Grumpy Boss, Hamel, B. [free novels to read TXT] 📗

fifty messages on Facebook, and more on Twitter and Instagram. Anyone I ever spoke with back in law school wanted to ask about my relationship with Rees, and I couldn’t bring myself to lie to them, not directly at least. Every time I opened social media, I was bombarded with people wanting to know something, wanting a piece of me, worried about my relationship as if they had anything to do with it at all.

And beneath that, I kept wondering when grandmom would find out, and what I’d tell her.

I couldn’t lie. I made a promise to her a long time ago, back when I was an unruly teenager—or at least as unruly as I got, which wasn’t very—that I would never lie to her about the big stuff. Little stuff was fair game, since a person’s got to be able to have some privacy, and bending the truth is a part of life, but the big stuff was all honesty. We lived that policy, even when it wasn’t comfortable, and our relationship was better for it.

This though, this was enormous, and I wasn’t sure I could tell her. Grandmom’s mind hadn’t been good for a while, and I worried that if she knew it was fake, she’d talk to a reporter and let it slip. It wasn’t that she was senile—but more that she was old and forgetful. For the most part it was fine, and she could function, but I still worried about putting her in that position.

It wouldn’t be fair to ask an old woman to deceive reporters for me. And so I avoided my phone, like it might hurt me.

The suburbs opened up into more farm land, and I got an eerie feeling, like we were going to see Byron again. But instead of driving down a bumpy gravel road, we stopped outside a large gated driveway, which buzzed and opened as soon as we stopped and waited. We rolled forward, along a tree-lined path, and pulled up to the most absurdly opulent house I’d ever seen.

“That’s a god damn palace,” I say, gaping. I heard our driver laugh to himself, but I ignored him.

“Modesto Fitzgerald is one of the biggest preachers in Texas,” Rees said, frowning out at the huge white columns and marble arches and the enormous gold cross that sat at the peak of the roof. “He runs a super church that brings in more people than the Houston Texans do.”

“My god,” I said, shaking my head.

“Exactly,” Rees said, and put a hand on my leg. “While we’re here, it’s best behavior. No cursing. No getting overwhelmed by your desire for me and trying to make out. None of that.”

I brushed his hand away. “I can handle myself. I think we should be more worried about you.”

The car pulled up in front of the house and stopped. Rees smirked at me then pushed open the door and stepped out just as a big man wearing sweater and slacks came out from the huge wooden double doors that looked like they were pulled off some ancient European church. The big man spread his hands wide then clapped them once.

“Rees!” he shouted.

“Hello, Modesto,” Rees said, and walked up the steps. The men embraced, which surprised me, since Rees didn’t exactly love intimacy.

Modesto was tan with slicked back hair and light blue eyes. His smile seemed deceiving and simple, and his demeanor made me relax almost right away. I slowly joined them as the driver removed our bags from the trunk.

“This is my assistant,” Rees said, introducing me.

Modesto shook my head. “Good to meet you,” he said, then turned back to Rees. “Come on, you’ve got to see what I did to the back.” He draped an arm around Rees’s shoulder and the pair headed inside.

I wasn’t sure if I should follow or get the bags—so I opted for following.

The house was absurd. The entryway was all white marble with light blue accent colors on the walls. The statues were Greek or Roman, and the paintings were all strictly religious. It was a strange mixing of pagan and Christian, the symbolism all over the place, and the only real unifying principle was sheer, gaudy extravagance.

Modesto took us on a short tour, likely for my benefit: the game room, the library, the kitchen with its long tables and professional appliances (“I don’t ever come in here, it’s all the staff, you know how it goes,” he said, which no, of course I didn’t know how it went at all, since I wasn’t stupidly wealthy, but Rees just nodded along like that was a normal thing to say), and the enormous open living room with its big couch and movie screen sized TV on the wall.

“And this is the crowning glory,” Modesto said, sliding open the back patio as if a one-hundred-inch TV wasn’t crowning enough.

And he was right. We stepped out onto a large back deck overlooking a gorgeous yard—in ground pool, immaculate landscaping, plenty of seating—and leaned against the far railing to look down at a cross at least thirty yards tall and all in gleaming gold.

“Wow,” I said, not sure what else I could say. It was the perfect encapsulation of the house: overtly wealthy, and unabashedly religious.

“That’s one big cross,” Rees said, and I liked to imagine he understood how hilarious that was, although I wouldn’t let myself laugh.

Modesto clearly didn’t see any humor in it. “Yes it is my friend,” he said, staring down at the monstrosity with pure love in his eyes. “That is gold taken from Byzantium, allegedly owned by the first Christian emperor himself, Constantine the Great. Can you imagine, having some of Constantine’s own gold?”

“I really can’t,” Rees said, and glanced at me with this wry smile.

“I’m sure it’s not real,” Modesto said with a sly smile. “But it is gold, of course.”

“What are you going to do with it?” I asked despite myself. I almost didn’t want to know.

“Hang it in my church,” he said, waving a hand