“Watch it.” He smirked, seeming pleased with my low tolerance for bullshit. “And yes. So, someone has something on you.”
On Mom.“Kinda.”
“How bad is it?”
I thought about it for a moment. “Imagine the worst possible scenario, then keep going.”
“Prison bad?”
I nodded. “In the double digits. But don’t ask, because I won’t tell.”
He flicked an eyebrow.
Don’t ask, don’t tell.“Fuck, Dad, I promise if I liked dick, you’d be the first to hear all about it. In unnecessary detail, just to make it awkward for both of us.”
“I can make this go away.” He uncrossed his legs, leaning forward to catch my gaze. “I run a clean shop, but when the need to get dirty arises, I have my ways. Give me their name. Address, too, if you have it. But a name and a picture will do.”
I shook my head. If he knew it was Harry, it’d blow my cover and kill my plans.
“I’m not here for a solution, just advice.”
He scanned my face for a second, glowering.
“You’re telling me your liberty is on the line, and you think I won’t see to this myself?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Grant me this indulgence, son.”
I noticed he didn’t ask me what I’d done. It made my heart swell in my chest, and that made me goddamn uncomfortable.
I shook my head. “Sorry.”
He took the snifter, strangling it in his hand to a point of white knuckles. “I’ll give you my guy’s name. You can contact him yourself.”
“You’ll ask him to disclose the information.” It was my turn to cross my legs.
“Damn straight I will. You are my son, and your trouble is my trouble.”
“Not this trouble.”
We both darted up at the same time, scowling at each other, fists curled. His snifter smashed against the floor between us, still half-full. Our body language mirrored perfectly. Dad was the first to sit back down, taking a calming breath.
“Fine. He’ll make it a priority. I’ll see to that myself. But if shit gets out of hand, I expect you to tell me.”
“I want your word.” I remained standing, looking down at him. “That you won’t try to find out who this person is.”
He gave me a slight nod.
“In writing.”
He smirked. “You want me to sign a binding contract, give you access to my fixer, pay for the entire dubious pleasure, yet ask no questions about the motherfucker?”
“Sharp as always, Pops.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” He laughed. “You are my son.”
“Was there ever any doubt?”
Mom walked in as if on cue, clutching a brown bag with celery and carrots peeking out. Dad stood up. He kissed her lips and took the bag from her, placing it on the open-plan kitchen counter, and I wrapped my arms around her in a hug, kissing her forehead.
“If there was a doubt, there would be casualties.” Dad began to unload her groceries.
They shared another kiss. Gross. I was ready for them to go back to America and leave me to deal with this mess without their Brady Bunch bullshit in the background.
“Vaughn!” Mom slipped out of her shoes, licking her thumb and rubbing it against my cheekbone to clean up a trace of stone dust like I was five. “I bumped into Harry when I filled your fridge at Carlisle. He said you missed dinner. Stay. I’m making a casserole.”
“Not hungry,” I said, checking the time on my phone. Fuck. It was already nine at night.
“Nonsense! It’ll be quick.” Mom rushed to the counter to wash her hands, getting ready to chop shit up.
“I’ll give him a ride,” Dad cut in. “Boy’s got enough blisters on his hands. Maybe if his feet are not as banged up, he’ll be able to score.”
Mom laughed and swatted Dad’s chest, and he pretended to bite her chin lightly. Gross 2.0. If they were going to hit first base in front of me, I’d be responsible for more than one body bag on this island.
Dad scooped the keys to the Range Rover he was renting, and we headed to the door. The ten-minute drive was completely silent. When he parked in the graveled cul-de-sac of Carlisle Castle, he killed the engine and took his phone out of his pocket.
“Name’s Troy Brennan. Lives in Boston, so there’s a time difference. He has the best IT people on retainer. But you’ll have to give me twenty-four hours before you contact him. I need to brief him first.” He slid his finger across the screen, and my phone popped with the contact name.
“Got it,” I said.
“I’m telling your mother we’re leaving tomorrow morning.”
I blinked at him. They were supposed to stay for a week.
“You need to deal with this shit,” he explained, “and the sooner you do it, the better.”
“Appreciate it.” I unbuckled my seatbelt.
Dad put his hand on mine, stopping me. “Keep me posted.”
“I will.” I hesitated, frowning. “Aren’t you going to ask what I did?”
Technically, I did nothing. It was allegedly Mom. But I was curious as to why Dad didn’t poke. Did he not give a shit, or just had no moral compass?
He shook his head. “Sadly, it wouldn’t make any difference. I’d still save you from harm. But if you raped someone, if you hurt…” He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. He shook his head. “I just want to look at you and see someone I’m proud of. Always.”
I let out a breath. “I’d never do that,” I said. “Touch someone like that. No. It’s nothing violent or shit like that.”
“Thank fuck.”
I opened the passenger door.
“One more thing.” He clasped my wrist. There was a threat laced in his voice. “I promised not to poke, but if I find out who’s doing this to you, they will be mine to deal with.”
I stared at him long and hard. I didn’t plan to leave any traces behind. I was not going to make a mistake. Dad was never going to find out. This was not my hill to die on.
I smirked. “Deal.”
LENORA
“Mate, I’ve seen more signs of intelligence on a moldy sausage roll,” Pope snorted, lying next to me in my bed in the dark, licking his fingers clean of chocolate smudges.
We were recounting our day and sharing the latest of the chocolate baskets Poppy had sent my way. This one had arrived this morning. I broke off a piece of chocolate, popping it into my mouth and savoring the sugar and saltiness of the pretzel balls inside it.
“That daft, huh?” I wiggled my brows.
I felt Pope shaking his head beside me. His hand was propped under his head. We stared at my ceiling like it was a drive-in theater.
“I don’t know how you put up with her an entire year. This Arabella lass is actively stupid, like it’s her patriotic duty. She doesn’t even know how to mix paint. No. Actually, she can’t even distinguish varnish from a cup of water. Should’ve let her drink it, frankly. That way I’d be given another assistant. How was your first day?”
Pope rubbed my shoulder.