One child.
Always a boy.
I had no idea how they did it and I shuddered to think of any that were born before or after that may not have been a boy. If there were, I didn’t know about them.
But none of that mattered now. Anyone who may have objected was dead. I could have a football team, all girls, and no one could stop me. I just needed a woman first.
I crossed the polished foyer of marble to the private elevator tucked out of sight between two looming potted ferns. The metal doors opened to a cubicle lined in mirrors and wood, and welcomed me into my father’s lingering scent.
Oh, how I loathed that smell.
The overwhelming concoction of rich leather, expensive cigars, and lies. So many lies. Each one rose up with me with every passing floor. They danced around me in a mocking twirl of betrayal.
But that was the way of things. It was being a Kincaid.
The elevator stopped on the thirty-fifth floor where Alice greeted me with my mail and a mug of strong, black coffee.
“Your mother has been calling, sir,” she announced crisply. “She is insisting you call her back.”
I checked my watch, calculating my mother’s exact whereabouts based on the hour. Norah Kincaid would be finishing up her evening tea and relaxing in the library. Definitely not the best time to reach her.
“Remind me in an hour.” I took the items Alice held out. “Any word from Darnielle?”
Alice nodded. “Ashcroft phoned to confirm your meeting this afternoon.”
I took a contemplative sip of my coffee and hummed.
“Should be interesting,” I mused mostly to myself. To her, I added, “This will only be our eighth meeting.”
Alice had been with my father for almost fifteen years. She knew more about him than even my mother, but I always wondered if she really knew him. It seemed impossible.
Father had been very careful about who he let in. Alice was too ... by the book to properly keep that secret, which was why I never asked her about the box of files.
They’d arrived at the manor the night of the funeral, delivered by my father’s lawyer — the only person Walter could trust not to betray the Kincaid name and only because divulging that secret would ruin him. But the contents were unlike anything I’d ever witnessed.
“Thank you, Alice.”
I took myself past her desk to the frosted doors leading into my office. The lights automatically flicked to life the moment I stepped into the room. The heavy blinds lifted over the high windows with a muffled hum of gears. Liquid sunshine spilled over the heavy, oak desk and poured across gleaming marble with every inch of glass exposed.
I took another sip of coffee as I made my way to the leather chair. I sat. The mail was tossed into the drawer on the right with all the others I needed to sort through. The mug was placed on the flat, square coaster on the right of the massive desk calendar.
Efficiency.
Father was nothing if not methodical. Borderline OCD. It was possibly the only thing we shared in common.
With my hands free, I withdrew the small stack of folders I kept in the locked drawer and placed them in front of me.
There were twelve.
Each one unlabeled.
Indistinguishable from each other, but containing a certain amount of power no one man should possess. Of the box I’d inherited, those twelve were the least threatening, which was the only reason I felt comfortable leaving them at the office, unlike the others that were separated and hidden away in no less than eight different vaults for safekeeping. But I couldn’t have them falling into the wrong hands.
Father collected things.
It was normal for a man in his position to have expensive hobbies; he had the money and time. But his tastes ran deeper than just fast cars and a condo for his mistress.
Father collected secrets.
Not only those of his enemies, but his friends. He’d dug into their lives to extents not even the government would dare. He knew things about people in high seats of power that made me cringe.
But it didn’t stop there.
He hadn’t stopped there.
Aside from secrets and friends of great influence, Father collected girls, young, beautiful girls like dolls. He had files on them as well.
Their ages.
Their description.
Their photos and the names he’d given them.
There were no less than thirty of those. Each girl started from eighteen and were kept until the age of twenty-two after which the records stopped and a new one started. Some were kept for merely months. A few overlapped, two or three at a time. He didn’t seem to have a preference. No type. They were of every race, height, and weight.
Then there were the clubs, the private auctions, the underground houses of sin. Father had his hands on them all, filtering millions into keeping them operational. The majority were by the book with a paper trail a mile long. Others were deep in the black, barely, if legal at all.
I held the ones in the green. The ones that would pass a government inspection.
I didn’t think I could handle the rest.
I flipped open the top one and went over the lines I was beginning to recite by heart.
MY TIME WAS VALUABLE.
I didn’t take it lightly.
I didn’t squander it aimlessly.
I didn’t take it for granted, because my time was money.
It was freedom.
It was my passion.
I liked money.
I liked the power it brought.
I liked making it.
I liked the distraction and routine, because I was a man who thrived on control. I wielded it with an expert marksmanship. That was how my father taught me to be — ruthless, cunning.
Possessive.
I was possessive. The kind of man who did not lose.
“Mr. Darnielle,” I used my tone of calm authority, the only tone the man seated across from me understood. “We’ve been assessing this negotiation for nearly six months with no success. Can I assume then that you have changed your mind?”
Stuart Darnielle drew in a breath. The loosely curled fingers hovering inches from his pursed lips gave a subtle twitch, a tell I was beginning to recognize as the man’s unease.
At his right elbow, Jefferey Ashcroft leaned into his client’s shoulder and murmured behind his hand. The man had been doing that a lot lately, whispering little words of guidance the other man was clearly ignoring. But I knew neither could afford to change their minds. Darnielle needed my money, needed me to fix my father’s problems.
“Mr. Darnielle wants nothing more than to see this transaction to its end, but you must understand the difficulties of parting with a piece that has been in his family for three generations.”
My patience was wearing thin. I could almost feel it waning. It was a task not to throw both owner and lawyer out.
In all truths, I couldn’t be sure why I’d let things go on for as long as they had. Any other business, I would have ended the matter after the third meeting and zero progress. But something about this one, about the folder in front of me, about the colored Post-It, urged me to keep trying. Maybe a part of me was also curious. Of the many businesses my father had funded, this one had been his favorite. Thus far, I couldn’t understand why.
“I sympathize, but as I recall, Mr. Ashcroft, you came to me.” I tapped the open folder resting before me with the tip of my middle finger. “You asked for my help salvaging your family’s legacy, which I accepted out of respect for the partnership you had with my father in the past. What I will not accept is this blatant disregard for my time. I have countless other matters that require my attention. So, if you have changed your mind, I would very much appreciate that to be made clear so we may continue with our day.”
The two men exchanged glances, quick flickers out of the corners of their eyes. Mr. Darnielle lowered his arm and shifted a notch higher in his chair.
“Perhaps I am uneasy b
ased on the fact that you have not yet visited the Black Lotus, Mr. Kincaid. I don’t wish for there to be any misunderstandings between us ... out of respect for my partnership with your father.”
I ignored the cleverly concealed barb.
“I’ve already seen—”
“You have only seen the intake location, Mr. Kincaid,” Ashcroft cut in. “I assure you, there is much more to what we offer.”
Intake — a cleverly disguised term for one of the most grueling background checks I’ve ever been a part of. The president wasn’t vetted that thoroughly. They’d wanted everything from a full medical to a report of every penny in my account. They had delved deep into my non-existent personal life and torn through my family history. It had been weeks of paperwork, but the man had insisted and I disliked anything being half done.
“It’s not your usual venue,” Mr. Darnielle insisted.
I understood the meaning of an unusual business. Father had had a taste for the taboo and he had been very careful to keep those off the company books. Mr. Darnielle’s insistence that it was an unusual venue only solidified my curiosity.
“Then enlighten me.”
I’D BEEN TO PLENTY of auction houses in my lifetime. My father had owned many of them. Possibly too many. He’d been a man dedicated to possessing things. All manner of things. Which was why I wasn’t entirely surprised by Stuart Darnielle’s hesitance, but even I wasn’t prepared for the Victorian estate looming in full, brilliant glory in the middle of nowhere.
In the settling twilight, it had become a majestic force straining high into the heavens. Antique windows glowed with warm gold, emanating a subtle pulse that lured men in like some man-eating plant. All around, the world smelled of pine and possibilities.
I won’t lie, I was not immune to the flutter of excitement.
The front door was opened by a boy of eighteen dressed in a sharp suit. He extended a gloved hand without uttering a word, or looking too closely at my face. I passed along the engraved card Ashcroft had hand delivered to me that morning. The weight of it was a noticeable loss once taken from me.
The wax seal with the image of an eagle in flight was broken for the first time. Ashcroft had warned me not to open it, so I was definitely intrigued. The card itself was slipped free of the sleeve and turned over. I caught sight of a neat row of shimmering gold letters embossed on one side, but was never told what it said when it was placed neatly on the silver tray resting on a small table at his hip, along with the stack of others and a small, clear clipboard.
“May I see your ID, sir?”
Ashcroft had given me a slight rundown of what to expect and what to make sure I had with me when I went, mainly the card and one piece of photo ID.
“Verification purposes,” he’d said. “We don’t want people giving their spots away to friends.”
I understood the concern. For the amount of security they insisted upon, they couldn’t have random people just coming off the streets.
I gave the boy my driver’s license and watched as he turned it over in his hands. The name on the ID was cross examined with the names on the list. Mine — I assumed — was crossed out. The clipboard was set down and the boy lifted brown eyes to my face. He matched it to the one in the photo.
Everything must have added up, because he returned my ID and motioned me inside.
The front door opened to a foyer lit by a massive, crystal chandelier suspended over a round table. The scent of lilies poured into the space from the vase perched on top and the spray of delicate, white flowers inside. It wound with the smell of wood polish and expensive leather.
“This way, sir.”
The boy gestured for me to follow him past the display towards the back of the house.
The place was much larger than it had seemed from the outside. Once we maneuvered past the main area of the house, it was a series of doors and dim corridors. I was no stranger to complex designs, but even I couldn’t figure out the pattern.
I was taken to a theater room with its tiers overlooking a wall of heavy, velvet drapes. There were already other men clustered inside, sitting comfortable in the oversized seats, idly chatting with the person next to them. I recognized the majority of them as the men who ran our fair little city. Men of power and influence. I couldn’t count the number of times a few of them had graced my mother’s dinner table. Men Father had always considered close friends.
Maybe they were.
There was excitement in the air, a fine crackling of anticipation that skittered up my skin. It was stronger than the usual need for anonymity the men in that room insisted upon; not one cared if they were seen in that place. If anything, it reminded me of an exclusive party for a pack of frat boys.
I claimed the seat nearest the aisle without being seen, figuring it would be easier to slip out if necessary without disturbing the others.
No sooner had my butt touched the cushion when the house lights dimmed.
“Please take your seats,” said a sultry, female voice. “Our show will begin momentarily. We have a unique selection for you tonight, one we are sure you will enjoy. While you wait, please read the pamphlet you were given upon your arrival. We wish only to serve you the best.”
I hadn’t been given a pamphlet. But I glanced at the one my neighbor held open and blinked.
Girls.
They were auctioning girls.
Real girls.
I never would have believed it if I wasn’t looking right at the lineup.
“May I see that when you’re finished?”
My neighbor turned cool eyes on me and smiled. “Keep it. I know the selection by heart.”
Thanking him, I accepted the booklet and opened it.
It was the oddest thing I’d ever witnessed. They were selling off girls like antique furniture. Each one was showcased with a photo and a full page of details, everything from height and weight, to favorite sex positions and preferred kink. There were dozens of them. Face after face with every turn of a glossy page.
“First time?” my neighbor asked.
I nodded, flipping to the next girl. “I didn’t know places like this existed.”
The man laughed. “My dad used to say, for every absentee father is a little girl who needs a stiff cock.”
I flipped the page. “Your father sounds like a true gentleman.”
My companion chuckled again. “He’s been accused of worse, I suppose.”
“How long have you been coming here?” I ventured, not entirely clear on the protocols; was it bad manners to ask another member about their underground dealings? Like fight club, maybe you never spoke about it.
My companion hummed meditatively and rubbed the tips of four fingers over his jaw. “It feels like forever. I think I might have grown up in these chairs.”
The amusement in the statement drew my attention to the man in the seat next to mine. I hadn’t bothered getting a good look, doing so had felt like eyeing another man while at the urinals. There were certain lines you didn’t cross. But I took in my neighbor.
He was clean cut and carried the air of someone from a long line of wealth. The scent of money and sophistication oozed from his very pores. In the dim light, his blond locks appeared nearly white. The downy strands were combed back, longer in front, shorter in the back, exposing the rigidly defined structure of his rectangular face. I wouldn’t have called him handsome — I wouldn’t have called any man handsome — but he had charm. The noticeable kind that teetered on mysterious.
Pale, gray eyes swept to the corners and found mine through the swaying shadows. The one corner of his mouth quirked as if sharing a secret with me.
“One might call it an addiction,” he finished lazily.
“So, how does this all work?”
One long, spidery hand lifted, a skeletal white in the sharp spike of lights above and motioned to the curtains. “The girls will be shown through there.” One finger extended and pointed to a black box above the stage. “The monitor will s
how the current bid and count down when no one has entered a new amount after fifty seconds.”
“Entered an amount how?”
I hadn’t been given a paddle.
“Someone will bring around the counters before we start. Oh! Here we are now.”
The same kid who had shown me to the room, walked up and down the aisle with a silver cart, handing out iPads. I took one when he reached me and turned it on.
The screen immediately opened to the auction house logo, a black lotus on a bed of white. My companion tapped his own screen and it opened to the main page. I followed suit.
It asked for my information, my account numbers, my ideal preferences. It was brief, but thorough. Only after it was all complete did I get to the actual page.
It was a list of each girl in the order they would be presented. Alongside each photo was a blank box where I assumed my bidding price would go.
It was surprisingly high tech.
“Good evening,” the female voice filled the room once more. “Our show is about to begin. Please return to your seats.”
Like a movie theater, the lights went out completely and the curtains parted.
My neighbor hadn’t been exaggerating. Each girl was brought into the white room, made to sit on the bed. Overhead, the feminine voice read off the girl’s preferences, her hard and soft limits, and any experiences she may have had. The majority of the girls didn’t look old enough to be there. The rest sat with the confidence of someone who had seen and done this a lot. I partially wondered if this was even legal. In all the paperwork I had on the house, nothing had struck me as illegal, or even in the gray. They paid their taxes, and even had a listing in the phonebook. The girls clearly weren’t being forced to be there. If anything, it probably just skimmed the line. It did make me curious to see what their contracts looked like. The version I was given only required my discretion and my promise not to damage the product.
That was what the girls were listed as, products. The items. I guess putting the girls in actual black and white print would have raised some questions, not to mention cross that line between ethical and prostitution. But what did people think the girls were being paid to do? Read?
Protector's Claim Page 5