Blacklist

by Geneva Lee

  “Someone did this to her?” Kai asks as they take me to Adair’s car. Poppy digs in Adair’s bag for the keys, and I nearly drop her when they lead me to the Mercedes. At least if I have to put up with these entitled brats I get to drive all these amazing cars.

  “This is her car?” I grunt as I get her situated in the front seat. Kai and Poppy pile into the back.

  “Technically, it was her mother’s,” Poppy tells me.

  That makes more sense. I can’t help wondering if she inherited it—not that it made up for her mom’s death. But it’s a helluva nice way to remember her. The drive to Adair’s house—which is a ludicrously inadequate term for something the size of Versailles—is way too short.

  “This is it!” Poppy cries from the backseat when I nearly miss the turn.

  “You weren’t kidding earlier,” Kai says. He rolls down his window while I enter the gate access code, so he can hang his head out to stare up the drive.

  “Get back in the car,” I order him. The kid is going to fall out of the car if he hangs his body any farther out the window. He manages to get mostly inside but barrages us with awestruck commentary as Poppy gives directions to bypass the main house and go around to the side.

  “How many houses does this place have?” I mutter as we pass more and more buildings. My eyes dart over to Adair. She’s slumped against the car door, but she looks fine.

  “Oh, that’s the gardener’s shed. This is just a guesthouse. It’s all part of Windfall.”

  “Windfall? What the fuck does that mean?”

  “This is Windfall, the MacLaine estate,” she explains.

  “You name your houses?” Kai asks. I’m glad he said it for me. Rich people must have too much time on their hands.

  “Of course.” Poppy sounds as if she can’t find anything wrong with this. “My house is so boring. My father’s English, so he went with Landry Court. He wasn’t even trying.”

  “That was Darcy’s house, right? What’s its name?” Kai asks as I park the car near the guest house. It’s bigger than my brownstone in Queens. I can’t imagine why a visitor would need two thousand square feet of their own just for a visit.

  “Las Palmas.” I can hear her eyes rolling even though it’s too dark to see. “At least they were a little more creative with their name. Of course, if it was me I’d call it the hen house.”

  “The hen house?” I repeat, sure I heard her wrong.

  “Yes,” she says indignantly. “It makes sense to name it after Hennie’s. Las Palmas sounds like it belongs in L.A. or Miami.”

  I share a look with Kai, who’s helping me carry Adair inside, while Poppy continues our education in the ways of the Valmont elite.

  “Hennie’s?

  “Hennie’s Hot Chicken. The Palmers own the entire chain. Darcy’s mom is Henrietta Palmer.”

  She might as well be speaking in tongues for all I understand of what she just said.

  “I’ve never heard of hot chicken,” I say honestly as we haul Adair into a room.

  “It’s a Nashville thing,” Poppy explains, supervising the entire process of delivering her best friend to bed. She stuffs a pillow under her head. “Wouldn’t the hen house be cute?”

  “I guess,” I say absently. It’s a little surreal to go from a party to a discussion of the merits of estate names, all while caring for a girl I hate.

  Kai doesn’t suffer from the same degree of whiplash regarding our circumstances and begins battering her with questions about hot chicken. I barely pay attention. I’m too busy studying the rise and fall of Adair’s chest. There’s no reason to think she’s in danger, but someone has to keep watch.

  “Now I’m hungry,” Poppy says. “Let’s go check the kitchen.” She flies from the room like our work here is done, but Kai hesitates at the door.

  “Want anything?”

  “I want to stay with her,” I tell him.

  “Good idea.” He glances toward Adair, his brows furrowing. “She’s going to be okay, right?”

  “Yeah.” It’s enough to reassure him, so he takes off after Poppy.

  With them both gone, I look uncomfortably around the room. There’s no way I’m climbing into bed beside her. If Adair wakes up, she’ll probably clobber me to death with the bedside lamp before I get a chance to explain what happened. Even sitting on the bed feels wrong. All she’s had about me since the minute we met are wrong ideas. I can’t keep fucking explaining myself to her. In the end, I grab a pillow and make a spot on the floor, close enough that I can hear her breathe.

  20

  Adair

  Present Day

  I’m on my second glass of liquid courage before I see him. I remember the first time I saw Sterling Ford in a suit—a borrowed suit. It was the day of my mother’s funeral. He looked as out of place there as the suit had on his body. Gone are the days of wearing another man’s clothes. His tuxedo is tailored to his body, showcasing his broad shoulders. With the jacket buttoned, his torso narrows to a lean waist. Sterling had the body of a man years before any other guy I knew. Now? I can’t help wondering what it looks like beneath those layers of fabric.

  He walks with the air of a man who owns the room. Heads turn in interest. The Valmont-Nashville philanthropy crowd is an incestuous bunch. We’re born together, grow up together, marry each other, divorce each other, and attend each other’s funerals. New blood usually comes by way the trophy wives unwisely imported from the ranks of professional sports cheerleaders and fashion models. In recent years, divorcees who managed to dodge the prenup have taken to being cougars with gusto. After a while, they all blend together, a pack of cougars and lions, divorcing one spouse while hunting for the next in the same pride. Once you’re in this crowd, you can’t escape.

  I can’t imagine Sterling ever fitting in with us. He’s too jagged, his edges too roughly hewn to wedge into an available slot. I still can’t believe he’s here at all. He’d never hidden his distaste for the wealthy, a hatred that applied especially to me.

  Ava appears at my side, following my gaze to him. “Did you see Sterling Ford is back in town?”

  “I have eyes.” There’s no way I’m letting her see an ounce of my discomfort over his arrival. A West uses psychology like currency, gambling on instinct and doubling down on emotion. They collect reactions and meltdowns and make you pay the price later for showing your cards.

  “You knew.” She studies me with interest. Ava’s too smart to not see through my detached façade.

  I cling to it anyway. Shrugging my shoulders, I take another sip of champagne. “He’s in the middle of a business deal with my brother.”

  She’ll find out about this anyway. My only chance at retaining the upper hand is to act unbothered by this as if there’s nothing unusual about my ex-boyfriend, a poor kid from New York, suddenly becoming a viable financial partner in MacLaine Media.

  “If only your father could see him now,” Ava says, giving voice to the one thought I’ve not allowed into my conscious brain. It’s been there knocking on the gates, begging to be let in. Now she’s opened the door.

  “My father was always more interested in money than the man behind it.” That much is true, at least.

  She smirks, seeing through my indifference. We both know that my father gladly took money from anyone — new money, old money, blood money — it didn’t matter. But no amount of money swayed his opinion on a man once it was made. Despite years of charity events and holiday parties, he never trusted a West. Then again, vipers steer clear of their own.

  “So, are you planning to saddle that bronco?” She strokes the rim of her rocks glass, watching him. She’d seen him as a potential notch on her bedpost years ago. I’m guessing that hasn’t changed. “I would.”

  The confirmation is unnecessary and produces an equally undesirable visual.

  “You have such a way with words,” I say, trying to ignore the image of Ava and Sterling dancing around my brain.

  “You have a way of avoiding questions
,” she says.

  It’s as close as we’ll ever get to complimenting one another.

  “There you are!” Poppy joins us, grabbing a champagne flute from a passing tray. “My mother is having a meltdown.”

  “What’s new?” I ask. Malcolm has found Sterling and is introducing him to various guests.

  “Everything is fine,” Ava promises Poppy. “And if it isn’t, it’s too late now. Have a drink and put some distance between the two of you.”

  Ava has always been kind to Poppy, but everyone is kind to Poppy. Probably because Poppy can see the good in everyone. The two had roomed together in college for a couple of years. Poppy never minded the parade of men Ava marched in and out of their dorm room. Maybe that’s why Ava keeps her claws retracted when it comes to her.

  Poppy spots Sterling with my brother. “There he is.”

  “So was I the last to know he was back in town?” Ava demands, realizing Poppy isn’t surprised to see him either.

  “I don’t see why you care,” I say.

  “Sterling and I are old friends. Not all of us hold a grudge against him.”

  “I’m not holding a grudge.”

  “And the sky isn’t blue, I’m not a West, and Nashville isn’t in Tennessee.” Her wide smile is as feline as her ability to rub anyone and every thing the wrong way. Just like a cat, there’s no way to control her. She does as she pleases.

  “Let’s go say hello,” Poppy suggests, linking her arm through mine.

  “I don’t think” —

  “If you want company, I’ll go,” Ava offers.

  “I should say hello,” I say, reversing positions. The only thing worse than enduring Sterling’s presence tonight would be watching Ava plastered all over him. There’s not enough alcohol in the state of Tennessee to cope with that.

  She snorts, raising her whiskey glass. “That’s what I thought.”

  It’s not unusual for Ava to toy with someone, but she generally has a reason. When it comes to me and Sterling I have no idea why she cares.

  Poppy leads the way, murmuring hellos and accepting hugs as we pass various groups of people. Most nod to me. It’s a sign that I’m the prickly part of this pair when no one attempts to embrace me. I prefer it that way. My best friend might get joy from hugging, but I feel like it leaches my energy.

  Malcolm is busy boasting about some recently received network rating to a group of older men. Sterling couldn’t look less interested.

  “And the campaign?” an older gentleman asks. I think he’s a local land developer. He’s definitely someone that knew my father, and clearly he wants to be certain a MacLaine is in the Senate. It’s easier to buy a vote when you know a man.

  “We’re still on track,” Malcolm assures him, chancing a look at Sterling.

  It’s a mistake. Sterling appears not to notice, which is how I know he does. Nothing gets past him. The fact he’s pretending proves the information is valuable.

  “Poppy. Adair.” Sterling greets us as we reach them. It’s as much a greeting as I expect, his eyes travel over me. Unlike a moment ago, he doesn’t hide his naked interest. He shows that, taking a step closer like an animal marking his territory—a sign of his claim over me to the other men.

  Poppy nudges Cyrus closer to me, obviously sensing I need an intervention. Our eyes meet for one uncomfortable moment. I wish she would stop forcing him on me. It’s hard to forget past mistakes when they’re always near you, and it’s especially difficult to do during the reunion from hell.

  Malcolm continues his discussion with my father’s old associates. No doubt he’s busy securing more campaign contributions. It won’t be hard. A MacLaine sat in the State or U.S. Senate for the last two decades—up until daddy got sick. There’s a vested interest among Valmont’s elite to get one back inside as swiftly as possible.

  “You look lovely, Poppy,” Sterling says to her. He glances at Cyrus. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so.”

  Poppy bites her lip, torn between her nature and our friendship. Nature wins out and she gives Sterling a hug. “Thank you for supporting the shelter.”

  “It’s a good cause,” he says smoothly, still focusing all his attention on them. “But what is this for exactly?”

  He holds up the paddle he was given at the door. My own is tucked safely in my clutch.

  “The auction,” Poppy explains. “It’s how we’re raising money tonight.”

  “What are we buying?” Sterling asks.

  “Souls, I hope.” A striking man I’ve never met joins us, his smile as dark as his eyes.

  “That’s not the best joke to make with this crowd,” Sterling warns him. “You don’t want to give them ideas.”

  “I don’t believe we’ve met.” Poppy steps forward and introduces herself. It’s just like her to make friends.

  “Luca,” he says, lifting her hand to his lips. “Luca DeAngelo.”

  Cyrus stiffens at the gallant gesture. It’s not like him to be jealous. Usually, he thinks far too highly of himself to worry that he might lose her. But he’s staring at Luca like he’s a threat.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she murmurs, looking startled but delighted. It’s not like her to be so easily charmed by a stranger. Cyrus places a hand on the small of her back, a subtle reminder that she’s his and unavailable.

  She recovers instantly, moving closer to her boyfriend. “We’re doing this to raise money for the Valmont Animal Shelter,” she explains. “They brought some animals here for adoption to the highest bidders.”

  “We’re bidding on animals?” Luca shoots Sterling a poison-laced look.

  “It’s for a good cause,” Poppy says quickly. “Funding has been cut recently. The shelter is going to be forced to reverse its no-kill policy unless we can do something.”

  “How noble.” Luca doesn’t sound like he believes this. I’m not entirely certain what kind of a man takes issue with raising money for homeless dogs, but I’m not surprised he found Sterling.

  Poppy stumbles for something to say before looking across the room. “Oh, there’s Kai! I need to make certain he’s ready.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I volunteer. It will be good to see a friendly face.

  “I will only be a second,” she says, dismissing me without realizing that she’s leaving me to fend for myself with the boys club.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  21

  Sterling

  I’ve had dinner with Taliban insurgents a couple hundred feet from me. They were still more comfortable than sitting at this table. It’s your typical black-tie affair. Too many utensils. Several bottles of wine with price tags that top the gross national product of a few developing nations. Artfully carved pats of butter. How the hell did I wind up here? Despite Malcolm’s attempts to the contrary, Adair has managed to secure a seat across the table, leaving me sandwiched between Poppy and Luca. I have an angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other. It should make for an interesting night.

  Adair is absorbed in conversation with Kai Miles—a bit too focused to be believable. I don’t miss how she brushes his arm and laughs at everything he says. Given that Kai is gay, I know it’s a show she’s putting on for me. She thinks she can make me jealous, and I can’t help enjoying the attempt.

  “So you two are old friends?” Poppy asks, nodding at Luca. Her ability to innocently turn simple small talk into a loaded question never ceases to amaze.

  Luca smirks at me over the rim of his wine goblet. “Do you want to tell the story or should I?”

  Interpretation: do I want them to know the truth or a lie? This is Luca’s specialty: concocting wild fables on the spot. I never know what to expect when he opens his mouth. I only know it won’t be anywhere near what happened. It’s useful when you’re under-cover and amusing when you’re bored.

  “You tell it better than I do,” I say with a meaningful nod. Permission granted.

  “Sterling saved my life,” he begins.

  This
ought to be good.

  “Did he? He saved your life?” Adair asks coldly. Her interjection catches the attention of everyone at the table. They fall silent and wait for the rest of the story.

  Luca turns a well-honed level of earnestness on her. “He did.”

  In fairness, I have saved his life —on more than one occasion. It’s these little truths hidden in the lies that make it easier for him to sell.

  Adair is either not impressed or doesn’t buy it, because she snorts and reaches for her wine glass. She’s always been a skeptic, especially when it comes to me.

  “What an exciting way to meet,” Poppy gushes, clearly trying to salvage the tense mood at the table. She shoots a look at Kai, clearly requesting backup.

  “How?” Kai jumps in. “Distract me from how hungry I am.”

  Luca leans back in his chair and shrugs. “My car broke down halfway between London and Edinburgh. No cell service. Walking for help would’ve taken hours. That much exercise would definitely have killed me.” He tosses a winning smile at Adair, who stares blankly at him.

  Trust her to be immune to his charm.

  “London?” she repeats.

  “I have family there,” he says casually.

  “Oh, maybe I know them,” Poppy says. “What’s your last name again?”

  “DeAngelo. Luca DeAngelo.”

  Adair rolls her eyes at his dramatic delivery of this information, but I don’t miss how several of my table-mates tense when he says this. I knew that dropping the DeAngelo name wouldn’t go unnoticed. It seems the businessmen in this town know it. The DeAngelo presence isn’t as prevalent here as in major cities like New York — but for those with large corporations the DeAngelo family’s reach is well-known. Until now, there’s never been a DeAngelo presence in Nashville or its surrounding areas. The arrival of Luca in Valmont is a clear cause for concern. It’s much easier to ignore the shadier aspects of doing business globally when your domestic bubble is safe from your less savory international associates.