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I tune out. Kendall’s angel face forms in my mind, silently contradicting my assertion that I’m not a risk to their brand. Okay, maybe I’m extra defensive on account of my actions last night, because in light of them I may actually deserve to be treated like someone without a fully developed prefrontal cortex, except my father doesn’t know a damn thing about what happened. I tune back in to hear my dad insist, “I have a strategy for everything.”
Nigel offers a neutral smile then raises his glass. “To strategy.” We all toast, and moments later, Nigel thanks us again for working him into our schedules. I give him credit for sounding sincerely appreciative for a man most people in this town would reschedule surgery for if it meant getting a meeting. Chairs are eased back, handshakes exchanged, and then John and Nigel sail off, making brief stops at other tables as they chart a course toward the sidewalk.
Dad and Nina launch into a review of the meeting. I listen as they trade impressions, but a fact keeps circling in my head like a hawk over prey. My dad’s control freak tendencies are getting worse as my career advances, not better. I respect his business expertise, and I appreciate everything he’s done to help me succeed, but I’ve got to set some boundaries with him. Before we end up hating each other.
A better man would have done it sooner, I admit a couple of hours later when I’m back in the privacy of my car. But my relationship with my father is complicated. When it comes to my career, I’m not just shouldering my hopes and dreams. I’m carrying his as well, because I’m the only one left to do it. I’m the second-string replacement for his paternal ambitions after the real star of the family—my sister—went dark far ahead of her time.
Even without the fucked-up family expectations, the stakes are high and getting higher. The producers of a massively successful reality show don’t often hand the reins over to an unknown quantity. If they do, everyone’s taking a risk, but if America Rocks goes off a cliff with Vaughn Shaughnessy driving, Vaughn Shaughnessy takes the blame. Failing to get the gig after making it this far will mean I clutched at a crucial moment. I had a real shot, but ultimately they deemed me too something—too inexperienced for network TV, too unfamiliar to audiences, too clumsy with the banter and interviews—and that would be disappointing because banter and interviews are my strong points. I can’t change my level of experience, or do much in the near-term to increase my profile in Middle America, but I can talk. More importantly, I know how to listen, and I know how to steer the conversation into everyone’s comfort zone. Lose your sister when she’s nineteen, on the verge of achieving her dreams, you learn how to walk and talk your way through hell and back. I like to think that’s why I’m uniquely qualified to land the job. But landing the job comes with a backdraft of pressure. I feel it. My dad feels it, too, and asserting control is his way of dealing with the tension and protecting me from failure.
Understanding where his compulsion comes from doesn’t make it easier to tolerate, but nothing’s going to change unless I tell him to back off and figure out a way to make it stick. With that promise to myself issued and accepted, I toss the problem into a compartment of my mind labeled “Later” and focus on the satisfaction of advancing toward something I’ve put a lot of effort into accomplishing. It’s a good feeling.
The sun’s tinting my rearview mirror orange by the time I drive down my street, reminding me that I have a very narrow window to finish packing before a car arrives to take me to LAX. I may be tomorrow’s next host of America Rocks, but today I’m a guy with a commercial shoot in Miami. I hit the brake to make the left turn into my driveway and some of my king-of-the-world high fades. What went down on this slab of concrete last night is a prime example of the kind of behavior America, and the producers of America Rocks, will not forgive. Thankfully, they’ll never find out about that stupid lapse in judgment. Kendall won’t say anything. I mean, I’m not naive, and I don’t go around trusting people I’ve barely met, but she didn’t even tell her sisters, so I don’t see her doing some kind of “You’ll never guess whose drunk ass I saved” post all over social media.
On the other hand, she’s yet to forgive me. And that bothers me. A lot. Unfortunately, there’s not much more I can do. I apologized. I thanked her with words and with a gesture I hoped she’d appreciate. Did she? That remains to be seen, but the next move, if there is one, is hers.
I pull to the top of the driveway, easing off the accelerator just before the slope flattens out into the small parking area in front of the garage. The stripped-down classic black Bronco Matt bought back in high school occupies the far left slot. Dylan’s sporty new silver R8 Spyder sits in the spot closest to the door.
The cars fit their owners like personality profiles. Dylan’s smooth and fast. Matt’s strong and rock solid. I’m somewhere in the middle, I think, as I slide my Range Rover into the space between their vehicles. We’re brothers in every way except birth, and I value that even more now than I did as a kid. Being in this business brings a constant stream of new people into my life, and most of them act like they’re my friends—at least to my face—but they don’t really know me, and they don’t really want to know me. They want to project onto me whatever image suits them best. The face of their product, the candy on their arm, a commodity to be exploited for their purpose, and I wouldn’t have a career if I couldn’t satisfy those demands to some extent. But Dylan and Matt want nothing from me except what any guy wants from a bro. Be cool, show some love, and restock the beer fridge every once in a while.
You have no safe zone.
But I do. These guys are my safe zone. They give me shit when I deserve shit—and expect the same from me—but they’re in my corner. They’ll be stoked for me when I tell them about my meeting, and they won’t lecture me about how I should handle myself. They believe in me. And I know I can trust them.
The knowledge restores my king-of-the-world mood. I walk into the house with my arms spread wide and call out, “Stop jacking off for a second and listen—”
Dylan’s pacing the living room, his phone to his ear. He holds up a hand to simultaneously acknowledge me and signal me to shut up. “Hell no. We’re not paying Sandoval a dime if they brought us cases of broken bottles, and… Screw that. I don’t give a shit what he says. Reject delivery. What do you mean it’s too late? Who the fuck signed for the order without inspecting it?”
I settle myself on one of the sofas and watch the excitement of life in club-land unfold before me. It’s weird and oddly encouraging seeing Dylan invest actual effort into something besides having a good time or getting laid.
He stops pacing and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s fired. I don’t care. I’m firing his ass. Oh, and tell Sandoval I’m not paying for the cases of recycling his guy dropped off. If he doesn’t have my order delivered within the hour—intact this time—I’ll find another supplier.”
With that threat hanging in the air, he disconnects and throws his phone onto the coffee table. “Goddammit.”
“Tough day at the office, honey?”
“Holy shit.” He comes around the empty sofa and drops down heavily. “If someone doesn’t suck my dick in the next five seconds, I swear to God my head is going to explode.”
Matt walks in from the kitchen at that moment, bottle of beer to his lips, and I snap my fingers at him. “Got an emergency situation here, Officer Wright. This man’s dick needs sucking.”
Matt doesn’t miss a step as he crosses to the mantel to commandeer the remote. “I’m not sucking that dick. I know where it’s been.”
“I don’t want either of you cocksuckers anywhere near my dick. Hand me my phone, Vaughn. This is a job for your mom.”
Predictable burn, but smoothly delivered. My comeback will involve his grandmother and her obnoxious Chihuahua, but as I reach for his phone I notice a familiar blue bag sitting on the table.
What the…?
I snag it, vaguely aware of Matt turning on the flat-screen and Dylan telling him to find the Dodgers game. I look inside to see the opened card and the little blue box. “What is this doing here?” The question comes out louder than I intended, silencing the conversation.
“I don’t know, man,” Matt answers. “I found it by the door earlier today.”
I’m halfway to the hall before I hear Dylan’s footfalls behind me. “Hey, what did you want to tell us?”
“Tell you later,” I say over my shoulder, not breaking stride. I cut through the kitchen, grab a beer from the fridge, and twist off the top before heading out the big sliding glass doors leading to the patio. My ego’s not fragile. In my business you have to learn to let disappointment roll off without leaving a mark. But having my gift tossed back in my face leaves a bruise. I gave this to her, dammit. Because I’m sorry, and grateful, and I wanted her to know how much I appreciated what she did.
And now I’m standing on my patio with a stupid Tiffany’s bag in my hand and no fucking clue what I’m doing. The calm, glassy surface of the pool mocks my agitation. Planning to bang on her door and give her crap for returning the gift?That’ll show her what a cool guy you are.
Shit. I lean against the railing separating the patio from the pool and down half my beer. I don’t have time to deal with this right now. I should be upstairs throwing the last-minute stuff into my suitcase and making sure I’m checked in for my flight to Miami.
