The Sound of Broken Ribs(42)
Even if they didn’t thrive—they survived. And that was all that mattered.
*
Four years had passed since the last time Lei had seen Donald Adams. This was around the time he’d revealed his true self to the public eye. For almost a decade, the man had hidden in the shadows, writing under the pen name H. R. Chatmon. He’d even used a model for public appearances. After being threatened with exposure by persons unknown, Donald had taken to live television, effectively burying his alter ego.
But Lei had always known that Donald wasn’t who he’d claimed to be. They shared a publisher, and it was hard to ignore the only little person in the room.
“You’re looking taller,” Lei said as Donald stepped aside and let her into his Manhattan penthouse.
“And you’re looking significantly more Oriental. Like a rug. Definitely ruggish.”
Donald closed the door and Lei leaned down to hug him.
“Keep rubbing against me like that and I’ll have to unleash the kraken. You can find out why they call me Kickstand.”
She laughed as she pulled away. “Same old asshat. Nice to see you, Don.”
“Good to see you, too, hon. What’s left of you, anyway. Come. Sit down.”
Donald led her from the foyer and into the great room: a massive living area polluted with affluence and glittering with materialism. Donald wasn’t a materialistic man, but he had nothing else to spend his money on other than charity. Half of every advance he received went to philanthropic organizations. These days, those advances were nearing eight figures. He was one of the highest paid genre authors in the business.
The far wall was floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over Manhattan. On September 11, 2001, Donald had been one of thousands who had fled the area when the twin towers of the World Trade Center fell. The building that housed his penthouse apartment had suffered minor cosmetic damage during the tragedy, but not much else. The most serious damage was shared by all New Yorkers—a condition known as Heavy Hearts.
Posters of the dozen novels he’d published under his pseudonym and the four he’d released as himself covered the east wall of the great room. The west wall had an electronic fireplace built into it. Above the fireplace was an oak mantle. Pictures of Donald’s old girlfriend Sunne graced the shelf. Sunne had died long ago, before Lei had met him, and Donald had only recently moved on. Rumor had it that he was dating now. Nothing serious, just a sad man trying not to be so sad. Lei was always so taken aback by how she herself looked much like Donald’s dead lover. She wondered if that was why he was her friend; if he harbored some kind of odd affection for Lei due to her resemblance to Sunne. She tried not to focus on that now.
“The crib is looking as sweet as ever. Still killing Koontz in sales?”
“Always, kid. He doesn’t stand a chance against the likes of me. Care for a spirit?”
“I have plenty, but I’ll take a drink.”
“This. This is why I like you. I like your arm, too. Can you bend iron bars and fist fuck polar bears now? Inquiring minds, and all that.” Being three-foot-nine gave Donald certain inalienable rights—at least as far as he was concerned it did. These rights stated that he could jest about anyone’s appearance, be they fat, skinny, ugly, beautiful, handicapped, or horribly disfigured. At the end of the day, Donald was Donald. You either loved him or hated him. Lei was one of the conscious few who respected the man for his honesty in such a dishonest world. When he said he loved her books, he meant it. He was the farthest thing from a sycophant. And Lei, in her own way, loved him for it.
“I can squash midgets with a single swing of my fist. That much has been proven.”
Donald chuckled on his way into the open kitchen.
Lei’s jaw dropped. “Is your fucking refrigerator gold?”
“It was a gift.”
“The fuck you say.”
“Okay. I bought it. Whatever.”
“It’s fucking gold.”
“That would be something—wouldn’t it? Fucking gold. It would give a new meaning to Goldfinger.”
“You’re a pervert.”
“Guilty. Now do you want a drink or not?”
“Sure. Whatever you’re drinking.”
“The blood of my enemies out of the skulls of their children.”
“Sure. Why not?”
Lei grabbed a seat on one end of Donald’s red leather sofa. The padding was so soft even her light frame sunk deep into the cushion. If she was able to extract herself from the comfort of the couch, it would be an honest-to-God miracle.
Donald joined her a moment later, a tumbler of clear liquid with one piece of ice the size and shape of a cue ball in each hand.
“How do you get the ice to do that?” Lei said, accepting the glass.
“Dwarf magic.”
“Seems legit.”
“Oh, it is. Drink up. I’m not responsible for you drinking responsibly, so go nuts. To fiction and the death of fan favorites.”
“Very GRRM of you.”
“He’s a hack.” Donald sat down in what appeared to be a high-end recliner for children. The custom job must have cost him a small fortune; no pun intended; he’d likely paid more for that tiny chair than she’d spent on the Aston Martin she’d purchased for road tripping.
His face grew serious. “How’re you feeling? Really?”