Fixed Forever Page 10

  “Mira! I can’t promise—”

  She cut me off. “Promise me, Laynie, or I’m calling Hudson and telling him what you’re up to. I am a mother, too, in case you forgot, and if you won’t be safe, keep us safe, I’ll make sure it happens.”

  I sucked a breath in and held it, afraid if I let it out, I’d explode. Not just because I didn’t want to give up my investigation, but because I had so much bursting inside of me, so much emotion and anxiety building up about these threats and nowhere to put the energy. What was I supposed to do with all of it? Let it keep hold of me and my thoughts, let the obsessions take root in my mind? I didn’t want to be the insane, fixated woman that my husband seemed to think he’d married.

  But I definitely didn’t want to put other people in danger—not Mira. Not my kids.

  Not even me.

  “Okay. Fine,” I promised woefully.

  “Thank you,” she said, sharply. Then she walked out of the consultation room shutting the door loudly behind her. All the energy I’d felt in her presence had collapsed into sheer exhaustion. I was no closer to uncovering the truth than I was before, and I’d upset the only sister I had in the bargain.

  A second later the door opened again. "I’m bringing something for you to try on, by the way, so that if I bump into my brother later and it comes up that I saw you, I won't be lying when I say you stopped by to get a new dress." She left the room again, slamming the door as hard as she had the first time.

  I supposed I'd forgotten she'd always been on our side—Hudson’s and mine—as a team.

  And there was absolutely one thing I could always count on Mira for without question— picking out the right outfit.

  She sent her assistant back to the dressing room with a stunning Diane Von Furstenberg wrap, color-blocked in luxurious shades of dark blue. It fit perfectly when I put it on, accentuating the hips I’d developed over the last few years, hiding the belly that had been a souvenir from childbirth.

  It made me feel sexy and alluring.

  Womanly.

  Like the Alayna I'd been when Hudson had fucked me in front of the mirror in this very dressing room all those years ago. The one whose very worst flaw had piqued the interest of the very best man she’d ever met. Not like the Alayna of today, the one who'd almost forgotten to brush her hair before leaving the apartment and had to change her outfit once already this morning after the baby spit up on it.

  I smiled at my reflection. At least the trip downtown hadn't been a waste. The dress was going home with me. Hudson had, of course, been right—I wasn’t spending enough time on me. On us.

  Something told me that the look in his eyes when he saw me in this would be every bit as hungry as it ever was in those first heady days.

  "It's exquisite," Stacy, Mirabelle's longtime assistant said, peering over my shoulder.

  "You think so? I like it, too." I appreciated Stacy's opinion, and I trusted her. We had a rocky start when we'd first met, and though we weren't exactly friends now, we were friendly. She'd once had a crush on Hudson—but, seriously, who hadn’t? Unfortunately for her, she'd ended up the victim of one of Celia Werner's games and had believed that Hudson liked her back.

  Yet another victim I’d forgotten to list.

  I'd been swept into the game too. Been tricked into believing there'd been more going on than there had been—not between Stacy and Hudson, but between Celia and Hudson. My investigations back in the day had led me to cornering Stacy, thinking she had the proof I needed to determine the nature of Hudson and Celia's true relationship.

  She hadn't, in the end. But seeing her now, remembering that she was a part of Hudson's past, had the gears in my overactive mind whirring in a new direction.

  "Stacy, I'd like to ask you something," I said, spinning toward her. I paused, remembering my promise only moments ago to Mira, then immediately disregarding it. This wasn’t a fresh investigation, after all, merely exhausting my options in the place I’d already started one.

  "I know I said I would never involve you in any drama again, but I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important. Do you know of anyone who might be… jealous… or maybe angry at Hudson? Angry enough to… threaten him in any way?"

  Stacy laughed incredulously. "Are you kidding? That's about everybody in the New York City phone book. He's richer than fuck. Of course people are jealous of him. And he's a businessman. Of course people are mad at him, too." She stepped forward to untie the bow of the wrap at my waist. "You want me to bring this up front for you?"

  I put my hand on hers, halting her. "I'm serious." Then my thoughts went another direction. What if…

  I dropped my hand, and took a step away. "Stacy, are you still hung up on my husband?"

  I had it in my head that it was a man sending the letters, but it could as easily have been a woman. Stacy would've known about his past, and she'd known about my bedrest. What if she still resented everything that happened before?

  She straightened, her height going up by another full inch, it seemed. "Are you for real?”

  The anger rolling off her was thick, blanket thick. I began to think I'd made a serious mistake in my accusation. "I'm sorry, that was probably a stupid—"

  "You have some nerve, Alayna Withers Pierce. After everything you put me through before. Putting me in the middle of your soap opera drama. Dragging me into your personal shit, and what did I ever get out of it? More accusations? I've never been anything but loyal to Mirabelle. Never done anything but admire the Pierces. You have some nerve. You can get someone else to ring up your dress."

  She stomped off toward the door then stopped suddenly. "Oh, and tell your guy to stop hanging out around here. Three times this week I've seen him. He's making our clients nervous."

  She left, slamming the door almost as loudly as Mira had, before I could ask what guy she was talking about. Before I could apologize. For the second time in a quarter of an hour, I’d alienated someone I liked.

  And for what?

  I sighed as I finished undressing myself. If there was a strange guy hanging around Mirabelle's boutique, it could mean that Hudson had sent extra security here as well, which meant the danger extended further than he led me to believe.

  Or the guy was the danger.

  The one thing I knew for sure was that this investigation would be a whole lot easier if I had Hudson working with me.

  10

  Hudson

  I pushed stop on the video screen, shutting off the current remote interview, as soon as I heard the elevators doors open into the loft. When I'd left Alayna that morning, telling her to stay put, I knew she had no intention of doing that. Typical Alayna. But I hadn't expected her to show up here.

  To my surprise, it wasn't Alayna who walked out in a fit of energy, but my younger brother.

  I exchanged an annoyed glance with Jordan.

  "Satcher Rutherford, man…” Chandler began. “You sure how to pick them, Hudson."

  It was enough of an intro to keep me listening.

  "I mean, he knows his shit, for sure. The Rutherfords own over sixty successful nightclubs around the world—New York, Atlanta, Las Vegas, Brazil, London, Tokyo—and Satcher is himself responsible for at least half of those clubs."

  He took off his jacket and threw it over the armchair, then began loosening his tie while he talked. I tried to bite down the gravel of irritation that he was making himself comfortable. I didn’t want this to be a long visit. I hadn’t wanted this to be a visit at all.

  His DNA must have contained none of the people-reading genes I’d gotten, because he droned on. "Thank God I did my research first, because the way you sent me out of that meeting a couple of weeks ago, I thought I was looking for a consultant to help us out with our reopening. Obviously Rutherford is way above consultation pay himself, and from what I've discovered in my digging, he's not into sharing information. I realized this needed to be an investment opportunity for him. So that was the proposal I put together—I didn't ask you about it be
cause Trish says you've been on do not disturb for the entire week and also? Because fuck you, I'm part of Pierce Industries, and I can make decisions myself. I don't need you to sign off on all my shit."

  I, in fact, owned Pierce Industries, and Chandler did work for me. But I had learned he worked better when he believed we were on equal footing, so again, I bit my tongue.

  "The problem is that getting a meeting with the guy is harder than getting a meeting with the Queen of England." He turned toward the fridge and snagged a water bottle from inside, then leaned against the kitchen counter facing us, looking as self-assured as a guy who’d gotten a meeting with the Queen.

  He hadn’t.

  "Chandler, don't exaggerate. Facts only, please."

  "That's not an exaggeration. I probably could get a meeting with the Queen of England. Genevieve has a friend of a friend who knows a guy. Remember, she's from Britain." As if all British people had an in at Buckingham Palace.

  That was Chandler for you.

  "If you're just here to tell us your hardships, with no question or real information, could you please do it at a later time? We actually are in the middle of something here." I didn't bother wrapping my sentiments in niceties. It would only provoke him to stay longer.

  "There is a point. I have a question." He said, pointing his water bottle in my direction.

  "Then do get on to it."

  "I'm getting there. I'm providing the background information first. Otherwise you won't understand the question." He took a swig of water, and I could feel my eye twitch in impatience.

  "So. Apparently, if you want to talk to Satcher there's a process." He put the word process in air quotes, as best as he could with one hand holding a water bottle. "No matter who you are. Even the grand and mighty Pierce name couldn't get around that. So I first had to talk to his guy, again. He's younger than me, and get this—his name is Dudley. Dudley! Can you imagine naming a child Dudley? A baby Dudley! I can’t even imagine calling a baby a grown-up name like that. What do you nickname him? Dud? It was seriously the only thing that went through my mind the whole time I was talking to him on the phone. It's ridiculous. Having a guy named Dudley is ridiculous. Never name a baby Dudley."

  "You seem to be thinking about babies a lot here. Are you and your fiancée expecting?" Jordan asked.

  Whether he was sincere or that was his version of dry humor, I liked it. Like I said, there were many reasons I kept him on the payroll.

  "No, once again, for everyone in the room—Genevieve is not pregnant. And we’re not having any babies any time soon. We only think about them all the time because everyone around us has them as often as most people change their bedsheets."

  That seemed to say a lot about how often—or not—Chandler changed his bedsheets. But I wanted him out of there, so I didn't interject with that particular comment.

  "Anyway, Dudley, was very critical of our proposition. Did you know that Atlantic City is a dead zone right now? Why do we even have a nightclub there? Apparently nobody goes there for nightlife anymore. The whole city is, like, over."

  I centered a hard gaze in his direction. "Exactly why we need to have the very best behind our nightclub opening. To bring the population back."

  "Right. Exactly. I know that." He took another swig from his water bottle. "That's totally what I was going to say to Satcher. When I saw him. Because even though I didn't convince Dudley Do-Right that our nightclub was a good idea, he did think that Satcher would want to hear about it, to—and I quote—'have a good laugh.' So he advanced me to the next step, which was giving me a direct line to Satcher."

  "Good job. Sounds very productive and somewhat amusing." I stood up, ready to usher my brother out.

  "Wait. I am nowhere near done."

  I took a deep breath in. I'd been afraid of this. I stuck a hand in my pocket and urged him to continue with a nod of my head.

  "So I call Rutherford. I was expecting to talk to a secretary or something, but it was his actual direct line. When he answered, as soon as I introduced myself as a Pierce, the phone somehow goes dead. I give him the benefit of the doubt—maybe there was a lousy connection. I call him back. I go straight to voicemail. I called him back again. Straight to voicemail. I called him back four more times. Finally he answered."

  At least my brother had fortitude. If that's what that was called.

  "This time he let me get past my last name and propose a meeting to discuss an investment opportunity. He said he didn’t want to have anything to do with Hudson Pierce or Pierce Industries. You were obviously not kidding when you said he did not like you."

  I could feel Jordan's gaze on me, could feel the questions in his head that he had yet to ask.

  "But I told Satcher, no worries. I really don’t like you either. You’re a fucking asshole. Everyone knows that."

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, hoping to ward off the headache that immediately threatened to take over the space in my skull.

  "Hey, it got me a meeting," he said.

  "I suppose you do what you need to do." I didn't have to be happy about it.

  "Or, I thought it got me a meeting. Because when I showed up at his New York office, his secretary seemed surprised. She said he must have made a mistake about his calendar, and he wasn't even in the office that day. ‘He must've double booked.’ I didn't buy it. He wanted to humiliate me and waste my time, and he succeeded. I looked like a goddamn idiot. This time, though, I was smart—I got the secretary’s information. Shelley. Cute plump redhead. Little flirting with her got me her cell number as well as Satcher's cell. Called him later that night, told him there must've been a mixup, pretended to give him the benefit of the doubt. He apologized. Said he appreciated my tenacity—my tenacity! How fucking patronizing. Like I was an intern instead of a peer in his field! He appreciated it so much he set up dinner for the next night at Gaston’s."

  "Good work," I began again with my exit spiel.

  "He stood me up again." Chandler took another swig of water. "I'm telling you—this guy is Douche Juice with a capital D. It's a wonder the two of you aren't friends."

  I narrowed my eyes. "In other words, you've taken the very long route of telling me that you've been unsuccessful in this endeavor.”

  I headed to the wet bar and poured a glass of Macallan. Two fingers.

  "Au contraire! I made another phone call. This time to Shelley. Used all my charm and discovered that Mister Douche Juice isn't even in the country right now. But! He's opening up a new club in Austin and will be there in person tomorrow. I fly out first thing in the morning."

  I picked up the glass and turned toward him, my brows raised in surprise. "Good work! Sounds like you really didn't need me at all." It felt surprisingly nice.

  "Here’s where I need you,” he said, stepping over my congratulatory toast. “I need to know what the fuck you did to this guy to make him hate you so much and how the hell I’m supposed to get him to want to work with us now."

  So much for that feeling of relief.

  I crossed over to him, took the bottle of water out of his hand and replaced it with the glass of scotch.

  "Well, thank you, bro. But it's only two-thirty. A little early for a drink, don't you think?"

  "You asked me how I suggest you deal with him. This is my answer."

  He scowled, but he took a sip of the scotch. “And why does he hate you?”

  I didn’t even think before I answered. “We had a schoolboy rivalry. Simple as that.”

  “No fucking way it’s that simple. Not when he’s going out of his way to mess with me because of my connection to you thirty years later.”

  “Thirty years… It was half that long ago.” I paused a moment to do the math. Time flew faster than it had seemed. “Twenty years ago, anyway. How old do you think I am?”

  “Don’t worry about your age, Hudson. You look good for pushing forty.”

  “I’m not pushing…” I trailed off when I saw Chandler flash his cocky grin and realized he
was trying to press my buttons.

  I usually didn’t let him rile me up. The pressure was obviously getting to me.

  “Might this Rutherford be our guy?” Jordan asked, leaning forward.

  “No,” I dismissed quickly. Then I reconsidered. “Perhaps. If he’s really still holding a grudge.”

  “What guy? The guy for this job, because if he’s not, tell me now before I fly to Texas tomorrow.” Chandler asked. “And is he really still holding a grudge?”

  “Jordan’s talking about something else. He’s definitely still the guy for the Atlantic City job.” I rubbed my hand over my face. “Unless he is our guy,” I muttered to myself. “Which is very unlikely. I couldn’t possibly have wounded his ego enough to push him to this extreme now.”

  I felt both men’s eyes on me, but it was Chandler who spoke first.

  “Want to tell us what happened between you and Satcher and let us decide if he deserves to hate you today? Let me rephrase—because I know you don’t want to tell me anything ever, especially anything that has to do with you or your past, but maybe you could make an exception this once.”

  He was right—this wasn’t a tale I wanted to tell. Jordan should hear it, but I could wait and tell him later, when we were alone. I’d worked very hard to protect my brother from knowing about the games of my youth, and there wasn’t any reason to change that now, but perhaps he did deserve this one sliver of my history.

  I glanced at my watch to confirm the time. Two twenty-four, to be precise. I didn’t have to rush off just yet.

  Unfortunately.

  “Fine,” I sighed. I needed a drink first.

  I headed to the bar and poured another glass of scotch for myself while Chandler slung himself into my armchair.