The Yoga Club Page 16

  “Thank you, but I think it’s up to the lawyers now. The only odd thing is that we had settled this particular issue years ago, so I have no idea where these documents could have come from. They say she’s the beneficiary of my father’s will, but he never, ever would have made her that. None of this makes any sense.”

  “Are they real documents, or have they been doctored?” Rob asked, suddenly interested in the actual contents of the envelope.

  “I don’t know. They must be doctored, but they look legitimate. Enough that they’re going to cause me a lot of trouble,” she said.

  “Do you mind if I take the documents to the lab and look at them?”

  Olivia had thought that was what he was going to do anyway. “I’m confused. Aren’t you closing this case?” she asked.

  “Well, I’m closing the alleged murder investigation, yes, and Bailey’s case, but if you want me to look into the validity of these documents for you, I can do that. If these are forged documents, then this is a case in itself,” he said. As he reached across the table, he touched her hand.

  Olivia briefly lost her composure and fell back in her chair like a rag doll, though not losing eye contact with Rob for even a second. She felt herself flush again but kept repeating in her head, Be cool like Joan, cool like Joan. You’re in charge.

  “Okay, I’d like that. Thank you.” Her words hung there as they looked into each other’s eyes so long it started to feel corny and weird. But the moment was to be short-lived.

  Out of nowhere the surly fuchsia barista yelled “Latte.” But she rolled her tongue as she said it so it sounded more like “Lrrratte,” and the stress of the moment—of being with Rob and trying to control her emotions—overtook Olivia like a mule’s kick. She couldn’t suppress her echolalia. Out ripped “Lrratte!”

  “Whoa, what was that? Ha, ha, ha!” Rob laughed somewhat uneasily.

  Olivia’s supercool Joan Harris was long gone.

  “Shit” was all she could say, but then she felt it again. Out it came: “Lrratte! Shit!” And once more, “Lrratte!”

  Olivia was completely humiliated. She’d blown it, and right when everything seemed to be going so perfectly. The gorgeous hunk of man in front of her was staring, astonished, and Pinkie looked pissed, undoubtedly feeling like she was being mocked. Panicked and with her eyes stinging, Olivia didn’t know what to do, so she grabbed her bag and ran out the door, all the way repeating, as if she had the hiccups, “Shit! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Shit.”

  The timing of CJ’s visit to Malcolm was decidedly calculated. He had read that the mayor was out of town for the day, so there’d be no chance of bumping into him and possibly being recognized. Not that the mayor would necessarily know what he looked like without his Sarah Palin costume on, but he just didn’t want to take that chance.

  “Hi, handsome,” CJ said, popping his head into Malcolm’s office.

  Malcolm looked jolted. “Oh, my god, what are you doing here!”

  Uh-oh, maybe the drop-by wasn’t the best idea.

  “We’re dark this week at Rachael Ray, so I thought I would stop by and say hello.” CJ tried a big, sweet smile.

  “My assistant didn’t ring me. How did you get past her?” Malcolm said nervously as he looked both ways in the hall before closing the door.

  “Bribery. I brought fresh-baked cookies,” CJ said as he held up the box. “Want some?”

  CJ moved closer. “They’re from Good Boy, but don’t let that stop you,” he said jokingly.

  Malcolm seemed to deliberately avoid kissing CJ hello or showing any sort of affection. CJ didn’t know what to make of the sudden coldness.

  “Thank you, but I’m swamped today,” Malcolm said as he motioned toward stacks and stacks of papers, magazines, and books on his desk.

  “Whatcha working on?” CJ asked.

  “The mayor has been under some pressure from environmental groups to form an initiative that would reduce carbon emissions and all of that saving-the-planet stuff, so he appointed me his ‘climate control czar.’ It’s an ambitious sounding title, but I have to come up with a description of what that job actually entails. I’m going through stacks of research right now. Maybe I could use a cookie after all.”

  Malcolm was clearly in work mode—or, more accurately, asshole mode.

  “Yes, cookies always help.” CJ laughed uncomfortably. This wasn’t smooth, vulnerable Malcolm, this was tense Malcolm; and CJ didn’t know him well enough yet to figure out how to soften him up. One thing CJ did know was that there was no way he was going to get any information out of him right now.

  “So, uh, why’d you close the door so quickly? Are you not out to everyone here?” CJ asked teasingly. He might not have been getting any information out of Malcolm today, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to have some fun. He loved poking the bear in more ways than one.

  “Uh, no. No, I’m not. It’s Greenwich, it’s politics. Of course I’m not out.” Malcolm sneered. “As a matter of fact, I’m trying to think of what to tell my secretary. Maybe I’ll tell her you’re my cousin.” Malcolm was hot and hostile. He clearly didn’t like being put in an awkward position. Not here, anyhow.

  “So you’re mad I stopped by?” CJ asked.

  “Well, since you are asking, yes, a little bit. I don’t expect you to understand since you’re in the entertainment industry, where everyone’s gay and okay with it, but politics is a totally different beast. Haven’t you seen all of the scandals with politicians who get outed? I mean, didn’t it occur to you that you showing up here could ruin my career? Fuck.”

  Crap. Malcolm was really pissed, and scared. CJ wasn’t very happy either, at this point.

  “Okay, fine, I’ll go. Tell your secretary whatever the fuck you want. But two things before I leave: keep in mind there are many gay politicians who are respected for who they are—the mayor of Houston is gay, for chrissakes, and hel-lo? Ever hear of Barney Frank? How ’bout Harvey Fucking Milk? And, second, you know nothing about me or my background, so don’t presume you do. Trust me, I know all about politics. Makes this crap look like student government.”

  CJ stopped himself at this point. If he revealed who his father was, the jig was up.

  “Just go,” Malcolm hissed.

  “Bitch.” CJ stood to leave.

  Malcolm heard but made no response and started staring out the window. CJ wondered if it were a reflection or if Malcolm’s eyes were actually watering up.

  “Keep the cookies. You’re welcome, faggot,” CJ said snidely as he abruptly set them atop a stack of papers that were laid more precariously than they looked. The entire stack came tumbling down.

  “Shit!” Malcolm yelled as he jumped toward the stack, trying to stop the avalanche. But it was too late, papers went everywhere.

  CJ dropped to his knees to grab what he could. He started to help pick up the mess as he apologized profusely over and over.

  “No, it’s fine. Just go,” Malcolm said angrily.

  CJ rose to leave, looking back at the mess he had created and poor little, angry Malcolm, gathering papers on the floor. And as he was looking down, CJ noticed something with his proper name on it—Charlton Jeffre Skoda, right there in blue ink on a manila folder. In a flash he slid it into his bag and walked out the door.

  Eleven

  The Hubris of Power

  Coco was on the train to Philly texting wildly with CJ for most of the trip.

  • OMG, drop-by bad idea!

  • Oh no! What?

  • Closet case. 2 embarrassed to see me.

  • Crp. Cookies didn’t work?

  • Sorta. He was bitchy, mad, tho. But, big score!

  • What?!

  • “Borrowed” a file.;) We’ve got info!

  CJ seemed upset, though he kept denying his feelings for the angry little man from the mayor’s office. Just as Coco was about to make a brilliant and astute point about the state of relationships today, a call buzzed in. She saw that it was Sam and deba
ted picking it up. She knew they would argue, and she didn’t think it was smart to have it out on the train in front of Rory, who was bundled up in a big seafoam green scarf. He probably wouldn’t have heard a thing since he was wearing noise-canceling headphones and was thoroughly engrossed in The Wall Street Journal, but still, there are some things you don’t do around the person who holds your purse strings.

  Their main issue of late was this: Sam had decided he wanted to get married. It was as simple as that. He didn’t want any kind of special ceremony or party, he just wanted the paper. It all tied in to his five-year Plan. And the fear and anxiety created by the arrival of the papers in the mail had brought him back to it.

  “Why don’t we just go down to City Hall and get it done?” he’d almost pleaded. “It’ll just make me feel grounded and whole.”

  Coco simply didn’t see any reason to. She didn’t want children and they had a domestic partnership, so all of their legal and financial concerns were taken care of. Coco was a hey-if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it kind of gal, but Sam was wearing her down. She cared deeply for him, but this issue felt petty, and she didn’t want to concede. It simply wasn’t her style.

  Coco knew if she answered the phone this was where the conversation would end up. She screened Sam’s call and went on texting with CJ, who couldn’t seem to stop talking about Malcolm. Strange, considering how disparaging he was about him.

  About a half hour later the train pulled into the other Penn Station, the one in Philadelphia, which actually had the right to the name. A limo was waiting to take Coco and Rory to the Pennsylvania Convention Center for the trade show, but as they got off the train Rory walked away from Coco, making a beeline for what she assumed was the men’s room; instead, it turned out he was headed right to a particular man, an incredibly handsome man. Rory turned back to Coco, waving furiously. She could see his mouth moving but was too far away to make out his words. She shrugged.

  “Coco, this is Jordan Ainsworth. Remember, I told you about him,” Rory said enthusiastically when she finally joined them.

  Rory had told her about him, but she’d tuned out the conversation. Jordan Ainsworth was Rory’s new protégé, and, frankly, Coco wasn’t crazy about the idea of sharing Rory’s attentions. She liked having him all to herself. But had he told her how attractive Jordan Ainsworth was, she might have been okay with it much sooner.

  What’s more, it turned out Jordan was pretty smart, and he had a rather amazing invention, one so good that Coco wished it had been her idea. He’d invented hair dye that thickened the strands as it dyed them. You could cover your grays and end up with a thicker head of hair at the same time. He was going to sell millions of his product, no question, but he was also about to make enemies. In the way that her Butt-B-Gone had made personal trainers angry, Coco knew the backlash Jordan Ainsworth would endure from the sham baldness “cure” people. Even though Jordan was handsome, Coco took some solace in the fact that he was about to receive a beating he never could have expected.

  “Hi, nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you,” she lied.

  Jordan’s eyes suggested a hint of innocence, but he was far from a neophyte. He looked at her directly in a way that said he wasn’t buying her bullshit.

  “Really? What have you heard?” he asked. His sandy brown hair moved as he spoke, like he had a wind machine always blowing on him. And why was this guy tan? It was November, for chrissakes. Coco was beginning to get annoyed, and in an instant she changed her opinion about him. He was so perfect to look at, he was untouchable; and beneath his model good looks, she suspected he was kind of a shyster.

  “That charm will serve you well in this business. It’s ninety percent personality. Your product has to be good, of course, but what separates you from the other nincompoops is your savoir faire. And you appear to have it in spades, my friend,” she said with the authority of an old pro.

  “Well, thank you. That means a lot coming from you,” Jordan said.

  Coco couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not, so she just glanced at him sideways.

  “Rory, we have to get going. Nice meeting you, Julius,” she said. She always liked to pretend she didn’t remember someone’s name correctly when they were rude to her. Just to let them know how uninspiring and unimportant they were.

  “Jordan,” Rory said quickly.

  Damn. Why did Rory have to be the one to correct her? Now it felt like he was taking Jordan’s side and thus taking away some of her power.

  “Yes, of course,” she said as dismissively as possible. “Anyway, Rory, we should go.”

  “Yeah, we’re gonna be late. Jordan, were you taking a cab to your hotel? Can I catch up with you later?” Rory said.

  “Actually, I was going to head over to the convention center early,” Jordan replied. “So I guess I’ll just see you there. Unless you want to share a cab with me?”

  Yep. Total shyster.

  “No, no, we have a limo. Why don’t you ride with us?” Rory insisted.

  The hair on the back of Coco’s neck stood straight up. “Well now, Rory, wait a second. I had some things I needed to discuss with you before we got to the booth. I’m sure Jayden would be bored with our business talk,” she insisted.

  “Nonsense. We can talk later. Jordan, you ride over with us,” Rory said as he pinched Coco’s arm.

  “Ouch!” she said under her breath.

  “Great, let me grab my bags,” Jordan said as he pranced off to where he’d left his things.

  Rory turned to Coco, put his hands on her shoulders, and said mockingly, “Now, sweetie, you are my first and my favorite business partner, and I am sorry your mother and I didn’t tell you that you would be getting a new baby brother, but you two need to play nice.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” Coco snarled.

  The ride to the convention center was reasonably silent. Coco texted anybody who would text her back, all the while donning facial expressions to indicate she was very, very busy with work-related things. Every once in a while she threw in a deep sigh for good measure, as if some assistant somewhere just wasn’t doing their job right and now she had to do it for them; but, in actuality, she was only texting Olivia, CJ, and a few old friends from high school. She even texted her mom, throwing in a well-placed “tsk” now and again. Rory went through his paperwork while Jordan answered a few e-mails. No one looked as busy as Coco, so she decided she’d won that round.

  Entering the convention center, Coco kept a peripheral eye out for her nemesis, Billy Blanks, hoping that their booths were not going to be right next to each other again. She walked in and immediately began to sweat, not at all up for yet another confrontation with Blanks.

  As Coco’s Butt-B-Gone had grown more successful, Blanks’s Tae Bo began to take a hit. After all, why work out hard when all you had to do was rub a cream on your big fat rear to make the cellulite go away? Coco’s success was immediate because her product gave results and required no work. For years companies had claimed to have creams that eliminated cellulite, but their studies were completely fabricated. When Coco and her team came across a compound that actually worked, they knew success was imminent. They just didn’t consider the haters. It was at one of her first trade shows that Blanks let it be known how he felt about Coco and her “ephemeral shortcut,” as he disparagingly referred to it. Later, he expressed himself more plainly to her: “That shit ain’t gonna work.”

  There she was, a complete neophyte, excited to be at the coming out party for her new product, her partnership with Rory just starting, and all was right with the world. Then, even better, fate stepped in. When you are an exhibitor at a trade show, the location of your booth is rarely up to you; so, naturally, she was set up right next to Billy Blanks’s Tae Bo team. At one point during the day, she decided to go check out the competition.

  Billy was in the midst of his pitch and had grabbed a woman from the crowd, intending to excite and inspire her. There he was, working her out and, of course, showi
ng off his amazing pitch skills to the onlookers, including reps from both Kmart and Home Shopping Network. Billy went right into his shtick:

  “You need to get offa your ass, you need to change your lifestyle. Let me ask you: are you ready to work? Okay, bring your arms up, engage those abs, lean over to the right, give me a roundhouse kick! Yes! Where’s your weight? Where’s your weight? That’s it, work it out! Technique! Where’s your focus?”

  Coco could see that the woman was embarrassed to be singled out in front of the waiting crowd. She was so not in shape, practically panting just standing there watching his demo. Coco waited until Billy was done and receiving applause for his pitch; she then quietly pulled the woman over to the side, not realizing that (a) Billy was still within earshot and (b) this woman was the rep for QVC.

  “Listen, I can see that you’re someone like me who doesn’t have time for a big, long workout,” Coco said. “And I don’t know about you, but I don’t care much for exercise. You’re busy, but you want to look your best, right? Well, take this.” Coco handed her a sample-size tub of Butt-B-Gone.

  “It really works—you won’t believe it,” Coco assured her. “I have to show you my before picture.” She dragged the woman to her booth.

  Coco then went into her pitch, and the woman, rapt, called over her associates, saying, “Tell them what you told me.” And Coco did, still not knowing that she was pitching the main decision makers at QVC. Et voilá a career was launched. Rory moved in right away to get QVC signed, sealed, and delivered before walking around, gloating to his cohorts.

  Coco had gone back to her booth to talk to some buyers who had just stopped by for a demonstration when Billy Blanks came marching over. “Hey, newbie, come over here,” he said as he beckoned Coco with a finger.

  “You don’t poach, that’s all there is to it,” he said. “You get your gigs and I get mine. We’re selling two different products. Mine is a lifestyle that will keep you healthy and in shape your entire life; yours is some worthless snake oil. It’s cheating. Stay away from my buyers with your bullshit.” And as quickly as he’d marched over, he stormed away.