You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Forty Two

Harry:

Yoo-hoo! Special delivery!” A woman’s sing-song voice filtered in from the front entry of my apartment.

“Did someone order a beard?”

I glanced up from the data Sylvia had brought me earlier that day and that lay strewn over my coffee  table.

Taylor waltzed in dressed in a woman’s long skirt, circa 1930—maroon, with a matching, tight-fitting sweater that had beige and gold stripes along the front and sleeves.

A cigar dangled out of her red-painted lips, and her hair was coiffed  and ironed so that it looked like a helmet of blonde ripples, with a small black beret pinned to the back.

“Whaddya think?” She did a spin, a blue, pin-striped suit in a dry-cleaning bag hanging off her fingers.

“We’re Bonnie and Clyde. It’s perfect, right? It’s a couples costume, so that’ll please Big Daddy, but there were rumors that Clyde
was a repressed gay man. . .win-win! Very meta, don’t you think?”

“Great.”

Taylor tucked the cigar in a pocket of her skirt, kissed my cheek, and handed me the suit.

I tossed it onto the couch beside me. “Thanks.”

“I beg your pardon, that’s vintage, honey. Be a little careful?”

She smoothed the suit on the back of the couch and plopped down beside me. “What’s all this?”

“Enough evidence that hopefully proves Azoff belongs in jail, not running Styles Pharma.”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “Do you ever stop working?”

“This is big,” I said, stuffing the printed emails in my briefcase. “Sylvia found me a treasure trove. This is how I get the company back.”

“Well, I’m happy if you’re happy.” She frowned and cocked her head at me.

“You don’t look happy. In fact, you look like shit, honey. The dark circles under your eyes have circles.”

“I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Or eating, or breathing, or living.

Because I had to keep doing all those things without Zayn.

“Speaking of not sleeping. . .” Taylor said, glancing around. “Since I still have my key, I’d hoped to walk in on you and Zayn, preferably naked and doing all sorts of. . .
Uh oh. Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh dear.” Taylor laid soft fingers on my arm. “What happened?”

I leaned back on the couch and scrubbed my hands over my face. “I fucked up.”

“How?”

“Dad caught us. Sort of. The Seattle Society photos finally came to bite me in the ass.”

“You could have talked your way around those.”

“I did. But Dad fired Zayn anyway. And I let him.”

“Damn.” Taylor pursed her lips. “But wait a sec. I see a definite upside to Zayn not living in your dad’s house. Many upsides. For instance, he suddenly needs a place to live and you happen to have six acres of penthouse. Not to mention that huge bed—“

“I told you, I don’t know where he is,”

I said irritably. “Somewhere in North Carolina. I got one text two weeks ago that said he’s okay and that’s it. He won’t see me until I get this shit sorted out with Dad. Hopefully tonight. I’m going to take all this crap and force him to look at it.”