The Tycoon

Before I could get my shit together to slap him, Clayton was there. Right between us.

“James,” he said in a low, quiet voice that I’d never heard before. “Get out.”

“Well,” James said, smug and sneering. “It’s been a long time since you were my boss, and since you fucked up whatever deal you got with the old man and didn’t saddle the bitch when—”

Clayton took the drink out of James’s hand and then did something to his fingers that made his face go white and sweat bead up on his lip.

“You’re leaving,” Clayton said and walked James toward the front door, his arm over the other man’s shoulders like they were old friends. I turned on my heel the other way. Looking for my sisters and some fresh air.

If you were good enough for Rorick…

Tears, hot and completely unnecessary, burned in my eyes. I pushed my glasses up onto my head to wipe them away.

Once I finally got outside, through the back by the kitchens, I looked up at the sun until the tears went away.

“Veronica?”

“No,” I moaned. “No. Just…go away, Clayton.”

“Are you all right?” he asked. I felt more than heard him step closer and turned away again, because the tears were back. And this was all just too fucking much.

He was too fucking much.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

“Veronica,” he said my name like I was hurting him, and I turned on him. Whirled, really, not caring about the tears in my eyes.

“You don’t get to do this, Clayton,” I said.

“I just want to be sure you’re okay.”

“No! You don’t get to be the hero. You can kick out all the jerks and look as concerned as you can force yourself to look, and you’re still not the hero.”

He nodded slowly as if the words were not new to him, and to my horror, a tear slid down my cheek.

Thank God for my sisters, who both showed up at that moment like avenging angels.

“What are you doing, Clayton?” Bea demanded.

“Are you making her cry?” Sabrina asked, putting her long thin arms around me and holding me close. “Are you for real? Like today isn’t hard enough?”

“I’m sorry,” he said and then ducked his head like a butler and turned around.

I was locked in a Bea and Sabrina sandwich and for a moment it felt exactly like sisterhood should feel. I was supported and loved and protected. Fiercely.

“I love you guys,” I said.

It was just too bad Hank King had to die to get us here.

At some point during the endless afternoon, I gave up talking to other people, kicked off my shoes and sat next to Bea on one of Jennifer’s white couches.

Bea clinked the edge of her bourbon glass against my teacup.

“You don’t want anything stronger?” she asked.

I was on my eighth cup of tea and was in danger of crawling out of my skin. But staying sober seemed like a good idea, otherwise I might key Clayton’s car.

Or cry again.

“I’m good.”

Thelma had put her head on my knee and I was petting that sweet soft spot on the top of her nose with my thumb. It was outrageously comforting.

Also, she was getting fur all over Jennifer’s white couch and that felt good, too.

Louise the Chihuahua, always on the lookout for a dropped shrimp, found her promised land in the kitchen.

“I’m glad we brought the dogs,” I said.

“Yeah, gives you an excuse not to have to talk to anyone.”

“Exactly.”

“It was worth it for Sabrina’s abject horror.”

Thelma had greeted Sabrina with long trails of saliva hanging off her smiling face. Sabrina had not been pleased and had tried her best to keep Thelma on the back porch, but Thelma disagreed. And the 120-pound mastiff usually got her way.

“Hey,” I said and shifted next to her on the love seat, trying to wedge down between the pillows. It was surprisingly comfy and completely slouchy and exactly our kind of couch, which made me wonder if we’d actually never sat on these couches. “Before I told you about Dad what did you need to talk to me about?”

Bea watched the ice cubes melt in her glass. “You sure this is the right time?”

I glanced around with my eyes wide at the sea of people barely registering grief at our father’s funeral. “I could not think of a better time!”

She laughed, but it was so fleeting, I knew that, whatever was wrong, it was big.

“Tell me,” I said and bumped my shoulder against hers, and we slouched a little deeper into each other.

“It’s about Frank,” she said, nearly whispering. “And the bar.”

“Yeah? He okay?”

Did you break up and back out of that terrible bar idea? Because that, sweet sister, would be a silver lining on this shit day.

She was quiet just long enough that all my sister senses started to tingle. “Bea? What’s wrong?”