Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (32 page)

Samuel sighed and pressed tired fingers to his temples. With only a two-hour nap in an uncomfortable airline seat, we really were too sleep-deprived to do this right now. “There’s more to this story, and I owe it to Caro to get her side.”

“You owe her nothing.”

“Have you stopped to consider that perhaps you’re biased against her?”

Ooh, now I was getting angry. I bounced to the defense. “But Justin thinks she’s a snake, too. So do Molly and Jaime, Danita—”

“So you trust their judgment above mine,” he said in a cutting voice.

“I could say the same thing. Trust is a two-way street, buddy.”

And we’d circled back to trust. If I was honest, though, I really didn’t trust him above the others, and it wasn’t just because he’d lied about his disorder. I believed he was a fool to still have faith in Caroline Ortega.

I stared at his hardened face, trying to decide if it was disappointment or denial which brought out this calm—almost eerie—intensity. It first surfaced yesterday evening, when I told him of my conversation with Justin, and how we had to high-tail it to New York City. To my horror, he suggested there had to be some misunderstanding, and why didn’t we keep to our original plans and finish out Folks? That led to an argument, which I won. But as I watched him shove clothing into suitcases with slumped shoulders, I didn’t feel as if I’d won. I didn’t like winning if it meant Samuel lost.

The whole incident irked me because, not two days ago, I swore I wouldn’t be ruled by my feelings. Yet here I was again, allowing fear, and hurt, and anger to dictate my actions.

Samuel touched my hand. “We’re leaving the tunnel.”

I peered past a series of stone overpasses and into the city. Thousands of skyscraper lights flickered out as the sky became an amalgam of corals and blues. While we’d cruised along the expressway, the distant city seemed an adventure. It was the same rush of adrenaline experienced when riding a ski lift to the top of a slope—the closer I got to the point-of-no-return, the more anxious I became.

The gray buildings on either side were so tall, I had to crane my neck to see where they ended. Soon, Samuel tentatively showed me the place he now called home, pointing out the Empire State Building, Bryant Park, and Rockefeller Plaza. I recognized city backdrops prevalent in the
Law & Order
marathons my mother griped about yet watched religiously. As I stepped out of the car, I nearly tripped over the curb in my effort to take in the cacophonous surroundings and put my heels in pungent water streaming from an alley. Common sense told me the quickest way to spot out-of-towners was to find the people who looked
up
instead of
down
, but I couldn’t help myself. Modern monsters shared real estate with sturdy, century-old bricks. There was a clutter of brightly colored signs—some fluttered from awnings, others were light boards three stories high. Despite the hour, sirens and car horns echoed along grid streets, and early risers pushed past Samuel and me, their heads bent over to-go cups of coffee. I wasn’t sure what they were doing up and about at six a.m. on a Sunday, but it was New York—the “city that never sleeps” and all that.

“Wow,” I breathed, nervously fingering the cuffs of my sleeves. No wonder Samuel found inspiration here.

He smiled and took my fidgeting hand. “I don’t want to go in there on opposite teams, Kaye. No more cricket infestations or IcyHot on the toilet seat?”

I squeezed his hand. We did have a tendency to beat each other up, whether the weapons were stupid pranks or vicious words. And if he didn’t have my back, I wasn’t confident enough to go into an elite boardroom packed with Newhouse alums, guns a blazin’.

Samuel led me through the building’s rotating door and into a lobby. An older man in a jacket sat behind a reception desk, head propped on his fist as he stared at a security screen. I wondered if he always worked the weekend graveyard shift—if so, what dreary surroundings. The décor was going for industrial chic, exposed pipes mixed with paint-splashed art, but it came across as cold and sterile. Our feet slapped across polished cement, and the man’s face snapped up.

“Mister Cabral, welcome back. You’ll need to sign in your guest.”

“Um, Buitre’s expecting me. Kaye Trilby?” I gestured to the elevators.

“You still need to sign in, ma’am.”

“Oh. Right.”

“I need ID.” I handed the man my driver’s license. At TrilbyJones, our receptionist just buzzed my office and I swung around the corner to greet my clients.

Samuel gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Sorry, I should have warned you. Security’s really tightened up since 9/11, understandably. Don’t let the hoops rattle you—you’ll have to do the same thing on the forty-first floor.”

“I’m not rattled.” Trembling fingers peeled the back from the badge and I stuck it on my shoulder with the nervousness of a rookie.

We stepped into the elevator. The back wall was entirely glass. I felt like Charlie Bucket as we rose higher and higher, watching older buildings give way to rooftop gardens and AC units, and I wondered if the elevator would just keep going until it burst through the ceiling and soared into the sky.

“Do you see that black, glossy building with the stripes?” Samuel said. I followed his finger. “That’s the Bertelsmann Building, where my publishing house is located. If we have time, I can show you their offices, introduce you around.”

“For my career or personal reasons?”

“I’m taking you home to meet the family,” Samuel kidded, a touch awkward. He wasn’t fibbing about his nonsocial tendencies.

It may have been a joke, but Samuel’s “family” comment reminded me I didn’t need to be intimidated by these people. They worked for Samuel. So did I. This wasn’t a competition—this was a valiant effort to save our client’s reputation and so help me, I would give this my all. Families helped each other, right?

Oh sweet baby Jesus.

In Boulder, people at least pretended to like you. Heck, even in LA you could garner business-savvy respect if you glossed your lips and showed a little thigh. But in New York, you knew within a minute if someone thought you were a moron.

A crowd of hostile eyes stared me down as we strode into the boardroom, save for Justin’s pitying expression.

If Samuel noticed the “you’ve got to be kidding me” looks when he officially introduced his odd choice of a publicist, he wasn’t fazed. The eight-foot-tall, glass-encased promo banners of Neelie and Nicodemus that circled the room told me everything I needed to know:
Water Sirens
was their coffer, and Samuel, the crown jewel. Squaring my shoulders, I hitched up the strap of my messenger bag and found my fierce face. So they didn’t like me. Big deal. I could at least make them respect me.

Sliding into one of two empty seats, I pulled the conference phone toward me and punched in Molly’s direct line.

“This is TrilbyJones, Molly speaking.”

“Hello, this is Kaye. Thanks for joining us—I know it’s insanely early for you.” Around the table, mouths silently yawned, fingers wrapped coffee mugs, men smoothed hastily knotted ties. A woman with plum lips and a sassy neo-fro (I assumed she was Lexi Rogers, from Samuel’s description) picked fuzzies from her blouse.

Introductions began, and I quickly observed they’d divided themselves into three groups: Samuel’s team, the Berkshire House Team, and The Buitre Media team. I discreetly pulled out the cheat sheet I’d created with the help of a book critic for an avant-garde magazine in New York—an acquaintance of Molly’s who used to live in Colorado. Okay. He was also the first man I’d slept with after Samuel and I split, and calling in a favor was really awkward. (Thank goodness Samuel had been in the shower when I actually uttered the words “I swear this isn’t a booty call.”) But my former fling had insider information about these people, which dug beneath the polished bios on company websites, so it was worth a little humiliation. My finger drifted down the list as each person introduced themselves, until only the key players were left.

“Lexi Rogers, Editorial Director with Berkshire House Publishing.” She turned beautiful black eyes to Samuel. “We’re still working on finding you an editor you can really bond with, Mr. Cabral.” Oh gag.

Actually, Lexi seemed pleasant enough. She was the type of woman who kindly touched the forearms of business associates when she talked to them. Samuel admitted that after their first meeting, he wanted to encase his forearms in bubble wrap with a Post-it that read “personal space.” I had a feeling she and Caroline Ortega used to sip mojitos together.

“Ace Caulfield, just got in from Boston. When I said to call me day or night, Sam, I really didn’t mean it, ha. Let’s keep this brief. My kid’s got a flu bug and Mischa’ll kill me if I’m not back tomorrow.”

Archibald “Ace” Caulfield, Samuel’s lawyer, employed by none other than Boston’s own Caulfield Law Firm. Not so incidentally, Samuel confessed that Ace was his cousin. This surprised me—given the bitterness he harbored toward his absent blood relations, I’d been under the impression he had no contact with them. He was a toned-down version of Samuel’s sharp lines with a high brow and cheek bones, and those blue, blue eyes. But Ace didn’t carry Samuel’s strong jaw, and without it, the other marks of beauty were a bit too effeminate.

Finally, the last and most prominent:

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Trilby. And Ms. Jones, also, though the circumstances are lamentable. Jerome Buitre, and I’m very happy to have you join our family.”

Jerome Buitre, Wielder of the Buzzword. Shaved head and glasses, his appearance was deceivingly slight. He was a silver-tongued ferret-of-a-man and if you didn’t know he owned one of the more prominent agencies in New York, you’d assume he was either a lawyer or politician. In the past decade, Buitre had turned its eyes to Hollywood in a diversification move that, after several celebrated authors found movie audiences (Samuel Cabral included), proved to be a coup. Buitre Literary Agency became Buitre PR & Media Group, and Jerome bought a beach house next to Harvey Weinstein’s.

“Colleagues…our esteemed Mr. Cabral…I thank each of you for canceling your weekend plans and banding together to proactively fight this challenge to our client’s wholesome brand and aura of trust…”
Was this guy for real?
“As you know, one of our own has chosen, in an unfortunate manner, to break from The Buitre Group. Not only has her departure left us in quite the lurch with a string of blockbuster movies on the horizon, but she has egregiously threatened to defame our most critically acclaimed author. This cannot happen.” Heads bobbed in agreement. “As business partners, it is our responsibility to protect our client and find a solution that favors Mr. Cabral’s interests. Ms. Rogers, if you will?”

Lexi strode across the room to a laptop and projector. She squeezed Samuel’s forearm as she passed and he shot me a silent “I told you so” look.

Bold, blue letters scrawled across the screen:

BrownStoners:
A Houseful of Famous Pens and Crack Pipes

I nearly spit coffee down my front. If nothing, Togsy got props for creativity.

“Ace and I have taken the liberty of reading this ‘tell-all’ written by Lyle Togsender, entitled
BrownStoners
, and have accrued a list of details that may be of concern to our client.”

Her words triggered a warning signal in my gut and I spoke up. “Wait. Will Samuel—Mr. Cabral—and I have an opportunity to read this book?”

Lexi tilted her head, puzzled. “But we’ve already done it for you.”

I caught Samuel’s eye and he lifted his chin, giving me the go-ahead. “I’d like a copy of
BrownStoners
.”

“Ms. Trilby,” Jerome said with a patronizing stare, “our concern at the moment is determining the veracity of Lyle Togsender’s claims. Mr. Cabral’s lawyer would prefer to file an injunction as swiftly as possible—surely you can understand our time constraints.”

Samuel backed me up. “But you’ll provide a copy. Ace?”

“My client will need a copy of that book, as soon as possible, preferably hard copy—electronic distribution’s dicey.”

“Without a doubt.” Jerome offered Samuel a photo-worthy smile, but his eyes were hard. It reminded me of…well. Caroline. Something was fishy, and I had a feeling we wouldn’t be getting our mitts on this book any time soon. Jerome extended a hand. “Ms. Rogers, please continue.”

“As I was saying…” As the editor pulled up a PowerPoint listing potential defamation suit material, Samuel began to squirm.

Drug addict.

Cheating husband.

Demanding artist.

One by one, Lexi rattled off cool, clinical descriptions of Samuel’s supposed misdeeds contained in the passages of Togsy’s book. Stoic intensity crumbled to despair as each one hit him like a guilty sentence. And, one by one, he was forced to admit to their truth. After the third slide, I’d had enough. I
knew
what was coming next, and I was sickened that Samuel’s private mental health battles would be announced with the click of a space bar in a business presentation.

“Ms. Rogers, surely there’s a better way to do this.”