Angry God
“Yeah. It’s to prove I don’t give a shit about reciprocating,” I deadpanned. “Now can we move on with the program?”
“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.”