A movement at the edge of his vision made Rich glance up, and through blurry vision he saw Olly standing in the doorway, eyes big, lips slightly parted. So very bright and innocent, it hurt. Everything Rich wasn’t. In a bolt of fury, Rich leapt up and shouted, “What the fuck are you snooping around for? I don’t care how far up my sister’s ass you are, keep your fruity nose out of my business!” He slammed the door on Olly’s shocked face.
Rich didn’t know how he finished the call. Only that he sat on the edge of the mattress with his head between his knees, trying to breathe for a long time. When he finally pulled himself together enough to stand, his head was pounding. He wandered out of his room. The living and dining rooms were done, the rollers were rinsed and lined up in a neat row, and water was running through the power roller into a bucket. Olly was gone.
Rich rubbed his temples. He needed a drink, but not beer. Something stronger.
Sandy found Rich sitting in the backyard, propped against a tree and nursing a fifth of Wild Turkey. He wasn’t thoroughly smashed yet, but on his way.
She sighed. “Oh, Richard.”
He hated when she said Oh, Richard. She sounded just like their mother. It was like sadness and disappointment fermented, distilled and aged into two little words. “Oh, Sandy,” he said, trying to throw the sentiment back at her, but his words tripped and tumbled.
She slumped onto the milk crate next to him and motioned for the bottle. She took a swig. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing. Can’t a man get plastered without a reason?”
“Uh-huh. There’s always a reason. Sorry I bailed on you guys. You did an excellent job. I’m taking you both out to dinner.”
“Oh that… Yeah, your friend might not want to hang out with me no more.”
Her face turned to thunder. “What the fuck did you do?”
He had to look away, couldn’t take the sting of her scowl. “I might have yelled at him. He left without saying good-bye.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you keep pushing away the people who care about you and embrace the assholes who don’t give a shit if you live or die?”
“I hardly think the kid gives a shit about me, one way or the other,” Rich said to his defense.
“Olly could be good for you,” she stated simply, but the words cut deep.
“I’m not a fruit!”
Her eyes flashed, and she pointed an accusing finger at his chest. “Listen to yourself—you even sound like the old bastard. He’s dead but still pulling your strings.”
“The old bastard you’re referring to is our father, I assume.” Now Rich’s voice dripped with bile.
Sandy wouldn’t be intimidated. “Not mine. My father is Simon Baker—the man who came to my school plays and stayed up all night when I was sick. Donald was nothing but a sperm donor. He ignored me for the first eight years of my life—and that was when I was still living under his roof. Once Mom divorced him, he never even sent a Christmas card. All because I was a useless girl. And I count myself the lucky one. He got his claws in you. And for fucking what?”
“Father was a man of principles,” Rich said stubbornly. He wanted desperately to believe it.
She didn’t. “He was a coldhearted bastard—that’s what he was, and you know it. I tried to make peace with him, I really did, but he wouldn’t have any of it. Did you know that in thirteen years of marriage, he never once told Mother he loved her?”
“Why did she marry him, then?”
“Because she was seventeen and pregnant.”
“And whose fault was that?” Rich griped without conviction.
“Don’t be an ass. He was fifteen years older.” She took another deep swig of bourbon. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Keeping her hand wrapped around the bottle, she pointed her finger at him once more. “Chard, you need to get the old man out of your system before you turn into him. He was a spiteful, miserable bastard his whole life, down to the last bitter moment. I know you—you’re better than him.”
Recognizing he was losing the argument, Rich snatched the bottle back. “I’m not drunk enough for this lecture.”
She sighed. “Fine. Be an asshole. I’m gonna call Olly and apologize for you. And tomorrow, when you’re sober, you’ll apologize too,” she added with finality.
Chapter Three
Olly had fumed to himself the whole drive back to Hollywood, and as soon as he arrived home, he dialed Jem. “I want to strangle the son of a bitch. Can we have Mme. Layla put a curse on him? Maybe a jinx to make his prick fall off?” Deep down, Olly was mostly mad at himself for trying to be friendly with Rich. If it wasn’t for the look on the guy’s face as he was working on the mantel… Rich seemed like a completely different person then—focused but without the tension. So…likable. It was what made him approach Rich.