by Nadia Lee
“If you can have your assistant figure out everyone’s schedule… Is Julian coming too?” I can call Ryder’s father Julian because Geraldine doesn’t think he’s worth the respect of “Mr. Reed,” and Julian doesn’t want me to be formal with him.
“Oh, I’m sure Julian’s busy with his new wife. It would be just the four of us.” Her, Ryder and his brother and sister—Blake and Elizabeth.
“I’ll see what I can do, Ms. Pryce.”
“Thank you, Paige.”
“My pleasure.”
I count to two and disconnect. The last time I hit the red button without waiting, she made a thinly veiled comment about how rude it was to hang up in hurry, as though one couldn’t wait to be free of the other person’s presence.
See? This is another reason Ryder is a hard boss to work for. It isn’t just him I have to please, but a mother whose blood is bluer than the Pacific in winter. Probably just as cold too.
“Thank you.” Ryder is practically mooing with gratitude.
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t told you about your father’s email.”
He rolls his eyes. “Delete it. Not interested.”
“You sure? He mentioned something about paintings.”
That gets him to sit up straight. “What paintings? What did he say exactly?”
“Lemme see… Okay, here it is. Quote. You worthless sons of bitches better come to my new home in Virginia tomorrow at two p.m. or I’ll personally piss on your grandfather’s paintings. Unquote.”
“What the hell?” Red blotches appear on Ryder’s high cheeks, and his eyes go darker than normal.
The reaction fascinates me. I’ve seen him act angry in movies, sure, but I’ve never seen him respond like this in real life. Every inconvenience and annoyance is delegated and forgotten. He has a platoon of people dedicated to making his life as easy as possible.
But this… This doesn’t sound like something he can delegate and forget.
“What do you want to do?” I ask.
Ryder doesn’t answer for a moment. “No choice, I guess. I’ll have to go and confront him myself.” He presses his lips until they are thin and bloodless. “Get my pilot ready. I’m leaving tonight.”
I’ve really never seen him like this. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
He starts to get up. “You don’t have to come. Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
Like that’s ever stopped me from having to work. I give him a bland smile. “Yes, I do. I’m not letting you deviate from the agenda again.”
Chapter Three
Ryder
There’s no reason for Paige to come. She thinks me fucking a chick who can’t spell “asshole” is bad, but she hasn’t seen anything until she gets to witness Dad in one of his moods.
And honestly, I like her too much to subject her to this fuckfest, but she won’t relent. Maybe I should’ve gone to the rehearsal dinner…although I understand from Elizabeth that it ultra-sucked.
Damn family drama.
“You really don’t have to babysit me,” I say one last time as my private jet makes the final approach to northern Virginia. “Seriously. Check into the hotel and just chill for the rest of the day.”
“No.” Paige’s mouth sets into a stubborn line.
I give up. She probably thinks I left her behind so I could pick up a chick or two to amuse myself with. Truth is, I had to leave her behind. It would have been a complete dick move to ask her to tag along to my cousin’s wedding—even if she didn’t attend the ceremony—when she’d just broken up with her boyfriend.
And the weird thing is I’m actually sort of glad she broke up with that guy—they’d been together for, like, two years—because for some reason he just annoyed the crap out of me. But then I’ve never liked any of Paige’s boyfriends. Don’t really know why.
Even though she’s probably better off without the dude, I know the breakup is bugging the hell out of her. It’s in the way she dresses. Today she’s got on a navy blue dress that clings to her generous curves and a pair of matching pumps. Her golden hair is pulled back from her pretty face, and her makeup is darker than usual. She always goes into Dark Paige mode every time something bugs her.
This time it’s more serious. Even her attitude is darker. Right now she’s much more… Hmm. Not argumentative, but something close to pushy. Getting sassy with me when I tell her to stay behind and being physically brittle around me.
Like here in the jet.
The line of her shoulders is rigid, and her back is straight. She’s stayed that way for the entire five frickin’ hours. She won’t even accept a drink from me, even though I told her that she could have one.
And that makes me want to punch her ex in the face. She’s usually a lot more fun. You know, relaxed. And hilariously blunt. Every time she’s around, something nasty lifts from my chest, and I can breathe again.
I want that Paige back. I saw a glimpse of her yesterday morning, when she called me out on all my shenanigans and answered Mom’s call just to make a point. It pisses me off that Fun Paige is missing today, and I blame her ex.
Not many people around me are like Paige. Women want to do me because I’m a star. The rest kiss my ass because I’m rich and famous and they want a taste of the lifestyle, even if it’s as someone’s accessory. Paige doesn’t want to fuck me, and she doesn’t kiss my ass. Not that she isn’t attracted to me at all, of course. There are times when I can see that telltale flush or a hint of hunger in her eyes. But she’s good at maintaining a wall between us. I still can’t decide if I like that or not. There are times I’m relieved, because really, I shouldn’t have her. There’s very little I can offer a woman like Paige. But there are times I resent it because I want her.
I’m a pig for even thinking this, but she’s absolutely luscious. Like rich whipped cream you can lap up. I’ve often wondered what she would taste and feel like under my tongue…what kind of sounds she makes when she comes. Would she scream my name, or just whimper and groan? Would she—
Hot blood pools south, and my dick starts to swell. I shift and reach for another scotch to wash away the dirty thoughts. Didn’t used to like the stuff, but my cousin Shane dragged me over to the dark side.
Besides I can’t have tequila anymore. It’s too much of a reminder.
The rest of the trip goes smoothly; our ride—a rented Bentley—is waiting on the tarmac when the Learjet lands. Paige has planned every detail. Mira still grouses from time to time about Paige being a woman, but even she has to admit Paige is an excellent assistant. I think Mira’s relieved Paige and I aren’t sleeping together.
The Bentley pulls into the address in McLean, Virginia, and my lip curls at the monstrosity.
The newly constructed house is a shrine to modern excess. An east-coast version of something I see all too often back home. Wrought-iron gates, topiaries, a couple of water fountains and…a tennis court when nobody at the place plays the sport. A few copies of Rodin sculptures. In Hollywood there’d be a gigantic swimming pool butting up against a faux-Japanese garden.
Spare me.
Dad might think he’s being slick and classy, but I know better. He’s trying to keep up with the Pryces, Mom’s old moneyed family in California. But having more and more stuff doesn’t mean he’s anything like the Pryce family. The Reeds are nouveau riche. According to Mom, that fact alone makes Dad irreversibly and intrinsically flawed. It’s this flaming scarlet letter that no amount of material display can ever erase.
That horrible opinion doesn’t apply to us children of course. We have the Pryce bloodline, and she made sure our names were changed to Pryce-Reed as a part of her divorce settlement. Dad hates us all the more for it—reminds him how poorly he fares compared to Mom and her family.
The car stops, and the driver opens the door. I mentally pull myself together. Some things just aren’t avoidable. Everyone’s gotta do what they can with what they have. It isn’t like I can pretend I was delivered by a stork, as appealing as that is. Da
d is enough of a douchebag to cause a fucking media circus if we ignore his summons.
Not that I mind media circuses. But I want them to be about me.
I smooth my jacket over the casual shirt. My khaki slacks have creases as straight and sharp as a box-cutter blade. Channeling my inner carefree playboy, I put on a pair of Terminator sunglasses and take light steps toward the main entrance.
Paige follows me, her huge black purse slung over one shoulder.
The butler stands at the door, his tux like armor. His back’s straight, his mouth flat, and his hair as black as the ad copy on the bottle he uses to dye it.
“Welcome, sir,” he intones.
I shoot him a quick and empty grin as I pull the sunglasses off my face. “Hey, man.”
The butler’s brows draw together. Now that his attempt at becoming an actor has died a painful and inevitable death, his biggest remaining dream is to be noticed and remembered. I don’t feel like playing games with Dad’s staff, especially a pseudo-butler who’s pretentious enough to call himself Jarvis but refuses to give a last name.
Jarvis No-Last-Name is a relatively new addition to Dad’s household because Wife Number Five ooohed and aaahed over Al, the elderly butler at the Pryce mansion, and Dad decided he needed one as well. Jarvis is nowhere near as competent as Al. But the former actor can play the part, and that’s all that matters to Dad.
“Everyone is awaiting you in the study,” the butler says.
Awaiting me. “Where is it?”
“This way, sir.”
I step inside, my loafers quiet on the floor. Paige’s pumps click. The sound is oddly soothing, reassuring me that she’s following.
Genuine European crystal chandeliers, marble-inlay flooring from Italy, thick Persian and Turkish rugs and matte wallpapers with flower patterns all boast money—plenty of it.
But all that money can’t buy taste.
Whoever designed the chandeliers had zero aesthetics, stringing crystals together without any thought to balance or beauty. The walls and floor look like a toddler had a temper tantrum with buckets of paint. The only things worth anything are the paintings hanging on the walls, and those were done by my grandfather. But whoever put them up has no regard for their themes, creating a mishmash that makes my jaw clench.
“Who designed the interior?” I ask.
“Mrs. Reed, sir.”
“The, uh, current one?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jesus. Wife Number Five was bad. But Wife Number Six is even worse.
Grandpa’s paintings deserve respect, not this…shit. My gaze lingers on a landscape of Tuscany—the sky dark, wind and rain and lightning churning the sea and raging through the field. Yet somehow there is a hint of light in the work, a sense of a better day to come once the storm passes over.
It’s one of my favorite pieces, a reminder of the happy summers I spent with my grandfather. I wanted to buy it, but Dad refused to sell once he realized how much it meant to me.
Fucker.
So instead, I got an olive tree that looks just like the one in the painting tattooed across my left shoulder and back. It reminds me that I can succeed so long as I work hard. That was my grandfather’s constant refrain, and if it hadn’t been for his encouragement, I might’ve never even attempted acting.
The housekeeper comes out and leads Paige to a sitting room. “Strictly a family matter,” Jarvis says in a stage whisper.
I almost roll my eyes at Dad’s ridiculous attempt to separate the “small” people from the family. As my assistant, Paige knows everything there is to know about the family situation. She takes a chair by the door and pulls out her phone, while I go farther in.
Jarvis takes me to the second floor and opens the fifth door to the right. It’s an office, newly done, every wall covered with shelves brimming with brand new leather-bound tomes. I see Shakespeare, Milton, Ibsen and Proust. Dad won’t read any of them—and probably neither will Wife Number Six. He doesn’t marry them for intellectual curiosity.
Dad isn’t in the room, but Blake and Elizabeth are. Blake looks a lot like me—the dark hair, the famous Pryce profile—but hard-edged, with an expression that says he’ll fuck you up just because. He’s dressed in black, including the denim pants. I can’t remember a time when my older brother didn’t look forbidding.
He gives me a nod.
Elizabeth is softer, and she has a gentle smile that puts people at ease. But then she works tirelessly to feed and educate underprivileged children. She is one of the few women whose inner beauty matches the outer.
And there is a lot of outer. If she weren’t my sister, I might’ve fallen in love with her.
She’s chosen a conservative pink dress for the showdown. Her expression makes me pity her a little. Nerves show in her trembling mouth, and I squeeze her hand before taking a seat in a brown barcalounger.
“Don’t worry, sis. You’re his favorite.”
A small smile pops onto her face, and the muscles in her shoulders relax.
Unlike me and Blake, she has Dad’s coloring, if not his temperament. That made him proud, although it wasn’t enough for him to keep Mom. And she had too much pride to beg him not to break up the family. She lawyered up, retaining the nastiest piece of work she could find, and crushed Dad in court.
“What do you think this is about?” Blake says.
I shrug, trying not to imagine the worst. It’s surprisingly difficult. “Dunno, but maybe he just wants to yell at us for missing his wedding.”
Of course it isn’t our fault he and his bride chose to marry on the same weekend as Mark. But I’m sure that isn’t how he sees it.
The door opens again. I turn, expecting Dad, but it’s my half-brother twins. They really took after their mother’s coloring—dark hair and pale skin that burns easily—but got their pale blue eyes from Dad.
They’re completely identical, like they’ve come off a production line. I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart except for hairstyles. Lucas wears his long, and it falls so that it covers half his left eye and most of the left side of his face. Hidden underneath is a jagged scar that runs from the corner of his eye to an inch below the bottom of his ear. An accident two years ago left him that way, and he’s changed since then—although he denies it.
The twins sit in a love seat…which kind of looks a little creepy. Their presence doesn’t bode well.
Elliot and Lucas are Betsy Ford’s children. Dad’s second wife. She married Dad’s half-brother after the divorce. That didn’t go over well—naturally—and Dad has transferred his hatred of her to the twins. Then there’s the relationship between Mom and Betsy. They hate each other so much that if it wasn’t illegal, they’d probably face off with pistols at dawn.
I know. It’s complicated. But in spite of all that, all five of us kids are close, which infuriates all three of the older generation.
“Why are you here?” Blake tosses the question in the general direction of the twins.
Lucas shrugs. “Dad practically demanded it.”
“Did you guys get invited to the wedding too?” Elizabeth asks.
“Yeah,” Elliot says.
I scowl. “I thought he stopped inviting you to his weddings.” After Betsy married his half-brother. It’s too bad Dad doesn’t have another brother for Mom to marry. Then maybe we would’ve been spared the multiple nuptial bullshit as well.
“His wife wanted it.” Elliot sighs. “No idea why.”
The door opens again, and this time Dad walks in. He’s in black and white, his strides unusually long for a man of such modest height. His mouth is set in a nasty snarl, and he doesn’t even look at us.
A brunette who looks like she’s barely out of high school follows him in a bright magenta dress that comes to mid-thigh. She carries a huge purse, though for what reason, I can’t tell.
Maybe she’s another of those women who can’t spell “asshole” right.
I dismiss her without a second thought. Wife Number Six w
on’t stay around for long. Within half a year, Dad will get bored. Then she will be crying into crumpled divorce settlement papers, which will leave her with virtually nothing.
Dad spins around once he reaches his desk. His splayed fingertips rest on the smooth wooden surface as he leans forward. “I’ve never been so ashamed!”
Why, nice to see you too, Dad.
“What’s the problem?” Blake says, his voice hard but no less polite for it.
“You! You all not showing up at your own father’s wedding!”
“We”—I make a small circle with my index finger to include Blake and Elizabeth—“had to go to Mark’s wedding.” I should stop at that, but I can’t help myself. “It was his first.”
Wife Number Six gives me an open-mouthed, disbelieving stare. “It was my first too!” She has an usually high voice.
“I would hope so. Child brides are frowned upon,” Blake says.
Elizabeth coughs, and I suck my cheeks in. Elliot stares at the ceiling. Lucas merely smirks.
“I told all my friends all of you were coming.” Wife Number Six’s hand, however, gestures at me.
Ah. Now things are becoming clearer. I give her my most sympathetic smile. “I can send everyone an autographed poster. Just email my assistant their names and addresses.”
“Nowhere near good enough,” Dad says. “I’ve let you run wild for too long.”
Elizabeth’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. She’s probably wondering which part of organizing charity events and feeding the hungry he considers “running wild.”
“Too wild…for too long!” Dad waves a hand. Agitated. “And I want to see all of you repent!”
Repent. Seriously? Wow.
“You’ll marry in the next six months,” he continues. “And you’ll stay married for at least a year.”
“And why would we want to do that?” Blake asks.
“Because”—Dad’s smile turns angelic, and goosebumps rise on the back of my neck; he only smiles like that before he goes for the jugular—“if you don’t, I’m going to donate your grandfather’s portraits of you to museums all over the world. You will never be able to own them.”