Mad & Marvelous

by Elizabeth Varlet

  He stood. “Please.”

  * * *

  Hop paused with his hand on the handle of Rafe’s office door. Rafe sounded frantic and it was so strange, Hop couldn’t move.

  He should leave and never look back. He needed to get the hell out of there, away from those mesmerizing eyes and Rafe’s powerful energy.

  Every minute he spent in Rafe’s presence reminded him of all the bad decisions he’d made in his youth. He’d worked hard to distance himself from his mistakes, but mostly, from his father.

  He’d finally given up his childhood dream to know the man, to form the sort of relationship most boys took for granted.

  Being here was stirring up old hurts and Hop didn’t need that shit.

  “Whatever you want, I’ll help you get it. Hop, please. Do you want revenge? Is that it? I can get it for you.”

  That made him turn. “Revenge?”

  “On your father.”

  He shook his head. “The best revenge is moving on with my life.”

  Hands braced on his desk, Rafe hung his head. “Christ, you’ve matured. It’s hard to wrap my mind around it.” He looked stressed. Desperate. Defeated.

  Hop let go of the handle and took a hesitant step toward him. “What’s really going on, Rafe?”

  An exhale and then, “I’m so close.”

  “Close to what?”

  Rafe lifted his head and met Hop’s eyes. It felt like years that they stared at each other. The commanding powerful presence that drew Hop in had disappeared, now Rafe was lost and vulnerable. The contrast was disorienting.

  Rafe whispered, “Being free.”

  Another step forward, Hop waited for more.

  “I’ve practically been his indentured servant for the last fifteen years.” He sat and tugged his black hair.

  Swallowing his confusion, Hop gripped the back of the leather chair. All this time, Rafe had been an unwilling pawn? “Why?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Rafe said. “I’m indebted to him. He’s done so much for my family.”

  “You’re the son I never was.” Thankfully, Hop hadn’t choked on those words as much as he thought he would.

  Rafe shook his head. “He hasn’t been grooming me like everyone thinks, even Malcolm gets that wrong. I’m not your surrogate. I’m not his heir. I’m his slave. He makes it seem like I’m his protégé instead of the boy who does the dirty work in secret.”

  Hop let that sink in even as a hundred new questions formed. “The whole time?”

  “Not at first, no. It took me too long to recognize his cruel streak. Ever since, I’ve been trying to separate myself from his name but it’s been like digging through diamonds. For every inch I gain, there are a million more. It’s taken seven years to come this far and everything I’ve built, everything I love, hangs in the balance.”

  “Seven years?” Ever since he’d disappeared from Hop’s life? Could that be a coincidence?

  Rafe nodded.

  Curiosity and a weird sort of sympathy spurred Hop on. “What does this have to do with me?”

  Rafe sat forward. “You have to promise not to tell anyone, not even your friends. This can’t be revealed until the contracts are signed.”

  Hop nodded without a thought. “What contracts?”

  “Switch will host the Parker Prince launch party during fashion week.” Rafe paused. “With the fee, I’ll finally have enough to pay off every cent of debt. He won’t be able to control me or my business any longer.”

  The idea of Rafe as another of Roland’s victims was so strange, but now that he knew what to look for, he could see the faint strings of his father’s mastery. He’d never expected to feel sorry for Rafe Marson, but he did.

  And even more surprising, he wanted to help.

  “Did you say Parker Prince?” Hop’s idol. He’d been a fan since Prince had first made waves as a costume designer on Broadway. Now that he’d opened a flagship store in California, Hop had stalked his website obsessively.

  “Yes, we’ve been in dealings with him and his people. We finally got on the shortlist.”

  Holy shit. Hop’s excitement escalated. He couldn’t help but be impressed with Rafe. By all accounts, Prince was hard to please. “That’s amazing.”

  “We haven’t landed him yet, that’s why I need your help.”

  “What can I do?” Hop asked.

  The look in Rafe’s eyes changed slowly. They warmed and transformed with what Hop could only call gratitude. “Prince wants the Sassy Boyz. Without you, I won’t get the gig.”

  Ah, so that’s what it was. It wasn’t Hop specifically. It was the Sassy Boyz that Rafe wanted—silly how that news sent a twinge of disappointment through him.

  Still, Rafe was looking at him like he held all the answers and he couldn’t deny what a big damn ego boost that was. After years of being the troublemaker, the disappointment, the mess—being the savior felt fucking incredible.

  He’d take what he could get.

  “Okay,” Hop said.

  “Really?”

  Hop shrugged. “The Boyz deserve the best and I believe that’s Switch. Plus, no one should be under Roland’s thumb when they don’t want to be.”

  “Thank you. Seriously. Thank you. You’re saving my life here.”

  “All I needed was the truth. It wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “Honesty? Huh, what a new concept.”

  Hop spread his hands wide. “I’m all about the fresh approach.”

  At this, Rafe laughed. A full-out belly laugh that sent sparks straight down Hop’s spine, so sharp he actually gasped at the shock of it.

  Holy fuck. His laugh.

  Hop had never heard him laugh before. It was deep and rolling and completely fucking addicting.

  Right. Time to leave.

  “So, I’ll get this signed then.” Hop picked up the contract where he’d left it on the chair earlier.

  Rafe sobered and cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh, great.”

  “When do we start?”

  Rafe licked his lips and wiped his hands on his legs as he stood. “Thursday night?”

  Hop didn’t meet Rafe’s eyes when he nodded, letting his hair fall forward to block out the sight of him standing tall and relaxed for once.

  Not to mention straight and likely married. Hell, he had to remember that before his dumb crush disrupted his life. Hop turned to leave and almost made it to the door.

  “Hop,” Rafe called.

  Hop looked over his shoulder. Rafe had come around the desk and extended his hand, once again the professional, aloof, mysterious owner of one of the most popular nightclubs in the greatest city in the world. “I look forward to getting to know you again. And thanks, really.”

  Breath suspended, Hop slid his palm into Rafe’s. His gaze lifted and their eyes met. Time slowed to a crawl even as Hop’s heart beat so hard and fast it was dizzying. The urge to close the distance between them was hard to deny. Rafe’s lips parted. His grip tightened on Hop’s.

  “You owe me.” Hop tried for his usual banter and a light smile, but his voice came out rough and eager.

  Rafe’s nostrils flared. “I always pay my debts.”

  It sounded like a promise.

  And a warning.

  Chapter Ten

  Thursday morning, Hop showed up at Rafe’s office again. This time he wore a pair of baby-blue jeans and a baggy T-shirt with the words I Piss Off Stupid People in thick black font. It made Rafe grin, but he hid it behind his hand. He’d had days to come to terms with this new Hop. The kid he’d known had become a man of such courage and strength Rafe never would have thought possible. The ease with which he’d stepped up and helped Rafe out was humbling, especially considering how intense his anger had been.

  Rafe hadn’t lied when he’d said he looked
forward to getting to know him again. A lot about Hop intrigued him, not the least of which was the sneaking suspicion they had compatible sexual inclinations.

  “You’re early,” he said.

  “I need to be at work soon, but I wanted to deliver this personally.” He placed the contract on Rafe’s desk.

  “I could’ve sent a courier.” Rafe flipped through it, noting the signatures and the updated contact list, including Hop’s real phone number.

  “We need to get a few things straight before tonight and I thought it’d be better to do this in person.” He looked up and there was a hint of uncertainty in his usually confident gaze. It stroked all of Rafe’s barely suppressed impulses. As stupid as it was, he wanted to see Hop defenseless and willing.

  To distract himself, Rafe crossed to the bar to grab them both a bottle of water. “I thought we’d sorted through it all?”

  “I’ve hated you for so long.” He took the bottle Rafe held out for him. “That’s a lot of anger. I can’t snap my fingers and get over it.”

  “Hate is a strong word, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. But in my mind, you were the obstacle that kept me from knowing Roland.”

  “There’s some truth to that, it was my job.”

  “One you were forced into, if I’m to believe your story.”

  Rafe took a sip. “It’s not a story, it’s the truth.”

  “Am I supposed to trust your word now, after everything we’ve been through?”

  “It’d be nice, yeah.”

  Hop huffed a laugh. “I wish things could be that easy.”

  Rafe leaned against his desk and considered Hop for a minute. “Haven’t you ever made a decision that you thought was for the best only to find out later that you’d made a terrible mistake?”

  Hop met his eyes. “Like wearing the wrong shoes?” There was a mix of humor and understanding in his tone.

  “I was fourteen when my father died. Suddenly I found myself the head of the household, your father offered me a way out, and I took it without considering the consequences because I wanted to help my family. I didn’t know about you until years later. By then I was so far in debt to him that I couldn’t see a way out. Then he gave me my task.”

  “Me.”

  “Do you remember the first time we met?” Rafe did, clear as day. He’d been told Malcolm had a stalker. Rafe needed to find the person and put a stop to it. Of course, no one had told him that the stalker was Roland’s secret son.

  “You threatened to have me arrested.”

  “And you told me to go ahead and call the cops.”

  “I think there were a few extra curses in there.” Hop’s grin was boastful. “I figured there was no way he could ignore the police knocking on his door asking questions about me.”

  “That’s when I realized who you were and what my real job meant.”

  “Keeping me contained.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Which you were stellar at, by the way.” Hop gave him a slow clap.

  “I never lied to you. I never hurt you. I never gave you any reason to doubt my word.”

  A shadow passed over Hop’s features right before he looked away. “If you say so,” he said under his breath.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Hop’s shoulders rose and fell then he looked at his watch. “I need to go before I’m late for work.”

  “You’re not going to explain?”

  “There’s nothing to explain. The first time we met? I knew exactly who you were. I’d been watching the Lockwoods from afar since I was old enough to be outside on my own. That life should have been mine. Even though you weren’t blood, he gave you everything and left me with nothing. You replaced me.”

  “That couldn’t be farther from the truth.”

  “Fine, but you were still there when I couldn’t be.”

  “You were better off.”

  “Was I? And who gave you the power to decide that for me?”

  “Do you want to confront him? Is that what would make you feel better?”

  Hop opened his mouth, shut it, and then headed for the door. “No. I’m over trying to impress a man who never gave me the time of day. I just want to dance.”

  Rafe picked up the contract and waved it in the air. “Done. With this we’ll both get what we need.”

  Hop nodded. “Good. I don’t want to hate you anymore anyway. It’s too exhausting.”

  “Still with the hate?”

  “What can I say? You inspire strong feelings.” With that cryptic statement, Hop left and Rafe couldn’t help the feeling that nothing had been settled between them.

  * * *

  As dictated, Rafe arrived at the Lockwood residence Thursday evening with a bottle of 2005 Bodegas Roda Cirsion in an understated but high-end gift box. He wanted to throw the damn thing on the pristine marble tiles in the foyer and watch Roland’s horrified face turn as ruddy as the vintage. But that would be a waste of what the sommelier had promised him was an exotically perfumed and elegantly structured Spanish red.

  Rafe wasn’t a wine enthusiast so he didn’t know what any of that meant, but the man had assured him he couldn’t go wrong. Since he was still required to act respectful, it meant he’d forked over almost three hundred dollars for a bottle of what was basically grape juice.

  He’d never gotten used to the spending habits or extravagant tastes of the rich. It was like they didn’t know what to do with their cash so they tossed it at anything that glittered.

  As soon as the butler opened the door, Rafe handed the box and his briefcase over.

  “Hi, Fred,” Rafe said, shrugging off his coat.

  “Good evening, sir.” The old man took Rafe’s coat over his elbow and returned the wine and bag to Rafe.

  “How’ve you been?”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Not working too hard, are you?” Fred was almost eighty and he’d been working for the Lockwoods since he was eighteen.

  Fred’s smile was fond. “Only as hard as you, sir.”

  Rafe followed him down the hall. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

  “I do.” This time his smile was bright and teasing.

  They turned the corner into the library. “Mr. Marson has arrived.” Fred made the announcement and left.

  Rafe strode into the ornate room. By now, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stacked with hardcovers of various shades didn’t faze him, but the first time he’d seen them he’d been impressed. He’d grown to understand it took more than possessions and a good decorator to make a man.

  Roland was seated in one of the tufted leather sofas with a cigar between his fingers. As Rafe approached, Roland tipped his wrist to check his watch.

  “I always admire your punctuality.” He sucked on the end of the cigar.

  “Being prompt is the best first impression one can make.” Rafe handed him the wine and gritted his teeth when Roland didn’t even check the label before putting it to the side.

  “Shall we get down to business?”

  “Of course,” Rafe said.

  Roland stood, his pressed pinstripe slacks still as straight as they’d likely been upon purchase even though he’d undoubtedly been wearing them all day. Without a word, he headed toward his office, another room Rafe was no longer impressed by. The dark leather and even darker wood was too oppressing, but he figured that was probably the whole point.

  “Have a seat,” Roland said, lowering himself into his throne—literally. The man’s desk chair was a huge tufted-leather winged swivel complete with brass nail trim. It was exactly what most people imagined when they thought of old world elegance and money.

  On the other hand, the seat Rafe was directed to use was a straight-backed rickety wooden piece that was too small for his large fram
e. It creaked every time he sat it in, and every time, Rafe wondered if it’d finally give up and collapse under his weight.

  Roland tapped the end of his cigar in the ashtray. “I feel as though it’s been more than a month since your last update.” His voice full of censure.

  Rafe busied himself with pulling folders from his briefcase. “Really? I can check my calendar, if you wish.” Suck it, asshole. When he looked up to hand Roland the prepared report, he noted the man’s flash of scorn.

  Roland flipped the leather-bound binder open and scowled at the pages. “Why are profits so low?”

  If he still had enamel on his teeth by the time this visit was over, it would be a miracle. “They’re not low. We’re at capacity every night. Sometimes the line wraps around the block.”

  “Then you should be seeing numbers three times as large.”

  “I disagree. We keep the head charge low to encourage admission. The drinks are set at a competitive price and the entertainment ensures they stick around longer.”

  “I never agreed with your idea of charging so little for entry. The best way for it to feel exclusive is to make it difficult to enter. You should be catering to affluent clientele, forget about the average Joe, they won’t earn you profit.”

  Rafe’s fingers tightened into fists on his knees. “The model I’m using is working. I see no reason to change it.”

  Roland’s eyes narrowed in challenge. “I don’t remember you being so stubborn in the past.”

  Forcing his fingers to loosen, Rafe consciously relaxed his shoulders. “Not stubborn, just confident.”

  Another puff of that rich, spicy smoke filled the air between them. It was such a familiar scent. It put Rafe at ease, despite himself. Sometimes his father would bring one of those cigars home—a gift from the boss for a job well done. The ritual of lighting it consisted of whiskey and an old pack of matches. He always smoked on the porch, because his mother wouldn’t allow him to do so inside. But that smell would weave itself into the fabric of his clothes and stick to him for hours afterward.

  He’d promised to share one with Rafe when he turned eighteen.

  Then he’d died four years before they got the chance.

  A pang of loss hit him hard.