Mr. White

by Tessa Layne

  “Don’t Nico, don’t tell him,” sniffles Austin.

  Tears are streaming out of my eyes, from the pain. Blood is running down my face and pouring into my mouth, but I refuse to give in.

  “Maybe this will jog your memory, huh Nicky?” He circles us, like a tiger stalking its prey.

  I can tell where he is from his footsteps scraping the hay on the barn floor. But I can’t see him anymore, I can only see colors of red and black, and the occasional starbursts of white. Then I smell it. The stench of burning flesh, and my stomach roils. At the same time I hear Nico shout again, and Austin scream in pain. He swallows the second scream, and I brace myself for a third, but Jason’s on the move, and now he’s standing in front of me. I stink with the sweat of fear, because I’m powerless to stop what’s coming. Only I refuse to give Jason the satisfaction of my pain. I’m not going to scream. I’m not.

  Down the aisle, Nico is hoarse. “I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you.”

  “Don’t.” Austin grits, voice shaking. “Don’t you dare.”

  When the cigarette burns into the skin at the edge of my armpit by my left pec, I feel myself falling, falling. My mouth opens in a silent scream, though my ears are ringing with it.

  “DECLAN!” Someone shakes my shoulder. “DECLAN, WAKE UP.” I can still smell burning flesh. “Declan, you’re having a bad dream.”

  It’s Emmaline’s voice I hear, Emmaline shaking me and pulling me back to the present. I wake with a jolt, shaking and covered in sweat. My breath comes in harsh gasps.

  Her hand is brushing my temple, another palm down over my racing heart. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” she soothes, talking in the same tone of voice one would talk to an injured animal. Is that what I am, deep down? Nothing more than a terrified animal, ruled by nightmares and memories? She moves off the bed, leaving a cold spot, leaving me alone, and I reach after her, still unable to talk. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be afraid. I don’t want to be haunted.

  She returns a moment later and places a glass in my hand. “Drink.”

  I drain the glass, my heartbeat slowing with each swallow. When it’s empty, I hand it over, and lie back, spent. And ashamed. The shame burns in me like sulfur, peeling off my insides until there’s nothing left of me. “I never should have let myself fall asleep,” I mumble to myself. I should have known better. This is why I don’t let women spend the night, and somehow in the heat of Emmaline’s magic, I forgot. Or ignored my better judgment. Maybe both. I don’t know.

  “This happens often, then?” Emmaline asks in a gentle voice.

  I debate how much to tell her. Especially because everyone around here looks at Jason and sees a fucking hero, not a monster. I feel raw, worked over, scraped too thin. I’m not sure I can handle any more confessions tonight. I sit up, unable to shake the disquiet that settles over me like a cold, wet blanket. I hate myself for the dick move I’m about to pull, but I hate myself more for freaking out the way I did, and I just need space. I pat Em’s hand. “I’ve gotta go.” I refuse to look at her, because she’ll give me one of those all-knowing stares that see right inside to my darkest parts, and I’m already cracked too wide open.

  She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t try to stop me, or offer sympathy, or even touch me. And that makes me feel like even more of a douchebag. I rise from the bed and pick my way through the piles to the stairs. “Declan,” she calls softly. I pause, even though I still can’t bring myself to look at her. The dream is still too vivid, my emotions - too jumbled. “I had a nice evening.”

  Her words shred me with their kindness, their forgiveness. I actually feel a stabbing sensation in my chest. I shut my eyes, at war with myself. Part of me wants to go back, to bury myself in her arms, lose my mind by fucking ourselves senseless. The rest of me wants to run. It wins. But I give her a nod. “Me, too,” I answer just as quietly before I head down the stairs. I half hope she’ll come after me, that she’ll creep down the stairs as I’m buttoning my shirt and ask me to stay. But the shop remains ominously silent except for the sound of me hastily pulling on my clothes. My footsteps echo as I cross to the door and slip out into the warm night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I don’t sleep. I climb the walls of my bedroom like a caged animal. At three-thirty I help myself to a full tumbler of 12-year Red Breast, compliments of Jamey O’Neill, co-proprietor and chef at the lodge. I tiptoe back upstairs and turn on my laptop. I spend until dawn going over my accounts, answering emails, and coming up with a plan to unlock my trust fund.

  For some reason, I decide to search real estate listings in Prairie. Although I’ve never wanted to be a slum lord, Prairie has been growing steadily since they were nearly wiped off the map a few years ago by a killer tornado. And some big names have stepped up to help with re-development. Mason Carter and Zack Forte for starters. I don’t know either of them personally, but we have mutual acquaintances through Danny. And comparatively speaking, real estate here is dirt cheap. If I could find a few turn key operations that I could improve and flip, that could amount to my next down payment on a boutique hotel in Biarritz. Or finance the capital improvements to the vineyard property.

  Surprisingly, there’s not much available. Only two commercial properties and half a dozen residences. Although one of the homes sticks out to me. It’s three blocks off main, a typical Post War Craftsman type bungalow with heavy pillars and a gracious front porch. What intrigues me is that it’s being sold fully furnished, and the inside looks like it’s right out of a mid-century magazine. I’d have to inspect it, but if the pieces are in as good condition as the pictures show, I could get thousands just for the furnishings. Even the kitchen is fully vintage with a turquoise, rounded refrigerator and matching gas stove. Fuck, I could rent the house to movie or television producers looking to film on site. I write down the MLS number and skip to the commercial property. One is a dilapidated warehouse two blocks off Main. I’d want a structural engineer to look at it, but for the price, it would be an easy flip. My heart clutches when I pull up the other building. The picture window with Emmaline’s Dress Shop glows up at me. Fuck. It must have just listed, because I didn’t notice a For Sale sign anywhere on the building. Of course, I wasn’t looking for one either. And in this town, everyone probably already knows it’s for sale. All they’d have to do is ask at the diner.

  I scribble down the other MLS numbers and drop them all in an email to my lawyer and my broker. I’d be depleting my reserves by paying cash, but that would also give me leverage, because I could close as soon as the inspections and title research are complete and knock a few grand off the price as well. I pace the length of the room, not wanting to analyze too deeply why I want to purchase real estate in a town I want to get as far away from as possible. But my gut is urging me to buy, and I’ve never regretted a gut-level purchase. They’ve been my most profitable investments.

  When Austin taps on the door promptly at five-thirty, I’m dressed and ready for our run. I’m so tense, I feel like I could run ten miles, instead of our usual four. Austin eyes me. “You haven’t slept.”

  “Fucking duh,” I growl and step into the hall. He knows better than to ask why. He already knows. “Let’s go.”

  I sprint the whole way, laying down six-minute splits. But it’s not enough. Even pushing myself so that my legs feel like lead and my lungs are on fire doesn’t erase the dream from my conscious. I beat Austin by a full four minutes. “What the fuck, man?” He gasps, face flushed when he reaches me pacing out behind the lodge. “Did you forget to tell me you’re training for American Ninja Warrior?” He bends, bracing his hands on his knees. “I think I wanna puke, I ran so fast.”

  I shrug. “Sorry not sorry. I’m heading in for a shower. See you across the road.” We should be closer than we are. Hell, we shared a womb for nine months, and bunk-beds until we were nine. We should be best friends, finishing each other’s sentences. But we’re as far from that as you can get. Sure we like each other, and we ta
lk… occasionally. But in general, it’s always been every man for himself in our family, and if you have to step on your brother’s neck to get ahead, by all means, do it.

  I cross the road at seven-o-six. Just late enough to piss off Jason. I’m still reeling from my dream, and the thought of having to see him, let alone deal with him, as if we have no history unsettles me. Deeply. He’s pacing on the patio when I show up, face dark and deeply impatient. Ask me if I give a flying fuck because I’m ready for a confrontation, adrenaline spiking through me and heightening my senses. I stop at the foot of the porch stairs. It doesn’t matter he’s got the height advantage right now, in my mind I’m a giant. It’s the same visualization I use before walking into a boardroom to close a deal. I’m invincible, unmovable. Unstoppable.

  “You’re late,” he growls.

  I cut right to the chase. “You wanna call Dad and tell him I’m misbehaving, that I should be cut off from my trust fund forever? Go for it.” My hand twitches, but I manage to keep from forming a fist.

  Surprise registers in his eyes.

  “See, here’s what I think…” I kept coming back to this thought all night long. “I think you’ve snowed the fine people of Prairie. You’ve let them see you as the hero, the wounded warrior, the tortured soul wrestling with his demons.”

  The vein at his temple throbs. I’ve hit a nerve.

  “I think you have them - and your wife - convinced that you’re the victim in all this. That you were the poor, neglected, little rich soul who was cast aside. I wonder what they’d think of you if I showed them my scars.” There’s so much more I want to say. An entire diatribe festers at the back of my throat, waiting to be vomited out in a storm of rage. But I know better than to do that. I’ve brought tycoons to their knees with six words - I don’t need to remind Jason of his sins.

  His jaw pulls tight and he goes white around the eyes. So he hasn’t told his wife, or anyone else.

  “Do your transgressions haunt you? Big Brother? What other innocents have you tortured? What other young souls’ dreams do you haunt?”

  I’ve clearly hit a nerve. He jumps down the stairs, prosthetic sliding a little on the dirt. “Enough. I don’t want to hear another word.”

  “Or. What?” I challenge. “You’ll break my nose? Burn me with a cigarette? Threaten to slice off my balls?” We’re both breathing heavy, but I can’t stop now that I’ve started. “Should I show Millie my scars?”

  “I’m not that way anymore,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “Oh? How nice of you to give me the memo.” I wave a hand in the air like I’m tracing a headline. “Dear Dec, I was just kidding. No hard feelings.” I drop my hand. “Fuck you, asshole. I’ve got real money to make. You want me to come sweat in your vineyard, for free? You know where to find me.” I turn on my heel and head back to the lodge. Maybe I should have followed Nico’s lead and told Dad to fuck the hell off. But there are other ways to salvage my trust fund and build my empire, and I mean to find them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I spend the rest of the morning holed up in my bedroom making phone calls. I call Danny first. I need to hire a winemaker. Today. I don’t care how much money it costs, a talented winemaker is my key to freedom. And if anyone knows someone, it’s Danny. He’s got his fingers in more pies than I care to know about.

  By lunchtime, I’ve eliminated all of Danny’s recommendations. One sounded skeevy, another too arrogant, a third- overly obsequious. I shoot off a text asking for another recommendation. I’m frustrated, hungry, and visions of Emmaline still haunt me. I need to stretch my legs and get out of here. I drive over to Dottie’s Diner, and slide onto a stool at the counter. Dottie gives me a cock-eyed look. She still can’t differentiate between me and Austin. “Declan,” I say and turn over my mug for a cup of coffee.

  She winks and shakes her head. “You twins… always giving me a run for my money. How do the ladies keep you straight? ”

  “I’ll have to take that secret to my grave.” I wink back.

  Dottie lets go with a belly laugh. “And that’s why the gals in Prairie can’t keep their eyes off you two. What are you having today, honey?”

  I don’t think I’ve ever been called ‘honey’ in my life. But coming from Dottie, it feels homey. Friendly. “Patty melt with fries and a slice of your pie.” It’s not my go-to food, but it’s good, and the diner isn’t a place you come to for poached salmon on a bed of arugula.

  I eat quietly and check my phone every two minutes, eavesdropping on the conversations around me, most of which have to do with ranching, rodeo, and who was caught making out in the parking lot at the Trading Post - the local bar and pool hall. When Dottie brings my pie, and refills my coffee, I drop my question. “So… anything new, Dottie? Anybody bought those buildings I’ve seen for sale?” My offers haven’t been accepted yet, and if I have competition, I’ll find out from Dottie.

  Dottie looks from side to side, then lowers her voice. “Well, I heard that Mike McCallister is trying to scrape together funding to buy the warehouse and start a brewery.”

  “Is that so? Is his beer any good?”

  “You’d have to ask the young folks about his beer, but we can’t keep his root beer in stock.”

  Now there’s an investment opportunity worth investigating.

  While I’m typing a reminder into my phone to look up Mike McCallister, Dottie mentions something that makes me stop typing, fingers in midair. She lowers her voice. “Now you didn’t hear this from me, but I heard that Emmaline Andersson had to sell her childhood home. Cute little house over on Lincoln.”

  My stomach yo-yos. The vintage house I made an offer on is on Lincoln. I make a noncommittal noise, because the last thing I want is for something to get back to Jason that I’m buying property here.

  “She needed it to make ends meet. I’ve never seen a girl work as hard as she does - or go through so much heartbreak.”

  My heart takes off to the races. “Why is that?”

  Dottie shakes her head with a tsk. “For starters, her father died when she was a teenager, and it wasn’t pretty. It’s made her very private, as you can imagine.”

  Yeah. I know all about being very private.

  “Doesn’t take kindly to being talked about. I will say that if anyone deserves a lucky break, it’s her.”

  Why is she struggling to make ends meet when she’s got to be raking in money from her lingerie sales? My conscience pokes at me. Maybe I could have found out from Emmaline if I hadn’t bolted in the middle of the night. But I can’t think about that at the moment, because I get a text from Danny.

  After this you’re on your own. Alison Walker… tell her you know me.

  Her contact information comes across in a second text.

  I drop a twenty on the counter and wave goodbye to Dottie. As soon as I step outside, I call Alison Walker.

  “This is Alison,” a brusque no-nonsense voice answers.

  “Alison, my name is Declan Case, and Danny Pendergast gave me your number. I’m looking to hire a winemaker for a vineyard in Napa Valley that I purchased recently.”

  There’s a very long pause, so long, I check to see if the call’s been dropped. “D-did you say you’re Declan Case?” Her voice sounds surprised, shocked even.

  “Yes.”

  “Not interested,” she says emphatically.

  I blink. Why would Danny have given me her number then? “I understand from Danny that you’re a talented winemaker looking to make your mark on the industry.”

  “Danny got it wrong,” she says flatly.

  Danny doesn’t get shitlike this wrong. There has to be something else. Maybe she’s intimidated by my family name? “Look, if it’s because my last name is Case, this vineyard is private - it’s not owned by Case Family Wineries. You’d be working for me, and only me.”

  She makes a suspicious noise in her throat.

  “It’s not a commercial vineyard, at least not now. It sits up on Mt. Veeder and lost
a building in last year’s fires. I need someone on site to manage the vineyard and oversee the build. If you like what you see, I’d be willing to let you have creative control, maybe even buy me out in a few years.”

  I’m giving her the opportunity of a lifetime, but still there’s silence. Fuck.

  “You don’t know me,” she says. “Why would you offer me a job without vetting me?”

  “Because Danny’s recommendation is enough.” I go out on a limb and show my cards. Desperate times call for desperate measures. “Look, I’m in a bit of a bind, my forte is real estate, not wine. I don’t have time to master another industry from the ground up, and if Danny says you’re good, then you’re good.”

  She makes another noise, and the silence stretches between us.

  “You are, aren’t you?”

  She laughs, a bright musical sound, and I find myself smiling. “I’m very good. In fact, I’d say I’m one of the best in an industry where female winemakers are few and far between, and we aren’t given the same opportunities men are.”

  “So why the hesitation?”

  Again, there’s another pregnant pause.

  “If we’re going to work together, then I need you to be upfront from the get-go. You’re going to have nearly complete control of what happens at my vineyard, which means we have to trust each other.” Funny how I’m more willing to trust a perfect stranger, than my family.

  “All right then, the reputation of the younger members of the Case family is less than stellar.”

  “You mean me and my brothers,” I state flatly. I can’t deny it. It’s why we’re in the mess we’re in with our trust fund.

  “I do.”

  “What would it take to make you overlook our flaws?”

  She names an outrageous number. Twice what I’d been prepared to offer. “Plus ten percent of the profits. And the option to buy you out if you choose to sell.”

  I blink, then stare at my phone. “Damn, you’re ballsy,” I say with admiration. I was prepared to offer the latter part anyway, but the fact she’s asking for profit sharing says she’s committed to her product, and that impresses me.