Holding my breath, I wait. Some women are sensitive about these types of things. But Skittles nods with a self-deprecating smile. “The fifty dollars,” she announces to the room, “was all the money I had on me at the time. And it was for the first kiss.”
There is a chorus of “oohs” from the room, and Yuna claps lightly. Skittles turns back to me. “Let ’em laugh all they want. That fifty dollars brought you to me.”
With a smile, she links her fingers with mine. The same warmth I felt when I first saw her swells like one of those huge, colorful hot-air balloons, filling me until I can barely breathe.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Court
After a particularly late and leisurely brunch, I watch as Skittles sighs on the other side of the dining table. It’s not because she’s replete. She’s checking her emails and texts, something she’s been doing frequently over since her aborted dinner with her family.
Although she puts on a cheery face, I know she’s worried about her job situation. She hasn’t had a single interview in the more than two weeks since she walked out of SFG. I don’t understand why, though. She’s brilliant. She asked me to review her résumé last week, and I didn’t see anything that jumped out as a red flag.
Unlike her, I’m avoiding my phone as much as I can. Dad’s roid-raging pit bulls—I mean lawyers—have been hounding me for days now. Apparently, they really need to talk to me. About what, who the hell knows? But there’s no way it can be anything pleasant. They’re lawyers for a reason.
As I make my way to the kitchen for another coffee, the concierge calls to let me know a personal courier has arrived for me. I let the guy up, although I’m not sure who would be sending me something. Dad isn’t the type to mail anything, except for birthdays and Christmas. Hopefully it’s not Mom. She’s been quiet since the last hospitalization drama, and I’m hoping things stay that way. I don’t have the patience to deal with her issues at the moment. Her manipulative ways are just becoming too much.
She’s your mom.
Yeah, no kidding. That hasn’t changed, and never will. But somehow that fact only serves to upset me. My gaze slides toward Skittles, now working on her laptop. Look at her. She’s working her ass off to be somebody on her own. Even though she’s becoming more anxious, and she knows who I am and the kind of influence I can exert on her behalf, she’s never even hinted.
The package turns out to be a registered letter. I sign for it and immediately rip it open, walking toward the kitchen to toss the envelope. It’s from Percival Langois, one of Dad’s lawyers. The letter inside makes my blood boil.
Dear Mr. Harcourt Blackwood,
This is our final attempt to reach out to you. Your father, Tulane Blackwood, is increasingly disappointed with your irresponsible behavior and attitude toward the family legacy. He understands you are currently involved with Pascal Snyder, and that she is seeking employment. Blackwood Energy is more than happy to make an offer and relocate both of you to Tempérane.
I happen to be in Los Angeles this week, and would be delighted to talk with you at any time today or tomorrow, whenever is convenient for you. All you have to do is just respond to my text from earlier this week…
He happens to be in Los Angeles. Does he think I’m an idiot? I stop reading, too pissed off to continue. Does Dad really think my refusal to go to Tempérane is about Skittles? Or her employment situation?
I clench my fist. The sound of the envelope crumpling gets Skittles’ attention. “What’s that? Bad news?”
“Motivation for patricide.”
“What?” She lets out a little laugh. “Can’t be that bad, can it?”
>
She doesn’t understand how complicated things are. When Dad’s hands-off, he can be overly so, even when he knows things are total mess. But when he decides to get hands-on, you might as well try to stop a determined bulldozer.
Personal courier delivery or not, I would normally ignore the letter. But Dad’s dragging Skittles into the family issues, and that’s unacceptable. Besides, I don’t know how far he’ll go to get what he wants. My parents don’t always understand the concept of limits. So it’s time I set some explicit boundaries.
I check my texts and see the one yesterday from Percy, asking me to meet him for dinner today. Bastard. Since I’m feeling less than agreeable, I text back, Lunch would be better.
Capital idea, he responds. Palpable relief comes through the bright electric pixels. What time and where?
I say twelve thirty and La Mer if he can swing a reservation, laughing to myself all the while. Setting up an orgy between Romulans and Vulcans would be easier than getting a table at La Mer at the last minute.
A few minutes later, he replies, Done. See you then.
I stare at the letters. How the hell did he manage that? Not even Nate, who’s related to La Mer’s owner by marriage, can do that. Then I narrow my eyes. I bet he made a reservation at every top restaurant in the city, just in case. That’d be just like him, because he loathes disappointing his clients. Although if there were any justice, Percy the barracuda would be zapped by lightning every time he set foot into a restaurant fancier than Panda Express.
Skittles’ phone beeps. She lunges for it, stares at it for a second, then visibly deflates. “It’s Curie. She wants to know if we can have lunch together today.” She sighs and collapses onto the couch, her head thrown back.
“You don’t want to go?” I thought Curie and she were still tight. Or did I screw things up for them when I threw Curie over my shoulder in Maui?
“I do, but… I’m just being a bad sister. I should be happy to see her, but I just wish it were…” She closes her eyes. “Nothing.”