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I made a show of propping my legs on her messy desk and lighting myself a rollie, sinking idly in my seat.
“Aren’t you going to ask how my England trip went?” I sent a plume of smoke skyward, watching as it ribboned around itself.
She hopped off the table and got dressed under the lamp, unbothered by the stark, unflattering light. “No. I don’t give two shits what or who you do when I’m not around.”
“My father died.” I ignored her sheer vulgarity.
That made her stop. She made a show of pressing a fist against her lips, as if stuffing her words back inside. “That was a foot-in-mouth moment for me. I’m really sorry, Dev.”
“I’m not,” I said flatly. “But thank you.”
“How’re you … er, handling things?” She shoved a leg into her leather pants.
“Quite well, considering I loathed him with every atom in my body.”
“I’m surprised Cillian and Sam didn’t say anything.” Belle watched me carefully for a reaction. Smart lass. We both knew I hadn’t shared anything about my personal life with my mates. She must’ve wondered what business I had confiding in her of all people. I happened to wonder the same bloody thing. As far as sympathetic audiences went, she was a tad cooler than Antarctica.
“I keep my private life private.” I exhaled rings of smoke, sending arrows into them.
“Still…” Belle flipped her hair out of the back of her top and swaggered over to me, slinging herself against the desk “…losing a parent is always hard. Even if—and sometimes especially—you don’t get along with them. It reminds you of your own mortality. Living is a messy business.”
“So is your desk,” I commented, ready to change the topic. “Why does it look like an Office Depot branch exploded all over it?”
She let out a laugh. “I’m a messy person, Devon. Welcome to my life.”
“That’s not true.” I swung forward, removing my loafers from her desk and sifting through the wrinkled and stained envelopes on it. “You are highly calculated and driven. You have a fourteen-foot-high billboard of yourself bathing in a massive champagne glass and a business you could sell tomorrow and live comfortably. Yet there are piles upon piles of unopened letters here. Walk me through your logic.”
To reinforce my statement, I lifted a batch of a dozen or so envelopes in the air. They all looked handwritten and addressed to her personally. Sweven snatched them from my hand and dropped them into the bin beneath us. A witchy smile marred her face. I knew I’d hit a nerve.
“Why should I? They’re not bills; unlike some fax-using dinosaurs, I pay mine online. And they’re not from friends, because they would pick up the phone and call me. Ninety-nine percent of these letters are written by ultra-conservative lunatics who want to inform me that I’m going to burn in hell for running a burlesque club. Now why would I put myself through that?”
“Is that all these letters are?” I pressed. “Hate mail?”
“Every single one of them.” She picked up another batch, sliding one of the papers from an envelope. She cleared her throat theatrically and began reading:
“Dear Ms. Penrose,
My name is Howard Garrett, and I’m a sixty-two-year-old mechanic from Telegraph Hill. I am writing to you today in hopes you would change your ways and see the light, as I find you solely responsible for the corruption and veenality—he spelled venality wrong—of our youth.
My granddaughter visited your establishment the other day after seeing an ad with naked women about it in a local magazine. Three days later, she arrived at my house to inform me that she was now gay. A coincidence? I don’t think so. Queerness is, in case you are unaware, an act of war against God … should I continue…” she perched her chin on her knuckles, a faux-angelic look on her face “…or did your brain short-circuit?”
“He sounds like he’s from the Stone Age.”
“Maybe you’re neighbors,” she smirked.
“There are dozens of letters here. Are all of them from religious old sods complaining about sex?” I pressed.
Belle was a basket full of complications. Her job, her personality, her attitude. And yet I couldn’t find it in me to back out of our arrangement.
“Yes, I’m sure.” Belle scowled, plucking the cigarette from between my fingers and giving it a puff and returning it back to me. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
“Being taken care of is not a sin.”
“I know.” She grinned devilishly at me with a wink. “If it was, I would be all over it.”
“Did you know there’s a bird called a shoebill that looks uncannily like Severus Snape?”
“Did you know Chinese water deer look like Bambi after he got himself a brand-new moustache?” She grinned back at me, and just like that, the tension between us was over.
Belle’s phone began dancing on the desk, flashing green with an incoming call. She craned her neck to see the name on the screen, let out a sigh, and picked it up. “Hey.”
