Mangled Memory, page 13
When I say we have help I mean we have help. People do our yard, though in the winter that’s less of a groundskeeping and more of holiday staging, lighting, and manicuring the snow. Seriously. We have too much money if we pay people to do this shit.
Our house is holiday festive. Lights, trees, the sounds and smells. We’re hosting a social gathering of Christian’s clients this evening. Waiters in tuxedos passing flutes of champagne and catered amuse-bouche before a sit-down dinner. The fact that I learned hors d’oeuvres isn’t the term people in this circle use says enough.
Jessi gave me a cut and blow out then swept me up into an elegant and complicated updo this afternoon. It discreetly covers my scar and the previously shaved patch that’s growing out. Paired with my French-inspired minimalist makeup and bold red lip, I’m ready to fake it ’til I make it tonight.
My forest green velvet dress has sleeves to the wrist and a high neck, but dips to just above my ass in the back making it the ultimate tease of a dress. Elegant, formal, and modest in all the photos, and there will be pictures. The Post has been invited as have several magazines.
I’m popping my last diamond earring in when the door to the bedroom opens and Christian walks in. His custom suit couldn’t accentuate his body more. The richest black with a black and silver silk tie. It oozes wealth and speaks to power and influence.
His angular face is freshly shaved. His nearly black eyes and full mouth make him look like he just stepped off the catwalk in Milan. To this day, I’ve still never seen a more beautiful man.
He stops dead in the entryway, holding the doorknob, taking me in from top to toe. His pause is only momentary before he comes to me, crowding my space, and leans in to kiss me under my ear. I fight the shiver that wants to run my whole body.
“You’re always beautiful, Princess, but tonight you take my breath away.” His whisper is sensual and a caress to my senses.
His hand wraps my hip, but it’s the hiss of his huge intake of breath that surprises me. He pulls back, spins me away from him, and uses his fingers to trace the outline of my dress and the fabric that rides dangerously near my crack.
“Game on, Ayla. Game. Fucking. On.”
“What?” I look down at my dress. “Should I change?” I’m baiting him and I know it.
So does he. “No, wife.” He slides a hand down my spine from mid back to the seam of the dress where his fingers toy with the edge, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “You most certainly shouldn’t change.”
“Oh, good. I’d hate not to be holiday appropriate. What would our guests think?”
“As if you’ve ever worried about what our guests think… Artists have that way about them.”
I reach up and tweak the knot of his perfectly done tie. “I may be one of those creatives that care less about social convention, but I’d never do anything to willingly hurt your business, Christian. If this isn’t right, please tell me. It just spoke to me.”
His lips come to hover over mine. He whispers there, “Let those voices have their way anytime, but show some mercy on the men tonight. I’m sure I won’t be the only one sporting a semi watching you work the room.”
“I’d hate to be a temptation. Want me to sit this one out?” I whisper right back.
“I want you to sit this one on my cock, Princess.” He pulls back to hold my gaze. “I want you like a marathoner wants water. I want… you.”
I open my mouth to reply. I have no clue what I’d say but am cut off by a knock on our bedroom door. That’s something I’ve never experienced. Christian turns, grabbing his phone as he moves to pull the door open, finding Fitz on the other side.
“Mr. Barone, Seamus Murphy is here to see you.”
Fitz looks over Christian’s head as he steps aside to let my husband pass. “Mrs. Barone.” He nods to me in acknowledgment and pulls the door closed behind himself.
My dad is gone by the time I make my way to the foyer to begin greeting guests. It’s a good thing so many of these shindigs are so fake, because my persona tonight is full of pretense. The idea that I know everyone, remember everything, care about the stories of the über wealthy and powerful in this city having a minor inconvenience—or even a major one that can be solved by writing a check—annoys me.
I look around my home and have to wonder if I became like them. I feel so much like myself that I have to think I didn’t. Same Ayla, bigger bank account. At least I hope so.
My saving grace is that Ren Gallo, a man I’ve come to trust who worked for us in the past, but who now runs security for Christian’s business enterprises, stands with me at the door. He leans in and whispers the names of every person who walks in the door, his or her business, and some random factoid that gives me an icebreaker to chat with them about.
Hostess with the mostest is really a door greeter with trivia, but it means I’m not mingling and making small talk. Yet.
When all the guests have arrived, I follow Ren into the great room and watch him melt into the shadows. Somehow, I know that if anything were to go down, I’d be safe. That man takes his job very seriously. But like a shadow when the sun moves, he’s gone, and I’m left to socialite chatter.
As it turns out, I don’t need to seek anyone out. A thin man, about my height when I’m not in heels, finds me as I enter the room.
“Mrs. Barone.” He extends a hand. “I’m Alistair Speet. I work for Front Range magazine.”
“Pleased to meet you.” I accept his hand and shake. “Call me Ayla.”
“Okay, thanks.” He smiles awkwardly. “Well, I’ve been following your career, and I’d love to talk to you about your work and your rise to success. Could I get some time to interview you?”
We’re interrupted by a waiter passing champagne and some kind of cocktail. I decline this round. There will be plenty, but Alistair accepts.
“What do you do at the magazine?” I ask, neither agreeing to nor declining his interview request.
“I’m the environmental reporter.” He looks a little sheepish.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m the green guy, basically. I look at the impact of industry, banking, tech and the like in Denver and along the Front Range from an environmental standpoint.”
“That must be incredibly interesting, and, if you don’t mind me saying so, daunting.”
“It is.” Alistair Speet is definitely eager, but I don’t know what photography has to do with his reporting and I’m not interested in any additional scrutiny on my husband’s businesses.
“Will you follow me?” I lead the way to a man Ren introduced me to with an inflated ego and a bloated wallet.
“Mr. Zimmerman, may I introduce you to Alistair Speet of Front Range magazine.” I turn to the man in question. “Alistair, meet Frank Zimmerman of GVC Industries. I believe the two of you have much in common.”
I slide out of the conversation before accepting or rejecting Alistair’s request for an interview. It could go two ways so far as I can tell. I could be bait to larger fish, namely my husband or others in this room, or it could be used for me to have to declare allegiance to his cause or be revealed as anti.
I’m certainly pro-conservation. You can’t wander these mountains, meander through her trees, and listen to her brooks without knowing that industry makes an impact. There’s no way not to acknowledge trash on her hiking paths and the change in the air from all that happens around the globe. This week’s bear cub sighting is evidence that nature is not exactly in balance. He was born in the wrong season which is highly unusual, and his mama should’ve been deep in hibernation. I want my mountain home pristine and its wilderness wild. I don’t want signs everywhere to remind people to care for her waters when failure means death to our ecosystem.
I also don’t want to be the face of a movement. I want to shoot the beauty of my home state, not the failures of people. I want to share what can be—what should be, not where we fall short.
And I don’t want to be a political pawn for a young man seeking to make a name for himself in his field. Zimmerman would be happy to take press any way he can get it and will say what he needs to make that happen. Win-Win.
I slide to the other side of the room, putting guests between us to avoid a replay, when a palm slides down my spine, a lone finger trailing it, leaving fire in its wake.
“Hello, wife. You look delicious.” Christian places a kiss on my velvet covered shoulder. “Have you been networking?”
“Avoiding it, actually.” I stop a passing waiter and ask for a rocks glass of water with a lime. “How do you do this?”
“It’s been less than an hour.” His soft chuckle is only for me. “And it’s an occupational hazard. Needing people means speaking to them.”
“Cameras don’t ask for favors.”
“Do bears?”
I twist my neck to look at him. I search his eyes and wonder how long he’s known. If I had to guess, I’d say since the moment Fitz got in his car that day.
“Only when they’re hungry. Sleepy bears are agreeable.”
“Were you going to tell me?”
“Only if you wouldn’t tell Cian. He’d lose it on me if he thought I put Eleanor in danger.”
He dips his head to my neck, his voice barely above a murmur. “No less than I would with you putting yourself in danger. I like Eleanor, but I’m in love with you. It took me two days to calm down enough that—”
The waiter returns with my water and hovers long enough that the sentence hanging in the air feels more and more loaded.
“That what, Honey?” There’s mocking in that last word and we both know it.
“That I didn’t want to lock you in our bedroom and edge you to the point of insanity so you’d agree to never go alone again.” A shiver runs through me, three parts lust to one part fear.
“We both know I haven’t been alone for a while,” I whisper. “I’ve had a shadow, reporting back in, in the moments I needed solitude, the moments I needed to get away.”
“Did Fitz ever once ruin that solitude?”
I keep my face pleasant due to all of our guests and speak to my water glass. “I’m a grown woman.”
“You’re my wife.”
“Who is fully capable and can stand on her own two feet. I’m not a child and I’m not your employee.”
“You’re mine to protect. Mine to love. Mine.” His hot hand goes rigid on my lower back, searing into me.
“If you love me, you’ll trust me, Christian. Trust my judgment, trust what I say and do. Show me I’m yours by allowing me to breathe.”
“Show me you trust me and love me by putting your wedding ring where it belongs.”
Dammit. I don’t know that I fully trust him. Regardless, I’m willing to gamble to get some of my freedoms back. I extend my water glass to him and he holds it while I shift the ring from my right hand to my left.
I reach for my glass. Instead, taking my left hand, he kisses my knuckle where my ring rests. “Couldn’t ask for a better Christmas present, Mrs. Barone. Other than total recall for you, this is everything I want.”
I can see how I fell in love with him. He’s charming and sultry, and apparently, he’s all mine. Now to figure out why I have the niggling suspicion I’m missing something. Aside from my memory that is.
Drinks and pass-arounds are a hit. Guests are moved into the formal dining room or another of the two rooms on the first floor that have been transformed into the same.
Christian and I are in the formal dining room with Fitz in the corner. Ren and another of his trusted employees are in the other two, incognito. I wonder how many dinners we’ve had where security has been present that I was blissfully ignorant of or if this is new.
I lean in to ask but am cut off by Christian tapping his knife gently against his untouched flute of champagne. He rises to stand and lifts his glass. “Friends, thank you for a tremendous year. We’ve had ups and downs”—he squeezes my shoulder—“but we couldn’t have done it without you. I appreciate your steadfast loyalty, the opportunity for us to collaborate on amazing projects, and the success we’ve tasted in a year that could’ve been anything but. Ayla and I are thankful for you and looking forward to a fun and profitable new year. Happy holidays.” He lifts his wine glass and takes a sip.
“Hear, hear,” a chorus of voices affirms.
Movement from the corner of my eye comes at the same time as a gruff voice, a voice I know all too well, bellows, “Don’t believe a word of his bullshit. Barone is a liar and a cheat.”
My dad, for whom appearances matter, has forgotten this as he lists side to side, eyes glassy and nose red. Spittle flies from his mouth. He points a meaty finger at Christian. “You are a liar and a cheat.” He’s repeating himself.
From my periphery, I can see the cell phones come out and knowledge we’re being filmed settles firmly in my gut. The only reprieve we have is that the journalists and photogs from Front Range and Mile High, not to mention the Denver Post are all somehow in the other rooms.
Before Christian can acknowledge the drunk in the entryway, Fitz is there, ushering him bodily from the room.
My dad shouts as that thick finger swings to me, “And you’re the whore who turned traitor on your own family for that cocksucker.”
I drop my gaze as my face flames. His behavior shouldn’t reflect on me, but the embarrassment rises like bile nonetheless.
Christian goes rigid beside me. “Excuse me for a moment.” He slides from the room, spine straight and chin up, in the direction Fitz went with my father.
And I’m left with a room full of Denver’s movers and shakers who avoid looking at me like I have leprosy.
“Eat please and have another drink.” I smooth my voice out to a confident, warm tone that I do not feel in any way. “I suppose my teenage self is owed something like that for the stunts I pulled. One time, I snuck out and ‘borrowed’”—I make air quotes with my left hand—“their car. Responsibly, of course.” I wait for a chuckle that’s slow to come. “But got it stuck in the backyard of my Aunt Gemma’s house when she was out of town. I’d gone to raid her liquor cabinet before a bonfire. Heavy late snowfall meant the tires dug into the earth, and I had to be towed out.” I look to the sky. “Sorry Aunt Gemma for those ruts that ruined your yard,” I add, to make the story more palatable. “I washed their car and had it back in the driveway and they never knew. Well, they won’t if you don’t tell.” I lift my wine glass to them and take a big sip. “I’m sure we all have a story or two like that where we didn’t exactly get what we deserve. Thank goodness, right?” I grab my fork and scoop up a bite of the prime rib.
The man, two to my left, whose name escapes me but who’s a tech entrepreneur, if I remember correctly, begins telling a similar story, just as Ren slides into the room in the far corner. He gives me a quick nod acknowledging me, and I return my attention to the mogul. He shaved his head bald and referred to himself as a monk for a full month when his parents grounded him from his computer for hacking into a government web site. It was the same time his mother retired from the Air Force, so every picture of the special event has his tan face, a very white scalp and a mustard-colored robe. “It’s atrocious. I bought them a vacation home in Cabo and I still feel like a pain in the ass. Teenagers are punks.”
On and on it goes, people laughing and divulging their misdeeds. It has its intended effect—deflection. It has one I couldn’t foresee as well. The room is full of people connecting in a way that supersedes business deal-making. It’s not positioning and profitability. It’s relational.
It certainly wasn’t any expectation I had for tonight. By the time Christian returns, our guests are one-upping each other with stories of their teenage misdeeds.
He leans in and whispers, “What did I miss?”
“We’re telling our deepest, darkest secrets so everyone has blackmail material that’s pointless. It’s like camp, only with caviar.”
He kisses my neck under my ear and continues his low murmur. “How you manage to make everything perfect is beyond me. But I’m so grateful. Love you, Princess.”
I turn, dipping my chin, and kiss his jaw. My eyes hold his in unspoken words, before we turn back to the laughter erupting at the other side of the table.
“You did not!” a man chortles. “Me too.” He lifts his chin to my husband and points his butter knife at his chest. “This is the most fun I’ve had in… I can’t remember when.”
Christian nods and lifts his wine glass.
What can he say? But he manages to smooth out the rough edges. “I’m glad, Stephen. I hear I’ve got catching up to do on the embarrassing teenage stories.” And he launches into a tale of adolescent rebellion that would horrify us if we were parents.
18
always the top
Ayla
We’ve ushered the last guest out, promising dinner and drinks sooner rather than later. The cleaning crew has come, bussed the china and crystal, and are gone. Demo crews removed the tables and chairs and returned our furniture to where it belongs.
Fitz never returned, and Ren is still standing sentinel as if protecting our house from a crew of stealthy trained operatives.
I’m in the bedroom removing the studs from my ears when Christian slides in behind me, wrapping an arm around me to rest on my stomach. His pinky plays lazily as his lips hit the back of my neck.
“You never cease to amaze me, wife. From the first day I met you, that wild avenging angel—to today, smoothing over a situation that was disastrous to make it… Hell, you made it fun.”
He places another warm kiss to my neck before moving toward my ear. “Want to get in the hot tub with me?”
I nod, my breath catching in my lungs by the hunger pooling in my belly. “Is anyone still here?”
“Just Ren.”
“Disable the cameras?” I mean for it to be a statement but it comes out as a request.
His chin brushes against me in a nod. “Sure, Princess.”
Cool air meets my heated skin as Christian grabs his phone, fiddling with it until he tosses it onto our bed. His suit jacket comes next before his hands return to my upper back tracing the outline of my dress.
