Page 55

Jersey accents without Jersey roots.
It’s annoying.
I’m standing on a private golf course with Liam and a couple other guys from the office who I don’t really mind but I wouldn’t call friends either. Justin Fix, a young editor who only has his job because his dad is a screenwriter and people know his name, Bryce Bowmont, a literary investor with no chin and too much ego, and Chad. Fucking Chad.
“So I tell my secretary, who might as well be my personal assistant if you know what I’m saying,” Liam grins.
Bryce chuckles, setting down his tee, and Chad says, “exactly…” with a laugh.
I hold a tight smile. It’s about all I can do. Liam and I used to golf alone. I don’t hate golf, it’s a leisurely sport where you can just turn your brain off and enjoy the slow rhythm of it while being outside but not in nature, if that makes sense. I do,however, hate golf people. Which is why I haven’t enjoyed it since Liam became the Liam he is now, bringing along other hot headed dicks and guys like Chad.
“You know,” I add in. “Rose does a lot for you. A little more appreciation is probably due. That girl is hustling outside her payrange if I had to add the numbers.”
“Hustling in more ways than that if I had to guess.” Chad nudges me hard, too hard, and laughs again. I want to shove my driver down his throat. Instead, I take my turn, the ball soars over a pond, over the green and lands within a foot of the hole.
“Damn, son,” Chad says. Liam’s jaw twitches and I realize he is only letting this joker play with us because he wants something. Even Justin and Bryce are forcing face.
“Who did you say you work for again, Chuck?” I ask as I step aside for Liam to take his turn.
“It’s Chad.”
“Same thing,” I add and he just blinks. Not upset, more like not computing.
“So I’m an editor for Muscle,” he says, standing too close to Liam for Liam to take his shot.
“You’re in the way, Chad,” I nod and after a moment, he gets it.
“Right, right. My bad, my bad.”
“That’s that car magazine right?” I press and Liam’s hands tighten around his driver. It’s not just because Chad has got to be the most obnoxious person we’ve ever been stuck with, but because I am digging and he knows it.
“THE car magazine,” Chad corrects me. “No one scouts out more vintage cars than us and no one knows the history like we do. Although some of the numbers are a little skewed here and there.” He laughs. This man finds a lot of things funny considering how much dirt he’s excavating onto his own grave.
“How so?”
“Well think about it, E. How do we really know how many of these cars are left? Some old man could have a ‘61 Murcury Comet in his shed, covered in a sheet in mint condition, cherried to the nines and if it ain’t registered, we don’t know. But the fewer cars registered, the more they’re worth. So…we ignored the real number. The car is then worth more, the coverage of those cars is flaunted in our magazines making them worth even more after that. The owner gets a high quote and we get good literature. Fuck grandpa and his garage project, am I right?”
I see a glint in Liam’s eyes and I lock my gaze on it.
There’s the dirt.
And Chad has buried himself.
I’m done. Beyond done. Ready to walk off the course. But Justin’s words stop me.
“Don’t you have a daughter in the magazine world, Sloane?”
Liam takes his shot, his ball landing close to mine. We pack up and head for the car. He looks indifferent to the question. “Used to.”
We drive to the next shot. It’s hot. The kind of hot that comes from high elevation and a high sun and no clouds and dry air. My skin is itchy beneath the polo. I hate polos. I prefer button downs and t-shirts. Maybe the occasional jersey. But itchy, sweaty skin isn’t the only thing festering. That question about Izzy came out of south field and I want to know where it originated.
“Why do you ask?” I say to Justin as we get out of the cart.
“Ask what?”
“About Izzy. Isabelle. Did you hear something?”
Liam’s ears perk at that, but it’s only detectable to me.