“Mmm, not really,” Jules countered.
“You’re not afraid to ask questions or speak truth to authority,” the teacher said. “And you’re true to yourself. Lotta folks my age don’t do any of that shit. Don’t say shit in school.” It wasn’t quite clear if he was talking to Jules or himself as he sat back in his chair. “Right now there are two boys in the club, you’d be the third. None of you are named Rodney Burke.”
Jules smiled. “That was the information I was hoping for. Although as a sparring partner, Rodney might be motivating.”
“He’s motivating enough on the other side of the building,” Harrison said, then knocked sharply on his desk, clearly signaling the end of their little meeting. “Thanks for stopping in. I know we’re supposed to talk college, but I got another student coming in, so we’ll do that next time.” He motioned toward the permission slip Jules still held. “Get your mom to sign that tonight. You can drop it off to me tomorrow in class.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jules folded it carefully and put it in his back pocket before he hefted his backpack and started for the door. But then, he turned back. “If the FU Club’s a legitimate school club with only three members, why do we need twenty-five kids to start a Gay/Straight Alliance?”
“Hah. Because Belle didn’t even try to negotiate with me. One of these days she’s gonna learn to hit pause, think about it, then make a counteroffer. At that point, she’ll be unstoppable.”
“This school really needs a GSA,” Jules said. “I think twelve active members is a nice round number.”
“Agreed,” Harrison said. “Let’s make it happen.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Present Day
Burbank, California
Mission Day One
“Another thing to consider,” Jules said, “is that Johnson might be Emily’s maiden name. You may know her as Emily something-else.” He looked expectantly across the big conference table, from the scruffy client to the unctuous lawyer, as if he still hoped this would be easy—that one or both of them would cheerfully pull out a list of Emilys they’d once known.
Sam sat back in his chair and watched as both Milt the Junior and Ernest Harper—the attorney representing dead-daddy’s estate—began warming up to deliver another chorus of the same tired songs they’d been singing from the moment he and Jules had walked in.
Milt was a thirty-something man-child—a type that wasregretfully common among the offspring of the uber-wealthy. He’d dressed for this business meeting like a fourteen-year-old, and okay, fair enough, Sam could relate to wanting to be comfortable. But his own jeans, with a button-down shirt open at the neck with the sleeves rolled up, made him look exactly like what he was—a former Navy SEAL—which frankly was good for business. And the jacket he had on hand for meetings like this one always had a tie in the pocket for the rare emergencies in which he might need to be more formal.
In contrast, Still-Alive-Milt’s jeans were torn and not just food-stained but food encrusted in at least a few hideous places. They really put the ass in nasty. Combined with that T-shirt? Faded, worn threadbare in spots, it was too big to boot. And even though it advertised The Sultans of Ping, a band that was internationally cool—Sam had danced with Alyssa toWhere’s Me Jumperin a club in Ireland not that long ago—the overall effect, combined with the grimy, dull-green crocs on the manchild’s feet, wasjust woke up after a three-day binge.Living-Milt was also wearing his sunglasses inside—alcoholic much?
But his hair.
Holy,holyshit.
Surrounding a face that could’ve been handsome but was a wince-worthy, puffy mix of blotchy and pale, his shoulder-length hair was matted and tangled and stringy and limp all at the same time, parted severely in the middle.
Jesus Christ.
They’d been here for damn near an hour and Sam still couldn’t decide. Was it a wig? It couldn’t be. Could it? He kept going back and forth. Had to be. But no fucking way. Although...
Sweet lord above.
He was dying to get Jules’s opinion, especially considering the ridiculously large sum of money that Milt Junior had already paid them to take this case... That wig—or hairstyle if it wasn’t a wig—was achoice.
Sam flipped back again to an absolute: That shit couldn’t possibly be this man’s real hair—except who would intentionally put on a hairpiece that looked likethatbefore leaving their house?
Some man-boy who couldn’t deal with going bald, yet couldn’t completely see his reflection in the mirror out of eyes that were still swollen from—back to Sam’s best theory—a punishing three-day binge.
Undead-Milt, however, was unaware of the battle raging within Sam as he responded to Jules’s comment with, “I really don’t know anyone named Emily, let alone someone my father knew, too,” following it with his constant refrain: “I haven’t been in contact with him for more than ten years.” He shrugged expansively, but not enough so that his wig—if it was a wig—fell off, in an unvoicedWhat are you gonna do when Dad’s a total douche?before looking over at Harper to gethistake on any Emilys with a non-Johnson last name.
The lawyer chimed in with “I’m afraid I can’t help either. No Emilys that I know of in Mr. Devonshire’s immediate circle.” To which he repeatedhisstandard, “Not to my knowledge,” followed by the second half of the persistent CYA battle-cry of fuckwads everywhere, “That I can recall.”
Ernest Harper was a whole nother piece of work. He was in his seventies, wearing an expensive suit with a maroon tie. He looked like a lawyer. Average height, thinning dull gray hair, watery blue eyes behind wire-framed glasses. Gold watch on his wrist, leather folder on the table in front of him, fancy pen that he tapped on the table, revealing his obvious impatience and ire.
What Sam hadn’t quite figured out yet was if he were merely a man who found everything annoying, or if it was this situation in particular that pissed him off so thoroughly.
His disgust with Milt the Junior was obvious, but he clearly wasn’t happy with Jules or Sam, either. When he wasn’t intoning “to the best of my knowledge,” or “I’m afraid I can’t recall,” he was sighing heavily. He was, interestingly, sweating a little bit—like the outcome of this meeting mattered more to him than he was letting on.
