Filfthy (47 page)

“If you’re bored, we don’t have to keep playing,” Royal says.

I shake my head, yawning and dragging in a renewing breath. “You’re just saying that because you’re losing. Come on, let’s keep going.”

“D5,” he says.

“Hit.” I place a red peg in my battleship and watch my opponent gloat. “Yeah, yeah. E7.”

A few more moves, and I’ve won the game, as promised.

“I’m going to bed, you guys.” Demi stands, stretching, and tosses her magazine on the arm of the sofa.

“Yeah, I should get going. I’m seeing a client in the morning.” I rise.

“You’re working on a Saturday?” Royal asks.

“Yeah, it’s nothing. Not even charging them.”

“Don’t tell Dad that.”

Royal stands, moving toward Demi’s side and placing his hand on the small of her back. She nuzzles her cheek against his chest and hums with this sickeningly dreamy look on her face. It’s too fucking cute, and it’s my sister and my childhood best friend, and I don’t need to see this.

“I’ll show myself out,” I say, reaching down and swiping the gossip rag. “Thanks for this.”

“Hey,” Demi says.

But it’s too late. I’m taking it. I won’t be caught dead buying one of these in public.

“I’ll bring it back,” I promise as I pull the front door closed. As soon as I’m in my car, I flip the light on and find Serena’s article.

It’s a two-page spread, the left side showing her in better days and the right side showing her being lead away from JFK airport in handcuffs, her hair a fiery, knotted mess and streaks of wet mascara beneath her eyes. The commentary below summarizes the reported events leading up to that fateful night, and several “sources” are quoted as saying “Serena hasn’t been herself ever since” or they’re “worried about the heiress” or they’re “hoping she’s able to come back from this stronger than ever.”

Which is funny, because I distinctly recall Serena mentioning that none of her old friends had been by to see her since things took a turn for the worse.

I toss the magazine aside like the garbage it is and back out of the driveway. Demi needs to find better things to do in her spare time.

Those things are nothing but lies anyway, and I’m not interested in that.

I’m only interested in the truth.

S
erena

I
’m dressed
by nine thirty, my stomach filled with a light breakfast and a hint of unexpected butterflies. This morning’s pills are flushed and long gone. I feel alert and coherent, ready to meet with Derek and let him see for himself how completely unnecessary this entire thing is.

I pace the north hall of the estate, home to fifteen or so useless rooms filled with useless artifacts. A few years ago, the plan was to turn Belcourt into a touring museum, a place of revenue. Veronica’s idea. It sat empty, save for the staff who maintained it, until I was sentenced to life behind these walls thanks to the behind-the-scenes manipulations of my lovely stepmother.

I hate Veronica, and I don’t particularly hate anyone.

Wait.

I take it back.

Keir. I hate Keir, too.

The house smells as old as it looks. Some people might find comfort in that. I don’t. This place does nothing but remind me of the summers we spent here as a child before Mom died. Granted, those are good memories, but they fill me with sadness.

And guilt.

Because the older I get, the less I remember of her, and I detest myself for it.

And smelling these familiar smells makes me miss her so much, it physically pains me.

I slip behind the double doors to the Magnolia room, a room my father’s second ex-wife named and decorated. I liked Catherine. She was regal and quiet and soft-spoken. Their union lasted a whole two years before he left her for some twenty-something hostess at his favorite NYC trattoria.

Poor Catherine. She really loved my father. She even loved him so much, she agreed not to sign a pre-nup.

Fool.

People with money live a life of convenience. And when you have all the money in the world, love often falls into that category.

Standing before a soaring window, I glance outside at the circle drive below and watch for Derek’s arrival.

I step away after a moment and head downstairs. Surely, there are better ways to occupy my time.

“Ms. Randall.” Eudora stops me at the bottom of the stairs. “Mr. Rosewood just pulled into the drive. Where will you be receiving him this morning?”

My shoulders rise and fall as I contemplate my answer. The space shouldn’t be too intimate. And it should be well lit. Neutral. Professional.

“Bring him to the dining room. We’ll meet at the table. And send for tea, please,” I say. “Thank you.”

A few minutes pass, and I’m seated at the head of a table at least as old as this house and still in near-mint condition. Kings and queens have feasted at this table, or so the story goes. The sound of footsteps echoes from the entry, and I clear my throat and smooth a strand of hair down my left shoulder.

“Right this way, please,” I hear Eudora say.

Derek appears a moment later, and I try to ignore his casual getup of dark khakis and a navy polo. He looks more fit for a round of golf than a meeting with a client. Then again, it is a Saturday. Had I not been so hard on him yesterday, I might tease him a little. Either way, he looks good, and I hate that I think so because that’s the last place my mind needs to be.

“Serena, good morning.” Derek’s dark chocolate hair is perfectly combed, not a strand out of place, and he walks my way with a hand extended. “Wonderful to see you again.”

I stand and meet his handshake, determined to treat him with the same respect and courtesy he showed me yesterday.

“Likewise,” I say. “Please, have a seat.”

Eudora lingers for a few seconds too long, like I’m incapable of handling anything on my own. I shoot her a silent request for space in the form of a quick look, and she quietly strides away.

“So.” Derek whips out a legal pad and a pen the color of polished onyx and lifts his gaze to me. “What I’d like to do today, Serena, is get an idea of your regular expenses, and from there, we can set up a baseline budget. And once that’s squared away, we can figure out a budget for the extras. I will say, as your conservator, that I’m going to recommend sticking to modest numbers given your . . . delicate state.”

My tongue grazes along my lower lip, and I give him a head-cocked smirk. “Do I look delicate to you?”

“You don’t,” he says. “But in the eyes of the law, you’re not quite yourself right now. I won’t be able to allocate any funding for major purchases at this time.”

“There goes that Aston Martin I had my eye on.”

He smiles, and my eyes fall on the dimple in his left cheek. He only has the one, but it’s kind of perfect right where it is.

“You mind?” I point to his pad and paper, and he slides it across the table. The pen is warm and smooth against my palm. Pressing the tip into the yellow tablet, I try to jot down a few estimates and then freeze.

Months ago, I had a PR rep on contract. I had dry cleaning bills and weekly mani-pedis. I had regular blow outs and traveled internationally no less than twice per month. I had a health club membership and rented an apartment on Lexington Avenue in Manhattan.

I lived an embarrassingly extravagant life, and I’m not sure I’m comfortable jotting down those kinds of exorbitant numbers in front of a stranger, attorney or not.

I write down some bullshit, modest numbers. Something’s better than nothing, and if the money sits in the bank, then so be it, but at least it’ll be freed up and in my possession again. It’s not like I’m in desperate need of a PR rep right now. And I couldn’t say where the nearest nail salon is in this area.

“There.” I slide it back to him, and he scans the paper, brows furrowed.

“Okay,” he says, lifting his hand to his chin. “This is doable, given your lifestyle before everything went down. Now tell me how much you’d like in addition to this. I don’t want to call this your allowance, but . . . just think of it as your fun money.”

Fun. That’s a concept I haven’t known in a long time.

“How much do you think is reasonable?” I lean back in my seat, crossing my legs. When I lived in the city, it was typical for me to blow four figures a week on fine dining. Another four figures—or more—on regular shopping excursions. And then, of course, there was the travel. Some destinations are obviously pricier than others. “Twenty, thirty thousand per month?”

I say it to test him, to gauge his reaction.

Derek chokes on his spit, and it’s exactly the kind of response I expected.

To be fair, this was the life my father created for me. He’s a controlling old bastard with a soft spot for his daughter and living proof of how money warps reality. After Mom died, he filled my life with the finer things, as if pretty dresses and tea sets and prized, pedigreed ponies could fill the dark void she left. After college, he insisted I live in the city and take my time figuring out what I wanted to be in this world, and he subsidized my every whim.

But still, I’d never felt so empty.

Until I met Keir.

I stifle a chuckle. “You must think I’m from some other planet.”

He gathers his composure, draws in a strong breath, and purses his full lips. Goddamn, he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. It’s not fair for a man to be so beautiful. He’s beyond what’s normal. Those dark lashes. That chiseled jaw. His burning stare.

“Well.” His gaze is intense, unwavering. “You sort of are.”

“We can’t help what we’re born into.” I make no apologies. I only state truths.

“You’re absolutely right.” He reaches for his pen, tapping it lightly on the edge of the tablet. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around that, and at the same time, figure out what a judge might think if I gave him these numbers. I want you to be comfortable, but I can’t have my firm accused of misappropriating the very funds we were hired to protect.”

“Look. I just want to be able to get out of here once in a while. I want to feel like a normal person. I don’t have a car. There’s no internet, because God forbid we knock through the antique crown molding and dig a line through the English garden to run some wires to this place, and it’d be nice to go somewhere in here and get at least two bars on my phone. I have no money. My funds are frozen. Veronica has my credit cards. I feel like I’m being held against my will here, and anytime I protest that, I’m told this is how I’m going to get better and it won’t last forever, but it’s been over two months, Derek.”

“Serena. Serena.” He raises his palm, but I’m still vomiting the words I’ve been dying to speak since I got here. “Serena. Okay. I get it.”

“No, you don’t. Because if you did, you’d care less about my finances and more about helping me prove I’m not crazy. You’re in my corner, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then. Help. Me. Get. My. Life. Back.” I press my finger against the wooden table top with each word.

Derek pushes his thumb and pointer fingers against his temples, breathing loudly before staring across the table into what I’m sure is a pathetic little view. I’m not usually one to show my cards or let my emotions get the best of me, and vulnerability’s not really my thing, but desperate times . . .

“You want to get out of here for a bit?” he asks.

The tension in my neck and shoulders fades, and I fight the urge to scream, “YES!” from the top of my lungs.

“If you’re comfortable, we can go for a drive in my car,” he says. “Just a little scenic, country tour. The fresh air might be good for you.”

I sit up tall and force a delayed reaction, opting not to seem like an eager puppy dog and throw all my credibility out the window.

“That would be nice. Yes.” Taming my excitement, I leave the head of the table and retrieve a gray tweed trench from the coat room.

Derek waits at the door for me, but the sound of quick footsteps sends a stall to my racing heart.

“Where do you two think you’re running off to?” Eudora is breathless, a tray of spilled tea in her hands. For a woman of her thin stature, she really is quite out of shape. You’d think tending to a sixty-room manor would build some kind of stamina. “Serena, you’re not to leave the house, remember?”

“We’re just going for a quick drive,” Derek answers for me. “My client could use a change of scenery. We won’t be gone long. I’ll take good care of her.”

He winks, but judging by Eudora’s pinched scowl, it does nothing to rectify the situation. I imagine she’s fuming inside.

“Maybe we should phone Dr. Rothbart?” Eudora’s eyes go between ours. “See if he thinks it’s a good idea. You know, baby steps.”

“Eudora.” I tuck my chin against my chest. It pains me to speak to her in a condescending manner, but she’s being completely inappropriate. Not to mention rude to Mr. Rosewood. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a drive. Come on, Derek.”

We make haste toward the front door before she has another chance to object, and Derek walks me around to the passenger side of his black SUV.

“Thank you,” I say, smoothing my hands beneath my thighs and preparing to slide in.

The smile on my mouth fades when something catches my eye, and my throat constricts, rendering me momentarily unable to breathe.

“Derek.” I lift the
Us Weekly
from the passenger seat and examine the cover, instantly recognizing the pitiful photo of me on the bottom and the horribly inaccurate headline.

“Yes?”

Spinning to face him, I slam it against his chest. “Why would you have this? Do you know how awful these are? They’re nothing but lies. Why would you want to read lies about me? I thought you were in my corner?”

The magazine falls to his obnoxiously shiny shoes, and I pull my jacket tight and brace myself for the walk back to the door.

“Serena, come back here. It’s not like that at all.” There’s a chuckle in his tone.

But this isn’t funny to me.

This is my
life
.

D
erek

T
he front door
to Belcourt slams with an ominous boom before I reach it, and the heavy clanking of the lock tells me all I need to know.

I use the knocker three separate times.

No one answers.

God damn it.

I can’t screw this up. And I sure as hell don’t want her thinking I’m unprofessional or untrustworthy all because of an infinitesimally small misunderstanding.

Pulling my left sleeve, I check my watch and then rest my hands on my hips, standing on the centuries-old stone steps. It’s barely ten thirty. Not to mention, my pen and legal pad are still inside.

Practicing law is my passion. I’m relentlessly obsessive about it. My professionalism is my reputation, and is second only to my father’s. If I leave here today, I’m admitting guilt in a way. Admitting failure.

And so I’ll stay.

I’ll stay as long as it takes.

* * *

R
eclining
in the driver’s seat of my SUV with the visor down, I’m awoken by several quick taps on my window. I slowly come to and turn the car to accessory-mode to roll down the window. The sun has dropped in the sky, and I’m guessing it’s about five, maybe six.

I entertained myself as best I could earlier, stubbornly ignoring my growling stomach and resisting the urge to run into town for a quick bite.

“Why are you still here?” The view of Serena’s head and shoulders fills my window space. Her blue eyes glimmer in the late day sun. Her head shakes, and before I’m given a chance to answer, she lifts a cloche-covered plate to my level. “Here. Bettina made dinner. I figured if you’re stubborn enough to sit in my driveway for seven hours, the least I can do is show you a little hospitality.”

She looks at me like she equally hates and appreciates that I stayed.

“Thank you.” I take the cloche-covered plate.

“Not that I want to. But it’s the right thing to do.” Her arms fold against her chest. Even when she’s pissed, those blues of hers are still fucking mesmerizing.

She’s still upset with me. I get it. But as soon as I get the chance to explain, this’ll all blow over. Maybe we’ll even laugh about it. I think it’s hilarious.

“Jump in.” I nod toward the passenger side.

“I will not.” Her arms tug tighter, and she doesn’t miss a beat.

“Come on.”

Our gazes lock, and I won’t back down.

“At least allow me to explain,” I add.

“What’s there to explain? You show up to my house with that garbage in your car.” She blows a frustrated breath. “And I’m just supposed to be cool with it? Damn it, Derek, you’re supposed to be managing my money and you’re filling your head with gossip articles. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

Her left hand lifts to the gold charm dangling from her neck.

“I completely understand,” I say. “But once you hear my explanation, I promise you’ll feel better about it.”

She huffs, glancing away. “You think so, do you?”

“Trust me.”

A warm breeze ruffles her shiny locks, and she glances back at me as she brushes a wayward strand from her bright blue eyes.

“Get in. Let me explain. If you still don’t trust me, fine. I’ll leave here and you can designate a new conservator. No skin off my back. But I’ll be damned if I sat here all damn Saturday just to drive away without so much as defending myself.”

After an excruciating bout of deliberation and drawn out silence, Serena glances at her feet.

“I’m in house slippers,” she says. “I’m not dressed for a drive.”

“How exactly does a person dress for a drive?” I wink, and she fights a smile something fierce. “Come on, climb in. I’ll explain everything . . . after I eat.”

I place the cloche on the dash and peel at a plastic-wrapped fork. I’m not sure what this is, but it smells divine, and it’s a hell of a lot better than anything I could’ve picked up from a gas station in town.

Serena climbs in, and I spot her nonchalantly scanning her surroundings. Fortunately, I had the wherewithal earlier to shove the magazine under the passenger seat. Out of sight is where that thing belongs.

“I’m a slow eater,” I say. “My apologies. I prefer to savor my meals, and a dish like this is worth savoring.”

Her long legs cross, and she tucks her fingers between them. “By all means. Enjoy, counselor.”

By the time I’m finished, I set the dishes along the center console and start my engine.

“Anywhere special you’d like to go?” I ask.

Her face lights, and her eyes hone in on the colorful screen centered in my dash as I configure the GPS. A second later, I shift into overdrive, and Serena shakes her head.

“Just drive.” She bounces impatiently. “Just . . . get me out of here.”

We pull out onto a narrow paved road lined in oaks and head west on a remote highway. New York is gorgeous in the springtime, with all the trees and winding hills, and I hope our little excursion will bring her a sense of calm, if nothing else.

“So.” I clear my throat, prepared to defend myself in the case of the
Us Weekly
. “The magazine.”

Serena’s gaze snaps toward me. “Yes, counselor. I’m all ears.”

“When I’d asked you about your past yesterday, you shut me down. I assumed it was a source of emotional trauma for you, and not wanting to cause you anymore undue emotional distress, I did a bit of internet research, trying to piece together what I could.”

Her mouth falls, but I cut her off.

“Wait. I’m not done,” I say. “When I was finished in the office, I went to my sister’s house for a visit and she was reading that garbage. As soon as I saw your picture on the cover, I felt that, as your attorney, I needed to know what was being said.”

“But it’s all lies.”

“Exactly. I’m well aware of that, Serena. But as any good attorney knows, the lies being told about you are just as important as the truth. Lies lose cases. Lies ruin lives.”

She huffs, staring ahead. “You can say that again.”

“So rest assured, I was not the least bit entertained by that trashy piece of fiction.”

Serena turns to me, her expression softening when I meet her stare. She tucks a strand of fiery hair behind an emerald-studded ear.

“Thank you, Derek. I appreciate that. I haven’t so much as looked at a tabloid or read a gossip blog since before everything went down. I prefer
not
to know what people are saying about me. I think I’d fall apart if I read it all. The way I used to.”

“Wise woman.” I turn down another road that leads up a windy hill covered in trees and little houses all tucked away. It’s getting darker now, the hint of a twilight sunset filling the skyline. “My father always said, what other people think of us is none of our business.”

Serena politely simpers. “It’s probably easier to live by those words when you’re
not
a public figure.”

“True.”

“Regardless, avoiding all those nasty articles has been a breath of fresh air. Back in the city, people don’t think twice about telling you what’s being said. They think they’re doing you a favor, but they’re just doing it for the reaction.” She glances down at her bare nails, and I imagine a woman like her isn’t used to seeing them so plain.

“Absolutely.”

“God, I’d love a manicure.” She holds a hand before her face. “I miss them. It’s amazing how the perfect shade of polish can be enough to brighten your day.”

“We’ll make sure there’s plenty of room in your budget for regular manicures and pedicures.” My ex-wife was a fiend for them, though I don’t bring her up. Most of the time, I pretend she doesn’t exist, and then my dreams are crushed when I pick up Haven every other Friday and see she’s alive and well, living the American dream with husband number two.

“I’m not superficial,” she qualifies her request. “Or vain.”

“That thought didn’t cross my mind once.”

“I was just raised to take care of myself. To take pride in the way I’m presented to the world.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Sometimes, I wish I didn’t care. I bet I could spend days lounging in sweatpants and a ponytail.”

“Then why don’t you?” I look her way.

Her mouth purses and she stares out the window lost in thought, offering nothing but a simple, “Hmm.”

Serena settles into her seat, her body relaxing, melting almost, as if she’s finding I’m easier to be around than she originally anticipated.

“Maybe I will,” she adds. And then she chuckles. “Eudora would really think I’ve gone crazy then.”

We pull up to a stop sign, and I peer over the dash.

“Which way?” I ask. “Left? Right? Straight?”

“You want me to choose?” Her hand splays across her chest before toying with a gold-charmed necklace as she rakes her teeth along her lower lip. “Oh, hmm. Straight?”

“Is that a question or an order?” I’m teasing.

Serena’s mouth pulls up halfway, and she bats my shoulder, leaving her hand a second longer than I expected. “Just go straight. Let’s not make this complicated, okay? Just drive.”

The sky has grown darker in the minutes that have passed since we left Belcourt, and I switch on the radio from the controls on the steering wheel.

“What kind of music are you into?” I lift a finger. “And don’t tell me Chopin or some bullshit like that, because it won’t impress me. You’re young. You’ve got a pulse. Tell me what you like, or so help me, I’ll subject you to ESPN Radio.”

“No, no! Don’t do that.” My hand hovers over preset number four, and Serena pushes it away. “I like . . . I kind of like . . . everything.”

“Everything?” I lift a brow.

She nods. “Yes. Everything.”

“But what’s your favorite? You’ve got to have a favorite.”

“You’ll never believe me if I tell you.” Serena pulls in a heavy breath.

“Try me.”

“Classic rock. I have a huge vinyl collection. At least, I used to have one. I’m sure it’s in storage somewhere. Anyway, I have a secret love affair with Led Zeppelin, Bob Seger, the Steve Miller Band . . .” She rattles off a few more, and in the meantime, I press preset number one.

Serena’s face lights when Tom Petty’s “
American Girl
” begins to play over the speakers. I turn it up, and she does a hint of a happy dance in her seat.

I watch her as best I can from the driver’s seat, completely transforming in the span of a single song. She mouths along to the music, her shoulders twisting and lifting with each kick of the bass drum.

Pressing my foot into the accelerator, we climb up hills and coast down valleys, the highway lined in gorgeous, budding trees. A sign on the right tells us Walworth Township is two miles ahead, and the speed limit slows to thirty-five.

The song ends, and The Stones play next as we approach a four-way stop with a flashing red light.

“I’ve never seen someone come alive like that,” I say.

“It’s got to be all this fresh air.” Her cheeks blush and fade away. “I’ve been feeling so listless staying at the Belcourt. It’s amazing what a little music and a change of scenery can do for the spirit. Although, now I feel completely ridiculous. I can assure you, I don’t normally make a habit of turning a car into a disco dance hall.”

“No, no. Don’t. Don’t feel that way.”

I make a left at the stop sign and spot a bridge in the distance. Serena reaches for the door handle as we approach it, her body freezing.

“What? What is it?” I press my brakes.

She closes her eyes, swallowing deep breaths. “The bridge.”

I glance ahead and back at her. “What about it?”

“This is where I had my accident.”

“Oh. Shit. That was here?” I drag my hand along my chin before shifting into reverse. “We don’t have to go this way.”

“No, no. It’s okay.” Her blue eyes are wide open now. “It was just a little winter driving accident. The bridge was slick. It should be safe now. Go ahead.”

“You’re sure?”

She bites her lower lip and blinks slowly before finally nodding. “Yes, just go.”

I take it easy, pulling ahead no faster than ten miles per hour. When we get to the end of the bridge, a patched metal railing indicates where her car must have broken through and slid off.

“Good. They’ve got it all fixed up.” She gives it a glance before staring straight ahead. “That was the most terrifying moment of my life. I truly thought I was going to die.”

We pull away from the bridge, and I take a right at the next intersection, which leads us to another stretch of highway. A sign tells us we’re fifteen miles from the next town.

“You thought you were going to die?” I ask.

Her hand rests on her chest, which is rising and falling in quick succession.

“Yes. I was driving along, and this little cat ran across the bridge, and I didn’t want to hit it, so I slammed on my brakes. I’m not used to winter driving. It had just snowed, and I guess there was a layer of ice underneath. Or that’s what I was told. Anyway, I slid off the bridge and broke through the railing. Landed in the water beneath. Thank God, it wasn’t very deep.”

“But.” I scratch the side of my head, watching her then watching the road. “I’m confused.”