52 Reasons to Hate My Father (25 page)

I know it wasn’t Jia or T. They would never double-cross me like that. All the staff had to sign confidentiality agreements the day they were hired. And my brothers are far too wrapped up in their own lives to even bother with something like this.

So who does that leave?

That’s pretty much everyone who knows.

I sit up on my bed and stare into my empty room. There’s a knock on the door and Carmen comes in with a basket of folded laundry. Wordlessly, she disappears into my closet to start putting stuff away.

I continue to rack my brain, trying to figure out who could possibly have done this.

“Miss Lexington. Where you want me put this?” Carmen’s voice pulls my focus upward and my eyes are drawn directly to the item draped over her arm. A ragged old black hoodie.

A gift from a friend. A very dear friend. A friend who knew who I was but strangely enough wanted nothing from me.

Could that have been because he knew he could get
more
somewhere else? Somewhere like
Us Weekly
or
Tattle
magazine
?

My mind is reeling as I numbly rise to my feet, walk over to where Carmen is standing, and pull the item into my hands.

Once I have hold of it, I immediately yank it over my head and draw the strings tight under my chin.

“Kingston!” I call as I bound down the stairs.

He’s there by the time I reach the bottom step. “Yes, Miss Larrabee.”

“I need your car.”

He nods politely. “Of course, miss. Would you like to drive the Range Rover? Or perhaps the Jaguar?”

“No.” I grab his arm. “I need your
personal
car.”

“But,” he says, “Miss Larrabee. I drive a Ford Focus. My car—”

“Is perfect,” I interrupt. “I also need you to drive me to the end of the street.”

He looks like he’s about to argue. I squeeze his arm and stare fiercely into his eyes. “Of course, miss,” he finally agrees.

I duck behind the front seat and Kingston covers me with a beach towel he finds in his trunk. He drives me through the crowd of press, who clearly think nothing of his car, and stops at the end of my street.

“Thank you,” I tell him sincerely as I hop out of the back and get in behind the wheel. “I really appreciate this. And sorry to make you walk back.”

He offers me a tender smile. “That’s okay, Miss Larrabee. I drive around all day. I could use the exercise.”

I close the door and take off toward Sunset.

Thirty minutes later, I screech into the drive-thru of the Don Juan’s Tacos, roll down the window, and wait.

“Welcome to Don Juan’s. This is Rolando. How may I help you today?”

I lean out the open window, getting as close to the built-in microphone as I can, and scream, “You can tell me why you betrayed me, you jerk!”

There’s an awkward pause and then he tries again. “Hello?”

“I know it was you!” I yell, leaning to the point where I’m in danger of falling right out of the car. “I know you were the anonymous source who tipped off the press about me!”

“Lexi?” he ventures a guess after another bout of silence.

“Duh!” I scream back.

“Lexi, what are you talking about?”

I sigh. I’m losing my patience for his little innocent act. After all, it was that stupid act that made me trust him to begin with. What an idiot I was!

“The press!” I shout. “You told the press that Lexington Larrabee was working undercover at Don Juan’s Tacos and fifty-one other places. You totally outed me!”

“Lexi,” he says warningly. “I think you just outed yourself.”

“What?”

“Did you forget that everyone here wears a headset? The entire staff can hear you right now.”

Crap.

Well, not that it matters anyway. I’m already exposed. They’re going to see it on the news if they haven’t already.

“Why don’t you drive around back and I’ll come out and talk to you,” Rolando suggests.

I lower myself into the car. “Fine.”

But Rolando isn’t the only person who shows up. The entire staff pours out the door, all stumbling on top of one another to get a look. I can hear their curious murmurings from inside the car. Jenna is shrieking into her cell phone. “I totally knew it was her! I mean, I thought she looked like her, but it really
was
her!”

Rolando taps on the glass of the passenger-side window and I lean over and unlock the door. He gets in and we sit in silence for a few moments. I’m much calmer now. The anger has mostly burned off, leaving behind only bitter sorrow.

“I trusted you,” I seethe, trying to keep my voice from breaking. “I thought you were my friend. Why did you do it?”

“I didn’t,” he says quietly.

“I don’t believe you!” I snap back.

“Lexi, why would I do that?”

I throw my hands up in the air, flustered. “I don’t know! Money! Publicity! Fame!”

“Well, anyone who gives an anonymous tip is not looking for fame.”

“Fine. Money then.”

He gestures at his salsa-stained mustard-colored shirt. “Would I still be working here if I had sold your story for money?”

I consider this. He’s got a point.

I sigh and slouch in my seat. I guess I’m back at square one. “If not you, then who?” I whisper.

“I don’t know,” Rolando says unhelpfully. “I would consider who has the most to gain from exposing you.”

“That’s the point. I have no idea!”

“Well, who’s getting the most out of your exposure?”

I groan. “Certainly not me. My life is ruined. My father’s the only one who actually comes out looking good from…” My voice trails off and then, “Oh my God!” I shriek. “My father! The upcoming merger. He needs the shareholders to vote on it. He needs to build confidence. This is a total image booster for him.”

Rolando doesn’t seem to be following. “So, your father tipped off the press himself?”

I laugh at this as I rebuckle my seat belt. “Of course not,” I tell him. “My father doesn’t do anything himself. He hires people.”

He looks skeptical. “So he hired someone just to call in an anonymous tip?”

“He didn’t have to,” I clarify. “She already works for him.”

THE TIN MAN

“Lexi!” Caroline trills in her nasal French accent the moment her assistant patches me through to her cell. “I’m glad you called. I was just on my way to your father’s office for a strategy meeting. There’s so much to discuss after this exciting new development! I’m going to suggest to him that we move up the wedding to capitalize on all this positive press. Which reminds me. We have to get you into a fitting for your maid of honor dress ASAP. Shall I have Brent get Vera’s assistant on the phone and schedule something for you for tomorrow?”

“Cut the crap, Caroline,” I growl into the phone. “I know it was you who tipped off the press.”

She lets out a little squeak, which I think is supposed to represent her shock at such an outrageous accusation. “Lexi,
chérie
, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

I don’t buy her act for a second. “That was low. Even for you. Do you realize my entire life is ruined? All for the benefit of some stupid merger.”

“Lexi,” she begins in a patronizing tone, “don’t you see? This news helps everyone.”

“How?” I snap back. “How does this help everyone? How does exposing my secret to the world help everyone?”

“When this merger goes through, Larrabee Media profits will skyrocket. Do you know what profits are?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course I know what profits are.”

“Well,” she continues airily, “then you must know that Larrabee Media profits are what fund your lifestyle. They pay for your cars and your clothes and your yachts and everything else.” She sighs, sounding mighty pleased with herself. “This merger is the most important thing to happen to Larrabee Media in a decade. I had to come up with something that would ensure the shareholders’ confidence in your father as a leader. And this was a perfect solution. You should feel honored that you’re able to contribute to the company’s success. Pay off some of that publicity debt you’ve been racking up over the years.”

“And my father agreed to this?” I ask, feeling unwanted tears start to well up in my eyes. I quickly blink them away. But the knot forming in my stomach refuses to budge.

She makes a condescending
tsk tsk
sound with her teeth. “Your
father
wants what’s best for the company. As should you.”

So that’s it. My father sold me out for his business. Just like that. Because his
publicist
convinced him it was a smart business move.

But then again, should I really be that surprised? He’s been doing the same thing for years. To everyone in this family. My father’s company has always come first. And it always will.

I can’t
believe
I actually felt sorry for him. Even for a second. I thought maybe, possibly, somewhere deep down, there was at least some
minuscule
splinter of a sensitive bone in his body. The hiding place for all the pain and grief he’s been carrying around since my mother’s death.

But I can see now that was only a pipe dream.

Why is it that every time I start to feel the slightest bit of something for my father—an inkling of possible sympathy—he always manages to disappoint me? Without even being in the same room.

It’s a special talent he seems to have.

And to think I actually considered trying to talk to him. Did I honestly think I could sit down with Richard Larrabee and engage in some kind of sentimental father/daughter heart-to-heart?

I should have recognized the epic flaw in that logic to begin with.

It would require my father to actually
have
a heart.

“Plus,” Caroline continues, oblivious to my growing desolation, “you’ve been living off that bad-girl image for way too long. It was time for a makeover. For you and your father. Now the world will
sympathize
with you. Instead of despising you. And your father comes off looking like a responsible, compassionate parent.”

“Right,” I say, dejected. “A
family
man. Just like you wanted.”

“Exactly,” she agrees enthusiastically, seemingly pleased that I appear to be coming around. “And so far, it’s working. The media
loves
his proactive approach to raising a teenage daughter. They’re calling it a ‘life-rehabilitation program.’”

“I know,” I mutter.

“Trust me,” she encourages. “This is all for the best. You’ll see. And if you want me to schedule a press conference for you to publicly express your gratitude to your father, that would
really
help.”

I feel defeated. Conquered. Done. I have no more fight left in me. I’m just this pitiful one-woman army trying to do battle against a commander who has the world at his fingertips. And a trained army ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

With odds like that what’s the point in fighting?

Eventually you have to surrender.

And for me, eventually is now.

I don’t respond to Caroline, I just hang up the phone without another word. It rings less than thirty seconds later, Caroline evidently believing that the call was simply dropped. I press ignore and drive the rest of the way home in silence. No radio. No cell phone. Nothing.

I stare at the little white dashes on the road in front of me and allow them to hypnotize me.

I steer the small Ford Focus through the sea of press, ignoring the bulb flashes that blind me through the windshield, and park in the garage. I sludge into the house, hand the keys back to Kingston, and offer him a muted, dreary thank-you. I can feel his eyes following me as I start for the stairs. I’m ready to crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and never surface again. Except, of course, to do my father’s bidding and act like the brainless puppet that I am.

I am a prisoner of war now. I have no choices. I have no rights. I have no freedom. I am to survive in this lavish jail cell until the day I die. There is no escape for me.

I guess it was foolish of me ever to think that there was.

I’m a Larrabee after all.

For better and especially for worse. And I guess I’m just going to have to get used to it.

FLY AWAY WITH ME

There’s a knock on my bedroom door an hour later and Horatio announces that I have a visitor downstairs. “I’ve placed him in the salon,” he says, as though my guest were simply a package that’s been delivered or some other inanimate object.

“I don’t want to see anyone,” I tell him.

“He’s insisting that he see you.”

With a sigh, I grudgingly climb out of bed and push brusquely past Horatio into the hallway.

“Also,” Horatio adds, suddenly sounding even more formal than usual, “I found that
thing
you were looking for.”

I turn to look at him. “What
thing
?”

Without a word, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and removes a small brass key, holding it up for me to get a close look, and then places it gently on the table next to the chaise longue with a soft clink.

The master key. The one that opens every room in the house. Even rooms that have remained locked for as long as I can remember.

I bite my lip to hold back the emotion that threatens to escape. “Thank you,” I tell him softly.

He replies with his traditional bow and then motions ceremoniously toward the stairs. “Your visitor,” he states, as though the last five seconds never happened.

There are a few faces I expect to see when I step into the salon a few moments later. A reporter sent by Caroline to do some kind of exclusive interview. Possibly Bruce here to talk about some legal matter. Maybe even Luke, since I’m scheduled to be at a catering job downtown in two hours. Not that I’m in any condition to go.

But the one person I never expected to see—ever again, let alone sitting in the salon waiting for me—is Mendi.

As soon as I enter the room, he’s up out of his seat, rising to greet me in a way that only well-educated sons of money know how to do.

He floats toward me—all cool and confident—and takes my hand and kisses it. But it’s not cheesy when he does it. It’s never been cheesy. That’s the thing about Mendi. Everything he does and says, no matter how hokey it might look on someone else, is always smooth. Like melted milk chocolate running through a fountain.