Chapter Nine
BECKHAM
“I’m flying you and Sam to Salt Lake City for a couple days.” My brother informs me Tuesday morning.
“Wait. Why?”
“We can get more done if we meet in person, and Beckham, before you suggest that I Skype into the meeting, I’m going to go ahead and say no.”
I can think of a million places I’d rather visit than Salt Lake City.
“And it’s Uncle Leo’s birthday. The three of us haven’t gotten together in a couple years,” Dane says. “He’s not getting any younger.”
Dane’s flat tone serves to remind me that Uncle Leo’s lifetime of smoking menthols and drowning in Miller Lites every night haven’t helped his aging process.
“He’s almost seventy,” Dane says. “Look, I know we’re both busy, but it’s no excuse.”
My brother neglects to say what he and I both know. We wouldn’t be where we are if it weren’t for the kindness and generosity of a gruff old bastard named Leo Fickbaum. The truth is, he’s not our uncle at all. He deserves a better title than that. I shudder to think of the man I’d have become if it weren’t for the unexpected benevolence of a middle-aged bachelor who owned a diner in Middle of Nowhere, Utah.
That was the name of the town, too. It was about a ten mile walk from the FLDS compound I’d lived in my entire life with my fifty-plus siblings and half-siblings.
“Odessa’s okay with traveling on short notice?” I ask.
“Sam,” he says. “Her name is Sam. And yes, I’ve been emailing with her. She’s available. She’ll bring her laptop and work from an empty office here. I’ll have Maureen email you the itinerary. You’ll leave Wednesday and fly back Saturday.”
Four full days together ought to be interesting.
The phone muffles and he comes back a minute later.
“See you tomorrow, Beck.”
I hang up and head to Odessa’s office. She’s on the phone, so I wait in the seat across from her desk. She stares at me as she cradles the receiver, her brows scrunching as if I’m being invasive, but I ignore it. She’s on my turf. I own this room. The desk. Her chair. That pen in the corner of her mouth.
“Yes?” she asks when she hangs up a minute later.
“Just spoke with Dane,” I say.
She nods. “And?”
“You’re okay with Salt Lake City on short notice?”
“If you’re asking if I’m okay spending four days with you on a work trip,” she says, “then yes. I think I’ll be able to handle it. I can even guarantee I’ll keep my hands to myself the entire time.”
“You didn’t need to take it there.” My lips twitch, but I refuse to smile. Smiling too much makes me look like a bumbling idiot, but I find Odessa thoroughly entertaining in the most confusing of ways. “Just wanted to make sure it was okay with your fiancé.”
She places her pen flat against her desk, locking eyes with me. “Do you want this trip to be as uncomfortable as possible for both of us or are you actually this socially awkward?”
I fight a smile. “No one has ever accused me of being socially awkward.”
“I’m sorry.” Her lips pull wide. “Poor choice of words. What I meant was socially moronic.”
“Why do you hate me so much?”
“You’re obsessed with me.” She stands up, plucking her phone and tossing it in her purse before flinging the bag over her shoulder.
“Where are you going?” I rise. “And I’m not obsessed with you.”
“I’m getting coffee. Taking a walk.”
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” I can only imagine the lecture I’d get from Dane if legal were to get involved at any point during this consultancy. Then again, he has no room to talk, hiring women to do his sexual bidding during work hours.
And he thinks I haven’t seen the line item for his concierge…
She rushes to the door, stopping short with her hand against the frame. “No. I’m not uncomfortable. Just annoyed.”
“I’m not trying to annoy you, Odessa. If you pulled your head out of your ass for two seconds, you’d see I’m trying to figure you out. You’re an anomaly.”
“Why? Because I’m not drooling all over your obnoxious Gucci loafers?”
“For the record my personal shopper chose these. I couldn’t give two shits what brand they are.”
“Mm, hm.”
I smooth my palm against my left lapel and check the time on my wristwatch before brushing past her.
Something tells me Salt Lake’s going to be a fucking blast.