The Dirty Truth

“Maybe one of these days you could join us?” I offer. “Once Scarlett and I get to know each other better, I mean.”

His lips draw up at the corners, as if the mere thought of the three of us cavalcading around the city is comical. And maybe it is. But I think it’d be good for Scarlett. While it’s wonderful that West can provide for her materially, she’s going to need more than that.

“All right, fine,” I say. “Think about it and let me know.”

He swirls his drink, staring blankly ahead as if he’s lost in thought. Or maybe he’s picturing how much fun he could have if only he’d allow it.

“Good Lord, that was painful. I know seventh graders with more game than you two.” Scarlett’s slight figure takes up the narrow doorway to the study, and I waste no time rising and gathering my things. “Anyway, can we leave, Elle? I’d like to get out of here sometime before my eightieth birthday.”

West shoots her a disapproving look, and I ignore her comment.

I’m not sure how Scarlett inferred flirting out of any of that, but I’m sure she was just being a typical teenager trying to get a reaction.

“Yeah, we should bounce,” I say, knowing how lame I sound but playing it cool and casual for Scarlett’s sake. “Your uncle needs his peace and quiet so he can catch up on some more of my articles.” Turning around, I point to his collection of archived magazines. “Highly recommend the one from October 2018.”

“Burn!” Scarlett hovers a palm over her glossy lips, fighting a chuckle as we head to the elevator.

In all honesty, I don’t recall what I wrote for that month’s issue. I’m just messing with him—mostly because I can but also because he looks like he could use a healthy dose of silly. For a man with all the money in the world, it would seem he bears the weight of said money on his shoulders.

Behind the curtains of West Maxwell’s beautiful and privileged life is a dark and heavy portrait I wasn’t expecting. There are no panties hanging from lampshades. No hired hands prepping for a Friday-night party with the who’s who of the city. There’s no town car waiting to courier him to JFK for a weekend getaway to Saint Thomas or a scantily clad Brazilian runway model waiting to flank his side and usher him into weekend mode.

It’s funny—the whole world celebrates this man.

If they only knew . . . he doesn’t even celebrate himself.

I follow Scarlett to the elevator and wait for level five to disappear from view as we make our way to the main level.

“Is he always like that?” I ask.

She lifts her overplucked brows. “Like what?”

“Sullen.”

The doors glide open, depositing us onto the checkered marble foyer floor.

Scarlett bounces toward the front doors as if she can’t get out of here fast enough.

“Yeah,” she says when the late-afternoon sun wraps us in its warmth.

I shake off the chill that followed us from West’s apartment.

“Now do you see what I’m dealing with?” Scarlett asks. “He acts like he has it so bad. Dude’s allergic to happiness or something. Reminds me of this Ken doll I used to play with.”

I snicker at the analogy. West could totally be a Ken doll with his dashing good looks and perfect physique.

“He always looked pissed off at the world,” Scarlett says. “I don’t know if they painted him wrong at the factory or something, but no one ever wanted to play with him. Or if they did play with him, he was always the bad guy. The cheating husband or whatever. Then one day my mom’s boyfriend’s dog chewed his head off, and we threw the rest of him away.”

“Oh.” I lift my brows. “Well, that’s a plot twist I didn’t see coming.”

“Anyway, where are we going?” She tightens the strap of her little denim purse over her left shoulder and shoots me a quizzical look. “I should text Uncle West and let him know our exact coordinates, or he might send out the search hounds again.”

“Maybe he won’t be so bad now that he knows you’re not alone.”

“Doubtful.” Scarlett adjusts her bag. “He loves to make my life miserable. Did you know he had me watched the other day?”

“What do you mean?”

“He knew I’d met you before I even told him. Talk about psycho.”

Biting my tongue, I opt not to tell her I was the one who spilled those beans. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for a rambunctious fourteen-year-old to think her uncle has eyes on every city block.

“So . . . where to?” Scarlett yawns as she checks her phone. Not only is she bored with the city, but she’s already growing bored with me as well. Then again, I doubt she slept much last night, seeing as how she was hanging out at Penn Station at 3:00 a.m.