Live well, he had said.
I think of Avery, and wonder what she is doing.
* * *
I didn’t have to be such a dick. I knew that, even as I was slinging out insults and threats. I could have been nicer to her. But over the last decade, being a dick has become my armor. It’s kept any staff from becoming my friends, anyone from getting too close. Building a wall between myself and the outside world has been the easiest way to keep my secret safe. And Vince actually liked my prickly persona. He liked being the nice one, out of the two of us. He liked being the only one who could make me smile. He liked the air of unattainability that I portrayed. And he liked when I was his watchdog, his protector of privacy, his spiked fence that kept the commoners at bay.
He was always the good cop and I was always the bad, and it’s hard to turn off that switch just because he is dead.
I step into the elevator, select the button for the top floor, and lean against the wall. As it climbs, I think of her face, the way her pupils had grown, her face had paled. She is probably on the plane to Detroit now, squished between fat businessmen, a half-eaten bag of cashews on her lap, one of those stupid pillows cradling her neck. Or maybe she has landed, her combat boots weaving through a crowded terminal, on the way to her car.
It’s good for both of us that she leaves. I meant everything I said. I’ll rip apart the privacy of her life, and her family, and her friends. I have, as I mentioned to her, eight hundred and fifty million reasons to do so.
All she has is a photo.
The elevator quietly dings, coming to a stop on our floor, and I step out. The doors to the master suite are open, but I ignore them and head for the dressing room. Stepping in, dim lights illuminate the rows of clothing, half of them protected by glass cabinets.
“What’s with the ring?” I grip my arms tightly and look out on the water, my breath fogging the air, the tips of my ears smarting from the wind.
Vince glances down at his hand and pulls the cigar closer, holding it between his lips and flicking the lighter’s starter. He says nothing, attempting to light the cigar, and once he does, he inhales sharply, then passes it to me. “Hold this.”
He pulls on his gloves, the right, then the left, and the ring disappears beneath Italian leather and fur. “It was my brother’s.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother.” I puff on the cigar and watch the water, an iceberg materializing in the dark, one five times bigger than our ship.
“Yep.” He finishes, and holds out his hand, taking the cigar back. “He died when I was in Japan. Got hit by a drunk driver when jogging.”
I wince as I jump up and down a bit, trying to stay warm. “I’m sorry, V.”
He shrugs. “You know how it is. Decades pass before you know it. Time fades everything.” He sucks on the end of the cigar, then glances down at it. “Is this one of the Gurkha’s? It tastes odd.”
“I don’t know. That’s what they gave me. It’s fucking freezing out here.”
And that was it, two sentences that shared a piece of him I hadn’t known. Two sentences in the middle of Iceland.
I open the first jewelry drawer and look over the rings. He hadn’t been a big ring wearer. It was why the band—a cheap silver piece stamped with a pattern of sorts—had stood out to me. It hadn’t looked like him, hadn’t fit any of the fashion molds he so staunchly adhered to.
I find the band, exactly where it is supposed to be, in the first row. Pulling it out, I flip it over on my palm, surprised at how light it is.
I think of the Vince I know, a man so different from the wild and unkempt man on that image. And yet … this ring. I close my hand around it and push the drawer in. Turning slowly, I survey the room, looking for somewhere to hide the piece of evidence.
* * *
“You can’t fuck her.”
I turn at the statement, a glass of brandy half raised to my mouth. “Excuse me?”
“The girl from Detroit. The one that you kept adjusting yourself in the meeting for. You can’t fuck her.” John Montreal stands in the doorway of the library, his jacket hanging from one arm, his tie undone, face drawn. In this moment, he doesn’t look like one of the city’s most powerful attorneys. At this point, he looks like he’s been run over by a train.
“I wasn’t adjusting myself.” I make a face, then tilt the glass back, taking all of it in one fluid shot.
“Please.” He tosses his jacket on the bar and nods at Tony. “Give me two of whatever he’s having. And then give us some privacy.”
I smirk, watching the shots hit the bar top, the ice cubes quickly distributed. “You can’t hang with me, old man.”
“Hey.” He points at me in warning. “Respect your elders.”
It’s funny since he doesn’t have much age on me. Maybe ten years, max. Compared to Vince, he’s practically my age. I say so and he shakes his head. “I’ve got at least three times the wisdom as you. You’ve got to factor that in.”
I ignore that logic and push my empty glass next to his two, watching as it fills. “Thanks, Tony.”
“You got it, boss.” He wipes down the bar and leaves, ducking out of the back of the room and leaving the two of us alone.
I glance at John. “Why do I feel as if I’m in the principal’s office?”
He takes a hefty sip of the first drink, holds the liquor on his tongue for a long moment, then swallows. “I’m going to cut your dick off if you don’t keep your hands to yourself with her. She’s fifty different types of liability, all rolled into that sexy body.” He looks at me. “You understand?”
“It’s not that there’s anything illegal about what you and Vince did. Or that any part of it would void this will. But I don’t have to tell you how bad it will look if this gets out. I don’t want that to be his legacy.”
“You think I do?” I sit on the closest stool and run a rough hand through my hair. “But I don’t want it to be my sentence for the rest of my life either.”
“You knew this. You knew, when you agreed to all of this, what you were signing up for.”
But I didn’t expect Vince to die so young. I thought I’d be old by the time he passed. And I didn’t think I’d be tempted. That was the truth of the matter. I thought, for the rest of my life, that I’d be happy with occasional fucks with strangers that I’d never see again. I thought I’d be happy with a life that didn’t involve love, or a relationship, or anything to that extent. I always had been before. I had never, not in the twenty-six years before I met Vince, had the desire for any of that. I had been, for my first two decades of life, cold and heartless. And I assumed I always would be.
But now, just five days after Vince’s death, I’ve fucked a stranger and am twisting in the wind. It feels like an anvil is on my chest, pinning me to the ground, and the thought of hiding my sexuality for the rest of my life … it kills me.
How did everything change so quickly?
I lean forward, my forearms sharp against the wood. “I don’t know. Ignore what I’m saying. It’s probably the grief talking. I just … I need a few days to wrap my head around this.”
“But you understand why you need to stay away from this woman.”
I keep my head down, scraping my nails along my scalp, and wonder how much to tell him. On one hand, I could use the advice. On the other hand, my pride is taking one hell of a hit with this one. I finally look up and meet his tired eyes. “It may… be too late for that.”
For a man trained to not react, he does a poor job. “It’s been four hours, Marco. What did you do, trip her in the parking lot with your dick?”
I scowl. “No. It was—before that. Before I knew who she was. I met her on the street by our house. She needed a ride. One thing … one thing led to another.”
“And you had sex with her?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck me.” He walks around the bar, grabs the first bottle he sees, and pours a generous helping into his glass. “You have no idea—”
?
??I have every idea,” I interrupt. “Trust me. All I’ve been doing, since I found out who she was, has been envisioning the possibilities. You think I don’t understand what’s at stake?”
“So, she knows you’re straight.” He throws back the glass, his Adam’s apple bobbing. When he sets it down, he smacks his lips and hisses at the burn, a quarter of the drink now gone.
“No,” I say, correcting him. “I don’t think she thinks I’m straight. I don’t know… fuck. I don’t know what she thinks. But she hasn’t accused me of being straight. And, it doesn’t matter. If it comes to that, we have the contract between me and Vince.”
“And if she goes to the press, what then? What if she isn’t his daughter, and she gets pissed, goes on tilt, and goes to the press? Or blackmails you?”
Blackmail. That’s the main thing that has haunted me, ever since hearing her name. He’s right. It’s a valid concern. And, whether that was her intention all along or a big fat present that landed in her lap, it doesn’t matter. She’d be blind not to see it. And what would I pay to keep this secret?
Ten million? Fifty million? A Hundred?
Chapter 28
AVERY
“I can’t take any more, Andrei. I don’t have jobs for them.” I scroll through the list of women and feel sick to my stomach. Forty-two of them. Forty-two women, arriving in JFK in a week, with nowhere to go. “I don’t understand how this happened. Is this Koruk’s fault?”
“I don’t know where the communication broke down. I just know I’ve got a stack of approved visa applications with next week’s date on them.”
Fuck. I need to be home. I need to be finding roommates and calling clients, finding forty-two openings that I can fit them into to. “Let me work on this.”
“I’m sorry. I hate to throw this on you.”
“I’ll figure it out.” I hang up the phone and push the thought of the arrivals out of my head, reaching forward and pressing play on the video. I watch the footage, Marco’s words still ringing in my mind.
“Vince is—was—gay. Not gay like me, where I can manage to fuck a girl and come. Gay. I spent ten years in his bed. Ten. Years. I ate breakfast with him every morning. Traveled the world with him. Listened to every story and chimed in on every decision. We went to orgies together, for fuck’s sake. All male fuckfests. He was GAY. He wanted me, not…not this corn-fed hick.”
I rewind and rewatch the video, a short clip where Vince Horace grips Marco’s neck and leans over, kissing him on the cheek. He pauses, his face still close to Marco’s, and there is a moment where the men lock eyes. Marco says something, and Vince smiles. They turn back to the crowd. I rewind the clip, press play, and watch it again.
I don’t know what I’m looking for. It’s the twentieth clip I’ve watched, and they are all the same. Two men: affectionate with each other. I can’t find a torrid lip lock or a grope, but none of these events are places where I’d expect it. All of these clips are from stages, interviews, awards and fashion shows.
I close the laptop, pushing it away from me. I kick a foot free of the blanket and lay back, squishing the pillow underneath my head and looking up at the ceiling. I don’t know why I’m still here. I was at the airport, had a ticket in hand, and couldn’t get on the plane. I just stood there, like an idiot, elbowed and jostled by anxious passengers, all bottle-necking toward the gate. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get on the plane and run away with my tail tucked in between my legs.
I’m not Marco Lent’s toy to boss around.
I’m not crazy.
And I’m not the sort to be scared off.
But… I’m also not willing to put my life in jeopardy. And I’m not ready for whatever wrecking ball he’s threatening to smash into my business and into the lives of the women who trust me. If something happens to me, if police bust in and discover everything, they will be deported, I’ll be shut down, and Ivan K, or some other asshole, will take my place.
I can’t let that happen, yet here I am, still in this city, my stubbornness putting them at risk.
Is it wrong for me to want to know who my father is? Sure, Vince Horace is gay. But so is Marco Lent. And the soreness between my legs is proof that gay men can make mistakes. Gay men can be tempted. Gay men can have moments of insanity.
I roll over in bed, curl my knees to my chest, and think of tomorrow. I have no idea what I’ll do. Maybe in the morning, this fight won’t seem worth the risk. Maybe then, retreating will seem like a better option, and my stubbornness will—for once in my life—conveniently yield.
I close my eyes and think of him. His hands on my hips, his cock inside me. Thick. Filling me up. The lift of his torso as he brought his mouth to my breasts, pressed kisses along their curves and sucked a nipple into his mouth. So different from the man who had squared off against me in that conference room. I close my eyes and the need aches in between my legs.
Chapter 29
MARCO
“God, you’re spoiled.”
I turn in my seat and watch John step into the kitchen, his pressed suit and clean shave giving away none of his rough night, one that had involved way too much alcohol and stories of Vince that had made my cheeks hurt from smiling. Now, only my head hurts. I reach over and slap the stool next to me. “Sit down. Paul will hook you up.”
The attorney settles on the stool, looking for a place to set his jacket, and one of the attendants materializes. “Thanks.” Pulling up to the island, he glances across the counter and nods to the chef. “Are you Paul?”
“Yes, sir. I’m making Mr. Lent a crab cake omelet, would you care for one?”
“That would be very nice, thank you.”
“Get him a juice too.” I lift my glass and catch the eye of the prep chef. “Extra beets.”
“I don’t like beets,” John grumbles, leaning back as a napkin is placed in his lap.
“Yeah, but your hangover will.”
Paul pushes forward a plate of sliced pears, each topped with blue cheese and wrapped in prosciutto. “For the meantime.”
“Jesus.” John reaches forward and lifts one from the plate. “You know someone dry-cleaned my suit and shined my shoes last night? And there was a guy in my bathroom this morning.”
“You don’t have bathroom attendants at your house?” I grin, and wince at the pain that stabs my temple.
“Go ahead and laugh. If I didn’t have my bachelor lifestyle to protect, I’d move in.” He eyes the chilled glass that is set before him, picking it up as tentatively as a child approaching broccoli. “You got a tablet somewhere? The background check on your girlfriend came in.”
“They’ll grab one.” I chew through a pear and grab my own juice —an orange and carrot blend—ignoring his “girlfriend” reference. “Know anything about it yet?”
“I tried to open it on my phone, but the file was too big. My assistant didn’t say anything about it.”
I watch as Paul lifts the skillet and grabs a plate. “You haven’t gotten anything from her attorney yet?”
“Nope.” He checks his phone. “As of right now, they are still wanting to move forward. Maybe you weren’t as convincing as you thought.”
A tablet is presented, unlocked and placed before him. “Thanks.”
He’s got to quit thanking the staff. At this rate, they’ll get used to it and his tongue will fall off from overuse. I say so, and he chuckles, not looking at me as he logs into his email. “You’re a prick, you know that?”
I shrug, finishing off the last of my juice and pushing it forward. “We pay them well enough to make up for it.” I. I pay them well enough. How long will it take for my mind to understand that Vince is gone?
“Huh.” He peers at the tablet, his finger scrolling down a document.
“What?” I hold out my hand for the tablet.
He waves me off. “Wait a second. Let me finish it.”
It’s an agonizingly long wait, one I pass by taking a piss. By the time I return to the kitchen, the tablet is
in front of my seat and he’s eating, his fork scraping the china.
“What’s the verdict?” I sit down and pick up the device.
“Your girl’s a criminal.”
“No shit?” I scan over the first page, which is a bunch of boring content. Height. Weight. Hospital of birth. I scroll down.
“Mostly underage stuff. Assault. Ran away from a prep school when she was fifteen. Petty theft. Looks like she has ties to some gangsters in Detroit.”
“I didn’t think gangsters still existed.”
He laughs. “Really? The pretty boy with the heated socks next to his bed each morning doesn’t know about the criminal underbelly of society?”
“Hey—” I say sharply, looking up. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like that. Everyone likes the heated socks. Those are Vince Horace cashmere, by the way. You could sell those on eBay if you’re hard up for cash.” And they’re perfection, even if they fall apart on the sixth or seventh wearing. There is a reason no one buys the damn things, other than us. At two hundred dollars a pair, people have this ridiculous expectation of longevity. In socks. Socks. I don’t get it. You’re either rich or you’re not. Either wear nine-dollar Gold Toes, or spoil your fucking feet.
I see the first arrest and stop scrolling. Picked up on suspicion of prostitution. “She’s a hooker?” Oh my god. I got rolled by a fucking hooker and I fucked her without a condom. I’ve been sitting here, with a dick that’s probably about to—
“No. Read on. She was with a hooker, got into an argument with some pimp and someone called the cops. It got cleared up at the station. Do you have any—oh, thank you.” He takes the butter.
“Shall I butter your bread, sir?”
He hesitates, a piece of toast in hand. “Ah, no. Thank you. I’ll do it.”
“So, she’s not a prostitute.”
“Nah.” He swipes a healthy amount of butter across the toast. “Unfortunately for us. I mean—if there’s a case.” When I glare at him, he laughs, holding the toast up. “What? My loyalty is to the estate, not to your—” He glances at the busy kitchen and stops the statement. “Keep reading.”