Page 45 of Levi

“Regardless if the guy ghosted her or not, Hillary could’ve gone after him for child support.”

“Hillary has a thing for foreign men––hence, the French duke–– which begs the question why on earth she ended up with my father. Daddy was as red, white and blue as can be. American through and through,” she shakes her head. “In any case, one night, while Daddy and Hillary were out, Petula and Olive were sitting in the garden, drinking and complaining about their sad, sad life—”

“What were those ungrateful bitches complaining about?” I growl.

“They were lamenting about how their mother ended up with a pauper instead of latching on to a rich man who could help them achieve their Hollywood dreams. From their silly giggles, it was obvious they were tipsy, if not drunk. I was a personal trainer at the time and one of my clients canceled his appointment—the last of the day for me. After the three Witches of Eastwick entered our lives, I made it a point to tiptoe around the house. The Twatt sisters didn’t know I was home early. Eavesdropping shamelessly on their conversation, I found out Petula's father is Irish. When Hillary started putting pressure on him to man up and take care of her and their daughter, despite the fact he was already married, he magically disappeared to Ireland. Hillary tried to find him, but it was in vain. The name Patrick Murphy is very common over there, making it impossible for her to track down her baby daddy.”

“What a cluster fuck of a situation.”

She lifts a finger in the air, “But there’s more!” she exclaims. “Olive's father was a forty-something Canadian director who worked in the film industry, traveling back and forth from LA to Toronto. Even though the cheater was married, he made Hillary big promises. She believed him. He even bought a house under his name so she would have a roof over her head for her and her daughters. She didn't expect he’d die all of a sudden in a traffic accident while he was in London for a film premiere a few months before giving birth. Hillary tried to sue his estate because she had smartened up enough and had collected DNA, aka strands of the guy’s hair, as proof of paternity. Alas, laws are different across the border, it’s very expensive to sue rich people, and apparently the Canadian’s wife is a ballsy American boss lady who you don’t want to mess with. Translation, Hillary got squat, and she lost the place she was living in since it fell under her deceased lover’s estate.”

“What a crazy, tragic story,” I say.

“As crazy and tragic as Hillary Twatt herself,” she sneers.

“Very true,” I agree.

Finally, she tells me about her stepmother’s cunt move with her last three employees.

There’s so much weight in what she just shared, it nearly crushes the table.

“I’m probably going to be homeless by the time I figure out how to buy out Hillary,” she states.

Everything about her indicates she’s a strong woman, but that’s a shit load of stuff to handle on your own when you’re that young and over your head.

“That’s what you were trying toforgeton Saturday night?” I ask.

“Yes,” she nods. “I wanted to quiet my mind. It was for a brief moment, but it was worth it. I don’t regret a thing. Unfortunately, since our time together, things went from bad to catastrophic. And here I am, swimming upstream of the Niagara Falls without a hope of survival.” Her shoulders slump in defeat.

My hand settles over hers. “Don’t say that,” I scold gently.

“It’s not looking too good for me, Levi,” she says. “I’m so utterly consumed with the fear of losing Daddy’s company.”

“Have you tried hiring someone to oversee the areas where you lack knowledge, or even hiring a CEO?”

She nods. “I have. I don’t have the budget to hire someone with the skills that would help the business take off. The two guys I hired as marketing directors didn’t last long. One quit after a week. I fired the other one after catching Petula on her knees, wearing only a g-string, sucking him off.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah. He had zero input on the company during the two weeks he was here, but he managed to find time to fuck my good-for-nothing stepsister every chance he had.”

The Twatt women are something else.

“How many stationary bikes did your father manufacture?” I ask.

“We have a hundred CycleThonix bikes—and three extra as prototypes—but we can’t sell them until we get the app to work. That’s my Achilles heel, right now.”

“That’s a lot of bikes!”

“Daddy got a significant price break for producing that many, and he wanted to have enough merchandise for when sales kick in.”

“He didn’t believe in half measures.”

“No, he didn’t. Daddy was all in or all out.”

“The name is catchy,” I note.

She smiles. “I came up with it,” pride coats her words. “Daddy did a lot of triathlons, so Thonix is a play on marathon and tonic. The brand is Fit Thonix.”