Black Lies
Page 7
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“Jillian Sharp.” She started to hold out a hand, her lips pursed, eyes sweeping over me, but then thought better of it, choosing to nod instead, as if she was the Queen of England, and I should curtsy.
“Layana Fairmont. Is there something I can help you with?” My mind was working in overdrive as I repeated the unanswered question. Jillian Sharp. CFO of BSX, Brant’s digital conglomerate. She was the face before the face, the one conducting any news conferences, interviews, or board meetings. She was, best I was aware of, very intelligent, very business savvy, and very busy. Which begged the question of why she was standing on my deck at—I stole a look at my watch—1:12 PM on a Monday.
“I spoke to Brant this morning. He mentioned your little…” She sniffed in a way I took to be disapproving, her features pinching, an irritated look cast at a burst of wind, “meeting last night.” She probably wants to be invited inside. It would be the polite thing to do, given the sun beating down on her, the salty air, which was no doubt ruining her Chanel suit. I let her stand there, my mind working over her words.
“And?”
“May I come in?” She huffed, as if annoyed with asking the question, and I contained the smile that wanted to come out and play.
“By all means.” I smiled. “You’re already on my property, might as well come inside my home.” I sat on the bench by the back door. Worked the laces of my tennis shoes as slowly as I felt like, feeling her irritation build as I stripped my feet of shoes, then socks, then hosed down my bare feet and dried them. Had she not been here, I would have stripped. Stepped into the outside shower. Scrubbed the sweat off my body and enjoyed a half hour of hot water, pounding and massaging my tired muscles. Then would have wrapped myself in a towel and moved inside.
So there, the new Layana did retain some bit of manners. I toweled my feet completely dry and opened the door.
Two bottles of water, grabbed from the fridge, one slid over the island to Jillian, who inspected the bottle before setting it down. She said nothing as I stared at her, guzzled every drop from the bottle before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Silence. I was damn sure not going to say anything. She was the surprise guest of the hour. The very busy, had things to do, important woman. I could stand there all week without being affected in the slightest.
She cleared her throat, the sound one that reeked of tea and crumpets but I knew her background. Read a feature article in Glamour magazine that touted her as one of the most powerful women in Silicon Valley. She wasn’t a blue blood. Wasn’t even properly educated. Attended a community college. Worked as a fourth-grade teacher until 1997, when her nephew, one aforementioned Brant Sharp, built a computer in his basement. A computer that made IBM’s latest creation look like a bowl of Jell-O. A computer that made his parents drop every future plan and invest their savings in Team Brant. He was young. Eleven. Needed a chaperone. So Aunt Jillian quit her job and hitched her wagon to Brant. Lived off food stamps and her savings account in a spare bedroom at Brant’s house for two years. Then she brokered their first deal and all of the Sharps moved their bank account decimals seven places to the right.
“I’d like you to stay away from Brant.”
Wow. Not what I was expecting. I had half expected her to pull out an appointment book and pencil in our wedding date while the summer calendar was clear. I swallowed a mouthful of water before speaking. “Excuse me?”
“Brant doesn’t need the distraction of a relationship right now.” She remained in place, standing on my floor on an island of Jillian, back still straight, stick still firmly wedged somewhere up that ass.
Did the woman know he used whores? “That seems like a decision for Brant to make.” I leaned on the counter, met her eyes steadily. You’re in my house. Step the f**k back. “Last I checked he’s not eleven years old anymore.”
Her eyes flickered, as if the information I shared was secret, not something known by anyone ready to part with $3.99. Her jaw tightened. “Don’t assume that you know him, or anything about me just because you did an Internet search. He is not built for a relationship, does not have time for you. I’m coming here, woman to woman, to ask you to stay away.”
“And I’m telling you, woman to woman, that it’s none of your business.” Any interest I had had in Brant was quadrupling with every word out of this woman’s mouth. I had smiled and obeyed for twenty-five years. I wasn’t about to be put in my place by this schoolmarm.
She moved, dug in her purse, a cream Hermes that I had in green. A laugh bubbled in my throat when I saw what her hand pulled out.
“You’re going to try and bribe me to stay away from him?” Her hand froze at my laugh, hard eyes swinging to me mid-click of her pen. “We spent one night together. He’s not preparing to propose.”
“It’s better to be safe than sorry,” the woman said stiffly. “Plus, at this point, there are no emotions involved. Walking away should be, in your case, a breeze. You are a smart girl. I’m sure you’ll make an intelligent decision.” She signed her name to a check she had already filled out, ripping it from the deck with the subtlety of a hyena, then thrust it out, as if it might burn her fingers if kept any longer in her touch.
I didn’t look at it; I held my gaze on her face until she looked up in exasperation, our eyes meeting over the granite island. “I appreciate the visit, but I think it’s time for you to leave.”
“Layana Fairmont. Is there something I can help you with?” My mind was working in overdrive as I repeated the unanswered question. Jillian Sharp. CFO of BSX, Brant’s digital conglomerate. She was the face before the face, the one conducting any news conferences, interviews, or board meetings. She was, best I was aware of, very intelligent, very business savvy, and very busy. Which begged the question of why she was standing on my deck at—I stole a look at my watch—1:12 PM on a Monday.
“I spoke to Brant this morning. He mentioned your little…” She sniffed in a way I took to be disapproving, her features pinching, an irritated look cast at a burst of wind, “meeting last night.” She probably wants to be invited inside. It would be the polite thing to do, given the sun beating down on her, the salty air, which was no doubt ruining her Chanel suit. I let her stand there, my mind working over her words.
“And?”
“May I come in?” She huffed, as if annoyed with asking the question, and I contained the smile that wanted to come out and play.
“By all means.” I smiled. “You’re already on my property, might as well come inside my home.” I sat on the bench by the back door. Worked the laces of my tennis shoes as slowly as I felt like, feeling her irritation build as I stripped my feet of shoes, then socks, then hosed down my bare feet and dried them. Had she not been here, I would have stripped. Stepped into the outside shower. Scrubbed the sweat off my body and enjoyed a half hour of hot water, pounding and massaging my tired muscles. Then would have wrapped myself in a towel and moved inside.
So there, the new Layana did retain some bit of manners. I toweled my feet completely dry and opened the door.
Two bottles of water, grabbed from the fridge, one slid over the island to Jillian, who inspected the bottle before setting it down. She said nothing as I stared at her, guzzled every drop from the bottle before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Silence. I was damn sure not going to say anything. She was the surprise guest of the hour. The very busy, had things to do, important woman. I could stand there all week without being affected in the slightest.
She cleared her throat, the sound one that reeked of tea and crumpets but I knew her background. Read a feature article in Glamour magazine that touted her as one of the most powerful women in Silicon Valley. She wasn’t a blue blood. Wasn’t even properly educated. Attended a community college. Worked as a fourth-grade teacher until 1997, when her nephew, one aforementioned Brant Sharp, built a computer in his basement. A computer that made IBM’s latest creation look like a bowl of Jell-O. A computer that made his parents drop every future plan and invest their savings in Team Brant. He was young. Eleven. Needed a chaperone. So Aunt Jillian quit her job and hitched her wagon to Brant. Lived off food stamps and her savings account in a spare bedroom at Brant’s house for two years. Then she brokered their first deal and all of the Sharps moved their bank account decimals seven places to the right.
“I’d like you to stay away from Brant.”
Wow. Not what I was expecting. I had half expected her to pull out an appointment book and pencil in our wedding date while the summer calendar was clear. I swallowed a mouthful of water before speaking. “Excuse me?”
“Brant doesn’t need the distraction of a relationship right now.” She remained in place, standing on my floor on an island of Jillian, back still straight, stick still firmly wedged somewhere up that ass.
Did the woman know he used whores? “That seems like a decision for Brant to make.” I leaned on the counter, met her eyes steadily. You’re in my house. Step the f**k back. “Last I checked he’s not eleven years old anymore.”
Her eyes flickered, as if the information I shared was secret, not something known by anyone ready to part with $3.99. Her jaw tightened. “Don’t assume that you know him, or anything about me just because you did an Internet search. He is not built for a relationship, does not have time for you. I’m coming here, woman to woman, to ask you to stay away.”
“And I’m telling you, woman to woman, that it’s none of your business.” Any interest I had had in Brant was quadrupling with every word out of this woman’s mouth. I had smiled and obeyed for twenty-five years. I wasn’t about to be put in my place by this schoolmarm.
She moved, dug in her purse, a cream Hermes that I had in green. A laugh bubbled in my throat when I saw what her hand pulled out.
“You’re going to try and bribe me to stay away from him?” Her hand froze at my laugh, hard eyes swinging to me mid-click of her pen. “We spent one night together. He’s not preparing to propose.”
“It’s better to be safe than sorry,” the woman said stiffly. “Plus, at this point, there are no emotions involved. Walking away should be, in your case, a breeze. You are a smart girl. I’m sure you’ll make an intelligent decision.” She signed her name to a check she had already filled out, ripping it from the deck with the subtlety of a hyena, then thrust it out, as if it might burn her fingers if kept any longer in her touch.
I didn’t look at it; I held my gaze on her face until she looked up in exasperation, our eyes meeting over the granite island. “I appreciate the visit, but I think it’s time for you to leave.”
