Page 15 of The Daring Times of Fern Adair
“Trust me, china doll, you want a drink,” Rodney laughed.
“She doesn’t need a drink, Rod. Listen. Things happened. That’s why you sent me and not one of these nimrods,” Cal said.
Rodney snorted. “I wouldn’t send those two to the corner store to buy me a quart of milk.”
Vinny threw up his hands. “That ain’t fair. You sent us last week to get the milk.”
“Stuff it, Vin,” Francis muttered, kicking him in the back of the leg. “Rod gave you an order. Scram.”
Vinny left, wearing a hangdog frown. Rodney rolled his eyes and took another drag on his cigarette.
“What things?” he asked Cal, again staring openly at Fern’s scars.
She clenched her jaw and shifted her eyes to the pair of leather club chairs in the corner, a yellow-tasseled lamp on the spindle-legged table between them. She hated the oil-slick sensation of caring what other people thought of her face. So many times, too many to count, she’d promised herself that she’d stop. Be stronger. More confident. She’d vowed to leave her house more often and hold her head high.
“The pictures are a bad idea, Rod. She’s with us,” Cal said. “Like Aunt Helen always said: We’ll catch more flies with honey.”
A burst of prickly heat fired along the back of Fern’s neck. Pictures of what? Ofher? She hadn’t allowed anyone to take a picture of her in years. Not since that awful portrait taker who had promised her mother that he could reduce the appearance of her scars on film. The finished photographs had never been framed or hung anywhere in the house, leading Fern to believe her mother hadn’t been satisfied with the results.
“Fuck Aunt Helen, and fuck the flies,”Rodney snapped. The lighting in the room hadn’t changed, but his whole face now darkened.
He came closer, his scrutiny searing Fern’s face now. “Question is, why would a china doll like yourself come down off the shelf to help out the likes of us?”
Her mouth went dry, and her tongue seemed to swell.Go along with everything I say.Cal’s earlier, urgent whisper gave her mouth a kick.
“I…I suppose because I…” She grappled for something, some good reason. A reason Rodney would believe.
Cal’s fingers dug into her elbow, and with the pressure came the memory of what Buchanan had told her the week before, when she’d confronted him in his room.
“I’m a ghost to them,” she continued. “My family. I live with them, but I’m not a part of them. They…they don’t want me. No one does.”
The sting of tears was unexpected. She’d only meant to say the first part. That she was a ghost in her own house, and yet the rest had come pouring out. The room fell quiet, except for the muted heartbeat of the high hat out on the stage. Cal’s grip eased.
Rodney sniffed and cocked his head. “So, you’re willing to do the pictures, doll?”
Again, with the pictures. What did he mean? She couldn’t say yes, not blindly. Pictures were permanent. Besides, what would they be used for?
Cal finally let go of her arm and shucked his trench coat. “Francis, get me a drink. And make sure Natalie didn’t jump Vin on the way to the bar.”
Francis shuffled out, andthe moment the door closed, the tension melted out of Rodney’s posture. He slouched and sat on the edge of the desk.
“Don’t give me any more shit about this, Cal.”
“I’m thinking about the lasting effects,” he said, dropping into one of the club chairs and crossing an ankle over his opposite knee. “You do the pictures, the judge jumps in your pocket, and he’s pissed for as long as he stays there.”
The judge?
Father.
Fern inched back toward the wall and stood with her arms wrapped around her middle. Of course, this had to do with her father. He was who Cal had come to see in the first place. And yet, the others here hadn’t been awfully surprised to see Fern. They hadn’t expected her to join them so willingly, but shehadbeen part of some plan.
“Who gives a shit if he’s pissed?” Rodney retorted, ignoring her presence entirely. Cal took out his cigarette case, and Rodney moved to hold out his own lighter.
Fern felt as insignificant as a fly on the wall and, for once, appreciated that. She flicked a look toward the door and considered asking for directions to the bathroom. She could pretend to be sick, maybe escape before anyone discovered she’d left. It was crowded enough out there.
“We make an alliance of another kind, and we keep him closer, longer, with less antagonism,” Cal suggested. “We don’t need the theatrics, especially with Capone looking for reasons to consolidate even further.”
Rodney snapped the cover on his lighter closed. “Fuck Capone too. I still want the pictures.”
