Complete Fixed: The Complete Fixed Series: Books 1-5

by Laurelin Paige

  Thirty minutes later, with Brody, today's security sidekick, I rang the bell at Mirabelle's boutique in Greenwich Village. She opened the door, already babbling.

  "Laynie! You don’t have an appointment today. What are you doing here? Of course I'm so happy to see you. And you never have to have an appointment to come by. I will always fit you in. Do you need something to wear for an occasion? Something special that I can help you with? Is Hudson taking you somewhere special? Or is this a social visit? And who’s the stocky bald guy brooding in the corner? Did you finally hire a personal assistant? Not the type I thought you’d go for, but to each her own.”

  My sister-in-law was in her usual perky mood. No one could simultaneously energize and soothe me quite like Mira, without me ever getting a word in edgewise. She hugged me and shoved a glass of champagne into my hand, then rushed off to attend to another client before I could answer a single one of her questions. I watched her flit around tirelessly and felt a pang of envy. The energy and speed she naturally had in her body had likely helped her regain her pre-pregnancy body with little effort.

  It was a tempo I recognized, but had never achieved physically. Even before the children, when I would run regularly, I never had her energy. Only my head, my thoughts, ever traveled that fast. That unstoppably. Watching her was like seeing my mind personified.

  Sometimes it was exhausting to look at, and I had to turn away.

  Finally, she had a moment free, and she pulled me aside into a consultation area near the dressing rooms where we could sit and talk.

  "So what is it? Need a dress or an escape? I'm happy to provide both."

  I chuckled as I finished off the last of the champagne she'd given me, then set the glass down on the table between us. It was neither, but between being here and the bubbles, it did feel like a momentary breather from my frenetic worrying.

  "Actually, I wanted to ask you something. I thought you might be able to help enlighten me about Hudson. About his past." I swallowed.

  The corners of her mouth turned down slightly. "That's an odd request. I am intrigued. What exactly do you want to know?"

  I hadn't yet decided which way I was approaching my conversation with Mira before I'd arrived, whether I was going to tell her about the letters Hudson had received or not, but on the spot, I decided to be transparent. I explained to her everything that I knew, what I'd seen—the extra security, Hudson's refusal to tell me any more. After telling Gwen earlier, I had the story down to a concise narrative.

  Mira's face was expressive as I spoke, her mouth gaping, her eyes wide. By the time I was done she was no longer sitting in her seat, but up out of her chair and bouncing around the room.

  "Oh my God, Hudson!" she exclaimed. "I can't believe he was keeping you in the dark like this. Doesn’t he understand anything about his wife? Of course you're going to obsess about it. Of course you would want to investigate on your own. Does he not know you? Does he not think of you as a partner? Marriage is supposed to be a two-way street! This is absurd! I’d kill Adam."

  "Exactly!" It was so relieving to know she was on my side, that she understood where I was coming from. It had been a risk coming to Hudson’s sister. She might've felt inclined to defend him, being his blood relative and all. "That brings me to why I came to you. I was hoping you would maybe be able to shed some light on the past. Maybe you could direct me to who might've sent the letters? He's not helping me, since he's not letting me know what angle he's working." I sat back, pleased that this had gone so easily.

  To my shock, Mira turned her frustration back to me.

  "No way. Because what are you even thinking, Laynie? Going off behind his back like this? It's one thing for him to keep something from you, but you're just as bad. Isn't this the kind of thing that's got you in trouble in the past? Tip-toeing around him? Two wrongs never make a right. And I am not about to get in the middle of your marriage squabble. You two need to work this out. You go back to him and you get him to open up to you. And thank you very much, for bringing whatever drama safety issue this is to my store. Did you even think about that? You’re a mother now. You have kids. Kids! You can't go chasing down the bad guys like there are no consequences. Now promise me you aren’t going to follow up on anymore of this bullcrap and you’ll leave the investigating to the people who do that for a living.”

  “Mira! I can’t promise—”

  She cut me off. “Promise me, Laynie, or I’m calling Hudson and telling him what you’re up to. I am a mother, too, in case you forgot, and if you won’t be safe, keep us safe, I’ll make sure it happens.”

  I sucked a breath in and held it, afraid if I let it out, I’d explode. Not just because I didn’t want to give up my investigation, but because I had so much bursting inside of me, so much emotion and anxiety building up about these threats and nowhere to put the energy. What was I supposed to do with all of it? Let it keep hold of me and my thoughts, let the obsessions take root in my mind? I didn’t want to be the insane, fixated woman that my husband seemed to think he’d married.

  But I definitely didn’t want to put other people in danger—not Mira. Not my kids.

  Not even me.

  “Okay. Fine,” I promised woefully.

  “Thank you,” she said, sharply. Then she walked out of the consultation room shutting the door loudly behind her. All the energy I’d felt in her presence had collapsed into sheer exhaustion. I was no closer to uncovering the truth than I was before, and I’d upset the only sister I had in the bargain.

  A second later the door opened again. "I’m bringing something for you to try on, by the way, so that if I bump into my brother later and it comes up that I saw you, I won't be lying when I say you stopped by to get a new dress." She left the room again, slamming the door as hard as she had the first time.

  I supposed I'd forgotten she'd always been on our side—Hudson’s and mine—as a team.

  And there was absolutely one thing I could always count on Mira for without question— picking out the right outfit.

  She sent her assistant back to the dressing room with a stunning Diane Von Furstenberg wrap, color-blocked in luxurious shades of dark blue. It fit perfectly when I put it on, accentuating the hips I’d developed over the last few years, hiding the belly that had been a souvenir from childbirth.

  It made me feel sexy and alluring.

  Womanly.

  Like the Alayna I'd been when Hudson had fucked me in front of the mirror in this very dressing room all those years ago. The one whose very worst flaw had piqued the interest of the very best man she’d ever met. Not like the Alayna of today, the one who'd almost forgotten to brush her hair before leaving the apartment and had to change her outfit once already this morning after the baby spit up on it.

  I smiled at my reflection. At least the trip downtown hadn't been a waste. The dress was going home with me. Hudson had, of course, been right—I wasn’t spending enough time on me. On us.

  Something told me that the look in his eyes when he saw me in this would be every bit as hungry as it ever was in those first heady days.

  "It's exquisite," Stacy, Mirabelle's longtime assistant said, peering over my shoulder.

  "You think so? I like it, too." I appreciated Stacy's opinion, and I trusted her. We had a rocky start when we'd first met, and though we weren't exactly friends now, we were friendly. She'd once had a crush on Hudson—but, seriously, who hadn’t? Unfortunately for her, she'd ended up the victim of one of Celia Werner's games and had believed that Hudson liked her back.

  Yet another victim I’d forgotten to list.

  I'd been swept into the game too. Been tricked into believing there'd been more going on than there had been—not between Stacy and Hudson, but between Celia and Hudson. My investigations back in the day had led me to cornering Stacy, thinking she had the proof I needed to determine the nature of Hudson and Celia's true relationship.

  She hadn't, in the end. But seeing her now, remembering that she was a part of Hudson's
past, had the gears in my overactive mind whirring in a new direction.

  "Stacy, I'd like to ask you something," I said, spinning toward her. I paused, remembering my promise only moments ago to Mira, then immediately disregarding it. This wasn’t a fresh investigation, after all, merely exhausting my options in the place I’d already started one.

  "I know I said I would never involve you in any drama again, but I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important. Do you know of anyone who might be… jealous… or maybe angry at Hudson? Angry enough to… threaten him in any way?"

  Stacy laughed incredulously. "Are you kidding? That's about everybody in the New York City phone book. He's richer than fuck. Of course people are jealous of him. And he's a businessman. Of course people are mad at him, too." She stepped forward to untie the bow of the wrap at my waist. "You want me to bring this up front for you?"

  I put my hand on hers, halting her. "I'm serious." Then my thoughts went another direction. What if…

  I dropped my hand, and took a step away. "Stacy, are you still hung up on my husband?"

  I had it in my head that it was a man sending the letters, but it could as easily have been a woman. Stacy would've known about his past, and she'd known about my bedrest. What if she still resented everything that happened before?

  She straightened, her height going up by another full inch, it seemed. "Are you for real?”

  The anger rolling off her was thick, blanket thick. I began to think I'd made a serious mistake in my accusation. "I'm sorry, that was probably a stupid—"

  "You have some nerve, Alayna Withers Pierce. After everything you put me through before. Putting me in the middle of your soap opera drama. Dragging me into your personal shit, and what did I ever get out of it? More accusations? I've never been anything but loyal to Mirabelle. Never done anything but admire the Pierces. You have some nerve. You can get someone else to ring up your dress."

  She stomped off toward the door then stopped suddenly. "Oh, and tell your guy to stop hanging out around here. Three times this week I've seen him. He's making our clients nervous."

  She left, slamming the door almost as loudly as Mira had, before I could ask what guy she was talking about. Before I could apologize. For the second time in a quarter of an hour, I’d alienated someone I liked.

  And for what?

  I sighed as I finished undressing myself. If there was a strange guy hanging around Mirabelle's boutique, it could mean that Hudson had sent extra security here as well, which meant the danger extended further than he led me to believe.

  Or the guy was the danger.

  The one thing I knew for sure was that this investigation would be a whole lot easier if I had Hudson working with me.

  10

  Hudson

  I pushed stop on the video screen, shutting off the current remote interview, as soon as I heard the elevators doors open into the loft. When I'd left Alayna that morning, telling her to stay put, I knew she had no intention of doing that. Typical Alayna. But I hadn't expected her to show up here.

  To my surprise, it wasn't Alayna who walked out in a fit of energy, but my younger brother.

  I exchanged an annoyed glance with Jordan.

  "Satcher Rutherford, man…” Chandler began. “You sure how to pick them, Hudson."

  It was enough of an intro to keep me listening.

  "I mean, he knows his shit, for sure. The Rutherfords own over sixty successful nightclubs around the world—New York, Atlanta, Las Vegas, Brazil, London, Tokyo—and Satcher is himself responsible for at least half of those clubs."

  He took off his jacket and threw it over the armchair, then began loosening his tie while he talked. I tried to bite down the gravel of irritation that he was making himself comfortable. I didn’t want this to be a long visit. I hadn’t wanted this to be a visit at all.

  His DNA must have contained none of the people-reading genes I’d gotten, because he droned on. "Thank God I did my research first, because the way you sent me out of that meeting a couple of weeks ago, I thought I was looking for a consultant to help us out with our reopening. Obviously Rutherford is way above consultation pay himself, and from what I've discovered in my digging, he's not into sharing information. I realized this needed to be an investment opportunity for him. So that was the proposal I put together—I didn't ask you about it because Trish says you've been on do not disturb for the entire week and also? Because fuck you, I'm part of Pierce Industries, and I can make decisions myself. I don't need you to sign off on all my shit."

  I, in fact, owned Pierce Industries, and Chandler did work for me. But I had learned he worked better when he believed we were on equal footing, so again, I bit my tongue.

  "The problem is that getting a meeting with the guy is harder than getting a meeting with the Queen of England." He turned toward the fridge and snagged a water bottle from inside, then leaned against the kitchen counter facing us, looking as self-assured as a guy who’d gotten a meeting with the Queen.

  He hadn’t.

  "Chandler, don't exaggerate. Facts only, please."

  "That's not an exaggeration. I probably could get a meeting with the Queen of England. Genevieve has a friend of a friend who knows a guy. Remember, she's from Britain." As if all British people had an in at Buckingham Palace.

  That was Chandler for you.

  "If you're just here to tell us your hardships, with no question or real information, could you please do it at a later time? We actually are in the middle of something here." I didn't bother wrapping my sentiments in niceties. It would only provoke him to stay longer.

  "There is a point. I have a question." He said, pointing his water bottle in my direction.

  "Then do get on to it."

  "I'm getting there. I'm providing the background information first. Otherwise you won't understand the question." He took a swig of water, and I could feel my eye twitch in impatience.

  "So. Apparently, if you want to talk to Satcher there's a process." He put the word process in air quotes, as best as he could with one hand holding a water bottle. "No matter who you are. Even the grand and mighty Pierce name couldn't get around that. So I first had to talk to his guy, again. He's younger than me, and get this—his name is Dudley. Dudley! Can you imagine naming a child Dudley? A baby Dudley! I can’t even imagine calling a baby a grown-up name like that. What do you nickname him? Dud? It was seriously the only thing that went through my mind the whole time I was talking to him on the phone. It's ridiculous. Having a guy named Dudley is ridiculous. Never name a baby Dudley."

  "You seem to be thinking about babies a lot here. Are you and your fiancée expecting?" Jordan asked.

  Whether he was sincere or that was his version of dry humor, I liked it. Like I said, there were many reasons I kept him on the payroll.

  "No, once again, for everyone in the room—Genevieve is not pregnant. And we’re not having any babies any time soon. We only think about them all the time because everyone around us has them as often as most people change their bedsheets."

  That seemed to say a lot about how often—or not—Chandler changed his bedsheets. But I wanted him out of there, so I didn't interject with that particular comment.

  "Anyway, Dudley, was very critical of our proposition. Did you know that Atlantic City is a dead zone right now? Why do we even have a nightclub there? Apparently nobody goes there for nightlife anymore. The whole city is, like, over."

  I centered a hard gaze in his direction. "Exactly why we need to have the very best behind our nightclub opening. To bring the population back."

  "Right. Exactly. I know that." He took another swig from his water bottle. "That's totally what I was going to say to Satcher. When I saw him. Because even though I didn't convince Dudley Do-Right that our nightclub was a good idea, he did think that Satcher would want to hear about it, to—and I quote—'have a good laugh.' So he advanced me to the next step, which was giving me a direct line to Satcher."

  "Good job. Sounds very productive and some
what amusing." I stood up, ready to usher my brother out.

  "Wait. I am nowhere near done."

  I took a deep breath in. I'd been afraid of this. I stuck a hand in my pocket and urged him to continue with a nod of my head.

  "So I call Rutherford. I was expecting to talk to a secretary or something, but it was his actual direct line. When he answered, as soon as I introduced myself as a Pierce, the phone somehow goes dead. I give him the benefit of the doubt—maybe there was a lousy connection. I call him back. I go straight to voicemail. I called him back again. Straight to voicemail. I called him back four more times. Finally he answered."

  At least my brother had fortitude. If that's what that was called.

  "This time he let me get past my last name and propose a meeting to discuss an investment opportunity. He said he didn’t want to have anything to do with Hudson Pierce or Pierce Industries. You were obviously not kidding when you said he did not like you."

  I could feel Jordan's gaze on me, could feel the questions in his head that he had yet to ask.

  "But I told Satcher, no worries. I really don’t like you either. You’re a fucking asshole. Everyone knows that."

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, hoping to ward off the headache that immediately threatened to take over the space in my skull.

  "Hey, it got me a meeting," he said.

  "I suppose you do what you need to do." I didn't have to be happy about it.

  "Or, I thought it got me a meeting. Because when I showed up at his New York office, his secretary seemed surprised. She said he must have made a mistake about his calendar, and he wasn't even in the office that day. ‘He must've double booked.’ I didn't buy it. He wanted to humiliate me and waste my time, and he succeeded. I looked like a goddamn idiot. This time, though, I was smart—I got the secretary’s information. Shelley. Cute plump redhead. Little flirting with her got me her cell number as well as Satcher's cell. Called him later that night, told him there must've been a mixup, pretended to give him the benefit of the doubt. He apologized. Said he appreciated my tenacity—my tenacity! How fucking patronizing. Like I was an intern instead of a peer in his field! He appreciated it so much he set up dinner for the next night at Gaston’s."