by CP Smith
First his brakes and now Calla being forced against her will? Not a coincidence.
He looked at his watch again. She had a fifteen-minute head start. If Strawn let him drive, he’d make up the fifteen and then some.
✿✿✿
“I can find my own way,” I hissed at Jessie. He’d pulled me from the limo with little regard for bodily injury, knocking my head against the doorframe in his quest to deliver me to my grandfather. Ripping my arm from his grip, I marched past him and climbed the steps to my grandparents’ weekend home.
The two-story plantation was isolated on the beach, the nearest neighbor a good half-mile away. For all its grandeur, this mansion, a place that should have given me comfort, was nothing but a brick and mortar structure housing contemptible occupants to me now. What had once been a symbol of our family’s heritage was now a reminder that those closest to you were sometimes the devil in disguise.
Ripping open the entry door, ignoring Douglas, the house steward who was making his way to the front door, I moved on swift feet to the back of the house and my grandfather’s study.
My grandmother stood at the bay window when I approached, her hand at her neck playing with a perfect set of pearls. Margaret Armstrong was a petite woman with silver hair and impeccable taste in clothing. But she was distant, a scotch on the rocks never far from her hands.
She turned as I entered the room and said nothing. Her expression spoke of weariness and complacency. There was no warmth at seeing me, only distance and acceptance that nothing she did or said would stop my grandfather in his quest to rule all.
“Is he in his study?” I shouted, my sights set on the closed door.
“Calla Lily, ladies don’t shout,” she admonished, picking a piece of lint from her sleeve.
“And gentlemen don’t buy stud services for their daughters to keep them from fallin’ in love,” I bit back.
“Ah, I see Odis Lee finally let the cat out of the bag,” she replied dryly. “Sugar, that was a simple business arrangement. Nothin’ untoward.” She waved off my complaint like so much water under the bridge.
“Are you pod people?” I asked, because that was the only explanation I could come up with. How do you give birth to someone and feel nothing? How do you raise a child and not want what’s best for them until the day you die?
“Pardon?”
“Pod people. Aliens from another planet that have no feelings, no empathy, that care only about the prime directive.”
She didn’t respond. Instead, she raised her hand and snapped her finger, then waited for Douglas to enter the room.
“Douglas, fetch Calla an Arnold Palmer and go easy on the tea.”
She must be joking.
“That’s it? That’s your solution to any ugliness that enters this house? To drink away the problem ‘til it ceases to exist?”
For once, I saw a reaction from my grandmother. It was slight, but she jerked minutely.
“Please excuse me, butterbean,” she drawled with a regal air. “I’ve just recalled a previous engagement I must attend to. Do make yourself comfortable in my absence.” And just like that, she pivoted on her heel and strolled out without looking back, her head held high, ever the matriarch of the Armstrong family.
I followed her with my eyes and wondered why I’d tried so hard to win her approval. I should have seen it sooner, seen that she was a hollow shell of a woman who did only what she was instructed to do by my grandfather. I pitied her in that moment, but I didn’t forgive her.
“That fire in your belly is why you should have been runnin’ Armstrong Shippin’ instead of wastin’ that brain of yours editin’ raunchy books.”
I whipped around and came face-to-face with Preston Armstrong, my grandfather and driving force behind Armstrong Shipping. He was tall, silver-haired, with an aristocratic nose that spoke of Norman heritage, and a chin that looked like it was formed out of steel.
He was also pompous and smug.
He scanned me from head to toe, taking in my black slacks and pink silk blouse. I’d acquired both pieces from my aunts’ shop. They were high quality, timeless in the way Audrey Hepburn’s little black dress would never go out of style.
“Good to see those daughters of mine don’t have you traipsin’ about in polyester and denim.”
“Cut the bull, Granddaddy, and get to the point. You hauled me out here for a reason, so we might as well get this over with so I can get back to my life.”
His jaw tightened at my outburst. Not once in my twenty-seven years had I ever raised my voice like that to him. I’d listened, answered when spoken to, and refused when I didn’t agree with their request, but never had I spoken in such an unladylike way in my life. It felt good. No. It felt great.
“Direct and to the point. I dare say you inherited that trait from me,” he replied.
“Sorry? Which trait were you referin’ to? Is it the one that manipulates young girls into believin’ you blame them for your son’s death, or is it the trait where you disown your own daughters for wantin’ to choose their own path?”
He shrugged. Proof Bernice was right.
Jesus. All the years I’ve wasted over a lie.
“I do what I have to, to ensure the Armstrong name continues on with pride. This family’s heritage, its roots, they’re bigger than anyone standin’ in this room. Armstrong Shippin’s importance to the State of Georgia, to the city of Savannah, will be written about for generations.”
My lip curled in disgust. “Yes, and you’ll just be another footnote at the bottom that says CEO from 1965 to 2014.”
Slow clapping sounded from behind me, and I turned to find Bobby Jones leaning against the marble fireplace. “She one-upped you, Preston. There aren’t many who can put you in your place.”
“What are you doin’ here?” I asked snippily.
He grinned slowly then moved toward me.
“Now, sugar, is that any way to greet an old friend?”
Bobby stopped in front of me and took hold of my hand, raising it to his mouth. I snatched my hand back before he had a chance to touch his lips to the back.
“Enough,” my grandfather bit out. “Let’s get down to the business at hand.”
I turned back to my grandfather. “Please, by all means, enlighten me as to why I was brought here against my will.”
My grandfather strolled to a wingback chair and sat, steepling his fingers across his chest.
“Well? What’s so damn important you had your henchman kidnap me from my own back door?”
“I’ve had reports that this private detective and you are closer than earlier reports indicated.”
There it was. Proof that he had spies everywhere.
I turned and glared at Bobby.
“I didn’t spend my entire life safeguardin’ this family’s name to have you consort with white trash, Calla. Since Bobby seems to be unable to close the deal, then you leave me no choice.”
“Devin is not white trash, Granddaddy.”
“He’s beneath this family. You’re heir to an empire, for Christ’s sake. Act like it.”
“I’m heir to a life I don’t want,” I argued.
“It’s not a choice,” he bit out, standing from the chair. “You have a responsibility to this family, to its legacy, and by God, I’ll make sure you keep it.”
“I have a responsibility to no one but those I care about and who care about me. You’ve never given me a reason to care, to be proud of this family.”
He shook his head slowly, the disdain on his face apparent. He didn’t care about me; I was just his only option to carry on the family name.
“You’re just like those daughters of mine,” he sneered. “They turned their backs on this family, but I still had my son then, the one bright spot in my life, so it was of no consequence. But I don’t now, thanks to you, so, unfortunately, you owe me, and you owe this family.”
I didn’t take the bait. He could blame me all he wanted, but I was done listening.
“So tell me, Granddaddy. What’s your plan this time to control my life?”
He looked to my right and Bobby moved to my side, taking hold of my hand. I tried to pull it free, but he held tight.
“You will marry Bobby Jones,” my grandfather said, cool as you like, and I laughed, cutting him off.
“You’re crazy, there is no—”
“Silence,” he bellowed with so much hate that it caught me off guard and I took a step back. “You will marry Bobby and take your rightful place at the helm of Armstrong Shippin’, or so help me God I’ll destroy the private investigator. When I’m done with him, he’ll have to leave the State of Georgia to find work.”
I wrenched my hand from Bobby’s and took a step closer to the man who could have been like a father to me if he’d just tried. “Never,” I shouted.
The soft color of hatred masking my grandfather’s features was the last thing I saw before an open palm slapped me across the face.
✿✿✿
A massive rock wall, linked together with an iron gate worthy of the White House, designed to keep unwelcomed guests from entering the Armstrong estate, spanned the entirety of the palatial grounds.
They’d made the forty-five minute trip in thirty thanks to flashing turret lights and the occasional blast from Strawn’s siren.
“We’ve crossed over into South Carolina, so I’m out of my jurisdiction. We have to play this smart.”
“You play it smart,” Devin said, reaching for the door handle. “I’m going over the wall.”
Strawn sighed. “You’re a fuckin’ cowboy, you know that? You can’t help Calla if you get arrested for trespassin’.”
“You got a better idea?”
Strawn looked at the call button on the intercom. “We could ask nicely.”
Devin scoffed. “No way in hell will that old man let me in. You push that button, I’ll lose the element of surprise.”
Strawn threw the truck in park and grumbled, “Fuck.” Grabbing his door handle, he looked at Devin. “I lose my badge over this, I’m comin’ to work with you.”
“Quit tryin’ to stop me from rescuin’ Calla.” Devin grinned.
Both men opened their doors and got one foot on the ground when the iron gate hummed to life, swinging open for a limo to pass through.
“Flag it down,” Devin barked. “Calla could be inside.”
Pulling out his badge, Strawn raised it and stepped into the road, blocking their exit. A rear window rolled down, revealing an older woman holding a cut-crystal glass filled with amber liquid. She scanned both men then took a drink. “I take it you’re here about my granddaughter?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Strawn answered.
“Which one of you gentlemen is the private investigator?”
“I am,” Devin answered, stepping closer to the vehicle.
Her light blue eyes took him in from head to toe. “Are you a good man?”
“I try like hell to be.”
She considered his answer for a moment then asked, “Do you care about my granddaughter, or is it her money that brings you here?”
Devin’s jaw locked, his features shutting down at the insult.
“Fair enough. I’ll take that as you care,” she replied when he refused to answer. “You better get up there before my husband calls the preacher and marries her off.”
Devin looked at Strawn then back at the woman.
“Say again?” Devin growled.
“Married,” she enunciated. “To Bobby Jones. Though, Lord only knows why he’d pick such a weak man for Calla. She needs a man who can handle the hurricanes that are sure to surround her life.” She narrowed her eyes at Devin. “Can you handle gale force winds?”
Devin’s mouth pulled into a sinister grin. “Like a fuckin’ lighthouse.”
Calla’s grandmother actually smiled. “Don’t say fuck, it’s not gentlemanly,” she returned then opened her bag and wrote something on a scrap of paper. “Here’s the code to get inside. Wait until we’re gone, then enter.”
Devin reached out and took the code. “Thank you.”
She scanned him again, her dull eyes lighting with an inner spark for the first time. “Calla always did have good taste.”
He smiled, nodded, then stepped back as she rolled her window up, saying, “Y’all have a nice day,” as it closed.
“Did that just happen?” Strawn asked.
“Guess we’ll find out,” Devin returned, heading for the truck.
The code worked like she said it would, so they made the quarter-mile drive to the font of the estate.
“Play it cool,” Strawn mumbled as he punched the doorbell.
“Not where Calla’s concerned,” he countered.
Whispering, “Jesus, fuckin’ cowboy,” as the door opened, he flipped his badge with authority he didn’t have at that moment, as a man appeared in front of them.
He looked between them, clearly confused how they’d gained entrance to the estate.
“How may I help you?”
“We need to see Preston Armstrong,” Strawn stated.
“He’s not in residence. Do you have an appointment?”
“I don’t give a shit if he’s home or not. I’m here for Calla Armstrong,” Devin explained.
“Miss Calla doesn’t reside at Armstrong House.”
Devin scowled at the old man. “I’m not playin’ this game. I know she’s here.”
“Unless you have an appointment, I can’t help you,” the butler returned.
Devin was about to muscle his way past the older gentlemen when an angry voice bellowed, “Silence,” causing the butler to turn in surprise. The space he created when he turned was all Devin needed, and he pushed past the man.
He made it two steps inside the marble foyer when a giant of a man stepped in front of him and crossed his arms. Devin stopped short, his muscles tensing for confrontation.
“Let me past,” Devin clipped.
The goliath shook his head.
“This is not playin’ it cool,” Strawn advised from behind him.
He heard Calla shout, “Never,” so he moved to sidestep the man. Lunging to stop Devin’s advance, the man miscalculated, and Devin was ready. He put a shoulder to his gut, flipping the giant over his shoulder and onto his back, his head slamming against the floor with a resounding thud.
“Goddamnit, Hawthorne,” Strawn bit out, but he ignored him and turned in the direction of the shouting. Halfway down the hall he heard the unmistakable sound of a face being slapped and Calla’s startled voice crying out in pain.
Strawn shouted, “Go,” following Devin as he barreled down the hallway, hell-bent for leather.
They both skidded to a halt when the hallway ended, then turned left and found Bobby Jones helping Calla up from the floor as she clutched her face.
Devin saw red instantly and made to move, ready to tear Jones limb from limb, but Strawn grabbed his arm and mumbled, “I can’t protect you if you lay a finger on either man.”
He shrugged off his hand and moved to Calla as she stared at her grandfather, pain, betrayal, and disbelief painting her features. He knew then who had struck the blow. He wanted to put his fist in the old man’s jaw for the pain he caused her, both mentally and physically.
Preston Armstrong saw him first and brought himself up to his full height, bellowing, “Jessie,” as Devin took hold of Calla’s arm and pulled her to him. She gasped, caught off-guard by his presence, then tears flooded her eyes as he reached out and gently tilted her face to the side, taking in the red welt beginning to form. He could see each individual mark of a finger marring her ivory skin.
When she cast her eyes away from his and tried to step back, he whispered, “Baby?” She was withdrawing again; he could feel the wall going up. “We’re leavin’,” he bit out. He needed to get her alone so he could attempt to repair the damage her grandfather had caused.
“What’d I say last night, Hawthorne?” Bobby asked, stepping in front of D
evin as he curled her into his body. “You brought this down on her yourself,” he finished, jerking his head at Calla.
Devin released Calla and pushed her behind him. He stood toe-to-toe with Jones, taking deep, controlled breaths to cool the fury swirling through his body. His expression was flat. His blue eyes iced over with rage.
“The only reason I won’t put my fist down your throat and pull out your heart is to protect Calla. Remember that. You come near her again,”—he turned and looked at her grandfather—“or lay a hand on her,” he bit off, “I won’t be so forgiving.”
When he turned back to Calla, he put out his hand. “Let’s go.”
She reached out to take it, looked up at his face, and paused.
“What happened to your face?”
Christ, he’d forgotten about the bandage over his eye.
“Nothin’.”
“Not nothin’,” her grandfather called out, looking at Calla. “Seems he had an accident this mornin’, isn’t that right, Mr. Hawthorne? Seems his brakes failed. Curious how that could happen without warnin’.”
Calla’s eyes shot to her grandfather, then rounded with surprise—with fear.
“Baby, let’s go,” Devin barked, reaching out to take her arm, but she stepped back from him, shaking her head.
Jesus. The woman could build a wall quicker than Donald Trump.
“Calla,” he warned.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
He ignored her. “Take my hand, babe. I’m not leavin’ here without you.”
“I can’t. I—I have to protect y—that is, I want to protect my family’s legacy.”
At her announcement, Preston Armstrong bellowed, “Jessie, I want this man removed from my home.”
Ignoring him, Devin moved in closer to her. “I’m not leavin’ you in this den of jackals. Now take my hand.”
She shook her head then reached up and traced the bandage above his eye, tears falling down her cheeks in tiny rivers.
“I’d have given anything to know what it feels like to be loved by you.”
Christ, she was saying good-bye to him, so he was done fucking around with the lot of them.
“You’re gonna find out,” he whispered back.
“No, this has to end before somethin’ happens to—”