Avery McKenna’s second brush with the law was a year later when she was arrested for disorderly and lewd behavior. New Orleans. March, 2012. This time I read the notes before asking John. McKenna was exposing her breasts to the crowd. Got into a verbal altercation with officer, then offered him sexual favors. Subject says she was joking.
“God. How much more of this is there?”
“You gotten to New Orleans yet?”
“Yeah.”
“Just one more. It’s interesting.” He pushes off the stool and comes to stand behind me, looking over my shoulder.
Seizure of cash. Two years ago. Looks like a traffic stop found… seventy thousand dollars in cash. They seized it until she could prove the source of the cash. McKenna showed bank withdrawals equaling a sum greater than the amount, dated one month earlier, and the funds were returned. “What’s up with that?”
“I don’t know. Drugs, if I have to guess. Whatever it is, it’s good for us—something to lean on her with.”
“Yeah.”
“Keep scrolling down, to her assets.”
I scroll down, seeing three parcel IDs. I click on the first one.
“What is … an apartment complex? That’s random.”
“She paid three million for it. There’s a second one that she paid almost five for. Apparently, she’s in the housing business.”
So, fund … whatever the fuck she had called it … that was a lie. I click on the third property, which looks to be her house. Three bedrooms, three bathrooms. Paid … I scroll down. Two hundred and nine thousand for, six years ago.
The questions mount and Avery McKenna—Rolls Royce kamikaze, seducer of gay men, fighter of pimps, and real estate mogul—just became a lot more interesting.
I push aside the tablet.
“So, the bad news is, she’s not broke. She’s got the funds to fight us on this. And you know…” John sits forward, picking up a fork and turning to me. “It may just be easier to have a paternity test and be done with this, without having to get nasty.”
“We order a paternity test and we’re risking press, and giving her claim validity. She’s got a fucking photo, John. Nothing else. A photo that looks vaguely like Vince.”
He looks at me, and in those bloodshot eyes, I see a hint of fear. “It’s more than vague, Marco. It looks a hell of a lot like him.”
“He wasn’t at LiveAid,” I insist, and the lie feels sour on my tongue. I shove a bit of egg and crab in and furiously chew.
“You sure of that?” He fixes me with a stare, and we—I—don’t pay this guy to cross-examine me.
“We’re not doing the paternity test.” I turn back to my plate. “And you’ll hear from her attorney today. It’ll be done. She’ll be gone.” I rip off a chunk of toast and avoid his eyes.
Behind me, there is the clearing of an ancient throat, and I turn to see Edward, who I swear to fucking God has a smirk on his face. “Mr. Lent, you have a guest at the front door. A Miss Avery McKenna.”
* * *
“I can stay.” John speaks in a hushed whisper, as we walk down the wide hall and toward the front parlor.
“You don’t need to stay.”
“I kind of do.”
I ignore him, rounding the corner and striding down the wide hall, my dress boots clicking against the marble floor. On either side of us, Warhols line the hall. “Go. Go handle all of the things that need covering for me right now. I’ll speak to her. I can handle this.”
“Actually, you can’t handle this, or we wouldn’t be in this situation.” He grips my arm and maneuvers in front of me, blocking my path. “We need to have an organized, united front, and we can do that through letters and documentation, and phone calls to her attorney. Believe me when I say that nothing good can come from the two of you having a conversation.”
“I disagree.” I reach down and rip his hand free of my arm. “Now, go. I’ll call you this afternoon.”
He stays in place and stares at me as if he can control me with just the force of a glare. Our footing is uneven, him and I, our relationship—sans Vince—still new. He is used to ten years of me being the subordinate who rarely speaks. But that is no longer my role and if it takes me physically throwing him out of my house to prove it, I will. Right now, I’m not entirely sane. Right now, I’m unraveling at the seams.
“Fine.” He lifts his hands in surrender, his palms facing me. “I’ll go. Just, for God’s sake—don’t touch her.” He hesitates, steps back, then stalks off.
Edward waits, one hand on the door to the parlor, and raises a dignified brow. “Shall we, sir?”
“Yes.” I bite out. “I think we shall.”
She’s sitting in the parlor, framed by original Monet’s, worth two million each. She’s back in ripped jeans, combat boots, and a baggy scoop neck t-shirt with a tattooed version of Marilyn Monroe across the front. As I approach, she stands, one hip popped, and crosses her arms over her chest.
“I thought I told you to leave. To go back to Detroit.”
“You did.” She cocks her head to one side, and her hair is like it was the night I met her. Wild and untamed, in dire need of a deep conditioning treatment and a service in our salon. “And I didn’t.”
“May I ask why?”
“You could, but it would be redundant. You know why I’m here. And you know what it will take to make me leave.” She shrugs. “I’m not asking for much.”
“Just the blood of fashion’s greatest man.”
“Eh.” She shifts her weight and scrunches up her face. “It’s not that big of a deal. I’ve got plenty of it running through my veins.”
Ha. I’d laugh out loud if I saw any humor in this situation.
She turns, twisting slowly to one side and surveys the room. “Nice digs.”
Nice digs? I don’t think our house has ever been described in that manner before. I purse my lips shut before an insult snaps out.
“So…” she smiles at me. “Can I get a tour?”
Absolutely not. She’s probably casing the place, has some recording device stuck up her shirt, hugged by those delicious breasts. I bet she—
“Certainly, Miss McKenna.” Edward steps forward, his haughty English accent almost warm in its delivery. “If you follow me this wa—” I hold up my hand.
“Absolutely not. What the fuck are you doing in here? Leave us alone.”
“Miss McKenna.” The old goat ignores me, as if he hasn’t waited on my ass for a decade, as if he isn’t dependent on my paycheck for his very—oh wait. He isn’t. Thanks to Vince’s generous will, the house staff will be getting two percent of his estate. Two percent of the pre-tax value of one billion dollars—I can’t do the fucking math, but if you take that number, and divide it by twenty, I’m pretty sure that old Edward here has a bunch of fake breasts and champagne in his future. “Might I get you some tea? Or perhaps coffee?”
“Tea would be great, thank you.” She smiles, he smiles, and no one here seems to remember that this is my house, and she’s leaving.
He turns, and I snap my fingers at him. “Don’t get her tea. Go… away somewhere. Leave us alone.”
He sniffs, and I’ll have to fire him. I don’t understand how everything can go to shit the moment that Vince passes. Staff off the rails, a frustrating stranger in our house, an empire seemingly up for grabs … this isn’t what Vince wanted. Live well, he said. Live fucking well.
This isn’t well. This is anarchy.
* * *
She grips the teacup like a barbarian, and when she lifts it to her mouth, I see the chipped dark polish on her nails. Edward sets down a fresh napkin and a plate of blueberry scones, and I swear to God, if he offers her one more thing, I’m going to chuck the closest pastry at his head.
He straightens, does his little butler bow thing, and leaves.
“So.” She sets down the teacup and reaches for a scone. “I was thinking that maybe we could negotiate.” I watch her break a corner of the scone off and bring it to he
r lips. God, those fucking lips. All it takes is one look at them, one action by them, and I’m a raging mess of hormones.
I look away and pretend to brush something off of the arm of my suit. “Negotiate about what?”
“Well.” She pauses to finish chewing. “I was thinking that you could let me have a paternity test, and I could keep your little secret.”
“I don’t have a little secret.” I sit in the chair opposite her, the Wingbacks set far enough apart that I feel safe.
“Really?” She examines a piece of blueberry crumble before popping it into her mouth, and fuck me, she is aggravating. “I feel like you do.”
“I feel like you’re reaching.”
My gaze follows her when she stands, brushing off her palms, scone dust falling to the carpet like glitter. She steps toward me, and I tense when she doesn’t stop, one leg swinging over mine, her weight coming down as she straddles my lap. “I feel like you want to fuck me right now,” she whispers.
She’s right. I keep my forearms in place on the velvet, my hands hanging from the ends of the arms, and adopt as bored of an expression as I can manage. “You’re terrible at reading people.”
She looks down at me and tilts her head. Last time she was in this position, my cock was inside of her, a stiff and thick inside hot perfection. My hands tighten on the wings of the chair and fight to not move.
“So … you’re not hard right now?”
“No.”
She places her hand on my chest, sliding down the cashmere sweater and toward my dick, which is a battering ram barely contained by slacks. I release my grip on the chair and trap her hand right before it gets to my belt. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Is this how you negotiate things in Detroit?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I’m trying to get you off my lap.”
“Let’s get back to our negotiation.” She pulls her hand free of mine and rests it on the back of my chair, leaning forward, her face closer to mine.
The neck of her shirt slips over one shoulder and I see the strap of her bra. Red. Gold stitching. The same one from yesterday. I reach up and pull the t-shirt back into place. Her eyes meet mine and my self-control cracks, my palm dragging down the front of her shirt, cupping the fabric against her body, feeling everything I want to see. She inhales, and I want to yank up her shirt and pull down her jeans. I bet those panties are soaked.
I clear my throat, my hand settling on and tightening around her waist, pulling the fabric tight against her breasts. “I’ll let you negotiate with me, if—” I lift my gaze and look into her face.
“If what?”
“If I can do anything I want, while you propose your terms.”
Her face flushes, her breath catching, and she rolls her lips together while she thinks it over. Her eyes search mine, my hand tightens on her waist, and she nods, a quick tight jerk of acceptance.
I move my other hand to the waist of her jeans and pop the fly open. “Talk.”
Chapter 30
AVERY
His hand grips my waist, his fingers caressing the skin through the thin material of the tee. I look down, watching his hand part the fly of my jeans. He drags the zipper down and the red satin of the thong comes into view. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens, and the pads of his fingers work down the lace seams of the panties.
Talk. I should be talking, presenting my case in a logical and intelligent manner. I close my eyes, lift my head, and try to find a thought process that doesn’t involve nudity. “You don’t think that Vince is my dad.”
“No, I don’t.” He sounds so calm and in control. He slides his hand further, working it into the tight fit of my jeans. His fingers find my clit and he caresses it through the silk.
“So, then what’s the harm in the…” oh God. My hand falls to his shoulder and I dig my nails into the soft fabric of his sweater.
“You aren’t negotiating. You’re asking a favor.”
“Fine.” I pull at his belt, my fingers clawing at the buckle, and he lets the action slide. “Since you think it’s a stupid idea, let me have the test. In exchange, I won’t tell anyone that Vince Horace’s boyfriend fucked me.”
“Which time?” He slides his fingers further down, the firm pressure pushing silk against wetness. I don’t know how he does it. With just a look, I’m damp. With a touch, I’m putty.
“What?”
He sits up suddenly and yanks my jeans lower, the new angle giving his hand more freedom. He works the panties to the side and pushes two fingers in. “Which time are you going to tell them about? In Spring Lake, or right now?”
The cocky question, coming right as his fingers dip inside of me, rubs me the wrong way. My body caves in pleasure, but my mind struggles, pushing back. “No.” I pull my hand back from his buckle and grab his wrist. His fingers stop moving, his eyes flicking to mine. I push on his chest and his hand goes limp as I push off his body and stand. “You’re not fucking me.” I don’t know where the statement comes from or why, just now, I feel so resolute, but I do. He’s not fucking me. Not right here, with his butlers standing on the other side of that door. Not right now, while I’m trying to negotiate something that affects my entire life.
It was a ridiculous decision, straddling him, attempting to use my feminine wiles to sway him. In that battle, I was a mouse coming to a dogfight, more likely to be devoured than land a blow.
I step back and his eyes smolder. He bends forward and picks up a fallen napkin, my stupid scone still half-eaten on a plate beside my chair. Keeping that gaze on me, he wipes his hand off. “Then continue with this proposal.”
“That’s it. I’ll keep my mouth shut and you let me have the test. I’ll get the results and go on my way.” I pull my jeans into place and zip them up, working the button closed. What had I expected to happen? He said to let him do anything he wanted.
“I have to say,” he muses. “This is not the reaction I expected you to have.”
“Yeah. Me either.” I pull at the neck of my shirt. “Is it hot in here? It feels hot.”
He doesn’t respond, and I turn away, talking too quickly at a time when I should shut up. “I don’t want you to go to Detroit. Or to dig around in my business. But I can’t let this drop. I can’t. It’ll just…” I let out a hard breath. “It’ll tear me apart. The not knowing. I don’t do well with not knowing things.”
“He isn’t your father. Trust me on that.”
I let out a short laugh. “Yeah. No offense, but I don’t trust you at all.”
“That makes two of us.” He finishes cleaning off his fingers and tosses the napkin to the end table, missing the surface. It drops to the floor and he dismisses it entirely.
I wouldn’t trust me either. I’ve been sketchy as hell from the beginning, though it had been unintentional. I hadn’t expected to jump in front of his car, hitch a ride, spend the night, and have sex with him—all without telling him who I was, or why I was there. And even today, showing up unannounced, doing this whole ridiculous straddle-him-with-cookie-crumbs-on-my-mouth routine—I’m surprised he’s even having this conversation with me. I’m surprised he hasn’t called the cops, booted me out into the street, and charged me with blackmail. Because that’s what I’m doing, in some twisted way. I’m threatening to tell someone about Spring Lake unless he grants access to a paternity test.
Which I should have access to anyway.
Which I might get, if Andrei and I took them to court.
Is it blackmail if I’m just getting what is owed to me? Yeah. I think it still is. And owed to me is a pretty freaking big leap, considering my weak-ass hypothesis.
“Here’s the issue.” He glances at his watch, then continues. “Your word doesn’t mean shit. You tell me you’ll keep your mouth shut, I give you a paternity test, and then you blab about my giant cock to GQ.” He stands, reaching one hand into his pocket and pulling out a cell phone. “So, this is what we’ll do. You’ll sign
an agreement waiving your right to any of Vince Horace’s assets, and I’ll give you your test. As far as you ever telling anyone about what happened in Spring Lake?” He shrugs. “Fuck it. We’ll paint you as a prostitute with a rap sheet as long as my dick. I’m a fucking choir boy who’s mourning the loss of his partner. No one will believe you. And if you do go public, I’ll do what I threatened earlier and rip apart your life and send everything I find to the media.” He types something on his phone, his head down, his dismissal as clear as a Times Square billboard.
Finally, he looks up. “You’re a smart girl. I’m certain you’ll see the right path to take.” He slips his phone back in his pocket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a staff meeting to run that started ten minutes ago.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He walks forward, his shoe brushing against the used napkin, and it spins on the floor. I watch him stride down the long room and wait for a backward glance, a final acknowledgment, something. I wait, then I’m left alone.
I press my lips together and fight the urge to scream. Instead, I stomp on the napkin, my boots loud on the marble floor, each jump damaging the delicate paper a little bit more.
I hate him. I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate him.
* * *
He’s fast. By the time I walk four blocks over to the park, I have an email from John Montreal. I open the attachment and scroll through the document, one that is lengthy and appears to cover every conceivable base. I forward it to Andrei, kill ten minutes hunting down something to eat, then call him.
“I don’t like it.” Andrei’s voice is flat, and I can picture him, sitting at his desk and pulling at his earlobe. I move closer to the edge of a bench, a hot dog in hand, and pinch the cell phone against my ear.
“If I sign this document, have the paternity test, and I am his daughter then … I get nothing? I’m in the same situation I am now?” Not that my current situation sucks. Three days ago, loneliness, danger, and stale sex life aside, I was happy with my life.