A THIEF AND A LIAR.
She’d earned those titles through hard work and persistence.
The first time I saw Edie Van Der Zee was at a barbecue when we were celebrating Knight’s—Dean Cole’s son’s—birthday. It was mere weeks before she started working at Fiscal Heights Holdings, and she’d stolen the attention and limelight purely by standing there, looking like she did. Like a dirty, grunge angel with big ocean eyes and hair like virginal sand.
The second time I saw her, her theft was literal—she was stealing from my mother.
The whatever-the-fuck time I saw her today, she was lying to my face about watering Jordan’s plants (he hired a certified florist for that—she came in four times a week), without blinking an eye.
So why in the good fuck was I taken aback by the footage in front of me?
I was watching the security camera playing the same image of Edie trying to go through my locked drawers and slipping my iPad in her skirt. Over. And over. And over. Again.
Rewind. Pause. Squint. Repeat.
Finally, I leaned back in my chair, lacing my fingers together and assessing the shit storm she’d so persistently brewed for me.
There was nothing on the iPad she could benefit from, unless she had the interests and hobbies of a four-year-old. The iPad belonged to Luna. The only repugnant evidence Edie had access to were pictures of animals and food items and some kiddie apps.
But why would Edie need my iPad in the first place?
The girl wasn’t swimming in materialistic things. That was not an assumption, but a fact. The way she’d eaten at the restaurant, like she was tasting food for the very first time, was a dead giveaway to her situation. Then there were the small things not many people would have noticed, but someone who used to be poor would. Her shoes—not the ones she borrowed from her mother—were tattered and worn-out. Her backpack was stitched, held by safety pins, and not because it looked cool. Her car needed an urgent date with the shop. She never ate out or ordered takeout with the rest of the floor.
She needed money.
She saved every penny.
Fuck if I knew why.
Fuck if I knew what for.
I wanted to believe that she’d stolen Luna’s iPad so she could sell it. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending how I looked at it), I’d grown up amongst enough thieves to know that jewelry and cash were the only things they were actually interested in. Shit you could pawn or burn. Anything else was…well, pointless.
Which left me with the inevitable conclusion—Jordan Van Der Zee.
She hated her father, but that really didn’t mean shit. At the end of the day, life was not a game of chess. Life was fucking Jenga. You tried winging through it, hoping it wouldn’t fall down in spectacular fashion and bury you. I was the first to acknowledge that sometimes you had to do stuff you weren’t completely okay with for the greater good. There was always a bigger game to be played, and Edie‘s father had clearly cut the umbilical cord to her money stream.
She had a secret. A dark lie that had thrown her off her golden path. Everyone harbored a clandestine secret or two. No exceptions. I’d never been interested in knowing what they were before. Part of me was thankful that Vicious, Jaime, and Dean allowed me to stew in my silence. They didn’t push me to talk about shit, which was a blessing.
But with Edie, I wanted to know. I wanted to pull the secrets out of her like a magician. To wrench this endless handkerchief from her mouth and know everything there was to know.
Why does she need so much money? Why did her dad cut her off? What lies behind her agenda against the wealthy? Why does she call her father Jordan? Why do I get the feeling that she hates him almost as much as I do? Who the fuck is Bane and how can I make him disappear without any grave consequences?
Really, the iPad was the least of my worries.
Edie Van Der Zee consumed me in ways only my daughter ever had, and that should be enough for me to demote her ass to another floor, or better yet, get her fired. Acting on my craving for her was impossible. But I couldn’t get rid of her, either, because Luna loved her. Fuck, Edie had hugged her today at the traffic light. That was huge. Maybe not for Edie, but definitely for me. So I decided to go against my instincts, rules, and basic principles and let the iPad incident slide. I was going to keep an eye on Edie’s ass from now on, and not in the way I’d been checking her out, but allow her the benefit of the doubt. For now.
For now.
The following Saturday, Camila asked if she could take Luna to the zoo and I jumped on the opportunity to have some time for myself. Even though my parents took a huge chunk of the parenting load, and Camila did some of the heavy lifting, I was the one who had to tackle the real emergencies. Like taking Luna to the pediatrician when a rash broke out all over her body, or when she got stung by a bee, or when she had a fucking breakdown in the middle of Target and cried on the floor for twenty minutes straight because some douchebag hit his dog in front of her in the parking lot and her heart broke along with the dog’s back leg.
I spent my morning weight-training with the guys. All their wives had decided to take the kids for ice cream. I was half-relieved Luna was with Camila, because I knew Emilia would ask to take her with them, and Luna didn’t like hanging out with my friends’ kids very much. Knight protected her furiously every time someone made fun of her—he was a year younger but acted like an older brother every time they were together—but Daria regarded her with caution and confusion.
“So, are you growing a hymen on your dick, or how does it work?” Dean grunted, curling his biceps with a forty-pound dumbbell in each hand in front of the mirror in my building’s gym. Every single one of these bastards had their own personal gym at home, but they always ended up crashing here, because they enjoyed the music, company, and making fun of the local meatheads.
Jaime slapped the back of Dean’s neck. “Time to shut up. Let the man live his life the way he pleases. You’ve never had to deal with something like this.”
“That’s right.” Dean gritted his teeth, shooting Jaime a dirty look. “I don’t have to deal with any bad shit. Right, man?”
Vicious was close to rolling his eyes, and the fucker never showed exasperation, even at the toughest times. He finished his set of chin-ups, jumped down from the bar, and walked over to us, squeezing his water bottle all over his face and opening his mouth to drink some of it.
“This conversation is as pointless as a tit-less chick. Fucker probably sees more pussy than your wife’s OB/GYN.” Vicious pointed at Jaime with his bottle, his black hair dripping sweat and water. “And even if he stayed celibate for a while—which I don’t buy for a second—he is about to fuck Little Miss Jailbait.”
“Edie Van Der Zee,” Jaime supplied, moving over to his bench and reaching for his protein shake. “No chance in hell. Up until she started working for us, I used to see her every morning while I was jogging on the beach. She was surfing with her blond, very naked, very tattooed boyfriend. She had hearts in her eyes when he handed her beers at seven in the morning and cupped her ass like it was his beloved firstborn. Apparently, that’s what the cool kids do these days. Drunk surf.” He laughed, shaking his head. I stared at him blankly, not answering, because the only comeback I could think of was going to be my fist. Bane sounded fucking fitting. He was quickly becoming the bane of my existence. I wasn’t even sure why I cared. I wasn’t jealous. No way. She was a teenager, for fuck’s sake. Maybe that’s what looking after someone felt like. Bane looked like trouble, while she simply looked troubled. There was a difference. A huge one.
Troubled could be forsaken, forgiven, and redeemed.
Trouble was the arms in which Troubled died an unhurried, raw death.
He gave her drugs. He gave her booze. He wanted to have un-vanilla sex with her. In short, he did exactly what I would have done had I been eighteen again.
“You’re shaking,” Dean noted dully, moving over to me and taking away the two dumbbells I used for my shoulder press. They hung in the air for long seconds while I contemplated all the ways I could break Jaime’s teeth so he wouldn’t tell me shit like that again.
“Anyway, so, yeah, are you seeing anyone, or what, Trent?” Jaime asked, finishing his protein shake with a gulp.
I shook my head.
“Why not?” Dean asked.
“Because it’s complicated. Because I don’t think there’s a woman out there who can really understand Luna’s situation. Because I’m busy with work.”
Because the furthest I’d ever gone with a woman emotionally or otherwise was with Val, whom I made a kid with, and she fucked off, and I’m trying to find her, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult not to sink under the weight of pity and expectation. And sometimes, at night, when I lie awake, tossing and turning in my bed, I tell myself that Luna’s turmoil, problems, lack of words, is all her fault and hope she is dead.
“Luna seems to have taken a shine to Edie. I keep seeing them hanging out together.” Dean walked over to the bench next to me, and now we were all either standing or sitting in a circle, sweaty and spent and ready to tackle the day. I plucked the towel off my bench and rubbed it on my face.
“So?”
“So, is that why you’re keeping her? Jesus, dude, pulling words out of you is like performing dental extraction on a hippo. Spill it.”
They all chuckled and stared at me, waiting for an answer. I shrugged, getting up. “Guess so. She is harmless. Just a kid. And Luna likes her. Don’t ask me why. So I let them hang out when Camila is watching.”
“Maybe she can babysit Luna while you go out on dates. She seems to be strapped for cash for some reason,” Dean—always too fucking perceptive—suggested.
“Maybe. If I were dating. Which I’m not.”
“Which you will,” Jaime amended, burping loudly. “Mel has a friend from her dance studio. She teaches ballet. Beautiful, smart, divorced with one kid.”
Here we go again. Ever since I became a single dad, people tried throwing divorcees with kids at me like beads at Mardi Gras.
“Single parents are not a fucking cult,” I gritted my teeth, adding, “and it’s a no.”
“I don’t think Mel asked for your permission, bro. She is just waiting for Katie to get back to her about her class schedule to see when she’s available.”
An ambush. Perfect.
The last thing I told them before I went back up to my penthouse for a shower and a long afternoon of watching shitty movies and flipping through the pages of all the useless reports Amanda had given me over the years was, “I’m not interested in dating.”
But, of course, my friends’ wives were much more stubborn than them.
And so much more determined than me.