by Ivy Layne
“When I saw the lights of the house through the trees, I was relieved. It didn’t occur to me that it should have been dark. My parents were supposed to be at the club with Uncle Hugh. They always turned the lights off when they left. But the whole house was lit up, and the door to my dad's office was wide open. I was afraid I was going to get in trouble, but it was so quiet, I decided no one was home. I went to turn off the lights in my dad's office and I saw them."
"Oh God, Vance. I'm so sorry."
Tears leaked from my eyes. I wrapped my arm tighter around his chest and squeezed, wishing I could take the memory from him. He'd only been eight or nine. A little boy. I'd found my grandmother, and the sight of her dead body, looking like she was asleep in her bed, had torn my heart out, but I'd been an adult and she'd been in her eighties.
His parents’ bodies, the bullet wounds and the blood—Vance never should have seen any of it. Not in a photograph and never in real life.
"I probably fucked up the scene,” he went on. “Nobody said anything to me about it, but I was just a kid and I didn't think about evidence. I ran in and went straight to my mom, trying to wake her up before I realized it was too late. Then I did the second stupid thing of the night and called the police."
"Oh, Vance, that wasn't stupid. You were eight years old. And what you saw? You should've called the police."
"I should've called Maxwell Sinclair. He could've gotten the police without the media, could've kept the whole thing quiet. If I'd called Maxwell, everything would've been different."
"Vance, you're not being reasonable. You were a child. I'm impressed you had the self-possession to think to call the police at all. You can't blame yourself. And I'm sorry to tell you, but that kind of crime in your family? Even if you'd handled it perfectly, the media would've been all over you. You know that."
When Hugh and Olivia had died in an almost identical murder, they'd been adults and they'd been careful—so very careful—and it hadn't helped at all. Vance let out a sigh of resignation. "Maybe not. My mother was still warm when I touched her. If I had been a few minutes earlier, I could've saved them," he said.
A chill stabbed through my gut.
"Or you would've been killed, too," I said.
Vance rolled on his side to face me. "You don't think my father killed her and then killed himself? That's what the police report says."
"No," I said, meeting his eyes, their color almost black in the dark room. "My grandmother knew your parents well. She always said the investigation missed something, had to have, because there was no way your father would've ever hurt your mom. She remembered their wedding and said they were so in love that even after four kids and two busy careers, she'd see them having dinner at the club together and they looked like they were on a first date, your dad pulling out your mom's chair, your mom blushing and holding his hand. She said there was no way, that there must've been someone else there."
"Then why didn't they find anyone?" Vance asked.
"I don't know," I said. "My grandmother always said she thought the police were afraid to push too hard, that they were scared of what they'd find and they just wanted it to go away. But Vance, if she's right—and my grandmother is not the only person I've heard talk about this—you probably would've been killed too if you'd been home any earlier. Your parents loved you. They would not have wanted that. Would you? If it was the same situation, would you want Rosie to come in and try to save your life at risk to her own?"
"No. No, of course not," he said immediately. The words settled into the quiet room, and Vance's muscles relaxed.
"I wish I could take those memories away," I said. "I wish you hadn't seen that. And if I ever find out who’s sending those pictures . . ." I trailed off.
"You have to get in line for that," Vance said. "If we ever find out who’s behind the pictures . . . probably better if the Sinclairs find them first."
"I just don't understand why they're sending them in the first place," I said. "Is it about your family? Is someone just trying to make you miserable?"
Vance shook his head, his eyes tired and frustrated. "If that's their plan, it's fucking twisted. When I saw Jacob's picture, the way they'd colored in the tie, I thought it might be a clue. But none of us could figure out what it meant, and if somebody knows who killed my parents, why send us the pictures? Why not just tell the police? It doesn't make any goddamn sense."
"Was there anything weird about this picture?" I hadn't wanted to look closely enough to find out.
"Yeah," Vance said, "My father's cufflinks weren't his cufflinks. We're trying to figure out what it means. Aiden thought they looked familiar, but he couldn't place them. The whole thing is just fucked up, and I don't like the idea that someone is watching us closely enough to know that I'm living with you and felt safe enough to come to your house."
I hadn't even thought about that part of it. I'd been so worried about Vance that it hadn't occurred to me that a stranger who possibly meant us harm had been at the front door. I opened my mouth to ask Vance about it when he said,
"Evers is setting up all new security on the house. Please don't argue with me about it. Your grandmother barely has workable locks, the wiring for the old system is shot, and you never use it anyway. It's not safe. You're too isolated from your neighbors here."
"I'm right in the middle of Buckhead," I protested.
The second the words left my mouth, I realized how stupid they were. This was one of the safest neighborhoods in the country. And Vance had lost his parents and his aunt and uncle less than a mile from where we were sleeping.
A stranger had been at the front door earlier today, someone who possibly had a grudge against the Winters family. If Vance wanted to update the security, if it would help him sleep at night, I wasn't going to fight him.
"I'm sorry, "I said. "Whatever you want to do is fine. Just have Evers send me the bill."
Vance's finger pressed to my lips, stopping my words. "Shut it, Magnolia. I'm not sending you the fucking bill."
"Whatever you want, Vance," I said against his finger, just before I bit him. He yanked his finger back and sucked on it, giving me an exaggerated wounded look. "Do you have a lot of nightmares?" I asked carefully.
"More often in the last year," he said, his eyes avoiding mine, fixed on my mouth. Since he'd stopped drinking, he meant. I guessed that when he'd been drinking, there'd been no dreams.
"What do you do when you have a nightmare?" I asked.
"Usually, I go for a run or up on the roof to work out, sweat it out of my system."
"You already went for a run today," I said.
"Twice," he agreed, skimming his hand down my side and over my ass to hook behind my knee. He pulled my leg up over his hip. I was wearing a stretchy, spaghetti strap nightgown—more online shopping—but I hadn't worn any underwear to bed. Vance's fingers dipped between my legs, stroking me, lingering on my clit before sliding back up to pull the strap of my nightgown off my shoulder and down my arm.
"I don't want to go running again."
"No, I don't think you should," I said, trying not to smile as he traced a circle around my nipple, the flesh tightening into a point at his touch. I reached between our bodies and wrapped my fingers around his erection. He was mostly hard, and he surged in my grip.
"You might pull a muscle if you get too much more exercise today," I said seriously. "You should let me do all the work."
"You did all the work last time," he said, flipping me onto my back and rising over me after grabbing a condom.
"That's not how I remember it," I said, wrapping my legs around his hips. He kissed me, his mouth gentle, seeking, the kiss so much more than a prelude to sex.
I hooked my feet behind his ass and tightened my legs, pulling him into me, urging his cock against my pussy. He rocked into me, spreading the gathering moisture until we were both slick with it and he could press inside with slow, delicious pressure.
So slow. He filled me with deep, delibera
te thrusts, kissing me the same way. Deliberately. Carefully.
Dragging out the pleasure of it until I was shaking, tears spilling down my cheeks, the intensity of our connection overwhelming. The orgasm took me in one long wave, pulling me under until I was gasping with pleasure, my arms wound around his shoulders holding him tightly.
I couldn't tell Vance what was in my heart. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I held him to me, my body trembling beneath his, hoping that he knew, hoping that some hidden part of him knew how much he was loved.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
VANCE
* * *
Family meeting tonight. 7pm. Bring Maggie and Rosalie.
Aiden. I'd talked to him the day before when he'd met me at the Sinclair offices to look at the photograph. I assumed he was calling the meeting to discuss it with everyone else. Fine with me. We didn't have plans for the night, and I'd take any chance to hang with my family and show off my girls.
Magnolia was at home, supervising the installation of the security system. She was getting the works—motion triggered video, panic buttons, driveway sensor—anything the Sinclairs could think of that would keep her safe. I had Rosie with me, though she was currently fast asleep, giving me some much-needed quiet time.
We'd been slacking at work. Most of the prep for the show was finished, and we didn't have any investments that needed direct input. If Rosie hadn't entered our lives, we would have jumped into a new project as soon as the show was set up, but for the past few weeks, we'd been enjoying a looser schedule.
Still, shit piled up. A few days of ignoring my email, and my inbox was clogged—fires to put out, calls to return. I'd been making good progress when Aiden's text had popped up on my phone. I took a second to text Magnolia before getting back to work.
Dinner at W House? 7pm? Everyone will be there.
She answered back immediately. Sure. Pick me up?
I'll be back before that. Almost done here.
K. How's Rosie?
I sent her a picture of Rosie in the floor gym, passed out on her back, one little hand still in the ring she'd been tugging when sleep had gotten the better of her. Magnolia sent back an emoji of a ribboned heart, then, Better get back to work before she wakes up.
Slave driver.
Don't make me crack the whip :)
Yes, Ma'am.
I put my phone down and tried to get back to my to-do list, but now I was distracted by the image of Magnolia in black leather, cracking a whip. She wasn't the dominatrix type, but she would sure as shit be hot in black leather. She’d almost made me come in my pants with that black lace lingerie the day before. Jesus.
Lately, it seemed like fucking Magnolia Henry was the cure for everything that had ever gone wrong in my life. Seeing that picture of my parents had been enough to leave me desperate for a drink, every beat of my heart, every breath tasting of raw pain.
I'd never shake that memory. It was burned into my brain. But the picture made it real in a way it hadn't been in years. Alcohol was my friend. Alcohol would chase off the memories. The guilt.
If Magnolia hadn't been there, I might have done it. I'd like to think Rosie would have been enough to make me stop and think. I could lie and say my daughter was the reason I hadn't gone straight to a bar. And she was part of it. Sure, she was. But Magnolia was the rest. She was the real reason. I had to stay sober if I wanted Magnolia.
Rosie would never remember if I fucked up and got wasted. She was barely four months old. But Magnolia would. She'd be my friend no matter what. I didn't doubt that. But she'd never let me back in her bed if I started drinking again. I couldn't think of many things worse than being kicked out of Magnolia's bed. Not now that I'd had a taste of her.
The thing was, with her there, my body freshly sated with hers, her gentle smile and open heart, I knew I could handle the memories. That certainty settled in my bones when she woke me from the nightmare.
It was a familiar hell, the dream of finding them, lifeless in our home, still warm, blood leaking from bullet wounds in a slow drip. I was used to coming out of the nightmare alone, used to heading straight for the bottle, or more recently, the gym, to burn the pain from my body and to sweat out the memories.
Magnolia petting me, soothing me with her low voice while she stroked my hair, her nails gently scratching my scalp—that was way fucking better. Her touch, her body, was more home to me than any place or person had been since I was eight years old.
I picked up my phone and prepared to make yet another call. I wanted to get this business over with so Rosie and I could go home to Magnolia. I had the number on the screen when the security system beeped to let me know someone was at the door. Fuck. Switching apps on my phone, I pulled up the camera.
Fuck. Fuck. Sloane.
Of all the people I didn't feel like talking to, Sloane was at the top of the list. She was annoying on a good day. Since she'd discovered Magnolia and I were together, she'd been a royal bitch. Unfortunately, we had a show in two days. I couldn't ignore her, as much as I wanted to.
I tapped the microphone button on the app and said, "Come on up, Sloane." Another tap, and I unlocked the door. I heard the whir of the elevator a few seconds later. Rising from my desk, I met her at the door. I wanted to head her off so she didn't wake Rosie.
"Sloane, Rosie's sleeping. Let's stay in the kitchen."
"Fine," she snapped, her dark eyebrows drawn together. "Why isn't Maggie watching her?"
"Because Rosie's my daughter, and Magnolia had other business to take care of today."
"You need to get a nanny, Vance. You have better things to do than take care of an infant."
"No, I don't," I said. "The most important thing I have to do right now is spend time with my daughter. Everything else comes second."
"Even Maggie?" Sloane asked, a sly smile on her face.
"Magnolia is none of your business," I said.
"I never would have sent her to you if I thought you'd end up fucking her. She held you off long enough, but I guess you got to her eventually. I shouldn't be surprised. I've heard you can talk a nun into spreading her legs."
"Sloane," I warned. She shrugged.
"Aren't you going to offer me coffee?" she asked.
"No. I'm slammed, and I want to get home. I thought everything was ready for the show. What do you want?"
"You don't need to get home, Vance. You are home. Don't let the baby and Maggie delude you. You're an artist. Playing house is fun for a while, but you can't sustain it long-term. You don't have it in you. It's not who you are."
I was rapidly losing patience. "You don't know anything about who I am, Sloane. Magnolia and Rosie aren't your concern."
"Wrong," she said, her eyes hard. "I couldn't care less about the baby, but when you fuck over Maggie, you're going to lose your business manager, which is going to disrupt your production. That is my concern."
"I'm not going to fuck over Magnolia," I said. Sloane rolled her eyes.
"Of course you are," she said, laughing a little. "When was the last time you slept with the same woman twice in a row? I've never known you to have a girlfriend. Now you move in with Maggie and think you're what, husband material? Be serious."
"Sloane, you have no clue what you're talking about. I'm not looking to be 'husband material'. I'm still trying to figure out how to be a father. We've got enough going on right now without you trying to complicate it."
"I'm not trying to complicate it, Vance," she said, and the sympathy in her eyes almost seemed genuine. "I'm trying to simplify it. All you should be worrying about is your art and your business. Fucking with Magnolia is going to fuck with your business. It's that simple. End it with her. Get a nanny. Or make her the nanny. I don't care. She's pretty much your nanny as it is now, anyway."
"She's not the nanny," I snapped, wondering for the first time if this was how everyone else saw it. Did the whole world assume I was just fucking Magnolia to get her to help me with Rosie? Is that why they were so curious
about whether we were dating?
I shook my head. No way. Maybe Sloane thought that, and Brayden. But if my family thought I was using Magnolia, they would've kicked my ass already. And I knew Magnolia didn't believe that. I thought about the night before, the way she'd wiped tears from my face and welcomed me into her body. No, Magnolia knew this was about so much more than sex. And so did I. Sloane could go fuck herself.
"If you need to get laid . . ." Sloane said. Suggestion dripped from her words as she sauntered across the kitchen, not coming to a stop until she was so close her hips bumped mine. Too close.
From a distance, Sloane was gorgeous. Shiny black hair, green eyes, cheekbones that could cut glass, long legs, and round, high tits. She knew how to dress, with class and style, even if her hemlines were a little short and she showed too much cleavage. But up close?
Up close, the illusion fell apart.
Her tits were fake, she was bony, and she wore way too much makeup. Not that I was tempted, but I'd always suspected she'd be a shitty fuck. Way too selfish and self-involved to relax and have fun.
"What are you doing Sloane?" I asked, taking a step to the side to put some space between us. I'd gotten used to the feel of Magnolia's soft, round body pressed to mine. Sloane was a gnawed-on bone in comparison.
"Like I said, I'm trying to simplify things." She took a step to the side herself and laid her palms on my chest, smoothing them up to grip my shoulders, trying to pull me down for a kiss. Not going to happen.
"You think fucking me would simplify things? You're insane."
I grabbed her wrists and peeled her hands off my shoulders, trying to push her back. For someone so skinny, she was strong.
Sloane was shorter than me, the top of her head barely reaching my chin, but she planted her toes on the top of my foot and lunged up, pressing her mouth to mine.
That was it. I was trying to be careful, hadn't wanted to hurt her, but I was done. Fucking done. I pushed her back and stepped away, putting the island between us while she got her balance on her spike heels.