by C. D. Reiss
“Really—?”
“Declan Drazen?”
David Park had said his name. They surrounded him in their dark suits, guns bulging at their waists.
My father looked up, seemingly unperturbed. “If you have to ask, you might need to find another line of work.”
“You’re under arrest,” Park said. “I’ve waited a long time to say that.”
My father looked at me, then Indy, then me again.
“I told you,” I said. “The night of Jonathan’s transplant. I warned you.”
“I thought you were being emotional.”
“Please stand up,” Angela said, “and put your hands behind your back.”
“I was emotional,” I said. “And dead serious.”
As he stood, he nodded to me once, slowly. A sign of respect to the winner. He wasn’t getting how serious this was. He didn’t know Indy’s witness had corroborating dates, names, and receipts. Not yet.
“Declan Drazen,” David Park recited with no little joy in his voice, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Stratford Gilliam.”
It wasn’t until he heard Strat’s name that my father showed any kind of surprise. These weren’t complex financial crimes. A long-forgotten chicken had come home to roost. And that one moment, accompanied by Indy squeezing my hand, was satisfying beyond words.
“Don’t worry, Daddy,” I said. “We’ll get the check.”
I squeezed Indy’s hand and hid my smile behind my glass as my father was read his rights. All I heard was Indy’s whisper in my ear.
“You’re free.”
I was.
Winged like a hawk, with him by my side, I was free.
Epilogue
Carrie was coming home for my wedding on one condition. We couldn’t talk about why she’d left or where she was. Not a word about her ex-husband or what had happened with the man after him.
“How am I not supposed to bring it up?” Will asked, tugging at his shirt collar. In the back room of the church, which had been outfitted with a light buffet and a makeup table. He made a handsome, if uncomfortable, groomsman.
“Like an adult with a respectfully low curiosity level.”
“Where’s she flying in from?”
“See? This is why I had Indy go and get her. Keep your head in the game.”
“My head would be in the game if you’d let me run the security,” he growled. So serious. So worried. Poor Will.
“Tell me how gorgeous I look.”
I held out my arms to show off my dress. It was skin-tight white satin with a hem that skimmed the floor and a side slit halfway to home. My hair was up, undyed so, if you looked closely, you could see the gray streaks in the copper.
“Instruments to measure how gorgeous you look haven’t been invented,” he said.
“Well done.”
Squealing and laughter bounced off the marble walls of the outer hall.
“What’s that?” Will asked, leaning out the doorway carefully, as if he was going to stop a bullet with his head.
“Those would be grown women,” I said, grabbing my bouquet,
With Will, I strode to the narthex in the highest heels I’d ever strapped on. Under the stained glass windows, boys in robes held candles on sticks and Fathers Harris and Acton waited at the front with their hands folded on their albs. They were all lined up as they should be. As expected, my sisters were in a scrum.
“You’re waking dead saints,” I said.
They parted like a redheaded sea to reveal the center of the huddle.
Carrie had always been the most beautiful of all of us. Her eyes were the clearest blue and her hair was the prettiest shade of red. Her skin was radiant. Her proportions were mathematically perfect.
Sometimes I wondered if she went through what she did as payment for her loveliness.
“You look so beautiful.” Carrie’s eyes filled up. No makeup would run. She’d never needed it. “I’m so happy for you.”
I took both her hands. “You look like a gray dishrag.”
“Margie!” Sheila cried.
“Really?” Carrie smiled as if she didn’t find the idea insulting at all.
“No.” I touched her face. “Not at all. Is this a wrinkle?” I ran my thumb over her smooth cheek. “Nope. You need to get yourself some laugh lines.”
“I know.”
“We’re going to give you some this week.”
“I can’t wait.”
The organ laid down the first few notes of the procession Indy had written for the occasion. Carrie went stiff.
“Go sit,” I said, pointing at the side door. “Indy saved you a space on his side. Look for the guy in the Bullets and Blood jacket.”
She took off, hair fanning out as she twirled and trotted away.
The priests and altar boys filed down the aisle.
“Psst!” Only Sheila could shout a hiss. She jerked her thumb to get me in the back of the line, where I was supposed to be. I was the attended. The serviced. It was my day. But these people were my world and I couldn’t just let them walk.
“Get back there!” Sheila said as she and Indy’s friend and bandmate, Jacob came to the doorway. I hugged her.
“Thank you,” I said. “For being my maid of honor. For everything.”
“Whatever. Get in line.”
She and Jacob stepped out. I watched them and caught sight of Indy at the altar. I put my hand to my chest.
“You are not swooning,” Leanne said as she approached with Will.
“She’s swooning,” he said. “It’s making me nervous.”
“It’s fine.” I hugged Will. “Thank you thought. For always looking out for me.”
I held Leanne, thanking her for years of favors big and small.
Jonathan and Monica were next. He was healthy and hale. Every day was a miracle.
“Thank you, brother,” my lips said while my heart sang my beautiful boy.
He took me by the back of the neck and planted a kiss in my cheek.
“You look too happy,” he said. “I could get used to it.”
I hugged him and each sister as they passed expressing gratitude for letting me help them, for making me the person I was, for the smallest and biggest thing they’d ever done for me.
Hannah was so darling in her white dress and Mary Janes and she looked so nervous I had to crouch by her.
“You ready?” I asked.
She picked a handful of rose petals out of her basket.
“I throw on the floor.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m allowed.”
The head usher patted her on the back. Her turn.
“Go make a mess, kid.”
The church exploded in aws when she threw her first handful.
As I watched her go, I heard the squawk of a police radio.
The last person in line was thinner than he’d ben the last time I’d seen him, but no less powerful, even surrounded by guards or with the bulge of an ankle bracelet ruining the break of his cuffs.
“Dad.”
“Margaret. I appreciate being allowed this.”
“Mom’s a convincing lady.”
“Yes. She’s the one who demanded I thank you for speaking for me to be out of prison when you were the one who put me in prison in the first place.”
“I’m doing the thanking today. So. Dad. Thank you for making me strong.”
“It’s the job.” He gave me his arm. We stood in the doorway, waiting for our turn. “I did it too well.”
“You don’t have to forgive me.”
“I don’t.”
Couldn’t beat the honesty.
“How’s prison?”
“Boring. That’s the worst thing about it. The boredom.”
The last pair split at the altar. Indy and I made eye contact across the church. Will had been right. I was swooning.
“You can make a shank and shiv someone,” I said. The music changed and we stepped onto the rose petals. “Make li
fe interesting.”
“You have it wrong,” my father said. “Shiv is a noun. Shank is a verb. One might use a shiv to shank, but one cannot sensibly use a shank to shiv.”
Indy watched me intently through the thick air of the church.
“Thank you,” I said, tearing my eyes away from Indy long enough to look at my father. “I appreciate the grammar lesson. I changed my mind. Don’t shank anyone.”
“It’s more interesting to have someone else do the shanking. More of a challenge, don’t you think?”
He stopped and gave me to Indy without flourish. Then he turned to me and winked with an evil little smirk.
Indy took my hand and stood beside me.
“What are you smiling about?” he whispered as the priest opened the ceremony.
What I was smiling about wasn’t funny unless you knew my father. Then the complete predictability of our conversation was hilarious.
“Declan fucking Drazen will never change.”
My husband didn’t seem to react. He let the service continue while my smile spread wider and my shoulders bounced. I covered my mouth with my free hand.
“Are you all right?” Indy asked.
Tears flowed as my laughter got deeper and louder. My manner needed to match the sobriety of the occasion, but I couldn’t help it. I’d utterly lost control of my emotions.
“What’s so funny?” the groom asked through a half-laugh. Having caught the contagion, he was near an outburst himself but had no idea why.
“He said a shiv…” My voice squeaked too loudly.
Father Acton turned around.
“I’m sorry…” I waved in front of my face, but I was laughing so hard that Indy was bellowing.
Father Acton smiled. The guests were either murmuring or chuckling.
“And shank. And…” I lost the ability to speak. My eyes were cloudy with tears and my body heaved with laughter.
I threw my arms around Indy and buried my face in his neck, as I calmed and the congregation laughed with me. They only cared that I was happy. They didn’t care why.
“Breathe,” he whispered in my ear.
With my love’s arms around me, I breathed deeply, letting my chest fill with peace.
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for coming back to me.”
“Ahem,” an amplified voice echoed. It was Father Acton looking as if he had a wedding to preside over.
“One second,” Indy said.
Then he held me and kissed me long and hard, while the entire church and my beautiful, glorious, crazy family consecrated my marriage in laughter and love.
* * *
Curious about any of the Drazens you haven’t caught up with?
Monica insists she isn’t submissive. Jonathan is on a mission to prove her wrong.
Submission | Domination | Connection
A chunk of Submission is included in the back of this book. Keep scrolling!
* * *
Antonio is willing to burn down Los Angeles for Theresa, and he may have to.
SPIN | RUIN | RULE
Fiona has seventy-two hours to prove she’s sane, and her therapist has that long to prove to himself that he’s not in love with her.
Forbidden
Carrie and Leanne’s stories are coming.
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I
BEG
1
Chapter 1
At the height of singing the last note, when my lungs were still full and I was switching from pure physical power to emotional thrust, I was blindsided by last night’s dream. Like most dreams, it hadn’t had a story. I was on top of a grand piano on the rooftop bar of Hotel K. The fact that the real hotel didn’t have a piano on the roof notwithstanding, I was on it and naked from the waist down, propped on my elbows. My knees were spread further apart than physically possible. Customers drank their thirty-dollar drinks and watched as I sang. The song didn’t have words, but I knew them well, and as the strange man with his head between my legs licked me, I sang harder and harder until I woke up with an arched back and soaked sheets, hanging on to a middle C for dear life.
Same as the last note of our last song, and I held it like a stranger was pleasuring me on a nonexistent piano. I drew that last note out for everything it was worth, pulling from deep inside my diaphragm, feeling the song rattle the bones of my rib cage, sweat pouring down my face. It was my note. The dream told me so. Even after Harry stopped strumming and Gabby’s keyboard softened to silence, I croaked out the last tearful strain as if gripping the edge of a precipice.
When I opened my eyes in the dark club, I knew I had them; every one of them stared at me as if I had just ripped out their souls, put them in envelopes, and sent them back to their mothers, COD. Even in the few silent seconds after I stopped, when most singers would worry that they’d lost the audience, I knew I hadn’t; they just needed permission to applaud. When I smiled, permission was granted, and they clapped all right.
Our band, Spoken Not Stirred, had brought down the Thelonius Room. A year of writing and rehearsing the songs and a month getting bodies in the door had paid off right here, right now.
The crowd. That was what it was all about. That was why I busted my ass. That was why I had shut out everything in my life but putting a roof over my head and food in my mouth. I didn’t want anything from them but that ovation.
I bowed and went off stage, followed by the band. Harry bolted to the bathroom to throw up, as always. I could still hear the applause and banging feet. The room held a hundred people, and the audience sounded like a thousand. I wanted to take the moment to bathe in something other than the disappointment and failure that accompanied a career in music, but I heard Gabrielle next to me, tapping her right thumb and middle finger. Her gaze was blank, settled in a corner, her eyes as big as teacups. I followed that gaze to exactly nothing. The corner was empty, but she stared as if a mirror into herself stood there, and she didn’t like what she saw.
I glanced at Darren, our drummer. He stared back at me, then at his sister, who had tapped those fingers since puberty.
“Gabby,” I said.
She didn’t answer.
Darren poked her bicep. “Gabs? Shit together?”
“Fuck off, Darren,” Gabby said flatly, not looking away from the empty corner.
Darren and I looked at each other. We were each other’s first loves, back in L.A. Performing Arts High, and even after the soft, simple breakup, we had deepened our friendship to the point we didn’t need to talk with words.
We said to each other, with our expressions, that Gabby was in trouble again.
“We rule!” Harry gave a fist pump as he exited the bathroom, still buttoning up his pants. “You were awesome.” He punched me in the arm, oblivious to what was going on with Gabby. “My heart broke a little at ‘Split Me.’”
“Thanks,” I said without emotion. I did feel gratitude, but we had other concerns at the moment. “Where’s Vinny?”
Our manager, Vinny Mardigian, appeared as if summoned, all glad-handing and smiles. Such a dick. I really couldn’t stand him, but he’d seemed confident and competent when we met.
“You happy?” I said. “We sold all our tickets at full price. Now maybe next time we won’t have to pay to play?”
“Hello, Monica Sexybitch.” That was his pet name for me. The guy had the personality of a landfill and the drive of a shark in bloody waters. “Nice to see you too. I got Performer’s Agency on the line. Their guy’s right outside.”
>
Great. I needed representation from the The Rinkydink Agency like I needed a hole in the head. But I was an artist, and I was supposed to take whatever the industry handed me with a smile and spread legs.
Vinny, of course, couldn’t shut up worth a damn. He was high on Performer’s Agency and the worldwide fame he thought they would get us. He didn’t realize half a step forward was just as good as a full step back. “You got a crowd out there asking for an encore. Everybody here does their job, then everybody’s happy.”
I listened, and sure enough, they were still clapping, and Gabby was still staring into the corner.
2
Chapter 2
Darren took Gabby home after the encore, which she played like the crazy prodigy she was, then she blanked out again. Her depression was ameliorated by music and brought on by just about anything, even if she was taking her meds.
She’d attempted suicide two years before after a few weeks of corner-staring and complaining of not being able to feel anything about anything. I’d been the one to find her in the kitchen, bleeding into the sink. That had been terrific for everyone. She took my second bedroom, and Darren moved from a roommate-infested guest house in West Hollywood to a studio a block away. We played music together because music was what we did, and because it kept Gabby sane, Darren close, and me from screwing up. But it didn’t even keep us in hot dogs. We all worked, and until I got my current gig at the rooftop bar at Hotel K, I had to give up Starbucks because I couldn’t rub two nickels together to make heat.
Because Spoken Not Stirred had drawn more people than the cost of our guaranteed tickets, we’d made three hundred dollars that night. Fifteen percent went to Vinny Landfillian. Sixty-eight dollars paid for Harry’s parking ticket because he figured if he was loading his bass and amp, he could park in a loading zone on the Sunset Strip before six o’clock. We split the rest four ways.