“The system is rigged, Libs. The rich get richerandthey steal your imaginary boyfriends. The real luck is being born into money. But it’s okay, because we’re scrappers. We’ll make our own fortunes.”
Libby wasn’t quite ready to change the subject. “How many guys do we know that you can count on when shit gets real? Besides Keoki.” Who they needed to stop depending on for everything, because soon he’d have his own family to worry about.
“Um, how about a certain plumbing magnate with a super-sweet house?”
“Well, yeah—”
“But me no buts. I know you’re hard up, but we can’t afford distractions right now. Rudy is doing us a solid and a half. The least we can do is listen.”
“I have been.” All yesterday afternoon and again this morning, as Rudolf Lamers, founder and CEO of Lamers, Inc., described the provenance, price point, and shipping history of every object in his “villa.” It was an incredible place, and extremely generous of him to let them pretend Lillibet lived there.Weirdlygenerous. But it also felt like she was trapped inside a high-end home shopping network.
“So you’re good on the floor plan? Not going to get lost on the way to the front door?”
“It’s a big house,” Libby hedged, though the real issue was that she’d started dissociating a few minutes into Mr. L’s extended monologue. “Also, I’m going to feel like a jerk acting like all this is mine.”
The futuristic plumbing was surrounded by a smorgasbord of imposing antiques, many of them sourced from a Balinese palace. Libby had taken one look at the massive front doors with their gold inlay and intricate carvings and tried to turn around and leave.
“It’s a show home. Hence the showiness.” As usual, Jean found the trappings of wealth more aspirational than intimidating, though there was an edge of hate-to-love in her attitude. Libby suspected it had something to do with her friend’s less-than-privileged childhood, a subject Jean preferred not to discuss. Keoki said it was because she was like a shark, constantly moving forward—even when it meant leaving a cloud of blood and body parts in her wake. Whereas Libby was more of a turtle: slow,guarded, always chewing. Not the most flattering picture, but also not wrong.
“This place is perfect for our purposes,” Jean reminded her. “Lillibet is exactly the kind of ho who pays someone to rake the crushed shells in her Zen garden while she sits on the deck with a cocktail and lets people think she’s deep. The house sells the story.”
“As long as they don’t ask me too many questions about it.”
“When in doubt, defer to Mr. L. You just need to be able to point them to a bathroom.”
“Yeah, but which? There are like nine.” One featured a sauna, another had a soaking tub the size of a pond set into the floor next to a living wall of moss, and then there was the walk-in shower with the floor-to-ceiling mosaic copied from a villa in Pompeii… Libby had never understood why a house would have more bathrooms than bedrooms. It wasn’t like you could relieve yourself in two places at once. “You don’t find it a little strange?”
“He’s a bathroom man. To each their own.”
“I’m talking about the whole thing. Why would this ultra-successful businessman let us use his house? Besides wanting Keoki to cook for him.”
“Out of the goodness of his heart?”
She was obviously being facetious, because no one had a more jaded view of humanity than Jean. “It’s not just the house. I can’t figure out what’s going on with him.” Because Mr. L wasn’t only lending them his palatial home. He’d also agreed to play the part of Lillibet’s husband.
Jean frowned. “You think he wants to get in your pants?”
“No, I don’t get those vibes.” If anything, he was physically standoffish. When Libby tried to shake his hand, he’d winced and taken a step back, like she was holding out a dead fish. “Do you?”
“He’s hotter for this faucet than he is for either of us,” Jean confirmed.
And yet. There was something there, under the surface. Not sex or money, butsomething.“Maybe he needs a kidney?”
“Or maybe he’s lonely. Not everyone is as blessed in the companionship department as you are. It’s probably hard for billionaire plumbing magnates to make friends.”
“Yeah, because he’s always talking about his drains.”
Jean’s cackle turned into a yelp as the door swung open behind her, knocking her into Libby. When Mr. L stuck his head through the gap, Libby tried very hard not to think of Jack Nicholson inThe Shining.Their host’s grin wasn’t murdery, exactly. Just a touch overeager, like a puppy at a bacon factory. The expression sat oddly on his face. Mr. L’s large deep-set eyes and droopy lids, plus the vertical lines bracketing his mouth like parentheses, gave him a perpetually mournful look. Add to that the neatly slicked-back hair and impeccably tailored silver-gray suit (likely custom-made, unless men’s business clothing came in juniors sizes), and there was a distinct air of funeral director about him.
“There’s my lovely bride,” he said, squeezing between Jean and Libby.
“Lose the wink,” Jean told him, pointing at her face. “In gambling circles, we call that a tell.”
“Of course,” he agreed, apparently unbothered that one of the strangers staying in his house liked to play the odds. “Are you well,wife?”
“You can just call me Libby. It’s probably simpler.”
“She means Lillibet,” Jean corrected.
