Zenith Fulfilled (2 page)

Rob was glad to give Erica that song. He liked being part of their happiness. And seeing his once lost and depressed best friend, now with a beautiful wife and a chance for true success. He was even glad his ex-wife seemed happy with her new life, the one she’d left him to pursue. He was glad he hadn’t destroyed her, as he once thought he did.

But nothing could ease the sudden, stark, nearly agonizing punch of loneliness that overcame him then. He realized they were all gone, moving on, and living their own lives. And he was alone. Singing was no longer a calling, or a passion. It had become a sad, aching reminder of every mistake he ever made. Every opportunity he squandered. Everything he would never be, or have the chance to strive for again.

Rob felt the ache and sting of who he’d become, in his throat. He turned and left the beautiful ballroom, the dense crowd of beautiful people and walked out the double-
doored entryway. He walked down the fifteen-foot-wide hallway, to where the valets stood, waiting to retrieve cars. The thick red carpet, under the covered overhang, squished under his black dress shoes. Turning left, he walked on the sidewalk, around the building, where he found a picnic table sitting in the grass. It looked out over the water. The building behind him was lit with a golden glow, and the music was muted, but hung in the air around him. The sun was fast descending into the water. Twilight painted the earth with purple and pink in rippled, lengthening shadows. A flock of birds flew overhead.

Rob took out a pack of cigarettes from his suit pocket. He tapped one and grabbed his lighter and lit the cigarette that his throat was craving, as he once craved his first drink of liquor. Breathing the smoke in deeply, he nearly sighed in bliss as he exhaled. He sat there for a long time, just being quiet. He was looking out, and trying to forget. He didn’t want to think about or feel the loneliness that lodged in his throat and made it ache. He ached for the taste of the alcohol being served in copious amounts in the banquet room behind him. He could easily have had some. To alleviate the ache and loneliness now plaguing him. It would be so easy to go out, get drunk, find friends again, and be the life of the party. Be someone. When he was drunk, whether people liked him or hated him, Rob became someone. He was loud, and fun, and exciting and outrageous.

He also became someone who could hurt others and not care.

For that reason, Rob stayed right where he was, sitting on the picnic table, and watching the night settling over Puget Sound, and the treetops surrounding the hillside he overlooked. Rob stayed there: alone, quiet, sober. Nothing new to look forward to, and no one to go home to. Few friends were left to care about him, now that he was sober.

“Excuse me, Mr. Williams?”

Rob turned his head over his shoulder, towards the voice behind him that interrupted his brooding, pity party. It was a woman’s voice: soft, tentative and unsure. Most people were like that until they got to know him. But who the hell ever called him Mr. Williams? Nobody. Ever.

A woman was standing behind him with her shoulders back and her arms at her sides as if willing herself not to fidget. She was small in stature, passably pretty, with red hair in twisting, corkscrew curls around her head. She wore a knee-length, yellow-and-red patterned dress with a matching sweater. A pair of low heels completed her outfit. She must have been a wedding guest, but who? He had no clue.

She stepped closer now that she had his attention. He sat on top of the picnic table, and was nearly eye level with her. She suddenly stretched her arm out. Startled, he realized she wanted to introduce herself, very properly, and professionally. She intended to shake his hand. Huh.

“My name is Rebecca. Rebecca Randall.”

Rob automatically took her small, white hand and shook it loosely. When he released her, she quickly stepped back and chewed on her lower lip. Her eyes seemed to focus on something above him as she twisted her fingers together. 

He exhaled a stream of smoke and nodded towards her. “Okay, Rebecca Randall, why do you look as if I should know you? Or that I’m not going to like that I do?”

“I’m... I’m one of Nick’s sisters. Rebecca Randall.”

Rob’s cigarette burned too low and he tossed it down. He slowly brought out another one, which he lit and inhaled, all the while moving his eyes from her prim, little pumps to her cork-screw, Raggedy Ann hair. He looked at her now with the disdain she was probably prepared for. “Nick’s sister, as in Nick Lassiter?”

“Yes.”

Rob blew the smoke out.
Great
. What the hell would one of the great Nick Lassiter’s four sisters want with him?

“Which one?”

“Pardon me?”

“Which sister are you? Are you the little bitchy one who was so mean to Joelle?”

Rebecca shook her head and dug a hand into the folds of her skirt. “No. No. That was Trina. She’s the youngest. I’m the next older one from her.”

“So you know your little sister is a bitch?”

She pressed her lips together and he could see how uneasy she was with him. She had no idea how to respond to his abrasiveness. He flicked an ash off his cigarette and leaned back. He was suddenly enjoying the nervous, little housewife and felt glad she found him. Why she did, however, he couldn’t begin to comprehend.

“Yes, I know she can be. Especially to Joelle, which bothers you?”

Rob narrowed his eyes at Nick’s sister. She was braver than her little, freckled face said she could be. “I know your brother tries to forget it happened, but I was once married to Joelle for five years. I don’t want anyone to be mean to her. And I sure as shit wouldn’t let my own sister be such a bitch to my wife! But then, me and Nick aren’t the same kind of men, are we?”

The youngest sister, who Rob was pretty sure was named Trina, used to be Joelle’s best friend in high school. Trina was the reason Joelle even spoke to Nick Lassiter. A few years earlier, Nick recognized Joelle from the days when she was friends with his little sister. Little sister, Trina, however, didn’t like it when Nick hooked up with, and eventually married, her former best friend. She seemed to hate it almost as much as Rob did. Still, he didn’t get mean to Joelle over it.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his drawn-up knees and pointed his cigarette at her. “What exactly you doin’ by talkin’ to me, sweetheart? Big brother’s not gonna like that. Or is that the point? You mad at him? Or Joelle? Think I’ll help you with that?”

Rebecca flushed. She was a natural redhead with ultra-white skin and a face spattered with freckles. The blush started from below the neckline of her modest dress and traveled from there to her cheeks and right up into her hair. To Rob, it was like watching water being absorbed  on a dry paper towel .

“No, of course not. I hoped I could just talk to you for a moment. I saw you heading out here so I followed you.”

“You followed me?” he asked, staring at her. “Okay, sweetheart, you met me, and you have my attention; now what do you want?”

“You were wonderful in there singing.”

Rob rolled his eyes. He found more often than not that women got turned on by his singing. It made him go from scary and loser-like to red hot, intriguing, and fascinating. Even to pretty, little homemakers. He hated women who came on to him solely because of his singing. He turned down more anonymous sex with groupies during his years with
Zenith
, than any one man had the right to.

He raised an eyebrow at Nick’s little sister. She was very neat and cute. Curly strands of hair bobbed around her face as she spoke, and her natural coloring, and blushing cuteness, was refreshing, not sexy and hot groupie. Somehow, he couldn’t picture this woman ever being the groupie kind. So whatever she followed him out there for, must have reverted back to Nick. Rob liked that thought even less than groupie girls wanting to fuck him. “Yeah. I’ve been told that a time or two.”

She nodded. “Right. You don’t sing anymore, do you?”

“No.” He lowered a foot to the grass. “Love being reminded of that too.”

She dropped her gaze onto his foot. Her lower lip was between her white, little teeth again. “No, I’m sure you don’t.”

“Look, Ms. Randall, you need to speed this up. Obviously, you know who I am. You know my history too, apparently. Do you have something to say about Nick? Joelle? Spencer? What?”

She suddenly took such a deep breath, it raised her shoulders. She jerked her head back and looked him in the eye. “No. None of them. Actually, I had something I wanted to ask you.”

He tapped his hand against his cigarette box. “So ask.”

“Well, see, I want to be a writer. No, I mean, I am a writer.”

Rob watched her suddenly shake her head as her blue eyes clouded with confusion. “You don’t seem so sure about the writing part.”

She took a breath. “I meant to say, I am a writer. I just don’t tell anyone about it. Because I’m not published. Yet, that is. So it’s hard for people to take me seriously.”

Rob nodded. “Right. Like I sing, but still, no record label. Makes you not want to tell people. Makes your talent seem less legitimate.”

Rebecca’s gaze came to his and she smiled. “Yes. That’s exactly it! I don’t think anyone’s ever understood that.”

Okay, great; they can bond over being talented nothings. What the hell did she want? “Sweetheart, what the hell does any of this have to do with me?”

“I want to write about you.”

His arm paused in mid-air as he lifted his cigarette to his mouth. He stared at her for a long, silent moment. “You want to write about me? Did I hear you correctly?”

She shook her head. “Yes. No. This isn’t coming out right. I had it all worked out. I wasn’t going to blurt it out. But I did. The thing is, I wrote one book already, and I’d like to do a series. I know I can get published. I just need one more book to really prove I can write, and prove it will sell.”

She was fucking crazy. “What are you talking about?”

“I wrote a book called
Sober Intentions
, and I want to make it a continuing series. I started by doing a true to life book about several people going through rehab and AA. But I found the more people I interviewed, the more interesting they were. And the more I wanted to know their entire stories, not just a bleep for a chapter. And now I want to write about you.”

“You want to write about me as an alcoholic?” he asked, his jaw dropping open. Having the guts to stand there and ask him to reveal his most private thoughts to her,
Nick Lassiter’s
sister
, had him clenching his fists.

“Well, yes, but more. I want to tell about you, and how you made it through getting sober.”

“You want to hear my most private struggles, the essence of my entire life so you can publish it? You think I’d tell you? Nick’s sister? Why in the hell would I ever do that?”

“For the money. I’ll pay you, of course. For your time, your trouble, and your information.”

“You mean by exploiting the mistakes of my life, my screw-ups, and my pain? You want to profit from that? I thought you said you weren’t published.”

“I’m not. But I can pay you.”

He stared at her, blinking in utter disbelief at the nerve, the gall, the balls! this little freckled-faced, redheaded nymph must have.

He sneered in disdain. “I don’t need money so bad that I’d sell what’s left of my soul. Besides, if you already have money, why do you need to get published so badly?”

“I don’t. Have money, that is. And I want a career as a writer, not just a hobby, everyone pats me on the head about.”

His gaze bored into her. “Who is paying?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Who is paying your bills?”

She swallowed and raised a hand to her throat. “Nick is. Okay? My brother is. He read my first book and thought it was good. He thought I was worth investing in. He said if I ever needed money for future research, or whatever, all I had to do was ask.”

Rob shook his head. Nick Lassiter was a billionaire. He ran some kind of computer company, that, from what Rob could tell, specialized in very confidential and elite hacking for the government and private parties, alike. It was all very hush-hush and endlessly profitable.

“Your brother, huh? Does your brother know that the money he gives you will be paid to me?”

Her sausage curls flopped on her head as she shook it vigorously. “No. I don’t have to ask him. This isn’t his project. It’s mine.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Sweetheart, as soon as you tell Nicky you’re planning to spend his money to pay me for my story, which involves his precious, little wife, you’ll see how quickly you’re right back to being a stupid, unknown, hobbyist author that no one believes in.”

She shook her head. “Nick wouldn’t do that to me. He already believes in me.”

“You so sure of that? Or, maybe your rich brother is just trying to encourage you. Applauding any of your writing efforts. What’s a few thousand to a billionaire like him?”

She scowled at Rob. “I understand how I must have taken you by surprise here, with this. And I should have articulated my intentions better. But Nick really has nothing to do with this. I have a project in mind, one that I know I can do. And I know I can write your story.”