Cherry Creek

by Dani Matthews

  Five minutes later I am carefully slipping into the backseat of a limousine as Trace holds the door open for me. Khristos is already seated on the opposite side as Roman slips in behind me, settling in a seat close to my own. I smile politely at Khristos, feeling a brief moment of relief that I'd guessed correctly about what to wear for the evening. Khristos is wearing a dark, gray suit, and Roman is wearing dark pants and a matching long-sleeved dress shirt. Both of them look like they've stepped off a fashion runway.

  There's a moment of awkward silence as the limousine starts up and begins to make its way down the driveway. Khristos's phone rings from within the depths of his suit pocket, and he frowns briefly before pulling it out. He glances at the number, and his eyes flicker to first me and then Roman. “I apologize, but I must take this call.”

  Roman waves his hand as if he could care less. “Go for it.”

  Khristos begins to speak into the phone but not in English. I wonder what language it is. It's not Spanish. At least not that I can recognize. Is it French? Italian?

  The rest of the ride to Minneapolis is uneventful. Roman doesn't try to carry on a conversation with me, since Khristos stays on the phone right up until we arrive at a classy restaurant. When he realizes we've reached our destination, he quickly says something into the phone and pockets it. He then apologizes to us before the limo door opens and Trace is there.

  As soon as we walk into the restaurant, I want to walk right back out. The place is elegant, and soft instrumental music fills the dining room we are led to. The walls are a rich, cream color with white, decorative crown moldings along the ceiling. Two large, crystal chandeliers hang over the room. The atmosphere is intimate, because the lighting has been dimmed now that it’s late evening. I note that the restaurant is busy, and there's a quiet hum of conversation along with the clinking of silverware. We are immediately led to a table on the opposite side of the room, and I can’t help but glance around a bit nervously. There are a few sculptures in front of the windows, giving the place an airy artistic feel. Rich paintings adorn some of the walls but not all, so as not to seem too cluttered with décor.

  After sitting down in a plush, gray chair that is politely pulled out for me, I spy the numerous pieces of silverware next to each plate. I can't help but inwardly cringe. In my mind, I'm envisioning the dining scene from Pretty Woman. Hopefully, I won't be making a fool out of myself tonight.

  My eyes nearly pop out of my head when I scan the menu. First, I don’t really recognize the foods listed. Second, the prices are ridiculous.

  I’ve never been to a restaurant that serves an honest to God first course. The only thing I recognize is lobster, so I awkwardly order the sweet corn agnolotti with poached lobster, creamed spinach and curry. For my main entrée, I flush slightly as I order the grilled beef tenderloin with pine nut panisse, cauliflower and za’atar. It’s the most expensive entrée, but I can’t figure out what the other options are, so I am assuming beef is a safe bet.

  When the waiter leaves, Khristos turns his full attention on me while we wait for our dinner. “What do you think of Cherry Creek so far?”

  “It's nice.”

  “Have you made any friends?”

  “She's shy,” Roman cuts in before I can respond. “I had to twist her arm to get her to spend fifteen minutes out by the pool Friday night.” He looks at me, and his lip quirks up in the corner.

  “I'm not shy,” I say to him. I'm getting annoyed with the fact that he seems to find me amusing. My attention shifts to Khristos questioningly. “You knew about the party?”

  “I'm aware of everything that goes on under my roof.”

  “But they had beer.”

  Khristos smiles slightly and gives a half-shrug. “I'm a bit laid back, I suppose you could say. I respect a person's right to choose what they do as long as they are smart about it.”

  “So, you don't have a problem with underage drinking?” I ask skeptically.

  “It depends on the circumstances,” Khristos says as he reaches for his wine glass. “Roman took care to make sure that there were sober drivers for those that were too inebriated to make it home on their own.”

  Roman smirks at me. “Livvy, he owns the most popular club in the area. You really think he's going to make a big deal out of a little party?”

  I want to hit him, but instead my confusion over their blasé attitude wins out. Am I being prudish or something? “That's right,” I say as I deliberately ignore Roman and look at Khristos. “Trace mentioned you own a club.”

  Khristos nods. “Yes, it's called Bane. You're more than welcome to go. The only rule I have where you, Roman, and Roman's friends are concerned, is that if you make a scene or get drunk, you're out for good. Know your limit and have fun. Screw up, and I won't be happy,” he warns.

  The tone of his voice has my skin prickling slightly. I’m pretty sure he’s not the type to make idle threats. There’s something about Khristos that has me sensing he can be quite dangerous if you get on his bad side. It’s that calm, calculated reserve of his. The man doesn’t seem to tolerate needlessly idle conversation. He only says what’s necessary, then he’s content to move on. I’d seen him act that way towards my mom during the short time he’d been in Missouri.

  “So the club is eighteen and older?” I reach for my water, suddenly feeling thirsty.

  “Twenty-one,” Khristos corrects.

  I set my glass down and look at him doubtfully. “And you're okay with me going?”

  Khristos fights back a smile, and irritation sweeps through me. What is up with the Deveroux men laughing me? Are my questions that out of the ordinary? “You don't strike me as the type to get completely annihilated from alcohol. I'm fine with you going to Bane,” he tells me.

  “What if they check my ID?”

  “They won't.”

  “Why wouldn't they?” I press.

  “They already know to be on the lookout for you,” he says simply.

  Khristos is a strange man. Is this how the rich generally live? They break rules because they can? I don't know how to navigate this world they live in. In fact, trying to figure it out makes my temple ache. I reach up and absently rub it.

  “Headache?” Roman asks me.

  I glance up to find both of them watching me intently. “Just a little one. I'm still adjusting to...everything.” Roman's eyes shift to Khristos, and they exchange some sort of look that I can’t help but notice. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not at all,” Khristos says smoothly. “Tell me, how do you like your job so far?”

  “I like it. A lot, actually.” It feels good to be making my own money.

  “Do you get discounts on lingerie?” Roman asks with sudden interest as his eyes lock on mine.

  For a second, I am struck speechless that he would dare ask such a bold question, especially in front of Khristos of all people. “Excuse me?”

  He grins a bit devilishly. “You heard me. I'm just curious.”

  I debate whether or not to answer the question, and when I see that Khristos doesn't seem to mind that the topic has shifted to lingerie, I figure I'd better answer or I'll look like a moron. Or I'll be on the receiving end of more of Roman’s annoying smirks. “Well, yes. Not that I've bought any.” I mentally kick myself for opening up a new can of worms. One of these days, I’m going to learn that oversharing with Roman can lead to stupid conversations like this one.

  “Why not?” Roman asks, his eyes now challenging me as if he can tell I'm uncomfortable.

  Is this the type of conversation they find appropriate? I look at Khristos, and he's once again sipping his wine, unconcerned by the odd topic of whether I've bought lingerie recently. “Because I'm fine with what I have,” I say a bit awkwardly.

  Roman shakes his head, his attention shifting to his own glass of water. “I see I have a lot of work ahead of me,” he says as he takes a drink.

  “Roman,” Khristos murmurs with a hint of disapproval in his tone.

  I
look away, feeling beyond uncomfortable. What did Roman mean? Why is Khristos just now deciding to end the conversation? And what was up with that look they'd exchanged when I'd mentioned my headache? There's something going on, and I am unwittingly caught up in the middle of it somehow.

  ***

  I've decided I am going to hire a private investigator to find my mom. I'm not big on using Khristos's money, but I figure I'll use as much of it as I need to in order to find my mom. However, we'd gotten back late last night, and today I work a full shift at the store. I'll have to research private investigators later tonight. I’m hoping I can hire one here in Cherry Creek. It would be worth going to Minneapolis to hire one, but it would certainly make things easier if there was someone in town that I could hire.

  At the store, I decide to see if I can pump Selena for some information on Khristos. Maybe she could give me a little insight into his world.

  “Have you always lived in Cherry Creek?” I ask while Selena and I work together to set up a new display of lacy panties on a round, cloth-covered table.

  “Just for the past five years,” she says as she carefully spreads out a pair of panties on top of the one she'd just put down a second ago.

  “Oh. Do you know much about my uncle? Khristos Deveroux?”

  “He owns Bane. I love that club.” She looks up and gives me a sly look, her dark pink lips parting as she flashes perfectly, white teeth. “Maybe you could introduce us sometime.”

  Yeah, I don't think so. “Sure, if he ever stops in or something,” I say as I pull another handful of panties out of the shipment box they'd arrived in.

  Selena looks pleased as she goes back to strategically placing the scant pieces of fabric on the table. “What's he like?”

  “What do you mean?” I set the panties on the table and grab the first one off the pile to display on my side of the table.

  “You live with him. Do you spend much time with him?”

  “No, not really. He seems like he's always busy.”

  “I heard he has an on and off again girlfriend. Is that true?” Selena asks with great interest.

  I glance at her to see that she's hanging on every word I say. She knows absolutely nothing, and now I'm the one getting grilled. Figures. “Ah, I think so. I haven't been here long, so I don't really know that much about him.”

  The bell above the door dings, and we both look up as a couple of women enter the shop. Selena pats the pile of panties that still need to be set out. “I'll let you finish this,” she says as she saunters away towards the women.

  I go back to working on the display as I hear all three women laugh while Selena leads them towards the back of the store. A bit later, I've just finished helping a woman in her mid-thirties pick out a lingerie set for a bridal shower she's attending, when I turn around and come up short.

  A beautiful girl my age stands before me. She has long, glossy, ink black hair that falls almost to her waist while beautifully exotic, brown eyes study me with bold interest. She's taller than me by a few inches, and she's dressed to impress. Her blouse shows off her full breasts, and she's wearing tight, black pants with knee-high boots over them. The purse hanging over her arm probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. Not the one Sorcha bought, but the one that I've compiled through the years with my own cash.

  The girl smiles at me, but it’s the kind of smile that has me going alert with caution. It reminds me of the way Roman looks at me. Like he's humoring me. “I'm Tatum, a friend of Roman's,” she introduces.

  Well, that's not surprising. Roman's gorgeous, so I would expect him to surround himself with good looking people. I wonder if they're dating. “Nice to meet you,” I say politely.

  “I would have introduced myself at the party, but you disappeared.”

  “I wasn't really in the party mood,” I say lightly.

  Tatum nods as if she understands. “It must be strange getting used to a new family and new town. At least you don't have to deal with school until September.”

  The mention of school has apprehension rising slightly. The idea of being the new girl once again has me dreading the end of summer. I hate being the new girl. “What's the school like? Is it big?” I can’t help but inquire.

  “Not too big. Trust me, though, you're going to want friends before you start,” she warns.

  “It’s that bad?” I ask as my eyebrows shoot up.

  Tatum purses her lips slightly as if she's debating on what to say and how to say it. She tilts her head and shrugs a shoulder. “I wouldn't say it's bad. But it's very...cliquish, you could say. Everyone has their own group to hang with. Trust me, you're going to want yours before school starts.”

  “And what if I don't? Have a group, that is?” I ask as a hint of concern creeps up on me.

  “Oh, honey, we're already working on it. You'll be fine. Just start opening up a little more. Come to the club and play.”

  Come to the club and play? I don't understand these people, and I'm not in the mood to figure out exactly what 'play' means. “Is the school dangerous?” I ask, going back to the topic that worries me the most.

  Tatum shrugs carelessly. “No more dangerous than any other school.” She turns away and picks up a red teddy, looking at it intently. “Mm. What do you think?” She turns to face me as she holds it up against her body.

  “It's pretty.” What little of it there is.

  Tatum arches her eyebrow. “Aren't you a sales clerk? Shouldn't you be telling me that the color will really pop against my dark hair and tan skin? That the sides ride up to accentuate my small waist?”

  I can feel myself flushing. I've been comfortable giving strangers my opinion, but Tatum is different. I feel like she's toying with me, and I'm trying hard not to fall into her trap.

  Tatum sighs. “Roman wasn't kidding,” she says with distaste as she puts the scrap of fabric hanging from the padded hanger back on the rack.

  “What's that supposed to mean?” I feel my hackles beginning to rise.

  “You're shy,” she says as if she’s just bit into something distasteful. “You can't by shy in Cherry Creek, or the others will chew you up and spit you out.”

  “What others?”

  “Everyone,” Tatum says with exasperation as she tosses her hair back over her shoulder. “You need to grow a backbone.”

  I'm beyond irritated. “I have a backbone, or I wouldn't have cracked my boyfriend's skull open with a baseball bat.” The words are out before I can take them back.

  Tatum smiles triumphantly, looking pleased. “There she is. I like her. You on the other hand, you need to loosen up.”

  “Why does it matter to you, Tatum?”

  “Because you're Roman's cousin.”

  “Are you his girlfriend or something?” I can't help but ask.

  “Definitely not girlfriend,” she says with a laugh. She looks momentarily distracted and pulls out a cell phone from her pocket, glancing at the screen. “Time to go. Come out with us one night, and we'll show you what you're missing,” she says before she turns and walks back out of the store, her hips swaying confidently.

  The only thing I'm missing is my old life, and I want it back. I turn away and walk over to a display of bras as the conversation with Tatum plays back in my head. Thankfully, the rest of the afternoon and evening goes by smoothly.

  When I get back to the mansion after my shift, I make polite conversation with Adelaide before I explain I'm going to eat up in my room. Much to my relief, she doesn't question it. As I eat, I sit on my bed and search for private investigators in the area. There are two in Cherry Creek. Both claim to be highly experienced and guarantee one-hundred percent confidentiality. The only snag I run into is that I would have to be eighteen to hire them. Since I'm still a minor, that might be a bit of an issue. I'm not about to give up yet, so I sit back and contemplate my options. What if I offer to pay double? Or triple? Would it be enough of an incentive to take my case?

  I guess there's only one way to find out. I
quickly click on the icon in the corner of the screen to contact one of the investigators about setting up an appointment for tomorrow.

  Chapter Seven

  When I wake up the next morning, I have a terrible headache. I take some aspirin, then start getting ready for another day of work. After I take a quick shower, I walk into my room with a towel wrapped around me. My eyes land on the laptop sitting on the dresser, and I come to an abrupt halt where I stand. I haven't checked it yet to see if the investigator responded to my inquiry. I clutch the towel to my body as I hurry over and check my email. If I'm meeting with the investigator today, I'm going to want to make sure I look older than seventeen. Sure enough, I have a reply back, and he can meet with me at my requested time. I quickly send off an email confirming our scheduled meeting before I take my time dressing.

  I slip on a pair of cream colored dress pants and pull on a delicate, sleeveless blouse in a complimentary shade of coral. Instead of leaving my hair down, I pull it back in a knot behind my head. I study myself critically in the mirror. Maybe I should put on some make-up. I rush back into the bathroom and apply just hint more than I wear on a normal day. When I'm finished, I grab my purse and double check to make sure the credit cards and debit card are inside. If I can talk this investigator into taking my case, it might be wise to have cash on hand to prove I can double his fee. I'll have to hit the ATM during my lunch break.

  ***

  I'm nervous as I approach the glass door that has the investigative agency's name on it. I draw in a deep breath and try to calm the little butterflies dancing around in my stomach. I need to act calm and in control, because he needs to take me seriously. I pull open the door and enter the building once I feel like I have my emotions under control.

  The agency is small and decorated in simple earth tones. No one sits behind the reception desk, and I scan it with interest. There's a computer, and a potted plant decorates one corner. I can see a few picture frames, but they are facing the other way. I'm not nosy enough to walk around to take a peek at them. I hear movement and look up as a tall, distinguished looking man steps out of an office doorway across the small room.