Chapter Eleven

Reagan

I sigh as I walk into the back offices of the Armónico. Nixon’s called me over for something urgent, and I can only imagine what’s in store for me. If it’s a mocking moonlight serenade of Happy Birthday by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, I’ll lose my shit.

Nix will not be allowed to beat me at my own game.

“Sit down,” Nixon thunders as I walk into his office. “I can’t believe you’d do something so inane. Didn’t you learn your lesson the time you dipped red onions in caramel and delivered them to all the shop owners in Dad’s casino for Halloween? You’re going to get yourself killed with your warped idea of comic relief. You’re a lawyer, remember?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask innocently, walking across the office floor, and settling into the chair behind Nixon’s desk. He rolls his eyes at me, and I delight in his frustration.

“Reagan, dude, I saw that stupid singing telegram,” Nixon says. “You can’t keep doing this to Taryn. She’s got enough on her plate already. You’re going to put her off her game.”

I shrug because I don’t like my brother scolding me. He’s not my father. Besides, I think I know what’s best for Taryn before he does. “I didn’t do anything. It’s not my fault if someone thinks birthday jokes are funny.”

Nixon gives me a look that could freeze molten lava. “You’re the only one into birthday humor, Bozo. I saw the quartet on the cameras – you know, my security cameras. You forget her boutique is inside my damn casino.”

I burst out laughing, wanting to share my victory with my older brother. “Wasn’t it great? That look on her face.” Just the memory of beautiful Taryn confounded by the troupe of barbershop singers is enough to make me laugh so hard tears come to my eyes. “She was so confused. It took her mind off Dante and his petty threats. What could be wrong with that?”

“Yeah,” Nixon snaps. “She was confused all right. And you really need to knock it off, bro, before I get annoyed enough to knock your head off your shoulders.”

I shrug again, not allowing him to get to me. “Bailey thought it was funny. You know, her friend.”

“Bailey isn’t the owner and operator of a high-end boutique that’s precariously close to being shut down,” Nixon growls. “I told you, Reagan Caldwell, that poor woman doesn’t need any more stress. She’s already dealing with enough shit as it is.”

“I think she thought it was entertaining,” I say, kicking my legs up onto Nixon’s desk. “She was distracted, at least. And you’re not my father.”

Nixon sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “You’re a grown man, and you still act like a child. I have no idea how you got anywhere in life. Do you do this kind of shit in your elite law office?”

“That’s not exactly fair, bro,” I reply sarcastically. “Everyone loves a good joke, right? And to answer your question, yes, I play practical jokes all the time. It’s good for morale.”

“Yeah, except your jokes aren’t good. Who in the hell would think your stupid birthday jokes are funny?” He lifts a finger. “Wait, maybe somebody who’s had a lobotomy.”

“Hey,” I say, quick to defend myself. “Look, I didn’t come up with this on my own, you know. If those dumb servers at the restaurant hadn’t screwed up, I never would’ve had the idea to keep the running joke on the track.”

“Oh, god,” Nixon groans, burying his face in his hands. “That’s the last thing I need right now, a closed boutique because the owner goes insane and loses her mind.”

“She’s not going to lose her mind, calm down,” I say, spreading my hands in the air. “She’s just…well, it’s a good time for some humor, right? Laughter makes everything look brighter.”

“That’s your problem. You think everyone loves pranks as much as you do. I can’t believe you, Reagan. I can’t believe you’re still acting like a grade schooler with a fart machine.”

The memory makes me laugh, and soon, I’m doubled up in Nixon’s luxe office chair, laughing so hard that my sides ache and tears fill my eyes.

“God, it wasn’t even funny then,” Nixon says, shaking his head in disgust. “I can’t believe you got away with that antic back in sixth grade.”

I’m still gasping and choking for air when I open my mouth to speak because I know where he’s headed. “Man, I’ll never forget the expression on his face.”

Nixon gives me a deadpan look. “You put a flaming bag of dog shit on Principal McNeal’s front porch. That’s not even original.”

“But it’s still hysterical,” I counter, reaching for a bottle of mineral water from the small refrigerator Nixon keeps under his desk. “I thought it was funny then, and I know it’s funny now.”

“You’ve got to cut this shit out,” Nixon says. “We’re not kids anymore, Reagan. You’re lucky you’ve never been sued. Trespassing. Loitering. You’re going to be a lawyer in the slammer. Not a good look.”

“I know better than to open myself up to a lawsuit. And if some poor sap with a non-existent sense of humor takes action, I can easily get myself off the hook.”

Nixon closes his eyes and gives a shuddering sigh like he can’t even believe that I’m his brother.

“Not my fault you’re such a stick in the mud,” I say. “I really thought Marcella would soften you a little. You’re still the same stick-up-your-ass tightwad you’ve always been. Live a little.”

Nixon glares at me. “You’re the tightwad.”

I shrug. “I’ve always been like this. That’s not my fault, either. I should have tried out for amateur night at The Comedy Store before I headed off to NYC. But that’s a story for another day. I had a set ready and everything. Still do.”

“I know,” Nixon says. For a second, empathy oozes from my brother’s navy eyes. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Sure, maybe I wasn’t born with a penchant for practical jokes…but if not, it developed pretty soon after infancy. Growing up in a house with so many brothers, I had to find my own way to stand out. Mom and Dad were always so busy helping Lincoln and praising Nixon, that I felt unseen. Nixon was always the golden child when it came to school, and Ford was practically a genius from the time he started using the potty chair. And Carter, well…he could cook solid food before he could eat it.

My jokes are my source of comfort – humor has always been my go-to emotion. I admit that some of my jokes – like hiding an empty ring box in my sock drawer for snooping girlfriends to find – have fallen flat. But Taryn seems a little uptight for someone with such a brilliant light surrounding her. I’m hoping that my jokes can help break her out of her shell.

“I heard you got Eva Blake for Taryn,” Nixon says, nodding. “That rocks. I’m sure she appreciates it. So do I.”

“It was the least I could do. She was so fucking stressed about that show. I had to do something. Barbershop quartet notwithstanding.”

Nixon raises an eyebrow. “Does she know the reason why Blake was so eager to fly out here?”

I shake my head. “No. And you’re not going to tell her, either.”

“Man, I’m happy with my Marcella but damn. I can’t believe you fucked a supermodel. Multiple times. I won’t ask you to fill me in on the gory details.”

“It was a one-time thing,” I say, brushing it off. Out of sight. Out of mind. In truth, it was more like a two or three-time thing, but Nixon doesn’t need to know that.

“Maybe you should tell Taryn,” Nixon says in a sly voice, raising an eyebrow. “She might be interested in the truth. You know how women get when they think we’re lying. Even if it’s only by omission.”

“No. Don’t. She’s not going to find out.”

“I’m always a fan of transparency with my associates,” Nixon says with a smirk. “She should probably know, Reagan.”

“Too bad she’s never going to find out,” I snap.

Nixon stares at me for a long time. “You really have a thing for her, don’t you? If you didn’t, me asking you to divulge your sexual history wouldn’t even phase you. You both have pasts. It’s not like Taryn’s the demure little virgin. She’s in her late twenties.”

I shrug, feeling helpless. “I don’t know. It feels wrong in my gut.”

“Come on,” Nixon groans. “Just tell her the truth. I don’t want to have to suffer the fallout of guilt by association with a known liar.”

“I can’t.” I shake my head and down the rest of my mineral water. I wish it was champagne – and I wish I was back with Taryn, drinking right in the middle of Strict Nécessaire and watching the fire flash in her emerald eyes.

“Well, I can totally tell,” Nixon says. “It feels like just yesterday that I fell in love with Marcella.”

“How is she, by the way?”

Nixon raises an eyebrow. “Don’t change the subject. Taryn. You’re falling for her, aren’t you?”

“It’s not that.” It is that, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no way a woman like her would ever fall for an uptight lawyer like me. She’s so cosmopolitan and sophisticated, and I’m just a poser in a designer suit who only wanted to be the next Daniel Tosh.

“Then what is it?”

“I…” I trail off, fumbling with the empty bottle. “It’s just that I had such a huge crush on her back in college. It feels a little surreal to be working with her now, up close and personal.”

Nixon smirks, and I know he’s picturing me choking the chicken to Taryn’s image. Gross and double gross. “Up close and personal. I think that’s the name of the lingerie section of her boutique.”

I launch the death glare and hope it pierces his Benedict Arnold chest. Where’s the brotherly love? “It’s none of your business.”

Nixon snickers and says in a sing-song voice that grates on my last nerve, “Yeah, buddy, sure, just keep telling yourself that. I can see the writing on the wall. You want her, and you’re trying to make her fall in love with you. Look, a little advice – cut back on the jokes. Girls don’t like that. Just tell her you’re pussy-whipped. Honesty is the best policy. If you tell her, maybe she’ll let you actually see it.”

If only you knew, big brother.

“Oh, like you know her so well,” I shoot back, keeping my intimate moment to myself. I don’t kiss and tell. Even to my own flesh and blood.

“I’ve worked with Taryn a long time now, and she’s never been anything but perfectly professional,” Nixon says. “You live in the Disney World for adults, and you’re so concerned with being so goddamned business-like all the time, I bet you don’t even partake in the NYC feminine buffet.”

“Well, I do own a business.” Sarcasm drips from each word. “And as for the buffet? Most of those women are like dudes with tits. If I wanted my balls busted, I’d hire a female trainer to whip my ass into shape.”

Before I can say more, his phone rings. I listen to thirty seconds of Nixon’s half of an intense conversation. When Nixon hangs up, he springs up and grabs his laptop, shoving it into his briefcase.

“What’s up?”

“Trouble at the casino. Someone’s being held – dealer thinks he was trying to count cards. With my luck at the moment, it’s probably the same fucker who got thrown out of Hard Rock last week.”

“Ah, the life of a casino owner,” I say smugly. “Off to the races?”

“Yeah.” A serious look turns his lips into a frown. “Later, man. Remember what I said about the jokes. Stifle them or at least tone them down.”

“How could I forget,” I mutter as Nixon strides out of his office. “You only said it like, five fucking times.”

As soon as Nixon’s gone, I hop up and saunter out of his office, closing the door behind me. His assistant, Carol, has already gone for the day and the only person hanging out in the back office is Troy, Nixon’s right-hand man and friend.

“Hey, Troy,” I say, walking up to shake his hand. “Long time no see, my friend.”

He stares at me, probably wondering why I’m wandering around alone.

I hope he doesn’t decide to take me down. He’s a sheet of solid muscle, and he doesn’t even flinch at the strength of my handshake.

“Good to see you, Reagan.”

“Hey, does my brother pay you enough to deal with his obnoxious ass?” I cock my head to the side, anticipating his answer. The value of the Hope Diamond wouldn’t be enough to deal with Nix.

Troy grunts in response and attempts a smile, but it turns out to be more like a baring of teeth. He’s tough, and I remember him coming around a ton when he and Nix were boys. He’s kind of a man of few words unless you’re in his intimate circle. And I fell out of favor years ago if I was ever really there at all.

“How about five Benjamins for an easy task?”

Troy doesn’t reply.

“Okay, fine, make it a cool thousand.” Money means nothing to me, and since I have no family to spend my hard-earned cash on, all I seem to do is invest. And just make more and more money. “All you have to do is hand deliver an animated birthday card.”

“A birthday card?” Troy’s voice rumbles from deep inside his barrel-like chest. “What? Like from the gift shop.”

“Yeah. Just a card, don’t even worry about signing it. Make it out to Taryn, the woman who owns Strict Nécessaire. You know, that fancy clothing shop on the Promenade?”

“Yeah, I know it,” he says and crosses his arms over his broad shoulder. “And you know what, Caldwell?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re a douche.”