Woman Named Red Page 11

Stella wasn’t wrong about me not being able to keep this up for much longer. I can’t stay cooped up here. I’m going to go fucking insane. And she arranged for a meeting with Jackson Vale tonight at the club.

  A Friday at the club wheeling and dealing. That’s just what I need to get my mind off the woman who’s driving me batshit crazy. I’ll get out of here. Clear my head. Focus my attention back on what’s important.

  Getting The Sutler. Making my next power play. Taking the next step to make this entire city my bitch.

  I check the clock. It’s seven. Three hours till showtime.

  First, I’ll eat. Yes. Get that out of the way.

  Then I can focus on my pitch. I don’t want to come across as too needy. Pitching a business deal is like seducing a beautiful woman. You show them the goods you have to offer and then pull back. They have to chase you. Make them feel like you could take them or leave them. Sure, you find them attractive, but there are a hundred others and only one of what you’re offering. Never lose the upper hand. Aka, the opposite of what I’ve done with Scarlet.

  I tense my jaw. Not thinking about her right now.

  Business. Fucking focus. I stride toward the dining room.

  No distractions.

  The dining room table comes into view. The head of the table is set as normal. A tray of food with a dome covering it is arranged as it has been the past week whenever I come in for lunch or dinner.

  But I stop dead in my tracks, because seated right beside the head of the table is Scarlet. She’s wearing a vintage blue cocktail dress that hugs every single one of her ample curves—including a cleavage-revealing neckline that dries every ounce of moisture in my mouth.

  “Scarlet.” It comes out as a strangled whisper from my mouth, which is suddenly as dry as the Mohave Desert.

  “Hi, Kennedy.” She gives me a dazzling smile like nothing in the world is unusual about her dining with me. “You kept inviting me to dinner and I thought, well,” she shrugs, “since it’s Friday and the end of my first week of work…well,” another shrug, “why not?”

  Why not? Why not?

  I stride broodingly over to my place at the head of the table and sit down.

  All of a sudden, Scarlet’s smile wavers and she looks at me uncertainly. She starts to push back her chair. “I’m sorry. I was being stupid. I’ll just—”

  “Stay.” My hand shoots out and takes hers by the wrist. Her blue eyes jump to meet mine. “Please. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

  It’s true, too. Because in spite of all the focus-on-the-night’s-mission bullshit I was just spouting to myself, the second I saw Scarlet here, she obliterated every other thought just like always. I should probably be worried about how she does that.

  Christ, her skin is soft. My thumb skims back and forth over her wrist. So fucking soft. How on Earth can something so soft even exist?

  Scarlet clears her throat and pulls her arm away from my grasp.

  “Um, I made stuffed tortellini with artichoke hearts in a light cream sauce tonight,” she says. “I hope you enjoy.” She reaches over and lifts the dome off my food. Fragrant steam immediately rises up and warms my face.

  It smells amazing and I’m torn between wanting to devour the food and throw it on the floor and eat out the woman who made it instead.

  Scarlet smiles shyly at me and spears a tortellini off her own plate.

  “Cheers.” She reaches over and pretends to clink her tortellini with one of my tortellini. Fucking cutest thing in the whole goddamned world.

  Then she pops the stuffed pasta in her pink mouth and fuck if I’ve never been more jealous of a piece of food before.

  Scarlet notices me watching her, more specifically watching her mouth, and she blushes.

  “Would you like some wine? I found this delicious Moscato that’s just to die for. It’s so sweet and just mwah!” She kisses the tips of her fingers. “I wanted you to taste it. I don’t even care if it goes with this meal or not.” She reaches over to the middle of the table and pulls a bottle of wine from a bucket of ice, pops the temporary top she must have put on after pulling out the cork, and pours some into my glass then her own.

  She proceeds to roll it around in her glass and sniff it like she’s in some fancy winery. Then she takes a sip. The ecstatic look that comes over her face makes it seem like she’s transported somewhere else entirely. Her eyes flutter closed, her head tilts ever so slightly back, and her delicate throat bobs as she swallows.

  Her neck is like a swan’s. So elegant but fragile, too. She looks breakable. Like fine bone china, you get the feeling that with just the right slant of light, you might see straight through her.

  She opens her eyes and startles when she finds me staring at her. “Oh,” she says, ducking her head. “Did you try it yet?” She gestures toward my glass.

  I pick up my wine and take a sip. It’s too sweet for me but it seems perfect that she loves it so much. Sweet for sweet.

  “Come out with me tonight.” I don’t move my gaze from her.

  “What?” She says, covering her mouth since she’s just taken another bite of tortellini.

  “Come out with me. To my club. I have a little bit of business to take care of but the rest of the night can be ours. I want to dance with you.” Maybe spending the little bit of time refocusing earlier was helpful after all, because this is more my normal style. Me, on the ball, in control, recognizing what I want and mapping my strategy to win.

  Scarlet averts her gaze to her plate and forks some more pasta into her dainty mouth, chewing as she apparently mulls over my offer.

  She swallows and then her eyebrows narrow and she frowns, looking at my untouched plate. “Do you not like artichokes?”

  And I go from feeling completely in control to the back of my neck heating like a fucking schoolboy.

  “Of course I do. It’s perfect.” I spear an artichoke heart and some pasta. I swallow hard even before it touches my lips. You can do this, you stupid bastard. I manage to shove it in my mouth.

  Now just chew normally. Eat like a fucking normal person for once and don’t look like a goddamned idiot.

  Just like everything Scarlet’s cooked all week, it tastes amazing. All fresh ingredients. An explosion of flavors on my tongue.

  Savor it, jackass. Go slow. Slow. Three, four, five, six. Count each bite. You know it helps.

  “Kennedy?”

  Scarlet’s frowning at me again. Shit. Did I miss something because I have to fucking count while I chew my food like a goddamned toddler?

  Finally, I swallow. Such a goddamned relief. I stare at the rest of the plate and feel sweat break out on my forehead. Shit. It looks like Mt. Fucking Everest. Why did I think I could handle spontaneously eating in front of Scarlet? Usually it takes me a whole afternoon of psyching myself up and meditating if I’m planning on eating with company. There are other ways of spending time with her. There’s no need to torture myself like this.

  “Yes?” I wipe my mouth with my napkin and look up at Scarlet, trying to affect my most charming smile.

  “You said you had some business at the club tonight? What kind?”

  She scoops another forkful of food into her mouth and chews, her face full of curiosity. I stare at her mouth in fascination. She makes it look so easy. Everyone does.

  I blink back my envy and focus on her question. “I’m thinking about investing in some new property and I like to meet with potential investors in a more relaxed setting.”

  Her interest looks piqued. “What kind of property? For a new restaurant? Or a club?”

  I take another sip of the sweet wine and shift the food on my plate around. Maybe if I distract her with talking, she won’t notice I’m not eating that much.

  “A hotel.” I give her a few details about The Sutler without mentioning it by name. “Since the city turned it down for conversion, it goes back on the chopping block at a discounted price. Hopefully my friends and I can snap it up.”

  Scarlet’s clear
ed half her plate by this point. Not seeing any way around it, I take another bite. Jaw rigid, I count and force the bite down as quickly as possible.

  “Why, though?” Scarlet finally asks. “You’re rich already, right? With the restaurants and the club? Why bother with more?”

  I laugh at her question. Then I realize she’s serious. “Because if I stagnate, I die. Having wealth is never enough. I always have to be creating more. You think being a multi-millionaire is going to be enough to cut it in this city in ten years?” I scoff. “People are fickle. Benson’s House or Chandelier could go under like that,” I snap. “Then I’m on the street starving.”

  Scarlet’s body goes rigid and I realize too late my poor choice of words.

  “Shit, Scarlet, I didn’t mean—”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “Obviously. You’re right. Just look at me.” Her voice is tight.

  “No, I—”

  “I think I’m going to head up to get ready for our night out.” She pushes her chair back from the table and stands up.

  “Scarlet—” I stand up too, to try to stop her, but she just puts a hand before I can sputter whatever lame bullshit apology I was going to try next.

  Her eyes flash as she looks across the table at me. “Just one thing,” she says, her tone sharp. “Do you ever stop and think about the other guys? You and your rich friends are going to go in and snap up this ‘great deal,’” she makes air quotes, “on this hotel, but do you ever pause for even one second to wonder what happened to the people who used to own it and lost it? If the bank is the one auctioning it off, that means they got foreclosed on.” Her forehead crumples in anguish. “You’re profiting off someone else’s misery.”

  “It’s not like that.” I shake my head. “It’s groups of investors who own these hotels, not individuals.” Then something clicks. “Is that what happened to you? To your family? Did your house get foreclosed on? Scarlet, what I’m doing isn’t the same thing—”

  “You know what? Forget it.” She slashes a hand through the air and turns her back on me. “What time should I be ready for the club?” She asks over her shoulder as she walks away from me.

  I want to run after her. I want to make her understand that what we’re doing is nothing like what I bet happened to her. Why can’t she understand that? Instead all I do is call out lamely, “Nine o’clock.”

  She throws out a hand in an acknowledging wave and then she disappears around the corner.

  “Fuck!” I raise my hand, ready to sweep the platter of food onto the floor. I stop myself just in time. I can’t waste the food. Never the food.

  Furiously, I grab my plate and stomp up the stairs into my room. Once I’m there, I lock the door behind me, go into my large walk in closet and lock that door, too.

  I turn off the lights and finally, finally, I can breathe.

  And I eat the only way I ever could. At least since I was eight and my mother’s food obsession—addiction, whatever you want to call it—began to rule our lives. With my hands, I inhale the tortellini. Fistful after fistful into my mouth.

  If you don’t eat quick enough, the food will be gone. Mom will eat anything that’s not nailed down. She’ll eat until she’s sick and then keep eating. She’ll eat her food and all of my food and she won’t care how much I cry or that there’s no money left.

  I eat nonstop until the plate is clean. Of course, the fucking compulsion still isn’t through with me. I lick the fucking plate. Like a goddamned dog.

  And then I turn on the light.

  Instead of clothes in my closet, it’s stuffed to the brim with food. There’s a refrigerator and it’s also jammed with shit.

  And I do mean shit. Chips, soda, Twinkies, Ho-Hos, beef jerky, candy bars of all varieties, that fucking bagged cotton candy. If there’s a fucking fake, processed, empty-calorie piece of shit junk food, I’ve got it stocked in here.

  The sight of all the food, here, safe from her—it still makes my chest tighten with relief every time I see it. I feel it even though she’s been dead for nine years.

  It’s as fucked up as the fact that I still buy all this horrible shit because it’s the only ‘food’ we had access to back then. There weren’t any real grocery stores within five miles of us. It took an hour and a half long bus ride just to get to the real grocery story. I was just a kid. I wasn’t going to do that just to buy fresh vegetables.

  So this is the kind of shit I grew up on.

  I rip open a beef jerky packet and shove the whole thing in my mouth, chewing ravenously even though I’m not hungry anymore. This too is part of it.

  I’m such a disgusting shit. I eat the whole thing in spite of how fucking rubbery it is. I turn the light off again while I finish choking it down.

  In the dark, I’m that starving ten-year-old kid again, never knowing where my next meal will come from. Or if I’ll get a next meal.

  Mom’s crying in the next room, begging me to get her something to eat. Me eating this jerky means I didn’t give it to Mom. It means she’ll be crying all night because of me. Because I’m so goddamned selfish.

  I swallow the last of it.

  “Enough,” I growl.

  I jump to my feet and grab the knob, then stumble out into the brightness of my bedroom.

  Numbly I pull off my clothes and head to the shower. I turn the water to as hot as I can stand, which is just slightly below scalding. Before I do anything else, I grab my toothpaste and toothbrush. I scrub at my teeth and tongue to get the fucking disgusting taste of jerky out of my mouth.

  I thought maybe when I was training to be a chef, learning about all the amazing varieties and qualities of fresh food, I’d be able to change, but it never stuck. I taste my concoctions when I cook at the restaurant, though more and more I’ve moved into administrative roles, and I’ve trained myself to eat in public settings though I’m not great at. But at my core, I’m still that ugly, disgusting, fucked up little kid whose mom didn’t love him enough to take care of the one basic for survival—to feed me.

  I try to blank out my mind, but I can’t.

  If it’s not my mom’s face, it’s Scarlet’s accusing eyes flash through my head. Fuck. It’s not fair. I don’t even know what happened to her. Why should I feel guilty about it?

  I slam my hand against the tile wall of the shower. I don’t need this shit. Sure, I might be fucked up. Whatever. It’s who I fucking am.

  I do what I do. I take what I fucking want. And I never apologize.

  I rake shampoo through my hair so hard my fingernails scrape at my scalp. Fuck it all. I’m going to go to the club that I built up from fucking nothing and I’m going to get closer to landing a multi-million-dollar deal that’s going to make me so filthy rich, I can pay people to fall at my feet and lick my boot heels.

  I finish scrubbing and rinsing down the rest of my body, then step out of the shower.

  It’s time to let go of whatever Scarlet-induced fog I’ve been lost in. It’s time to take back Kennedy fucking Benson.

  Chapter 7

  Scarlet meets me downstairs wearing a dress that makes me swallow hard and almost break my resolve—it’s a red body-hugging number that leaves little of her shapely curves to the imagination despite its modest neckline and mid-thigh length. I’m surprised she showed at all considered her parting shots.

  Her smile is cool, though, and she doesn’t seem inclined to make conversation as we take a taxi the fifteen blocks to the club. Granted, the cabbie has some alt-right talk-show at full blast and it would have been hard to talk over that shit, but still.

  We walk into the back entrance of my club and I’m glad to see the place looks at capacity. I guess Heather’s Twitter blasting could only keep people away for so long. We have world famous DJs that come through here as well as a lot of local talent. Brother and sister DJ Paz and Diaz are the guest DJs tonight and the crowd is with them as they spin even though it’s early in the night. There’s a familiar pulse that’s three-fourths the music and one-fou
rth the heartbeat and soul of the people on the floor.

  Either it’s there or it’s not, and the few times we’ve had Diaz and Paz at the board, it’s always been there.

  Scarlet’s head swings this way and that like she’s trying to take in everything at once. In spite of myself, I feel anticipation like I’m waiting on tenterhooks for her reaction.

  Stupid. I know my club’s a success. The line I saw outside the front of the club winding down the block and around the corner tells me so.

  Still. What does she think?

  It’s a large space despite being in the heart of downtown, which is one of the secrets to our success. Exclusivity can only get you so far. People always want a place they can meet with friends and have a big floor to just dance on instead of being forced to stand around pretentiously all the time.

  This place used to be a theater, built right before the turn of the century. A lot of the original architecture and detail has been lost in the building’s various incarnations over the years, but the bones are still there. It was transformed into a movie theater for a while, then sustained a lot of damage in the ’89 earthquake. It was rebuilt with better infrastructure installed and used as a theater theater again for a couple decades before going bust several years before I bought her.

  The latest theater had installed a giant Phantom of the Opera-esque chandelier in the center of the place, and thus my inspiration was born.

  I replaced that God-awful chandelier and put up one that works with our fancy as fuck light system—you know, the kind that will set off an epileptic into a grand mal seizure. Hey, so I’m not Mr. Sensitive, don’t sue me.

  Literally. We have a sign in the entryway warning about it, so no lawsuits.

  Beams of light dance down on the crowd from the chandelier. Diaz is rocking it out on stage, his tattooed arms raised and pumping up the crowd, while Paz spins, mixing it back and forth between two songs with a heavy beat underneath and amping up the crowd even more.

  Like always, all I feel is…relief.

  Relief that things are going okay. We’re surviving another night. Relief that whatever magical combination of elements that make a club hot are still working. Each night there’s the anxiety. What if tonight that thing isn’t there? What if the DJ falls flat or the crowd isn’t feeling it? It only takes a few bad nights in a row for word to get around that Chandelier’s stale. Lame. That another club that just opened is the new hot spot to party.