Bad Deeds

by Lisa Renee Jones

  Derek and I lock gazes, his eyes boring into mine, emboldened with a challenge I answer in what becomes a push and pull of power between us, in which I discover something has changed in him, something I read deep in his eyes. He doesn’t give a fuck about the inheritance any more than I do. For me, that’s about the money I’ve made on my own, but I know from his legal troubles that he’s spent too much and saved too little. He should need his inheritance, and since I am now certain he does not, I have only one place this leads me. Someone has supplemented his income in an extensive way, and the likelihood that this is Martina, and that Derek is indebted to him in a far deeper way than I imagined, is not a good one.

  “Are we ready for the soup?”

  At the sound of a female voice, I glance up to find a fiftysomething woman in an apron, her dark hair tied at her nape, entering the room from a kitchen door to the left and back of my mother.

  “My glass is empty” is my mother’s reply.

  “As is mine,” my father says, and my gaze jerks to him at the request that is a contradiction to his new healthy habits he’d announced to us only an hour ago.

  “What happened to no drinking, Father?” I ask.

  “I couldn’t tolerate whiskey if I wanted to right now, son,” he replies dryly, allowing the woman to fill his glass and then lifting it. “Water. One of the only friends I can count on right now.”

  His word choice, “one of the only friends,” is without question a jab at Mike, who I now connect to my mother, and perhaps my brother, and I wonder if my father too has made this connection. But are they both connected to Martina? There is the real question.

  “My friend,” Derek says, holding up his glass. He downs the amber liquid before adding, “is one hell of a friend.” He motions to the server and then to his empty glass. “Another.”

  My father waves between my glass and Emily’s. “Their glasses as well.” His attention settles on me. “Glenmorangie Pride 1981 Highland single-malt Scotch whiskey.”

  “We’re celebrating Father’s news,” Derek inserts, the server filling his glass, only to have him down the contents and, at least to me, give off the impression that it’s more like he’s drinking away his misery.

  “As we should,” I say as my glass is filled and Emily covers hers with her hand.

  “No, thank you,” she tells the woman. “I’m a lightweight. I’ll stick with water.”

  “We have wine,” my mother offers, holding up her goblet that is still empty. “It’s far less potent than whiskey.”

  “But it’s all way too potent for me,” Emily assures her, giving one of her delicate little laughs. “There’s no telling what I’d say if I were drinking.”

  “I think I might enjoy that,” my father muses. “But I wonder if my son would?”

  “Come on, Father,” I say, draping my arm around Emily, sheltering her to me, and then lifting my glass with my free hand. “Do you really think Emily would be here if I were worried about you plying her with whiskey and making her talk?” I sip the whiskey, a spicy, nutty flavor spreading along my palate. “Damn, that’s good Scotch.” I lean into Emily’s ear and whisper, “But you taste better.”

  She reaches over and grabs my leg, giving it a hard squeeze of warning, the exchange quirking my lips to the side while the scent of her, floral and sweet, reminds me of pleasure outside this room.

  “Prepare to have your palates seduced by greatness.”

  I glance up to find the chef now in the room, along with a male server carrying a tray filled with bowls. “Arrogant bastard, aren’t you?” my father demands.

  “Simply honest,” the chef retorts, personally claiming a bowl, which he sets in front of my father. “Tomato soup,” he declares. “Your favorite, I understand.” The chef waits as if he expects my father will actually taste it.

  “Move on, Chef,” is the grumbled response he earns instead, to which the chef grimaces but doesn’t debate, doing as he’s told, and in a matter of minutes, we all have iced tea in our glasses, and bowls in front of us.

  “Bon appétit,” the chef says with a grand bow, and then he and his crew leave the room.

  And the instant we’re alone, my mother lifts her spoon and waves it around the table. “No more conversation until you’ve all sampled the food.” There is a motherly snap to her voice that has us all lifting our utensils. “It’s unbelievably good,” she adds. “Now all of you, confirm.”

  Nostalgia bleeds into the moment, reminding me of family dinners where my mother, not my father, was in charge. Also like then, in unison, we do as we’re told, dipping our spoons into our bowls, and collectively, mouths open, we all take a bite. Instantly, the sweet flavor of sugar touches my tongue before it immediately turns to a delicious spice. A sound of satisfaction in one way, shape, or form seems to move around the table, an odd moment of unity and satisfaction, significant in that we all agree on something. The soup is good. It’s small, but it’s true. We all like it. We all agree.

  I have one moment in which I dare to believe this dinner, and our mutual agreement on anything, is my father’s brilliance and reason for calling us all here. He’s finally had a reckoning, and this is a way to show us that we can perhaps agree on more. One small step for mankind, or at least the Brandon family. But the wave of unity is followed by thick silence and then a bristle of universal discomfort as realization slams into us. We are split into opposing agendas, and agreeing, connecting, on anything feels like a betrayal of those causes. This is a group of family and acquaintances, but one other thing supersedes all. We are enemies.

  And my father knows this, which means that agenda my mother spoke of him having was solidified in that fact. It also reminds me of Emily’s warning. I do need to retain a clear mind and judgment.

  Almost as if everyone in the room comes full circle to the same “enemy” conclusion at the same time, there is a sharp shift in energy, and action waves around the table. My father lifts his glass and downs his water. Derek follows with his whiskey. My mother then lifts her newly filled goblet, and drinks. Emily and I, in tune in that incredible way we always seem to be, are in unison as we simply set our spoons down, her hand going to my leg, settling there, and I read her message. There is a divide in the room, but not between us. And just that easily, this group is no longer one, but many. As easily as family can become enemies, life for my father could become death. And in sickness there is weakness, and in death, defeat, which he’s not ready to accept, even in the grave.

  And that weakness is like bait to the sharks that Derek and Mike, and perhaps even my mother, represent and will exploit. Death might still be the endgame he faces, but defeat in that death is not his intention, or mine. In other words, my father is staking his claim on the company, backing Derek and Mike off, and buying time to destroy the bastards. All the things I’d implied to Emily outside and then forgotten the minute I’d gotten inside again. Instead, I was thinking of tomato soup and damn near convincing myself there was a group-fucking-hug in our future.

  Firmly seated back in reality, I look at my father and, no longer seeking the truth, at least not tonight, I prompt him to deliver the message we need Derek to hear, and my mother to repeat to Mike. He’s still king. “When do you start treatment, Father?” I ask. “And can you give us any details?”

  His gaze meets mine, his expression hard, unreadable, seconds ticking by that I expect are all about the games he plays. But time stretches, and I become aware of the white lines and tightness around his mouth. He reaches for his empty glass, and Emily grabs hers and sets it in front of him. “I haven’t touched it,” she says.

  My father’s reply is a cough, then another, that turns into deep, harsh grinds from his chest; I feel like my own lungs are being pulled up and from my throat. Weakness that becomes death, I think, my gut telling me that my father is already gone, that there is no salvation for him, and somehow I find my eyes locked with Derek’s. And with that connection, there is a bond that is both old and new, an underst
anding we don’t want to exist. We both hate and love our father, and yet, despite that love, it’s Emily who is now squatting next to him, handing him a napkin he’s now soiled with blood. Not me. Not Derek. Not my mother, who I glance over to find pale and as frozen as her sons.

  “He needs hot tea with honey,” Emily calls out to the waitress who’s returned to refill his glass with water. “Quickly, please,” she adds.

  “I don’t need a goddamn hot tea,” my father snaps, clearing his throat, the coughing abating. “And get back to your damn office.” He grimaces at his out-of-character misspeak, and corrects himself. “Chair. Get back to your chair.”

  Emily hesitates to do as ordered, something few would do with my father, but when he gives her a stare that equates to a proverbial punch, she acts, quickly pushing off her knees and settling back onto her chair. And apparently knowing my father well enough to understand that one look in my direction would read as if she were undermining his authority, she smartly faces him, while my hand settles on her hip, silently thanking her for once again being the kindness in a madhouse of ugliness.

  “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” my father says, flattening his hands on the table, and somehow my gaze is on his fingers that are now unrecognizably thin and frail, the knuckles knotty and jutted. “Forty-eight hours from now,” he continues, “Maggie and I will be in Germany, where I will undergo treatment for two weeks before returning here to complete another two weeks under local care.”

  “Go with you?” my mother says, sounding stunned. “You want me to go with you?”

  “You’re my wife,” he replies, his words simply spoken, without inflection, while his expression is hard, two collaborated qualities that in my father equal displeasure. “Of course you’re going with me.”

  “David,” my mother tries to reason. “You know that I have—”

  “You’re going with me,” my father states, his tone as absolute as his added “End of subject.” He glances around the room to continue with, “Tomorrow morning the board will be individually notified that I have every reason to expect a full remission and will be maintaining control over the company indefinitely.”

  “Do we dare believe that means remission is absolute, Father?” I ask, giving him the chance to drive home his claim of control and expecting fully that he will.

  “Eighty percent of everyone who enters the program,” he says, giving me a more believable answer than I’d expected, but I do not allow myself to assess the validity of his claim. He is, after all, the man who taught me to paint a picture with exactly the right colors to receive the reactions I needed from a jury or an opponent.

  “I don’t have to ask what happens to the other twenty percent,” Derek interjects, “but the board will, and they’ll want a plan in place if something goes wrong.”

  “You mean you want a plan in place,” my father says. “You want to know how likely it is that vote for CEO you want really takes place.”

  “I don’t want you to die,” Derek says, his voice tight, but there is a hint of grimness to it. “But this isn’t just about family. We have a board of directors to deal with, with or without you. They will demand a plan and a precautionary vote.”

  “Should anyone so choose to make such demands,” our father states, “I’ll simply refer them to Amendment A1 of the charter.”

  “What the hell is A1 of the charter?” Derek asks of a document I know well, considering I wrote the charter.

  “You signed it, son,” Father says, of the legal clause that gives him a motivation to fake a cancer treatment, if that’s what he’s done. “You don’t know what it says?” He flicks me a look. “Enlighten your brother.”

  Derek’s gaze rockets to mine. “You wrote it.”

  “When we didn’t know if you were going to prison or not,” I state.

  “And trusted my brother enough not to read the damn document.”

  “I went over it with you.”

  “Just tell me what the damn document says,” he snaps.

  “If at any time the active CEO is incapacitated, I will be claiming control, until which time the CEO is legally, and medically, capable of resuming his or her duties, for a period of up to six months.”

  Derek’s eyes sharpen, darken, flecks of red-hot anger in their depths, but to his credit, he stares at me, the lines of his face hard, his expression stormy. “And at six months?”

  “The board will rule on my retaining control, or there will be nominations and a planned vote.”

  His jaw clenches and his attention turns back to our father. “I’ve spent my entire life bleeding for this company. He doesn’t even want to be here.”

  “He left his legal career for this company,” Father states, “which makes him the only person other than me who doesn’t want our business to end up under anyone else’s control. The amendment stands.” And then he stands. “End of conversation. End of this dinner for me.” He says nothing more. He just leaves the room.

  Another moment, and a charge races around the room, my gaze colliding with Derek’s while my mother makes a small frustrated sound. “Evidently I need to cancel dinner,” she says, in a rare moment of sounding flustered, before she stands and leaves. Sensing Derek and I are going no place good, I reach down and squeeze Emily’s leg, telling her to follow.

  Clearly reading my message, Emily pops to her feet, already moving toward the kitchen, and announces, “I’ll help your mother.”

  “Yes, help her,” Derek calls out, flicking her departing figure a look. “She’ll like that, I’m sure,” he adds, returning his amused look to me. “She’s fitting right in, now, isn’t she? And she’s beautiful. A beautiful, graceful butterfly with delicate wings. And you know what they say about delicate things?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, doubling down on his earlier threat to Emily by adding, “They get clipped easily. I hear they never survive once that happens.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHANE

  With that threat against Emily, Derek’s second issued tonight, anger comes at me, sharp, biting, and immediate, but years of negotiations and courtroom battles serve me well now, allowing me to deny him the heated reaction he seeks. I steeple my fingers in front of me, my eyes narrowing on him. “Careful where you go from here, Derek,” I warn, and while my voice is low, it’s precise, lethal.

  “I could say the same to you, Shane. Don’t throw me to the wolves with Martina again. You won’t like the results.” He pauses and then adds, “Brother.”

  “You threw us all to the wolves when you got us involved with Martina,” I say. “And there is no ‘again.’ This is over. You heard Father. No outsiders. I’m getting us all out of this.”

  “You’re the outsider,” he grinds out, his tone guttural, but he seems to catch himself, inhaling, then exhaling, his voice and demeanor calm as he adds our father’s long-spoken words. “Profit is king to Father. He’ll come around.”

  “Father is king to Father,” I say. “Martina is out.”

  “Martina doesn’t agree.”

  “He will.”

  “If you believe that, you’re a fool. This is an opportunity for two parts of one industry to merge in financial reward in a way that has never been done. Martina sees that. He wants that.”

  “Illegal drugs and legal drugs are not one industry,” I say. “And Martina only wanted in because you made him want in, but worse. You made him think we could all get away with it, without consequences, with regulations no one can hide from. There’s a reason this hasn’t been done before now.”

  “You’re right. There is. The wrong people were involved.”

  “Martina isn’t the fool you are, Derek. He wants money on this side of the steel bars.”

  “He’s a man who isn’t afraid to take risks,” he says. “You did nothing to dissuade that man from the mission he’s on.”

  “I gave him a reason to get out.”

  “All you did was make yourself a little bitch willing to serve him. His little bitch.�
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  “I’m not the one with a bandage on my hand,” I remind him. “And I didn’t offer my services. I offered him incentives to get out of our business.”

  “The Martina family doesn’t replace profits. They expand them. Give them something more, and they simply take more. There is no getting Martina out. There’s just getting us all killed.”

  “Don’t put this on me, Derek. You did this. Just like you got us into legal trouble. I got you, and us, out of that then, and I’ll do it now, but I swear to you, Derek. You will help me, or there will be a price to pay.”

  “You mean you’ll tell him about me fucking his sister? He knows.”

  “He doesn’t know that you’re using his sister, which you clearly spelled out in graphic detail in the recording I have of you telling me,” I reply. “Do not underestimate me, brother. I’m done trying to save you.”

  “But you aren’t done trying to save Emily.” He pauses and then adds, “And trying might not be good enough. Cross me with Martina again, and I’ll make sure he believes you’re setting him up with the Feds and that Emily is his revenge.”

  “If I play him that recording, you’ll be dead before you have the chance.”

  Our eyes lock in a collision, seconds ticking by, thick air surrounding us before Derek stands up, and unwilling to allow him to dictate my actions, I stay where I’m at. I don’t stand. I don’t lean back in my chair. He presses his fingers to the table, his spine stiff, his anger palpable, and his expression unreadable. “Seems our chess match is far from over,” he says, and then with nothing more, he pushes off of the table, clearly intending to leave, and turns to walk away, rounding the table and heading in the direction where I’d entered the room with Emily.

  Listening to his footsteps, I remain where I am, my mind rooted in nothing but his exit until I know he’s gone. Then, and only then, do I let my thoughts free and they land one place: Emily. There is danger everywhere for her, both from her family and mine, and I’d believed her safer here with me, under Seth’s watch, but the very fact that she is being threatened says that I have done too little to protect her. That shifts my thought process to how I fix this, and fix it now, and I replay my conversation with Derek.