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ADAM
I’m regaling my clients at dinner on DAY night with a story about the first time I went to Paris to shop for antiques with a famous Hollywood actor when someone taps me on the shoulder.
“Pardon me, Mr. Coleman.”
My breath hitches at the familiar voice, but I manage to keep the smile from slipping away. When I shift in my chair and look back, Liam is standing expectantly to one side. He’s holding a smoldering cigarette and a half-filled bottle of beer. My eyes keep moving to the left as someone else steps into view. It’s the restaurant’s owner, a peevish man named Gentry. He’s glaring at me and motioning toward Liam.
“Will you please excuse me for a moment?” I say to the clients before getting out of my chair. “It’s a bit of a family emergency.”
Liam snickers. “Just a little bit,” he says, grinning at one of my guests like a drunken baboon. “But it won’t take long, okay? Sorry to interrupt your meal.”
As we zigzag through the crowded dining room, I apologize to Gentry and promise that it won’t happen again.
“That’s what you promised the last time,” he says in a curt tone. “I’ll believe it when it happens.”
Once we’re out on the sidewalk, I grab Liam’s wrist and pull him away from the restaurant entrance.
“What the fuck do you want?” I snap.
He glares at me. “What do you think? I want the money that you promised me.”
I turn toward the street, taking a moment to watch the traffic blur past on Second Avenue. Liam’s muttering something about Dirty Secrets Social Club, so I whirl around and catch the end of his rant.
“…and the sweet young thing that you nailed,” he says. “My buddy told me that part of your fun was streamed live from the elevator to all of the televisions in the club. That doesn’t sound like you at all, mister. Are you trying some new tricks now that you’re pushing fifty?”
My hands convulse before forming fists that I press against my thighs. I want to grab the lapels of his jacket and body slam him to the pavement, but I stop myself before there’s a chance it will go beyond an involuntary jerk of both arms.
“Ah, don’t get all grumpy,” he jeers. “I know that you’re not quite there yet, old man. Another seven or eight years, isn’t it?”
I swallow hard to keep from unleashing an angry outburst. Instead, I focus on my breathing, trying to remember the relaxation exercises that a fuck bud taught me once.
“How was he?” Liam asks, pulling my attention back to the moment.
“Who?”
He laughs again. “The kid in the elevator at Dirty Secrets? My buddy told me that you were going to fuck him right there until some old geezer needed to go upstairs.”
One, two, three. Breathe in. Hold. Four, five, six.
“Your buddy got it wrong,” I say after exhaling slowly.
“I don’t think so.” Liam winks. “I’ve seen the footage, Big Daddy. That little boy was thrusting back against your hand with his ass like a—”
“My personal life isn’t your business,” I say sharply. “And I don’t appreciate it being grist for the gossip mill.”
He laughs. “Grist? What the fuck is that?”
“Never mind,” I say. “Did you call Gillian yet?”
“The bitch told me that she’s done helping,” he snarls.
I wince at my sister being maligned so easily. I stare at the handsome young guy with the spiky black hair and scruff that darkens the lower half of his face like a permanent shadow. There’s a glint of cruelty in his eyes that reminds me of my father when I was a kid. I saw the same flash of malice before he delivered one of his infamous reprimands when Gillian and I were growing up. Life was hard enough with an alcoholic mother, so having an angry, spiteful father constantly berating every thought, word and deed seemed like a double dose of pitiless destiny. My close friends always tell me that’s the root of my successful career, but I was daydreaming about designing and building houses before my mother’s breast cancer was diagnosed or my father’s sunny disposition was forever darkened by her death.
“Why’re you looking at me that way?” Liam asks.
I blink away the unsolicited memories of my father. Then I tell him that I’m done serving as his personal ATM.
“It’s time you got a job,” I add. “And I’m talking about a real one, too. Not those half-baked schemes you cook up with your friends.”
“That’s what they told Steve Jobs,” he says. “And the guy that started Apple.”
I shake my head. “That is Steve Jobs, you dolt.”
He narrows his eyes. “You sure?”
I ignore the question, pull out my wallet and give him two hundred dollars.
“No more,” I say. “And if you put that up your nose, that’s something that I don’t want to ever hear about.”
He scowls. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Devon told me about your little dalliance with his ex,” I say. “He tried to get me to watch the video on that website, but I got the fuck out of his office before it started to play.”
Liam smiles. “We don’t fuck or anything. It’s just some harmless fun with a few other guys from the rugby team.”
“Ah, so post-game antics, huh?”
He shrugs. “Something like that. And for the fucking record, I didn’t buy the coke. Some other guy had it when I got there that night.”
“Not my business,” I say, holding up one hand. “The thing that I don’t understand is why you would let yourself be videotaped. Don’t you realize that shit is forever once it’s uploaded?”
“If it ever comes up, I’ll claim the tape was doctored. That excuse works for celebrities and shit. They say the video was doctored, the pictures were Photoshopped, the nose job wasn’t really a nose job.”
“Sorry to break this to you,” I say, “but you’re not famous.”
He flashes a wide grin. “Not yet. But I’m working on a deal with some girl. Her brother works for a guy that used to be the gardener at Tom Cruise’s house.”
I laugh. “Sounds rock solid, buddy. Good luck with show business.”
“Thanks, man. And here’s another one for the record, okay? After I get one of these ideas up and running, I’ll pay you back every last dime. The money you loaned me, the cost of fixing the broken window in your townhouse, the airplane ticket to London.”
“I won’t hold my breath,” I say. “But I will hope you’re right about one of your ideas. You’re a better person than you think, Liam. Underneath all that bullshit and hot air and anger is a really sweet kid.”
He growls. “I’m fucking thirty-two. I’m not a kid.”
After he slides the money into the back pocket of his jeans, Liam scuffs the toe of one boot against the concrete.
“Anyway,” he says. “I really do appreciate the help. And I’m still looking for that extra key. When I find it, I’ll drop it by your office.”
“Thanks,” I say, reaching to shake his hand. “I’m still on your side.”
He keeps staring at the sidewalk. “That’s good to hear. I wasn’t sure how you’d feel after…” His voice slides into silence; there’s no need to reiterate what we both know all too well. “But I’ll keep looking. It’s sure to turn up.”
“How did you know where I was having dinner?” I ask.
He finally looks up. “Some people still like me, Adam. I called your office.”
“Charlotte would never give out that kind of information,” I say. “Who’d you con this time?”
“No need to be petty,” he says slowly. “And it doesn’t matter which one of your minions told me that you’d be here tonight. I found you. You did the right thing. And now it’s time for me to exit stage left so you can get back in there and convince those poor suckers that you’re the greatest architect in the world.”