Bluegrass Seduction (The Bluegrass Billionaire Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

After using my finger and some putrid water to sort of rub my teeth clean, I rummaged on the floor near the bed until I found enough crumpled clothing to be allowed in public. As I pushed open the entrance door with the shattered glass, I was amazed once again that no matter how bad you felt at one moment, you could always feel worse. The humidity of the August morning was already in the upper ninety percent and hit me like a wall of water. I thought it might be more therapeutic than the shower I’d just had.

I found my cell still in my pants pocket and tapped for a taxi I kept on auto-dial. I was no novice at this. They knew me, by name and by face. The cab’s cool interior prompted me to doze off again as it headed toward the farm.

My father, Worthington LaViere, II — which incidentally made me Worthington LaViere, III, Worth to my friends or Worthless to those who knew me best — was waiting in the shade of the paddock, a mint julep resting in his iron-grip. We LaVieres were known for our ability to drink, and he was no exception. He emerged long enough to stuff a hundred into the hand of the driver and motioned him to drag me out of the back seat… again.

The grizzled driver was kind. My cheek was only mildly grazed by the mulch in the flowerbed Mother had lining the drive. Mother had flowers lining everything. It was the grace she exuded to counter my father’s far cruder tendencies.

I wondered how long I might get away with lying there, but my father quickly answered that question. “Get your ass up and in the house!” he snapped in a growl colored with decades of Cuban cigars and Kentucky bourbon. “I want you clean and presentable in half an hour. Jervis is comin’ by for cocktails and damned if you’re not goin’ to be sittin’ in the chair like the cock of the walk when he gets here. Hear me, boy?”

I avoided pointing out that anyone within three counties could hear him, reasoning that given the pounding in my head, restraint was the order of the day.

Not at my best for sarcastic discourse, I made it to my feet and staggered into the house and up the cherry staircase with the railing my grandfather had carved. I should be specific. My grandfather didn’t actually do the carving himself, he had it carved. We LaVieres were far more suited to giving orders than taking them… of which I was living proof.

I heard my mother’s voice down the hallway, her plaintive, carefully-cultured drawl asked her maid to bring her a tall glass of iced tea with two slices of lemon. Mother always ordered two slices — one to squeeze into the drink and one to decorate the lip of the glass. As I said, my mother exudes grace.

In honor of Dr. Jervis’ impending arrival, I chose charcoal dress slacks and a white Polo. A quick glance in the mirror exposed the circles beneath my ordinarily vivid blue eyes. At the moment, they looked more like someone had punched me. Perhaps they had? I couldn’t remember. I could only focus on one thing at a time while my head felt this muddled. At the moment, it appeared it would be two things — my father and Jervis.

I dutifully sat in the mulberry leather wingback and sipped a tonic water, with one lemon, while my father met Dr. Jervis at the door and ushered him into the study. My father’s boisterous voice and shoulder slapping put me in mind of a character in a Faulkner novel, and I wondered whether it was intentional. Everything my father did was done with great deliberation. That included his plans for my wastrel life, or so he regularly termed it.

“Worth, how are you, my boy?” Jervis asked as he came through the cherry-framed door, his hand extended. Why did I feel like the screw up sitting outside the principal’s office? I nodded and shook the hand, noticing the ring with the insignia. That, too, was deliberate. It was his class ring from Stanford University where he graduated years ago,
with honors,
as my father so regularly pointed out. He was now a successful psychologist with offices on the east side of Louisville in a building he’d personally designed. He was a
man of essence;
another expression my father was fond of using.

I listened as my father and Jervis swapped brags, each clearly only listening for a break in the other’s conversation until he could interject his own escapades. I watched the performance, for that’s truly what it was. It always was a carefully choreographed performance that allowed two men past their prime to feel as though they owned the world and were the only two who knew anything worth a damn.

I felt myself beginning to doze again. The lack of sleep, hangover, and tiresome performance lulling me away. “What do you say, son?” Jervis asked, looking at me.

“Sir?”

“I said, how about you comin’ on over to the office on Monday and givin’ us a look-see. Thought you might like to join me as a partner,” Jervis repeated. Behind him, my father’s head nodded his approval. Yet another set of lines from the performance.

I’d recently graduated with my own Ph.D. from Harvard. I could hardly believe the certificate Mother had so tastefully framed. I was a fully-fledged psychologist with a string of letters behind my name beginning with III and ending with various Ds. They weren’t so much an indication of how far I’d gone in school, as how far I’d stayed away from my father. As long as I pursued degrees, he stayed off my back and kept my wallet full. After everything was said and done, I had enough Ds to treat any fuckin’ head case who walked through my door.

I smiled and nodded, the combination of which multiplied the pounding still hammering my alcohol-soaked brain.

So it was agreed that I would stop in on Monday, which was enough to break up the pow-wow and let us pass through to dinner. This was strictly where Mother reigned and she was waiting, her long, pink nails impatiently tapping the side of her martini. I must have smiled at the appropriate times because there was a haze of smiles around me and eventually, Jervis left. I can just remember waving a casual goodbye with one hand as I ascended the cherry stairs and died in my room. My own room.

Auggie

P
eople had always said I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and a riding crop in my hand. Named Elizabeth Augusta Langford for a great-aunt somewhere back in family history, I was rumored to be a distant relative of the Earl of Langford, although the family had long ago moved their title to these bluegrass knolls where our love of Thoroughbreds could be more fully indulged.

I preferred to be called Auggie. It bypassed all the normal nicknames for Elizabeth while at the same time irritating my socially conscious mother all to pieces. She said I’m ‘willful.’ I maintained I’m simply Auggie.

My favorite thing in the world was Carlos, the Thoroughbred I rode for steeplechase. He flew over fences and felt like a part of me and wouldn’t let me come unseated. Perhaps one of his most precious assets was that he’d never be reproduced. His racing career was short and he was gelded immediately thereafter. It’s too bad they couldn’t do the same to some men I’d met.

That’s especially true of Eric, the son of my father’s law partner. Eric and I had been expected to marry ever since we took our first riding lessons. Although he came from a decent family, Eric was clumsy, consistently odd in his behavior, and seemed out of place. He was handsome and had gotten the idea that’s all he had to be. He relied on his looks when other men relied on their integrity and character. Even when I graduated from the University of Kentucky with a masters in business, Eric was expected to be my intended — until I caught him.

It was an early summer morning. The fireflies had gone to sleep and left the grasshoppers to leap among the grasses in the foggy mist. He must have forgotten we’d planned an early ride. I’d driven to his family stables and went in search of him when no one was about. I found him eventually, cradled asleep in the arms of Derek, the well-muscled farm hand who mucked stables and kept the fences in repair. They were lying in the straw of one of the empty stalls, unaware that I’d seen them. I crept out and left soundlessly, but strangely there were no tears on my cheeks. I can only remember feeling relief.

I refused Eric’s proposal a month later. His face was red and he seemed uncharacteristically uncomfortable in front of my parents. Of course, I knew why. I took pity on him and decided not to out him. Instead, I refused his offer by saying I wanted a career over motherhood. I can remember Mother’s face. The shock and horror of my words threw her into total confusion. She’d been planning my wedding and all the associated parties since I was fifteen. I knew she’d already begun selecting a china pattern and linens, registering me with all the normal places. It was a huge deal for her, and my dad looked at me with desperation, knowing he would catch the brunt of my mother’s unhappiness.

I left the room and rode Carlos until long after dark. We chose paths that were circular, giving us the freedom to romp at will without being concerned with what lay around the next corner. I longed for a time when there were no fences, no land ownership and the country was divided only by rivers, streams, and tree lines.

By the time I went back to the house, Eric was gone and thankfully, hadn’t shown up again. It’s just as well. He was worthless. I wanted more from my life. I’d always known what I wanted and I would get it.

Mother was beside herself and insisted I seek therapy. I let her believe it was my problem. In fact, it was rather intriguing to consider confiding in a perfect stranger. There was no one else I could talk to. Eric would be ruined. So, I agreed and Mother began to seek out the best. He would need to be one of us because no one else could understand, of course. Mother believed in the concept that once children were born, her job was complete. Their raising and correction was the duty of professionals, preferably with names that those in her set recommended. That served double duty. She was freed of responsibility and yet awarded acclaim for her concern.

She found the therapist. His name was Jervis and my appointment was quickly scheduled. He owned a clinic in town and everyone in our set had probably seen him at one time or another. It occurred to me that he was more like a confessor for the old equine money; a buffoon who awarded tolerance in exchange for invitations to the right social functions. In the meantime, I enjoyed the freedom of belonging to no one, except myself.

Perhaps I would tell this Dr. Jervis about a few other things while I was there. After all, Mother was paying perfectly good money. Maybe I’d tell him a few things that weren’t even true, since I knew he would be reporting back to Mother. That’s why she insisted she find the doctor. Poor Mother… lucky for her, she made up in beauty for what God cheated her in common sense.

Worth

J
ervis was obviously very proud of his building. It seemed to take precedence over even his healthy practice. Some men were like that. When they couldn’t get it to rise, they built one. Poor slob. He was missing the good stuff. At least he had good taste in his hired help. Some prime ass on four-inch stiletto hooves. This was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel.

Jervis showed me his office, a testament to himself. Asshole. Did he really think anyone gave a shit? People cared about nothing but themselves, and as soon as they handed you a check, they owned you. All he’d done was frame his stupidity.

“This,” Jervis pushed open a heavy door that swung easily on specially-fitted hinges, “is the waiting room for your patients.”

I walked around Jervis and surveyed the small room. “Could use a bit of updating,” I commented and saw him flinch.

“Well, we had designers in, but I admit, it was maybe five years ago. You’re free to personalize as you wish, of course.” Jervis’ voice proved he felt stung. I knew he wanted the entire building to reflect his sense of taste, but I’d never been one to take another man’s preferences as my own.

I moved to the next door that, logically, led to my inner office and consultation room. It was a larger version of the waiting room, and I had to restrain myself from wiping my hand off on my thigh. “Thank you, Dr. Jervis, this will do quite nicely. I’ll just update a few things and will have it done this week. I’ll begin seeing patients next week.”

“Wonderful, my boy, wonderful. I’ll begin referring all the new patients to your capable hands.” Jervis sounded relieved and excited at the same time. He was, in essence, increasing his patient load at my expense.

“Dr. Jervis,” I said as I closed the door behind me.

“Yes, my boy?” Jervis’ hand was petting his beard, his pathetic attempt at a Freudian impression.

“Perhaps you could refrain from calling me ‘boy?’ My name is Dr. LaViere, and as a matter of fact, I believe in terms of education, I outrank you but we won’t quibble.”

Jervis stopped, his back to me and I knew he was bristling. I saw him force his shoulders to relax and knew he’d opted for diplomacy and increased revenue over pride. He really was pathetic. He nodded and left, moving out into the lobby and across to his own offices. The door shut firmly, but not angrily behind him. He recognized that his days as top dog were numbered. Soon, he would be nothing more than a name in front of the building, and maybe not even that.

***

I phoned Jeremy. “You son-of-a-bitch, how are you?” I poked the moment he answered.

“Jackass,” he muttered in a mocking voice. Jeremy didn’t waste time on the formalities any more than I did. Maybe that’s why we got along so well.

“This is a professional call, I’ll have you know.” I used my business voice.

“Indeed? What’s up?” He was curious. Of all of us, I was the black sheep and had always worn the designation with pride.

“Opening a practice. Partnering with Jervis. You know his building?”

Jeremy scoffed. “The outside isn’t too bad but the interior looks like a crypt.”

“Exactly. Stop by this afternoon and take some measurements, will you? Want it done by Friday. I’ll leave the details to you. Is that a problem?”

“Your only problem will be sobering up by Monday,” he mocked me.