Bad Deeds

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “None of us will find out the truth inside that house,” he says, “and I’ve already texted Seth to get me answers.” His eyes warm. “What I really want to do is mind-fuck my father and leave without playing his game. What I want even more is you naked and next to me.”

  He’s angry. I hear it in the bite of his voice, feel it in the tension in his body. That’s the emotion he feels, and that comes from his certainty that his father is lying. I don’t even think it’s real. This is about fear, fear that he will feel hope and discover it’s false. I step to him, aligning our legs. “Shane—”

  “You aren’t my weakness,” he says softly, but somehow vehemently. “You’re just the opposite. You’re the complete contradiction to everything that is this family, and you remind me of the change I’m fighting for.” His hand cups the back of my head and then he is kissing me, his tongue licking into my mouth, the taste of his anger, his need to escape, bleeding into me, telling me his father’s many lies are burning into his mind and emotions. “When we go back inside and my family fucks with your head, which they will, think about fucking me when we get home. That’s what I’ll be thinking about too.”

  My cheeks heat with the erotic boldness of those words, the boldness of this man who never fails to make me a little bit shy and a whole lot aroused. Again he laughs low and sexy, caressing my cheek. “I have no idea how you still blush after all the things we’ve done together, but I love it.” And just like that, his mood has lightened, and his arm is around my shoulders, his steps directing us back toward the door. “At least we’re guaranteed a good meal,” he says. “My mother wouldn’t cater anything but the best.”

  “Were all your meals catered growing up?” I ask, reminded that tonight, with his family, for all its guaranteed uncomfortable moments, there is an open window into Shane’s past that I welcome.

  “Believe it or not, she was a regular homemaker when I was a kid, even down to the freshly baked cookies after school.”

  “I’m having a hard time picturing your mother with an apron on. What happened to transform her?”

  “I’d say it’s a safe assumption that my father happened.”

  We step onto the patio, and he reaches for the door to the house, but instead of opening it, he maneuvers me to rest my back against the hard surface, one hand on the wood by my head, the other branding my hip. “I will not let anyone hurt you. You know that, right?”

  His laughter from minutes before is gone, his words low and fierce in that way he always loves me, and emotions I can’t name are welling up in my chest. No one has ever wanted to protect me the way this man wants to protect me. No one has ever cared this much about me, but then, I now know that the same is true of him as well. I wrap my arms around Shane’s neck and push to my toes, pressing my lips to his, lingering there a moment before I say, “And I will not let anyone hurt you either.” I relax back onto my feet and stare up at him. “You know that, right?” I add, repeating his words.

  He stands completely still, unmoving, unreadable, until his hands are on my arms again, and he’s pulling my mouth to his again too, in a fast, hard kiss. He ends with, “Ah, woman. What are you doing to me? Let’s get this over with and get home.” He turns us toward the door and opens it, allowing me entry into the Brandon family home, where life, love, and laughter seem to be more focused on one man’s battle to live or die, which he may or may not have already lost.

  I enter the house first, my gaze once again traveling the stunning circle that is the broad foyer with a unique domed ceiling, which is somehow fitting, since this family is nothing if not unique. Shane shuts the door and joins me at the same moment I hear Maggie.

  “There you are!”

  At the sound of his mother’s voice, Shane and I turn to the left, nearing the kitchen, and find her hurrying toward us. As is usual for her, her black suit and long dark hair drape over her shoulders, giving the picture of elegance. “The chef’s quite insistent that his food has to be eaten now,” Maggie says, “or, per his expert opinion, it will be a disaster to the taste buds.” Shane’s hand settles protectively at my lower back while she motions between us. “I need you two in the dining room, pronto.” She stops in front of us and lowers her voice, her attention on Shane. “Is this cancer treatment the real deal?”

  “Why would he fake a medical procedure?” Shane asks, clearly having no intention of sharing his doubts with her.

  Her lips purse. “Why would he announce something like this and not tell his wife beforehand?”

  Shane’s fingers flex against where they rest against me. “Why indeed, Mother?” he asks, a barely there hint of sarcasm in his voice, and I know he’s thinking about her and Mike, concerned about her motives and loyalty. But I also have an epiphany. Could Shane have coped with his father’s flaws by placing an unrealistic standard of perfection on his mother that he’s yet to recognize or accept?

  Maggie’s response to his question is a look that’s downright incredulous. “This is your father we’re talking about, Shane. Everything he does has an endgame and some sort of strategy to get there.”

  “Staying alive,” he says, “seems like a fairly cut-and-dried strategy and crystal-clear endgame.”

  “Cut-and-dried?” she demands. “If ‘cut-and-dried’ applied to your father, he would have told me about his treatment first, as most husbands would have. And if ‘cut-and-dried’ applied to your father, he’d have made peace with his family when he was diagnosed in the first place.” Her voice is controlled, hard, and I do not know if she’s containing her burning hot emotions or if she’s been scorned by her husband to the point that this is the ice of a queen whose king has betrayed her.

  “And,” she continues, apparently not done yet, “if ‘cut-and-dried’ applied to that man, you and your brother wouldn’t be playing a game of tug-of-war with the bladed rope he’s handed you. Your father enjoys his mind games, and he will enjoy them while the rest of us suffer, until the day he dies. Perhaps even beyond.” She folds her arms in front of her but not before I notice her hands trembling, which could mean any number of things, guilt and heartache among potential culprits. “Did you,” she asks, focusing solely on Shane, “know about this in advance officially or unofficially?”

  “I did not,” Shane confirms.

  “And you have Seth, who I know is a perfectionist to the bitter extreme, monitoring his activity?”

  “I do,” Shane states.

  “Then that proves my point,” she says, anger quavering back into her voice. “We’re all being taken on a ride.”

  “Actually,” I dare interject, afraid they’re both making assumptions based on a history of manipulative behavior by Brandon Senior that may not apply this time. “My mother’s best friend had terminal cancer, and I was close enough to her to know details. When a patient is terminal, they are put on a trial list—if they want to be considered for one, of course. When one opens up that matches their needs, it’s often sudden, as it was with her. She found out and was under treatment within days.”

  “And how did it work out for her?” Maggie asks, her blue eyes fixed on me.

  “She lived five years when she’d previously been given three months,” I say. “So no, it wasn’t a cure, but it certainly gave her valuable years she wouldn’t have had otherwise.”

  “I see,” Maggie says softly, her expression unreadable, but there is a timid quality to her barely there reply that doesn’t suit what I know of this woman, as if her internal struggle is perhaps distracting her from a performance. It’s stunning though. Could her entire existence be one big, exhausting show?

  “Mrs. Brandon.”

  The male voice echoes from the left, near the kitchen, and Maggie inhales but doesn’t turn, exhaling on a tightly spoken, “Yes, Chef Rod,” and she glances at Shane. “Your father and your brother are already in the dining room.” She then cuts me a sharp look. “No one else knows where your head was at and you need to make sure it stays that way.” It’s a reprimand, and I don
’t know if it’s self-serving to her, but it’s good for me and Shane.

  “I was angry,” I say. “I don’t care if they know. I’ll tell them.”

  Her lips purse and hint at a smile. “That’s an acceptable response.” And with that, she returns to her prickly self. Then she turns and starts walking away.

  Shane and I stand there, watching her cross the tiled foyer, neither of us moving or speaking, a band of tension tightening around us, suffocating us with the energy that is his family. “He didn’t tell her before the rest of us,” Shane bites out the moment his mother disappears into the kitchen, “because of Mike. On some level, be it consciously or unconsciously, I know she knows that.”

  And with that statement, I have a good idea where his head is, even if he does not, and it’s not in the right place. I step in front of him, my hands settling at his hips. “This is not the right time or place to say this to you, but it’s necessary if we’re going to stay for dinner. Can anyone hear me here or do we need to go outside?”

  “Speak softly and we’re fine here,” he says, curiosity in his eyes. “What is it?”

  “I asked you what happened to change your mother, and you said, ‘My father.’ I’m not justifying your mother’s actions, but, Shane, she didn’t get to this place overnight. She has lived with your father for over thirty years. She made a decision to stay, and found a way to survive.”

  “I know that,” he says.

  “Of course you do,” I say. “On the surface it’s logical, but do you really understand it? Because I remember how much I put my mother on a pedestal after my father’s suicide and how hard it was for me when I discovered she was as human as you say I am. And flawed, like your mother.”

  “Why is this important right this minute?”

  “Because this house isn’t a courtroom filled with clients and peers. It’s your family home with your family inside, and if you are wrapped up in the betrayal your mother’s flaws make you feel, you will not see your father or brother clearly.” I swallow hard and force myself to say the words, to face the truth. “And now that I know the dangerous people your brother has involved your family with, Shane, I know, and so do you, that a misjudgment could be deadly.”

  He stares at me, his gray eyes as unreadable as his expression: one beat, two, three. Then he gives me a small nod, and that is all I need. He hears me. He understands. No other words are needed. His arm slides around my waist again, and he sets us in motion, walking deeper into the foyer, into his family home, and toward what reaches well beyond a dreaded family get-together that someone else might wish to avoid. For in Shane’s case, in our case, we’re headed toward more than his blood. We’re headed toward people out for blood, one of whom has threatened my life tonight. And I’m not even ready to call him the most dangerous of the group. Or the most dangerous person in my life, or in Shane’s.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SHANE

  Emily is an angel in the middle of hell, and as I walk her through the foyer, toward the dining room, I wonder if I’m not the same kind of devil my father is by keeping her by my side, the way he has my mother. And yet I keep walking, leading her deeper into the circle of fire that is my family, selfishly needing her light in this darkness. The taste of sweetness in all that is bitter. And when we reach the arched entryway to the dining area, I don’t even think about turning back. I lead her through it and into the rectangular sitting area, where Emily instantly halts, when this is the last place I want to linger.

  “I love this space,” she announces as we both take in the high-backed brown leather chairs on either side of us, framing mini fireplaces capped by bookshelves. “It’s cozy and warm.”

  Cozy and warm. I inhale on a description I’d simplified to “happy” in my youth, a place that reminds me of a family once connected, now ripped apart. “It’s the after-dinner coffee and reading room,” I say, eager to leave it at that, at least for tonight, but she breaks away from me, crossing to a bookshelf and running her hand over a row of books. “So many choices. History. Mystery.” She smiles. “Nora Roberts.”

  “I have my parents to thank for being well-read. We were required to read an hour every night after dinner, and they took turns making our choices to ensure we were diverse in our interests.”

  She turns to face me, her lovely eyes alight with interest in a past that humanizes people who are no longer human, a mistake I’d just made with my mother. I’d let her remain human, pure even, a façade that left me open to the jolt of the letdown I should have long ago faced. “Fond memories?” she asks, stepping to me again.

  My hand settles at her waist, and my answer is fast, clear. “Yes,” I say, and I’m not thinking of my family, but every moment I’ve spent with this woman. “Fond memories.” I don’t give her time to ask for further explanation, snagging her hips and walking her to me, my voice low, for her ears only as I promise, “In two hours you will be naked and next to me.” I cup her face and kiss her and then turn her toward the doorway leading to the dining room, or tonight’s circus event, allowing her to enter first but quickly joining her.

  Almost immediately, I note that my parents are separated by the rectangular dark wooden table that now feels a mile long, each claiming the opposite head, though we’d once crowded on one end. Distant in ways that allowed Mike entry into my mother’s life, and I wonder now if my father regrets allowing this to happen or if she is simply property he refuses to claim.

  “There are the lovebirds,” Derek says, from one of the high-backed red leather chairs facing us, several buttons of his white starched shirt open, his tie and jacket missing, his gray eyes so like mine, on Emily. “Tell me,” he adds, his attention moving back to me as Emily and I stop at the table, her at the chair next to my father, me by my mother. “Does this family dinner hint at a wedding?”

  My irritation at him introducing a topic I wouldn’t dare discuss with Emily under present circumstances is as sharp and fast as Emily stiffening beside me. “If she survives the Addams Family dinner,” I reply dryly, “then I’d say she’s a keeper.”

  “A wedding,” my mother exclaims, as if the Addams Family comment had not been made, but then I’m coming to realize my mother is a master of simply dismissing the bad and pretending everything is good. “That’s an interesting prospect,” she adds, motioning to me. “Let her sit next to me so I can get the details and do so quickly. The chef’s anxious to serve us.”

  “The damn chef can wait,” my father snaps, never one for these family sit-downs, at least not for a good twenty years.

  My mother snaps back at him, but it’s Derek and Emily I’m focused on. He’s staring at her, and she is boldly staring back at him, and I can see the spark in his eyes, his sharpening need to see her cower. “You should sit next to me, Emily,” he says. “If you’re going to marry my brother, we need to make peace.”

  My irritation is turning to anger, but my father, the hero himself tonight, intervenes. “Give it up, boy,” he snaps at Derek. “You won’t intimidate her into leaving Shane, by sitting next to you, or agreeing with you. I sign her paycheck and she rarely does as I say. Hell. Shane beds the woman and I doubt he can control her.”

  “David,” Maggie reprimands. “That’s uncalled for.”

  “You aren’t there to protect her at work,” he says. “She doesn’t need protection now.” He fixes his bloodshot gray eyes on me. “Pick a spot and sit down before you have a confrontation with the egomaniac of a chef serving us tonight.”

  Emily doesn’t look at me. I suspect it’s to ensure her decision is labeled as her own, or perhaps because all this wedding talk is flustering her, and how could it not? Whatever the case, she makes her move for the chair in front of her, and I quickly pull it out, guiding her to the table and allowing her to sit.

  I’ve barely had time to claim my seat next to her when Derek goes after her again. “I guess you don’t want to get to know me better,” he says, sounding pleased with himself.

  “Oh, I do,”
she assures him, not missing a beat. “But I find the best way to do so is by looking a person in the face while you converse with them. Did you know that a person who is lying blinks a lot and makes unnatural eye contact?”

  Her quick wit doesn’t surprise me, any more than her departure from the library at his threat. She is human and real, not a mold created by greed, but still she manages to bravely face all the things that come with that.

  The amusement in Derek’s eyes deepens. “Did you know people who are rattled, or even scared, leave the room?”

  “Did you know,” she counters, “that people who are reprimanded by their fathers, especially as adults, usually prefer privacy?”

  I don’t even try to hold back my laughter and, much to my surprise, neither does my father, who hasn’t done more than grunt in years, at least in front of me. “My boy,” he says again to Derek. “You really have a lot to learn about Emily. She works for me for a reason. Like I said, she can’t be intimidated.”

  Derek is not any more amused than my mother is, who downs her wine with a disapproving look on her face. So does she want Emily to put him in his place or not?

  “If she knew how often you threaten my inheritance,” Derek says, looking from our father to her, “she’d rethink her attitude.”

  “You know, Maggie,” my father says, looking at my mother, “I think it’s time I share the three versions of my will I’ve had drawn up, as well as the instructions I’ve given my attorney.”

  My mother pales with this news. “Three versions? I thought you only had one.”

  “That changed two weeks ago,” he says, no hesitation to his words, “when I took stock of my imminent death and decided I needed to evaluate who is worthy of gratitude when I’m dead.”

  Like the man has ever shown gratitude to anyone in his entire adult life, I think, but he’s making his point. His money isn’t spoken for until he’s dead. My mother and my brother won’t get it unless they please him in the immediate future. And as if he’s driving home my thoughts, he glances around the table and adds, “In case I haven’t been clear, I still haven’t made a decision on who inherits what.”