The Worst Best Luck (11 page)

But how was that possible; they’d spent far too little time together.  And what could Peter have in his past that would…

He could hear Terry’s voice, calming him back when he was learning, back when he’d get so frustrated that he wasn’t learning fast enough. 
Calm down.  Take a step back.  This is a problem that will have a solution.  You won’t solve it by banging on it with a wrench.

Matt laid the parts out on the table in front of him, as he would with any other piece of machinery.  Peter’s troubled past.  The smirk on this asshole’s fucking smashable face, his barely concealed glee at his secret knowledge.  Peter’s sudden fortune, that would attract all kinds of unwanted attention.  So this guy was “Peter-related,” and he’d been watching Peter, spying on him enough to know about Peter and Matt. 

The locks started to tumble in his head.  Peter’s expectation of abuse, of rough, careless sex.  His frightened mien.  His reluctance to accept affection as natural, normal, deserved. 

That fucking guy.  He’s the one who fucked Peter up
.  Matt wanted to launch himself from the table, chase him down, bash his head into the pavement.  It took all his self-control not to do it. 

At least it’s not about the money.  At least it’s still a secret about Peter’s winning lott….

And he knows about the money. 

When you’ve solved enough problems, you doubt yourself less and less each time you make an intuitive leap to the solution.  You know that you’re right.  You know you’ve got it. 

And usually that leads to a glowing sense of satisfaction, of personal triumph.  But not for Matt, not this time. 

Fuck.  Peter!  I have to…

You have to what?
  he asked himself. 
What if Peter already knows?  What if…no.  That’s not what he wants.  I know it. 

And if he doesn’t tell you about this guy coming back, what does that mean? 

Matt could think of any number of things. 
That he’s scared, or that he thinks he can handle it himself…or that he wants to get back together with this prick.

No.  He wouldn’t believe that. 

He got up, and left a good tip as always.  He went back to work just to close down his station for the day.  This wasn’t a problem he could solve on his own.  He’d need to consult the experts.

He dialed a number from memory.  “Young master Kensington,” Chadrick said in his exaggeratedly nasal voice.  “How may I be of service.”

“Hey man.  Are Guy and Ned with you?”

“Where else would they dare to be in the middle of a workday?”

“Perfect.  I’m waving the old school tie, dude.  I need you, all of you.”

Chad dropped the accent.  “When and where?”

“Now.  My place.”

Peter turned over in bed again, the hard mattress giving him no comfort. 
I’m going to buy one of those memory foam mattress pads,
he told himself. 
The first day after I cash it.
 

He hadn’t checked the time in how long?  It had to have been an hour.  He rolled back over, picked up his phone.  3:22.  Shit, it had only been twenty minutes.  He’d been awake since 2:30, and it was pretty obvious he wasn’t going back to sleep.

He got up and woke up his computer, checked the stats on his blog.  Thirty hits yesterday on his rave review of Mark Rylance and the all-male “Twelfth Night.”  That was a pretty good haul, all things considered. 

He smiled as he thought of a new post.  He even started typing it.  “Dear readers, I AM RICH.  So very rich.  So disgustingly rich.  I can’t wait to give it all away before my evil ex-boyfriend sucks it all into his gaping maw.”

His smile faded.  He backspaced furiously till he had a blank post again. 
Why can’t I tell him to just fuck off?  Why don’t I change my phone number? 
It had been two days since Cody’s reappearance in his life, and he’d been shocked that he’d gotten that much respite before the next onslaught.

Speak of the devil
, he thought, as his phone chimed with an incoming text.  Because who else would text him at 3:30 in the morning?

>I need 2 c u its an emergency.

Even now
, he thought,
even now that can make my heart race.
 
He needs me!
  His hand paused over the phone, trying as hard as he could to ignore the text.  But that would just mean another text from Cody, and another and another…then the calls, then the knock on the door.  Shit.

>What is it,
he texted back.

>I’m in trouble big trouble I need ur help.  Can I come over.

>OK,
Peter said, hating himself for it. 
YOU’RE SO WEAK!
He shouted at himself.  Which made him feel even worse.

He buzzed Cody up and stood by the door, waiting for the knock. 

Cody hugged him for once, holding on tight.  It felt good to be held, had always felt good, too good – how much had he given up for just a moment of touch here and there?

“Thank God,” Cody said, pulling back.  His face looked wild, the bags under his eyes making him look even more manic. 
Cody always did like his cocaine,
Peter remembered.  “I’m in so much trouble.”

“With the law?”

Cody laughed.  “Worse, man.  I owe some people some money.  Big money.”

“I thought you were doing great, really great,” Peter said, throwing Cody’s words back at him.

“I lied, Peter, I didn’t want you to know, I didn’t want you to think badly of me.  Oh, man, I’m in some serious shit.” Cody ran a hand through his hair, walked past Peter, who couldn’t help but look at his profile, his strong, handsome perfect face. 
Not as handsome as Matt’s, is it? 
Cody’s face was more beautiful, more…commercial, more of the aquiline beauty of the fashion model.  The kind of beauty that had slain Peter when he’d met Cody, astonished that someone so perfect could want
him
.

Cody opened cabinets at random in Peter’s kitchen until he found a bottle of Glenfiddich that had been sitting there since the agency had given it to Peter last Christmas.  Cody cracked it open and filled half a cocktail glass, knocked it back, refilled it, walked around the apartment as if he was being chased even here.

“I got in on a deal, some high end electronics stuff that fell off a truck.  It went bad, it was a mob truck, and they are going to fucking
kill me
if I don’t pay them.”  Cody stopped, took Peter’s hand, stared into his eyes.  “I know you don’t have much, Peter, but please, if you have any savings, just something I can give them to buy some time.”

He knows.  He knows about the lottery.
  Peter was certain of it now. 

“How much do you owe them?”

“A hundred grand.  Oh god they’re going to start by cutting my toes off…”

“Calm down,” Peter said, surprising both of them.  Peter’s job here was to go crazy, too, to join Cody in his freak out, to frantically think of what he had in savings, on his credit cards, what family heirlooms he could sell. 

But we both know, don’t we
, Peter thought grimly. 
We both know that’s not necessary.
 

A thought occurred to him then. 
I should let him fucking DIE.
 
Then I’d finally be free of him.
 

The thought horrified him. 
Am I that guy?  Is that how I’ll solve my problem, by letting someone get killed, cut away piece by piece, toe by toe?
  He couldn’t imagine how he’d live with himself with blood on his hands.  Even Cody’s.

“Let me see what I can do.  Go home and get some sleep and I’ll call you later.”

“Can’t I stay here tonight?  I don’t want to sleep alone tonight, Peter.”  The heat of him, his physical perfection, offered to Peter, so hard to resist…

“No.”

He could see it, for just a second, the flash of rage in Cody’s eyes, the disbelief that
little Peter Rabbit
could ever refuse Cody Burrell anything!  Then the mask was back in place, feral instinct at work.

“Okay.  Okay, thanks, Peter.  I really appreciate it.” 

As if it was a done deal,
Peter thought.

Well, isn’t it?
a voice asked him, arms folded across its chest, disapproving.

He got Cody out of there, put his glass in the sink, looked at the Glenfiddich. 
No, he thought, I’m not drinking at 4 a.m.  I have a lot to do today.

“Are you sure?” James Plant asked him later that morning.  “Until I lift this phone and make the call, you can still change your mind.  Hell, even after that.  Until the ticket physically goes into their office.  But after that…”

Peter nodded, slumped in the comfortable chair across from his attorney.  “I’m sure.  Let’s…let’s get this over with.”

“Okay.  Here goes.”

And Peter’s life changed, forever. 

He met Matt for lunch that day, near the shop.  “I did it this morning.  Told my lawyer to cash the ticket.”

Matt was surprised but not shocked.  “So it begins, eh?”  His sympathy almost made Peter break into hysterical laughter.  Only Matt could treat this much money like a serious illness.

Peter nodded.  “Yeah.  He said I’ll need to go underground.  Well, way above ground.  He got me a suite at the Carlyle.”

“Ouch,” Matt said, thinking of the cost.

Peter laughed.  “Right?  Like, thousands a night.  But he said the location on the Upper East Side makes it easier to keep paparazzi at bay, that all the ultra rich neighbors will call the Mayor and order him to, I don’t know, have them all shot.  And I need a suite because it’s just easier for my personal security detail to…”  He broke off, nearly in tears.

Matt reached across the table and took his hand.  “Peter.  You can just walk away from it all.”

Peter shook his head.  “It’s too late for that.  I already have obligations, I already owe the lawyer money and the wealth counselor lady money and…”  He broke off.

And that rat shit bastard is after it too,
Matt thought with an anger that shocked him.  Maybe more so because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this angry. 

“And I just can’t walk away from it, Matt.  I was too poor for too long to just…struggle for the rest of my life if I don’t have to.  I know that makes me a bad person…”

“Hell, no,” Matt said emphatically.  “No, Peter, it doesn’t.” 

“Thanks.  You’re a good friend.”

Matt blinked. 
Oh no, buddy, you don’t get away that easily.  No friendzone for me
.  “Thanks.  Hey, can I use your phone a minute?  My battery died and I need to check on a part before this shop closes early today.”

“Sure,” Peter said, handing it over.

“Thanks, I’ll be right back.”

Peter watched his back as he walked outside.  Of course Matt was too polite to have a cell phone conversation in a restaurant. 
Perfect Matt, who you’ll never get to see now, when the tide of money washes away your life.
  He couldn’t believe how…resigned he was.  All that money, and all he could think about was how fast he could get rid of it.  Get rid of Cody.

Matt made sure he was out of sight before he accessed the Google Play store and downloaded the app that Guy had written.  He installed it, cleared off the success message, and removed the new icon from Peter’s home screen. 

“Spyware to spy out any spyware,” Guy had called it.  “Then we’ll know for sure.”

Then Matt made a call to a parts shop, just to have it on Peter’s call history in case he checked.  He should have felt worse about this dishonesty, but he didn’t. 

I can help him
, Matt thought. 
I have to help him.  He can’t do it alone.
 

He walked back in, saw Peter, frowning, troubled, playing with his glass of water.  But even in his troubles, he smiled just a little bit when he saw Matt.

I’ll be your Samwise, Mr. Frodo,
Matt said…no, swore to himself, and to Peter. 
You won’t carry the burden alone.

The great thing about the Carlyle, Peter decided, was that it catered to people as rich if not richer than he was.  Insane amounts of wealth and fame were daily fare for the staff, and they greeted him with friendly, polite, helpful gestures and actions, smoothing his way into the suite, accommodating the security detail, all lips sealed about his presence.  The media mob would find him, eventually.  But not from them.

He woke up after a restless night’s sleep on the most comfortable bed he’d ever slept on –  or tried to sleep on, anyway.  The press conference would be in three hours.  He turned on the TV; the news headlines on NY1 that morning were, in order of importance, Quadrillions winner comes forward today, scaffolding collapse kills three, and deputy mayor resigns in sex scandal to spend more time with the family he was cheating on.

In the Town Car with James Plant on the way to the press conference, he looked out the window, answering Plant’s questions in monosyllables. 

Finally Plant said, “You like theater, right, Peter?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s what today is.  You need to act.  You need to say it’s shocking, it’s amazing, I’m so lucky.  All of which is true, right?”  Plant didn’t add,
you need to make sure people don’t hate you for winning, especially when so many of them threw away all their money trying to win this crazy pot of cash.

“Right.”

“And you plan on giving most of it to charity, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, don’t say that. Say that you’ve got a team of professional financial advisors, which you do, because I’ve lined them up.  Say that they’ll be helping you decide what to do. You’re going to be inundated with requests for money from everyone who’s got cancer, and everyone who pretends to have cancer, and…”  He stopped at the shocked look on Peter’s face.

“Yes, you heard me.  I’ve taken the liberty of hiring a screening team for you as well.  Recommended by Jessica Zane.  They’ll filter your emails, your voice mails, the letters that start pouring in.  This is a professional team…”

“Wait a minute.  You’re telling me people make a living doing that?”

“Yes.  Not just for lottery winners, but also for people who hit it big after IPOs, or get gigantic inheritances, anyone who’s going to be prey to the swarms of locusts that come in on big money.”

Peter was stunned, feeling like his life was being taken out of his control, all of it certainly to be watched over by the proverbial machines of loving grace, but still.  The idea that strangers would read his email, listen to his voice mails...he thought of Matt, their texts, their calls.

“I don’t want anyone touching my phone.”

“Okay, Peter, but you’ll need to get a new one, a new number that you hand out very circumspectly to the people you want to stay connected to.  Your old number, hell, your old life, is about to become unmanageable.  People who work at your credit card companies, or the power company, someone is going to give into temptation and sell your address and phone number on the black market, people will show up at your door…”

“Oh my god…”

“That’s why you’re at the Carlyle until you can find a new place to live.  I have security squatting in your apartment, outside your building.  Nothing will happen to your stuff.”

Later he wondered if Plant had done this on purpose, put this stunned look on his face just in time for the cameras, and holy crap, there were so many reporters, it was like he’d won the presidential election or something. 

But for most people, this was more important news than that, and the amount of media present reflected it.  Yes, Peter said, he bought one quick pick on a whim, yes, he was in shock, yes, he took the cash payout, no, he had a team of financial advisers who…blah blah blah.

Then the giant novelty check, clap clap flash flash, and then he was whisked down to the basement of the Blake Building, selected because it had a tunnel to a garage next door.  Then two black Town Cars dramatically left the garage, paparazzi chasing them.  And then Peter, in the back of a brown Crown Vic, was quietly taken back to the Carlyle.

Only then did he remember why he’d done this now.  “I need some cash,” he said to his attorney.

“How much?”

“A hundred thousand.”

Plant looked up from his BlackBerry.  “Peter…”

“Please.  Don’t.  Just get it for me?”

Plant frowned.  “If someone is blackmailing you…”

“No.” 
Yes,
he thought. 
If emotional blackmail counts.
  “It’s not that.  But I promised someone I’d help him out.  What is that, like, one half of one percent of my money?”

“Not even.  One percent is of your after tax money is about 2.2 million, Peter.  So that’s like one-twentieth of one percent.”

Peter laughed.  “Good thing I have a financial team.”

Plant smiled.  “Okay.  I’ll have it for you tomorrow.”

Peter’s own smile faded; he could hear Cody’s voice in his head already,
it’s an emergency, it’s always an emergency, don’t stop to think about what you’re doing, just do it, hurry!

Yeah, it is.  And the sooner you get it, the sooner I’ll be free of you.
  He wanted to believe that, had to believe that.

“So our general sense,” Chadrick said, “is that this dude needs to be burned to the ground.”

Guy and Ned nodded emphatically.  The four of them sat around Matt’s kitchen table, a war council.  It hadn’t taken long to find out all they needed to know about the man who’d sat across from Matt in the restaurant, the man who had put spyware on Peter’s phone who knew how long ago, and who had obviously found out about the winning ticket that way.

Cody Ray Burrell.  Twenty eight years old.  Fake IDs in the names Ray Cody Burns, Burt Cody, and Burt Cray, all created with other people’s SSNs and all now burdened with terrible credit histories.  He’d used all three IDs to run up colossal debts and walk away, leaving the actual owners of those identities fighting the awful impersonal unstoppable machinery of the banks that didn’t believe them when they said they were innocent.  Banks that only knew, or cared, that someone had to pay, and weren’t picky about who got stuck with the bill.

He possessed only two things in his own name.  One was a motorcycle, a gift from a woman they’d traced who had discovered too late that giving a gift to Cody was an invitation for him to take everything else.  The other was a rap sheet replete with robbery, battery, sexual assault and drug charges.

“And yet he walks the streets, happy as a jaybird,” Matt said.  “How?”

Ned flipped through the pages of their report.  “A series of men and women who fall for his looks and his alleged charm, and find themselves under his Svengali-like spell, and who put out enormous sums on excellent lawyers when he gets into trouble.”

“The proverbial sweet and tender hooligan,” Chad added.  “Lawyers got him diverted to a court ordered drug rehab program a few years back, which included twelve-step meetings held at the community college, where Peter was taking classes at the time.”

“And there our viper sank his fangs into Peter,” Ned added.

It all made sense to Matt now, that dark streak in Peter, that
fatalism.
  Sure, he’d come up hard, but he’d been resilient, he’d been on his way to something better.  And then,
fucking Cody,
that was his new two word name in Matt’s mind, fucking Cody had come along.

“Um…” Guy said hesitantly.  “There’s something else.”

Matt sighed.  “Let me have it.”

“Well, our spyware is still active on Peter’s phone.  He and Cody texted this morning, after he cashed the ticket.  I can pull up the convo…”

“Shit!”  Matt said, banging his fist on the kitchen table, rattling the coffee cups.  This asshole was a leech, a bloodsucker who’d refastened himself to Peter.  And Matt knew that the money he’d take would be the least of what he’d take from Peter.  “Turn it off, Guy.”

“But…”

“We know who and what Cody is.  I feel…”  Matt frowned.  “I feel bad about spying on Peter.  I don’t think I thought this out.  I just wanted to know if Cody was spying on him, not…join him in doing it.”

“Okay, man.   But know thine enemy and all…”

“I know.  But there has to be another way.  I can’t…”

He stopped, and the sick, awful realization came to him. 

I can’t fix this.  I can’t go any farther with this.  If Peter wants to keep this a secret from me, that’s his decision.  If Peter wants to give fucking Cody all his money, that’s his decision, too.

“Money,” he said finally.  A tear slipped down his cheek, to the shock of his friends.  “Money ruins everything.  If it hadn’t been for this lottery bullshit, me and Peter would be…”  He broke off.

Chadrick put a hand on Matt’s shoulder.  “Dude.  If this is love, if this is the right guy for you, he’ll tell you.  He’ll tell you everything, in his own time.  If he doesn’t, then, yeah, sorry man.”

Matt nodded.  “Yeah.  I know.” 

>DUDE.  Congratulations!  That is so awesome!

Cody’s text was the last thing Peter needed after he got back to the hotel. 

>I’ll have your $100k tomorrow. 
He wanted to cut to the chase, not have to go through the fiction of accepting Cody’s best wishes for his happiness.