Page 5 of Building What's Meant to Be

“Sorry,” I say as plainly as possible.

John nods as if to say,Apology accepted.

“Now, can I please go lay down?” I brush my hand across my forehead.

“No,” John says in the same mild tone.

“No?” I repeat an octave or ten higher.

“No. I’m under strict orders not to allow you onto the property.”

A jolt of electricity runs hot through my veins. My skin turns clammy. My vision is liquid red.

“Don’t tell me you’re on the brink of a Tinsley Tantrum,” he says as if already bored by my antics.

Those two words remind me to be patient. I won’t allow myself to come undone in front of him. “Just to be clear, I’m an adult.”

“When was the last time you acted like one and not a spoiled brat, using Mother and Father’s credit cards and—?”

I hold up my hand. “I’ll stop you there.”

“Because you know it’s true?”

“John, I didn’t come here to engage in a war of words. I’m tired.”

“Not surprising, what with being involved in criminal activity.”

“I am not a criminal.”

“I didn’t say you were. I said, and I quote—” There he goes with his lawyer logic.

“To be clear, Puma allegedly did commit a crime. Multiple, including lying about his name, that I was staying athishouse, among other things.” I only just learned that the Malibu mansion belongs to Julie and Harry Bergman who’re in their seventies and spend the winter and spring in Arizona. Suffice it to say, he did not have permission to occupy the space. But how was I supposed to know? I was his guest.

“Save it for the judge and jury, Tinsley.”

“Speaking of, would you offer me legal counsel?”

He snorts. “Figures you’d need it.”

I stomp my foot on the ground. “John.”

He arches one eyebrow.

I take a deep breath. “Obviously, the guy was a scam artist, but I was also scammed. Now, I’m involved in the scandal, and I didn’t do anything wrong. All I really want right now is a shower and sleep.”

“Was chasing all that glitz and glamour worth it?” he asks.

“Is making me feel like my family hates me and that I’m about an inch tall worth it?” I ask, straightening to my full height, making it so we’re nearly eye to eye.

John’s general energy is relatively still and quiet versus Andrew who is more animated, yet also has the aristocratic bearing that Mother and Father Humber tried very hard to cultivate in us. Victoria is Mother’s clone. When they got to me, they must’ve run out of gas, essentially leaving me stranded to find my own way, which it looks like I’ll be doing.

“Puma Palmer, aka Harold Jerrold Pumanowski, notorious member of the band Incurable Calypso Cyclo—” John stumbles over the name.

“Incurable Calypso Cyclotron,” I say.

“Right. His background is minimal. It’s as if he appeared on the scene out of the fog. He rose in rank on the music charts, filling stadiums, and causing scandals. But the biggest one wasn’t throwing televisions into hotel pools or trashing restaurants. He led the world to believe he was a raucous rock star, when in reality, he had a mind for numbers,” John says.

“Numbers with dollars attached to them from what I’ve gathered.”

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