by L.J. Shen
“No,” I said impassively, moseying in. “Now get the fuck out and close the door after you.”
He did just that, still shimmying into his denims when he closed the door. I turned to Harry, who settled behind his desk and smoothed his dress shirt, pretending to have an ounce of decorum.
“Nice wheels,” I commented, still standing.
“Pardon?”
“You’re riding that, obviously.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder, toward the door.
“Oh, that.” He waved a finger at the door, clearing his throat. “He’s a senior. Turned eighteen two weeks ago. I haven’t even touched him—”
“Trust me,” I cut him off. “No part of me cares.”
“Yes. Right. So…” He grabbed a huge file on his desk, flipping through it. He stopped what he was doing, scratching a pink ear, and looked up, opening his mouth, before frowning. “Christ, what happened there?” He motioned to my neck. “Love bite?” He sniffed.
“Don’t taint the special moment with a dirty word like love.” I smiled mockingly. “Why am I here, Harry?”
“It’s Lenny. I wanted to make sure you weren’t too harsh with her.”
No, he didn’t. He gave zero shits about anyone but himself. I took my Zippo out of my back pocket and flicked it. I’d told Edgar what I needed to tell him to get the gig, and he’d told Harry, but no part of me even mildly sympathized with her.
Harry sighed heavily. “We have a problem.”
I glanced at the time again. I’d missed dinner, but I wasn’t worried. My mother had stocked the mini fridge in my room with sick shit.
“It’s about your mother.”
My eyes snapped up. “I’m listening.”
“As you may know, she offered me a position to become a partner in her gallery in Los Angeles a few weeks ago. It is a very successful gallery, so it is with heavy regret that I will have to say no.”
I blinked at him, steadfast. “Please tell me why this is my concern, because I’m trying to weed out the fucks I need to give about this boring-ass story.”
“The reason I cannot, in good conscience, become a partner in the gallery is purely legal.” He sat back in his executive chair, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “Your mother, for lack of diplomatic wording, is a drug smuggler.”
“Are you fucking high?” My eyebrows shot up.
I knew my mother. She was straighter than a ruler, never broke the law in her life. Aside from being the only saint in Todos Santos, she didn’t need to smuggle drugs. As it was, she had more money than the Windsor family. She donated millions to charities every year just to get rid of the greens.
“I am when in Los Angeles—on the purest cocaine, courtesy of the hundreds of kilograms of coke trafficked into the United States under the canvas of the paintings sent to her in crates from all over the world. Quite a pity. Such a pillar of the community, doing something so shameful. Tell me, Vaughn, how many years in prison is it for hundreds of kilograms of cocaine? In California? I think we may be talking about fifty, sixty years in jail.” He tsked, tapping his long, skinny fingers on his table. “Perhaps more, if they want to make an example out of her. Oh, the FBI and DA would be all over Emilia LeBlanc-Spencer. Not quite the low-hanging fruit, is she? A golden opportunity to cut the ties between the Spencers and the local police, who bow to your every whim. And your father has his fair share of enemies who would go to great lengths to see his beloved thrown in the can.”
“Liar.” I bared my teeth, slapping his desk with both my palms. But I knew he had something. Otherwise he wouldn’t be so cocky.
He sighed, as if the situation saddened him. “There are pictures everywhere. Evidence for miles. Guess she is in business with the wrong people.”
“You.” My eyes widened. “You hooked her up with suppliers.”
He was the wrong person.
“Did I, now?” He clucked his tongue. “I don’t suppose you can prove it?”
I couldn’t, but it was the truth. He’d done this. Of course he had—made sure she ordered pieces that came with drugs without telling her, and somehow made it untraceable to him. God fucking dammit.
“They’ll know she has nothing to do with it.” I shook my head.
“Is that a chance you’re willing to take?” He arched a brow. He knew the answer to that question.
“What do you want?”
“You,” Fairhurst quipped. “Quiet. Obedient. And out of my bloody hair. When you came here, you thought you had leverage over me. You thought I chose you because I was scared of you. You darling, naughty boy, I chose you because I wanted to put an end to your scowling, scheming, and silly plans—to remind you I’m the one calling the shots. One wrong move, Spencer, and your mummy will find out the untimely answer to the question—does she look good in stripes?” My mother’s supposedly dear friend spread his arms melodramatically.
“I will kill you,” I spat, my entire body humming with rage.
He stood, rounding the desk toward me with his hands behind his back.
“You think I haven’t considered that? You’re a wild card, like your father. That’s why there’s a file on my Dropbox ready to be sent to my good friends at the FBI if I’m found prematurely dead. You can’t touch me, Spencer. At least…” He stopped, raking his eyes over me with a rancid smile. “Not the way you want to touch me.”
I ground my teeth, feeling blood trickling from my gums. I’d bitten myself without noticing. I needed to keep my shit together. Mom was the one sacrifice I wasn’t willing to make in my quest to burn this place down.
“How?” I sneered. How had he made this happen?
He took another step forward, our chests almost bumping. I was taller and broader now—bigger, stronger, and corded with muscles that mostly didn’t exist in his body.
“All those years ago, I saw who you really were, Vaughn. A heartless prince. A beautiful mummy. You lacked basic emotions: love, hate, compassion. I befriended your silly, naïve mother to get ahead in the art world game. Your father? Now, he knew better than to trust me. Fortunately, he was pussy-whipped and easy to manipulate through your mother. If you came here with a vendetta, you may want to throw it out the window. Our secret is ours. You’re going to play into my hands now, my darling child. Or I’ll be the one ending your life.”
“Come in.”
I pushed open the door to my parents’ cottage. Dad was standing in front of a window overlooking a lake, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hunting suit, frowning. Nothing was wrong. Scowling was his default expression. He only ever smiled when my mother was around.
“Busy?” I took a stab at small talk.
He turned to look at me, taking a seat on a recliner by the window and pouring cognac from a square crystal bottle into two snifters. God bless the UK, where it was legal for me to drink.
“Cut the pleasantries. It’s not who we are.”
He was right. We both hated mingling, but I was on edge. I took a seat in front of him, half-grateful Mom wasn’t here. Then I remembered she might be with Harry, and my stomach twisted in disdain. I wasn’t sure she was safe with him. Still, I was selfish enough not to tell my father what just happened with Fairhurst.
I was a pilgrim on a quest, and the demise of Harry Fairhurst was my own personal journey to redemption.
If I told my father everything, he’d deal with Harry himself, and where was the fun in that? I’d come to England for a reason. My own Eat, Pray, Love.
Kill, Prey, Lust.
“Nice hate bite.” Dad motioned to his own neck, but looked at mine. “Did she try to kill you?”
“Wouldn’t put it past her.”
He took a swig of his drink, arching a brow. “Knowing you, she probably had her reasons. Wrap it up, kid. Make your mother and me grandparents before retirement, and all hell will break loose. She’d want to help raise the baby.”
“I don’t want kids.”
He placed his drink on the table, lacing his fingers together.
“You’re too young to determine that at nineteen. Now’s the time to practice. With a condom. Several, if need be. What’s eating you, and how can I help?”
I sat back, blowing air. Dad always saw through me. Mom had a sixth sense about knowing what I needed when I needed it before I’d realized I needed it. But Baron Spencer? He read me like a vintage Playboy in a sperm-donation clinic’s waiting room.
I frowned at the carpet. “Say someone else had something of yours you didn’t want to come out. Like, a video or evidence of something you did. You knew what they had looked legit. No bullshit. They said they had it saved in their cloud, ready to be sent out if you make the wrong move…” I scanned his face, looking for traces of surprise or worry. There weren’t any. “How would you go about retrieving this information, and how would you erase it from all their files and make sure they couldn’t make duplicates?”
He said nothing for a beat. I wanted to punch the walls, then him, then myself. Grabbing my drink, I took a generous sip.
Dad finally opened his mouth.
“Son, are you gay?”
I spat the cognac out, choking on the earthy liquid. Dad remained calm, crossing one leg over the other.
“Be frank. You know we don’t care, and we’ll support you no matter what. There’s nothing wrong with being gay.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it, all right, but I’m not gay.”
He blinked, saying nothing.
“Why the fuck would you think that?”
“You’re not a huge fan of the other sex.”
“I’m not a huge fan of the human race.”
“Me either. But then there’s your mother. I am a huge fucking fan of hers.”
“Don’t make a groupie sex joke,” I warned sharply. “I like girls just fine.”
Dad shook his head. “Not enough to bring them home.”
“The back of my truck is just as comfy, and Mom’s not there to offer cookies.” I felt my jawline tensing.
His jaw ticked, too. We looked too alike. Sometimes it felt like I’d gotten nothing from my mother, but that wasn’t true. I got her artistic talent. Dad couldn’t draw a straight line with a ruler and the moral support of a stadium.
“Are the public blow jobs your way of proving something?” He frowned.
What the fuck? I was running out of patience. Not to mention fucks. This was not why I came all the way from Carlisle Castle to the rectum of Berkshire on foot.
“Yeah. It’s to prove I don’t give a shit about reciprocating,” I deadpanned. “Now can we move on with the program?”
“Watch it.” He smirked, seeming pleased with my low tolerance for bullshit. “And yes. So, someone has something on you.”
On Mom. “Kinda.”
“How bad is it?”
I thought about it for a moment. “Imagine the worst possible scenario, then keep going.”
“Prison bad?”
I nodded. “In the double digits. But don’t ask, because I won’t tell.”
He flicked an eyebrow.
Don’t ask, don’t tell. “Fuck, Dad, I promise if I liked dick, you’d be the first to hear all about it. In unnecessary detail, just to make it awkward for both of us.”
“I can make this go away.” He uncrossed his legs, leaning forward to catch my gaze. “I run a clean shop, but when the need to get dirty arises, I have my ways. Give me their name. Address, too, if you have it. But a name and a picture will do.”
I shook my head. If he knew it was Harry, it’d blow my cover and kill my plans.
“I’m not here for a solution, just advice.”
He scanned my face for a second, glowering.
“You’re telling me your liberty is on the line, and you think I won’t see to this myself?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Grant me this indulgence, son.”
I noticed he didn’t ask me what I’d done. It made my heart swell in my chest, and that made me goddamn uncomfortable.
I shook my head. “Sorry.”
He took the snifter, strangling it in his hand to a point of white knuckles. “I’ll give you my guy’s name. You can contact him yourself.”
“You’ll ask him to disclose the information.” It was my turn to cross my legs.
“Damn straight I will. You are my son, and your trouble is my trouble.”
“Not this trouble.”
We both darted up at the same time, scowling at each other, fists curled. His snifter smashed against the floor between us, still half-full. Our body language mirrored perfectly. Dad was the first to sit back down, taking a calming breath.
“Fine. He’ll make it a priority. I’ll see to that myself. But if shit gets out of hand, I expect you to tell me.”
“I want your word.” I remained standing, looking down at him. “That you won’t try to find out who this person is.”
He gave me a slight nod.
“In writing.”
He smirked. “You want me to sign a binding contract, give you access to my fixer, pay for the entire dubious pleasure, yet ask no questions about the motherfucker?”
“Sharp as always, Pops.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” He laughed. “You are my son.”
“Was there ever any doubt?”
Mom walked in as if on cue, clutching a brown bag with celery and carrots peeking out. Dad stood up. He kissed her lips and took the bag from her, placing it on the open-plan kitchen counter, and I wrapped my arms around her in a hug, kissing her forehead.
“If there was a doubt, there would be casualties.” Dad began to unload her groceries.
They shared another kiss. Gross. I was ready for them to go back to America and leave me to deal with this mess without their Brady Bunch bullshit in the background.
“Vaughn!” Mom slipped out of her shoes, licking her thumb and rubbing it against my cheekbone to clean up a trace of stone dust like I was five. “I bumped into Harry when I filled your fridge at Carlisle. He said you missed dinner. Stay. I’m making a casserole.”
“Not hungry,” I said, checking the time on my phone. Fuck. It was already nine at night.
“Nonsense! It’ll be quick.” Mom rushed to the counter to wash her hands, getting ready to chop shit up.
“I’ll give him a ride,” Dad cut in. “Boy’s got enough blisters on his hands. Maybe if his feet are not as banged up, he’ll be able to score.”
Mom laughed and swatted Dad’s chest, and he pretended to bite her chin lightly. Gross 2.0. If they were going to hit first base in front of me, I’d be responsible for more than one body bag on this island.
Dad scooped the keys to the Range Rover he was renting, and we headed to the door. The ten-minute drive was completely silent. When he parked in the graveled cul-de-sac of Carlisle Castle, he killed the engine and took his phone out of his pocket.
“Name’s Troy Brennan. Lives in Boston, so there’s a time difference. He has the best IT people on retainer. But you’ll have to give me twenty-four hours before you contact him. I need to brief him first.” He slid his finger across the screen, and my phone popped with the contact name.
“Got it,” I said.
“I’m telling your mother we’re leaving tomorrow morning.”
I blinked at him. They were supposed to stay for a week.
“You need to deal with this shit,” he explained, “and the sooner you do it, the better.”
“Appreciate it.” I unbuckled my seatbelt.
Dad put his hand on mine, stopping me. “Keep me posted.”
“I will.” I hesitated, frowning. “Aren’t you going to ask what I did?”
Technically, I did nothing. It was allegedly Mom. But I was curious as to why Dad didn’t poke. Did he not give a shit, or just had no moral compass?
He shook his head. “Sadly, it wouldn’t make any difference. I’d still save you from harm. But if you raped someone, if you hurt…” He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. He shook his head. “I just w
ant to look at you and see someone I’m proud of. Always.”
I let out a breath. “I’d never do that,” I said. “Touch someone like that. No. It’s nothing violent or shit like that.”
“Thank fuck.”
I opened the passenger door.
“One more thing.” He clasped my wrist. There was a threat laced in his voice. “I promised not to poke, but if I find out who’s doing this to you, they will be mine to deal with.”
I stared at him long and hard. I didn’t plan to leave any traces behind. I was not going to make a mistake. Dad was never going to find out. This was not my hill to die on.
I smirked. “Deal.”
“Mate, I’ve seen more signs of intelligence on a moldy sausage roll,” Pope snorted, lying next to me in my bed in the dark, licking his fingers clean of chocolate smudges.
We were recounting our day and sharing the latest of the chocolate baskets Poppy had sent my way. This one had arrived this morning. I broke off a piece of chocolate, popping it into my mouth and savoring the sugar and saltiness of the pretzel balls inside it.
“That daft, huh?” I wiggled my brows.
I felt Pope shaking his head beside me. His hand was propped under his head. We stared at my ceiling like it was a drive-in theater.
“I don’t know how you put up with her an entire year. This Arabella lass is actively stupid, like it’s her patriotic duty. She doesn’t even know how to mix paint. No. Actually, she can’t even distinguish varnish from a cup of water. Should’ve let her drink it, frankly. That way I’d be given another assistant. How was your first day?”
Pope rubbed my shoulder.
Why couldn’t I obsess over someone like him? Nice, decent, and at least outwardly sane? Why did I have to secretly salivate over Vaughn Spencer, who wanted me to suck his blood and cock but didn’t want to reciprocate? The guy who’d vanished faster than an Agatha Christie character as soon as he’d arrived in this castle, and had me looking for him all day like a lovelorn puppy?
I was so mortified to tell Papa I couldn’t find the intern I was assisting that I hadn’t even asked him where he was. Instead, I asked Uncle Harry if he knew where Vaughn worked on his piece. He gave me a cryptic answer that ultimately suggested Vaughn’s piece was not to be seen by anyone other than Papa.