He Will be My Ruin
Page 14
Farther down are his qualifications for the “perfect woman”—confidence, attention to detail, an appreciation for honesty.
Aka—a hot, shallow trophy who doesn’t mind being used for sex.
But what I’m most interested in are the photographs. Besides the desk shot, there is one with him, the family-oriented son, standing between the governor and his mother, who, with her upswept hair and pearl earrings and French manicure, appears to be every bit a politician’s wife; a grand, historic home towers in the background, and each of them is in matching snow-white polo shirts and beige slacks.
I’ve met plenty of politicians and their families. I haven’t trusted any of them. Maybe that’s because they see my parents and me as nothing more than campaign donors. Maybe it’s because I went to school with the children of congressmen who didn’t like me because my parents didn’t support their parents in whatever bill or scam they were trying to pass in the Senate. I’d bet money this eligible bachelor and I would ram heads like two mountain goats within five seconds flat.
The third picture . . . I’m guessing Jace Everett is somewhere near the Grand Canyon, based on the rusty cliffs. An evening sunset fills most of the picture, illuminating a powerful body as he scales a mountain.
Holding up Celine’s secret picture of him, I compare the tattoos—an eagle perched on his shoulder. You don’t find many guys like this marked by ink, but I guess it’s patriotic enough that no one can complain too much.
My heart begins to race.
They’re the same. Jace Everett is definitely the guy in the picture.
I’m on my feet, pacing the miniscule living room, my mind spinning. Celine knew this guy, but she was hiding it. From me, from Dani, from Hans. From the peculiar old lady next door. They worked in the same building, but they didn’t work for the same company, so it couldn’t be a case of office politics. But I’m almost positive Celine was sleeping with one of New York City’s most eligible bachelors.
And there doesn’t seem to be any proof of it, except my gut, a flower delivery card from someone named “J,” and an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of paper with a picture printed on it.
“Ow!” I howl as something sharp digs into my foot. I pick up the loose screw and launch it across the apartment. The tiny, cramped apartment, whose walls are suddenly closing in on me. I need out.
I yank on my boots, coat, and hat, grab my keys, and throw open the door.
And yelp when I find Ruby standing there, wrapped in a colorful afghan, her white hair set in rollers for the night, a small tin in her hand.
“Is everything all right, dear? I heard you yell. Would you like to come inside?”
I fight the shudder that comes with thoughts of all those books. Right now, I’d suffocate in there. “I just . . .” I heave a sigh and fall against the doorjamb with frustration. “I need some fresh air.”
She smiles like she has a secret, her cloudy eyes magnified behind thick lenses. Pointing a gnarly finger toward the forest-green door marked EXIT at the end of the hall, she says, “Take those stairs all the way up. You’ll find your fresh air there. And take these cookies.” She hands me the tin. “You’ll need them as bribery.”
I frown, my panic and frustration giving way to curiosity. “Thanks, Ruby. Have a good night.”
Without looking back, I head for the stairwell, a narrow and dark, musty space that forces me to hold my breath and climb steps two-at-a-time in my rush to reach the top, my vision beginning to tunnel. Barreling through the cracked door with closed eyes, I exhale in relief as fresh cold air hits my cheeks.
I’m on the roof. I expect to find snow-coated concrete and utility meters and pigeon poop up here. Instead, a wooden fence door stands about ten feet away, with lattice-screen walls on either side, a bramble of dead vines weaving through the gaps, blocking the view beyond. I don’t hesitate to seize the metal handle and yank it open.
Inside hides a garden of twinkling white Christmas lights snaking around potted shrubbery and urns that overflow with evergreen branches. To my left sits a small teak table with only one folding chair; to my right, a raised flower bed, lined by stone and filled with decorative markers that show where plants grew in the summer months. Lanterns flicker throughout.
And Grady is lying stretched out in a giant hammock ahead, sandwiched between layers of blankets, one arm tucked beneath his head. A sizeable enclosed fire pit—no doubt a hazard—burns next to him.
I inhale deeply. Growing up on the West Coast and spending the last few years in the developing world, my nose can always pick up on the faintest scent of marijuana, even when entangled in the smell of burning wood.
I step past the vine-covered arbor and into the rooftop garden, working at my coat’s buttons with my one free hand. “Hey. I’m sorry. Am I intruding?”
He simply eyes me from his spot. Until I’m pretty sure he’s looking for a polite way to say Fuck off. I want to get high in peace. But I’m not ready to fuck off, and this place . . .
This is quite the little paradise.
Suddenly, Ruby’s words make sense. I hold up the tin. “Ruby gave me these. In exchange for safe haven.”
Finally, a small smile touches his lips. “Well in that case . . .” he drawls in that charming English accent, gesturing toward the only chair.
I choose to wander instead, having never been good at sitting still. “This is amazing.” I peer over the edge and down to the street below, still busy for a Tuesday night at eleven.
“I like it.” He sounds so relaxed, I envy him. It must be the pot. I haven’t smoked anything since I was twenty and revolting against all forms of authority. Tonight, I think I want to revolt against reality. I could get high as a fucking kite and let my mind fly away. Maybe I’d find the truth somewhere up in the clouds.
Picking a sprig of sage that’s shriveled and brown but still intact, I hold the leaf to my nose, breathing in the delicious scent. “Did you do all this?”
“Yup.”
“Even that?” I point at the sturdy-looking pergola that canopies him. The hammock he lies in is self-supported, with an impressive curved wooden frame to hold the corners up.
I sense his heavy gaze on me. “Even that.”
“A guy who can garden and build.” I could use him in Ethiopia. “Can tenants come up here?”
Aka—a hot, shallow trophy who doesn’t mind being used for sex.
But what I’m most interested in are the photographs. Besides the desk shot, there is one with him, the family-oriented son, standing between the governor and his mother, who, with her upswept hair and pearl earrings and French manicure, appears to be every bit a politician’s wife; a grand, historic home towers in the background, and each of them is in matching snow-white polo shirts and beige slacks.
I’ve met plenty of politicians and their families. I haven’t trusted any of them. Maybe that’s because they see my parents and me as nothing more than campaign donors. Maybe it’s because I went to school with the children of congressmen who didn’t like me because my parents didn’t support their parents in whatever bill or scam they were trying to pass in the Senate. I’d bet money this eligible bachelor and I would ram heads like two mountain goats within five seconds flat.
The third picture . . . I’m guessing Jace Everett is somewhere near the Grand Canyon, based on the rusty cliffs. An evening sunset fills most of the picture, illuminating a powerful body as he scales a mountain.
Holding up Celine’s secret picture of him, I compare the tattoos—an eagle perched on his shoulder. You don’t find many guys like this marked by ink, but I guess it’s patriotic enough that no one can complain too much.
My heart begins to race.
They’re the same. Jace Everett is definitely the guy in the picture.
I’m on my feet, pacing the miniscule living room, my mind spinning. Celine knew this guy, but she was hiding it. From me, from Dani, from Hans. From the peculiar old lady next door. They worked in the same building, but they didn’t work for the same company, so it couldn’t be a case of office politics. But I’m almost positive Celine was sleeping with one of New York City’s most eligible bachelors.
And there doesn’t seem to be any proof of it, except my gut, a flower delivery card from someone named “J,” and an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of paper with a picture printed on it.
“Ow!” I howl as something sharp digs into my foot. I pick up the loose screw and launch it across the apartment. The tiny, cramped apartment, whose walls are suddenly closing in on me. I need out.
I yank on my boots, coat, and hat, grab my keys, and throw open the door.
And yelp when I find Ruby standing there, wrapped in a colorful afghan, her white hair set in rollers for the night, a small tin in her hand.
“Is everything all right, dear? I heard you yell. Would you like to come inside?”
I fight the shudder that comes with thoughts of all those books. Right now, I’d suffocate in there. “I just . . .” I heave a sigh and fall against the doorjamb with frustration. “I need some fresh air.”
She smiles like she has a secret, her cloudy eyes magnified behind thick lenses. Pointing a gnarly finger toward the forest-green door marked EXIT at the end of the hall, she says, “Take those stairs all the way up. You’ll find your fresh air there. And take these cookies.” She hands me the tin. “You’ll need them as bribery.”
I frown, my panic and frustration giving way to curiosity. “Thanks, Ruby. Have a good night.”
Without looking back, I head for the stairwell, a narrow and dark, musty space that forces me to hold my breath and climb steps two-at-a-time in my rush to reach the top, my vision beginning to tunnel. Barreling through the cracked door with closed eyes, I exhale in relief as fresh cold air hits my cheeks.
I’m on the roof. I expect to find snow-coated concrete and utility meters and pigeon poop up here. Instead, a wooden fence door stands about ten feet away, with lattice-screen walls on either side, a bramble of dead vines weaving through the gaps, blocking the view beyond. I don’t hesitate to seize the metal handle and yank it open.
Inside hides a garden of twinkling white Christmas lights snaking around potted shrubbery and urns that overflow with evergreen branches. To my left sits a small teak table with only one folding chair; to my right, a raised flower bed, lined by stone and filled with decorative markers that show where plants grew in the summer months. Lanterns flicker throughout.
And Grady is lying stretched out in a giant hammock ahead, sandwiched between layers of blankets, one arm tucked beneath his head. A sizeable enclosed fire pit—no doubt a hazard—burns next to him.
I inhale deeply. Growing up on the West Coast and spending the last few years in the developing world, my nose can always pick up on the faintest scent of marijuana, even when entangled in the smell of burning wood.
I step past the vine-covered arbor and into the rooftop garden, working at my coat’s buttons with my one free hand. “Hey. I’m sorry. Am I intruding?”
He simply eyes me from his spot. Until I’m pretty sure he’s looking for a polite way to say Fuck off. I want to get high in peace. But I’m not ready to fuck off, and this place . . .
This is quite the little paradise.
Suddenly, Ruby’s words make sense. I hold up the tin. “Ruby gave me these. In exchange for safe haven.”
Finally, a small smile touches his lips. “Well in that case . . .” he drawls in that charming English accent, gesturing toward the only chair.
I choose to wander instead, having never been good at sitting still. “This is amazing.” I peer over the edge and down to the street below, still busy for a Tuesday night at eleven.
“I like it.” He sounds so relaxed, I envy him. It must be the pot. I haven’t smoked anything since I was twenty and revolting against all forms of authority. Tonight, I think I want to revolt against reality. I could get high as a fucking kite and let my mind fly away. Maybe I’d find the truth somewhere up in the clouds.
Picking a sprig of sage that’s shriveled and brown but still intact, I hold the leaf to my nose, breathing in the delicious scent. “Did you do all this?”
“Yup.”
“Even that?” I point at the sturdy-looking pergola that canopies him. The hammock he lies in is self-supported, with an impressive curved wooden frame to hold the corners up.
I sense his heavy gaze on me. “Even that.”
“A guy who can garden and build.” I could use him in Ethiopia. “Can tenants come up here?”
