Page 6 of Love Lessons
“They care about Neil Drake, though,” Tommy points out. “His family attracts attention.”
“I’ll be a good boy,” I say.Please don’t take away my vacation. “We’re going in a few days. Picking up the itinerary tonight.”
“No photos with drinks,” Tommy says, as if I might have already forgotten. “Are you bringing a girlfriend on this trip? Pictures of you in resort-wear holding hands with a fiancée… That wouldn’t be so bad.”
“No girlfriend and no fiancée,” I mumble. “And what the hell is resort-wear?”
Tommy shakes his head, as if my ignorance disgusts him. “Look, just pay closer attention to the way you present yourself. You and I are going to stay in touch for the rest of the summer. And I’m going to hook you up with a stylist.” He pulls a card out of his pocket and slides it across the desk. “He’s expecting your call. I gave him some guidelines, told him we want to soften your image.”
Soften my image. Like that’s going to help anything. I hate posturing. And anyone who circulates that mugshot is just a gossip looking for cheap thrills. They don’t know me. I shouldn’t have to pander to that kind of attention.
My only real regret is breaking that kid’s collarbone. If I could undo that mistake, I would do it in a heartbeat.
I pocket the stylist’s card. I have to. These men hold my future in their hands, and there’s nothing I can do about that. “Okay, I’ll call your guy. And I’ll watch my nose.”
Hugh is still giving me his eagle-eyed stare, which is uncomfortable. “And get a damn haircut,” he says as I rise from my chair.
“Yessir,” I say, as if my entire career is riding on it.
It might be, which is stupid. But I’m not in a position to point that out.
* * *
A few hours later,I’m sitting across from my teammate Neil Drake, drinking my first beer of the evening. “Here’s to Tommy in PR,” I say, raising the bottle in the air. Not that the publicist can hear me. I’m seated in Drake’s fancy kitchen, bitching about my day. “I feel like sending Tommy a photo of me with this beer and my middle finger raised.”
“I bet you do,” Drake says, grabbing the kind of wooden pepper grinder you see only in steakhouses. With the flair of a five-star chef, he seasons the meat on the platter in front of him.
Up on the roof, a few more of my teammates are prepping the grill for our dinner. A night with friends is just what I need.
“It was the cop’s second night on patrol, and he putsmein the paddy wagon,” I grumble after another gulp of beer.
“Was there an actual paddy wagon?” Drake asks, salting a dozen impressive-looking steaks.
“It was more like a van. Smelled like piss.”
“Gross,” his wife Charli says from the opposite counter where she’s tossing a salad.
“Are you sure there isn’t something I can do to help you kids?” I ask.
“Nope,” Charli insists. “Just sit there and tell us your tale of woe. You’re still coming to Italy, right?”
“You bet,” I say heavily. “If you’ll take an ex-con like me on your fancy jet.”
Drake chuckles. “Pretty sure you’re not an ex-con if those charges were dropped, buddy.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I clear my throat. “But I’ve got to ask you guys not to take any photos of me with a drink in my hand. The publicity team is gonna stalk me all summer. They even made me call astylist.” I shudder. “I hated him immediately. I bailed on the call after only a couple of minutes.”
“Oh, the horror,” Drake says. “You know our friend Vera is your neighbor, right? She’s a stylist. She could take care of your wardrobe problem, and you wouldn’t even have to leave the block.”
“Who says I have a wardrobe problem?” I argue. “Besides, Vera is not a big fan of mine.”
“How do you know?” Drake asks with a grin. “Did you hit on her and strike out?”
Bingo. But I’m not admitting that. “Apparently, I’m a noisy neighbor. She threatened to report my construction noise to the city! Like I need more legal trouble.”
Both Drake and Charli crack up. “Nothing would smooth that over quicker than paying her styling fee,” Drake points out.
The doorbell rings, and Charli drops the salad tongs to zip out of the room. “I think that’s Vera now.”
