The time ticks away. I eat, dress, watch the clock. It’s a long walk to the marina, but I have plenty of time. Wonder what he plans to say? I’ve endured enough scolding lectures from my father to fill a small book, always expertly delivered. He has a handful of favorite tactics. Disappointment is a favorite, but he mixes it up. Variety is the spice of life, right?
Once I run out of things to do, I finally leave, and make my way to the marina, checking my Rolex periodically. By the time I make it there, it’s 11:58 a.m.
So, I wait. Just a little, just long enough to be a little late. He expects me to show up on time, precisely, but I want to show him that I’m my own man in whatever little way I can. He won’t call me out on it, but he’ll notice. This little chess game is one we play day in and day out, and we’re both too aloof about it to acknowledge there’s even a board between us.
He’s waiting for me when I arrive, dressed in white with that awful captain’s hat on his head. I stroll up to the boat, just shy of a yacht—the yacht is moored elsewhere—hiding any sign that I’m nervous. My father loves to deliver the really serious talks on his boat, out on the ocean, where there’s no place to storm off to.
I’m on the boat and sitting down before he finally acknowledges me. Touché, father mine. Even then, he waits a moment, scrolling through the ledger on his tablet. My father the micromanager. The same accountant for thirty years and he still looks over Saul’s numbers, looking for any sign of embezzling, or even just a comma out of place.
Finally, he sets the tablet down and drops his sunglasses down on his nose so that he can look at me over the rim of them. “Rough night,” he says.
I shrug.
Reginald stares at me from his end of the deck, and then stands and approaches me. Inside, I brace myself for him to hit me. He’s done it before, an open hand slap right across the face. It kills him when I don’t react, so I mastered the craft of ignoring the sting of it and controlling the reflex to flinch away years ago just to make a point.
To my surprise, though, he doesn’t. Instead, he claps me on the shoulder, his grin wide and wicked. When he speaks, his voice is cool and calculating, all business. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I know just how you can make it up to me. I’ve got a way to clear this PR mess up, and get us Miss Hall’s location.”
He stands, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Go start the boat. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
26
3. JANIE
Kirby Whelan laughs too loudly at my not-that-funny joke, and I wait for the spell to pass. He’s being polite, and as always attracting whatever attention he can get from the other lounge patrons. Friday night is always busy at Red Hall and while I’m grateful for that—I definitely need the business with Ferry Lights across the street trying to suck the oxygen out of our block—there is nothing more stressful. No night that needs to run more smoothly than Friday. Music is playing, and people are enjoying themselves, dancing a little in the center of the room. This is what I need to see.
So when I spot Jake Ferry, the spoiled son of the man who owns said overpriced, gaudy, classless excuse for a high-end restaurant, strolling right through my front door my eyelid twitches. Kirby raises an eyebrow, and looks around curiously for the source. “Girl, what are you looking at? You don’t have any sharp objects in reach, do you?”
I don’t answer right away—I’m looking for my resident social climber, Gloria. She can smell a billionaire brat like a shark can smell chum in the water and… yes, there she is, weaving her way through the crowd toward Jake Ferry exactly like a deep sea predator. It would serve Jake right for me to let her get her jaws on him.
It wasn’t necessarily Jake’s choice to open Ferry Lights. That tactic reeks of Reginald Ferry, but as far as I know Jake is just an asshole, not a professional asshole. And the last thing I need is Gloria stirring up some kind of PR hurricane, or worse, whispering secrets into the competition’s ear.
“I’m sorry, Kirby,” I tell my friend, “I’m so glad you came by. Can I catch up with you later? I need to… intercept.”
Kirby gives me a wicked, salacious grin. “Jake Ferry? Really?”
“Not even a little,” I tell him before we trade cheek kisses and I make my way to where Gloria is already laying it on thick.
Once I’m on the move, Jake’s eyes catch mine and track me part of the way. Gloria’s follow, and a split second later her fingers brush her prey’s cheek. She leans in and whispers something in his ear. Probably an offer to blow him in the back room.
I should let her have him. It might make for a good excuse to fire her later on. I’m too damned nice for my own good is what I am.
“Mr. Ferry,” I say as I close on them not a moment too soon—Gloria’s already escalated to flipping those platinum-blonde curls—and lean against my bar. “To what do we owe this dubious pleasure?”
“I was just entertaining our special guest,” Gloria informs me, a note of cool irritation in her voice.
“That’s the only reason I came over,” I say. “I needed someone to check in on the VIP lounge. But if you’re busy—”
“No,” Gloria says quickly, predictably. After all, why try and spear one fish when you can cast a net in a barrel? “I don’t mind at all.” She vanishes like smoke on the wind. Dangle a room full of rich dicks in Gloria’s general direction and she can display impressive celerity. It’s like magic.
Jake Ferry doesn’t even watch the girl go. He settles those smoldering eyes on me—why do spoiled assholes like him always seem to smolder so well?—and his full lips widen into the kind of smile that other girls would crow about getting soaked panties over. Not me; I’d never admit that to a living soul.
I clear my throat. “What brings you here, Mr. Ferry?” Business, girl. Business.
“Please, Miss Hall,” Jake urges, “call me Jake. Mr. Ferry is my father.”
“Is that who you
r father is?” I wonder out loud. “Well, Jake—what are you doing here?”