Revenge- LaFountaine Syndicate
Kara Kartt
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Copyright @ 2023 Kara Kartt
Chapter 1
Wesley
“Babysitting really is the worst,” Twisting at the sound of my brother’s amused voice, I fight a grimace. Holding out a beer for me, Chandler leans on his forearms against the railing at the bow of this opulent, luxury yacht. “I’ll never understand it.”
“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?” I ask before lifting the beer to my lips. Tastes like ass. Scoffing lightly, I bend to set the bottle on the floor by my feet before leaning back against the railing myself. Eyeing Chandler sidelong, I take in his more formal suit, complete with a vest, even. He looks out over the lapping waters of the Atlantic, jaw ticking with the furiousness of his thoughts.
“I get that the Hannefords are close with Dad, but it seems pretty condescending that you and are I being ordered to babysit a 30 year old still sucking his mother’s tit.”
“Not this again, Chandler. That’s why you’re so miserable. You let shit like this piss you off,” I snipe curtly, glancing down to kick the bottle at my feet and watch the beer spill out over the yacht’s shiny deck. “You’ll have all the freedom in the world once Dad kicks the bucket and Damien takes helm of the family business.”
“Are you saying you’re not pissed about being forced to marry that slut, Lucinda?” Chandler combats my snark for his own, and I inhale deeply, closing my eyes to beat down my aggravation. Reaching to pinch the bridge of my nose, my ears drum under my little brother’s knowing gaze. “See! You’re pissed. Why wouldn’t you be, Wesley? It’s degrading.”
“You misunderstand. Instead of getting upset and stomping my feet,” I cast Chandler a pointed look, and he scrunches up his face, ducking his head. “I’ll simply kill her after the wedding. This is a business deal, Chandler. Nothing more. It might take a while to find the proper time to make it look like an accident, but don’t mistake my inaction for complacency. This is why Dad makes you babysit. You need to learn restraint, or you’re gonna end up in a landfill.”
“Restraint.” Chandler scoffs, and that’s just like him. I grind my molars, watching the beer underfoot pool and swish with the sway of the boat.
“Don’t try to deflect. If you’re so miserable, kill Dad yourself. . . if you think you can,” Chandler’s big mouth stays closed at my offer, and I shake my head amusedly. “Then shut up. And for the record, I don’t particularly dislike Lucinda. I think she’s insignificant. There’s a difference.”
Walking away from my younger brother, I slip my hands into my slacks pockets; good thing I didn’t wear a vest, or the heat and humidity out here would be unbearable. Ducking through the short doorway leading to the cabin, I shake my head in bemusement. Chandler tries so hard in the weirdest ways. I suppose, being the youngest affords him some leeway when it comes to his attitude.
The lounge area is quiet, not a soul in sight, as I stride through and towards the lower level of the. . . well, I’m not sure what parts of the boat are called. The sofa is real leather, and the bar is fully stocked in the corner with high-quality crystal and expensive booze. There’s even lush carpet under my feet. On a boat. I reach to unfasten the button on the collar of my baby blue shirt as the ocean air clings to the back of my neck.
I reach the short stairwell that leads to the second floor before pausing mid-step, surprise rippling up the bridge of my nose. A naked woman leans against the wall at the landing, blood streaming down her leg from a large scrape, and she cradles her broken hand. Somewhere nearby, a door slams shut, and on such a small boat, I can hear people talking loudly to each other. Her head flops back against the wall with a noticeably thunk. Sagging a little, she slips on her own blood to start crawling up the stairs.
“Well, this is unfortunate.” I mutter to myself; this event was supposed to be an auction of antiquities. That’s why it’s on a boat in the middle of the ocean. Rubbing my jaw and chin thoughtfully, I step out of the way when the woman reaches me. She shakes violently, wheezing painful breaths, and her eyes are glassy and unfocused.
“Over here!” A male voice sounds from beyond the open door, and the woman twists sharply. Stumbling to her feet, she grabs at me blindly before freezing; somewhere, in her drugged up mind, she knows I’m not a wall. She moves in slow motion, blinking wildly, face flushed dark and drool dangling from her chin.
The gunshot that rings out breaks our eye contact, and goosebumps blanket my whole body under my clothes. Irritation dries my mouth before the woman suddenly looks down, panic draining the blood from her face. A few seconds too late, she jumps around, dancing away from a bullet that’d already lodged itself in the floor just below the stairwell landing. Pulling my shirt, she rips a few buttons, a thick imprint of sweat staining the fabric when she finally untangles her palm.
“Wesley!” My brother calls from my left, and I hastily put up a hand to stop him as several men clog the stairwell. The woman looks down before suddenly, and with a swiftness I wasn’t expecting, launching herself at Chandler. He lets the gun go rather than fight for it; no doubt, feeling the same disgust I am at the moment. But there’ll be time to be angry later as I step back once again. She knows how to use a gun. Even in her state, she holds the gun with purpose, the drugs doing nothing to impede her instinct or muscle memory. Limping backwards towards the bow, she doesn’t fire- doesn’t put her finger on the trigger.
Only a few seconds passed by so slowly between seeing her for the first time and her disappearing beyond the lounge room of the boat. Following the blood trail staining the polished floor, I cast Chandler a warning look as I pass him. His expression is dark, that anger he carries around put to good use when he starts flying off the handle on the people pursuing the woman.
“No, no, no,” Whirling in a disorientated circle, the woman holds her head when I catch sight of her again. Muttering to herself, she starts towards the left edge of the boat to stare at the water sloshing up against the sides. “Christ.”
“Do you need help?” I ask, my voice echoing in the crisp, salted air, and she twists sharply. She’s starting to come down. Holding up my hands, I walk towards her, and she flexes her hand around the gun but aims at the floor. “We’re a couple hundred miles offshore. You won’t make it if you jump.”
It takes her a moment to process my words, and I wait patiently before she starts looking around frantically. Another gunshot rings out, winging her in the shoulder and sending her stumbling backwards into the railing. Pulling my own gun out of the holster, I turn to aim at the sniper perched on the roof and fire. When I look back, she’s climbing over the railing, and alarm strikes my chest. Closing the distance between us, I grab her around the waist. Kicking out her legs, she scratches and twists, struggling with all her might. Pushing her feet against the railing, she sends me off balance, and I hit the floor with a grunt.
“Stop- stop,” I growl lowly, but I can’t get a good grip on her, and she wriggles away from me- like a fish. Standing up, irritation floods my system, and I tangle my hand in her hair to push her flat against the floor. She freezes when I put my gun to her head, and I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s like wrangling an injured, wild animal! “I said ‘stop’.”
“Sir! Please, don’t trouble yourself,” Who I assume is the manager of this whole operation comes rushing up with a panicked look, his voice high and squeaky. I stand up and holster my weapon, eyeballing the woman underfoot; she’s not unconscious, but she doesn’t move. “I apologize for this unseemly display! I’ll have it put down immediately! If there’s anything I can do to rectify the matter.”
“‘It’?” I scoff, the manager’s eyebrows and cheek twitching wildly. Bending down to grab her by the arm, I hoist the woman up on unstable knees, taking her gun easily. Weary, blue eyes wander between the men surrounding us, several with their own guns pointed at her. She hides behind me, the blood from her shoulder wound seeping into my already ruined shirt. A fire ignites in my gut, and I jerkily shake off the fabric to hang it over her shoulders lamely.
“Bring me the boy, Chandler,” I demand sharply, my voice booming through the unnerving, tense silence. Pointing at the manager, I gesture him with a crook of my finger, and he inches forward, skittering like a rat. Grabbing the collar of his starched tuxedo, I ignore his little squawk of fear as I glare directly into his eyes. “Turn this fucking boat around. Now.”
“I- I can’t.” He stammers, and I poise my gun to his temple and pull the trigger. The manager’s body lands with a sickening thud. Those restless men around me raise their guns, but no one wants to be the first to shoot.
“What’s going on out here?” A new, male voice, authoritative and strong, crackles through the air like thunder, and finally, the guards lower their weapons. Walking up to the body of his employee, Caroll sucks his teeth in disappointment, kicking the man’s leg. “What a waste. You- tell the captain to head back to shore. Mr. LaFountaine, if you’ll follow me, please.”
Glancing back at the woman, swaying dangerously and eyes closed, I sling her over my shoulder to follow Caroll back down into the depths of the boat. He’s quiet, but I can see the ire rising up from him like black tendrils. Leading me into a small but lavish room with just a sofa, he shuts the door behind me before leaning against it. Out of the corner of my eye, Caroll crosses his arms tightly over his chest, grimacing deeply as I lay the woman down. “I don’t suppose I can persuade you from making this public, Wesley?”
“Of course, I can be bought. Let’s make a deal,” I answer, sitting on the armrest of the sofa to mimic him. “What do you have that’s valuable enough?”
“A psychopath like you wouldn’t be content with just the girl? She can work off that 30$ shirt from Kohls,” He sniggers, and irritation twitches up my cheek. Clearing his throat, Caroll waves a hand almost dismissively. “I have a plantation in Iran that’s been doing particularly well. I’ll give you this season’s stock?”
“How much?”
“5 million or so. You’ll have to handle the distribution. You did kill one of my very competent people, after all. I’m not blaming you, but I would’ve appreciated you didn’t shoot the messenger, Wesley,” I grunt in agreement, holding out my hand for him to shake, and he smiles gratefully. His eyes soon flood with disdain when they flicker to the girl on the sofa, though. “I’ll send the medic. You didn’t know what this was about?”
“I was told it was for Egyptian antiquities, but don’t worry your little head about that, Caroll. I’m not going to blame you for someone else’s mistake. That being said,” I lean back against the armrest once again, rubbing my cheek absently. “You know I won’t go back on my deal, but the boy might go complaining. That’s all he’s good for, anyway. I suggest you impart on Luke Hanneford the importance of keeping his mouth shut. Maybe call his father and explain the situation before we get back to shore. Oh, you should go find him before Chandler kills him.”
Caroll curses under his breath, shooting a glare at me before hastily running out of the small stateroom. Glancing back over my shoulder at the woman, I gnaw on my inner cheek thoughtfully. This. . . is rather unfortunate.
Chapter 2
Rowen
Fingering the pristine, white bandage around my left shoulder, I lean my head back against the wall to stare around the room. There’s nothing in it but a bed, dresser, and a single picture hanging above it. A light gray carpet covers the floor, fluffy and clearly barely stepped on. Reaching a weak hand to grab one of the water bottles sitting on the nightstand nearby, I wince as I hold it in my left hand, the throbbing in my shoulder intensifying.
Goosebumps blanket my bare skin when the sound of someone shuffling outside slips under the door. Holding my breath, my heart leaps into my throat. Slowly, the knob on the door twists, and my stomach ties in knots with dread. In that split second, the memories battering against my mind’s eye threaten to overlap with reality.
But the face that emerges from behind the barrier isn’t that of anyone I recognize- not the men who kidnapped me from my own home, or anyone else. Flames lick up my neck and engulf my leg, but there’s nowhere for me to go with the wall at my back. The man pauses when he notices me, his dark brown eyes twinkling with interest. “You’re awake.”
I rake my mind furiously; who is this guy? But I can’t remember much. He quietly shuts the door behind him, holding up a bowl of something, and suspicion clouds my vision. “It’s rice. Are you up to talking?”
“W- who are you?” My words roll off my tongue heavy and thick, and he grunts in satisfaction. Crossing the small room, he holds out the bowl for me, not shoving it at me, and watches me through shrewd, narrowed eyes. It’s overcooked. I can tell by looking at it, but my stomach twists and buckles, and I put the open water bottle on the nightstand before taking it. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t put anything in it. Don’t worry,” A cold sweat breaks out on my back, and I balance the bowl on my knee to pick up the spoon. Plain, black boxers poke out from under the button-down tied around my chest, and I scoot away from the man when he sits at the other end of the bed. “My name is Wesley LaFountaine. Do you remember anything from the last few days?”
“I remember. . . someone followed me home.” I mumble, scooping rice into my mouth. It tastes bland. But it’s something to eat, and I can’t even remember the last time I did that. The man, Wesley, watches me, his gaze skewering me even as rabid hunger rises up my gullet. In an instant, the rice in the bowl is almost gone, and tears prick my eyes.
“Your name?” Wesley asks, drawing my gaze, and I eyeball him warily. His face gives away nothing, his eyes hard but not particularly malicious. “I’m not going to hurt you. I didn’t go through the trouble of bringing you back here to play some sick mind game.”
Skepticism dries my mouth, but he doesn’t seem to be lying. Not that I can tell anyway. I grind my molars, grabbing the water bottle off the nightstand to buy myself some time to think. I must’ve been out for a while. I’m not exactly a stranger to drugs; taking a few gulps of water, I stare at a single thread sticking up from the plain, baby blue sheets.
“Rowen Yard,” I answer truthfully. “Where is ‘here’?”
“Boston,” I stiffen at that, my gaze flying to Wesley’s to widen in shock. A shiver of apprehension races down my spine. Water splashes against the right side of me when I squeeze the bottle, and I shudder a gasp. My heart twists sharply, but Wesley doesn’t react in any way. Leaning back, he runs his hand over his shoulder and neck before standing up to take the water bottle from me. “I take it we’re a long ways from home?”
“Uh- uh- y- yeah.” Should I really be telling him anything about myself? Could I be any stupider? Pursing my lips thinly, I duck my head, turning my face away while Wesley takes the bottle and bowl and leaves the room. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pull my uninjured knee up to rest my forehead on it. Water dribbles down the side of my face and outer thigh, and I crack open my eyes to watch the droplets glide downwards. Boston. How did I get here from San Francisco? The blood drains from my face at the daunting question.
“So,” My head snaps up at the leading tone, and Wesley walks over with another bowl of congealed, unseasoned rice. Maybe, it’s for the best. My stomach grumbles eagerly, and my mouth waters as I take the bowl. “You were reported missing in San Francisco, Rowen.”
“W- what? How’d you know?”
“I Googled you,” He holds up a smartphone, the black screen flashing with my reflection before he frowns under brows knit tight with confusion. “It’s been two weeks, and you’ve been here, asleep, for almost 3 days. How’d you escape the boat?”
“What boat?” Fear trembles in my voice, and Wesley arches a brow quizzically.
“You were at a human auction on a yacht. You stole a gun, and that’s why you were shot. You somehow escaped and tried to jump into the ocean. For whatever reason, the drugs didn’t work on you as well,” My eyes boggle from their sockets- a human auction? Looking down at myself blearily, bile sloshes up my throat with bits of rice. A human auction? Covering my mouth in horror, I blink back the tears that well in my eyes. “Were you addicted to something that heightened your tolerance?”
I’m afraid to open my mouth. Glancing over at Wesley through red-rimmed, aching eyes, I tense when I notice the bowl safely in his hand. I pull my arm back, my mind whirling dangerously as I stare at my trembling, stiff fingers. “Are you afraid of boats?”
“Y-yeah.” I stammer. Wesley holds out the bowl, and I hesitate before taking it. He’s like a robot.
“Anyway,” Standing up as nonchalance lightens his tone, Wesley slips his phone into his slacks pocket before glancing back at me. My heart nearly stops beating when he pulls a gun out of a holster attached to his hip, and he sets the piece down where he’d just been sitting. “There’s only one bullet. If you’re gonna kill yourself, do it in the bathroom where it’s easy to clean up. It’s across the hall. I’ll be back in an hour- that should be plenty of time to decide.”
Puzzlement briefly stops the rampaging of my other emotions as Wesley leaves the room without another word. Blood drums in my ears, draining from my face and hands and leaving me cold. He’s not gonna lock the door? But the lock is on the inside, and I tear my eyes off the barrier to eyeball the gun he’d left with me. Wincing when I agitate my leg and arm, I lean over to grab it and eject the magazine. True to his word, there’s only one bullet in the chamber, and I inhale a shallow breath to hold it.
“God,” I sigh hotly, squeezing my eyes shut and scrunching up my face. Confusion and tiredness beats against my eye sockets. “What the Hell happened to my life?”
I know the answer to my own question. It all started going downhill when I broke my leg and started taking pain medication. I wasn’t a full blown addict, but I was getting pretty close. My stomach churns with dread and shame. I’m never even looking at another pill ever again.
But, somehow, it did save me. Now, what am I gonna do? Tightening my grip on the pistol, I point it at my head, frowning into the spiraling barrel. Wesley had so casually told me not to make a mess if I decided to kill myself- well, it’s not like I should be as surprised as I am. He was on that boat. He must be into some pretty bad stuff to be hanging around people who buy other people for sport.
I didn’t go through the trouble of bringing you back here to play sick mind games. That’s what he said, and I. . . believe him. Setting the gun down between my legs, I reach to palm my left shoulder as my mind runs away from me. I bet my parents are freaking out.
Shuffling off the bed, I stand, heavily favoring my left leg, and the bandage taped to my skin crinkles slightly. Indecision wars in my chest when I reach the door, and I stare at the shiny, brass knob. The doorknob is cold in my palm, and I twist it to crack open the barrier and peek out into the hallway.
Limping down the short hallway towards the stairs, I strain my ears, but I can’t hear a single thing. Did Wesley leave? Alarm bells ring in my head, and I grip the bannister tightly to lean against it. Boston- does that mean this is a brownstone-type place? It’s almost like a condo, with the living room at the base of the stairs. I’ve never left San Francisco.
The furniture in the living room is tasteful and modern, but it seems to be mostly unused. I gnaw on my inner cheek, prickles racing down my spine and apprehension replacing the blood in my veins. There’s not even the faintest hint of personality in the place. Limping towards the kitchen, I pause and lean against the wide archway to pant as pain ripples down my left leg and up my back.
Walking over to the refrigerator, my sweat-slicked palm clings to the stainless steel. The six-burner gas range shimmers tantalizing out of the corner of my eye, but I ignore it for the moment to open the fridge. Surprise nearly blows my eyebrows off my face; there’s a ton of food! Fruits pile up in the crisper drawer, and I grab a small package of meat wrapped in butcher paper to read the hand-written label. New York Strips.
“The lamb chops are huge,” I mutter, weighing another paper package before setting it on the counter. Rifling through the vegetables, a familiar sense of calm and normalcy eats away at the volatile dread and fear that grips my innards. “Carrots, potatoes, garlic, onions.”
Where’s the spices? I hope there’s cast iron somewhere. Anything to stop me thinking about my current predicament. Any distraction to keep me from making a decision.
Chapter 3
Wesley
“You just left her there by herself?” Damien asks, his voice an octave higher as surprise raises his brows. “Why? What if she goes to the police or something? She’s an active missing person, Wes. They’re gonna ask questions.”
“Rowen.”
“She’s got a name? God,” My older brother slaps his forehead with a scoff, and aggravation claws at the back of my throat. “You shouldn’t have brought her back here, Wes. You should’ve let her jump off the yacht or let Caroll deal with her.”
“Don’t. . . interrupt me,” I glare at him, and Damien scowls darkly, waving his hand dismissively. Sitting back in the armchair across his desk, I hold his gaze firmly. “Rowen got us a great deal with Caroll, and he didn’t particularly want to deal with her, anyway. You know he doesn’t like doing the deed himself.”
“Caroll’s a money-grubbing douchebag, sure, but you took an awful lot of risk for that woman. Not even mentioning Jake Hanneford,” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Damien sighs irritably. “Chandler beat the shit out of him! I know you two have this thing against human auctions.”
“I have a thing against liars, and George and Jake lied to me,” I answer swiftly, prompting my brother to roll his eyes. “I’ll be having a conversation with him next about it. Lying about a job is liable to get me killed. Not that I plan on ever taking a job from George again. You might want to please him because Dad works closely with him, Damien, but I’m not going to be taken advantage of.”
“You’ll do no such fucking thing, Wesley!” Damien bellows angrily, jumping up to slam his palms on his desk with an authoritative thud. “I’ll deal with George. If you dare have a ‘conversation’ about this with him, being lied to will be the least of your worries. I’m affording you more than a generous amount of leeway with the woman and what happened on that ship. Do not fucking cross me on this.”
I say nothing, struggling to hide my smirk as my elder brother sits down heavily in his stately computer chair to run his hand through his hair roughly. Not that I shouldn’t be worried about Damien, but it’s cute how defensive he gets.
“It has nothing to do with Dad’s relationship with them. The Hanneford’s are our clients, Wes. Despite the hiccup on the details, the job was exactly as described. You can’t throw a hissy fit about it- at least, anymore than you’ve already done. Shooting up the yacht put us in hot water with Caroll even if he was forced to buy your silence. You should count yourself lucky that he doesn’t want this getting out,” But Damien’s face pinches in displeasure as he drums his fingertips on the heavy, solid wood desk. “What shit. Letting her escape and get that far- and she had a gun! His idiot men couldn’t even shoot her in the leg, let alone the head. The quality of his business has obviously faltered for whatever reason.”
“What about the boy?”
“What about him? George is pissed that Jake’s been wasting money on this crap. Chandler told me that after delivering the kid back, George was grumbling about cutting Jake off. Jake’s a toddler with too much testosterone- makes me question whether his balls dropped or not, the way he acts,” Rubbing his mouth with his other hand, Damien shakes his head with a sharp sigh. “I suppose the 5$ million will have to be good enough. You shouldn’t have shot those two guys- we could’ve gotten more out of Caroll.”
“The sniper should’ve done his job and I wouldn’t have had to shoot him. I was worried for my own safety with how off that shot was,” My callous remark earns me an amused- genuinely amused- chuckle from my brother. “I did Caroll a favor on that front.”
“Unfortunately, he doesn’t see it that way. Not that it matters anymore. He’s already handed over the goods, so the deal’s done. Dad isn’t going to get involved; he’s given me full discretion how to deal with the boy,” I can’t help but snort at that; this happened because Dad insisted on Chandler and I playing babysitter. Now, he wants to wash his hands of it and drag Damien in, too? “He doesn’t want to strain our relationship with the Henneford’s any worse. While George admits Jake is in the wrong, Chandler putting him in the hospital was a little overboard. I’m going to suggest we simply move past this incident, since it mostly evened out in the end.”
“Then I don’t see what the problem is,” I state, standing up to wave at Damien. “Let me know how it all turns out.”
Leaving Damien’s office, I shut the door quietly behind me and head down the hall towards the elevator. The high-rise is bustling with good, little bees that manage the LaFountaine ‘family business’. Officially, it’s corporate fixing- a longstanding history here in Boston that’s tried and true. I punch the elevator button, watching it light up and ping and leaning back on my heels.
“That went about as well as expected,” I mutter to myself, rubbing my cheek absently. Damien has it all well in hand, so I can focus on something more important. “I don’t think I made a misjudgment about Rowen, but I’ve been wrong before.”
Maybe it was the pain, or the drugs, but Rowen seemed rather calm when we spoke. She ate- not that I claim to be a good cook in any sense of the word. I just didn’t want her to throw up all over the place. My mind churns with information, an image of her blossoming in my mind’s eye.
She had a drug habit of some sort, but no injection marks. Probably pills. Yet, she knew how to use a gun and the bow of the ship was dangerous- not only jumping off to get bowled over, but it left her completely exposed to the sniper on the roof of the lounge. Could she have some military experience?
“I hope she’s still alive so I can ask her.” I mumble to myself before the elevator pings shrilly, the doors sliding open. Stepping to the side to let someone off, I get into the suspended, metal box and thumb the ground floor button. Leaning against the wall, I rub my chin. She was adequately suspicious even after she started eating.
Either way, Rowen is even more intriguing than on the boat. It’ll be a nice break from the monotony of my life.
The drive back to my condo is short, and I open the front door to pause at the incredible smell that wafts up my nostrils. For the first time in a long, long time, I’m truly surprised. Gently shutting the door behind me, I walk through the living room towards the kitchen. Rowen stands over a pot, steam billowing up to cling to her cheeks and eyelashes. She pants, her hands shaking as she holds the pot handle in her left hand, but there’s no pain twisting her face. Just intense concentration.
Leaning on my shoulder on the doorframe, I cross my arms and watch her moving methodically. Whatever she’s making smells amazing, and my mouth waters; I may not appreciate much, but good food- no one can deny the appeal of a great meal. Pausing her stirring, Rowen puts the lid on the pot and tosses the spoon into the sink. Finally, a flash of pain ripples across her face, and she grips her injured shoulder before turning to catch sight of me.
“Oh.” Rowen gasps, and amusement tickles my chest. She’s sweating through my button down, the sleeves rolled up haphazardly to her elbows.
“Oh,” I echo, smirking when she looks away. “I’m glad you didn’t off yourself. You like to cook?”
“Yeah.”
“. . . What’re you making?” I prompt, and Rowen’s blue eyes flicker to mine briefly before she twists to the stove.
“Lamb chops with a parsnip and sweet potato puree and a mustard red-wine sauce.” She answers, crossing her arms defensively over her bust and apprehension masking her face. Walking over to the table, I cast her a pointed look before pulling out a chair and sitting down. I cross my legs, propping my elbow on the table to hold my chin on my fist and watch her grab a plate from the glass-door cupboard.
The silence is weighty, and Rowen walks across the white tiles to set the plate and utensils in front of me. It’s like I’m in a restaurant; yes, I like this. I’m quite happy with this. Satisfaction blossoms in my chest. Saving her wasn’t a mistake if she can cook like this. “Make yourself a plate and have a seat.”
It takes her a mere moment, and I’m salivating the whole time. All the trouble she caused is validated with this one dish. Sitting across from me at the six-person table, Rowen eyeballs me cautiously as I pick up my fork and knife and point it at her. “Are you a chef?”
“No, I just like cooking a lot. It calms me down,” Grunting in acknowledgement, I cut into the lamb chop. A tingling attacks my fingertips and lips. “Am I in trouble?”
“Of course not. You saw the rice I made. Besides that,” I change the subject. “You’ve made a decision?”
The lamb seems to melt in my mouth, and I’m glad I asked my question beforehand. Across the table, Rowen pokes at her chop with her fork, nudging the bone with a pensive expression. She’s talented to make this in less than an hour.
“Thank you for helping me, but. . . I want to go home now. I won’t tell anyone- I promise.”
“You’re welcome. You’re free to find your own way back,” I answer easily, and Rowen’s eyes widen in alarm. “If you do talk, I’ll kill you. Remember that.”
“What does that mean? Find my own way back? How am I supposed to get to San Francisco from here?”
“Not my problem,” Rowen’s shrill tone rings in my ears, and I scoop some of the buttery, pale orange puree into my mouth with a pleased hum. Leaning back in the chair, I stare across the table and turn my knife over between my fingers. Her befuddled expression is cute, and I lick my teeth before opening my mouth. “How about we make a deal? Cook me enough to pay for the plane ticket. I’ll be generous and not charge you for the groceries themselves.”
Chapter 4
Rowen
Hanging over the toilet, I wipe bile and spit from my chin and pant harshly. My throat burns, tears pricking my eyes and making it hard to see. Leaning my hot cheek against the toilet bowl, I close my eyes and struggle to breath. Violent shivers race down my spine, and my hands and knees are weak when I grip the toilet to stand unstably. Shuffling to the sink, I turn on the tap and splash water on my mouth and chin; the cold is shocking, and I wheeze a harsh breath.
My ragged pants fill the sizeable bathroom, and I cup water in my hand to wipe down my face. Blood drums in my ears, the smell of my own vomit clinging to my nostrils. Slapping the tap off, I move to close the toilet seat and sit on top of it, threading my stiff fingers through my damp hair.
Taking a shower is supposed to make me feel better. Dismay clings to my ribs, and I sniffle harshly. Bending to grab my damp towel, I wipe my nose, closing my eyes and hanging over my knees. “I feel awful.”
“You’re going through withdrawal,” Wesley’s deep voice echoes off the tiled floor to hit me in the face, and I turn my weary, aching eyes to him. Standing in the doorway, he holds up a t-shirt and a pair of boxers. “What happened?”
“I broke my leg last year,” Why am I answering? It’s not like it matters; there’s a high chance that Wesley’s just gonna kill me, and all this buddy-buddy crap is some kind of sick game to him. Unconsciously reaching to my left leg, I wince as I put pressure on the heavy scrape against my outer thigh. Inhaling deeply through my nose, I close my eyes briefly to gather my strength and stand again. He watches me, intelligent, brown eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Why. . . are you helping me? If you were there, on the boat, you’re a bad person, right?”
“It’s never a good thing to judge a book by its cover, Rowen,” He chides condescendingly, and I scowl darkly, snatching the clothes he offers. Not once did I get the sense he was turned on by me. My chapped lips stick together, they’re so dry, and crack when I wince; my shoulder throbs hotly in protest when I try to pull on the boxers. Wesley doesn’t seem inclined to help, though. Leaning back against the long, tall cupboard holding the towels, I pause when he speaks up. “If you were on the boat, you’re just a mangy, easy drug addict who deserves what could’ve happened, no?”
“I wasn’t addicted!” I snap, and Wesley scoffs, his gaze flickering to the toilet knowingly. Shame coats my mouth in bitterness, goosebumps blanketing my arms and chest as a cold sweat breaks out on my skin. Gingerly hoisting up the plain, dark blue boxers up my legs with my good hand, dread gnaws away at my gut and my resolve. “N- not. . . fully. A- anyway- you didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m just a good guy,” Wesley states confidently, and I tense when he closes the short distance between us to grab the t-shirt. Covering my chest automatically, I turn my face away and squeeze my eyes shut, holding my breath in rabid apprehension. “Don’t flatter yourself. I do not hurt women. Unless it’s a contract job, but even then, it’s usually just to kill someone.”
Kill. My heart leaps into my throat even as Wesley’s declaration soothes my immediate fears, and he grabs my forearm gently to raise my arm. “The truth, Rowen, is that I was curious when I saw you on the yacht. You know how to handle a gun- the basics of self-defense and how to escape. I can only assume so many things before I have to ask you yourself. Even drugged up, you moved like someone with experience.”
“You Googled me,” I whisper, my voice and knees weak as that bout of sudden emotion drains my energy. I’m so tired. “My brother’s ex-military. He’s a cop now.”
“Mm. Now, you answer my question, Rowen,” Gripping my chin, Wesley forces my face up, and I gasp in surprise. His eyes are intense, holding mine in an iron grip. “What’s your decision?”
Wesley’s not even that close, but his hot breath against my cold skin is shocking, and the fine hairs on my cheeks bristle wildly. Clenching my jaw hard, I nod mutely, and a satisfied sparkle brightens his eye. He pats my cheek with the flats of his fingers, leaning away from me but not easing eye contact. “Good. I have to go out on a punitive job, so you’ll be alone here for a few days.”
“Y- you’re just gonna leave?” I ask, my voice high-pitched and crackly from shock, and Wesley frowns under tightly knit brows.
“This unsavory job is punishment for the trouble I made by saving you, so yeah. I kinda have to. What’re you gonna do? Raid the place, steal some stuff to pawn to get enough money for a bus ticket? I’ll remind you that you’d be having a very not nice time if it wasn’t for me, and you don’t strike me as the kind of person to take advantage of others,” Wesley’s explanation surprises me; he’s so nonchalant. He’s not even amused by the prospect. To him, it’s just a fact- an observation. “Besides, you can’t even get to San Francisco from here without an I.D.. Not by plane, or by train, and you’re delusional if you think you’ll be able to hitchhike. You said you were attacked in your home, remember? Which means you’re lucky- you won’t have to go through getting new identification when you get back like most women who’re kidnapped.”
“Wh- wait,” I call when Wesley unceremoniously turns on his heel to leave the bathroom, and he pauses to glance back at me. “C- can. . . can I call my brother?”
“When I get back, you should be feeling better. There’s no pills here besides Advil,” Wesley answers before tilting his head back, a thoughtful expression easing the tension between his eyes and around his mouth. “Speaking of, you may be free to go, but if you try to leave, I won’t let you back in. Also, if you wanna try your luck with Boston’s police departments, do me a favor and make me something I can reheat when I get back.”
Wesley disappears down the hall, and I hear his footsteps on the stairs above the blood drumming in my ears. Staring at the place he was just standing, I suck in a sharp, shallow breath. Try my luck. There’s gotta be a reason someone like Wesley set up here in Boston; I’ve seen the movies about mobsters and stuff. Boston has a long, long history of corruption. I cross my arms tightly around myself, gulping down the nervous lump that forms in my throat.
“He talks an awful lot for a gangster,” I mutter, tearing my eyes off the spot and down to the towel at my feet. Bending to grab it, I hang it on the hook behind the door before leaving the bathroom. Shutting myself in the guest room, I lean against the barrier to slide down to my ass and cradle my forehead on my knees. “He can’t possibly trust me in any sense.”
Wesley’s chiseled jaw and sharp gaze flash behind my eyelids; there’s something off about him. It’s his eyes. There’s something- or, maybe more accurately, a lack of something.
“Punitive.” Lifting my head, I hold up my trembling, clammy hands. A headache springs up behind my eyes, pounding against my temple with an intensity that dislodges the tears clinging to my eyelashes. Bracing my good arm on the door, I stand with a struggle and walk over to the bed to throw myself on top of it. Hugging the pillow to me, I bury my face in the top and curl around it.
But my tears are slow to fall, and the sobs never breach my throat even as they collect in my chest. The pressure is painful, immense, and I heave gasping breaths into the pillow. Colorful spots assault the backs of my eyes as it becomes increasingly harder to breathe. Pulling my head back sharply, I gasp, a knot forming in my chest to shove my heart and lungs out of place. Rolling onto my back, I clutch at my sternum with my good hand and gulp down the hot ball in my throat.
I wonder if Eric and my parents are still looking for me. I wonder if I was fired from my job for not showing up. I wonder if my apartment wasn’t packed up and my lease terminated. I wonder if the elderly cashier lady at my favorite grocery stall is wondering where I am.
Yet, during all my wondering, the sadness building up in me can’t escape. And at some point today, I’ll be left all alone to deal with this by myself, with no possible distractions.
“Well, there’s one thing I can do,” I mumble hoarsely, flinging my arm over my eyes to stare into the images that pop up through the black behind my eyelids. Bitterness coats my mouth. I love my parents, and they always appreciate my cooking, but what I don’t appreciate. . . is being offered up to cook for an event. Especially one I’m not even invited to. Or for someone I don’t know. Like my mom’s friend’s daughter-in-law’s son’s birthday party. “She didn’t even offer to pay me for groceries, and then she got mad at me for asking.”
Wesley is paying for the groceries. In a way, that makes him better than some of the people in my life. He thanked me- even did the dishes, which gave me time to hop in the shower. A man who was at a human auction has more common decency than my mom’s gaggle of brunch friends. Scoffing harshly, I roll onto my side to face the wall and cover myself with the comforter. The throbbing threatening to bust my eyes out of my sockets intensifies, and I whimper pathetically.
Chapter 5
Wesley
I sigh loudly, leaning back on the sofa and propping my feet on the ottoman. My younger brother huffs and puffs from the recliner, and I intentionally avoid looking at him as I flip through channels on the tv mounted on the opposite wall.
“You’re not even gonna say anything?” Chandler blurts out angrily, and I cast him a sidelong look. His face is bright red, cheek twitching in aggravation. “Nothing! Damien and Dad are both pissed at me!”
“I told you to bring Jake to me, not beat him. Don’t blame me for your temper,” I reply calmly, and it only makes Chandler more angry. Settling on a baseball game, I set the remote down next to me and brace my arms behind my head. “Dad and Damien aren’t angry for no reason. You screwed up, so take your punishment like a man.”
All Chandler can do is glare hotly at me; there’s no argument he can make. I just wish we didn’t have this conversation as often as we do. It seems like every time he and I are together, he complains about messes he made and is being forced to clean up.
I suppose I should admit fault, but only for giving him too great an obligation in following a very simple and straight-forward order. I clench and release my jaw thoughtfully. Damien had, apparently, smoothed over everything with George Hanneford over the last few days. Which is expected. Damien doesn’t like to let problems fester, and the Hanneford’s are one of our bigger clients. By no means the biggest or most influential, but it’d be a blow to lose them.
“How’s it going with the girl?” Craning my neck at Damien’s voice, I sit up with a grunt as he rounds the couch to sit next to me. “Did you send her back home yet?”
“I will in a few days once she’s not been obviously drugged, shot, and has a chance to get her head together. She’s agreed to work off the plane ticket, too,” Damien’s gaze snaps to me, and I smirk broadly when he arches a brow quizzically. “She’s quite a good cook.”
“Really? I guess that’s good. It’d suck if she was useless,” My older brother comments, prompting a grunt in agreement from deep in my chest. “I told you on the phone that George agreed to drop the matter with Jake. However, there’s still the matter of Lucinda, and he was rather insistent that an arrangement be made in exchange for his cooperation.”
“What kind of arrangement?” I ask disinterestedly, my smirk falling. Lucinda. That woman is just dull and boring. She can’t do anything for herself and will spread her legs for the slightest bit of attention she can’t get from her father. After all, Jake is the favorite. George is basically selling Lucinda for Jake’s freedom and health. “George knows the marriage is on paper only, right? I have no interest in Lucinda, and there’s nothing she can do to change that.”
“A smart woman would be relieved, but unfortunately, Lucinda has developed a bit of a fantasy around you, Wesley. She suggested you two move in together to get closer, and George agreed on the condition that you don’t involve yourself any further with Jake,” My lips part in shock while Chandler chokes on his own spit behind me. Damien waves his hand with a flick of his wrist, rolling his eyes. “I’m aware how backwards it is. I’ll let George have this round, but I made it clear during our meeting that he owes me. That means that until I collect, you can’t kill her.”
“I wasn’t going to any time soon. The whole point of a political marriage is to actually marry. Dad and George would be far too suspicious of me regardless of how accidental it seems, anyway.”
“Does George really think you’re not dressing down with that stupid bitch?” Chandler asks, and I close my eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of my nose in irritation. He really needs to learn to filter himself. Neither Damien nor I answer our little brother before Damien catches my gaze and slowly opens his mouth.
“Anyway, I have to do some more searching for a good deal with George that Dad will also approve. Lucinda will probably start pestering you, so play nice. You’ll obviously be the first to know when we reach a deal, Wesley.”
“So, George is jumping on the opportunity to get rid of Lucinda because he thinks she’s an embarrassment while trying to preserve Jake’s verified image as a complete humiliation. He’s juggling some strange form of misogyny,” My remark earns me silence; I’m sure Lucinda could be a lot worse. She’s pleasant, nice, eager to please- most people find those traits attractive. While her brother. . . is a toddler in $700 jeans. I’ll just have to make myself very clear when dealing with her. I’d rather not have to kill her at a less advantageous time because she can’t control herself. “I did expect something like this to happen at some point. At least we’ll get something out of it. Lucinda isn’t all that valuable, so any small gain is a win. I’m guessing that's why you asked me if I sent Rowen back yet?”
“Or killed her, I hoped. You don’t usually put too much faith in anyone, Wes,” Casting me a curious look, Damien frowns when I ignore him to stare at the tv blankly. “I take it you’re not inclined.”
“No. I told her I had a punitive job, so I’ll be going back today,” Damien snorts, pushing my shoulder rightly with a light chuckle that breaks the tension I hadn’t noticed accumulating. “This is the worst punishment I can be subjected to, you know. Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this, Damien.”
“Are you gonna just ignore me!” Chandler finally can’t take it anymore, his voice booming as he jumps up from the recliner. “Fuck you two!”
Storming out of the living room of the small apartment we use as an unofficial meeting place, Chandler slams the front door behind him. I sigh, and exasperation darkens Damien’s face before he rubs his hand over his mouth. “He’s almost 30. He should start acting like it.”
“Maybe, if you punished him for his mistakes- sounds like someone else we know,” I look over at Damien, but this time, he doesn’t have a snappy retort. Interest sparks in my chest at the shadows that play in his dark brown eyes. “What?”
“I know you don’t particularly care, but Dad told me he’s given Chandler enough gentle treatment. He’s had countless opportunities to fix his attitude, but he’s just not understanding the gravity of his actions. If he doesn’t shape up, I’m going to be stepping in.”
“Scary,” I reply blandly, not looking away from the tv. “I do care. If he’s gone, it’s more work for me. Did you tell him yet?”
“Not yet, but that’s next on my agenda. When you get down to the nitty-gritty, Chandler’s the reason all this happened. With Jake and the girl. Dad wanted to give Chandler a crap job- the kind of job that makes someone realize they’re walking on thin ice. Problem became Jake lied about the type of auction. It would’ve been fine- no harm, no foul, since Caroll made a deal with you. However. . . Chandler can’t control his temper. I don’t like feeling like I’m playing into Dad’s hands, Wesley.”
“George is using this to throw away his daughter and protect his idiot son. I know, Damien. Hopefully, you’ll be able to knock some sense into Chandler proverbially before it ends up literal. I don’t particularly want more responsibility,” I reach to clap a hand on his shoulder before standing up, nodding at my older brother. “Stop by tomorrow night. We have business to talk about, and I don’t want anyone interrupting us.”
“Business? I’m the one that’s supposed to come to you with that demand, Wes.” Damien jokes, but his eyes don’t dance. No, they grow bright with suspicion. I shrug, slipping my hands into my slacks pockets and fishing out my keys on my way towards the apartment front door. I glance over my shoulder; Damien and I had bought this apartment to avoid the stuffy, nosy people in his office. The employees are so quick to tell Dad when anything happens, and it’s nice to have a more relaxed atmosphere for these kinds of conversations.
Leaving the building, I head for my car and climb into the driver’s seat. My mind churns; I wonder what I’ll walk into my condo to this time. The lamb dish Rowen had made was delicious. It’s a shame she wants to go back home. Shaking my head, I turn over the engine and pull out of my parking space and onto the street.
Slowing to a stop outside my condo, I frown at the familiar head of dyed, blonde hair wafting in the breeze. Lucinda’s here already? Aggravation worms through my veins as I glance back warily before pulling over onto the curb. And she parked in the middle of my driveway so I can’t get in.
I cut the engine, climbing out of my car to twirl my keys absently against my palm. Lucinda stands up, excitement puffing out her cheeks and twinkling in her eyes. Walking up the path leading to my front stoop, I eyeball her lavender-colored suitcase warily. Really?
“Don’t say anything,” I cut her off when she opens her mouth, and Lucinda’s glowing, pink blush dulls a little in befuddlement and surprise. Walking around her, the smell of strawberries wafting in the gentle, Boston breeze, I open the outer glass door to unlock the inner storm door. Behind me, Lucinda hastily pulls up the handle of her suitcase, but I ignore her to shut and lock the door behind me without looking back. Inhaling deeply, I rub my temple even as the smell of Italian tomato sauce seems to melt the tension from between my shoulders. Walking across the living room, I forget about the sufferable person sitting outside my house at the sight of a huge pot. “I didn’t know I owned such a big pot.”
“I had to buy it,” Rowen doesn’t jump at the sound of my voice this time, only stopping carefully chopping vegetables to point at the fridge. “There’s the receipt.”
“Was it a mistake to leave my card with you?” I ask amusedly, not really expecting an answer. I grab the long receipt from under the button magnet- which is also new, by the way- and frown on my way to the table. “Do you know how long that woman has been outside?”
“Um, about six hours or so, I think,” Rowen’s reply stops me from even starting to read the receipt, and I look over at her curiously. “She was here yesterday, too.”
“Fantastic,” I drawl, sourness coating my tongue. Cupping my mouth to hide my scowl, I silently curse my brother. She’ll start pestering me, my ass. Looking around the kitchen at the various tupperware that I’ve never seen before, I let Lucinda slip easily from my mind. “What’re you doing?”
“I highlighted the stuff that’s not groceries, but I thought it’d just be easier to get it all done all at once. I’m making stuff that’ll freeze well. That’s what you wanted.” Scanning the receipt, I tap my foot thoughtfully on the brace of the table and sit back leisurely. Pork bones- $0.99/lb. Bone-in short ribs- $8.49/lb. Whole roasting chicken- $2.09/lb. The meat receipt is stapled to another, much, much longer receipt from the grocery store.
“I didn’t know they delivered stuff like this,” My comment earns me silence, and I glance over at Rowen as she attentively leans over her thinly sliced peppers. “What’re you making?”
“Vegetable lasagna, chicken soup, teriyaki stir-fry,” Rowen starts listing off things before pausing to put her neatly cut peppers into a container. “This Asian style pork broth. Chili.”
“Feeding a whole, small country, huh?” I remark with a smirk, and Rowen looks over at me from across the kitchen. “You know a plane ticket is only a couple hundred bucks, right? You spent four plane tickets worth of money on ingredients, and that’s not including the meat.”
“Do you. . . not. . . want it?” She asks; am I detecting a little attitude to go with that quizzical arch of her brow? Setting the receipt down, I simply nod quietly before Rowen frowns in displeasure. “Then don’t complain.”
“Snippy. So, you look better than when I left. How’s your shoulder?”
“It’s good. It hurts,” Leaning against the counter, Rowen grips her shoulder tenderly, pushing back her shiny, mahogany waves. Now that I brought it up, she does look miles better than when I left a few days ago. Her face isn’t gaunt and pale, and the bags under her eyes aren’t so prominent. She’s not shaking, either. “Not being able to use my arm was good and bad. Stuff that usually takes a second, like straining the broth, took, like, an hour. But I don’t mind. Um, so, you wanna taste it?”
“Not really. Finish up and make me something else. You bought New York Strips,” I hold up the receipt between two fingers, and Rowen gulps harshly with a nod. “You’ll eat this time, so keep that in mind.”
“I have been eating.”
“You’ll eat,” I interrupt her, pulling out my cell phone to unlock the screen. This time, Rowen doesn’t protest while I open the app to the security cameras I have installed outside. Lucinda is gone, as is her car, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Even though it won’t last. She’ll go wining to her father, or my brother. “It’d be so much easier if I could just tell him ‘no’.”
Chapter 6
Rowen
A knock on the door interrupts my whirling thoughts, and I sit up as Wesley cracks open the barrier. The crinkle of the bag in his hand catches my attention first, and he tosses it at me. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”
“Out?” The question slips out as I grab the fancy bag, the expensive logo on the front making my fingertips tingle with nervousness. “Why?”
“My older brother is coming for dinner. I’ll be sending you back tomorrow morning,” Wesley leans against the door frame as I blink in surprise. When was that decided? My heart pounds, apprehension gripping my muscles in a vice. He’s really going to send me back? “Impress him. Damien’s not convinced I should let you live. This is your opportunity to prove all this trouble has been worth it.”
“Why are you?” I ask quietly after a long, terse moment, and Wesley crosses his arms over his chest. Holding my breath in anticipation, I watch him closely until he opens his mouth.
“Because it’s distasteful to simply ignore all the effort you put into living just to kill you for some arbitrary fear. Probably for the same reason you believe me when I say I didn’t do all this just to fuck with you for my own sick pleasure. It costs nothing to be kind,” Wesley smirks, as if the prospect is the ultimate amusement. Waving a hand, he even chuckles, covering his mirth with the back of his palm. “Sorry. That’s the most idiotic rationalization. I’m not letting you go back to San Francisco because I’m nice. I’m letting you go because you’re not worth killing.”
My heart sinks to my knees, and I tear my gaze off Wesley as his declaration rings in my ears. Not worth killing? Is that supposed to be some sort of reassurance? My mouth dries as dread gnaws at my gut. This is your opportunity. . . my opportunity to advocate for my own life, against people who seemingly have no problem destroying it without a second thought. If I’m not worth the effort, why is all this happening?
“If- if I can’t convince him.” I almost choke on my own words when they clog at the top of my throat. Inhaling a shaky, shallow breath, I look up only to tense, the blood draining from my face when I notice how close Wesley is. He crouches down, bracing his forearms on his knees, and smiles.
“He’ll have a harder time dispatching you after eating something you make. You’re already a step ahead,” Wesley pats my knee, and a knot forms in my chest where my heart used to be. His eyes are empty, but for some reason. . . I feel like he’s trying? Trying to what- I’m not sure, though. Standing up, he rubs his palms together while I can only stare, slack-jawed and confused. “Damien has a few favorites. Do you need to plan? I know that personally, I’d love a tasting menu type thing.”
“A- are you a psycho?” My voice trembles on my weak whisper, and Wesley tilts his head back to rub his chin.
“I take offense to that. I’m not a murderer. I’m a contractor. I can’t even remember the last time I was explosively angry, and I’ve never done anything so stupid as to spontaneously kill someone. It takes a lot of planning,” Wesley answers, his stern voice rising up above the blood drumming in my ears. “You make a good point, actually, Rowen. I’ve been called both a sociopath and a psychopath. I suppose it doesn’t really matter, since they seem to be interchangeable. To that end, I’m not going to argue to keep you alive. Whether you live or die doesn’t matter to me.”
“W- we had a deal, though!” I cry out shrilly, jumping up, and the firm, plastic bag falls onto the floor with a fwop. Panic slams into my chest, flooding my veins and eyes and heating my face. “You said if I earned the plane ticket, I could go home. I did that! You can’t just move the goalpost!”
“I said I’ll pay for the ticket if you earn it, not that I would ensure your safety between point A and point B,” Wesley’s calm tone is jarring, and I step back to clutch my chest defensively. “You’re in the wrong for assuming something that wasn’t explicitly said. And while I concede your point- you did fulfill your side of the deal- I can’t stop this from happening. Damien told me yesterday before I came back that he’d prefer you dead. You want to live looking over your shoulder, worrying that he’ll decide ‘fuck it, I’ll just kill her because it’s easier than worrying about her’? Because the truth is, you can say until you’re blue in the face that you won’t talk, but neither I nor my brother are inclined to believe you.”
“If you’re gonna do that, why not just kill me now?” Frustration crackles my tone, scraping my throat, and I throw up my arms only to wince. Pain ripples down my left side and arm, and I hiss through gritting teeth. Holding my bicep tenderly, I turn away, hot tears pricking at the edges of my eyes.
“Is that a rhetorical question, or do you want an answer?” Clenching my jaw at Wesley’s probing, I glare at him, but he shows no emotion at all. “I already told you- I don’t think you’re worth killing. But, some notions mean different things to different people, and even though Damien’s my brother, I’m still an employee. That’s a great way to look at this, Rowen- you’re schmoozing your boss. Think of it like you’re trying to get a promotion.”
“A pr–” I stammer, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. Graveness deepens the lines around his mouth under my bewildered gaze. The silence rings in my ears, and I manage to string a thought together enough to take a breath, but nothing more. Wesley clears his throat before holding up the phone he’d set up for me a few days ago.
“Don’t take long figuring out what you’re going to do. Damien will be here around 6. Oh, and one final thing,” I blink after what seems like over a minute when Wesley holds out the device to me. My fingertips are numb, wrapping around the cell phone, but finally, he reacts. Satisfied. The stuff floods his eyes- the only emotion I’ve seen out of him aside from amusement and mild frustration. “I’ll be paying you.”
A fierce, sharp ache stabs my temple while Wesley turns on his heel and walks out, shutting the bedroom door behind him. What. . . the hell was that? He just said my life depends on this meal, and I better not screw it up- but he’s gonna pay me for it! The world moves in slow motion as I look down at the bag on the floor, a flash of red spilling out from the top. Dropping the cell onto the bed, I bend to grab the bag by the ribbon handles. My hands sweat with apprehension.
“Bare necessities,” I mumble when I realize the bag only contains a pair of jeans and a tank-top. He just expects it to come out of thin air, huh? I lift the jeans, finding a pair of pale pink sandals underneath. “These aren’t my size. None of these are my sizes. I guess. . . I could get by with the shirt and the pants, but the sandals are gonna be too small.”
Would it be worse if they were all the right size? Goosebumps blanket my arms, and I fight a shiver. There’s no underwear, either, but I’ll just wear the boxers.
Changing into the clothes, I’m glad I decided on keeping the boxers on when the pants are loose around my waist. Even then, I have to hike them up. Gingerly pulling the tank-top on, I groan softly when my shoulder aches in protest. Under the bandages are a few stitches, but there’s nothing more to be done but wait. I shouldn’t complain. I could be dead, or worse.
I grab the cell phone, unlocking the screen with a swipe and navigate to the Notes section. Wesley’s entries are fairly simple- beef, asparagus, mac and cheese- all the staples. My gaze slides to the clock on the top of the screen. If we get back before noon, it should be okay.
“This is why I’m not a professional,” I scoff lightly before stuffing my feet into the sandals, and I’m pleasantly surprised. They’re not as tight as I expected. Leaving my room, I flex my hands around the phone while my mind wanders into the expanse of delicious food. This meal has to be good enough to save my life. I can’t just make a crudo or something. Walking down the stairs, I glance over at Wesley standing by the window, peeking out through the blinds with a frown. “Is something wrong? Are you being surrounded by police?”
“Worse,” Wesley grunts, and curiosity beats against the backs of my eyes. Is that woman back? She was here yesterday, too. And the day before that. “She’s the daughter of a client. My father decided it’d be just swell to arrange a political marriage between her and I.”
“You don’t seem like the kind of person to hide from a woman.”
“I’m not hiding,” Wesley casts me a pointed look, amusement dancing in his eyes as he leaves the window. “This is the same client whose son I was babysitting on the boat. As you can imagine, the whole family is nothing but an annoyance. Because of my actions that night, Lucinda’s father decided it was a good excuse to force the engagement forward.”
He’s not blaming me? Confusion knits my brows even as Wesley waves a hand dismissively. “Have you decided what you want to do, Rowen?”
“Um, actually. . . do you have a pen and paper? I don’t like doing it on the phone. Writing it all out by hand will help a lot. I don’t wanna forget anything. But I don’t think it’ll take too long, and if we can get back by noon, I should have enough time.” Interest sparks in his eye and twitches his cheek, and Wesley walks across the living room to dig in the drawer of one of the end tables. Glancing over my shoulder at the front door, I lick my lips nervously. He’s not blaming me?
Chapter 7
Wesley
“Are you just going to sit there day in and day out?” I ask, and Lucinda jumps up with a shocked squawk, nearly falling onto her pretty face on the walkway. She stares at me through wide, brown eyes- like steaming piles of shit, honestly- before pulling an angry face.
“I know you know the agreement, Wes! We’re supposed to move in together! You just leave me out here like a dog.”
“Why would you think I’d let you move into my home? You didn’t think to invite me into yours?” I interrupt her before she can shout too loud; I do have neighbors. This posh neighborhood of condos isn’t exactly lacking on the gossipmongers, either. Even leaving Lucinda out here has made people talk, I’m sure. I watch her open her mouth only to close it, her face turning bright tomato red. “You simply showed up here with a suitcase without even telling me- which is lunacy, by the way. You have a very nice apartment downtown. Considering I do a lot of work down there, didn’t it cross your mind that I’d rather move there? Or did you think that because you’re a woman, I have to take care of you? That because your father is a valued client, I have to cater to you, who doesn’t do anything but enjoy the benefits of a thriving business while contributing nothing to that business? In any case, you didn’t talk to me at all about any of this.”
“I- I just- I thought.”
“You thought wrong. Please, leave. You’re making a fool of yourself, Lucinda,” Turning to head back into the house, I close and lock the glass door but keep the storm door open. I head into the kitchen where Rowen hunches over the first of many small, fancy plates she’d bought for today. I’ll miss the smell. I’ve been to so many restaurants in so many places, but having someone in my home, cooking only for me. . . is something I can get used to frighteningly easy. “Damien will be here any minute.”
“Is he gonna be mad?” Mumbling distractedly, Rowen picks up a few tiny, almost impossibly tiny, chopped chives and gently sprinkles them on the one-bite dish she’s preparing. “Isn’t this part of your punitive job or whatever?”
“No, it’s not. Damien agrees that Lucinda’s being an unreasonable bitch. He spoke to George Hanneford, but,” Trailing off, I sigh heavily under the weight of it all and lean against the counter to watch her. “I don’t enjoy having decisions made for me or being excluded from conversations that are about me, but it can’t be avoided right now. George refuses to deal with me or Chandler. He’s just being a stubborn, old fool. If Chandler didn’t fly off the handle with the boy, George wouldn’t have this leverage.”
“Is that what this meeting is about?”
“One of the main reasons, yes. You know, Rowen,” I stroke my chin, staring at a distant corner of grout between the tiles underfoot. “If killing people really solved problems- if it really was a cure-all. . . it’s unfortunate that it’s not. It only creates more problems. I’m in this predicament because I killed someone- well, two people, but semantics. I’m also in this situation because I didn’t kill someone. Such a simple act, with a simple motivation, has caused me so many problems, and I do believe they’re going to get worse before they get better.”
I blink, feeling Rowen’s weighty gaze, and look over at her bent over the counter but staring at me. Her hair looks nice tied up like that. Not a single strand out of place or a danger to the food she’s preparing. “What?”
“If you think that, why’re you a contractor?” Genuine curiosity colors her tone, and I inhale deeply through parted lips.
“Because other people believe it, and they’re willing to pay a lot to confirm their belief. I’ll admit, sometimes it’s worth it to explore assassination as an option. But, for the modern and ordinary, there’s far simpler ways to solve issues between two people. Did you know that back in World War II, people outed their neighbors to the Nazis to steal their stuff or to settle grudges between families? Sometimes, those neighbors weren’t even Jewish. People are capable of incredible cruelty, and when prompted, incredible ingenuity in wielding that cruelty. Lies and manipulation often work much better, but killing someone is far quicker. It’s a matter of laziness, I feel.”
“So. . . you think people who want to do bad will, and you’re just making a profit off their impatience?” I nod, and Rowen looks down at her tiny plates to turn them slowly, inspecting them through narrowed, shrewd eyes. “My mom says people invite bad into their lives that way. Right now, I’m having a hard time believing that. I don’t think I did anything to deserve this.”
Well, what am I supposed to say to that? Before I can come up with a reply, there’s a knock on the glass from the front door, and I leave Rowen in the kitchen. Irritation twitches my cheek when I see Lucinda just standing there behind my brother; she’s fuming, clutching the handle of her suitcase with white-knuckle tightness. Damien frowns, holding up his hand discreetly in a ‘drop it’ signal when I unlock and open the door. “You’re right on time.”
Stepping back, Damien pauses in the doorway to sniff the air, casting me a wild, quizzical look. I smirk, tilting my head to the side, before he breezes past me like he owns the place. Stopping mid-step when Lucinda tries to hustle up the stoop, my brother twists to catch my gaze. “She’ll be staying in your guest room after we’ve had our conversation.”
Damien’s eyes flicker to Lucinda to skewer her into motionlessness, one foot on the landing. I shut the door once again; is this going to become a habit of hers? To be shut out of my house. I drop the thought, shutting the storm door so there’s no chance she can overhear Damien and I. Leading my brother into the kitchen, I gesture to the kitchen table, and he sits down. Within a moment, Rowen places two wine glasses in front of us, and he eyeballs her while shrugging off his jacket. “So, you’re the woman that’s caused all this fuss.”
Rowen nods but wisely keeps her mouth shut, and I scan my brother intently. His plain, white button down, a pen sticking out of the breast pocket, and a watch glistening under the kitchen lights. He takes a sip of wine, meeting my eyes over the rim before Rowen sets down her little plates before us. It’s some sort of fish dish, but neither my brother nor I are allergic to anything, and she retreats to the stove without telling us what it is, explicitly.
“You asked me here, Wesley,” Speaking clearly, his baritone velvety and formal, Damien sets down the wine glass without breaking eye contact. “What do you want?”
“Have you decided what to do about Dad?” I ask, getting straight to the point. Finally, my brother’s eyes leave me to flicker over my shoulder, through the living room at the door. A tired shadow in their depths. I pick up my fork, fighting a frown. “I know you’re unhappy with this whole garbage charade, Damien. If Dad thought he could get away with it, you’d be the one in this position. He doesn’t want to antagonize you, but he’s inarguably putting you in a worse position by catering to the Hanneford’s. This is starting to get out of control.”
“Talking isn’t working,” Damien’s gruff reply comes before he turns the beautiful plate around, admiring it for a brief moment. A tiny escape from the conversation barely started. I pierce the thinly cut fish with my fork, my thoughts split between wanting to savor this meal and needing to have a frank discussion with Damien. “I’m exploring my options. I’ve told Dad that I won’t allow Lucinda or George Hanneford to dictate me. They’re the clients- we’re the service providers. And by and large, they’re not our wealthiest or most powerful clients. The context of a political marriage doesn’t hold up for us considering we’re dressing down.”
Anticipation worms through my veins when Damien picks up the plate, not even bothering to use a fork, and knocks back the one-bite serving. His brows rise immediately, a pleasant tilt stretching his lips as he licks them. Inhaling deeply, he sits back, closing his eyes to sigh heavily. “Between the Hanneford’s and Chandler, I’m going to pull my hair out. With your engagement hanging over us, I can’t just drop them as clients, but sending you after them would create too much suspicion.”
“I don’t see what the problem is with that. The Hanneford’s are old, and already, they’re hemorrhaging money because George insists on being a sexist piece of shit. He won’t put his daughter in charge who, despite her flaws, is more than willing to let more capable people take the workload,” I remark, lifting my fork to my mouth. The fish is flavorful and acidic, a welcome distraction as I eyeball my older brother. “They’ll destroy themselves on their own, but who knows who they’d take down on the way? Do you have any preventative measures in place?”
“I’ve tapped their lines, but I don’t have much from Jake. That kid does nothing but complain and party, and his friends are losers. The conversations Lucinda’s been having, though,” The hairs on the back of my neck bristle at Damien’s leading tone, and he cracks his eyes open to sit up. “She’s talking non-stop to her friends about your wedding, having children. It’d be amusing if she wasn’t serious. She wants to ‘win your love’.”