by Nadia Lee
There is a moment of absolute stillness in the room. My mind runs like a speeding train about to derail. The painting…the painting that I set aside a special place for in my home for the time it would finally be mine. No way is Dad going to give it away! Over my dead fucking body!
All of us erupt at once, like a nuke landing on a volcano.
“You can’t do that!” Elliot shouts.
“What the fu—” Lucas bites off the rest.
“That’s preposterous,” Elizabeth says.
“Be reasonable, for fuck’s sake,” I say. “We can’t marry for something like this!” Despite my best effort, my voice rises at the end anyway, along with my fury and panic level.
“I’m going to have my attorney contact yours.” That comes from Blake, whose eyes have turned to something resembling black ice.
“I am being reasonable, and your lawyers won’t contact anybody. If there’s any legal interference, I’ll personally set the paintings on fire in the backyard and barbecue the juiciest steak I can find over the flames. Don’t think I won’t.”
I stare at Dad. The absolute certainty that he will do as he threatens sinks into me. I clench my hands and angle them discreetly so he can’t see them. I will not betray myself in front of him.
“You think you’re so clever and above reproach…” He sneers. “You think it’s easy to put yourself out there for love?”
“I’m sure it’s gotten easier. Practice makes perfect and all that,” I say.
“Don’t you dare judge me. You have a Facebook support group for all the women you’ve slept with and cast off like so many old socks!”
I grimace. That damn group. If I ever got dumped by someone, joining a Facebook group to talk about it with others who’d been dumped by the same person is the last thing I’d do. No, I’d fuck everything in sight and move on. That’s what the post-breakup script for Ryder the Actor calls for.
“All of you will learn some respect,” Dad says quietly.
It sends shivers down my back. He’s plotting something nasty. I can tell.
“One other thing,” Dad continues. “I know some of you are stubborn enough not to play ball, so nobody gets the paintings until all of you fulfill the conditions.”
“That’s bullshit!” Lucas yells, the scar starkly white on his face.
Dad merely smirks, but the joy radiating off of him is palpable. Wife Number Six, meanwhile, cringes away like the imperfection on Lucas’s face offends her.
Bitch.
“How do I know you’re going to keep your end of the bargain?” Elliot asks.
“I guess you’ll have to trust me on this, won’t you?” Dad gives us his signature smile—full of teeth and lacking in warmth. “Just like I trusted all of you to show up at my wedding.”
Chapter Four
Ryder
Julian and Wife Number Six leave, taking all the smugness out of the room. I stay behind with my siblings.
How could I have been so stupid as to believe Dad wouldn’t find a way to use the portraits against us? He loves to fuck with us, just to show that we’re nothing.
I don’t give a damn about any of the material stuff Dad has, but Grandpa’s paintings are another matter.
I realize I’m actually starting to panic a little. That isn’t like me, and it won’t solve anything. I force myself to relax. “Think it’s too late to sue?”
“Grandpa passed away seven years ago,” Elizabeth says. “Of course it’s too late to contest the will now.”
“There’s no surefire legal defense for patricide, is there?” Blake has a speculative look on his face.
“Maybe you just need a better lawyer.” My attempt at a joke falls flat.
“Be serious,” Elliot says. “What do we do?”
“Grandpa painted the portraits for us,” I say. “Us. Specifically. They’re our legacy from him.” Grandpa was the only one in the family who actually loved us unconditionally. Without him, we might’ve turned out like our cousin Iain—who used to get into cages and beat people up for shits and giggles—or Dane, god forbid, whose face shows up under the dictionary entries for asshole, cold-hearted and borderline sociopath.
“So we just get married for a year and hope that he hands them over?” Elliot says, even as his gaze slides in Lucas’s direction.
Of the five of us, Lucas is the one who might balk at playing ball…even if it means nobody inherits Grandpa’s legacy. It isn’t because he doesn’t care about Grandpa. Lucas adored him, just like rest of us. But ever since his accident, he’s changed—withdrawn and harsh.
None of us knows what happened, not even Elliot, but it kills me a little bit to see him like that. Lucas used to be so much more fun, bright and happy despite all the bullshit we had to grow up with.
“I’m having my attorney draft an agreement to ensure he actually hands them over.” Blake glares at Dad’s chair. “I don’t trust him…or his new wife.”
“If she knows how much they’re worth, she might talk Julian into not giving them up,” I say. Our grandfather, Thomas Reed, was a world-renowned painter. Each of the portraits is probably worth at least fifty million. “He sure knows how to pick them.”
Elizabeth sighs. “His wives are getting younger, greedier and dumber.”
“It doesn’t matter. This is nothing but mental masturbation,” Lucas says. “I’m not doing it.”
“You’re not?” She stares at him. “But you heard him. If you don’t do it, none of us has a chance.”
“Sorry. I know it’s important to you, but marriage isn’t something I can handle.”
“You don’t have to marry for real,” Elliot says. “Just get a good prenup in place, and you can ditch her after a year.”
Lucas grimaces. “Look how that’s working out for Uncle Salazar.”
“That’s a different situation. Prenups are working fine for our father,” I say. I have no idea what the hell’s going on with Salazar’s marriage, but I’m not letting it mess with Lucas’s head. He’s already messed up enough. “I can even recommend a good lawyer for that kind of stuff.”
“No. It’s not like that.” Lucas gets up. “Sorry I can’t. I gotta go. I have a plane to catch.” He walks out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Elliot drags his thick, blunt fingers through his shaggy hair. “Don’t worry. He’ll come around. I’ll talk with him later.”
“You sure?” Elizabeth says, a frown pinching her brow.
“Yup. And I’m so convinced he’s going to come around that I’m starting wife hunting tonight.”
I know what Elliot is doing. He isn’t going to just talk to Lucas. He’s going to marry ASAP to show Lucas that these marriages aren’t something we can just think about, but have to do.
“Sure, why wait? Online dating sites are open twenty-four seven,” Blake says.
“Nah. I’m hitting some strip clubs.” Elliot’s eyes gleam. “I want to check out my future bride in person.”
“Oh, lord.” Elizabeth puts a hand to her forehead. “Just don’t release any tapes. I’m permanently scarred from your last one.”
“Ah, so you watched it. Figures,” Elliot says.
“I saw your name and clicked on it before I knew what it was! Now I need therapy.”
“Why? It was hot,” Elliot says.
I just laugh. He released a sex tape with him fooling around with two very naughty girls. Dad denied it was Elliot—the movie was a bit grainy—but I recognized the tats.
“Not just my opinion.” Elliot jerks his chin my way. “Ryder sent me a bottle of Dom Pérignon.”
“You’re always encouraging him!” Elizabeth shoots me a look full of censure.
“It was a congratulatory gift for doing something that I couldn’t. But let’s get back to business here. Where am I going to find someone I want to marry for a year?” Given my job and status, a stripper’s not going to work.
“Want some of my leftovers?” Elliot says. “They’re so dumb, they won’
t know what they’re doing even as they recite the vows.”
Elizabeth’s face scrunches. “That’s really not something to be proud of.”
“Sure it is.” Elliot grins. “You know how hard it is to find a girl that stupid but hot and available?”
“Stop, children. I think I can handle it.” I get up. “Good luck, guys. You’re all gonna need it.”
I duck, laughing, when Elizabeth throws a cushion at me. What can I say? I’m a charming brother.
* * *
Paige
Ryder, the sunglasses back on his face, doesn’t speak as we leave his father’s mansion. The smirk on his lips stays, and he brushes away both the butler’s goodbye and the note he tries to give him.
Sighing, Jarvis hands me the note. It’s written on heavy folded stock paper. “For Mr. Ryder Reed,” he intones.
Nodding, I stuff it into my purse and follow Ryder out.
The moment we’re in the car, heading toward our hotel in D.C., Ryder’s expression turns stony behind the dark lenses, and the muscles in his jaw flex.
“How did it go?” I ask.
“Shitty, of course. It’s Dad.”
“I booked you a suite,” I say. The partition’s up, so the driver can’t hear us. “If you want, I can arrange for a party.”
The offer pops out of my mouth. I’ve never volunteered to do that since every time he has a party, it’s a disaster I need to clean up. But Ryder looks like he can use a distraction.
“No,” he says after a moment. “Text Elliot and see if he’s going to stay here overnight too.”
He doesn’t have to say more. I know what he wants to do.
Ryder’s exceptionally fond of Elliot, although the twin really isn’t the person he ought to be hanging out with when he’s upset. Elliot is an enabler of bad behavior, the devil that sits on your shoulder and says go on, do it. Nothing’s too scandalous for the man, and he does whatever pops into his head.
At the same time I know Ryder needs to let off some steam, and he probably can’t do that with Blake or Elizabeth—they’re both too proper. And Lucas…well, Lucas doesn’t party anymore.
Ryder looks like he’d like to murder someone, probably Julian. A few irate letters and invoices are better than him getting booked for patricide.
Elliot texts back pretty quickly. Sure, sugar lips. Tell Ryder I’m free until my flight tomorrow. Maybe dinner too?
“Want to have dinner with Elliot?” I ask. “You have a reservation at Morton’s at seven.”
“Yeah.” Ryder breathes out heavily. “You okay on your own?”
I shoot him a quick smile. “I’m an adult, Ryder. I’ll be fine.”
Going out with them means heavy drinking and partying past midnight. I can’t do either, and I don’t want to tell Ryder about my pregnancy right now. He has enough on his plate.
“Oh, by the way… Jarvis gave me this. Said it was for you.” I hand him the note.
“It’s probably some pathetic plea to get him an audition.” Ryder takes it anyway and unfolds it. His face turns pale, and an ugly tremor runs through him. A sudden flush rises from his neck, and he crumples the paper and throws it against the partition. Hard.
“Fucking bastard.” His voice shakes. “Fucking bastard.”
I reach down and pick up the paper. What could Jarvis have said to anger Ryder like this?
The note says, Make sure to avoid another Lauren.
Pretty name, but no matter how I rack my brain, I can’t think of a single woman named Lauren who’s been around Ryder in the last four years. Maybe it’s somebody in the Facebook group, but I dismiss the thought. If she is to be avoided, she did more than join the pointless group.
“Who’s Lauren?” I ask.
Ryder glares at the paper I’m holding. “No one.” His tone’s still tight with anger and something that seems suspiciously like pain. “Get rid of it. I don’t want to hear about this again. Ever.”
I nod.
“Forget it ever happened.”
“Done,” I say, but I’m thinking Not likely. It isn’t every day my debonair boss reacts this strongly. Not even a huge fire on the set of his last movie ruffled his feathers. The name definitely means something, and now I am insanely curious.
We drop our bags at the hotel, and I ask the driver to take care of Ryder and Elliot. They’re going to need a designated driver after they’re finished doing…whatever it is they’re planning to do.
“Have a great time,” I say to Ryder as the chauffeur holds the door open.
Ryder nods. His face is back to its old self, but there’s a hint of grimness to the set of his mouth. “If you change your mind about coming out, give me a call.”
The chauffeur shuts the door with care, and through the window I can see Ryder reaching for a bottle of scotch.
This is not going to end well.
Chapter Five
Ryder
We’re still in the first club. We were going to move on, but I don’t feel like leaving. Seems like too much damn effort.
It’s a sweet club. The VIP room isn’t bad either. Elliot picked it out, which means it has the nicest liquor, best music and hottest girls in the skimpiest outfits.
“You sure you don’t want to get any girls up here?” Elliot asks.
“Not really.” I don’t want their faux smiles, their grubbing hands and calculating eyes.
Lauren. A name I haven’t thought of in years. I pushed it out of my mind, and didn’t even associate with women with that name.
But the note brought everything back, ugly memories flooding my head like a cesspool. I knock back another scotch. I know Dad wrote that shit, and he did it to push my buttons. I’ll be damned if he succeeds.
Elliot peers at me. “You okay?”
I should be working off my frustration with hard partying, overdrinking and getting laid, but right now, all that stuff feels like superfluous bullshit.
Look at me. Not even thirty and already a cynical, bored bastard.
The slightest encouragement from me, and all the women on the floor will do anything they think I want. They’ll strip down, grind against each other, get on their hands and knees, put on a fucking live porno show and suck my dick. They’ll do all sorts of things and afterward, brag to their friends about having me, like it was some achievement on par with finding a cure for cancer.
I never let it bother me before, but now it does. It makes me feel like I’m Dad, leveraging my stardom to make them do what they wouldn’t normally do so I can get off on it. An orgasm provides great stress relief. Reduces tension too.
But the effect seems to be wearing off, like I’m developing a tolerance for it.
“You’re brooding,” Elliot says. “Look, this isn’t rocket science. Just find someone to marry for a year. Simple.”
“Easy for you to say.” I reach for another scotch. The fiery liquor burns my throat, but my belly stays cold. “You’re going to marry the first dumb, hot stripper you run across.”
“Yup. And even easier for you since you don’t have to leave home.”
I give him a look. “What are you talking about?”
“That sweet secretary of yours. Marry her.”
Holy fuck.
My scotch burns like hell as I choke and it explodes like a gas tank next to a lit match. My nose feels like it’s on fire. Half a mouthful ends up on my pants.
I cough, while glaring at him over the rim of my glass. “Asshole,” I gasp. “I’m not marrying her.”
“Why not? She’s not your typical Hollywood H&D, but who cares? Bosses always marry their secretaries when they’re stuck like you.”
“That’s so fucking cliché. Not even Hollywood makes movies with plots like that anymore. Actually it’s so bad, calling it a cliché is an insult to all the other clichés out there.”
“Sometimes a cliché is exactly what you need.” He leans forward, warming to his topic. This is going to be a long night. “And this isn’t some corny romantic comed
y setup. It’s a classic Hollywood Cinderella romance.”
“I’m no Prince Charming.” But as soon as I say it, I know I’ve made a mistake.
“Well, you were. What was the title?”
I sigh. “Charming Forever.” A Cinderella remake. It exceeded expectations at the box office. Mira was pissed she didn’t ask for more money. “And in case you don’t know how movies work, I was playing a role.”
“Dude. You don’t get it. Pretend you’re making a movie for a year with Paige as your costar.”
The idea is so stupid I actually don’t have anything to say.
“See? Pretty good, huh? Bet she’d be down with it, too. Everyone in Hollywood wants to act.”
“Not her.”
“She probably just never had the right offer. So make her one. Besides it’s got a nice side-benefit. You get to bang her.” Elliot lifts his eyebrows.
I snort derisively, even as my hormones perk up at the idea of naked Paige. She’s always been straight with me, and I know her passion in bed would be genuine, not the exaggerated stuff some girls pull to look like they’re into you. As much as I know it’s wrong, I imagine her nude and flushed with desire in my bed, glistening with sweat as she spreads her plump thighs wide. I take a quick swallow of my scotch to drown the groan lodged in my throat.
“What about the chick I banged at Mark’s wedding?” I say.
“A frog you kissed on the way to your Hollywood ending.”
I laugh and shake my head. “There’s no frog in Cinderella.”
“It’s called a subplot. And stop avoiding the issue. You want the painting, don’t you?”
“Of course I want it.” I want it like I want to keep breathing. “I want all of us to have them.” I give him a meaningful look.
“Don’t worry about Lucas. He’ll come around. All you have to do is ask Paige. No woman is going to reject you. I think the last time was Ms. Dubinski, right?”
I sigh again. She was my second grade teacher. I used to think the sun rose and set on her gorgeous dark head. I asked her to be my Valentine. She smiled, hugged me and told me to try again when I was older. Then she told my mother and the story got around.