by Amelia Wilde
I take both Quinn’s hands in mine outside the entrance to his office and kiss her gently.
“I’ll wait out here,” she says softly, then gives me an encouraging smile.
As I go into my father’s office, I hear his secretary already remembering her manners. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
Quinn’s reply is cut off as I close the door behind me.
It takes an enormous effort to look up from my shoes and into my father’s eyes.
When I do, I get the shock of a lifetime.
He doesn’t look angry.
In fact, he’s smiling at me, with tears in his eyes.
“Dad?” I say, my voice choked.
He gets up from behind his desk, crosses the space between us, and enfolds me in his arms.
“Eli,” he says softly, and I hug him back. “You’ve returned.”
“What?” I say, pulling back so I can look into his eyes. “You knew it was me all along?”
He laughs, stepping back to put a little breathing room between us. “I was there the moment you were born, Elijah. Did you think I would forget which one of my sons was which?”
I am overwhelmed with confusion. “But why did you—”
“Let this little game of yours go on so long?” He shakes his head. “I never expected it to last a decade, for one. There were many times I thought I might—I thought I might say something, give myself away, but every time, I held back.”
“Why?”
He puts a hand to his mouth and thinks for a moment before he answers. “Losing a child was the worst thing that ever happened to me,” he says, his voice low and soft. “I can’t imagine what it was like to lose an identical twin. Your grief must have been—it must have been overpowering.
“At first I thought it was something you’d snap out of, but as the months went by and became years, it seemed like something you needed to do.”
My mouth drops open. The lengths my father has gone to to indulge me in this are beyond what anyone could expect from any father.
“But…you had him buried under my name.”
“I did.” This might be the first time he’s ever admitted it out loud to anyone. “I did do that. Seems pretty fucked up, doesn’t it?” My father grins despite the tears in his eyes. “I guess I’m…what, an accomplice?”
“You didn’t have to do that.” The lump in my throat threatens to turn to tears.
“I did. Because one of my sons was still alive, and for whatever reason, he needed to be his brother.”
I turn away, covering my eyes with my hands. “You always…you always liked him better.”
“What can I say? I was an asshole when you were growing up. But I didn’t like him better. I wanted you to enjoy the things we enjoyed. It was a bad way to go about it.”
“Yeah, it was,” I agree heartily, and we both laugh. “Jesus Christ. I am in such deep shit.”
“No doubt about that, son,” my dad says.
Relief. Sweet relief.
“I can’t believe you let me get away with that for a decade.”
My father is silent for a moment, and then he looks me straight in the eye. “As ridiculous as it sounds…it was a way for me to have both of my sons. At least for a while.”
I look toward the ceiling and consider the pair of us, each devastated by the loss of my brother, each reacting in what might have been the most idiotic way possible. “Damn, do we need therapy.”
We laugh at that for a long time.
My gut is aching with laughter, but when it finally subsides, I have one more thing to say to my father.
“Dad, remember when we had that conversation about finding a good woman?”
“Yes?” His brow wrinkles.
“Well, she didn’t exactly keep me out of the gossip sites. I screwed that one up.”
“I’d say. That press conference is going to be pretty hard to spin.”
I wave that comment away. We can talk about all that later, but even so, I’m not worried about Pierce Industries. If anything, the extra coverage will boost its stock price.
“The important thing is…” My voice trails off. I’m relishing this moment so much that I’m already nostalgic for it.
“Spit it out, Eli.”
I’ve never smiled so brightly as in that moment.
“There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Epilogue
Quinn
Three months later
The podium is already in place outside of the Pierce Industries building, and Eli—it’s still hard for me to think of him as Eli and not Christian, even now—can hardly stand still. He’s about to announce that he’s been cleared of any wrongdoing by the federal government, which—wouldn’t you know it—takes identity theft pretty seriously, and that all the charges against him have been dropped.
“It’s good to be a free man,” he says, watching the press gather outside.
I roll my eyes. “You’ve always been a free man. It’s not like they made you wait in prison.”
“They could have made me wait in prison.”
“There’s no amount of bail that Pierce Industries wouldn’t have paid, and we both know it.”
Eli shrugs, still grinning at me.
An elevator dings its arrival across the lobby, and I turn to see his father, Harlan Pierce, step out.
That whole story—what a doozy.
The moment they stepped out of his office together three months ago, it was clear that any past misunderstandings had been cleared up—or at least forgiven for the time being.
“Quinn Campbell!” said Harlan Pierce jovially, and I shook his hand with an air of joyful confusion.
“You don’t seem very surprised by this news, sir,” I couldn’t help saying.
He winked at me. “It’s hard to surprise a man who’s known you your entire life.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
From then on, Christian and his father were genuinely close. Once a month, they’ve been attending therapy sessions together. I can’t imagine having to do that with my own father, who has thoroughly enjoyed his life in a small town in Northern Michigan. The last time we argued was when I was in high school and going through a rebellious phase.
“Hello, lovebirds,” he calls now, striding across the lobby. He can’t wait to stand next to his son while he makes this announcement. It’s not likely to be the last of the press coverage about the strange story of Elijah and Christian Pierce, but at least it’s a relatively happy ending.
“Mr. Pierce,” I say, greeting him with a smile.
“Is this one all ready to go?” he asks me, putting an arm around Eli’s shoulders.
Eli shrugs him off good-naturedly. “I’m standing right here,” he jokes.
“He’s as ready as he’ll ever be,” I say, then take Eli’s arm and turn him toward me. I give him a once-over, making sure his outfit is in pristine condition, then straighten his tie.
The press looks to be fully assembled, and it’s supposed to rain later this afternoon—they won’t stay long if we don’t give them something to pay attention to. “Let’s go entertain our guests.”
“As you wish,” Eli says, raising my hand to his lips and kissing it theatrically.
“My goodness,” I say, teasing. “Keep yourself under control. We are at work.”
Not long after that insanely hot kiss on camera brought down the wrath of HRM’s management upon my head, I got to build a press release announcing my new position at Pierce Industries as Vice President of Reputation Management. I forced Harlan to put me through the full interview process, even though he created the position for me.
I’m not harboring any guilt about that. I’m good at my job. I can’t help that I’m in love with the boss’s son, and that Pierce Industries can use a top-of-the-line public relations professional on their staff.
I lead the way out onto the sidewalk. The fall air is pleasant—not too hot, not too cold—and the cloud cover is easy on t
he eyes.
I step up to the podium with confidence and wait for the chatter among the reporters to stop.
“Thanks for being here, everybody,” I say, scanning the crowd. “Harlan and Elijah Pierce of Pierce Industries.”
Then I step back, ceding the podium.
The two men step up in front of it together, Harlan slightly to one side, and Eli takes a folded piece of paper from his pocket and smooths it against the polished mahogany surface of the podium. “Hello, everyone,” he says with a half smile that has me wet in an instant.
A shiver of pleasure goes through me when I think of what we’re going to do in bed later…
Snap out of it, Quinn. You’re on camera!
Eli is halfway through his statement. “—pleased to announce that I have been cleared of all wrongdoing. I thank you all for your support during this difficult time, and I look forward to sharing the future success of Pierce Industries with you.”
Unsurprisingly, there are no questions. Almost to a one, everyone gathered in front of the podium waits to see if Eli is going to announce anything groundbreaking. This is not nearly as exciting as his last press conference.
Harlan and Eli exchange a look, and then Harlan steps off to the side.
I’m instantly on edge. This isn’t the plan. Harlan was supposed to make a short statement in support of his son, and then take a few questions. What is he doing?
Eli pulls another piece of paper from his breast pocket, unfolds it, scans it for a moment, and tucks it into the podium. Then he turns and gestures for me to come forward.
I arrive at the podium as he steps to the opposite side, in plain view of the reporters.
“Eli—what—”
“Quinn Campbell,” he says, his voice clear as a bell. The three anchors who have assembled each thrust their microphones another inch closer to us, desperate to pick up every word. “There’s so much I want to say to you that I can’t possibly fit it all in during this press conference.”
What is he doing?
“I loved you almost from the moment I saw you,” he continues, and it dawns on me.
This is a proposal.
Oh, my god.
My heart soars.
“I never want to spend another day without you by my side.” Eli gets down on one knee and pulls a small velvet box from his pocket and opening it to reveal a diamond set in a ring of sapphires. It’s the most beautiful piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen, and perfectly unconventional. “Will you give me the chance to spend the rest of my life telling you, every day, how much I love you?”
A happy tear spills out of the corner of my eye, and with a trembling hand I wipe it away.
“There’s nothing else I’d rather do,” I choke out.
“Is that a yes?” says Eli, a cheeky smile on his face.
“Yes!” I cry, and then throw myself into his arms. Laughing, he stands up, lifting us both, and kisses me long and hard, right on the mouth, for all the world to see.
Dirty Ransom
1
Angelica
Rush hour. That’s when Adam calls me to come bail him out of God knows what. The middle of rush hour. On Thursday.
Taking a cab might not have been the smartest decision I’ve ever made, but when I heard the sheer panic coming through loud and clear in my younger brother’s voice over the phone, I didn’t take time to weigh all my options. I went.
Jesus, I left.
My boss isn’t going to be thrilled. The name Hadley Martin may make you think she’s the kind of happy-go-lucky woman she pretends to be on camera and that’s depicted in the light-drenched photo where she’s dressed in creamy pastels that’s posted on her website—the website she owns and that I work for—but don’t be fooled. I’ve never met a more ruthless and demanding person. It’s not that she doesn’t have a heart—it’s that the one she does have makes Antarctica seem like a tropical rain forest. Hadley eats, sleeps and breathes profit, profit, profit. The concept of having a “personal life” doesn’t exist in her world.
I was lucky, in one way, though. She was out of the office attending some late meeting when I got the frantic call from my brother. Still, I have no delusions. She’ll inevitably discover that I ducked out before five and....
I can’t think about that right now. Adam is in trouble.
What kind of trouble, I have no clue. He didn’t—wouldn’t—say. My chest tightens as do the muscles of my jaw. It’s not the first time he’s called me like this since we both moved to the city. I’m going to be royally pissed off if this is because he can’t pay his rent again. Or for his groceries. Or because he’s blown his paycheck by going out with his friends, again.
At twenty-four, he should be able to clean up his own messes.
My mouth goes dry when I remember the way he stumbled over his words.
From the front of the cab, the driver sighs. “Traffic,” he mutters under his breath, then slams his hand down against the horn for good measure. I crane my neck and see nothing but cars all around us, backed up bumper to bumper, all of us trying to get to Brooklyn.
During rush hour.
Sweat pricks underneath my arms despite the A/C blasting from the vents on the front panel of the cab’s dashboard. For Christ’s sake, running there would probably be faster, and I’m wearing heels. I’m considering paying the fare, along with a handsome tip, right now and making a break for it when, at last, the cab lurches forward.
“Thank God,” I say, half to myself.
The cabbie shakes his head. “Amen.”
It’s another forty minutes before we pull up in front of Adam’s apartment building in Sunset Park. It’s a third-story walk-up in a brick building that was recently renovated to cater to the influx of tech types in the area. His first nice place.
My stomach clenches as I shove money into the cabbie’s hands and turn to face the building. The late afternoon sun glints off the windows, of Adam’s apartment but from here, nothing seems to be amiss. I grit my teeth. If this is some last-minute bid for rent money....
I take a deep breath.
There’s only one way to find out why he called.
I push the new plastic call button next to his name on the building’s intercom. Seconds later a buzzing fills the air and a clicking sound indicates the front door has been unlocked. As soon as I open the door and enter the vestibule, I’m hit by a wall of stuffy air. Obviously the landlord doesn’t believe in paying for central air.
Three flights of stairs later, I’m wiping the sweat from my brow and standing in front of the metal door to his place. A small plate positioned at eye level reads “3B.”
I knock.
Adam opens the door before I’ve even had a chance to lower my hand, and I see instantly that something is very, very wrong. His face is pale, almost ashen, and he looks like he’s been holding back tears.
“Adam,” I say worriedly, stepping inside the apartment. He closes the door behind us before flipping the lock, and then unflipping it. “What—?”
My brother clears his throat, cutting me off. We’re standing side by side on a welcome mat that covers part of his living room’s hardwood floor. “I have a guest, Ang.” His voice is tight, even though he’s clearly trying to appear cool and collected.
There’s a man sitting on Adam’s futon. He unfolds himself from his seat, revealing his height. He’s well over six feet tall, and as he stands up, a shiver of dread streaks down my spine. The clothes he’s wearing are nothing special—khaki shorts and a black t-shirt that’s neatly tucked in at the waistband, the material fitted tight against his hard muscles—but there’s something off about the way he holds himself. His back is ramrod straight, yet his muscles flex like his limbs might fly out of control at any minute.
“Hello, Angelica,” he says, his voice sharp, though the grin stays in place. It’s like he wants to eat me. It pisses me off.
“Who the hell are you?” I ask, drawing myself up to my full height—all five foot four of me.
<
br /> The bastard chuckles. “Let’s not get off on the wrong foot.”
“Answer the question.”
“You can call me Charlie,” he says, spreading his hands out like he’s a celebrity. I shoot a look at Adam. What is this?
“Charlie,” I say, very slowly. “What are you doing in my brother’s apartment?”
“Waiting for you.”
A sharp heat surges across my chest, and on its heels my stomach flutters. What does he mean, ‘waiting for me?’ “I’m not interested in playing games, Charlie.”
“Neither am I,” he says, taking a sudden step toward us. My brother and I both reflexively step backward, toward the door, but one more step and Charlie has closed the gap. “Here’s the deal, Angelica,” he says, and I can smell cheap cologne rolling in waves off his skin. It hits me that I have no idea where my phone is. It’s somewhere in my purse, probably buried under the flats I walk to work in and cast-off granola bars. There’s no way I can get to it fast enough if this guy is a drug dealer, or, Jesus, an assassin.
Charlie doesn’t finish his sentence. He takes a half step back and turns his evil smile on my brother, who looks down at the floor. “You tell her, Adam.”
Adam’s jaw works but no sound escapes. He can’t bring himself to look me in the eye when he finally speaks. “I owe Charlie some money.”
“Jesus, Adam,” I say through clenched teeth. I want to shake some sense into him, but I ask the question he’s waiting for. “How much money?”
Charlie steps in. “Ten thousand.”
“Ten thousand dollars?” I wheel on Adam again, but his eyes are glued to the floor. “For what?”
“We’ve made some...investments in Adam over the past few months,” Charlie says, pursing his lips like he feels sorry for my brother. “But they didn’t pan out.”
Adam has asked me to bail him out countless times since we left home and moved to the city, and I’ve always done it. Who else was going to? Our mother doesn’t make any money and our father has never been in the picture. Up until now, his money problems have always been annoying, yet they were for simple things like rent and food. He hadn’t contacted me for money for several months so I thought it proved he was working his way out of the habit. I have no idea what kind of investment Charlie is talking about, but it can’t be good.