“How many times do I need to say Beyoncé before you stop saying Beyoncé?” he tosses back. “And what’s the deal? You got a thing against Bey or something? You really don’t want to mess with the Beyhive. They can stir up some shit.”
I ignore Cap completely and look at Quince. “What was Trent wearing at the party?”
I mean, I’m pretty sure I already know the answer to that question, but I have to make certain. This realization is too crazy not to double-check the facts.
“Walter White. From Breaking Bad.”
Good God, this is bananas.
“Nothing beat my Thor costume,” Cap chimes in with absolutely no valuable information for this conversation. “I was the tits.”
God, why is he here again?
Because, apparently, he does occasionally provide valuable information.
I’d bet on the fact that it’s rare, but I can’t deny it just happened.
“Holy shit.” I look at Quince. “I definitely didn’t see that coming.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Quince says, a rolling laugh vibrating his stomach a bit. “You’re a dick and a shitty lawyer for offering up that info, but I can’t deny I’m glad you did.”
“What?” Caplin asks. “What in the fuck are you talking about right now?”
Quince grins. “It seems our friend might not dislike Greer Hudson quite as much as he thought.”
“What does that mean?” Caplin asks again, slightly agitated that he’s out of the loop.
I resist the urge to laugh in his face now that he’s the one on the outside of the know.
Quincy, however, is too good of a guy to let him suffer. “We know who came to the party as Beyoncé.”
“Who?” Cap furrows his brow, and I chime in with the answer.
“My best friend. Greer Hudson.”
“Are you serious?” The words fly out of his mouth. “The chick Turn kissed at the party is the same one he went on and on about finding a way to fire?”
Quincy laughs. “Sure sounds that way.”
“Well, fuck me sideways and call me Sally, it looks like I was right.” Caplin reaches for his phone, shaking his head in actual glee. “Oh, man, I can’t wait to tell him about this shit.”
And suddenly, it hits me like a flipping lightning bolt.
I reach out quickly, smacking Cap’s phone out of his hands, and he scowls. I don’t bother apologizing.
“Don’t tell him.”
“What?” Quince asks.
Instead of answering, I ask a question back. “Didn’t you say Trent is renting one of the apartments in my parents’ building while he’s working on the Vanderturn New Orleans hotel?”
His brows pull together as he answers. “Yeah.”
“Well, boys,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “I’ve got a plan.”
It’s a bit evil.
And I’m going to have to keep one hell of a secret from my best friend.
But something just feels so right about this.
What Greer doesn’t know won’t kill her.
Yeah, but she might kill you…
Meh. She’ll have to catch me first.
Greer
Thirty-three years and it’s come to this.
Moving in to an apartment a friend’s family owns, rent-free, while I try to sell the house I’ve put all of my time and effort into.
The letter from the bank I found in my mail upon my return from New York four days ago made it pretty clear, though. Sell soon, or lose the house to foreclosure and send your credit to the depths of hell forever.
In fact, I’m pretty sure there was a doodle of the devil standing beside a car with a “Credit” decal holding a pair of hedge clippers and everything.
So, I did the only thing I could do—contacted a Realtor friend and started moving out my shit so I can make my house, my pride and joy, market-ready.
Fuck my life.
A lot of people toss around those three words in moments of menial crisis. When they’re having a bad start to their week or dealing with a summer cold or when freaking gas prices go up by ten cents. Over things that are annoying, maybe even a little bad, but not end-of-the-world scenarios.
But my current depressing situation is truly worthy of fuck my life.
When Hudson Designs really started to struggle a couple of years ago, I took out a loan against the equity in my house to cover expenses in the interim. I figured it was a short dry spell, and if I could bridge the gap, I’d come out on the other side okay.
When that didn’t work, I took out another, and before I knew it, I was drowning in personal debt, in addition to the loans for the business.
When it came down to eating or paying the mortgage, I chose the one that would keep me functioning, keep me scrapping to save what I’d built.
Unfortunately, when things didn’t turn around like I’d hoped, all of those short-term-focused decisions eventually caught up with me.
I look around the insanely big apartment, my new apartment, and my stomach rolls with discomfort.
The floors are original but beautifully restored wood, and the trim woodwork throughout the vast living space is original but impeccable. The cabinets in the kitchen are custom-made, the counters expensive marble, and the bathroom is roughly the size of a streetcar.