Page 30 of Beautiful Rush
“Yes. And it’s not so easy to find a job that pays the bills, you know. I want my daughter to have the good things in life.”
Yeah, I’d heard this before. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks. Aw, shit. She pulled a pack of tissues from her purse and wiped her eyes. I waited for her to pull herself together, not making a move to comfort her.
“What did you want to be before you had your daughter?”
“A nurse,” she said with no hesitation.
Nurse Angel. “Are you good with kids?”
She smiled. “I think so, yes. They love me.”
“I might be able to help you find a different job. Would you like that?”
“Why are you doing this for me?” she asked, and I got the feeling that nobody had ever done something nice for her.
Because nobody did it for my mother. “I want you to go home and spend time with your daughter. I’ll take care of Dmitri. You have nothing to worry about.”
She leaned over and kissed my cheek. Her perfume was flowery and overpowering and I’d have to drive with all the windows down to rid my car of her scent. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And Angel…this is just between us,” I added.
She nodded gravely. “I will never breathe a word,” she said as if I’d just entrusted her with a State secret and she would rather die than divulge it.
She hopped out of the SUV and I watched her walk away, wondering what the hell had possessed me to play good Samaritan. But I knew the answer. I called my sister Abby, the queen of lost causes, and put her on speaker as I pulled away from the curb, Hamptons bound.
After apologizing to Abby for the radio silence and listening to her rant, I told her about Angel. She sighed loudly. “I’m not the Unemployment Office.” I heard her fingers tapping on the keyboard. Abby was a lawyer and she had a lot of good contacts, specifically wealthy friends and clients who were always looking for a nanny.
“Okay, good,” I said as if she’d just agreed to find Angel a job. “I’ll leave it in your capable hands.”
“You owe me.”
“Add it to the list. One of these days, I’ll make good on it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Mom’s worried about you. She says you haven’t called in months.”
“Tell her I’m alive and well.”
“Keep it that way.”
“Listen, Abs, this has to be confidential. And when you find a suitable position for Angel, maybe give her a few wardrobe tips.” I winced, envisioning Angel’s tight dresses and sky-high heels.
“Jesus H Christ, Deacon. I’m not a miracle worker.”
“Yes, you are. I have faith in you.”
With that, I cut the call and texted Angel’s contact details to Abby, my good deed done for the day, albeit through my sister. Like me, Abby had been a foster kid before she was adopted at four. Unlike me, she had excelled at school, gotten straight A’s, and was pretty much the model child with a clear plan for her future. She was an Ivy League graduate, worked for a prestigious law firm, and lived in a doorman building on the Upper East Side but the money and designer clothes hadn’t turned her into a snob. Abby never forgot where she came from.
* * *
I’d needa new liver when this assignment ended. Everyone was still sleeping off last night’s vodka and debauchery as I swam laps in the Olympic-sized pool behind the colossal Bridgehampton McMansion. It was day three of this boondoggle and I felt like I was living in a reality TV show. The Russian version ofBig Brother. Which was as crazy as you would imagine.
I heard my name being called as my head came out of the water. I swam to the end of my lane and gripped the edge of the pool, watching Dmitri as he crossed the lawn. A beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, sporting his morning wood in a Speedo. Jesus Christ. I was too intimately acquainted with this man’s junk. Who the fuck wore Speedos? Flashy Russian drug and arms dealers, that’s who.
Two girls from Dmitri’s harem, a redhead and a bleached blonde, trailed after him—in string bikinis, full makeup, fake tans, and heels. They were paid by the hour, in cash and coke, and were carrying platters of fruit and croissants and a carafe of coffee like they were making an offering to the gods.
Fasten your seatbelts for another day in Paradise.
“You could get used to this life. No, Kosta?”
