Page 56 of Fake Dark Vows
I open the call log and hit the button on Julia’s number. She answers on the second ring, efficient as always. “Brandon, when are you?—”
“You’re fired.”
Pause.
“Fired? Brandon, please don’t do this. I had no idea?—”
I kill the call. That’s how easy it is to cut the driftwood out of your life. Lock your cell phone, keep walking, one issue at a time.
Julia had been useful, for a while, but no one is indispensable.
I erase the image of Rose’s lips from my mind and move on to item number two. Carlos Russo. What do the Russos want? If it’s war, they won’t have to push me any harder, but it doesn’t add up. The only reason they’d have set me up for the fall of a lifetime was if they wanted something in return, so why haven’t they contacted me with their demands?
If Julia was an implant, they’d have had ample opportunities to fish around for information, so why now? Why me and not Damon? If they scraped the surface, they’d have found a whole heap of dirt on my careless brother that my parents would be only too happy to see covered up with a life-changing sum of money.
I enter the park and toss my empty cup into the trash can.
A young couple is heading my way, fingers entwined, smiles lighting up their faces. They’re sharing earbuds, listening to the same song.
Why didn’t I ask Jennifer to play happy families with me until this all blows over? It would’ve been so easy to rekindle what we had when we first met. But I already know the answer—too many people know about her past, the people who count anyway. The press would’ve gone to town with that one.
Rose was the unknown option.
My phone vibrates. Thirty-six missed calls from my mom. Three from Jennifer, and a message: Just checking you’re not lying in a concussed heap surrounded by conch shells and key lime pie. I smile at that one.
“Mom.” I keep my voice neutral when I return her calls.
“Where are you, Brandon?”
“New York.”
“You should’ve stayed. I’ve handled the situation.”
The situation? I spot a flock of pigeons being fed by a family with little kids. Keep walking.
“She has a name.”
Pause.
“Whatever were you thinking, Brandon?”
“I was drunk.” I can almost hear the cogs turning in her brain, clicking around to the crux of the conversation.
“We can’t afford a scandal, not on top of everything else.”
It’s a skill, keeping every shred of emotion from your voice, one that my mother learned from socializing with other wealthy wives and self-made philanthropists. It isn’t something she picked up as a kid growing up in downtown Chicago.
“I’m working on it.”
“It mustn’t go any further, Brandon.” There’s no background sound on the other end of the line. My mother is either in her room, studying her reflection in the mirror, or she’s strolling around the gardens of the house on Ruby Island, enjoying some ‘alone time’.
“Further?”
She releases a sigh, like parenting grown-up sons is even more tiring than parenting teenagers with testosterone hurtling around their bodies. “I’ve seen the photos. Fortunately, your father hasn’t picked up a device since he arrived.”
It’s Ruby Weiss’s version of a verbal warning.
“I don’t want her selling her story to a glossy magazine.”