by Meghan March
“Then what the hell do I do? I can’t let my family suffer for my bad decision.”
I tighten my grip on her to make sure I have her complete attention. When she meets my gaze, I repeat the promise I made earlier. “No one will touch them.”
“Swear it to me.”
“I already did.”
“I need to hear it again.”
I give her a squeeze. “I don’t repeat myself.”
She bites her lip, and I’d give a hell of a lot to know what she’s thinking.
“Fine. But if you don’t, all bets are off.”
“You don’t make that decision. But I will make you one more promise—Brett Hyde might be back from the dead, but it won’t be long before you’re a widow again.”
Keira
Mount leads me out of the study after prying the whiskey glass from my fingers. I still can’t believe he managed to steal a barrel of the Spirit of New Orleans from one of Seven Sinners’ rackhouses. It’s not like a serious security upgrade is part of the budget right now either. I’m too busy mulling over this problem to notice that the hallways we travel aren’t the same ones I’ve been down before.
When Mount pushes open one massive black double door, I take a step inside and stop.
“This isn’t my room. I mean, my cell.”
Where the decor I’d been surrounded by before was utterly feminine, this is the polar opposite, even though it’s the same color scheme. Mount’s masculine stamp is on every detail, from the soaring glossy black ceilings that are well over three times my height, to the matching thick black molding. An enormous black leather sectional sofa takes up the middle of the sitting room, across from a massive flat-screen TV that looks like it recesses into the wall to be hidden. The coffee table is also black lacquer with gold accents. A black-and-gold liquor cabinet holds more booze than the one in his library.
That may have been his escape, but this is Mount’s home. This is where he lives, where no one sees him. His scent pervades the room, getting stronger as I take a few more steps toward the next set of double doors. I peek inside to see a bedroom.
The bed is the largest one I’ve ever seen. It could sleep part of the Voodoo Kings and still have room for a few cheerleaders. The spread is black velvet, edged in gold, with black sheets and pillows.
“Do you like any colors other than black, white, and gold?”
Mount studies me as I explore his sanctuary. “No.”
I step back from the doorway, the ache between my legs telling me I don’t need to get too close to that bed, or there’s no telling what might happen.
Mount is turning me into an addict, stripping me of control of my own body and compelling me to hand it over willingly at the same time. It’s a paradox, one I don’t want to contemplate any more tonight. I step away from the bedroom.
All that matters right now is figuring out how I’m going to pull off the bank withdrawal Brett demanded, get him the money, and escape unscathed.
“Okay, so I’m going to need my trench coat, dark sunglasses, and a duffel bag. Preferably with some of those packets that explode dye in someone’s face so he can’t spend a damned dollar of it.” I’m already pacing Mount’s living room, something I find myself doing all too often lately. “And definitely a gun. I’ve been to the range a couple times, and I’m pretty sure I’d have no problem pulling the trigger if Brett waves his in my face again.”
Up until that moment, Mount has been content to let me ramble, but at that last sentence, he strides toward me and snags my elbow in his grip. “He held a gun on you?”
I nod.
“And you didn’t think that was fucking relevant to tell me?”
I bite my lip, because Mount’s tone sounds scarier than it has all night. The muscle in his jaw tenses when I don’t answer.
“He held a gun on you and threatened to kill your family.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“And scared you into agreeing to his plan?”
I nod sharply again before finding my voice. “If Scar says anything about me attacking him with a hammer and butcher knife when he burst in, you can tell him I thought he was Brett.”
Mount’s eyes widen, but his grip softens as his big thumb rubs back and forth along the skin of my arm. “Brett Hyde is never going to get the chance to do any of those things ever again.”
I remember what Mount said about making me a widow, but outside the heat of self-defense, I’m not sure I’m cold-blooded enough to order his execution. Instead, I say something that will allow me to sleep at night.
“You’re right, because I’m going to give him what he wants. Then I’ll never see him again.”
Mount releases his hold on me. “I can’t believe you’d consider giving him a dime.”
I hold my hands out like scales. “Money or family?” I drop the one representing family and raise the one symbolizing money. “Family outweighs every dollar I could ever make. What’s the point of any of it, if I don’t have them?”
Mount’s expression shutters. “You don’t even speak to your sisters regularly.”
I don’t want to ask how he knows that, because I’m sure the answer will send me into another pacing rant. “That doesn’t make them any less important to me. They’re my blood. Wouldn’t you sacrifice anything to save yours?”
Mount’s dark eyes harden as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, his thumbs moving across the screen. When he returns it to its spot, he looks up at me.
“I have to go.”
“Okay.” I follow him toward the door, intent on leaving with him, but he stops at the doorway.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Back to my gilded cage.”
He shakes his head. “This is your new home. Get used to it. V will be stationed outside, so don’t bother trying to leave.”
“But—”
He shuts the door on my protest, trapping me in yet another luxurious prison.
As soon as Mount leaves, I yank open the door, because I’ve learned to be thorough.
Sure enough, just as he promised, Scar is stationed outside. Except, I guess his name is V. I prefer Scar, personally.
“My driver, and now my babysitter. How did you get so lucky?” Sarcasm drips from every word.
I slam the door in his face before he can respond, and rush to my purse when I hear my phone chime with a text alert. It’s from the same unknown number that I now know belongs to Scar, and I save it in my phone as such.
Scar: You want dinner? The chef will prepare something for you.
Keira: I’m considering a hunger strike.
Scar: Boss won’t like it.
Keira: I don’t give a NOLA-sized rat’s ass about what he likes.
Scar: Then you’re eating whatever I pick for you. Hope you like liver.
Keira: Gross. You think he’ll like you polluting his rooms with that stench?
Scar: Then pick something.
I give it a moment of thought and come up with the most ridiculous menu I can think of.
Keira: Turtle soup, New Zealand lobster tail, a grass-fed Argentinian filet, truffle mashed potatoes (the chunky kind but no skins), organic green beans amandine, and a chocolate soufflé with a side of fresh raspberry compote.
With a triumphant smile, I wait for a return message and get nothing.
It doesn’t dim my smugness. Now he can’t blame me for not eating. I followed directions.
I wander the room, not wanting to pry, but unable to stop myself from peeking into the bedroom again and crossing the plush gold-and-black carpet to reach the palatial bathroom. The creamy white stone is shot through with veins of gold and black, and I can’t help but wonder what his obsession is with those colors.
I shut down the curiosity because it’s not going to help me get out of the situation I find myself in.
With my phone still in hand, I think of the one person who may be able to give me some kind of guidance.
I pull up Ma
gnolia’s last text and shoot her one back.
Keira: Need to talk ASAP. Shit is crazy.
I wait several long moments, inspecting the gold fixtures on a bathtub the size of a small pool, and peer into the water closet that’s larger than the entire bathroom in my apartment. There’s even a freaking bidet. I’ll admit I’m a little curious about how one uses that, because I’ve never tried.
My phone chimes and my attention cuts to the screen.
Magnolia: Got a business meeting tonight. How crazy?
Keira: Crazy enough that I think I’m losing my shit.
Magnolia: I’ll reschedule. Call ya in ten.
I back out of the bathroom and kick off my heels once I reach the plush carpet, letting my feet sink into the thick pile.
Property in the French Quarter has ridiculous value per square foot. More than I could ever afford, and here Mount owns who knows how much. The curiosity I shoved down earlier returns, and I decide it’s time to get as much information out of Magnolia as humanly possible about Lachlan Mount.
I owe him over two million dollars. The reality of the situation slaps me hard in the face.
How the hell am I going to repay him? Even if I pulled off an event like the one for the Voodoo Kings every month, and my sales quadrupled over the next two years, I’d still fall short. And that’s not counting how much it would cost me to increase capacity to meet such an increase in demand.
Then again, Mount hasn’t asked for a single payment in monetary terms, only in sexual favors.
My phone rings, and I realize I’ve lost track of time when Magnolia’s number flashes across the screen. I answer immediately.
“Hey.”
“What the hell is happening now?”
“Where do I even start?”
“The beginning, I’d suggest. Catch me up, Ke-ke.”
So I do, starting with Brett’s return from the dead.
“No. Fucking. Way. You have got to be shitting me. I was there, beneath that dark-as-shit veil, when you interred his ashes.”
I insisted she didn’t need it, but she didn’t want to cause what she called mama drama at the service.
“Yeah, well, apparently those ashes weren’t his, and someone bought off the medical examiner to say it was him.”
“Doesn’t take a genius to figure out who did that.” She’s not wrong. “Still doesn’t explain who the hell was found in that car.”
“I have no idea. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.”
“I bet Brett’s wishing he’d stayed gone.”
“Probably not, because he’s going to walk away with more cash.”
“You can’t give it to him.” Magnolia’s reply is in the form of a pissy huff.
“I don’t have a choice.”
We talk about Brett for a few more minutes, and then she changes the subject because I can’t be swayed from my path and the plan I’ve concocted with the duffel bag, trench coat, dark sunglasses, and dye packs. Seems solid to me.
“So, what happened after Mount came to the rescue?”
“One, he didn’t rescue me. He got there after Brett was gone, and his henchman got there first.”
“Minor details, Ke-ke. Get to the good stuff.”
Magnolia has always been bossy, and I brace myself for my next revelation.
“I found out that it was Mount the night of the masquerade. Not Brett.”
“What. The. Fuck?” Magnolia’s shock carries through her words. “How?”
I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “I don’t know, but it’s really freaking me out. That was the night I decided Brett was the one. The night I decided eloping with him was the best idea ever, because he was everything I wanted. But I was so freaking wrong. He wasn’t even the guy.”
“Jesus Christ, Ke-ke. Only you would get married because of one good fuck. Swear to God. And you didn’t even marry the dick that gave it to you.”
I throw my head back to stare at the glossy black ceiling. “It’s not my fault! None of this makes any sense.”
“And then what happened? There has to be more.”
“We fought . . .” I pause, swallowing back the confession I’m still having trouble admitting. Strangely, this is even harder to get out than the part about the masquerade.
“And?” Magnolia prompts.
The only way I can get it out is to charge through boldly, so that’s exactly what I do. “He kissed me. He promised he wouldn’t let my family get hurt, and then . . . well, you know.”
“Back up for just one fucking second.”
I can picture the hand gestures she’s making right now as she processes the part I didn’t want to admit.
“He kissed you?” Magnolia sounds more shocked about this than she did about my undead husband.
I decide to move the conversation along. “Yeah. And then—”
“No, stop. We gotta discuss this because . . . that’s not Mount. He doesn’t kiss any of the girls. I have to make damn sure they know it’s a hard limit before I send them his way.”
The implication of what she’s saying slams into me. “Wait. Are you telling me you provide him with his mistresses? Are you freaking kidding me?”
“Ke-ke, you know what I do.” Her tone sounds apologetic for a beat.
“But—”
“He wants girls from overseas, no locals. So I find them, vet them, ship them over, make sure they’re properly trained in all his preferences and understand his rules, and then I turn them over to him. After that, I never see them again.”
My heart slams into my ribs. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“Because we don’t talk about what I do. We pretend my profession doesn’t exist when you’re around. Besides, I told you everything I know. All the pertinent stuff, anyway.”
“And the fact that you supply him with hookers wasn’t pertinent?”
I’m yelling at Magnolia now, something I haven’t done in years. Not since she got kicked out of school and I was pissed at her for losing her scholarship. At the same time, guilt flashes through me. She’s right; we really don’t talk about what she does. Ever. It’s like the elephant in the room that I never want to mention. Nice, Keira. Now you’re the shitty friend.
“They’re not hookers. My girls are higher class than that, so watch that judgey tone you got going on.”
Another wave of guilt follows, and I take a few deep breaths before I continue. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. But, please . . . you have to tell me everything you know because I’m currently standing in the man’s bedroom, and clearly I don’t know shit about him except for the little bits and pieces you’ve told me.”
“Wait. You’re in his room?” Magnolia stresses the last two words of the question like I might have misspoken.
“Yes. His room.”
“What the hell? He’s always kept his girls in a separate house. Easily accessible, but from what I heard, he never visited them anywhere else. Never took them out in public. Certainly never took them to his own damned room. This is a big fucking deal, Ke-ke. We need to search it.”
I hold my phone out and stare down at the screen like her face will appear after that crazy suggestion. “What happened to you being worried this line was tapped?”
When I bring it back up to my ear, Magnolia’s already rationalizing it. “What man would expect you not to go through his room when he leaves you there alone for the first time? This is practically standard procedure, so get to it. Now, move your ass. Let’s start in the bathroom.”
I drop onto the leather sectional. “I’m going to need more liquor before I have the balls to start digging through Mount’s medicine cabinet.”
“Then get you some damn liquor and get going. You don’t have all night.” In the background are rustling sounds, and then the clink of ice cubes in a glass. “I’m fixing myself a drink too, so we’ll do it together, one room and one drink at a time.”
I drop my forehead to my knees. “This might be your
worst idea ever. After getting kicked out of school, obviously.”
“Ke-ke, I’ve got everything I could possibly want, and it all started with that blow job in the school supply closet. Don’t feel sorry for me. I made the best of a situation that could’ve ended up a whole lot worse.”
Maybe she’s right, but I still don’t like thinking about it. Annnd, there’s some more guilt.
“Get your bottle and your glass, because you can’t tell me that man’s room doesn’t have any booze in it.”
Again, Magnolia is always right.
“Fine. Hold on.” I walk to the glass shelves holding all the liquor bottles, and survey them. “He doesn’t have Seven Sinners in here.”
“Well, good, because you won’t get drunk enough to find your ladyballs with that anyway. Get a damn drink, Ke-ke. Hurry up.”
“Fine.” I grab a bottle of vodka from the top shelf. It’s definitely a terrible plan, but since I can’t stand Scotch or tequila, which seem to be my only other choices, this is the best I can do. I don’t bother with a tumbler, just suck back a shot from the bottle itself.
“This shit is terrible,” I say after I manage to choke it down. “How can people drink this?”
I read off the label of the bottle to her and she gets quiet.
“Most people will never get the chance, because that shit’s like a thousand dollars a bottle.”
Suddenly, the idea of draining it while I search for clues about the real Lachlan Mount doesn’t seem quite so distasteful. “Okay, heading for the bathroom.”
An hour later, I’ve searched the bathroom, the bedroom, and the living room—including every cabinet and drawer. I attempt and fail at picking the sole locked door with a hairpin.
“This is hopeless. I should’ve watched more YouTube videos.”
“Then do it now and call me back.”
I flop back onto the most comfortable bed my body has ever touched. “I can’t. It’s all spinning, Mags.”
“Shit. You’re such a lightweight when it comes to anything but whiskey. Makes no damn sense.”
“When does the spinning stop?”