate it if you’d stay at the party with Randy. Keep him away from the booze, watch him like a hawk, be his friend.”
“You mean his babysitter.” A shard of anger spears me but fades quickly.
“His friend,” she reiterates.
“What about Sherry?”
She scoffs. “What about her? She has little to no control over him. Anyone can see that.”
It’s a delusion to think any of us do.
“Please, Mick. Do this for me while I sort out my thoughts. A hundred guests will be here shortly, and I can’t lock him in his room or police him tonight.
It would be a big help to me, to us, if you could stay and keep him company.
He loves you. You’ll provide a good distraction.
And you can handle him—you might be the only one who can. ”
My turn to scoff.
“It’s true. You’re one of the only people he respects.”
That lands squarely where it’s intended, and I soften. “Alright.”
The party is a cacophony of noise. I’m making the best of it, even exhausted with thoroughly frayed nerves. Sherry cooled off considerably, and she’s obviously trying to swallow this shit sandwich too. She deserves a medal.
The three of us join some of Remy’s cousins at one of the round tables set up for dinner and then a handful of us retreat downstairs to shoot pool and hang out away from the old fogies.
To his credit, Remy behaves. He’s not his usual jubilant self, but is there really anything to be cheerful about anyway?
He’s got to be running on empty between lack of sleep and worrying about repercussions from crossing so far over the line. His nerves are showing.
I’m nervous too.
In my bones, I feel more is coming.
Leaving Remy in his wife’s care, I slip away and call Jax, a tremor of unease slithering through me as her crushed expression from this morning erupts in my mind. It seems like days have passed since then, not hours.
“Hey, baby,” I murmur.
She inhales sharply. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” I answer, unable to keep the tension from my voice.
“Remy?”
“I found him. Finally. It’s not good, Jax.”
“What do you mean?”
There’s no use sugarcoating it. “He’s doing crack.”
“Oh, Mick. That’s…bad.” I can picture how much this must devastate her too, despite everything.
“Yeah. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Where are you now?”
“The Remingtons’ annual Christmas Eve bash,” I answer sardonically.
She pauses. “Adult-man-sitting?”
“Something like that. How are things going there?” I fish out a cigarette and clamp the receiver between my ear and shoulder while I flick open my Zippo and strike the flint wheel to ignite it. It takes a few tries. Of course I’m running out of lighter fluid.
“Surprisingly okay…even nice at times. But I’m relieved to hear from you. I was worried.”
Her voice is a salve to my unseen wounds. “I know it’s difficult with your parents, so ‘nice’ is high praise.”
“We still on for tomorrow?”
“Yeah, baby. Come up to the house whenever you’re ready—after you open presents and can steal away.”
“I can do that.”
She’s being so fucking agreeable. Guilt wrapped in regret washes over me. “I’m sorry…again.”
“Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t ever apologize for being a good person, a good friend, a good man. I would never want you to change.”
I exhale a long breath absorbing those sentiments. “I don’t deserve you.”
“You deserve all of me, Mick Callahan. I’m yours and always will be.”
God, I love this woman. “Spoken like true heroin.”
We both go quiet, quickly sobered by that comment.
“Not the best word choice today, is it?” I murmur.
“No,” she agrees in a whisper.
It’s a conversation killer and adult-man-sitting duty calls. “Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”
“Me too. I love you, Mick.”
“I love you, baby.”
Returning downstairs, I attempt to clear my thoughts of Jax and anything but the here and now.
The rest of the night is uneventful, but before I leave, Virginia corners me and asks me to come back the day after Christmas for a powwow about Remy.
She doesn’t say more than that, and I’m too tired to ruminate about it as I drive to my mom’s house, ready to crash out after this train wreck of a day.