Page 4 of These Family Ties
The echo of Mother storming to the front door, her face a cold mask of fury, rings in my ears. Cleo took her berating silently. Only this time, her shoulders weren’t quite as slumped in defeat. Muted defiance hovered in the edges of her pale irises. Her downcast lashes swept away the hard glint I saw right before she bowed her head against the onslaught of Mother’s panic. My heart sank with pity for both. Cleo’s failure and Mother’s fear create a potent mix of emotion that subdues even my buoyant nature.
“I had him last night. At least I think I did,” Cleo rushes out.
“What? What do you mean? You aren’t sure?” Cleo’s words make no sense. We’ve been doing this for ages. We both know the instant we’ve hooked a mark, and the moment we lose them. “Stop thinking about him. Today is a new day, tonight another mark.”
“I left him the number.” I rear back to look at her. Her eyes are squinched shut. Pressing my lips to her forehead, I exhale slowly until her face relaxes against my mouth.
“That’s my girl,” I croon, still swaying, not displaying an iota of the rage I feel. She left a mark our secret number. The one we keep from Mother. The one we only use in dire emergencies or on the rare occasions we are both away from her. If Mother ever found out we kept secret a means of communication she couldn’t monitor, she’d be devastated. So shattered she’d lose her delicate hold on her composure. No one could blame Mother for that, but I’d hate to see Cleo endure yet again what she doesn’t understand. I tamp down the flash of anger. “Tell me more,” I urge gently.
The hand clasped in mine squeezes, as if to lock me in place. Her body trembles as she struggles to finish confessing her sin. “I wanted him. I desired him. I’ve never wanted a mark like that. My body…I reacted to him on a visceral level. Webber, we’re going to find him tonight. I want to have him with you.”
I continue dancing in place with her as I mull over her admission, her demand, and the way her body quaked as she forced the truth from her diaphragm. I’m not jealous. Cleo and I have shared many times in the past, regardless of gender. Our discernment is fiscal, not physical. It’s a job. But there is nothing wrong with eking a bit of enjoyment out of work. I’d gratefully share an evening with her and her conquest, especially if she managed to negotiate a larger tip for our services. “Cleo,” I begin, carefully modulating my gentle reproach. “You can’t possibly have thought I’d be anything but happy you’ve found one of our new friends pleasing.”
She cocks her head, her powder-blue irises jerking back and forth as she examines my face. “Don’t feed me what you think I want to hear,” she protests sotto voce, her eyes dropping.
“Do you want me to be jealous?” I ask incredulously. “Because I’m not. I’m more interested in why you gave him our private number.” She knows how dangerous giving out that number could be. I let go of her hand and step away from her. She shivers. The lack of desire to pull her into my side to warm her is hollow. I grip her chin and yank her face up. Her eyes fly to mine. Through clenched teeth I hiss right in her face. “Do not ever lie to me. Our secrets will not survive the light of day.”
Her arm swings, her palm slapping my wrist and forearm. I release my grip and let her smack my hand away. My blood heats, my cock rising as her anger stirs. “I was getting to that,” she snaps, eyes now blazing. Good. I’ve pissed her off and pushed her out of the mute, meek kitten role she plays when we are in the same vicinity of Mother.
“I gave him the phone number,” she hisses, “because I think—”
The door bursts open and Mother sweeps in, her nares flaring as she takes in our posture. It’s blatantly obvious Cleo and I are having an argument. Mother’s eyes narrow as she focuses on Cleo. I’m marinating in shame as my shoulders slump in gratitude that Mother chooses to focus on her. My fingers roll up, my hands clenching as I watch Cleo’s entire body stiffen and her face harden. Defiance flashes across her face, but her resistance disappears in the space of a blink, her porcelain complexion settling into bland plastic as she faces Mother.
Mother leans in, her nose almost touching Cleo’s. “If you come home empty handed again tonight, you’re sleeping on the street. Pull your fucking weight or starve.” Mother curses so vehemently that her breath knocks a length of glossy silvery blonde hair back to Cleo’s shoulder.
“Understood,” Cleo answers dully. I hate when Mother forces Cleo into meekness. That isn’t who my sister is. Anger simmers under my skin. I know Mother loves Cleo. She’s hard on her because she wants her to succeed. When Cleo wins, all of us win. And I can’t bring home the kind of men that Mother needs. Only Cleo can.
I just can’t help thinking Mother might be going about managing Cleo the wrong way. Cleo might bring her bigger, juicier flies if Mother tried finessing her with the same honey she uses on me.
Chapter Five
Arryn
The universe is aligning. Cosmic forces pull at me as the propitious time for that hellspawn cunt’s comeuppance draws near. The pieces on the board are in position, the variables and timetables I’ve carefully studied and honed are in place, and every piece of my well-oiled plan is in play.
Vivienne Wallace has landed in the center of my web, unaware of the fate that is destined to befall her.
I rap on the door of the closet-sized building the parking garage attendant uses. “Hey Vinnie.” Greeting the cheerful man with a smile, I push the small drawstring bag across my back as I slide five folded hundred-dollar bills into Vinnie’s palm.
He steps out and walks down the row of cars as I slide into his booth and quickly change my clothes. Carefully, I fold the Brooks Brothers button-down and pants and lay them into the bag. I slide into a well-worn pair of jeans and a concert T. I even change my socks, my nose wrinkling with disgust at how even a pair of socks can separate one class of folks from another.
I have no problem spending money. Especially money I’ve earned. I enjoy nice digs and good quality food and expensive toys as much as the next guy, but the excess of opulence kills me. I’ll pay 120K for a solid truck no problem, but a half-million-plus dollars for a Phantom Extended to shop in? Fuck that noise. I’ll be glad to put a cork in the hole bleeding cash from my accounts once Vivienne has been taken care of.
I finish tying the laces of my two-year-old sneakers and slide the rest of my other clothes into the bag. Vinnie knocks once then cracks the door open. “You almost done?”
“Yes, sir,” I answer, sliding the bag under the countertop. Vinnie knows. The whole sordid tale. And the plan. He’s excited as I am that my long years of planning and working are about to come to fruition.
“I picked up a double today, boss. I’m off at eleven tonight.” He reaches up, knocking his cap forward as he scratches the back of his head. Doubt, along with concern, cross his face and my chest cramps. This man has spent his life serving rich, pretentious assholes and still has the capacity, the goodness, to worry about me and what I’m up to.
Holding out a hand, I grasp his. “Thank you, Vinnie. One more minute in that fishbowl and I’d have lost my mind.” My gratitude rings true. Vinnie has been my guy for many trips. For some reason, Vivienne always gravitates back to Mykonos. The Cavitagos, my hotel, is three blocks below the hilltop plaza Vivienne’s third husband left her. It’s one of the few pieces of real estate she didn’t liquidate. I’ve considered buying something here, but there’s no way for me to ensure Vivienne wouldn’t become aware of my presence in some series of unfortunate transactions. Those who service the ultra-rich like to curate an air of confidentiality, but information is always cashed in twice. With the utmost discretion, of course.
That’s why I’ve set up an account for Vinnie and his family. To my knowledge, he’s never uttered a word about the favors he does me. I bugged his phone, and his car, and the money is all deposited into an account two cities over in his dead mother’s name. He’s never spent a dime of it. “I’ll be back before the end of your shift. I’ll have to change into my after-dinner monkey suit.”
Vinnie wrinkles his nose. As far as he knows, I’m a private investigator for the rich. Not that he cares. He judges me based upon how I treat him, not the cash I grease his palm with.
I slip out of his booth and out of the service entrance, heading south, away from the sweeping views of the ocean, the gentlemen’s clubs, the fine dining, and the shops. I head down the narrow, painted cobblestone streets. The Cycladic architecture doesn’t change, only the size and quality of maintenance denotes the people who reside inside.
I slip into the tiny café and order a few bougatsa, yogurt and fruit, and two iced freddo espressos, one sketos, and one poli glykos. Vinnie’s daughter, Eudora, squeezes my shoulders, placing a kiss to each of my cheeks before dropping dramatically into the chair across from me. “Some malaka attempted to end my life with his disgustingly loud motor scooter!” she moans, using the multi-meaning Greek insult in a way that would make her father blush.