Chapter 7

I ’m a smart guy, I really am. I might have the manners of someone raised by wolves (and I kind of was), but I’m plenty smart. But sometimes I’m slow on the uptake.

Alex and I headed up Rabbit Ears Pass on roads that had been scraped right down to the pavement, and salt and grit spread all around, ruining everyone’s paint jobs. But at least all the ice was gone, and within an hour, we entered the ski town of Steamboat Springs.

The hustle and bustle was going on with lots of traffic, and people in parkas and sturdy boots waiting at every single traffic light. All I wanted to do was get to The Anchorage and plop my ass on a bed. But I had to drop Alex off first, and then join the Westmores for Christmas dinner.

“Which way to your hotel?” I asked.

He gave me the address, and I blinked at him.

“That’s The Anchorage,” I said. The pictures had shown it to be a pretty fancy place, halfway up the hill overlooking the pretty little downtown. There was even a way to pretty much ski from the entrance to the hotel, though I wasn’t into that.

“Yes, it’s The Anchorage,” he said, doing his best to charm me with his smile and his beautiful blue eyes. It was working, but I was still confused.

“Why didn’t you tell me where you were staying when I told you where I was staying?”

He just shrugged.

I guided the Volvo up the hill to where The Anchorage sat, a multi story lodge-looking place. And yeah, I used valet parking because why not?

I tossed the key fob to the valet and dragged out my duffle while Alex grabbed his two leather suitcases. Alex tipped the guy with a ten-dollar bill, making me blink again. He was loaded, sure, but the valet parking was mine to take care of.

With a shrug, I followed him into the main lobby while the valet drove off. There were some people waiting in front of me in line to check in, and then Alex tugged on my arm.

“I got to go buy a phone and call Tokyo,” he said. “Meet us at six-ish at the Antlers. Tell the host you’re dining with the Westmores, okay?”

“Sure,” I said, and watched him dash off.

I’m pretty sure his mother would want to know he’d arrived before any business call took place, but he was the CEO of something-or-other, so mom would have to wait because obviously Tokyo came first. Meanwhile, I stood in line and was soon at the front, my grubby duffle slung over my shoulder, my sticky bun-speckled blue fleece jacket on full display.

“Malachi Beckett,” I said when I got to the fancy-looking reception desk, smiling without any apology for the fact that I did not fit in with the finely dressed rich folk who were standing in line behind me. “I’m here to check in.”

“Welcome, Mr. Beckett,” said the guy. Steve, his nameplate said.

“Call me Beck,” I said.

“Certainly Beck,” he said. Then he consulted with his computer system and handed me two plastic keys in a little cardboard sleeve. I thought that would be it, but he gestured to someone behind me.

“Ralph will take you to your room,” he told me.

“I can find it,” I said, not hiding my indignation. When I was a kid, I used to wander around the downtown hotels, scouring the long corridors, taking anything that wasn’t nailed down. I knew how to find my own way around, you betcha.

“Ralph will take you,” said Steve, all smooth and suave. “Just follow him.”

Usually clerks in hotels give you a paper map that they quickly draw all over in yellow highlighter, like they couldn’t wait to get rid of you. But this hotel, I noticed, had placards all over the place with the layout of the hotel on them. Which was how I knew Ralph was leading me to the elevator that led to the penthouse suites.

“Hey, Ralph,” I said as he stepped into the elevator and pressed a button to hold the doors open. “I got a double queen with a balcony.”

“You have a penthouse suite, sir,” he said, ever polite. “Mr. and Mrs. Westmore insisted that your reservation be changed.”

The Westmores must have some clout to make such a change happen on Christmas Eve, sure. But the reason I stepped into that elevator without any more protest was because I knew Mrs. Jasmine I-Am-Rich Westmore would give me hell for saying no. They sure were getting their way with me.

Part of me wanted to resent it. The other part of me was damn curious to see the room as the nearly silent elevator shot up a bunch of flights before stopping.

When the doors opened, I could see right away that it was posh. It was as quiet as if the fancy carpet was absorbing all the sound. At one end of the corridor, I could see the hotel bent at an angle.

At the other end of the corridor was a huge window with a balcony that overlooked a hillside of snow with giant green pine trees, creating a boundary of sorts. Could I see people skiing on that hillside, or was that my imagination?

“This way, sir,” said Ralph. He looked like he wanted to carry my duffle, but I wouldn’t give it to him. Instead, it hung by my fingers over my shoulder and I marched solemnly behind Ralph to where they were putting me.

My original room had been two queens, with a balcony that overlooked the parking lot. However—yeah, the Westmores had gone all out.

Ralph opened the door with his master key and ushered me into the nicest place I had ever stayed. There was a balcony at the far end, and it not only looked enormous, it overlooked the hillside I’d seen earlier. There was nice furniture, including a dining room table, and a gas fireplace that was already lit. Sunlight poured into the place, splashing gold and blue and sparkles everywhere.

The penthouse suite was huge and elegant, and way out of my league. But what the hell.

“Where’s the bedroom?” I asked before Ralph could give me the grand tour. I just wanted to put my feet up and maybe shower before I had to face the Westmores.

“In here, sir,” said Ralph in an utterly calm voice, as if he escorted bad boys into a penthouse suite every day.

I found the bedroom, flung my grubby duffle bag on the bed that looked soft and heavenly, and then went out to the main area where Ralph was still waiting. He was holding out his hand, but as I reached for my wallet, I realized he was holding out a little card of expensive paper.

“Just call this number at any time, and you’ll be able to schedule your hot tub session whenever you like.”

“Thank you,” I said because new me had manners and shit. I pulled out a tenner and handed it to him, and he was utterly unfazed by the amount, as if he received ten dollar tips every day.

“Just call the front desk if you need anything, sir,” he said. “And Mrs. Westmore said to remind you that dinner is at six in The Antlers, which you’ll find on the first floor.”

“Thanks,” I said, remembering my manners. There was no way I was going to admit to anyone that I was overwhelmed, but I was. The room was too elegant, and I stood in the middle of the main area like a lonely, badly dressed waif who had taken a wrong turn.

But that only lasted a minute because I was Bad Boy Beck, and nothing phased me, not even classy opulence. I tore off my clothes and hopped into the biggest rain shower ever, turned the water on hot, and scrubbed myself all over with fancy, silky feeling soap from the dispenser on the tiled wall.

You could have fit a football team in that shower, and while that would have been a lot of fun, it would have been even nicer to share it with Alex. He, however, was off somewhere, and the Westmores awaited me.

I showed, and even put on deodorant, which made me smell even more shower fresh than I already did. Then I shaved, brushed my teeth, and put on the cleanest black clothes I could find. I even ran a washcloth over my Doc Martens to get the last of the snow crud off.

The washcloth was a goner, so I threw it away, right before I saw there was a wicker basket with black micro cloths for freaking shoes and boots. Oh well. I knew they’d make more.

With my trusty keycard in hand, I headed down the penthouse elevator to the first floor, and fumbled my way to The Antlers, there to announce my presence.

The place was packed. It was decorated for Christmas, of course, with tinsel hanging from the ceiling, and a Christmas tree (fully decorated) in each corner. Everyone was dressed in their best, and the wine was flowing freely, laughter and jocularity rising to the rafters. The room smelled like pine trees and happiness.

“Uh,” I said. “I’m with the Westmores?”

No, my voice did not rise because I was anxious or overwhelmed. I just wanted to make sure the haughty-looking host could hear me over the fun everybody was having.

“Are you sure, sir?” he asked. His nameplate said Albert.

He was about to ask again when someone (maybe a waitress?) came up behind him and whispered in his ear. Albert looked at me as though I was a forgotten survivor from the Titanic, his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said now, his tone much more friendly. “Would you follow me?”

I followed him. We went around the edge of the room, to the far end, where he opened a wooden door, and stood to one side.

Before I could take in the elegant little room with its wood-paneled walls and the huge glass-backed shelves of wine and high-end alcohol, I got rushed. And by that I mean, people came up to me and hugged me and shouted my name and said thank you for saving Alex, dear Alex. No lie.

Back home, I would have balled my fists and fought my way out of such a crowd. But I saw Alex standing back with a smile and realized who they were. Mom, Dad, and Sis and, of course, little Baby Ginny, held in Sis’s arms. And another guy. I don’t know who he was, but he was standing at Sis’s side like he belonged there.

“Pete, can you take the baby,” said the young woman who was Sis.

Pete took the baby, cuddling her close. I realized that he kind of looked like the baby. Or the baby looked like him. I never did pay attention in biology, but I guessed he was Baby Ginny’s dad.

Then Sis hugged me so hard, all the breath left my body. Then she kissed me on the cheek. Then the Mom did, too. Jasmine. Her name was Jasmine, and she looked like a runway model with her hair in a glossy dark bun. Fierce. Smart. Sharp.

“You did good,” said Dad. He had a little round belly and a genial smile. “I’m Nathanial. Call me Nate.”

“Call me Beck,” I said, faint, feeling out of sorts, like I was up against the hardest gang on the meanest street in Denver. (No, not Colfax.)

“I’m Lottie,” said the beautiful young woman who’d handed the baby over.

Then a young man came in. Maybe he was nineteen, the spitting image of Alex, only more slender. He was dressed like he’d just stepped out of a Yale portrait, pressed slacks, a sweater vest. His name was Timothy-Call-Me-Tim. Everybody, it seemed, had a shortened version of their name, except for Jasmine.

Finally, finally , Alex came over and slapped me on the back, but gently, his smile warm and familiar. Receiving it made me wish we were alone together in that old cabin on a mountain hillside, unable to go anywhere because we were knee deep in snow with nothing to do but make love on that fabulous bed all the live long day.

“Let’s sit down, everybody,” said Nate. “We don’t want to keep the staff waiting.”

Staff meant a bunch of waitresses, a wine sommelier, someone to carve the roast beast, and other staff to clear away after each course. I counted five, and each one was huge, everything fancy, not much I recognized.

All during this meal, the chatter was friendly and light. Nobody got drunk and tried to punch anyone. When someone said pass the mashed potatoes, they of course said please, and nobody, but nobody, threw any food. All of this was followed up by the most amazing slice of apple pie (with cheddar cheese on top of each slice, of all things), and then sweet wine and cheese.

I was shocked by several things.

One, that everybody was nice to me, and nobody laughed when I got gravy on my chin. The waitress replaced my napkin at least two times, and still nobody made any mean remarks. I might have been raised by wolves (which I was, really), but I got treated like a little prince, which was quite a nice feeling. Weird, but nice.

Second, was that when I told them about what I did, which was work on cars for a rich guy on a ranch, they acted all interested, rather than bored.

Third, was that I learned what they did for a living.

It went a little like this:

“Hey, Alex, did you get the contracts signed in Tokyo?” asked Nate.

“Dear, I thought we agreed not to talk about business,” said Jasmine with a disapproving frown.

“Yes, dear,” said Nate as he chewed politely on his mouthful of food. “I just need to know, so I am ready for the board meeting in a few days.”

“He can give you the write up about it later ,” said Jasmine.

“Sure did, Dad,” said Alex. “The sign on the hotel will say what they all do, but they want the web brochure and any marketing materials to also say it in Japanese.”

“How doe that go?” asked Tim.

“It sounds like Za ankarejji, ” said Alex. “Looks like I’m going to have to learn Japanese.” But he smiled as he said this, like it wasn’t a hardship and actually was something he looked forward to doing.

“What does it stand for?” I asked. When I was in school, I could have cared less. (Or I couldn’t have cared less, I can never be sure.) But after having known Royce, who might or might not have been a good influence on me, I had started to become more curious.

“It stands for The Anchorage,” said Nate. He waved his fork in a general way. “It’s the name of our hotel. All over the world, our hotels are called The Anchorage, but the Japanese are very culturally minded and want to share their beautiful language.”

“So that’s okay, then,” said Alex.

“I know you already told them yes,” said Nate, but he was smiling, so again, there would be no argument about anything.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not sorry to be breaking into this weird exchange that was making my head spin. “Are you saying you own this hotel?” That would certainly explain the sudden move to the penthouse suite and schedule my whenver-the-fuck-you-want hot tub reservation.

“And more than a dozen like it,” said Jasmine, gesturing to the wine sommelier for another pour into her glass.

“All over the world,” said Tim. His beaming smile showed perfect teeth, and an energy that told me straight off that he was going into the family business and that he was happy about it.

“Do you want more apple pie, Beck?” asked Lottie. She was rocking Baby Ginny in her arms, her chair pushed back a litte way from the table. She literally had her hands full, and yet she was making sure I’d had enough pie.

“Maybe you’d like some coffee instead of that wine,” said Jasmine.

Her sharp eyes had not missed that I’d barely drunk any wine. I prefer a nice beer, a whisky, and of course a G&T. But she was already gesturing to the nearest hovering waiter, with a little scowl as if my having to do without a preferred beverage—even for a single second—was going to get the poor guy fired.

“Coffee’d be great,” I said, grateful that her sharp eyes shifted away from me. I had a feeling that she’d be a hoot if she ever got drunk, and would have great stories to tell. Sober, she scared the shit out of me.

I was halfway through my coffee and pie, and did my best to keep from looking at Alex, who was on the other side of the table and felt miles away. Soon this little dinner would be over, and the Westmore’s obligation to me would be a thing of the past.

That was how things went for me. Flashes of cool shit followed by the equivalent of grubby back alley blow jobs and the like. The one thing I could take pleasure in was the fact that Alex looked happy.

He was alive because I had saved him from a frozen death. I guess I was smiling (I’m a scowly kind of guy), because Alex caught my eye, smiling in return, and for a second everyone was looking at me.

So many smiles. So much love. They all looked like they were going to say something nice in unison like God bless us, everyone or Merry Christmas, I love you , and all at once it got overwhelming.

Baby Ginny saved me by becoming restless, making petulant noises in her mother’s arms.

“I’ll take her,” said Pete, standing up, reaching out for the baby.

“You look done in, dear,” said Jasmine.

“That’s me, too,” said Tim. “I have to go wrap the last of my presents to everyone.”

“You’ll be here for Christmas breakfast, won’t you, Beck?” asked Jasmine. “That’s when we open gifts.”

I grew very still, like a teeny tiny little bunny that a wolf has just found.

“Um.”

“It’s a madhouse,” said Nate. “We always try to keep a limit to the presents—” He paused to scowl at everyone, but they just smiled and laughed as if you say, You have no power over us . “But the food is very good.”

“Yes, the food was good,” I said, my mind racing. I couldn’t come to a breakfast such as that. I didn’t have any presents to give and surely they’d want to be alone as a family on Christmas morning.

“We eat breakfast at eight, Beck,” said Jasmine, and as she stood up, I realized that was the signal that the official Christmas Eve dinner was over. “Here in this room.”

Everybody stood up, and the waitstaff was on hand to clear everything away without any of the Westmores lifting a finger. Of course, rich people. They were born with money and never had to work very hard.

In the back of my mind I guess I was trying to sever the connection to these people because it would hurt less that way. They were nice, awful nice, but they were rich, which surely meant they were horrible and selfish and very self-absorbed.

Then I saw that before Nate and Jasmine walked out, she spoke to the sommelier. She was whispering, but I was close enough to hear her say, “Make sure. It’s twenty-five percent for each of them on top of the overtime. I don’t care if all they did was deliver the pats of butter. Understand?”

The sommelier just about bowed as he said, “Yes, ma’am.” No, he actually did bow.

Overtime and twenty-five percent? Holy fuck. Made me wish I worked for them. Except I didn’t have any skills they needed. Or the references. Or anything.

“I have to take this call,” said Alex’s voice from behind me.

“On Christmas Eve?” everybody asked in unison.

“It’s the last one. The last call,” said Alex.

I turned to look at him. He was already on his phone, hurrying out of the room, totally focused on business.

Not my circus, not my monkeys. In the general hubbub, I slipped out of the room and hurried out of the restaurant and across the lobby to the elevator to the penthouse.

It was only when the doors closed I could see nobody was following me. Good. Fine. It was better this way. I’d spend Christmas Eve with my lonely self, skulk about the hotel for a few days, and then drive home.

And that would be that. Christmas for Bad Boy Beck was already miserable, so why should this one be any different?