‘What’s he done now? Don’t tell me he ran out of money again?’
The man is a living breathing nightmare. Since we landed in Texas, all he’s ever done is drink. Each year he gets progressively worse. For a man who was so polished, so together, he’s been a train wreck since we left Ireland. And it was at his goddamn urgent insistence we left.
His only saving grace is that whatever he was wheeling and dealing in here, didn’t make a reoccurrence in the States. Whoever he wronged must have put the shitters so far up his backside that he never dabbled in crime ever again. The only thing he does dabble in, is whiskey, specifically specialising in finding the bottom of the bottle.
We set him up in a comfortable four-bedroomed house not far from his sister’s ranch in Texas. We make sure there’s food in his fridge. That a cleaner goes in twice a week– to check he’s still alive as much as to clean the place.
Still, apparently, it’s not enough.
‘I don’t know what he’s playing at, but he’s insisting on speaking to you directly.’
The heat from the roaring fire hits us as we enter reception. I wave at Louise who emerges from behind the desk to hand Jayden the key card for his suite. It’s not the penthouse but it has two bedrooms and also overlooks Velvet Strand, not that you can see much this late in the afternoon.
I haven’t spoken to my father directly in four years. Jayden speaks to him now and again, but the last time we met in person he was off his face, and both aggressive and acrimonious. He swung a punch in my face. Unfortunately we were surrounded by paparazzi and the whole thing was all over the news.
Both Diamond Records and Angela insist I give him a wide berth. He hasn’t come looking for me since and I certainly haven’t sought him out either. I can’t help him until he wants to help himself. The second he stops drinking, I’ll talk to him, until then, there’s no reasoning with him.
‘Why now? What does he want?’ I lead Jayden through the atrium to the huge walnut staircase.
‘No idea, but he’s threatening to go to the media if you don’t take his call.’
Could his timing be any worse? The media are already all over me and Sasha. It’s only a matter of time before they source the story of her tragic historical events, the last thing I need is him adding a backstory to mine.
‘Great. Merry fucking Christmas.’
***
Sasha being Sasha, has organised dinner for everyone. By everyone, I mean my brother, her sisters, Megan, and even our closest security guys Pierce, Frankie and Archie, and Angela of course.
‘Is this a good idea?’ I button a crisp white dress shirt, in front of the mirror in my suite. ‘I hate to sound like an entitled twat, but the staff are staff.’
Sasha’s head tilts to the side and she arches a single eyebrow. If eyebrows could talk, hers just saidseriously?
I watch as she crosses the room, her dress swishing in front of her, flashing the odd glimpse of her taut creamy thigh. ‘You do sound like an entitled twat but I still love you.’
‘It’s not that I think we’re any different to them, don’t get me wrong. I don’t have some sort of opinion of myself, but when shit goes wrong, it’s these guys we expect to step into the firing line.’
‘Precisely. They’ve agreed to stay on for Christmas to do exactly that. To work, so you and I can be together. The least we can do is organise dinner for them. We’re as well to get acquainted.’
Evangeline Araceli dresses or not, I’m beginning to realise my girlfriend might not be cut out for the States, after all. The big Irish welcome is all she knows. She’d be lost in the rat race of the social climbers looking for their fifteen minutes of fame. Maybe she’s right though. It’s just one of many cultural differences I’d subliminally accepted.
‘It’ll be fun, I promise.’ Sasha presses her chest against mine, tilting her head upwards for a kiss.
‘If you keep pressing your tits against me with that look in your eye, we won’t be making dinner with anyone.’
She steps back, reluctantly shaking her head. ‘The night won’t pass…’
‘Damn right it won’t.’ Not when she looks good enough to eat.
Half an hour later, we’re in a private dining room behind the main restaurant, waiting for the others to arrive. This room, so I’m told, is used for smaller intimate weddings. My mind strays to Sasha’s carefully sourced Christmas present, the diamond ring stashed in my bedside locker, as I wonder what kind of wedding she might want. Even though she unintentionally steals the limelight wherever she goes, she’s not the kind of woman who thrives on it. Yet another reason she might hate LA.
A humongous chandelier hangs over an ornate cherrywood table large enough to seat twenty, but set for ten.
‘Take the seat at the head of the table.’ Sasha reaches for a bottle from one of the wine coolers.
Taking the bottle from her hands, I pop the cork. ‘I will not. You take the seat at the top. You are the lady of the castle, after all.’
‘I’ll take the seat at the head of the table, thank you very much.’ I hadn’t heard Chloe arrive, but no one will miss her in that vivid violet dress. It’s low enough that it’s borderline indecent. I avert my eyes from her direction entirely because it’s too tempting to stare. And not because I have inappropriate designs on her – I’m madly in love with her older, sexier, slightly more respectably dressed sister – it’s just screamingly eye-catching.
