Taut: The Ford Book

She stops what she’s doing and looks over her shoulder at me. “Just go, OK? I got this. It’s my way of paying you back. Don’t ruin it for me.”

She goes back to the bags and leaves me to decide. I watch her from behind for a moment. Her small body is busy as she takes things out and sets them on the counter. And then the baby whines and it breaks the hold this girl has on me.

I don’t exactly hate babies, they just freak me out. They’re all needy with the feeding and the diapers. Plus, most of them like to be touched.

I shiver at the thought and make a quick escape before she asks me to do her a baby favor.

Chapter Ten

I head downstairs immediately. This is the front of the house and it’s not your typical dark basement. For one, it’s got a whole wall of windows on the far end of the lower floor great room, and for two, it’s a walk-out basement, so it’s built into the side of the mountain. If it wasn’t dark I’d be enjoying a spectacular view of the mountain peeking out from the tall pine trees. There’s no skiing on the mountain we face, it’s just wilderness. I prefer it. I can imagine nothing worse than looking out the window and seeing tourists.

I drag my gaze away from the dark window and look to the left at my dad’s office door. I haven’t been back here since the day he died. And as Mrs. Pearson pointed out to me this morning, I even missed the funeral.

I don’t do funerals. I don’t do weddings, or baby showers, or anniversaries.

I did one birthday. For Rook. I did Ronin’s get-out-of-jail-free party. Again, for Rook. And I’ve been to Antoine’s New Year’s party twice, including yesterday. The first was to get drunk with Spencer and Ronin after Mardee died. A formal goodbye from the three of us. And last night was to say goodbye to Rook. A last-ditch attempt to disconnect whatever it is we have between us.

I flick the light on in my dad’s office and take it in. Books on shelves, of course. We are alike in that respect. A large mahogany desk, spotless. I huff out a puff of air at that. Because his desk was never cleared off when he was alive. I walk around the desk and sink into the burgundy leather chair. It’s soft. It probably cost more than that girl’s car.

I slide open the top drawer and take out the key, twirling it between my fingers before inserting it into the bottom drawer and pulling it open. The light oak color of Macallan 1939 is apparent even in the shadow of the desk. Farther inside the drawer are two copita nosing glasses tucked inside some dark purple cloth.

My dad was a whiskey man and I bought him this bottle at auction after I completed my first job producing a two-week reality show in Japan. I spent my entire salary on this bottle of liquid gold. I told my dad to just drink it, shit, that’s why I bought it. But he said he was saving it for something special.

That’s a hard lesson to learn. You should never save anything for something special. Because something special might never come and that ten-thousand-dollar bottle of Scotch you admired in a desk drawer will just to go to waste on your piece-of-shit son as he mopes about losing yet another girl to Ronin f**king Flynn.

I open the bottle and grab both glasses. I pour a little whiskey into each glass, then walk over to the window, open it up, and toss it outside.

I pour again.

Apparently I’m secretly hoping the girl will wander down here and join me. Save me from my wallowing. Or maybe just get drunk with me. I smell the whiskey in my glass, then do the unthinkable with such a fine grade of drink. I guzzle it.

It burns like f**k as it goes down, but after that’s over I’m left with a rather pleasant taste.

I drink the girl’s glass too, and then pour us another.

Those two go down a lot easier and the coldness that has permeated my body all day is gone. In fact, my body is so warm I open the window back up.

Courage, that’s what I’m drinking. It’s not liquid gold, it’s liquid courage.

I reach into my pocket and take out my phone and turn it on. I’m almost afraid to see what’s waiting for me since I turned it on earlier in the day to make calls. It takes its time powering up and then the damage stares me in the face. Seventeen messages in all since last night.

I page to the list of missed calls. Rook, Ronin, Rook, Rook, Rook, Ronin… I study them for a moment, then realize she’s got a pattern. She calls on the hour. Ronin’s calls are random.

Just like him. He has no pattern—he’s random. That’s why luck likes him.

I hate it. I hate it because Rook does have a pattern. She’s symmetrical, she’s even, she’s… perfect. And he’s… not. I check the time real quick—ten minutes to seven—and then press the number for the other missed calls on my screen.

“Ford?” my mother asks as she picks up. She knows it’s me, she’s got caller ID, so asking this as a question is irritating.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Are you… OK?”

“I’m in Vail.”

“Oh.”

“I was driving to LA and I broke down in Vail, so I’m at the house.”

“Oh.”

“I’m fine, I saw that you called, so…”

“Ronin has been calling. He says you left the party unexpectedly last night.”

“I was only there for the exit interviews.”

“Your assistant in LA called, she said you missed your flight.”

“I said I’m driving. It’s no big deal. I’m just letting you know, since…”