“I know, but this is more about punishing DB.”
“Christ, Lillian, we don’t need to punish them that badly…”
“Well, the other option is I can go over the credit committee’s head. My father is an old friend of their CFO, they went to Le Rosey together.” She yawned again. “I can pull that string, although I’d probably alienate a few people.”
“Yeah, I’d rather we don’t. I think I did enough alienating in my call with Lloyd.”
“No, darling, you were appropriately irate. I mean, what were they thinking, fucking up a Monday deal on a Thursday night?” She giggled. “They do, um, apparently think you’re a little volatile, but I get the impression it’s a good thing.”
Carver rubbed his eyes, which were burning with exhaustion. This was all so circular, petty and repetitive. “Yeah?”
“Yes, they see the relationship is damaged and they don’t want to upset you further. They were nervous to call our bluff earlier, I could tell.”
“So then maybe the best move is to just go to the investment committee, get more equity, play ball with DB on this and live to fight another day, knowing they’ve been warned.”
“No, because the warning means nothing if we don’t actually hold their nuts to the fire. Listen… let me handle this, okay? Get some sleep.”
Carver rolled onto his other side, facing away from her, and tried to obey.
CHAPTER NINE
The pool house was designed to receive as much natural light as possible, and Scott was awoken around 6 a.m. by the sun blasting in stereo. He couldn’t close his eyes hard enough to tune it out so gave up on trying and went into the kitchenette to make coffee and drink a giant glass of tap water while he waited for the coffee.
He was moderately hungover and his mouth was hellaciously dry. He felt off, almost feverish, but he knew he wasn’t getting sick. It was the afterburn of last night, the lingering sting, the rearousal of a long-stifled desire. Images and memories flashed in his mind every few seconds, accompanied by a queasy kind of horniness. Carver had also done a physical number on him, and he felt this every time he moved — an aching bruise on his bitten shoulder, sore thigh muscles, raw nail marks down his back.
Scott found out while showering that Carver’s nails had in fact opened his skin, so he found some antibiotic ointment in his luggage and did his best to smear it on his own back. Then he got out his noise-cancelling headphones and lay down on the couch so he could stare at the ceiling and listen to The Grass Roots’ seminal hitMidnight Confessionsover and over again until it activated his tinnitus.
Around 8:30 he got a text from Nora inviting him down to the house for breakfast. Scott stared at his phone for a minute orso, considering the issue. It was probably best to place himself in Carver’s path as early in the day as possible, so Carver could react to him however he was going to and set the tone going forward. But Scott, who knew Carver very well in some ways, was apprehensive. He did have feelings, after all, and wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of Carver shoving him back at arm’s length. He knew well the perils of fucking unhappily married people — often the unhappier they were, the more soundly they rejected you and any pleasure you brought them.
Scott generally preferred to leave a situation rather than torture himself from inside it, but that wasn’t an option here, so he got dressed and went down to the house. When he walked into the kitchen, Carver wasn’t even there — it was just Chip and Maggie and their kids, plus Conway, Nora and Doug. Everyone greeted him politely; Nora directed him to a buffet of pastries, orange juice and coffee on the island. As he poured himself a second cup of coffee, he felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down to see Chip’s daughter Bailey.
“Mr. Scott,” she said, “do you like pirates?”
“Uh,” Scott said. “Yeah, for sure.”
“Do you want to hear some pirate facts?”
“Sure.”
Bailey opened the book in her hands and squinted at it. “Did you know some pirates were women?”
“I did, actually,” Scott said.
Bailey let out a thwarted sigh and flipped the page.
“Bailey,” Chip called from the breakfast nook. “Don’t bother people.”
“I’m not!”
“She’s not,” Scott assured Chip and Maggie, who looked unconvinced. He wasn’t great at guessing kids’ ages, but he figured Bailey was around seven, and should be encouraged by the adults around her to do shit like read books and speak freely.
“Did you know that we’re not sure what the origin of the name Jolly Roger is?” Bailey said.
“I didn’t know that one,” Scott said, sipping his coffee. “Interesting. Do we have, like, theories?”
Bailey opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by Conway chirping, “Morning, guys.”
Scott looked up and saw Carver and Lillian walking in, already looking very put together in matching green Patagonia quarter zips. Lillian was alert and beaming; Carver looked strained and sullen.
