Dirty Work Read online

  She frowns, creasing her Botoxed forehead. “Who said anything about pity clients?”

  “Why else would you be trying to throw business my way?” I down the rest of my coffee then deposit the mug on the floor next to me, earning me another disapproving glare. I ignore it and plow on. Now that the floodgates are opened, there’s no stopping the tsunami of truth spilling out of me. “It’s obvious you think I’m struggling.”

  “I don’t know where you get these ideas.” My mother shakes her head. Her impeccably coiffed signature bob barely sways gently then falls back into place, not a hair out of line.

  “Hmm, let’s see.” I tap my chin like I’m deep in thought. “Could it be the countless times you’ve mentioned that it’s a good thing I have my legal degree to fall back on? Or maybe it’s how you call Odds & Errands my ‘little gopher business.’ You’ve always treated it like it’s some sort of hobby, a passing fancy I’m dabbling in until I get bored and go back to practicing law. News flash, Mom. I don’t need anything to fall back on, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be anything even remotely connected to the law. I am not getting sucked into that live-at-the-office, eat-breathe-and-sleep-work world again.”

  Now that the words are finally free and out in the ether, I feel lighter somehow. More at peace. Whether it’s with myself or with my mother, I’m not sure. But I’m not sure it matters, either.

  I risk a glance at her. Not that I’m expecting much in the way of a reaction to my outburst of verbal vomit. My mother doesn’t do emotions. With her it’s all logic and reason and careful control.

  So when I see her wiping away what can only be a tear with the back of her hand, it’s an understatement to say I’m shocked.

  “I know I’m not the best at showing emotion,” she says, making me wonder for not the first time whether the woman can read minds. Then again, if she could, we wouldn’t be having this discussion. She would have known what I was thinking ages ago. “Saying how I feel isn’t easy for me.”

  Her voice wavers, the careful control she prides herself on slipping a notch. I’m tempted to jump in. To do what I’ve done in the past when we’ve come close to this reckoning. Lie, tell her it’s okay, relieve her of any guilt she might have over our strained relationship.

  But I don’t. Instead, I bite my lip and sit back, ears—and heart—open to what she has to say. Because maybe, like me, she needs to get something off her chest. And maybe this time it will be what I need to hear.

  She takes a handkerchief from her vintage Hermès alligator bag—seriously, who carries a handkerchief anymore except stuck-up suits and elderly grandmothers? Or an alligator bag for that matter?—dabs at her eyes and continues. “I understand that you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. But I’m a mother. Mothers worry. Even the worst of us.”

  Okay, it’s not exactly what I was hoping for. But it’s close. And I’ve got to give the woman credit for trying.

  “I appreciate that. But I don’t need your help.” Emotional support would be nice. But I don’t want to push my luck. Maybe we can work toward that once we get past this hurdle.

  “It wasn’t you I was trying to help,” my mother insists, carefully folding her handkerchief and putting it back in her bag. Apparently, the threat of more waterworks has passed. “Well, not only you. Our doorman is swamped with requests he can’t handle. I thought if he could refer tenants to you, or if they knew about your services so they could contact you directly, it would save everyone a lot of time and trouble. And Martin agrees. It was his idea to have you come to one of our meetings. I suggested putting your business cards in the lobby, but he thinks the personal approach will work better.”

  Damn. I hadn’t considered the possibility she might be coming at this from a completely different angle. I just assumed she was looking out for me, not her neighbors.

  “Like I said, we’re pretty busy, but tell Mr. Fletcher I’ll give him a call this week. Maybe we can set something up.” I make a mental note to start drafting that ZipRecruiter ad ASAP. We’re definitely going to need another body if this pans out.

  “Thank you. He’ll be relieved to hear that.”

  She stands and loops her purse over her arm, signaling that she’s reached her limit of mother/ daughter bonding for today. I follow her to the door, only mildly disappointed that she’s cutting our conversation short. We’ve made progress. More than we have in years. For now, that’s enough.

  “How about we have lunch sometime next week,” I offer, figuring it couldn’t hurt to extend the olive branch a little further.

  “I’d like that,” she says, and for the first time in a long time I believe her. “I’ll check my schedule and get back to you.”

  I swallow a laugh. She sounds like she’s scheduling a dentist appointment, not lunch with her only child. But I remind myself that this is about progress, not perfection, and wrap my arms around her in an only semi-awkward hug that she returns slightly less stiffly than usual.

  “But not Fig & Olive,” I add. “We should expand our horizons, try someplace different.”

  Translation: less pretentious. I wonder how she’d feel about being waited on by a drag queen singing show tunes. The thought brings up memories of Jake with a boa around his neck and Marilyn Monroe crooning in his ear. Somehow, I doubt my mother would be as good a sport as he was. But then I remember why I walked out on him, and the bad memory sours the good.

  “If that’s what you want,” she agrees somewhat reluctantly, pulling me back to the present. I’ll take it as a win. I open the door for her, and she steps through then turns back to me with an expression even more serious than her typical resting bitch face. “Can I give you one last piece of motherly advice?”

  I doubt it will be the last, but I nod.

  “Maintaining a balance between work and your personal life is a delicate thing, no matter what profession you’re in. I’ve watched your father do it for years. It’s like a seesaw. It won’t always be perfectly parallel. Sometimes it has to tilt one way or the other. The key is to make sure it’s not always to one side.”

  She gives me a kiss on the cheek and click-clacks down the hall toward the elevator, leaving me with more questions than answers. If I was wrong about her, could I be wrong about Jake, too?

  Or what if it’s not him that I’m wrong about? What if it’s me? Is it possible I’m the one with my seesaw stuck in one direction? In my quest for balance, have I swung too far to the opposite extreme?

  I step back into the sanctuary of my apartment and close the door, my head pounding with the pressure of all the riddles my mother’s left in her wake. I need to solve them. And as much as I hate to admit it, I know just the person to help me.

  Dickweed Dale.

  A phone call’s out of the question. There’s no way I want to hear that douche canoe’s voice again. Besides, I blocked his number after he called to invite me to his goddamn wedding. To his secretary. I mean, administrative assistant. Like, who the hell does that? Invites their jilted fiancée to their fucking wedding?

  But a carefully worded email trying to get to the bottom of our breakup? Was it really all work-related, or was there something else? Did I overcorrect for something that wasn’t a problem—or at least not the real problem—in the first place?

  That I can do.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Jake

  “SO WHAT DO you think? It just came on the market and my guess is it’s going to go quick, so if you want it, we’re going to have to act fast.”

  I take a look around the latest rental property Alex is showing me. What is this, the tenth? Twentieth? I’ve lost track. At some point, they all start to look the same.

  But this one is the most promising space we’ve visited in the three weeks I’ve been in Miami. Lots of square footage to work with. Open floor plan. High ceilings. And a great location, right off the main drag in South Beac
h.

  I can picture a bar running along the wall to my right. Dance floor in the center. DJ at the back. There’s even a raised platform on the left that could easily be used as a stage or roped off for VIP seating, plus three more floors above for whatever else we want. Office space. Private VIP suites. Or maybe a screening room like the one we’re planning for New York.

  It’s as close to perfect as we’re going to find. As good as, if not better than, the place we lost out on, if I’m honest. I should be over the moon. But when I answer him, my voice is flat. Emotionless.

  “Draw up the papers. I need to run it by my partner, but I can’t imagine he’ll object.”

  Half an hour later, I’m back in the air-conditioned bliss of my hotel room with nothing to do but think or watch the highlights of last night’s Yankee game on ESPN. Since the Bombers lost in a blowout that’s too painful to relive, I’m stuck with thinking. Which sucks, because these days, my mind’s got one track.

  And it leads to Ainsley.

  It’s not a path I want to go down, so I grab one of the local craft brews from the minibar—a decision I know I’ll regret when I get the ridiculously exorbitant bill—and pick up my cell to call Connor.

  “What’s the word?” he asks when he answers on the first ring.

  “I think I’ve found our new Miami digs.”

  “That’s good news.” He pauses, probably to save whatever spreadsheet or tax form he’s working on. “Isn’t it?”

  “Sure.” I kick off my shoes, pop the top on the beer and stretch out on the bed. “My guy’s drawing up the paperwork. I’ll have it to you by tomorrow.”

  “Then why do you sound like your dog just died?”

  The word dog naturally leads to thoughts of Roscoe, which of course brings me back, painfully, to Ainsley. Fuck. Maybe calling Connor wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  I swig my beer—a little on the hoppy side, but not bad—and adopt a tone that I hope sounds more I-haven’t-got-a-fucking-care-in-the-world than I’m-sitting-here-all-alone-crying-in-my-beer. “The last I heard, Roscoe’s happy and healthy, unless you count eating an entire roll of toilet paper and then puking it up all over my Timberlands.”

  “Heard from who?” he not-so-gently prods. “Your sexy pet sitter?”

  Yep. Definitely a mistake calling my former best friend.

  “She’s not a pet sitter,” I correct him for the thousandth time. “She’s an executive concierge.”

  “I notice you didn’t dispute the sexy part.”

  “I’ve got eyes.” And a brain that works. Most of the time.

  “Is she still staying at your place?”

  I lift the beer can to my lips and tip it back, letting the crisp, amber liquid slide down my throat and buying me a few seconds to come up with an appropriately nonresponsive response to Connor’s prying. “What is this, twenty questions?”

  “If it is, I’ve got a long way to go. I’m only up to four so far.”

  “Five,” I amend after doing a quick mental tally. “But who’s counting?”

  “You are, apparently.” I hear shuffling, then the soft click of a laptop closing that tells me he’s shut down his computer, leaving him with nothing but me to focus on.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  “So are you going to answer me or not?” he continues.

  “I forgot the question,” I lie.

  “Is the sexy pet sitter—sorry, executive concierge—still squatting at your place?”

  “One, her name is Ainsley. Two, she wasn’t squatting. She was there to lend me a hand—pun totally intended—until my arm got better. And three, no. She moved out before I flew down here.”

  “Trouble in paradise?”

  Yes. “No trouble. I didn’t need her anymore, so she left. Simple as that.”

  Even as they leave my mouth, the words feel wrong. Stupid. Pointless. Flat-out false. Because I can’t imagine a time when I won’t need Ainsley. Who else would take me to a diner full of drag queens? Or play strip Scrabble with me? Or kick my ass at Skee Ball, win a fucking florescent green alien and give me the best goddamn blow job of my life, all in one day?

  She’s like the yin to my yang. The sparkle to my seriousness. The Yoko Ono to my John Lennon, without all the adultery and breaking-up-the-band crap.

  Then what are you doing alone in a Miami hotel room, drinking already warm beer and lying your ass off to your best friend? my subconscious screams at me. Get on the next plane to New York and make things right with her.

  I dismiss my subliminal musings as the ramblings of a pathetic, lovesick fool—there’s no use pretending, at least to myself, that I haven’t fallen hard for this woman—and polish off what’s left of my warm beer, crushing the can in my fist and tossing it at the garbage can. It bounces off the rim, the hollow, tinny sound echoing the emptiness inside me.

  It doesn’t matter that I want her more than my next breath. Ainsley’s made it perfectly clear with her tersely worded responses to my texts that all I am to her now is a client. Roscoe’s temporary fur daddy. Any shot I had at something more with her—like maybe a real, romantic relationship—has sailed.

  “Come on, man,” Connor scoffs. “You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. Especially one who’s known you most of your life.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Another lie. It’s getting easier. Although I’m not sure it’s any more convincing.

  “You expect me to believe you shared an apartment with her and didn’t get it on? Or at least do some heavy petting?”

  I shrug, even though he can’t see it. I need this conversation to be over. “Last time I checked, it’s a free country. You can believe whatever you want.”

  “You know, I saw her last week,” he says out of the blue as I’m about to make some excuse to hang up.

  “Ainsley?” I ask, trying to sound disinterested, which is pretty much the furthest thing from what I’m feeling at the moment. So much for hanging up. I’m gripping my phone so hard I’m afraid the screen might shatter. “Where?”

  “At Le Bernadin,” he says, naming one of Manhattan’s most exclusive—and most expensive—restaurants. “With another guy. Wall Street type. Impeccably tailored three-piece suit. Trendy haircut. Rolex Yacht-Master.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I snap, bolting upright. My free hand fists in the thin hotel bedspread. The image of Ainsley being wined and dined by some Wall Street wolf makes me wish I had another beer can to destroy.

  “Gotcha.” I can almost hear the smug smile spreading across Connor’s face. If I could, I’d reach through the phone and smack it off. “I knew that would smoke you out. You hooked up with Ainsley, and now you’re jealous.”

  “Did you or did you not see her with another dude?”

  There’s a long pause, during which I contemplate no less than fifteen ways to murder Connor and hide the body, before he answers, “Not.”

  My fingers slowly unclench, releasing the bedspread. “You’re a real asshole. You know that, right?”

  “You say asshole, I say friend. Someone had to force you to face facts.”

  “And what facts are those, exactly?”

  “You’ve finally found something—or someone—more important to you than the art of the deal. And it scares the shit out of you.”

  He’s right, I realize suddenly. Why else would I be sleepwalking through the past three weeks in South Beach, going through the motions without any of my usual cutthroat enthusiasm for business negotiations?

  “Fine, I have feelings for her,” I admit. “But I let them almost cost us...”

  “Nothing,” Connor interrupts. “They cost us nothing. And even if they had, so what?”

  “So what?” I echo incredulously. “Do you remember what happened to my father’s business when he got sick? That’s what happens when you take your foot off the g
as pedal. And I don’t want that to happen to Top Shelf. To us.”

  “I remember what happened,” Connor says, his voice low and serious, any hint of teasing gone. “Do you?”

  “Of course I do. I was there.”

  “You were, what, eleven? Twelve? Have you ever talked to your father about it? Asked him how he feels?”

  “No.” I shake my head, forgetting again for a second that Connor can’t see me. “It was a pretty painful period in our family’s history. I can’t imagine it’s something he’d want to revisit.”

  “Well, I have,” Connor says, surprising me. “And do you know what he told me? He said that as hard as it was to watch the company he built from scratch go down the tubes, it taught him that what’s really important isn’t money or status or success, whatever the hell that means. It’s the people who stick with you through the ups and downs.”

  I force myself to think back on the months after my dad’s heart attack. Not just the shit parts, like I usually do. The together times. Like our family game nights. Watching movies borrowed from the library on the worn secondhand couch my mom found at the Salvation Army. Stringing microwave popcorn and making salt dough ornaments to decorate the Charlie Brown Christmas tree my dad brought home from the local hardware store.

  We may have had to sell most of our belongings and downsize to an apartment not even one-quarter the size of our house, but my parents made sure we found ways to laugh. To love.

  “Yeah.” I swallow the lump that’s suddenly lodged in my throat. “That sounds like something my dad would say. But what was I supposed to do? I had to come down here. I screwed up. I had to fix it. And being here was the best way I knew how to do that.”

  “Christ, you’re a stubborn son of a bitch.” Connor sighs. “I’ve been telling you all along, but you just won’t listen. Miami isn’t make or break for us. Hell, I’m still not convinced it’s a good idea for us to be expanding with renovations set to start in New York. There will be other clubs. Other cities. Other opportunities.”