The Real Deal Read online

  “What?!” she snapped, drawing the attention of several curious passersby, “What do you want, Zach?”

  “I just want you to listen to me for a minute. I know you think I’m full of shit–”

  “You’re right there.”

  “I wasn’t hitting on her. I was trying to get information, for Christ’s sake!”

  “About what?” She laughed bitterly, “The fastest way to get between her legs?”

  “About you, alright?! I was trying to get her to tell me how I could find you without her knowing that’s what she was doing. I wanted to find you. I need you to hear me on this.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I told you, I know what it looked–”

  “That’s not what I mean. What I’m saying is that I don’t get why you’re trying so hard. Just let it go, okay? There are plenty of stupid waitresses out there who will be more than happy to go along with whatever story you tell them. I’m just not one of them.”

  “Fine. Alright, then let’s try something else.”

  “Zach, seriously, this–”

  "Just go out with me long enough to help me out!" he blurted the words out and then instantaneously wished he could take them back. Her eyes narrowed as she studied his face closely. He had no idea how he was supposed to make this next scheme sound palatable or even if he could. He only knew he needed to give it his best shot. For maybe the first time in his life, he was at the point where he had nothing else to lose. Except for his dignity, maybe, and he was pretty sure he'd given that up when he'd chosen to follow her and make this scene in the first place. All he needed for confirmation on that point was to look at the street traffic, who hopefully wasn't getting any of this on their cell phone cameras.

  “Am I supposed to know what that means?” she asked, her voice low. In that voice was the unarticulated threat that she reserved to kick him in the balls if she didn’t like his answer. Unfortunately for him, he kind of doubted that she would.

  “Look, my situation isn’t the same as a lot of people’s. I have certain expectations put on me.”

  “So does everyone else.”

  “Not the same kind.”

  "Why, because you're rich? Because your family is rich, too?"

  “That’s some of it, yes.”

  “Poor you. I don’t see what that has to do with me.” She was looking less and less sympathetic all the time. He couldn’t say he blamed her, either.

  “Just go out with me until I can get my dad off my back with the whole fiancée thing. After that, I won’t bother you anymore.”

  "Fiancée? I'm sorry, I must be having auditory hallucinations. Did you just say, fiancée?"

  “I did.” Zach held up both of his hands, palm side up, in a warding off gesture. Whether he was trying to keep her from freaking out or to keep her from decking him in the face, he wasn’t entirely sure. Both, probably.

  “Are you talking about your dad’s fiancée? Are your parents divorced or something?”

  “No, I’m not talking about my dad.”

  “Then who? Who’s fiance are we talking about, Zach?”

  “Mine, Betty. We’re talking about mine. Except I don’t want to marry her. It wasn’t my choice. I don’t even like her.”

  "Okay, enough! Seriously, stop it. I don't want to hear any more of this!"

  “But–”

  "No! No more buts! I don't know what your deal is and I don't want to know. Maybe you get off and messing with people like this. I don't care. I'm not going to be a part of it. Just leave me alone. I'm not going to help you, and I don't want to see you again. Got it?"

  Betty turned and hurried down the sidewalk, her coat still dangling from one arm, and her purse clutched close to her side. Zach was kind of a gym rat, and he could have caught up to her easily enough, but what was the point? He'd tried to make things better and had only succeeded in fucking things up royally. Not only that, but any chance of getting the bitchy one inside to tell him what he wanted to know was shot now, too. He couldn't have screwed this up better if it had been what he'd set out to do.

  “Hey, boss. I’m gonna guess that didn’t go your way?” Matty headed towards him, approaching with a certain amount of caution.

  “You could say that. You would be sugar coating it, but you could say that.”

  “What do you want to do now?”

  “Home, Matty. I want to go home.”

  ZACH WAS PRETTY SURE that for most people, home was the place they wanted to go when they needed to recharge. It was where the people you loved were, where the things that made you happy waited for you to have the time to pick them back up again. For Zach, that wasn't always true. For starters, he didn't get to spend enough time in his fancy penthouse loft for it to feel really lived in. Every time he walked through the door he got a vaguely disoriented feeling like he was entering a hotel room instead of the place where he lived. There was also the fact that he hadn't ever collected artwork or memorabilia that made the place his. He had hired a well-renowned decorator when he had first moved in, and she had done a bang-up job. Still, his place wasn't necessarily reflective of his own, and none of the things it contained came with personal stories attached to them.

  Then there were the less sentimental, more practical reasons for home not always being the place of rest it should have been. The biggest among these was his dad, who was so often at the root of one of Zach's sources of discontent. The man paid no attention to the laws of boundaries or personal space. He showed up where he wanted when he wanted, and because he was who he was people let him do it. On more than one occasion Zach had spoken to the doorman working in the lobby of his building about not letting his dad up without consent. He'd tried asking, threatening, and bribing, each more than once and with more than one person. Every time he was given apologies and promises of compliance. Not one person had yet to follow through. It left Zach saddled with a kind of gut-sick anticipation every time he put the key in his lock, a rush of adrenaline that he could do without. He was as much a fan of gambling as the next guy, but Russian Roulette wasn't one of his games.

  “I need to move,” he muttered to himself as he slipped his key into the lock, “stop this shit for good.”

  The door opened, and he stepped inside, setting his briefcase down by the door and leaning against it with his eyes shut. He was very, very tired. He couldn't remember ever being so tired in his life, and so riddled with nerves, sadness, even. There was no justifiable reason he could think of for it, either. No time in the gym and no hard partying the night before. The closer he had gotten to thirty the more brutal his hangovers had become, which made him more hesitant to cut loose. There was nothing physically wrong with him to make him feel this way, which meant the only thing it could be was his confrontation with Betty. Except that didn't make any sense to him. For starters, he didn't know her all that well. It was a point he kept coming back to over and over again, but it was true, goddammit! He didn't see how he could be so worked up by a chick who'd only been a tiny part of his life for a couple of weeks. Second off, he'd never had a person get to him this way before, and so he was baffled by the fact that it happened at all. Not just with Betty but with anyone. Back in college, he had dated a girl named Sylvie for almost two years. They had both been twenty when they'd met, and everyone had thought she would be the one he settled down with for good. She had what his parents liked to call ‘the right pedigree.’ She was your standard blue blood American princess, the kind of girl who made other girls feel bad about themselves just because they weren't her. That his family had expected him to propose to her hadn't been the end all, be all. Even at twenty-one, he'd been well on his way to comfortable with ignoring his parents' wishes. That Sylvie had expected him to propose had been harder. She was a nice girl, all in all, and he hadn't wanted to hurt her, but he hadn't felt anything for her beyond that. He had spent basically zero time mourning her. If he had felt that little for a woman he'd been with for two years, he didn't see how he could be so w
orked up over Betty. And he'd managed to fuck it all up fantastically.

  “Zachery! Where the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting.” Zach cracked his knuckles, took a deep breath, and opened his eyes. He should have known the old man would be there. He should have smelt the scotch rising into the air.

  “Dad, you know you wouldn’t have to wait if you called ahead of time and told me you were here.”

  “Do you honestly think I would do that? How foolish do you think I am?”

  “It’s not foolish. It’s common courtesy. You know, the socially acceptable thing to do? I thought you were into that kind of thing.”

  "Stop it, Zachery. Don't be a smart ass with me. You and I both know that if I called ahead to let you know I was coming, you wouldn't be here."

  “And that would be my right. I’m an adult. I don’t have to come when you call.”

  “Watch your mouth,” his father warned, his eyes blazing the way Zach remembered from his childhood, “and think before you speak. You are indebted to me whether you like to admit it or not.”

  "I started my business on my own. I didn't take money from you, and I don't owe you my success."

  “Don’t you? Do you honestly think you would have made it so far without the name I gave you upon your birth? My name?”

  "If this is why you came, I've gotta tell you, I'm not in the mood. You can just go right now." Zach moved for the door handle, and his dad held out his hands. He didn't say he was sorry, nor was he likely to do so, but he composed his face into something resembling polite, and Zach let his hand drop back to his side.

  “You’re right. This is going nowhere. And as it happens, I came here for a reason.”

  "Yeah? What's that? I'm not lying; I'm brutally tired."

  “It’s about Miss Wollenschire.”

  “I told you, I don’t want to fight.”

  “Nor do I. I just thought you should know that the two of us discussed matters after your abrupt exit at dinner.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it.”

  “You should be. I’m pleased to say that she is on board, despite any friction she may have detected. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, that one. She will make a lovely addition to the family.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Dad, I don’t want this. I don’t want to marry her. I don’t know how many ways I have to say it before you understand.”

  “I understand, boy. I understand perfectly. I just don’t care.”

  "Nice," Zach said, disgusted and defeated. He had no right to be surprised. This was the kind of man his father was. Looking for paternal nurturing from him was about as effective as looking for a hug from a brick.

  "You think I can't touch you. You don't have to say it for me to know it's true. It's painfully clear. You would be wise to understand that I can and I will. If you push me, son, I will push back with force, unlike anything you might anticipate."

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

  “You’re supposed to fall in line. And you should do it sooner rather than later, for both of our sakes.”

  Zachery had nothing else to say. It was a good thing, too, because his father wasn't sticking around to listen to anything more. He set down his half-drunk glass of scotch, of course not giving a shit that it was expensive and he was wasting it, and slid past where Zach still stood in the hallway. Once Zach was finally alone, he slid down to the hallway floor and put his head in his hands. Hearing that Lucille was still on board after the stunt he had pulled at dinner was a bad sign. Most self-respecting women would be outraged by his behavior, as they should be. Betty had been outraged, and she wasn't anywhere close to being an heiress with royal blood. If Lucille was still in, there were motivations that he didn't want to think about, but thinking about them was the only thing he could do. When he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, it was an unconscious thing, just a nervous tick he'd been doing for all of his life. He pulled the slip of paper out of his pocket without thinking about that, either, unrolling it on instinct and with no real thought. He looked down at it, started, then smiled.

  “Holy shit. How–?”

  It was a phone number. It could have been anyone’s number, absolutely anyone’s, but he knew whose it was all the same. Amidst all of the day’s shit, one good thing had emerged. He had a way to get in touch with Betty again. Whether or not she would talk to him remained unseen and, probably, unlikely. Still, he had more of a chance now than he’d had thirty seconds ago and right now, that was enough.

  Chapter Five

  Betty Ingrid

  IN MANY WAYS, BETTY was an anomaly. In one way, however, she was the ultimate cliché. Twenty-six, single, and trying to make her way on her own in the city, the only one to greet her at the door was her cat. It was a beast of an animal, closer to the size of a small dog than a feline. It was a tabby with one eye permanently closed, and a half lobbed off the tail. His name was Gus Gus, after her favorite Disney character, and the moment she opened her front door, he was there by her feet, yowling loudly to make his discontent known.

  "Hey, Gus, move it. Not in the mood tonight." She pushed him gently with one boot-clad foot and the volume of his yowl increased. He moved out of the way, but only enough to let her inside and lock the door. There was no danger of him trying to make his escape. Gus Gus was a happily domesticated animal and didn't appear to have any intentions of changing his station. Once she had come home to find a rat in her apartment and Gus Gus perched on her kitchen counter, voicing his objections. He was her companion for the long haul, and she was grateful for it. On nights like tonight, a companion was exactly what she needed, and the roommate life just wasn't for her.

  “Oh, buddy,” she sighed heavily as she plopped down on the couch, “you wouldn’t believe me if I told you what kind of a day I had. You are seriously lucky that you get to live in here and don’t have to go out into the real world. Trust me on that.”

  Gus Gus wasn't great with leaping anymore, which meant that the graceful leaps of his more svelte feline brothers were out of the question. Betty kept meaning to put him on a diet, but she didn't have the heart for denying him. If she ever had kids, she was going to have to hope that their father wasn't a total pushover, although the idea of ever having anybody to father a child with was feeling pretty remote at the moment. Still, as cranky as he was, Gus was a loyal animal, and he didn't like it when he sensed she was upset. Despite the amount of effort it required, he fumbled his way onto the couch beside her and shoved his head underneath one of her dead-weight hands. He mewed again, but more softly this time. She thought about telling him that his diet might be about to start soon whether he liked it or not, then realized there was no point in bothering. He was a cat, for God's sake. It wasn't like he was going to answer her. Why waste the energy?

  “What the hell?!”

  The sound of her phone ringing startled Betty so badly that she sat up bolt right. Gus Gus scowled and rolled away from her. He eyed her reproachfully from the sofa's arm as if to ask her where the hell she got off being so disruptive in his home. Or maybe he was as freaked out by the phone call as she was. Nobody ever called her, or at least hardly ever, and they definitely didn't call her at night. The handful of people she was close to knew her well enough to know she was always working or studying at night and they didn't want to become the recipients of her wrath when she was disturbed. Betty ran through a mental checklist of all of her bills, trying to figure out if she was late enough on anything to start getting calls from creditors. But that wasn't it either. For once, she was completely up to date on everything. With that option out, she had no idea who was calling her or why. Her first instinct was to reject the call and go about her business, which was what everybody she knew did with numbers they didn't recognize. Something stopped her, though, and before she fully understood that she was going to do it, she was swiping ‘answer’ instead.

  “Hello?” Her voice sounded little, like a little girl’s, and she cleared her throat roughly
. Whoever was calling her wouldn’t get to hear how down she was feeling. Nobody got to hear that but her and Gus, who wasn’t telling anyone anytime soon.

  “Betty? Is that you?”

  “Is this–?” She was sure she knew who it was, but it wasn’t possible. She hadn’t given him her number. Everything had gone to shit before they had gotten to that point.

  "It's Zach. Zach Jameson, but please don't hang up. Please, Betty. Just listen to me for a minute. Do you think you might be willing to do that?" His voice cracked at the end of his sentence, and despite everything, she felt herself thawing out a little. She bit the inside of her cheek, bit it hard, to keep herself from letting that happen.

  For all she knew, that was a talent of his. He could be pulling it out whenever he got bored and thought that messing with a stupid waitress would be the best cure.

  “How the hell did you get my number? You shouldn’t have this number.”

  “I know that. I know I shouldn’t.”

  “Then why do you?” She was starting to get panicky. Her skin felt hot and clammy. Her hand held onto the phone so tightly it hurt.

  “I don’t have an answer for that.”

  “What a shock.”

  "No, seriously. I didn't know I had it until about a minute ago. I was going through my pockets, and it was just in there. I don't know who put it in there. Somebody who wanted us to talk, I guess."

  Betty wanted to call bullshit on that the same way she'd called bullshit on every other excuse that had come out of his mouth that day. Something stopped her, though. It could have been how far-fetched the story sounded. It didn't seem like the kind of thing he would have been able to make up on the fly, although she was willing to acknowledge that she might be being unforgivably naive. Zach Jameson had a reputation for business savvy that far preceded him and gave him a substantial amount of notoriety. Betty knew little about the world he operated in, but she was willing to bet that it involved a certain amount of ruthless sneakiness, unlike anything she had ever experienced. The second reason she thought she might honestly believe him was less substantial, or at least less concrete. It was something in his voice. There was a desperation there, something that sounded almost wounded, and she had a hard time believing it could all be fake. Maybe some of it, but not all of it. The odd little break at the end of the sentence was the thing that sealed the deal. She believed him, at least about the weird way he'd wound up with her number. God help her if it was another massive mistake, but she did.