by Jess Bentley
I glance at the bartender, who promptly goes about pouring me another whiskey.
“You know my name,” I say, not looking at the redhead. “Congratulations. So does everyone else.” Then, I look her dead in the eye. “That’s not the same as knowing me, sugar.”
She pouts her bottom lip out, unperturbed. “Well… we can fix that, I bet.”
“I’m not in the mood,” I say. It doesn’t get more direct than that.
“I bet we can fix that, too,” she breathes, and leans toward me.
I catch her wrist as she moves her hand toward my thigh, and she freezes. “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to leave me alone,” I say, loud enough that anyone within a few yards would hear.
That’s apparently what it takes. The redhead pulls back, and I let her wrist go when she does. Flirtatiousness turns on a dime into vitriol, and she looks like she might slap me. I kind of hope she does.
Instead, she huffs, rolls her eyes, and stalks away muttering, “You’re not all that, anyway, jerk.”
Just as the next tumbler is set down in front of me, another stranger maneuvers into the space on my other side. This one isn’t a pretty girl, but a dude. I don’t remember his name—some B-list celebrity my father paid to make an appearance, but I barely keep track of the A-list.
“You’d think they’d teach social graces in high-end boarding schools,” the man says. He’s the sort of handsome that gets you into lots of panties, but not into the lead role of a Michael Bay film; the kind you have to milk for all it’s worth until it disappears.
“They don’t,” I scoff. “They teach investment banking, economics, and whore-spotting. All valuable skills, I assure you. I think they have a learning annex for the general public. I could hook you up.”
“Fuck you, prick,” the man mutters, and gets ready to leave.
Maybe it‘s the whiskey. Maybe it’s the leftover disgust from seeing my father balls-deep in South America. Maybe it’s the magic of those last lingering traces of adrenaline still in my system from desecrating the speed limit on the way to the lounge. Whatever the case is, I take exception at that very moment to any loser who’s so desperate to hang on to a last shred of career that he’d whore himself out for Reginald’s PR circus talking down to him.
I turn, and deliver a left cross right into almost-pretty-boy’s plastic fucking jaw.
Every member of security knows who I am; that’s a given. It doesn’t stop them from intervening with impressive speed, and it doesn’t stop the police from very publicly handcuffing me and marching me to a squad car while half the population of the lounge, as well as the paparazzi vultures who live in the bushes near the place, whip out cell phones and cameras to record the event for posterity.
Just like they always do. After all, it’s so much more satisfying to watch the mighty fall than to bother having a life of your own, right?
The cops don’t talk much as they cart me across town, and they don’t have to. We all know where we’re headed, and it isn’t a cell.
Sure enough, twenty minutes later we pull up in front of the family mansion and they let me out with a cursory, polite indication that I should be more careful.
“I’ll do that,” I tell the officer, rubbing my wrists where the cuffs had chafed me on the drive over.
He glances down at my hands. “Sorry about that, Mr. Ferry. Procedure.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I sigh. The house looms over me, and by the time the cops pull away from it I’ve forgotten them. Inside, Daddy is no doubt waiting to deliver his disapproval.
I straighten my jacket, and put on my best shit-eating grin as I push through the great carved doors and stroll into the foyer. Sure enough, Reginald is waiting in the receiving room, eyes hard, jaw clenched, fingers steepled. How long has been there? Did he sit down just like that the moment he got the call? That would be like him; Reginald does like a show.
“Just what the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks. Entirely rhetorical.
“A complete lack of consequences,” I say anyway. “What can I say? I’m spoiled.”
Reginald’s face darkens, well past the point of show business and into serious territory. Cut-out-of-the-will territory. I don’t flinch—I never flinch—but I give up the grin in exchange for the flat affect that hides the twinge of nervousness in my guts.
“Get out of my sight,” he growls.
For the sake of dignity, I stand there a moment longer, locked in a staring contest that I know I’m going to lose—but by God, I’m going to show him it’s my choice to leave. Five, six, seven, eight, nine…
Ten seconds seems like enough. I jam my hands into the pockets of my slacks and turn on a heel, stroll casually away, and only let out the breath I’m holding when I’m well out of sight.
My suite is on the third floor, and when I get there I shed clothes in a trail to the bed. The room tilts dangerously back and forth, like a yacht on the open sea, and I let it tip me over and onto the bed. Above me, the sunroof is, for now, a moon roof and the sliver of white looks down disapprovingly. Everyone gets a free shot at criticism tonight, I suppose.
I hate that my father has that effect on me. Like a trained dog, there’s something Pavlovian about his disapproval, about his heavy, stony glare that turns me into a petulant toddler again. I’d give anything to get out from under his thumb. The longer I’m here, the stronger his hold is. If there’s one thing that can be said about my father, it’s that he never lets go of his possessions. Especially one of his own flesh and blood.
Morning slaps me in the face, digging at my eyes with its thumbs. Groaning, I roll over and reach for a pillow to fend off the assault. Just past my sanctuary, a note stands on my bedside table. I have to squint to read it.
“Terrace. Noon. We’ll be taking the boat out.” Reginald’s handwriting is hasty, efficient, minimalist. Even in short notes his demands leave no room for argument.
It’s already ten thirty in the morning. So I complain to no one all the way to the bathroom, where a cold shower drives some of the fog away—not all of it, but enough for me to be functional.
By the time I’m done in there, breakfast is waiting for me. Two boiled eggs, a slab of greasy bacon, and a bloody Mary.
Good old Esmeralda; that lady has psychic powers and zero judgment. She’s been watching over my father and me since I was two, making meals just like this one since I turned fifteen.
The time ticks away. I eat, dress, watch the clock. It’s a long walk to the marina, but I have plenty of time. Wonder what he plans to say? I’ve endured enough scolding lectures from my father to fill a small book, always expertly delivered. He has a handful of favorite tactics. Disappointment is a favorite, but he mixes it up. Variety is the spice of life, right?
Once I run out of things to do, I finally leave, and make my way to the marina, checking my Rolex periodically. By the time I make it there, it’s 11:58 a.m.
So, I wait. Just a little, just long enough to be a little late. He expects me to show up on time, precisely, but I want to show him that I’m my own man in whatever little way I can. He won’t call me out on it, but he’ll notice. This little chess game is one we play day in and day out, and we’re both too aloof about it to acknowledge there’s even a board between us.
He’s waiting for me when I arrive, dressed in white with that awful captain’s hat on his head. I stroll up to the boat, just shy of a yacht—the yacht is moored elsewhere—hiding any sign that I’m nervous. My father loves to deliver the really serious talks on his boat, out on the ocean, where there’s no place to storm off to.
I’m on the boat and sitting down before he finally acknowledges me. Touché, father mine. Even then, he waits a moment, scrolling through the ledger on his tablet. My father the micromanager. The same accountant for thirty years and he still looks over Saul’s numbers, looking for any sign of embezzling, or even just a comma out of place.
Finally, he sets the tablet down and drops his sunglasses down on his nose so that he can look at me
over the rim of them. “Rough night,” he says.
I shrug.
Reginald stares at me from his end of the deck, and then stands and approaches me. Inside, I brace myself for him to hit me. He’s done it before, an open hand slap right across the face. It kills him when I don’t react, so I mastered the craft of ignoring the sting of it and controlling the reflex to flinch away years ago just to make a point.
To my surprise, though, he doesn’t. Instead, he claps me on the shoulder, his grin wide and wicked. When he speaks, his voice is cool and calculating, all business. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I know just how you can make it up to me. I’ve got a way to clear this PR mess up, and get us Miss Hall’s location.”
He stands, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Go start the boat. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Chapter 3
Janie
Kirby Whelan laughs too loudly at my not-that-funny joke, and I wait for the spell to pass. He’s being polite, and as always attracting whatever attention he can get from the other lounge patrons. Friday night is always busy at Red Hall and while I’m grateful for that—I definitely need the business with Ferry Lights across the street trying to suck the oxygen out of our block—there is nothing more stressful. No night that needs to run more smoothly than Friday. Music is playing, and people are enjoying themselves, dancing a little in the center of the room. This is what I need to see.
So when I spot Jake Ferry, the spoiled son of the man who owns said overpriced, gaudy, classless excuse for a high-end restaurant, strolling right through my front door my eyelid twitches. Kirby raises an eyebrow, and looks around curiously for the source. “Girl, what are you looking at? You don’t have any sharp objects in reach, do you?”
I don’t answer right away—I’m looking for my resident social climber, Gloria. She can smell a billionaire brat like a shark can smell chum in the water and… yes, there she is, weaving her way through the crowd toward Jake Ferry exactly like a deep sea predator. It would serve Jake right for me to let her get her jaws on him.
It wasn’t necessarily Jake’s choice to open Ferry Lights. That tactic reeks of Reginald Ferry, but as far as I know Jake is just an asshole, not a professional asshole. And the last thing I need is Gloria stirring up some kind of PR hurricane, or worse, whispering secrets into the competition’s ear.
“I’m sorry, Kirby,” I tell my friend, “I’m so glad you came by. Can I catch up with you later? I need to… intercept.”
Kirby gives me a wicked, salacious grin. “Jake Ferry? Really?”
“Not even a little,” I tell him before we trade cheek kisses and I make my way to where Gloria is already laying it on thick.
Once I’m on the move, Jake’s eyes catch mine and track me part of the way. Gloria’s follow, and a split second later her fingers brush her prey’s cheek. She leans in and whispers something in his ear. Probably an offer to blow him in the back room.
I should let her have him. It might make for a good excuse to fire her later on. I’m too damned nice for my own good is what I am.
“Mr. Ferry,” I say as I close on them not a moment too soon—Gloria’s already escalated to flipping those platinum-blonde curls—and lean against my bar. “To what do we owe this dubious pleasure?”
“I was just entertaining our special guest,” Gloria informs me, a note of cool irritation in her voice.
“That’s the only reason I came over,” I say. “I needed someone to check in on the VIP lounge. But if you’re busy—”
“No,” Gloria says quickly, predictably. After all, why try and spear one fish when you can cast a net in a barrel? “I don’t mind at all.” She vanishes like smoke on the wind. Dangle a room full of rich dicks in Gloria’s general direction and she can display impressive celerity. It’s like magic.
Jake Ferry doesn’t even watch the girl go. He settles those smoldering eyes on me—why do spoiled assholes like him always seem to smolder so well?—and his full lips widen into the kind of smile that other girls would crow about getting soaked panties over. Not me; I’d never admit that to a living soul.
I clear my throat. “What brings you here, Mr. Ferry?” Business, girl. Business.
“Please, Miss Hall,” Jake urges, “call me Jake. Mr. Ferry is my father.”
“Is that who your father is?” I wonder out loud. “Well, Jake—what are you doing here?”
He shrugs, and waves a broad, well-manicured hand at the common lounge around us. “Who wouldn’t want steal a glance at the real work of art behind the infamous Red Hall?” There’s that smile again.
That kind of flattery probably gets him a lot of places, and people, but I’m not Gloria, or some empty-headed beauty just waiting for my knight to arrive. Still, I take the compliment and smile graciously. It’s what one does, after all. “What do you drink?”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Jake says. “Don’t trouble yourself over me.”
“I insist,” I tell him.
“Well… I hear you’ve got a pretty good strawberry whiskey in-house.” He winks at me.
My smile is maybe a little more pride filled than I mean it to be. Oh yes, I sure do—a signature distillation that I worked my pretty little ass off for two years to secure the first three casks of well before it came to market. I’m betting the Ferrys know that, because I made damn sure they couldn’t get their hands on a single bottle of it.
A gesture and a meaningful smile, and Chester gives me a knowing smirk as he fishes one of the bottles from behind the bar. Oh, Chester. At this point we might as well be telepathic.
When I turn my attention back to Jake, he’s looking me over the way a man might size up a racehorse or an expensive steak.
“Eyes up here, Mr. Ferry,” I mutter.
His eyes linger a moment longer on my ass before he meets my eyes. “I wondered if you were as all-business as everyone says. You’re not seeing anyone, are you?”
My eyes roll on their own. Real slick, handsome. Subtle as an earthquake. “Some of us have to work hard to get ahead, you know.” I shake my head in disgust. “We weren’t all born with silver spoons in our ass.”
For a heartbeat, it looks like I actually hurt him. It doesn’t last, though. I suppose a billion dollars in the bank affords thick skin.
Chester delivers the whiskey, and Jake waits for me to pick up the tumbler as he does. We raise glasses with a congenial sort of professionalism and I watch his face as he sips. His eyes get a little wider, genuine surprise registering as the amber liquid does its work.
“Wow,” he says. “That’s… really good. Smooth. Not what I expected at all.”
“It’s not cheap,” I tell him. It’s the truth—four hundred a bottle was steep, and I got it for a bargain.
“I can see that,” Jake says, but he’s looking me over again, and I’m sure he doesn’t mean the whiskey. Which is fine—he’s right; I’m not cheap, either.
“It’s on the house,” I say. “Enjoy your visit.”
I mean to walk away, but a moment later I feel a hand on my shoulder, and then Jake is tugging me out onto the floor. “Have a dance with me.”
It is the last thing I want, and I try to show him that with an arched eyebrow. But he ignores my expression, grinning like a fool, and inclines his head just slightly toward some of the other patrons. Phones are out; videos and pictures are already being taken.
The last thing I want is to look like a bitter, ungracious host in front of the entire internet—certainly, I don’t want to hand Reginald Ferry any ammo to fire at me in the PR arena—so I fix my expression to one of pleasant acceptance and follow his son onto the dance floor.
For a minute, it isn’t so bad. Jake can dance; he’s probably had high-priced lessons for this sort of occasion, and he’s just handsy enough to make it interesting without being outright offensive. His hands are large, and warm, and it’s difficult not to let my imagination get carried away.
It really has been a long time since I was with anyone, if jus
t this little interaction is enough to get my blood running hot.
“One song,” I tell him, and let him lead. It’s slow, thankfully. I didn’t wear the kind of outfit that looks good on a flailing mess.
As we sway, I can feel the heat from his body even through my dress. More, I’m close enough to him that it’s obvious he has a body under that clean, well-fitted suit. We’re not talking yet, so I distract myself from all that by doing mental inventory of the storeroom as of this afternoon, before the lounge opened, and recite the types of peppers that are going into the new hot sauce I have planned for later this season.
“All those cameras,” Jake sighs near my ear. “They never quit, do they?”
“People like a spectacle,” I reply, disinterested even though I’m already starting to think of what I’ll say when the papers start asking me whether we’re dating, and how I’ll convince them we’re not.
Jake, though, has the opposite on his mind. “You know, I bet we’d stir up quite a storm, you and I. Imagine what the tabloids would say: Jake Ferry and Janie Hall. Could be a PR goldmine, good for both our ventures.”
And in that moment, it all makes sense. I should have figured. But I’m a businesswoman, not a celebrity. Not yet, anyway, and not a real one even when it’s forced on me for a while.
I let go of Jake’s shoulder, and remove his hands from my hips. This little charade is over. “I see,” I tell him quietly, my face still showing a smile for the cameras. “You can see yourself out of my lounge, Mr. Ferry. Thanks for dropping by.”
His reaction is a mystery; I’m sure I’ll see it on YouTube later when Red Hall gets tagged in the Facebook post for it right alongside Ferry Lights. For now, though, I don’t look at him as I stalk away through the crowd, ignoring the smartphones pointed at me.
I can’t believe I fell for that.
Chapter 4
Janie
Chester is a smart guy, and he keeps his mouth shut when I step behind the bar and discreetly pour myself a shot of the closest bottle of dark liquor I can reach—cognac, turns out. His eyes do get a little wide when I turn away from the crowd and quickly down the shot. No, I don’t normally drink when I’m at work and it’s against the rules for everyone else. Sometimes it’s good to be the boss.