by Skye Warren
Chapter Nine
I don’t tell her everything. Though it doesn’t have to do with being a lady. I’m pretty sure I gave up any rights to the term when I sold my virginity to a room full of cigar-smoking, brandy-drinking men.
But I tell her enough to hear her opinion on the house auction.
“I think he’s sincere,” she decides. “He had a crisis of conscience when he fucked you, and now he’s trying to make it up to you by giving you what you lost.”
“My virginity?”
She giggles. “Would you want that back?”
“God no. Totally useless. The only thing that ever got me was a million dollars.”
Halfway through the coconut rum, both of us find that hilarious. We drink the rest of it over a pepperoni pizza while she tells me about Justin’s fall from grace. He was Tanglewood’s golden boy. The son of a state senator, poised to follow in his footsteps.
And in another lifetime, my fiancé.
I’m not sure which hurt more, the fact that he broke off our engagement or that he’d done it over the phone. When he heard about the auction, when he heard about Gabriel Miller, he’d shown up at Gabriel’s estate. It was some half-cocked rescue mission, his figurative armor still shiny from disuse. He decided to be my knight on a whim—and he abandoned me to my fate the same way.
“Are you sure a million dollars will be enough?” she asks.
“No, but I’m crossing my fingers. And toes. And everything.”
“I’ll cross mine too.”
“The house is worth a lot more, but Charlotte said the auctions usually go for less than market value. I’m hoping this one will be even less than that, since it belonged to the St. James family. History matters for houses like this, and no one even takes our calls, much less wants our house.”
“Finally, an upside to your total ruin.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Total ruin. If there’s one thing I can say about Gabriel Miller, he’s thorough. His goals aren’t good, his methods rarely kind, but you can depend on his ruthlessness. In a perverse way I can count on him more than I could count on Justin.
I sleep that night with a deep, dreamless security that only alcohol can bring.
Chapter Ten
Horrible pounding drags me out of sleep.
I squint against the harsh sunlight streaming between the vertical blinds. What’s happening? It sounds like the entire motel is coming down. Construction? Asteroids? Anything seems possible in my delirious confusion. There’s a warm weight across my legs, holding me down.
“Gabriel?”
The world comes into focus, and I realize it’s Harper’s legs pinning me down. And I said Gabriel’s name. Out loud. How embarrassing. At least Harper is more groggy than me.
“What’s happening?” she mumbles, dragging a pillow over her head.
The events from yesterday come back to me in reverse order: the late-night chat, finding Harper in my room. Meeting with Uncle Landon. Oh God. The auction. It’s today!
A knock comes at the door, more insistent.
“Coming,” I shout, fighting with Harper’s limbs and the sheets around my ankles.
Harper groans. “Make it stop.”
I fling open the door to find Will standing outside the door. His brown eyes widen as he takes in my state of undress—a tank top and panties. A small sound of surprise and I slam the door shut. “Why are you knocking?” I call through the door. I know from Chastity’s soundtrack how thin these walls are.
“There’s a limo in the parking lot. Pretty sure it’s for you.”
“Ten minutes,” I shout.
“Whatever,” comes the reply.
The water here takes forever to warm up, but the upside to freezing cold water is I’m wide awake after my shower. I brush my hair and throw on jeans and a T-shirt, this one announcing my inclusion in the Prep Academy chess club. Glancing at myself in the mirror, with damp hair and no makeup, I look like I might be in high school—not about to bid a million dollars in a high-stakes fight for my family.
A knock comes again.
I fling open the door, shouting, “I said I’m coming.”
The driver stands there, expression carefully blank. “Yes, of course.”
“Sorry,” I say, blushing. I look sideways, but Will has disappeared. “I’m ready.”
“Yes, miss.”
Harper seems to have gone back to sleep, judging from the soft, somehow feminine snore, so I don’t bother to wake her. Instead I throw myself into the back seat of the limo, breathless and urgent. He rolls out of the parking lot with careful slowness. How late am I?
Nervously I tap on the dividing window.
It rolls down. “Yes, miss?”
“Umm, what time is it?”
“Ten o’clock.”
I blink. “I thought the auction doesn’t start until three.”
“Mr. Miller thought you might like to spend time in the house before the auction.”
Because I might not win. This might be my last chance to see my mother’s home.
“Oh. That’s…nice of him.” Suspicion rises up, and I force it back down. Why do I always think the worst of Gabriel Miller? Oh, that’s right—because he systematically destroyed my family and defiled me.
“Yes, miss.”
And I have a new resource at my disposal to learn something—the driver. What kind of chess player would I be if I didn’t take advantage of an opening?
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Byron,” he says, sounding cautious himself.
Apparently exposure to Gabriel Miller heightens paranoia. The driver might have signed some kind of nondisclosure agreement. But I don’t want to know particulars of his habits. And I definitely don’t want any business secrets. What I want to know about is the man.
Purely for manipulative purposes, of course. Not because I actually care about him.
“How long have you worked for Gabriel?”
A pause. “Six years, miss.”
I try to keep my voice casual, as if I’m making conversation—even if we both know I’m fishing. Can he blame me? Both he and I are pawns in Gabriel’s game. Small pieces to be moved around. Unimportant. Powerless. Imagine what we could accomplish if we worked together.
“Were you a driver before that?”
“In a manner of speaking.” There’s another pause, longer this time. I can almost see the roadblock he’s putting up in front of me, the warning signs to turn back. In the end he lets me through. “I was in prison, actually. Before that I drove for an armored car company.”
Prison? My throat tightens. “Oh.”
He continues with less hesitation, as if now that he’s made the decision to tell me, he can share everything. “I got mixed up with a bad crew. They had this plan to knock over a bank, using the armored driver as an inside man. And I would have gone along with it, too.”
Curiosity gets the best of me. “Why didn’t you?”
“When we got close, the plan changed. First I was going to be the only one armed, and I wouldn’t have shot anyone. But then they got ahold of some automatic weapons. They claimed they wouldn’t hurt anyone, but it started getting out of hand. I didn’t want to do it, but I was in too deep.”
I’m leaning forward in the seat, literally on edge. “What happened?”
“It was too late to bow out. I knew too much. They would have offed me and then done it anyway. So I tipped off the cops and went in as their inside man instead.”
“Oh my God.”
“Never thought I’d be a rat, but I couldn’t let anyone get hurt.”
My breath is caught. “Did anyone get hurt?”
“Only me. When shit hit the fan, the cops came busting in. My buddy, all the way from grade school, he saw that I’d snitched. Shot me once in the chest before they brought him down.”
“Oh no.”
“Had a couple surgeries. By the time I woke up, most of the plea deals had been made. I took w
hat they gave me. Three years in minimum security for my part.”
I frown. “That seems like a lot. You helped them.”
“I should have locked in a plea deal before handing over the information, I guess. Should have had a better lawyer. I didn’t mind too much. Minimum security isn’t a bad gig.”
“And Gabriel hired you when you were released?”
Another pause. “Before I was released.”
Before. “What could you do from inside?”
“He had a friend in there. Three months. Make sure he makes it through and I’d have a big bonus when I got out. He gave me the bonus and offered me a job too. Said anyone strong and loyal had a place with him.”
“That sounds like Gabriel.”
We pull off the freeway into an area with large estates and gated communities. Affluent. Exclusive. A place I had always felt at home, but it looks foreign now. I’m a tourist in my own country.
We reach my driveway, the limo rocking over the old cobblestone. I stare out the window at the unkempt bushes, the forlorn birdbath. Everything in disrepair. “Would you say he’s a good man?”
“No, miss.”
“Why not?”
“Because he wouldn’t like me saying so. He wants everyone to think he’s dangerous and cruel. Sometimes he is. But only when he needs to be.” He pulls the limo to a slow halt in the circular drive. His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “I’d call him a fair man. You take care of him, he’ll take care of you.”
Chapter Eleven
I grew up in this house, stealing warm cookies from the baking sheet when Rosita made them, finding every nook and cranny to hide my dolls. And after my mother died, the house became my conduit to her. A temple with which both my father and I worshipped her memory.
Anticipation speeds my heartbeat as I cross the front walk.
The engraving on the front door looks foreign after only a few weeks away. I examine it with the kind of detachment I might use in an art gallery. Beautiful architectural detail. Nothing more.
It doesn’t feel like home.
That will change once I’ve won the auction. It has to.
Inside the air feels different. More dusty. More dry. The rooms are mostly bare from when I sold the furniture to estate dealers and antique stores, desperate for money. Not enough. Never enough until I auctioned the most valuable piece left—myself.
Upstairs I find my bedroom the way I left it, a plain mattress on the floor. Some old posters on the wall—overly colorful kittens and the grinning face of a male pop star. The room of a teenager, never updated when I moved to college and definitely not when I came back.
It’s a little like looking at a museum. A sepia photograph.
History, not the present.
That will change once I have the house back, once I can take down the posters and buy back antique furniture for the rooms. A small voice whispers, what if it doesn’t? Except if I’m not fighting for my mother’s house, I don’t know what to fight for. This is all I have left.
A shiver runs through me, as if the house is haunted.
I leave the room and wander the empty hallways, aimless and melancholy. And it strikes me suddenly that I might be the specter haunting the house. My sudden laugh cuts off abruptly, strange in the hollow space.
At the end of the hall a small door leads to old metal stairs. I spent some time in the dusty attic when my father got sick, sifting through stacks of antique headboards and trunks of old dresses. Some of it was sold along with the furniture in the house. Whatever’s left was too broken or too personal to be of any value.
The lights don’t work up here, the wiring too old and faulty. Instead I pulled down boards from the stained glass window so I could see. As soon as I open the low door, blue and yellow light floats down from the top. The smell of old paper and cedar draws me up the stairs. Stained boxes hold the only things with any meaning left in the house.
I kneel beside one and find Christmas decorations, an angel’s wings chewed through by some long-dead rodent. Another box has pictures, and I smile at the sight of my father. Tears prick my eyes. I visited him in the hospital two days ago, after his heart attack. He was barely conscious, still recovering and heavily medicated, which was almost a relief.
When he wakes up, he’ll have questions. I’m not sure how to tell him that I lost the house, that I auctioned my virginity to get it back.
Not sure how to tell him that it was all for nothing.
If I win the auction today, I won’t have to tell him anything. He’ll be able to return home, to live out his final days in the only place that reminds him of my mother.
Dust-coated brocade drapes pile on top of a box in the corner. I shove them aside, sneezing at the cloud that rises. The window shines a purple hue on stacks of yellowed paper. Invitations to coming-out balls and engagement parties. Correspondence with my father’s friends from his alma mater.
From a sheath of newspaper clippings, a book slips out. A thud on the floor resounds in the musty air. I pick up the book made of old leather, soft to the touch, wrapped with a long strip of the same material. There’s nothing marking the cover. I open it, revealing thin pages hand stitched. The first page has only one thing scrawled in perfect, looping penmanship: Helen Avery Lancaster. My mother’s maiden name.
My knees weaken, and I sink onto the nearest closed trunk.
A turn of the page reveals more of her handwriting in straight lines across.
Since my debut is in one week, it seems fitting to begin a new journal. This is my new life as an adult, eligible to be married—and to hear Mother tell it, as quickly as possible. I understand what’s at stake. Although Mother refuses to speak about such uncouth matters as money, Father isn’t nearly so circumspect.
Still, I won’t say yes to the first boy who offers for me.
No matter how rich he is.
A diary, from before my mother married my father. Maybe even before she met him. My heart expands, filling my chest and pressing against my ribs. I’ve seen a hundred pictures, spoken to her husband, her friends, but I’ve never heard her words. Never imagined I would get to see through her eyes.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
I whirl to face Gabriel Miller, my heart beating too fast from my discovery. He’s wearing an overcoat still dappled with rain, hair dampened, eyes glinting gold. I’m breathless and a little bit wary. Somehow the diary ends up tucked behind me, hiding it before I’ve fully decided to.
He notices, of course. Stepping over an embroidered ottoman, he crosses the slats to me. “Let’s see what you’ve found.”
The discovery feels too powerful to hold inside. I ache to share my excitement, my awe, but it’s still too fresh. Too private, especially for the eyes of my sworn enemy. He waits with excruciating patience. Slowly, reluctantly, I pull the diary from behind my back. The brown leather cover doesn’t reveal anything. “Nothing much. Just an old notebook.”
One eyebrow rises. “Is that right? You won’t mind if I look at it, then?”
Without waiting for me to answer, he plucks the diary from my hands.
“How dare you.” I move to snatch it back, but he’s already heading deeper into the attic, toward the stained-glass window where the light is better.
He reads from a page in the middle. “My mother insists that I accept Geoffrey’s offer. The St. James fortune is unmatched in Tanglewood society.” He pauses to glance at me. “How mercenary. I suppose it runs in the family.”
Rage burns through my veins. “You don’t know anything about my mother. Give that back to me. Right now.”
He’s too tall, holding the diary out of reach as he reads further. “She would accept Landon Moore, even though his family has fallen in society recently, but I can’t. I just can’t.” He makes a tsk sound. “Poor old Uncle Landon.”
My fists beat his back, fueled by righteous fury. “That’s not yours.”
“Isn’t it?” He cocks his head to the side, considering.
“I own the holding company. And the holding company owns the house and everything inside.”
I grow still. “You’re going to keep it?”
“What a dilemma,” he says with faux sympathy, turning back to the page, reading again. “And the man I truly want has no money, no family name. No chance of winning my father’s approval. We both know that it’s impossible, but the heart doesn’t believe in boundaries.”
My heartbeat pounds in my ears. My righteous indignation toward Gabriel is eclipsed by the realization that my mother loved another man. At least she did once.
I know from archeological mythology that history isn’t about facts—it’s a story told by the survivors. The victors, both literal and figurative. I know that she married Geoffrey St. James, my father. They were wed until her death. Theirs was a happy marriage, a loving one, or so I thought. What if there’s another side to the story? Hers.
“Give me that.”
He slaps the diary shut, examining the well-worn cover. “No, I don’t believe I will.”
“It’s mine.”
“Actually I believe it belongs to your mother, but that’s neither here nor there. The holding company couldn’t possibly let go of something materially valuable to the property.”
“The diary isn’t going to affect the auction!”
“Won’t it? I think you’ll bid higher if the diary is included.” He slips the diary into his inside coat pocket.
“I’m already willing to bid everything I have.”
“Did you consider that I might be protecting you? You might not like what you find inside.”
“No,” I say, taking a step closer. We’re chest to chest, face-to-face. Or we would be if I wasn’t a full foot shorter than him. “Because you don’t know what’s in that journal, so how could you know whether I’ll like it? And besides, you don’t want to protect me. You want to hurt me.”
He draws a finger down my cheek, almost tender. “You might be right about that. I get hard just thinking about your blood on my sheets.”