I take it and grab a napkin. “Look,” I say. “I’m doing you a favor, okay?”
I scribble my autograph and shove it back at her.
“You don’t want this, Miranda. Trust me.” And yeah, I don’t either. I count out several bills and stick them under my glass. “Drinks are on me this time. Have a great night.”
3: PRIVILEGED
It takes me a while to button a dress shirt and my nicest jeans on Friday night. Even longer to gather my wallet, phone, and keys. It takes an eternity to check the coffeemaker to make sure it’s off.
Dammit, why did I agree to this?
I finally run out of excuses and catch a cab to my parents’ house. The driver follows the speed limit the entire way, which is too fast for the first time ever. Every light is too green. Why doesn’t this city invest in more stop signs? I should have made him take the 401 so we could stall in a rush-hour parking lot for an extra hour. Sorry, Soph. The 401, eh?
But we pull up third in line at the grand entrance of the Alton estate. My parents still insist on doing rich-people things like unloading guests in a parade of fancy vehicles. It’s why I love taking cabs to their house. I’d ride a bicycle if it wasn’t a fifteen-kilometer drive on the deadly GTA highway maze.
I get the looks I’d hoped for from the other guests as I pay my fare and thank the driver. A quick salute to security, then Alfred, the butler, and I’m inside. By the way, his name isn’t Alfred, but if you still have a butler in this century, you have to call him Alfred. He calls me Bruce, so it works. Double points because it pisses my parents off.
The foyer is as stale as it was the last time I saw it two years ago. Museum-white with a splash of red to celebrate this joyous occasion. It’s also packed with guests. So many people I don’t know, and too many I do. I’m the only man not in a tux, the only person who appears not to understand what’s expected of an Alton guest. Sophia knows the mountain she scaled to pull me across that threshold. Who needs Rolling Stone critics when you have Frederick Alton for a father?
“Well, well. Wesley Alton has arrived after all. Looks like your sister wins the bet.”
His voice alone has the power to make me cringe.
“Hey, Theo. Congratulations on joining the Alton cult.” I grip the outstretched hand of my soon-to-be brother-in-law. He’s not a hugger, which is the only thing I like about him.
“I couldn’t be more thrilled.”
“I bet. You sign your soul to the devil yet?”
“Who?”
“Frederick.” He’s still confused. My god. Only my promise to Sophia keeps me in this conversation. “I’m asking if you’re working for my father yet.” Fifth-grade level, Wes. You can do this.
“Ah!” He takes a sip of his drink and scans the hors d’oeuvre tray hovering beside us. Did he forget my question?
I try again. “How’s the, uh, securities business these days?” There’s a sentence I never wanted to say.
“Up and down, man. You know.”
I don’t.
He nibbles on a stuffed mushroom, and I’ve never loved my sister more than the moment she rescues me from her fiancé.
“Wes!” Sophia cries, all sweet charm in her pixie cocktail dress. She throws her arms around my neck and drags me to safety.
“Congratulations, sis,” I murmur against her short dark curls. “You cut your hair.”
“Do you like it?” She twirls a shiny coil around her finger. “Mom freaked. Said I should have waited until after the wedding because now I’ve ‘limited my options.’”
“No Roman goddess ‘do for you?”
“Ugh. She wants me to look like Julia Harrington.”
“Isn’t Julia blonde?”
“Yeah, but her hair has the same texture as mine and she booked Aritese Robere for her entire wedding party.”
“Huh?”
“Famous stylist.” A dismissive hand wave and, “Anyway, he only works with hair over half a meter or whatever.”
“Half a meter? There are people who have hair that long?”
“Lots of people! Everyone according to Mom.”
“Well, I think you look great. You should wear your hair however you want.”
“Aw, see that’s why I love you.”
She’s looking over my shoulder, anxious eyes darting from my face to another target I can’t see. “You got a chance to catch up with Theodore?”
“Um, yep. I believe we’re all caught up.”
“Did he tell you he’s working for Dad now?”
“Yeah?”
Her teeth sink into her lip, and I kind of feel bad that I hate her boyfriend so much.
“Soph, if this is the life you really want, then I’m happy for you.”
“I didn’t want him to take the job, but you know how Dad is.”
I stiffen as the answer to that question approaches with my mother in tow.
“Wesley. You came,” the man I’ve managed to avoid for an entire year announces. He’s correct.
“Dad. Mom.”
“We heard about what’s happening with Holland. So sorry, honey,” my mother says.
“It’s not a big deal. We almost have it worked out,” I lie.
“I warned you not to go into business with your ex,” my father says. “It never ends well.”
I don’t bother responding. I learned the futility of engaging my father in a discussion when I was old enough to talk.
“Do you need me to call my lawyers?”
“No, I’m good. Like I said, we’re working it out.”
“You lost your temper again, didn’t you? My sources say this is your mess.”
There’s a coal in my chest that my father planted almost thirty years ago. An ember he has the power to ignite, simmer—explode—when he so chooses. “Maybe your sources should mind their own fucking business,” I return to a wide range of gasps from surrounding guests.
“Wesley!”
“That kind of language may be appropriate on the road, but not in my house,” Frederick Alton informs me.
Ah yes. “The Road.” That dark abyss of debauchery that has claimed his youngest son.
“Fuck. Sorry.”
“Wesley!” my mother repeats because after twenty-nine years she still hasn’t learned that my full name doesn’t scare me.
“You probably have more important guests to attend to. I can entertain myself. And don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of disrupting the string quartet with my rock sacrilege.”
I feel my father’s glare burning into my back as I turn away, but it doesn’t affect me like it used to. Not since they locked me out of the house for four days when I was a teenager because I chose music over their bullshit budget reports. They weren’t accustomed to nos that can’t be bought, manipulated, or extorted. I refused their blood money and became the only “no” in their universe. So they fired me like Alan the groundskeeper after he was caught pissing behind the north garage. Best day of my life, the day they stole their name back and told me to burn in Hell.
A new fear shoots through me as I start scanning the crowd. I’d been worried about a confrontation with my parents, but it suddenly occurs to me Sophia might consider Holland a friend. That’s just what I need, an altercation with Holland Drake’s plus one in my parents’ house. At least it would give my dad more reason to hate The Road.
“Hey. I was wondering if you’d show.”
My lips react in an automatic twist.
“Hannah Drake. Did you copy my social calendar or something?”
“It’s not hard when it’s bar, bar, bar, one-event-I-actually-have-to-attend.”
“Ha.”
My eyes brush over her smirk before continuing down the rest of her. Damn. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen Hannah Drake in a dress. And now, on one finger the number of times it’s shot straight to my groin. I wonder if she knows her tattoo is peeking through the cutouts on the side of her little black slip.
“So I guess you’ve stay
ed in touch with Sophia,” I say.
“You’ve guessed correctly. She’s the only one of you Altons who doesn’t suck. Based on your expression, I’m guessing your parents still hate you?”
I cast a look toward the expertly composed couple chuckling with a set of clones. Must be over something hilarious like vacation home linens or restaurant reservations.
“You’ve guessed correctly.”
She grabs my arm. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere we can’t hear this elevator music.”
“What about Geoffrey?”
“Working.”
“Basement?”
I love the way her eyes ignite. “Definitely. Is the game room still set up?”
“You’d probably know better than I would. You and Sophia still hang out, right?”
“Yeah, but that was never her spot.”
That spot belonged to Holland and Wes, we hear in the silence. But it’s a damn awesome spot even with the ghosts.
“I used to love when Holland brought me along to hang with you down there.”
“I know.”
Her gaze shoots to mine, and I let my smile reveal old secrets.
“It’s not because I had a crush on you so don’t even look at me like that,” she mutters.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“It’s all over your face.”
“My face is just on the hunt for my dad’s good liquor.”
Her glare doesn’t believe me, and my smile widens.
“You were tall and scrawny back then, you know,” she says.
“Yeah? So are most teenagers. The editor of Alt Canada didn’t seem concerned during the shoot for Canada’s hot 30 under 30 last year.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me. You made my life miserable that month.”
“Why? I was on tour around that time. I had to fly home for the shoot.”
“Yeah, but everyone who knew we were friends was still around.”
I laugh and wave her through the door to the finished basement.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be thirty in a few months so I won’t be eligible anymore.”
She rolls her eyes, but the slight pink in her cheeks as she slides past me sends my blood streaming again. Brain cells are ridiculously ineffective against wit like hers in a dress like that. I have no idea what’s happening with my dick right now, but this is the one challenge I absolutely cannot accept.
“You understand that having a great body isn’t an actual skill, right?” she says.
“Sure it is. You should see my workout regimen.”
“I can’t think of a worse way to spend five minutes. Oh! They still have the chairs!”
She skips the last step and launches onto an overstuffed recliner facing a giant screen. Spiky heels find their awkward grave on the floor.
“The command center is gone, though,” she observes, and I feel a twinge at the loss as well.
“Appears so. Guess my parents decided gaming systems are just unnecessary clutter.”
“Still, these chairs, though?” She pats the one to her right, and I sink into the soft leather. “Pass the remote.”
I hand it over and try not to focus on her adorable anticipation. It becomes easier as my memories settle into the cushions with me. Holland cuddled against my chest as we annihilated bad guys and dreamt about changing the world with our music.
I assume my reflections are private until I sense Hannah’s attention. One look, and I know she’s sharing them.
“You two weren’t right for each other.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Hannah, I love you, but I’m not doing this with you.”
“Oh, so who are you doing it with then?”
It’s probably a glare I fire at her, but it’s hard to tell from her reaction.
“I don’t need to do it with anyone.”
“No? I guess you could always just punch the guys she dates for the rest of your lives.”
“Seriously?”
She cocks her head and dares me to finish.
“Or fill the void she left by sleeping with every chick who crosses your path. That’s an option too,” she says.
I force myself up with a lazy stretch.
“Where are you going?”
“Taking off. I’m not interested in this discussion. Remember to change the input on the TV if you want the satellite.”
“Thanks. Have fun wallowing in your misery.”
“I will. Have fun living a life you hate.”
“You’re still a dick, Wes.”
She’s told me that since she was ten. I only believe it half the time. Like now.
“Probably. It was good to see you, Han. Tell your family I said hi.”
I pull a crumpled phone number from my wallet on my way up the stairs.
∞∞∞
Miranda Businesswoman loves my apartment. She loves the wine I offer her and the music blasting from the surround sound. She loves my bedroom décor, the feel of my sheets, and the way I pull my t-shirt over my head. She especially loves every line and angle of my body and proves it over and over again that night.
“You’re amazing,” she tells me as she gasps in recovery from her latest rush. “I had no idea.”
She must have had some idea or we wouldn’t be here.
“Thanks” is my response because she’s not listening and I’m ready for another drink.
I avoid her gaze as I move toward the door. She’ll just have to enjoy my ass while it disappears down the hall. It’s been enjoyed at a national level thanks to Alt Canada.
My phone is buzzing where I left it on the island, and I curse at the screen. Four missed calls. Three frantic SOS texts. Someone better be dead, dude.
“Jacob.”
“Wes!”
“Present.”
“Funny. Look, Holland needs an answer.”
“It’s not a good time.” I throw a look into the darkness behind me.
“It’s never a good time for you anymore. Just give me an answer and we can get things moving.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“It’s an impossible question.”
“No, the question is simple. Yes, you agree to the new terms, or no you don’t.”
“Fine, then, no.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Come on. I know you’re upset but—”
I shift the phone to my weaker hand before my grip crushes the damn thing. “The answer is simple too. No, I do not agree. Holland has been the most important person in my life since I was a kid. Tracing Holland is our friendship. Everything about our music is from our history. We wrote those songs as soulmates. The band exists from that bond, not as a collaboration of professionals.”
“Fuck, Wes. We’re scheduled to drop the new album in a month. The release tour is already booked. Get over yourself and fix this!”
It takes a deep breath to rein in my blood pressure. He’s lucky my fist can’t reach him through the phone. “I understand what’s at stake,” I manage through clenched teeth. “But some things are bigger than money. I can’t work with Holland as a coworker and not as a friend. So if those are the terms then she needs to find a co-writer and lead-guitar player who can.”
“Really? That’s it? You’re this close to cementing your legacy! One more platinum album and you’re there. The tour is nearly sold out. You love Holland? You want to protect her? Then suck it up and don’t fuck her over two steps from the finish line!”
It’s his side of the line going dead this time.
“Tracing Holland is breaking up?”
Shit.
∞∞∞
Miranda leans against the island, gaze locked on me when I turn around.
Okay, so what did she hear? “We’re just working through some contract issues.”
“Really? Because it sounds like you’re refusing to work o
ut contract issues. It sounds like you quit the band.”
I turn and level every bit of warning I’ve mastered into my gaze. “It’s…” It’s what, Wes? Fucking what?
Her expression changes as her eyes devour my body. “Hey, I understand. More than you know.” She slides her palms down my chest, around my back. “I can help you.”
“What?”
“God, your ass is edible,” she breathes. Grinding against me, she grips hard with each distracting push.
I ignore her tangent. “How can you help me?”
She leans her head back to search my face. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m the Executive Vice President of Ballister Data.”
Shit! I step back. Alton Media’s biggest rival? The cornerstone of Canadian media? What am I supposed to do with that?
The Label is going to slaughter me if they find out. Jacob, Holland. Dead man walking right here.
Miranda’s eyes aren’t flirting anymore either. Dark, menacing, even, they scream a warning I should’ve spotted that first night in the bar.
Dammit, I’m just paranoid. I run a hand over my face.
“I did my homework after we met. You have an album in the can, right? I know plenty of people who can fix this. Even if you can’t work things out with Holland, all you have to do is keep the rift under wraps until the album drops and her people can spin the shakeup for the tour.”
She’s absolutely right which is absolutely wrong coming from a media queen who shouldn’t know any of this. My pulse seems audible, my limbs twitching when her fingers trace my cheek. She holds my world in her hands and she knows it.
“Hey, relax, babe. We’ll handle this.”
“There’s nothing to handle if nothing gets out.”
“Of course nothing will get out.” Those eyes though. Her hidden message lodges in my stomach.
“A lot of people could get hurt.” Holland especially.
“This is what I do, babe. Trust me,” she purrs against my lips. She pulls me in for a firm kiss, and I’m not sure what choice I have right now. “Let’s go work through this in the bedroom.”
My dick reacts on reflex, even as my fist clenches at my side. She kneads my hard flesh, drawing a groan that sends my reason to the wasteland of future regrets.
“What will it take?” I say, fighting for control over my charged body.
Viper (NSB Book 3) Page 3