The restaurant was on a boat called La Belle and was a little fancy for my liking. They picked the place. I would have never chosen it. Everyone in town knew Vicious and his friends had set fire to La Belle during our senior year, but no one knew why.
The food was good and the tablecloths were the kind of white you see in Tide commercials. I couldn’t complain. I had food and wine in my belly and a smile on my face.
Dinner was just a distraction, though. The reason I was here was him.
And he was dangerous.
“You working with Baron Junior now?” Mama smiled in a meaningful way I didn’t like. Her body was fleshy after years of being overworked and filled with home-cooked, fat-laden Southern food she would’ve never served to her employers, but beneath it all, she was beautiful. “Tell us about it.”
“There’s really nothing to tell. He needed a PA, and I needed a job. Since we went to high school together, he thought of me,” I explained carefully. Calling him an “old friend” would be lying to their faces.
I left out the fact that Vicious had said he needed me to do something shady for him.
That he admitted he had less than respectable plans for me.
That he’d already threatened to fire me twice.
And I definitely left out the part where he told me he’d fuck me against the glass desk of his office for everyone to see.
“He’s a fine-looking boy.” My mother clucked her tongue in approval, taking another generous gulp from her wine. “Surprised he hasn’t settled down with anyone. But I guess that’s how it is when you’re so young and wealthy. You have the pick of the crop.”
I shuddered inwardly. Mama admired the rich. It’s something Rosie and I were never on board with. Maybe because we had the misfortunate of attending All Saints High and tasting the disdain and snobbery of wealthy students. The bitterness stayed in our mouths long after we’d left Todos Santos.
“I never liked the boy,” Daddy said out of nowhere.
My head snapped to him. My father was the Spencers’ Jack-of-all trades. He cleaned the pool, handled the landscaping, and was the maintenance guy when something broke down or needed replacing. He worked mostly outside and had gray hair, a sun-wrinkled face, and the stringy, muscled body of a laborer. This was the first time he’d ever spoke about Vicious that way.
“How come?” I probed, pretending to be nonchalant while I poured myself another glass of wine. I was going to be tipsy by the time I got back home, but I didn’t care.
“He’s bad news. The things he did when he lived here…I’ll never forget them.” Daddy’s lips were pinched in the kind of disapproval that made my heart sink.
I knew my father. He rarely spoke ill of someone. If he didn’t like Vicious, that meant he was rude to him too. I wanted to poke at the subject, but knew my chances of getting answers were slim to none. Daddy wasn’t a gossip.
I paid the check, even though my parents tried to argue about it, and Daddy drove us back to the house.
My room remained the same as when I’d left it ten year ago. Interpol and Donnie Darko posters. The cherry blossom mural, the colors slightly faded—that was what I loved about oil colors, they grew old with you. Some pictures of me with Rosie scattered around. The room reflected my teenage years pretty accurately. Only it didn’t have a huge picture of Vicious squeezing my heart until I mentally bled out.
I plopped down on my bed—with its floral pink quilt Grandmama made for me—and drifted into wine-induced drowsiness…
My nap was interrupted by a scowling Vicious standing at my door, dressed in a suit and scary as hell. He still hadn’t learned the art of knocking.
Which was a perfectly fitting metaphor for our relationship. I was always expected to ask for permission to enter his space, but he was always barging into mine unannounced. Much like how he’d found me at McCoy’s.
“It’s time,” he said, hands in his pocket, giving me his profile. He looked on edge, even more than usual.
I sat upright on my bed before grabbing my handbag from my nightstand, still woozy from sleep. My mouth was dry from drinking too much wine and eating too little food. He didn’t budge from the door when I got to it. Just stared at me like a psychopath—the same cold, rich jerk who watched me like I was prey but who still hadn’t decided if I was good enough to be his next meal.
And I was still the servants’ daughter who wanted him to love her or leave her alone, just as long as he put her out of her misery.
I tilted my head sideways, refusing to pass and risk touching him. “Are you going to let me through?” I huffed.
His eyes, lazy yet brooding, gave me a slow once-over before they landed on mine. He offered a little smile that said, Fight me for it, Help.
Whatever. I wasn’t going to make a move until he got out of my way.
“Remember Eli Cole?” he asked.
Of course I remembered him. He was Dean’s dad. A divorce attorney who dealt with high-profile cases, and a man who always looked at me with warm eyes when I’d gone out with Dean. He was nice. Sweet. Much like I remembered his son.
I nodded. “Why?”
“Because he’s who we’re going to see. I need you sharp. Are you drunk?”
It stung, but I only arched an eyebrow and offered him a tight smile. “Vicious, please. We can work this out between us. Think about the kids,” I mocked.
Vicious didn’t appreciate my joke. He scowled and moved away, allowing me to squeeze past him and walk out the door. I felt his eyes heating my back when he muttered under his breath.