Save Me, Sinners
I take a mental left turn, and immerse myself in planning instead. A literal brainstorm as I try to think of the buzz around this or that distillery or vineyard. Who has something coming up that would make some noise? Someone loyal, that I could keep the Ferrys cut out of? I hate that I’m thinking that way, but at least regional exclusivity is entirely above board. I don’t doubt for second that Ferry Lights is making deals like that. Though for all I know I’m going to find myself blacklisted by every distributer in the region before long.
Didn’t I hear something about a wedding recently? Who was that… I sift through memories of my daily trek through the social media universe, looking for what I’m reminded of and… yes! That’s it. Tim Waller and Jenna Stone just announced their wedding plans a few months ago, and it should be happening sometime this month. I’ve known Tim for years, and he’s been meaning to come by Red Hall. I bet if I offered to host the reception he’d take me up on it. An exclusive event like that would catapult Red Hall way above Ferry Lights; and Reginald can kiss my ass from below.
I need to take more spa days.
Chapter 54
Jake
Reginald doesn’t bother to schedule parties. When he’s in the mood, people show up out of the woodwork to attend. It’s one of the rare times when all his little playthings are in one place.
When I come home from a much-needed visit to the gym—the one across town, not the one at home; it’s as much about getting out as it is burning off stress—it seems one of these affairs has sprung up spontaneously in my absence. For all I know, it’s because of my absence.
The first sign of the event, of course, is the line of cars filling the circular driveway in front of the house, surrounding the great fountain at the center. I have to park the Benz to one side because the garage is blocked.
The second sign, this one far more troublesome, is Toia, who’s barely keeping herself together as she stalks across the foyer and up the stairs, dressed in a bathing suit. That’s not usual, but it’s not unheard of—just normally not during a party. I assume this means Reginald is feeling particularly sadistic tonight.
A quick visit to the party deck, where the pool is, informs me of the problem. It seems there’s a fashion show in progress. Walking across the glass bridge over the pool as though walking on water, there’s a slender Asian girl parading from one end to the other in one of Toia’s evening gowns. Looking around, it’s easy to see that she isn’t the only one. My father is lounging in a speedo, proudly displaying his erection while he cheers them on.
Poor Toia. She’s too damn dumb and helpless to grow a spine. Not like my mother was; though it took her long enough to do so. Somehow, I didn’t think Toia ever would.
It’s disgusting how he treats people. Everyone is a pawn or a plaything. A rapid alpha male, if Reginald can dominate the people around him, he will. Even his own wife. Even these playthings—all of them have the look of women who hate one another, but what are they going to do? Complain? My father keeps them stocked in pretty clothes, prescriptions from crooked doctors, and for the ones he really likes he even puts them up in nice apartments. Two of them have chauffeurs.
The Asian girl leaves the walkway and is replaced by someone who is clearly a professional fashion model—she manages a more or less genuine-looking smile. She’s probably new. I don’t recognize her, but then again it’s hard to keep track of Reginald’s women.
When I look away, I see my father staring at me. There’s a cold, meaningful fury to his eyes and I know right then that he knows what I did. The timing was too perfect for it to have been a coincidence. As far as I know, he didn’t put the hit piece out at all. There would have been no point.
At least for now, he’s not in the mood to have a discussion about it. Well, to call it a discussion… probably it would be a dressing down or maybe, finally, a disinheritance speech. I find myself hoping it will be. Except I doubt that my father would stop there.
He waves a hand, and one of the girls approaches him. He glances up at her, and then down at his tented Speedo before he looks at me again, a vicious grin on his face. Like a good little pet, she kneels beside his chair, pulls him out of his Lycra prison and starts to go down on him, his fingers tangled in her hair. Like watching a train wreck, for half a second I can’t look away. I see her eyes close tight, and I recognize the spasm of her shoulders as he forces her down and she gags.
I don’t show my disgust outwardly. Just turn, and walk away. He doesn’t have to say what he’s thinking for me to know what he means. He’s in charge; don’t forget it. No worries, Dad. I never do.
I make my way to my room, lost in thought. My father has never been one for things like spankings, or even beatings. Oh, he’s hit me a few times. But the real punishment is always more clever, more subtle, more insidious than that.
What I did was a big deal. I know that. But I also know how my father thinks. Whatever he comes up with, it will be a warning shot across the bow—a reminder that he’s in charge. It’ll hurt, but it won’t be the end.
The part that will hurt the worst, I realize, is what he comes up with to make up for the lost opportunity to hit Janie Hall where it will make a difference.
As I let the cool water wash over me in the shower, I start to doubt the wisdom of what I’ve done to help Janie. There’s every chance in the world that I’ve only made it worse.
Shit.
Chapter 55
Janie
Most of the time, the celebrities that frequent Red Hall are a boon. They show up, they bring their friends, and they attract the paparazzi. While I don’t care for them personally, they do attract the crowd that knows how to locate celebrities. Every person in this weird social food chain has money and wants to spend it in Red Hall. It’s good business, and I’m grateful for it even if I sometimes have to let security throw out the occasional stalker.
But once in a while, one of the bad ones shows up.
You know the ones—they’re recent reality TV stars or known divas who live to make a scene wherever they go. One of them, Martin Twill, who did two seasons of some TV show I didn’t see, has managed to consistently stay in the public eye by mouthing off, getting wasted in public, and pulling every trick he can think of to stay in the public consciousness.
In his defense, it’s worked. In the last year or so he’s managed to finagle everything from a successful YouTube channel to spots on major panels for the hot networks. Whatever, go him.
Just two days after Red Hall reopens, I see him stumble into the lounge and start doing what he does—making a scene. Cameras come out, and it’s like throwing gasoline on a burning building. Things get rough, and ultimately I have to sic security on him and personally escort him to the door. I’m polite about it, professional. I tell him he’s welcome to come back sober, but this is not the environment that appreciates an outburst. Buh-bye.
According to all present, I handled the situation just fine.