Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) (6 page)

“
Your timing is stellar as always.”

“
Get your ass to the airport. Jet is fueled and waiting
.
We’ve got a membership meeting in Manhattan. Need your input.
”

New Wheelhouse member?
Must be taking the spot of Senator Angela Warner. That will net us two-mil up-front and I run through the shortlist of possibilities. Given the location is Manhattan, this isn’t the moment to be off the grid. With a club to run under the radar, I’ve got to bail from the Windy City, and send my reply:

“
Wouldn’t miss it for the world.
”

I toss my cell on the bathroom vanity, undress, and peer into the tired eyes that stare back. Four days, and I’ll return to D.C.

Turning on the shower, I step into the icy stream, weariness giving way to numbing grit
.
I can hold out until I get back on terra firma at the House. Come hell or high water, I’ll find a professional, contract her for a night, maybe two. Exorcising the demons riding me roughshod, I’ll possess that pro in countless, nameless ways. No strings and no regrets, just a long ass fuck.

X.S.~
When in Doubt, Go Blonder

PERCHED ON THE EDGE of a white leather sofa in the receptionist area, I remind myself not to fidget. Dressed to the nines in a tailored navy Kate Spade suit, I balance my Prada portfolio on my lap. People come and go as the bank of elevators ding-ding-ding. I smooth a blonder curl behind my ear, wearing my recently balayage
’d
hair loose instead of pinned in place. Sitting up straight, I’m going for the All-American business, I’ve got a brain in my head serious worker, socially conscious, fashionista, but I can make you laugh… attire.
I hope
.

“Ms. O’Malley, right this way,” the receptionist chirps, “Ms. Van Allen will see you now.”

I stand, tucking my portfolio under my arm, and follow a tall, willowy assistant down a brightly lit corridor. I’m on my way to the editor of the arts and entertainment section for
ICE
. It’s a cutting edge publication and the twelfth interview I’ve scheduled and attended. The other eleven were not good. In casting my net as wide as possible, I found an opening for a desk spot at ICE, covering muse news. A weekly column about the local artists and their inspiration. The view of Seattle isn’t exactly my cup of tea; but given everyone up and down the East Coast informed me that yes I had the skills, the experience, the eye and voice, but unfortunately they weren’t willing to take a chance. Not when PanCorp had the power to shut their doors.

Being on the West Coast, I pray that
ICE
isn’t beholden to anyone I might be related to. I researched Cynthia Van Allen and couldn’t find link number one between her, ICE, the chief editor, anyone of relative importance here… and the Silvers. Even though this is so far from my friends, my immediate world, it has a certain appeal. Modern and sleek, and I cross my fingers that I’ll be given a chance. Everything is done in white or a greyish variation of white. Floors, walls, furniture, and of course the tech hardware. They’re Mac and Apple to the max. Apparently they ignored Boone’s advice to boycott and I’m glad.

“Phoenix, welcome. I’m Cynthia. Won’t you come in?”

“Nice to meet you,” I reply, extending my hand. We shake and I don’t miss the glittery mini-stare she trains on me for what seems like a second too long. A zing goes through my stomach, but I mentally stomp it as if were a nasty bug named Spencer.

“You’re here for the columnist’s spot?” She reads from a sheet that I presume must be an abridged version of my résumé.

“That’s correct,” I say and decide to spruce up my two-word reply with, “I’m very excited to hear more about the position. Last’s week your feature on Santana was captivating. Hard to believe a guitarist and guitar can produce those sounds. Not to mention the backup by an organ. He should have gotten a longer spot during halftime.” I halt in my ramble as the image of Spence and his Super Bowl festivities decides to visit.

“Ah, yes. Santana is a card. But about your interview…” She pauses and purses her lips, appearing confused as well as flustered.

“Did I get the time wrong? I flew in and was sure I set my watch correctly.” I look around, searching to confirm the time.

“No, no that isn’t it. And there isn’t any point to beating around the bush.” She shakes her head, and our eyes meet.

God, not the bush analogy
. “I agree,” I murmur thickly. Under the onslaught of a wave of disappointment, I sink into the chair as if I might disappear, my thighs pressing against the smooth white leather.

Removing her glasses, Cynthia toys with the frame as if in thought, then tosses them on her desk. “Phoenix, I’m so sorry. We’ve condensed junior positions due to financial cuts. Third quarter projections and investor speculations. It threw me and I can’t tell you how untimely this is. My boss announced it during our staff meeting this morning.”

The drone of her voice is white noise that I wish I could mute if not stop. I’m not interested in hearing her excuses. Good or not. I’ve got to figure out a solution. Not waste more time in a fruitless search to prove I’m not a flake. Not the same rebellious girl I was in high school. Staring out her window, I feel as though the fog from outside creeps inside my head until I’m dizzy and gripping the armrests of the chair.

“Oh my God! Phoenix,” Ms. Van Allen is standing in front of me, holding out a fist full of tissues. “What can I do to help?”

“Excuse me?” My lips are wet and I taste bitter metal.

“Your nose. My dear, you’re bleeding.”

I touch my face and find it isn’t a drip. My whole chin is covered. Inhaling sharply, I glance down and see blood has splattered my jacket and coats my fingers.

…
if you’re not in the right place where you need to be, then you’re going to have voices keeping you up at night because you have to work through those issues.
—Dr. Oz

Santo Aldebrando~
The Golden Rule

FROM THE BACKSEAT, I tap Gina’s hand tucked under her chin as she sleeps. She isn’t one who transforms into a beauty when dreaming. Whether awake or asleep, a thin purple scar runs the length of her oval face, from her hairline to her jaw only intersected by her winged brow and the patch she wears over her eye socket. A lesson I’d delivered and one she can’t help but recall; although a flare here and there isn’t anything we can’t manage.

“The gift of maturity,” I whisper.

“Santo, are we there?” She yawns loudly and I silently sigh.
Spoke too soon
.

My driver continues to the rear of the rambling house and parks in a concealed
porte chochere
next to a motorcycle. “Watch the street,” I instruct him.

“Are we still going to dinner and the movies,” Gina asks, heaving the bag filled with the necessities of this job. Her voice has a hopeful quality, a rise in her inflection that I do so enjoy, and I smile.

“If things go smoothly, I don’t see why not.” Climbing out of the car, I admire the perfectly manicured lawns and swimming pool. Oh the pretentiousness is evident and why Bloomberg was an easy mark. I’ll miss the times we sat by this rectangular blue box in the ground, framed by rock and the rhythmic splash of water. It has a lulling fluidity reminiscent of music.

It’s been a good eight years since I’ve personally ‘dealt’ with situations. With a click of my tongue, I lead the way past the ribbons of yellow rose bushes and up the steps to a porch recently redone in new wicker furniture. Last month, the judge had invited a few guests to celebrate his new venture. After being retired for a year, he’d found it tedious and had taken a post overseeing civil disputes.

Numerous were the times I had tried to dissuade Bloomberg.
Being longtime associates, I didn’t mince my words but came right out by saying, “Old boy, it’s a bad idea. What about the Florida Keys? It’s a hop, skip, and a jump to the Caribbean.”

Bored by books, golf, fishing, he’d refused my suggestion to relocate and well…
Here we are
.

“Knock twice,” I instruct Gina.

Knooock…knock
. She raps against the glass panes on the door, forgoing the brass knocker, and leaves prints. Getting out my handkerchief, I wipe the glass clean with a roll of my eyes, which she misses.

Gina is focused on the person coming to answer the door and I tap her shoulder. “Put on your gloves,” I remind her sternly.

“Come in,” says the energetic young man I’ve contracted for this specific job. “You’re early.” He isn’t the usual sort used by those in my line of work.

“Is that a problem?” I ask, keeping my tone airy. I’m learning, by way of American cable TV, that stagnation is a sign of old age and dull fear, so I’m branching out to stay crisp.

“Not in my book,” the young man replies, tying the ends of a white garbage bag that he drops on the white marble counter. It looks out of place…

“Did you follow my directions about the type of knots?” I inquire as we…
Dear Lord.
Solo, I walk alongside the young man from the rear foyer to Bloomberg’s kitchen. Gina is dawdling, more than likely ogling what prizes she won’t be confiscating. But I’ll cross that bridge after we deal with the judge.

“Every last detail. Take a look.” The young man holds out his cell phone. “I’m interested in another assignment, so I checked and rechecked each knot. The judge is hooded and gagged as you requested.”

I refrain from taking his cell and Gina snickers—having finally caught up to us. She informs the young man, “The Saint doesn’t do cell phone geek.”

That’s true.
After years of maintaining a low profile, cell phones and social media are all new to me. Nevertheless, Dr. Oz is all about stepping outside of one’s comfort zone, and by God, the man looks good for fifty-five or six. Stumbling upon him by mistake has been a life-changing event. I feel the same about
Ellen
. She’s quite the jokester in her antics and interviews.

“Excuse me,” the young man replies and presses a button, moves his latex-gloved fingers, and I observe the image of Bloomberg, it grows larger, blurry, then it sharpens. “See the intricacy.”

Remarkable precision
. “Hmmm. Your work goes beyond satisfactory.” To that end, I snap my fingers and Gina produces an envelope from the bag.

“I’m in training,” he supplies and then proceeds to talk about some exclusive club.

It’s ridiculous to pretend I’m the least bit interested in his escapades. Clearing my throat, I halt his exodus into a retelling, curtailing having to hear more on the subject. “And the paperwork?” I inquire about a non-negotiable detail of this endeavor.

Not put off in the least, the young man gives me a thumbs up. “Got it all. Judge B wanted to read the order, but I told him I only had the last page.”

“You weren’t lying,” I reply. “Well, until I need you again.”

Gina hands over the envelope without a reminder and I smile at her, admiring the coral blush cascading over her cheeks.

“Thanks. I look forward to working with you
again
.” The young man bows in deference. I’ve paid him to bind the judge and fulfill the first part of my scheme to extract a favor from two people not known for doing much except stepping on toes. He lifts a motorcycle helmet off the counter and exits the rear door with a, “Ciao.”

I lock the door and set the alarm.

“I like his attitude,” I say exuberantly because it feels spectacular to do something out-of-character that’s turning out to be an excellent decision. It leaves me a little giddy and I grin wider than I have in months.

“He’s a ‘yes’ man,” Gina mocks, sounding peeved, and goes over to the refrigerator. She opens the door and peers inside.

“That isn’t a sin.”

“No?” She shrugs.

“A lesson you’d do well to remember,” I inform her. “
Proverbs 16:18. Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.
” It’s paying homage. Something we all must do—in the beginning—or die.

“Meh,” she scoffs.

Meh?
I glare at her. “You don’t agree?”

She squints her eye, surveying the kitchen. “Not particularly.”

I ponder that. If either of us would be aware of the destructive nature of pride, it would be her.
I should take my own medicine.
That might not be her point, but I appreciate the opportunity of self-reflection.

Whistling to Gina to gather her attention, I head to our next destination. She picks up the nylon bag as I open the door leading to the basement. We descend the creaking stairs and step through the damp threshold. This subterranean spot is not as well-kept as the space above and symbolically, it’s perfect. In the middle of the open space, we encounter the judge seated on a stool.

“Santo,” she whispers, scrutinizing the floor joists. “The pipes will break.”

“We won’t use them. I want this to be a message.” I whip off the hood and am not surprised by Bloomberg’s shock. He jerks, trying to rise but the method of bondage chokes him if he moves.

“Old friend, it’s time to settle our account.” I shake my head, reminding myself not to be sentimental. Bloomberg isn’t a child and I will miss him. As much if not more than I’ve missed Campione. What a faithful mutt.

My mother made me drown him when he barked and barked one winter night. I tied rocks to the dog’s neck. As the wind howled, I tossed Campione into the sea, but oh how my mother regretted that order. Not that she said, I assume.
I had returned to find our home under siege by men who wore expensive suits and spoke sharply in English, carrying out a hit.

My parents and elder brother were face down in the dirt, their blood pooling on the Earth. Upstairs, my sisters were sobbing, crying, dishonored.
It was the last time I wore a collar as the second son.
I’ve developed patience and a taste for blood money.
Along with a plan
.

“It’s thin.” Gina has unwound the synthetic cord, and snaps it between her hands.

“For a reason,” I answer, picking up a roll of tape, and pointing at the wooden beam. “The meat hook can be screwed in right there.”