Lady Luck
Page 133
Obviously, they didn’t listen to her.
It was okay when we were at work and when I say that, I mean it was okay for Ty. Wood, Pop and three mechanics made it clear that the forecourt was private property and unless they were getting work done on their cars, they were not to leave the sidewalk. The garage was set back a whack from the street and had some outbuildings in front of it. So Ty worked in peace.
I didn’t even though Dominic called Daniel and Daniel, who had four inches and sixty pounds on his boyfriend and was also a serious mountain man, just a g*y one, informed the reporters they were not invited in the Spa. Luckily, the clients coming in that day found walking through a river of reporters shouting questions very exciting.
I did not. The constant buzz from outside and the shouted questions anytime a client came through the door were nerve-wracking and a total let-down from the jubilation of the day before. I was high on relief and belated justice and they were cutting into my happy trip which was super uncool.
Nina assured us this would go away, it would take awhile but it would and we just needed to stay quiet and be patient.
Ty informed me that we were doing what Nina said we were doing, exercising the freedom to enjoy our future unimpeded by further upheaval and that included me not losing control on my sass and throwing any at annoying reporters.
I was thinking that to do this, I needed to evacuate the state of Colorado. I figured both Wood and Dominic would not balk at Ty and I taking a vacation however I was only back at work for a few weeks and I couldn’t do that to Dominic after taking off on him once. Not even doing it to celebrate something as miraculous (albeit deserved) as what had happened to Ty or to escape the media onslaught.
So, it was put a clamp on my sass, something I promised my husband I would do.
Which was hard normally but now it was taking superhuman powers.
Ty glided the Snake in beside me and hit the garage door opener before he’d switched her off. I waited in my car and watched in the rearview mirror as the door fell, not getting out in order that they wouldn’t get a shot of me coming out of my car like they did when I walked into and out of the salon that day, both times escorted by my husband who left work that morning in order to drive up and trail me down then walk me into the salon and then who showed at the salon when we were both off in order to escort me out to the Charger and trail me home. We should have taken one car but he wanted to go to the gym after work, a plan thwarted when the news people didn’t go away all day.
As the door went down and settled, the shouts and cries of questions and requests for statements were drowned but not gone.
I got out, stood in my door and glared over the roof of the Charger at Ty as he folded out. He caught the look on my face, stopped dead and burst out laughing.
I didn’t find anything funny therefore I slammed my door and stomped out of the garage, into the utility room and up the steps.
I’d crashed my purse down on the side counter and was listening to Ty coming up the stairs when something caught my eye and I froze, staring out the backdoor.
“No f**king way!” I shouted.
“What?” Ty asked.
I lifted an arm, pointed at a wide but flat-ish cardboard box leaning against the glass at the backdoor, turned to my husband and proclaimed, “If that’s a box full of sick-ass sex tapes, I don’t wanna know.”
Ty’s eyes were glued to the box, he moved through the kitchen, opened the door, tagged it, closed the door, locked it, swung the blinds closed, wound them shut and walked the box to the island all the while I stood there and glared.
His head turned to me and he muttered, “Peña.”
I blinked, not prepared for that word to come out of his mouth. Then I asked, “What?”
The fingers of Ty’s big, strong hands were already shoving through an opening at the side as he answered, “Express from Peña.”
Great. This could mean anything and that included more sick-ass sex tapes.
I stomped to Ty as he tore the box open with his Mr. Humongo strength then he set it down, pulling out something inside that was wrapped in layers of bubble wrap. He tore that free and my breath stuck in my throat at what he unveiled.
It was a shining sun with wavy rays expanding out made of chips of Mexican tile artfully arranged and embedded in terracotta. It was unusual and extraordinary. I’d never seen anything like it.
It was magnificent.
Ty set it back on the pile of bubble wrap he’d shoved in the box and pulled out an envelope, slit it open with a finger and yanked out a card.
Then he whispered, “Fuck.”
I got close and read the card held in his fingers.
On it, it said simply, “Welcome to sunshine, esé.”
What should have been a happy day destroyed by annoying reporters melted instantly.
Just as instantly as I melted into tears.
And an instant later, I was in my husband’s arms.
* * * * *
The sunshine Angel sent us was made to decorate the outside of a house.
Without me asking him to, Ty mounted it in the kitchen so we were sure to see it every day.
* * * * *
One day later…
We came home to another box. This was a bottle of champagne from Samuel Sterling. Nothing on the note except a scrawled, black “SS” which was super cool.
I looked up the label on the internet and found that bottle of champagne cost four hundred and fifty dollars.
Samuel Sterling was hot, rich and had class.
I got his number from Ty and phoned him to ask him to dinner that weekend. Considering he was in Paris, he couldn’t make it but said he’d take a rain check.
Paris.
Totally, the dude had class.
* * * * *
Ty
A week and a half later…
Ty’s phone rang, he stepped away from the bike he was working on and pulled it out of his back pocket.
The number on the screen said it was withheld, he hesitated, opened it and put it to his ear.
“Yo.”
“Is this Mr. Tyrell Walker?”
“You first,” Ty ordered.
“Angela Buttner, California Attorney General’s office.”
“Restitution discussion goes through my attorney, Nina Maxwell.”
“Mr. Walker, I’m not calling about restitution. I’m calling you to explain we’ve had a request from Mrs. Jolinda Hayes. She’d like your contact information.”
“Who’s Jolinda Hayes?” Ty asked.
“She’s the mother of Shaun Hayes, the other man framed by Detectives Fuller and Palmer. The man who committed suicide three days prior to going to trial.”
It was okay when we were at work and when I say that, I mean it was okay for Ty. Wood, Pop and three mechanics made it clear that the forecourt was private property and unless they were getting work done on their cars, they were not to leave the sidewalk. The garage was set back a whack from the street and had some outbuildings in front of it. So Ty worked in peace.
I didn’t even though Dominic called Daniel and Daniel, who had four inches and sixty pounds on his boyfriend and was also a serious mountain man, just a g*y one, informed the reporters they were not invited in the Spa. Luckily, the clients coming in that day found walking through a river of reporters shouting questions very exciting.
I did not. The constant buzz from outside and the shouted questions anytime a client came through the door were nerve-wracking and a total let-down from the jubilation of the day before. I was high on relief and belated justice and they were cutting into my happy trip which was super uncool.
Nina assured us this would go away, it would take awhile but it would and we just needed to stay quiet and be patient.
Ty informed me that we were doing what Nina said we were doing, exercising the freedom to enjoy our future unimpeded by further upheaval and that included me not losing control on my sass and throwing any at annoying reporters.
I was thinking that to do this, I needed to evacuate the state of Colorado. I figured both Wood and Dominic would not balk at Ty and I taking a vacation however I was only back at work for a few weeks and I couldn’t do that to Dominic after taking off on him once. Not even doing it to celebrate something as miraculous (albeit deserved) as what had happened to Ty or to escape the media onslaught.
So, it was put a clamp on my sass, something I promised my husband I would do.
Which was hard normally but now it was taking superhuman powers.
Ty glided the Snake in beside me and hit the garage door opener before he’d switched her off. I waited in my car and watched in the rearview mirror as the door fell, not getting out in order that they wouldn’t get a shot of me coming out of my car like they did when I walked into and out of the salon that day, both times escorted by my husband who left work that morning in order to drive up and trail me down then walk me into the salon and then who showed at the salon when we were both off in order to escort me out to the Charger and trail me home. We should have taken one car but he wanted to go to the gym after work, a plan thwarted when the news people didn’t go away all day.
As the door went down and settled, the shouts and cries of questions and requests for statements were drowned but not gone.
I got out, stood in my door and glared over the roof of the Charger at Ty as he folded out. He caught the look on my face, stopped dead and burst out laughing.
I didn’t find anything funny therefore I slammed my door and stomped out of the garage, into the utility room and up the steps.
I’d crashed my purse down on the side counter and was listening to Ty coming up the stairs when something caught my eye and I froze, staring out the backdoor.
“No f**king way!” I shouted.
“What?” Ty asked.
I lifted an arm, pointed at a wide but flat-ish cardboard box leaning against the glass at the backdoor, turned to my husband and proclaimed, “If that’s a box full of sick-ass sex tapes, I don’t wanna know.”
Ty’s eyes were glued to the box, he moved through the kitchen, opened the door, tagged it, closed the door, locked it, swung the blinds closed, wound them shut and walked the box to the island all the while I stood there and glared.
His head turned to me and he muttered, “Peña.”
I blinked, not prepared for that word to come out of his mouth. Then I asked, “What?”
The fingers of Ty’s big, strong hands were already shoving through an opening at the side as he answered, “Express from Peña.”
Great. This could mean anything and that included more sick-ass sex tapes.
I stomped to Ty as he tore the box open with his Mr. Humongo strength then he set it down, pulling out something inside that was wrapped in layers of bubble wrap. He tore that free and my breath stuck in my throat at what he unveiled.
It was a shining sun with wavy rays expanding out made of chips of Mexican tile artfully arranged and embedded in terracotta. It was unusual and extraordinary. I’d never seen anything like it.
It was magnificent.
Ty set it back on the pile of bubble wrap he’d shoved in the box and pulled out an envelope, slit it open with a finger and yanked out a card.
Then he whispered, “Fuck.”
I got close and read the card held in his fingers.
On it, it said simply, “Welcome to sunshine, esé.”
What should have been a happy day destroyed by annoying reporters melted instantly.
Just as instantly as I melted into tears.
And an instant later, I was in my husband’s arms.
* * * * *
The sunshine Angel sent us was made to decorate the outside of a house.
Without me asking him to, Ty mounted it in the kitchen so we were sure to see it every day.
* * * * *
One day later…
We came home to another box. This was a bottle of champagne from Samuel Sterling. Nothing on the note except a scrawled, black “SS” which was super cool.
I looked up the label on the internet and found that bottle of champagne cost four hundred and fifty dollars.
Samuel Sterling was hot, rich and had class.
I got his number from Ty and phoned him to ask him to dinner that weekend. Considering he was in Paris, he couldn’t make it but said he’d take a rain check.
Paris.
Totally, the dude had class.
* * * * *
Ty
A week and a half later…
Ty’s phone rang, he stepped away from the bike he was working on and pulled it out of his back pocket.
The number on the screen said it was withheld, he hesitated, opened it and put it to his ear.
“Yo.”
“Is this Mr. Tyrell Walker?”
“You first,” Ty ordered.
“Angela Buttner, California Attorney General’s office.”
“Restitution discussion goes through my attorney, Nina Maxwell.”
“Mr. Walker, I’m not calling about restitution. I’m calling you to explain we’ve had a request from Mrs. Jolinda Hayes. She’d like your contact information.”
“Who’s Jolinda Hayes?” Ty asked.
“She’s the mother of Shaun Hayes, the other man framed by Detectives Fuller and Palmer. The man who committed suicide three days prior to going to trial.”
