Kestrel

by A. M. Hargrove

  “I meant what I said. I’ll do anything you want. No holds barred.”

  “You may change your mind,” he warns. “And then what?”

  I shrug. “Do what you want with the room. And I won’t change my mind. I swear.”

  “The price?”

  “Four point five.”

  “I’ll have a check delivered tomorrow. When can you have your things out?”

  Jesus! He didn’t blink or even quibble. Uncle Foster said I’d never get that much. “That depends. Do you want the furnishings?”

  “Isn’t there anything you want to keep?”

  “Well, of course. Some of the family antiques I’ll want, but if I’m moving into the carriage house, I won’t have room for all this stuff. This is a six-bedroom house. Besides, the carriage house is already furnished.”

  “I guess we’ll need to meet to discuss what you want.”

  “The price will change if you want a lot of the furniture. My parents didn’t buy cheap stuff.”

  “I can see that,” he says, dryly.

  “Dinner? Friday? I’ll cook and you can look around and decide what furnishings you’d like to purchase.”

  “Sounds like we may have ourselves a deal.” He squints. “How did you know I was single?”

  “What?”

  “How did you know I wasn’t married? Your proposition?”

  “No ring.”

  “Hmm. A lot of married men don’t wear rings,” he says.

  “Yeah, the ones that try to hide it.”

  He pinches his lower lip as his emerald irises bore into my faded gray ones. Then he says, “Friday. Seven.”

  I walk him to the door. He gets in a sleek, black sports car. The engine rumbles so deep, it vibrates my bones. I’m not sure what kind of car it is, but I know it’s expensive because I’ve never seen one like it before.

  What the hell have I just done? I hope I know what I’m doing because he looks way out of my league and dangerous as hell. The first thing I do is call Harper. I need some encouragement here. But I don’t dare tell her about the arrangement.

  Chapter Four

  Kestrel

  That was interesting. Or not. I want the house. It’s perfection. The girl—not so much. She’s about as fucked up as I am. No, I take that back. She may be worse. That room is a fucking shrine to her dead daughter. Dead flowers were everywhere. Cards and balloons, too. It was borderline psycho. I wonder what Gabby would think. Hell, I know what she’d think. That the good doctor needs to be locked away in an asylum. I’d be doing her a favor by refusing to keep that room.

  And the way she threw herself at me. Christ! She was like kissing a fucking nun! And I thought I had issues.

  When I get home I pour myself a drink and my phone rings.

  “How was it?”

  It’s Kolson.

  “Perfect. I made an offer. I have to meet with the owner on Friday night to talk about the possible purchase of the furnishings. You wouldn’t believe the place.”

  “What was the asking price?”

  “Four point five. And she wants to rent the carriage house.”

  “Seriously? Rental income on top of that?”

  “Yeah.” I don’t tell him the rest of the disturbing story.

  “So, tell me about it.”

  I fill him in on the details of the house.

  “Damn, bro, you killed it on that one. And the location. It’s exactly where you wanted.”

  “Right? You should see the place. It’s been completely renovated too. The kitchen is unreal.”

  He laughs. “Like you give a shit about that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “How often do you cook?”

  “Hey, you never know. I may take it up as a hobby.”

  He makes some kind of grunting noise. He knows that’s complete bullshit. I hate to cook. I can grill a steak and do a little bit here and there, but nothing extravagant.

  “Well, I can hire someone to cook for me. And they’ll love the kitchen.”

  “Now that I can believe,” he says, laughing as we end the call.

  ***

  The pressure on my throat tightens. His hands are so large—too large for me to fight against. My fingers tighten around his wrists and try to pull them away from me, but they gain no purchase. Then he stops squeezing and bends his head to my ear.

  “You will do as I say, or this continues. Understand?”

  I nod, or try anyway. Then he lets me go and I slide down the wall, legs crumpling.

  My body jerks as I wake up from my recurring dream. Dream, hell. It was my reality for years with that bastard. The Dragon. Heart clanging, I reach for my ear buds and turn on the music. It calms me in times like these.

  When I think of his death, a sense of happiness showers me. How sick is that? Most people would cry if their father had been shot. Not me. I rejoice on a daily basis. The strange thing about it, though, is I can’t do it in front of my brother. And I don’t understand why. It’s like we tiptoe around the subject, neither of us breaking the ice of discussing it. My sister-in-law thinks it damaged me beyond the point of repair. And maybe it did and I’m too fucked up to notice. But every day since he died has been a celebration for me. I was tethered to that fucker by an invisible chain. The day he left this Earth was my ticket to freedom. Not that I don’t carry mental problems from what he did to me over the years. But the simple fact that he’s gone has been a balm to my torn and ragged soul.

  People who’ve never been abused don’t understand—can’t understand the terror. It’s a living, breathing thing. It doesn’t go away. It only grows and develops into something so monstrous that it distorts every single thing you do. Even the tiniest actions are affected. Brushing your teeth, combing your hair, eating, even drinking water. It crushes you by its weight until you barely function. And then he comes barreling down on you and it intensifies even more. Living becomes almost intolerable, and there is no way out. That was life with the Dragon. Now he’s dead and the terror is receding. Bit by bit. And I am finally feeling that there is life for me again.

  My adopted father, Langston Hart, was a monster. A living, fire-breathing dragon. The cruelty began with my older brother, Kolson. I came next, and finally my younger brother, Kade. Langston made it look like he was a great philanthropist, adopting three boys. Philanthropist my ass—he was more like a fucking sadist. If only they had known the truth about the monster he was … that all along he had orchestrated a plot to acquire three sons with no questions asked. We were all around five or six when he adopted us. We were deprived of so much, it’s difficult to even think about, much less explain. The Dragon’s forte was intimidation. He thrived on it and his favorite method was grasping me around the neck and choking me. We weren’t sexually abused, but he made up for it in other ways. He was a brutal bastard. I sincerely hope he rots in hell. We all lived in our own hell because of him.

  It’s four a.m. and I doubt I’ll be able to go back to sleep. A good, hard run would set my mind right. It doesn’t take long for me to get dressed and hit the streets. It’s still dark and quiet out. My feet strike a decent rhythm as I make my way around all the gorgeous homes South of Broad Street. The architecture is so interesting down here that I barely notice what street I’m on, until I hit the battery and Murray Boulevard. The views of the water are superb. I’m quite taken with this and find I’m all the way down by the Coast Guard Station before I realize it. Instead of continuing on, I do a u-ey and head back to see the homes on Murray again. I’m completely smitten with them, which is odd because Kolson is the one who usually gets his boxers in a wad over real estate. I’m hoping the second time around will be a let down. It’s quite the contrary. It’s much better than the first. Christ. I can’t believe I’m about to be an owner here. I slow my pace as I pass the house that I made the offer on. There’s a light on upstairs and I can’t help but wonder if Carter is asleep or is she awake and anxious about the upcoming sale.

&
nbsp; On the way to the office, I have the driver find a Starbuck’s or the equivalent. I can’t risk not having any coffee. I snag two large cups. Shayla won’t be in until eight-thirty anyway. This will hold me until then. I hope.

  The office is dark and empty when I arrive. My music plays as I get to work. There are a ton of possible accounts we can establish and I shoot all my information to Kolson and Jack. I also start running numbers and setting up spreadsheets. We need to hire someone to run the financial end for this branch. My phone rings.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you ever answer your phone in a professional manner?”

  I laugh. “Kestrel Hart here.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Why the hell should I bother when I know it’s you?”

  Kolson laughs. “I’m just checking.”

  “You need to get your ass down here. The real estate is going to make you giddy.”

  “I don’t get giddy.”

  “Yes, you do. When it comes to real estate.”

  “Wrong. Cars make me giddy. So do horses.”

  “Whatever. I’m serious, Kol. This place rocks. I can assure you there will be an explosion in your pants.”

  “The only thing that causes an explosion in my pants is my wife.”

  “Keep that shit to yourself, man.”

  “You brought it up, not me.”

  “Get down here. I seriously can’t wait for you see the gem I’m buying. Kolson, I’m telling you. This place is amazing.” I tell him the address of the house and he pulls it up on the internet. I still don’t tell him about kooky chick.

  “It looks sweet, man.”

  “Yeah, but what you’re not seeing are the views from the top floor. The fucking harbor is amazing. You can even see Fort Sumter. This is it for me. I am in love.”

  “Yeah, this doesn’t sound like the Kestrel I know. You’d live in the back of a barn.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you!”

  He makes a harrumph sound. “So, can we talk a little business here?”

  “Yeah, I need a finance geek here. Soon. The southeast is loaded with a shit ton of opportunities.”

  “That’s what I want to discuss. Jack’s coming down. We need to hire someone and fast. He can’t be going back and forth and neither can I. We have too many things to handle up here.”

  This is excellent news for me.

  “When is he coming?”

  “So today is Thursday. I’m pushing for him to fly out Tuesday. Meanwhile, we’re opening up the search. I have someone I think may suit, but we’ll see.”

  “You don’t have anyone who wants to transfer, do you?”

  Kolson laughs. “Are you trying to steal my employees already?”

  “Hell yeah. It would be a hell of a lot easier to have a seasoned employee here to help rather than to having to train a newbie.”

  “Point well made, Kestrel. I’ll take a look around.”

  “Good. All right. I have to get to work. Call me later.”

  “Will do. Watch out for that coffee.”

  Before I could respond, he ends the call. I’m a little surprised Gabby didn’t jump on the phone. I get back to my spreadsheets and prospecting and Shayla walks in.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Shayla. How are you today?”

  “Fine, sir. There’s coffee in the break room if you’d like some.”

  “Oh, thank you.” I stand to go retrieve a cup.

  “I’ll bring you some, sir.”

  “It’s Kestrel, remember?”

  “Yes, sir, Kestrel.”

  I think I may have to give up this ship.

  “Shayla, I’m not opposed to getting my own coffee. I didn’t hire you to fetch me things.”

  “But you did hire me to keep things in order around here and make your job easier. Bringing you coffee is one of the things that makes your job easier.”

  Holding my hands up in the air, I say, “You win.”

  “Black, sir?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She laughs. I am determined to get her to drop the ‘sir’ thing.

  Moments later she delivers my brew. Let’s see how this is. She waits, as I taste. Definitely not Starbucks.

  “Well?”

  “Honest?”

  “Yes!”

  “It needs to be strong, and I mean really strong, to suit me. I’m a coffee addict.”

  “Shall I remake it?”

  “Yes, but let me show you.”

  She takes me to the coffee maker and it’s not the best, but certainly not the worst. She bought Starbuck’s coffee and a grinder. I show her how much and her mouth scrunches up into a skewed look of horror.

  “I know. Really, really strong.”

  “Isn’t your stomach going to rot away?”

  “I certainly hope not.”

  As the coffee brews, we talk about her family. Her oldest son is a junior at the College of Charleston. Her youngest, a daughter, wanted to go away to Clemson University, which is in the upper part of South Carolina.

  “It was hard on you.”

  “Oh, I was a mess for the entire month of August. My son wasn’t bad because he was here in town, you see. And my daughter was still home. But when my husband and I drove away from her dorm in August, well, I can tell you there was a flood in the car. My poor Ralph. He had a weeping fool on his hands for the longest time. I’m fine now, but lordy, it was hard. I never thought it would be so tough on a mama.”

  “You don’t seem old enough to be an empty nester,” I say.

  She beams. “Well that’s kind of you, sir.”

  “Just being honest, ma’am. I think you reach a point in life where age becomes less important.”

  Her laughter fills the room. Its tinkling sound is almost musical. It kind of reminds me of Gabby’s. I find myself smiling.

  “You say that now. Wait until you’re knocking on fifty’s door. Then it’ll become very important.”

  “Probably so. But look at all you have. And with good fortune, your children will marry in the not too distant future, and you’ll have grandchildren.”

  “Oh, I’d love that, when the time is right, for sure. But what about you? You could face the same. Children in your future, I mean.”

  Never. That will never happen in my case. I’m not capable of sharing that kind of love. Nurturing some small creature that’s completely dependent on me? I can barely take care of myself.

  “No,” I snap.

  “Well, of course you will.”

  In a tone that conveys no argument, I say, “Absolutely not. That will never happen. I think the coffee is ready now.”

  My change of subject has disturbed her. It can’t be helped. This is a closed subject to all. I don’t discuss this with anyone. As I look at her, my attitude slightly softens.

  “I’m sorry, Shayla. There are some things about me you can’t possibly be aware of, things I don’t discuss with others.”

  She nods as we make our way back to the office and begin work for the day.

  “I understand, sir.”

  I don’t correct her this time. Maybe I need to keep our relationship a formal one. It may prove to work out best this way. I can’t have her meddling in my private life, even if her intentions are good.

  “Shall we begin?” I ask.

  As we delve deeper into the work, it becomes clear how excellent Shayla is at what she does.

  “I have to commend you on your skills, Shayla. I’m quite impressed. I need to ask you something. Are you opposed to traveling with me?”

  Her head tilts and I know she’s confused by my question.

  “Let me explain. I’d like you to accompany me when I have to meet with some of the possible clients we may be dealing with. This will require travel on your part. Some of it will be to Atlanta, Charlotte, or other areas that are fairly close. Others may be farther away. Are you up for this? If not, it’s okay. I just need to know so I can find someone who is.”


  “Can I check with my husband? I’ve never done anything like this before and I’d like to talk it over with him.”

  “Absolutely. Let me know when you have an answer, the sooner the better.” It must be an old-fashioned thing. Or maybe they have that tight of a marriage, but it never occurred to me she would have to check with him. Then an idea strikes me.

  “Shayla, would it help if I took the two of you out to dinner so he could meet me?”

  Smiling, she says, “Yes, I think that would be nice.”

  “What day would work for you? I’m wide open since I just moved here.”

  “Saturday night?”

  “Saturday is perfect. I’ll make a reservation and have a driver pick you up.”

  “Oh, no! We can meet you.”

  “Absolutely not. There will be wine at dinner. No driving after that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, and Shayla. At least at dinner, can we dispense with the ‘sir’?”

  “We’ll see.”

  We laugh. My phone rings and when I answer, it’s the shipping company informing me my vehicles will be arriving in thirty minutes.

  “Excellent. My transportation is here.” Then I frown.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I have to figure out how to get both home.”

  “I can drive one if you’d like.”

  The thought makes me grin. “Can you drive a super sports car?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “One with seven gears?”

  She squints. “What in tarnation kind of car do you have?”

  “An Aventador Roadster.”

  “I don’t know what that is. What about the other car?”

  “It’s a motorcycle.”

  “Well, I won’t be driving that nor will this gal be gettin’ on it either,” she huffs. “Those things are dangerous.”

  If she thinks the Harley is bad, wait until she sees the car.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get Mario, one of HTS’ drivers to do it.”

  Not long after that, the door buzzes and the deliveryman is there. When we walk outside, they’re driving my vehicles out of the cargo truck. I cringe as I watch them.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Hart. This is a white glove operation.”

  “So I’ve been told.”