by Meg Ripley
"I was hoping I'd run into you tonight. Did you find anyone to invest in the theme park?" Vincent asked.
"No. I met the owner last week and I've been working on a proposal but I don't have any investors lined up yet. I need to know what I'm going to say first."
"Isn't it easier to make a pitch if you know who you're pitching to?"
"Ideally, you want to know your audience. But it's going to take a special kind of investor. And I don't know who that is yet."
"How special are we talking?"
Jason sighed. "Very special. The park hasn't turned a profit in over a decade. Most of the rides should be scrapped. I don't know if the concession stands can pass a state inspection and it's going to take a whole lot of money just to get the place presentable."
"So, convince the old man to sell the land to a developer while he still can and retire. I'm sure he has a family that loves him and wants to spend his golden years with him."
"Trust me, that's not an option. But I'm not completely without hope. It's been there for over a hundred years, so it can be registered with the historical society."
"Ooh, that'll bring in the big bucks."
"Did you just want to bust my balls tonight?"
"No, actually. I think I might be able to help you out. I was recently in contact with an old client of mine and I think his interests are right in line with your current dilemma." Vincent slipped his right hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a card, holding it out to Jason. Jason took it carefully, running his thumb over the embossed text. "Get in touch with this guy. I've known him for a while. He has more money than he knows what to do with and he's known for his whimsical investment choices."
"Whimsical investment choices?" Jason asked.
"The man is eccentric as hell and loves to throw his money at really strange projects. I can't guarantee that he'd want in on this, but he's probably your best bet right now."
"Thank you," Jason said, tucking the card into his pocket. "I really appreciate this, Vincent."
****
Two days later, Jason sat before of a front gate that was even more ostentatious than the one that was at the Club, leaning slightly out of his window so that he could talk into the speaker attached to a river rock pillar supporting the gate.
"This is Jason Cross, I have an appointment with Mr. Simmons."
"Yes, sir. Mr. Simmons is expecting you. Please drive through the gates to the front and a valet will assist you."
The gates swung open and Jason started through, already taken aback by the completely overdone atmosphere of the home. Less than an hour from the city, the estate managed to feel like it was in another world. Though lovely in its own way, the sprawling home, somewhat crowded landscaping, and elaborate fountain at the front of the house had the overwhelming sense of "new money;" that feeling that Mr. Simmons had crafted the opulence for himself rather than growing into it throughout his life.
Just as the voice that came to him through the speaker had stated, a man in a pristine suit and white gloves stood on the bottom-most step of the home, his hands clasped in front of him as he awaited Jason's car. Even before Jason could turn his engine off, the man was opening his car door and gesturing for him to get out.
Jason climbed the steps of a home that was obviously only a few decades old but had been built to resemble an antebellum mansion and searched for a doorbell. When he didn't find one, he reached up and used a massive bronze knocker shaped like a pineapple to announce his presence.
"This is getting fun already," Jason whispered to himself, starting to see the first glimpses of the eccentricities of this man that Vincent had promised.
Only a moment after he knocked, the door opened. He half-expected there to be no one standing on the other side just as it was when he would visit his father in the den at the Club, but as he stepped forward, he noticed that a woman in a high-necked dress and frilly white apron stood almost behind the door.
"Mr. Simmons is waiting for you in the parlor," the woman said in a soft monotone, her eyes not moving from a doorway across the massive grey marble foyer.
Jason looked in the direction of her gaze and then back at her.
"Thank you," he said.
The woman nodded and moved around Jason to close the door. He turned to walk toward the parlor and noticed a statue of a dragon sitting at the base of the tremendous staircase that led up out of the foyer. He stared at it for a moment and then continued toward the parlor, wondering what he might discover when he entered the new room.
As soon as he stepped in, he noticed two more dragon statues flanking the inside of the door. These were slightly different from the one in the foyer, made of red marble rather than the dark material of the first. He was staring down at them when he heard a voice from further inside the room.
"Mr. Cross, I presume?"
Jason looked up and saw a man slightly younger than Mr. Kelsey standing near a cold, empty fireplace. He leaned on the mantle with one hand, the other tucked into the black lapel of a red smoking jacket embroidered with the willowy, curvy shapes of serpentine dragons.
"Um," Jason said, unsure of how he was supposed to respond to this man. "Yes. You can call me Jason."
The man who Jason assumed was Mr. Simmons turned to him slowly and brought the cigarette grasped between his fingers to his lips. Jason braced himself for some sort of dramatic billowing smoke display, but instead, Mr. Simmons took a bite out of the cigarette, chewed it for a moment, and then gave Jason a smile.
"Bubblegum," he said happily, starting toward him.
Jason couldn’t help but smile. Vincent had warned him that Mr. Simmons was eccentric, but he was proving to be even more unusual than Jason could have prepared for.
"I really appreciate you letting me come to your home to meet with you," Jason said, extending his hand as Mr. Simmons approached.
"Absolutely. Call me Neil. Let's sit."
Jason followed Neil's gesture to sit at one of the overstuffed chairs that rested on either side of a glass coffee table.
"Alright. Neil, I know that we spoke briefly on the phone, but I wanted to give you more information about this investment opportunity."
Jason placed his briefcase at his feet and released the latch on the top, reaching in to pull out the folder that contained his presentation about the park.
"Absolutely. Let's walk."
Neil bounded back up out of his chair and started toward the doors, removing the smoking jacket as he went so that he could hang it on a hook on the wall that Jason noticed was also shaped like a dragon. He was picking up on a theme in the house and it was making him distinctly uncomfortable.
They walked back through the foyer and Neil led Jason up the massive staircase to a hallway at the top. He turned into the first doorway and Jason followed him, trying to give the pitch that he had prepared, but found it harder to deliver effectively without the benefit of the pictures, news clippings, and charts that he had carefully tailored to demonstrate that this could be a potentially lucrative investment choice.
Jason felt like he was having to stretch a little bit further; be a bit more dramatic with how he spoke about the park and all of the opportunities that he saw for it, even if he wasn't entirely sure that he believed what he was saying himself. He wanted to believe it, though. He wanted to believe that he could help Mr. Kelsey take all of the enthusiasm, nostalgia, and faith that he had inside himself and somehow use it to transform his beloved park.
"This is my favorite spot in the house," Neil said.
Jason had been so busy talking that he hadn't really paid attention to his surroundings, but when he glanced up he realized they were walking through not a single room, but a long gallery that looked as though it had been crafted out of several rooms by removing dividing walls. Paintings covered the walls and Jason noticed that nearly all of them featured dragons. In the center of the wall to his left was a massive mural of a maze that looked remarkably like the one outside of the Club.
A twinge of discomfort twisted in his stomach and Jason tried his best to get a glimpse of the inside of Neil's wrist. Now that he had removed his smoking jacket, Neil was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, which would have allowed Jason to see whether or not Neil had a specific tattoo on his wrist, indicating that he was one of them. The older man shifted and Jason saw both wrists. Neither had the mark, which meant that he wasn't a dragon himself. That meant that he knew far too much about Jason's world, and that put him, and Jason, in danger.
"Is that alright with you, Jason?"
Jason jumped slightly at the sound of Neil's question, realizing that he had been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn't heard what the older man had been saying to him.
"I'm sorry. What were you saying?" Jason asked.
"I was saying that you have me fairly well convinced of the whole thing, but I am no longer the only one who makes decisions about my investments. It seems that I have made one or two hasty decisions that my progeny did not appreciate, and now I've promised that I won't make any more investments without approval. You will have to impress Shayne and get approval before I can go ahead."
"And Shayne is?" Jason asked.
Neil gave a sigh and looked up at the huge painting with a spark of longing in his eyes that pushed Jason even further into his nervousness.
"Not nearly as easy to please as I am."
****
Jason didn't go home that night. Instead of driving back to the city, he chose the opposite direction and drove until he found a bar with a bright neon sign to welcome him inside. The Club had its perks, but Vincent was sure to be there, and Jason was too furious to speak to the arrogant twit at the moment. His anger at Vincent mixed like wet cement with his irritation at facing yet another hurdle, creating a heavy ache low in his stomach. Maybe alcohol would help dull that pain; maybe it would help put him to sleep in the nearest empty bed so he could wake up bright-eyed and ready to tackle the task ahead of him. Or he might wake up with a hangover and a whole bunch of regret, but either way, he'd appreciate the head change.
The bar had a good amount of business for a Thursday night, but Jason was able to find a seat at the end of the bar, making eye contact with the cutie behind the cash register. "Double vodka, on the rocks with a wedge of lime." Not his usual drink, but what was the point of going to a strange bar if he didn't want to shake up his routine a little? She nodded, moments later presenting him with his drink and a smile.
"Can I open a tab for you?"
Jason nodded and took out his wallet. "Please."
She took the card and slid a fresh bowl of pretzels his way, offering another quick smile. It hooked his attention, pulling his eyes with her as she moved to the other side of the bar. He didn't want to stare, but she certainly had a body that was worth a second look and a moment of admiration. Delicious curves from top to bottom and no ring on her finger.
He forced himself to look away before she could notice him checking her out, scanning over the bar with idle curiosity as he squeezed the lime into his drink. Three men were playing pool in the corner, and beside them were three women, splitting a pitcher and having a loud conversation punctuated with shouts of laughter. A young couple cozied up together in the booth to the right, and to the left was an older gentleman with a plate of food, a cup of coffee, and a wrinkled newspaper. The other end of the bar featured two young women huddled together with morose frowns, and another couple arguing over the jukebox.
"Lively crowd tonight," Jason said when the bartender drifted his direction again, a rag in hand.
"They're my regulars."
"Your regulars? Do you own this place?"
"Part of it."
"It's a nice place." Holding out his hand, he added, "I'm Jason, by the way."
"Thanks. I'm Mary."
"Pleasure to meet you, Mary. You've been working here long?"
"I cover here sometimes." She nodded at his drink. "Can I get you anything else?"
"Water, please." He took a deep breath then tilted the drink back, his eyes watering at the sudden burn down his throat. A fire erupted in his belly and he immediately dove for a handful of pretzels, chasing the salty snack with the drink Mary produced for him.
"How was it?"
"Not bad."
"Want another?"
"Oh, God no. Bourbon, neat."
"Coming right up."
While she was distracted by the order, he took a moment to note the hints of red in her hair, the curve of her mouth and line of her jaw, and the rounded fullness of her breasts. She was extremely blessed in that regard, and the dark T-shirt she wore only accentuated that fact. She shifted and he quickly looked away, his gaze finding the TV screen in the corner.
"Why order a vodka if you like bourbon? If you don't mind me asking."
Jason was more than happy to answer any question she had if that meant she wanted to keep chatting with him. Maybe she'd flirt a little and give him a good memory. "Felt like trying something new. Needed something to help me think."
She chuckled. "And you chose vodka? That's not exactly known for clearing the mind."
"No, but it might help me forget for a few hours."
Her smile faded. "That's always what they seem to hope for."
The door chimed as a new patron walked in and he lost her attention. He sipped his drink, thinking of the painting of the maze. Thinking of Vincent. Apparently, the vodka was not enough to make him forget anything. He'd have to talk to Vincent, no doubt about it, and demand an explanation. Then he would have to consider whether Vincent should be reported for violating the sacred vow of silence, the oath of secrecy that bound all members of the Darkblood Society—the oath that kept them safe. He knew the investigation would be swift, and if they found Vincent guilty, the punishment would be severe. There was no tolerance for dragons who broke the oath—the risk was simply too great for the whole community.
But Jason didn't want to lose his friend, either. He liked Vincent, despite everything, and there was still a chance that Neil could become an investor. Did he even have anything solid to report? The painting had not been an exact replica of the maze, and humans were allowed to be interested in dragons. Perhaps until he had evidence that there was more to the story than a passing interest, he would wait to speak to the council.
"Go fuck yourself!"
"Fuck you!"
The sudden explosion of fury pulled Mary from behind the bar. As she rushed to the two men in the corner squaring off over the pool table, Jason looked around and realized there was no bouncer; no back-up of any kind. Jason stood without thinking and followed her.
"You’d better get the fuck out of my face before I fuck yours up."
"I'd like to see you try, you sonofabitch."
"Hey now, that's no way to talk to your brother," Mary said, stepping between the two men. They both had a good foot on her and neither even glanced down as she squared her shoulders, forcing each of them to take a step back. "What's going on here?"
"Stay out of this, Mary. It's none of your concern."
"Well, it's happening in my bar, so it is my concern."
By now, a small crowd had gathered around the warring factions consisting of Jason, the three women, and the couple that drifted over from the jukebox. Two of the women were darting nervous glances at each other, and Jason had the feeling that the fight was not over a game of pool.
"Fine. Let's step outside and settle this like men."
Mary put a hand on each chest and forced another foot between the brothers. "There's no need to step outside. We can discuss the issue right here."
The taller of the two men narrowed his eyes. "There's nothing to discuss. I know he's fucking my wife."
All three of the women gasped, and the other man didn't deny it. His face twisted with a defiant sneer and despite Mary's presence, he took a threatening step forward. "Maybe if you were a real man, I wouldn't have to take care of your wife."
One of the women started to cry and in
the same instant, Jason saw the taller man's hand clench into a tight fist. Jason acted first, moving with lightning speed to push Mary out of the path of the inevitable swing. He pushed her out of the way, but he wasn't quick enough to avoid the blow completely. The hard knuckles connected to his temple with enough force to send him stumbling into the wall. He blinked, righted himself and felt the fire kindle in his stomach. He took a deep breath and turned to face the other men, knowing that the embers would be glowing in his eyes, and hoping that would be enough to send them both running.
"Get the hell out," Jason growled, eyes narrowed, fists clenched at his side.
Both of the men stared at him for a beat, long enough to give their friends a chance to get moving. They wisely ushered the men outside, the women still wailing, and Mary hurried over to his side.
"Come here. Let me get you some ice for that bruise." She led him by the arm back to the bar, her light touch like a soothing balm, cooling the flames inside of him. She dropped some ice in a towel, folded the cloth over, and gently held it up to his head. "Here. Hold onto that while I get you a drink."
He took his place on his stool, obediently holding the ice to his temple.
"Thanks, but you didn't have to do that," she said, sliding him a fresh drink.
"Yes, I did."
"I don't think he would have hit me."
"I don't think he would have hit you on purpose. But he was drunk and pissed off and trust me, he packs quite a wallop." He winced, the pain breaking through as his adrenaline wore off.
"You going to be okay?"
"Sure. Trust me, I'd rather be in my shoes than his."
"Well, thank you again. It's not every day I meet someone who's willing to take a punch for me."
The corner of Jason's mouth lifted. "It was my pleasure."