The Tycoon Page 4

  “Please,” she whimpered. “Come home.”

  3

  VERONICA

  I shared a house with my sister, Bea. Actually, we both shared a house with her two dogs. A mastiff and a Chihuahua. It was ridiculous. Every time one of us walked in the door it was Armageddon. Fur and yapping and tail wagging.

  Forget it if we happened to have a bag of cheeseburgers.

  “Yes, yes,” I said to Thelma and Louise, who wouldn’t let me past the front door without their due. “I missed you, too.”

  Thelma, the mastiff, licked my arm leaving a trail of slobber on my skin. My flowy black shirt was now a flowy shirt of dog hair.

  “Bea!” I shouted, and I heard the fast-moving thuds of her footsteps coming downstairs.

  At best our house could be described as eclectic. Maybe boho with a side of shabby chic.

  In reality, nothing matched and nothing went together. It was all a hodgepodge of comfy old denim couches that didn’t go with the velvet chairs that all had stacks of books beside them. The art we’d bought one piece at a time from different community festivals with varying degrees of seriousness. I had a thing for photography, so there was plenty of that everywhere. A lot of dogs and trees with full moons behind them.

  All of it was covered in dog hair and coffee cups.

  It wasn’t pretty, but it was the best home we’d ever had.

  Because it was ours. Not our father’s. Not Clayton’s. Ours.

  And that made it beautiful.

  Bea arrived on the small landing between the living room and the kitchen. At the sight of her, I felt my heart squeeze. Tenderness and that old urge to protect. To save her from pain.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “We need to talk.”

  “You heard?” I asked and pushed through the gleeful dog barricade between us.

  “Heard?”

  “About Dad.”

  She sucked in a breath. “That’s…no. I don’t know anything about Dad.”

  “Then what do you need to talk about?”

  She closed her eyes and I felt that deep brace in my stomach. That gird-your-loins feeling that came with being a sister to Bea. When I moved to Austin she didn’t follow right away. She’d dropped me at a hotel with all the money we had in our purses and gone back to The King’s Land.

  I spent a week selling my jewelry and the dress, finding an apartment I could afford. I got a job and enrolled in night school so I could finish my degree. I wasted no time getting the pieces of myself put back together. I created this version of myself—capable and calm—because this was the kind of person I wanted to be.

  Bea showed up at my door one year later with a black eye she wouldn’t tell me about, the Chihuahua, and a couple of thousand dollars cash. I asked a lot of questions, and she didn’t answer one of them.

  “Bea?” I slipped my hand over hers on the railing. “What’s going on?”

  She shook her head and pulled her hand away. “What happened to Dad?”

  “He died. Heart attack. Apparently he’s been sick for a while.”

  “When’s the funeral?”

  “Three days”

  “At the ranch?”

  I nodded, studying her face for hints, cracks, clues. But she only stood there with eyes full of tears she wouldn’t let fall.

  Daddy issues are the worst.

  “Sabrina told you?”

  “Actually…” I took a deep breath. “Clayton.”

  “Holy shit.” Just like that, my sister was off the steps and yanking me into her arms. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Are you lying?”

  My breath shuddered in delayed reaction. That had been him. For real. It wasn’t a dream. “A little.”

  “You should have let me burn down his condo when we had the chance.”

  “We never had the chance.”

  “We’ll do it when we go back for the funeral. Burn the whole thing down to the ground.”

  “I don’t want to go,” I said into my sister’s hair. She smelled like sawdust, from the building project she was working on with her boyfriend. A bar. They’d bought the property—a ramshackle building on a gloomy side street downtown. She was excited. I was dubious. Frank was one of those charming men I could never really get a bead on. But my sister was in love. And when Bea fell in love, it was everything. It consumed her life.

  And mine.

  “I know,” she said, stroking my back.

  “But I have to. Don’t I?”

  “Well, I’m going. And I know you won’t make me go through that on my own.”

  No. I wouldn’t.

  And I wouldn’t let Sabrina go through it all alone. I would pull myself together, put my father in the ground, and I wouldn’t look twice at Clayton. I wouldn't…feel him there. I wouldn’t care. I could do that. I could.

  I’d done much harder things.

  “How was it? Seeing him?”

  Awful.

  “Okay. He looks…the same. Thinner.”

  “Did he try—”

  “He apologized.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Exactly.”

  I leaned back, eager to put Clayton out of my head. It had taken me years last time. Surely, I was better at it now. “What did you need to tell me?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing, really. It can wait.”

  “You sure? Because—”

  “We’ve got enough going on, don’t you think?”

  Funeral. Will. Clayton.

  It felt like almost more than I could handle.

  So I let it go.

  I shouldn’t have.

  That night in bed with my laptop and Thelma, I opened up my email and pulled up the last known email address I had for Dylan King. My half brother. We’d been in touch over the years using this ancient Hotmail account. Every time I was sure it wouldn’t work—it worked.

  He was in the military in some super-secret capacity and I knew that I was his next of kin should something happen to him. Which was weird. Being the next of kin for a guy I hardly knew, even if he was my half brother.

  His mother and our father never married. Dylan’s mother had been Hank’s mistress before he married my mom. But because Dylan was Hank’s only son—illegitimate though he was—the custody fight had been bitter. Dylan grew up with his parents at each other’s throats. As soon as he was of age he joined the military.

  We spent one awkward summer together when he was fourteen and he’d let Bea, Sabrina, and me follow him around like puppies.

  I wrote him after I ran away from the engagement party, to let him know the wedding had been called off. I was pretty sure he wasn’t coming anyway, but it had felt good to just…write it all down. To scream it into the void, sort of.

  Dylan had sent back one email.

  Fuck that asshole. He doesn’t deserve you.

  Oddly, it had been comforting.

  Hey, I wrote, while Thelma snored. I hope you’re doing well. Saving the world, etc. etc. I’m writing with some news—not sure if it’s sad or not—but Dad died. A heart attack. Apparently he’d been sick for a while. Funeral is next week down at the ranch. Will reading immediately after. I’m sure you’re not interested in the funeral but the will reading might concern you. You know the old man still had some tricks up his sleeve. Bea and I are going. It would be nice to see you there.

  I clicked Send and then emailed a few other people. Cancelling appointments for next week. Shuffling things around.

  It usually took him ages to respond, so I was slightly stunned when the notification of his reply popped up in the corner of my screen.

  That explains why the lawyer is after me. I won’t be there, he said. The asshole can rot. You shouldn’t go either. He doesn’t deserve it.

  Strange how much I appreciated the sentiment. I couldn’t say a whole lot about Dylan, but the guy was consistent when it came to hating our father.

  And I was envious of his ability to just say no. To tell al
l the Kings to fuck off and mean it. I wished I had said that to Clayton today at Patsy’s. I wished I had said a thousand—

  I stopped myself. I’d wasted years of my life writing blistering, scathing speeches to give Clayton that I’d never had the chance to deliver. It had been my nighttime ritual for years.

  Pat the dogs. Turn off the light. Drift to sleep thinking of different ways to tell Clayton to suck it.

  And then I’d realized the only person it was hurting was me. So I stopped.

  If it weren’t for my sisters I wouldn’t go, either, I wrote back to Dylan.

  And then I closed up my laptop. Gave Thelma a pat. Turned off my light.

  Clayton, you self-righteous, overprivileged, overreaching…

  Stop, Ronnie, I told myself. He deserved no more of my energy. Not one minute more of my time.

  But that night I dreamed of him. Of the first date he took me on. The one I hadn’t realized was a date. He wore a suit. I wore jeans. Dessert and coffee, and I’d been so nervous, so unsure of myself and what was happening, that I talked nonstop. Literally opened my mouth at the beginning of the date and didn’t close it until he shook my hand good-night. I remember I spent, like, ten minutes on hummingbirds. Longer on asset management.

  “I’m so sorry,” I’d blurted at the end of that night.

  “For what?” he’d asked.

  “For talking for two hours straight. For not letting you get a word in edgewise. For…”

  “Being utterly charming and delightful, start to finish?”

  “Well…” I’d been able to feel every ounce of blood in my body rushing to my face. “I’m not sure about that.”

  “I am.” He’d kissed my cheek and opened my car door for me.

  Liar, I said in my dream. You’re such a fucking liar.

  I woke up with my heart racing, my skin hot.

  Tears burning in my eyes.

  4

  VERONICA

  It was January, but the weather hadn’t gotten the memo. The sun was white in the endless blue sky. Dazzling and familiar. But not in a good way. In a blinding way. A duel at high noon, one of us wasn’t going to make it out of here alive, kind of way.

  Going back to the ranch was like going back to the scene of a crime.

  “What are you doing?” Bea asked.

  I stopped fanning my armpits. But the flop sweat was real.

  “Are you okay?” Bea asked.

  Fuck, no!

  “I’m fine…I just…I never loved the ranch.”

  “Really?” Bea asked, looking out the window, like the landscape was filled with magic and puppies and not terrifying memories of abject humiliation around every corner. “I did.”

  “What?” I yelled, turning to face her as best I could while still driving. “You’re joking. Jennifer and Sabrina and all that stuff with Dad—”

  “And Trudy and Oscar and the guys from the stable and our friends in Dusty Creek.” She shrugged. “It…just wasn’t that bad. Look,” she said, pointing out the window at the horses that raced along the fence line.

  Not that bad? She was delusional.

  When Bea and I stepped out of the car onto the familiar circular driveway of The King’s Land, Oscar and Trudy were there to greet us. And I was so thankful to see them, I practically collapsed into their arms.

  It was bright out, but there was a cold wind blowing.

  “How is everyone doing?” I asked Trudy, thinking of all the staff who had lived their lives out here.

  “They’re okay,” she said with a smile and stroked my cheeks. “They’ll be glad to see you.”

  I gave her a weak smile.

  “He’s here,” she said, because she knew me so well. “In your father’s office. Meeting with lawyers.”

  “I don’t care,” I said.

  Trudy didn’t believe me but she had the grace not to call me on my bullshit.

  Oscar and Bea were laughing and already walking toward the stables. Thelma and Louise followed Bea, like she had treats in her pockets. Which she probably did.

  “Where are you going?” I asked Bea. “We have a funeral—”

  “Not for another hour,” she yelled at me over her shoulder.

  Trudy and I stepped through the front door of the house and it was all so familiar. All so the same. The animal heads on the walls, my father’s gruesome trophies. Jennifer’s efforts to class up the place, with the grand piano and white carpeting in the sitting room. The glass shelves full of abstract glass art. It was as ridiculous now as it had been then.

  “Sabrina?” I asked.

  “In town. She has managed the details of the funeral beautifully.”

  Of course she had.

  “You’re here.”

  And at the sound of Clayton’s voice my laughter dried right up.

  He was standing in the hallway that led to the back of the house. Wearing a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a red tie pulled loose at his neck.

  He was smiling.

  It hurt to look at him, so I stared at his knees for a moment. Getting my bearings, reminding myself that I was not the child I had been. That he couldn’t actually hurt me. Not ever again.

  When I looked back at his face. His smile was gone. So gone it was like I’d imagined it.

  “I’m here.” I did an awkward arm flap thing and immediately wanted to vanish. I’d told myself I wasn’t getting dressed for Clayton. That I didn’t care what he thought. But I was still wearing my best skinny jeans and the new black leather booties Bea had insisted I buy. My green cardigan was long and drapey and hid all kinds of flaws.

  A phone rang, breaking our awkward spell. Trudy pulled her cell out of her pocket and excused herself, going back outside to take the call.

  Leaving me alone with Clayton.

  Suddenly this giant house—this monstrous ranch—seemed too small. I needed miles between us so I could keep him forgotten.

  So I could be this person I’d created who’d never been hurt the way he hurt me.

  “Once you’re settled, meet me in your father’s study,” he said. It was not a request and I remembered how he used to do that sometimes. Forget that I wasn’t his employee. Someone he could just demand things of.

  “No.”

  He sighed and smiled briefly. “I’m sorry. Could you please meet me in your father’s study when you get a chance?”

  This was the thing about Clayton. He was a bossy boss man. But his apologies, when they came, were sincere.

  And I was always a sucker for his apologies.

  I swallowed and glanced over at the wall of shitty glass art.

  Why did they all look like penises?

  “The answer is still no.”

  “Veronica. There are things we should discuss before tomorrow.”

  I shook my head. “We have nothing to say to each other. I’m here for my sisters. That’s it.”

  He stepped toward me, his hands in his pockets like he meant me no harm, but I backed myself up anyway and nearly tripped over my suitcase.

  Great. Awesome. Super-sophisticated. Exactly the vibe I was going for.

  “You used to have plenty to say to me. Endless conversation. Remember?”

  “No.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not.”

  I was.

  But I forced myself to look at him. To look right into him. Of course I remembered. I remembered everything I wished I could forget.

  “You called me once about two birds fighting over what was left of your sandwich.”

  I did. I did do that.

  “You were sitting on a patio, remember? And this bird—”

  “I remember.”

  This bird had come out of nowhere and stolen my BLT, and then another bird swooped in to try and take it. They’d fought over it right in front of me.

  I’d called Clayton and given him the play-by-play.

  And he’d pretended to be interested. Even laughed once or twice.

  Because
I was a task. Always a task. A check mark on his way to something he wanted more.

  The taste of humiliation was sour in my mouth. Like bile.

  “I’m here for the funeral. My sisters. That’s it. Stay away, Clayton. Just…stay away.”

  I turned and walked away, leaving him there in the shadows, watching me go. And I was so freaking proud of myself, proud of how I slowly grabbed my bag and took it with me. How I climbed the steps one at a time, carefully and methodically.

  Like I didn’t care.

  Like he wasn’t even there.

  My sister Sabrina threw a party like it was her job.

  Even funerals.

  And maybe it was; I’d never really understood her reality TV show. After the nightmare of my engagement party, she’d moved to Los Angeles, and within a few years she was the Cowboy Princess with billboards for her show all over Texas.

  A real-deal celebrity.

  The show seemed to consist of her shopping, throwing parties, and riding horses in terribly inappropriate footwear—all while perfectly dressed and made up. Making it all seem like she was having just the best time ever. Her Instagram account verified that. Nothing but parties and rock stars and actors whose names I didn’t know.

  Sometimes I caught her show late at night and I’d see her familiar, beautiful face, but I’d see the familiar sadness, too.

  The Cowboy Princess was, beneath all that beauty and frivolity, a little broken.

  But not when it came to throwing parties. When I came back down, the ranch was totally different. Gone was that ugly glass art and instead there were pictures of the family I could barely stand to look at. Bea with her two front teeth gone. Sabrina as a roly-poly preteen. Me with my mother. There were servers and small cocktail tables. A cellist in the corner.

  A black limo took Bea and me out to the family plot, which was in a pretty corner of the property. A small hill surrounded by lilacs in full, perfumed bloom.

  There had to be a hundred people there. None of them were people I wanted to deal with. Clayton stood next to Sabrina, talking to the minister, but when I got out of the car, he looked over at me.