The Artisans

by Julie Reece

  Apparently, batting your eyelashes only works in the movies, because Mr. Butler Guy straightens himself to his full height—which is shorter than my five-foot-seven. He’s got to be seventy. Thin, frail, the man is nearly bald, and his scalp is covered in dark liver spots. Black spectacles slide down an impressive nose stuffed with white hairs. They match his eyebrows, as though all the hair on this guy’s body migrated to those two areas. Attractive.

  He glares at me, but I pretend not to notice.

  “Nice place. Very …” Ominous, spooky, chilling. “Imposing,” I finally manage. The interior of the house matches every expectation based on its shell. Asymmetrical floor plan, the massive mahogany staircase curves left with a thinner stair breaking off and winding right to what must be the third floor. Everything is dark wood, red carpeting, crusty, dusty, and haunted looking. You gotta be kidding me. All the place lacks is a suit of armor and The Addams Family.

  “Young woman, you are not expected. Now if you will be so kind as to leave the prem—”

  “Jamis? It’s all right. I will see her.” A disembodied voice floats down the hall. It’s a nice voice, young, low, and well, hot.

  A muscle in the old man’s jaw flexes as he glances from me to the long hallway on our right.

  I drop the sugar-and-spice routine now that I’ve been admitted. I am many things but sweet isn’t one of them. My arms fold over my chest. I’m enjoying my victory over the snotty butler just a little too much, but I’m building my confidence for what’s ahead. “He’ll see me now, Jamis.”

  The butler ignores me and faces the empty hall. “Very good, sir.”

  I follow as he heads in the direction of the mysterious voice. My fingers twine together. I glance at the oil paintings on the walls, exotic vases on the credenzas lining the wide hallway. Despite my bold plan, I’m full of crap, so full my eyes should be brown and not gray. I’m scared to death of what might happen if I fail to convince this guy to leave my stepfather alone.

  “Madam.” The old man bows at the entrance to the last door at the hall’s end.

  From miss to madam, huh? I wink and he rewards me with a look of shocked disdain. Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on the poor old guy. How nice could he be, though, working for a skeeze like Maddox? Ladies respect their elders, the position of age, no matter their behavior. My mother’s prim voice echoes in my mind. Fine. “Thank you,” I mumble. That’s all he’s getting.

  His eyes widen ever so slightly as I breeze past him. Floor to ceiling bookshelves cover the walls between rich, dark paneling inside. I breathe in dust, and age, and something sweet. A bowl of red cherries sits on a green blotter atop the desk, an open deck of playing cards scattered beside them. There’s an ancient looking camera resting on a wooden tripod that takes center stage in the middle of the floor. It’s oddly placed, the lens aimed directly at the doorway I stand in.

  “Why have you come?”

  I don’t see anyone at first as I shuffle forward. Heavy brocade curtains block the windows, keeping the room dark. One lamp burns on the desktop flooding the surface with light but leaving the rest of the space dim. My gaze darts around the room until movement pulls my attention to a silhouette behind the desk. I swallow hard, my heart hammering. “I’m Raven Weathersby, here on behalf of my stepfather Benjamin Weathersby. He’s too sick to meet with you today.”

  “Raven?” I still can’t see him. My name rolls off his tongue slowly. His pronunciation is deliberate, as if he tastes the sound it makes. “Will you sit?”

  “I’ll stand.” My refusal is meant to appear tough, but I immediately regret my words. Nerves are multiplying and my knees rattle beneath me. I guess he keeps to the shadows to intimidate me and it’s working. Why won’t he show himself? It’s pissing me off.

  “Then let’s get to it, shall we? Your stepfather’s gambling debts are extreme, not to mention his drunk stumbling into a display of candles in the foyer set my club on fire. Regardless of his health, your stepfather will have to keep his appointment. He’s caused me more than enough trouble.”

  The shadow sounds too young to own a club, or anything else, for that matter. Not yet a man’s voice, but not a boy’s either, his speech is prep-school snark or tutored, home-school formal. “I understand your frustration, sir,” I say. “But it was an accident. That ‘club’ was a hundred-year-old warehouse. A pile of kindling used for illegal gambling. Insurance will pay for physical losses, anyway. I know you’re covered.”

  I did, too. I spent the hours before my meeting in Jacob’s shop on his laptop. Google helped me check up on the illustrious Maddox Enterprises, their textiles and manufacturing … Between Jacob, Ben’s bookie, Michael Botts, and a few others, I’d gotten quite an education this morning.

  Maddox didn’t corner the market on connections. Sure, some of mine were less than reputable, but Ben grew up in this town. Everyone knew my mother and the story of her … unearthing. I wasn’t above using their pity to save the only father I’d ever known. When you’re down and out, you do what you must to survive. It might not be pretty, but I couldn’t afford the luxury of pride. “I will pay what he owes. There must be something we can …”

  It’s too quiet. All I hear is the sound of faint breathing. Footsteps brush the red, Persian rug beneath us. The light from the desk lamp illuminates handsome male features as the figure steps closer.

  A boy stands in the center of the room. Boy? Guy. He’s six feet, at least. Messy, blond hair falls in an appealing way over his brow. He casually rests a hip against the giant walnut desk. He’s wearing tan leather pants, a white cotton tunic, and a green, duck canvas overcoat that hangs to his knees, complete with faux fur collar. His clothes are good. Not as good as mine, but custom, and quite nice. I make my observations in seconds, ticking off the particulars. This guy oozes more electrical sex appeal than the Las Vegas Strip.

  When he shifts his weight, I notice his cane for the first time. The dark wood and gold, lion-head grip makes it the most beautiful walking stick I have ever seen. I’d kill to own one like it. Well, maybe not kill, but maim? Definitely. I feel my brow creasing. This isn’t the infamous Nathan Maddox. He’s too young. “Who are you?”

  He leans over, twisting the lamp switch from low to high. Light brightens the entire room. “Gideon Maddox, at your service,” he replies.

  Maddox has a son? I guess I’d heard that, but few have ever seen him. Always away at boarding school or something. I wonder if the square-jawed, GQ model standing in front of me knows his father’s plan. “What do you want with Ben?

  “Restitution. Isn’t it obvious?” He stares like I’m a puzzle that needs solving. “Only, I wasn’t expecting you …” He shifts and glances at the camera in the center of the room. “This is quite a surprise.” A line forms between his eyebrows. “So, what do I do with you? What to do …”

  My feet tingle. Before I know what’s happening, I pace. If I stand in one spot any longer, I’ll crack. “Let me speak with your father. I’m sure we can work something out.”

  His expression hardens to granite, eyes flashing dark and dangerous. “The correspondence was from me. I handle these matters now, not my father.” His voice is careful, calculating. Plotting against Ben as if he’s planning his next move on a chessboard.

  He shifts, leaning on his cane. The guy is stunning from a physical standpoint. I hate myself for noticing, but it’s actually hard not to stare. He said he’s taken over. Does that mean the son continues his father’s ruthless practices? I detect no compassion in his stony expression.

  “Let him go,” I say, trying to keep the pleading to a minimum. “Talk to your dad or whoever. Ban Ben from your clubs, your game tables. He’s been through a lot, more than you could possibly understand. He’s old and sick, not that you care. I’ll pay whatever he owes if you’ll just give me some time.”

  His chin lifts ever so slightly, giving the impression he’s unused to being questioned. “That’s not how things work with
our family. Rules must be followed; justice served.”

  What ‘things’ is he talking about? Is he with some sort of gang, the mob? “I’m talking about a payment plan, not a pardon. Can’t you change the rules?”

  His jaw stiffens as he shakes his head. “No.” He watches me carefully before continuing. “You’re on dangerous ground here, Raven. We are very powerful people. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

  There are two kinds of arrogance in boys. The first is when a kid is all bluff and brag without the skill to back it up. The second is a guy who knows he can deliver, there’s a quiet confidence in his eyes, a deadly grace to his movements. Gideon belongs in group two. I’m not sure it’s wise to argue, but I don’t want him thinking I’m afraid.

  “Why, because you have money? That doesn’t make anyone noble, or worthy, or good …” Gideon’s eyes narrow. I know I should shut up, but I can’t. Anger builds in me as I speak, years of pain and loss, boiling up my throat like acid. “Parasites, that’s all you are. Cruel and manipulative, preying on—”

  “Enough!” Gideon growls. “How dare you talk about my family like that, challenge our reputation?”

  “Your reputation is nothing compared with Ben’s life. He’s the only family I have left.” I hate the weakness in my voice, but I can’t control it. “I’ll do anything to protect him.”

  He pauses, gaze darting again to the camera in the center of the room. A frown pulls at his perfectly shaped lips as he exhales. “Anything is a big word, Raven.”

  My swallow is more of a gulp. At first, this guy came off wary but cool, a little mysterious. After listening to him talk, I’m suspecting the real story. The boy’s got some damage, enough to make him a monster. No one reasons with this level of pride.

  “Yes, fine, take it out on me instead. Whatever you want, just leave Ben alone.” I’m offering myself up like a lamb. God help me, I’m really doing it. Gideon’s going to kill me, or someone is.

  His eyebrows spike. “You’d do that? Give up your freedom?”

  My freedom? Wait a min—“What do you want?”

  “You.” He clears his throat. “Your designs, rather. The Maddox clothing lines are weak and suffering losses. You create for me unconditionally, give me production rights, and at the end of a year, I will stamp your stepfather’s debt paid in full.”

  “My designs … ? How do you know about my clothes?”

  “Good strategists study their opponents, Raven. I know more about you than you might think. Now, what do you say? You for your father.”

  I step toward the old camera, stalling. His offer whirls in my brain. This morning, I discovered that Maddox Enterprises had changed their name from Maddox Textiles forty years ago. Once cotton moguls, the company diversified when production overseas killed their domestic markets.

  They still manufacture a struggling fashion line that supports half a dozen designers. Any one of them stands to make money if he or she hits the right clothing chord with America. The idea Gideon wants my work is flattering, or would be, if I didn’t want to choke him to death with my bare hands.

  A pretty, red velvet ball hangs from the side of the camera lens. Lost in my thoughts, I reach out a hand.

  “Don’t!” Somehow, Gideon is beside me. He tugs me against him, holding my wrist in his iron grip. I lift my face to his. Blond curls fall over his forehead, obscuring one eye. The other is brilliant blue. “Didn’t your father teach you not to touch what isn’t yours?”

  I snatch my hand from his grasp. “Didn’t yours?” Ragged breaths pump from my lungs as I back away. “What’s your problem? Have you got a gun hiding in there?” I’m half-joking, but he doesn’t look amused. In fact, his face pales. My heart stutters in response, wondering if I was right after all.

  “Decide, Ms. Weathersby. You may remain here. Work in my house—for a year—and your father goes free. Those are my terms.”

  “Stay here? You can’t be serious. That’s impossible.” I’ve got Ben to look after, school, the shop. Maybe dying is better than being tortured over a year. Who knows what this guy might try? But then, who would care for Ben? “That’s illegal. It’s kidnapping, extortion, blackmail—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. As far as anyone else is concerned, I’m simply a family friend offering to help with your career, providing you with a place to stay while your father gets the help he desperately needs.” He walks back to his desk, the hitch in his step barely noticeable. His tone takes on a cheerful note, as if he really sees himself as my benefactor. “You’re still a minor, aren’t you? One anonymous call to Child Services informing them you live in a storage room with a drunk ought to do the trick. I think there are child endangerment laws that apply here. Which of us do you suppose they’ll believe?”

  No. This cannot be happening.

  “You will not get another offer.”

  You were willing to die for Ben a minute ago. The voice inside my head is barely a whisper, and I sound like a hypocrite, but this is falling on a different kind of sword. I’ve learned some things are worse than death. What did you think would happen coming here, I ask myself. Ruthless people don’t say ‘Oh sure hon, my mistake. I forgive your father. Go have a nice life.’

  “I can’t.”

  “That was a quick turn-around. You said anything. Not as committed to dear old dad as you thought?” The words stab like barbs.

  He’s right, but dying is different than selling your soul. “No. Yes. I mean, what about school? It’s my senior year, and what about Ben, my cat, my clients? I can’t just move in here with you.”

  A wicked half-smile escapes. “You can, and you will, or no deal. Your clients are irrelevant. Tell them you found an investor and cancel their orders. I am your world now.”

  My world.

  I was a happy, carefree kid once but since mom died? No dating, no sleepovers with friends, or school dances. My world has been part-time jobs, picking my stepfather up from whatever bar he’s passed out in, and dragging him home. Five years on that hamster wheel, the routine is automatic. I can’t save Ben, or fix all our problems, but I can’t stop trying. God, what do I do? The temptation to feel sorry for myself is too great. The room smears as my eyes fill with unshed tears.

  Gideon won’t meet my gaze. Instead, he lifts his chin, squinting at a spot above my head. “Move in. Bring the damn cat. Ben wins an all-expense paid trip to a rehab facility. Based on the sketches I’ve seen in your portfolio, by the time my people finish marketing your new line of clothing, the profits will more than reimburse me. As for school, you’re not on house arrest. Continue to go, or I’ll hire a tutor. I’ll decide later.” His eyes narrow. “Don’t attempt to contact the authorities about our true arrangement. For those that ask, explain that I’m helping you launch a product line and you’re working for me. You figure out how best to convince your friends this is a good thing, but remember, one slip and Ben is finished. Understand?”

  He has my portfolio? Had one of his thugs steal it from our storeroom, I’ll wager. I can’t believe this is happening, or how this jerk thinks he can get away with his proposal. It’s like something off one of those nighttime news shows where girls are found chained to sewing machines or computers in the basement. Slave labor, child labor, I don’t know—something. Then I think of Ben. What wouldn’t I do to save his life? My answer is swift. Nothing.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “I know you will.” The guy exudes confidence, and I realize he never had a moment’s doubt I would agree. “Take a few days and get your affairs in order. Terminate your lease, and if you have any problems with your landlord … Never mind, you won’t have any trouble.” Gideon paces as he speaks. He’s focused, intense. “I will prepare your workspace. Make a list of the materials you’ll need to get started and give it to Jenny, the housekeeper. I will make your father’s travel arrangements to enter a rehab facility.” He stops, scowling at me as if I insulted him. “Don’t you have any question
s?”

  Only a hundred, but my mouth is as dry as sawdust. How will I endure a year under the same roof with his cruelty? I won’t. The guy is dangerous. Like a golden lion that enjoys toying with his victims before he ends them. Then one of his statements jumps out and slaps me in the face.

  “You said travel arrangements. For my stepfather …” Is Gideon lying? Telling me what he thinks I want to hear? That my father is going to rehab when in truth he’ll wind up missing, dead in some ditch somewhere. Gideon will use me until he gets what he wants and then put me down next to Ben.

  “Raven.” His voice is steady, quiet, a snake rearing before the strike.

  A tear breaks free and rolls down my cheek. My gaze locks on my adversary, wishing I could burn a hole through his forehead. How can I fight you, I wonder? Everything about him is relaxed, from his proud stance to his barely-there smile. My hands curl to fists at my sides. My teeth clench. How can I save my dad and save myself? There must be a way. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why do all this? Why trap me here?”

  “You’re an investment. A valuable one that I intend to keep my eye on.”

  Thoughts of planting the heel of my boot in his groin keep me busy. My wish must be obvious because Gideon smiles wider. He stands there, staring me down. In fact, we eye each other like Cobra and Mongoose.

  “Try not to struggle, Raven. I assure you, no one escapes from me.”

  Chapter Three

  “What the hell?” Dane asks. A wisp of smoke leaves his mouth as he takes the last drag off his cigarette. He tosses the butt to the ground and gives me his trademark scowl. “You can’t seriously be considering this deal with Maddox.”

  Me, Dane, and Maggie Wilson, my only other real friend, lounge on the hood of her Toyota Camry in the parking lot in front of Harry’s Shoe and Leather Repair Shop. The Sales Hollow Plaza hosts a total of four shops: the shoe shop we manage, Maxim Liquor (a favorite of Ben’s until they cut off his credit), Zany’s Thrift, and Real Quick Pawn where Jacob works. The strip mall is a thing of beauty, really.