Page 20 of Bad Love

I run out to the space, beer in hand, and wait for others to come up. Music recedes but the energy doesn’t wane, and the crowd of actors is laughing and shrieking under the rain with the stunning viewsbeyond.

I turn to the camera, taking in the dismayed face of the camera guy as he struggles to cover his equipment from therain.

I lift my chin to be seen over the crowd as I grin. "Hunter’s Cross!" I shout over the noise. "Tradition. Without thebullshit."

The noise fades, and the music cutstoo.

The director shakes his head as he watches the playback over the cameraman's shoulder. "I think we haveit.”

“Monty’ll love it. And you’re welcome.” I drop my warm beer—which I've been pretending to drink all morning—off with the prop people and start back to the ballroom to grab mybelongings.

I spare a glance at the penthouse doors on my way down, a smile playing at my lips. Yeah. That's going to be mine when I win this crazybet.

Wonder what I’ll do first. Throw a massiveparty.

Or anorgy.

Or aconcert.

Benefit concert,the voice of my upbringing chimesin.

No. Benefitorgy.

Pleased, I retrieve my sweatshirt, using it to towel-dry my face and hair. Other actors are coming back to grab their things, talking andlaughing.

I glance at my phone and see a missed call from a number I know as well as my own. My T-shirt's spotted with rain, so I tug the hoodie overtop. I hit a button on my phone, and it rings twice as I adjust the hem. “Hey,Mom.”

“Hi, honey. I got your flowers for our anniversary at the office and was calling to say thankyou.”

I grin. “You’rewelcome.”

“It’s worse when you send my assistant flowers for her birthday. You’re making every other woman’s kids lookbad.”

“I refuse to apologize forthat.”

My mom’s amazing. She grew up in a blue-collar family, worked her ass off through the ranks of corporate finance to get where she is, and never once did it by stepping on other people. Even now, when she’s running a foundation and shaking down her former colleagues for charitable contributions, all of her maneuverings are clever but aboveboard. Each call she makes, even the hard ones, she does with her head heldhigh.

And I’m the only son she has, so I need to treat herright.

Through the nearly thirty years of my life, she’s always had my back. Not only when I was little and it was her job, but when I went to college. When her other friends’ sons went into investment banking or real estate and I went into modeling, she never once made me feel as if I was letting herdown.

“Your grandmother wanted me to ask if you can do brunch this weekend. I think she wants to talk about the shareholdersmeeting.”

I curse silently, remembering I still haven’t talked to Deacon. “Ah, sure. Saturday. I’ll get the table at Sarabeth’s shelikes.”

“I’ll tell her. Bye,honey.”

We hang up, and as I make my way to the elevator, most of the cast and crew already dissipating, guilt seeps into mybones.

Deacon’s been causing trouble lately. Ignoring my requests for information. Trashing my product ideas. It’s probably the only subtle disobedience he has available given our unique situation and the fact that my family owns the company that pays hissalary.

And pay him we do—well.

Initially, Deacon was a plan Monty and I put in place to help me transition. But the more he did, the more I realized it would be better if he kept doingit.

As far as my grandmother’s concerned, he’s a line item providing occasional support. Not a full-timeworkhorse.

Somewhere deep down, I suspect Monty’s right. It’s not a permanentsolution.

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