“Don’t start with me, Victor Wesley Thomas D’Ross. Grown men, a duke is not allowed to be cheeky! If you aren’t home in 5 days, you will be disowned. Title stripped,” Mother threatens into the phone.
Cheeky? That I have not been. She won’t allow me to get a word in edgewise as she continues to reprimand me like a child, “… God forbid you come home to a desolate land!”
What is this woman talking about? My advisors have been standing in. There are no issues, and I’ve warned death to any of my advisors who didn’t provide any disputes in a timely manner. “But mother–”
“Madeline would like to speak with you, too.”
“No. I’m too busy. I’ll be home in 5 days,” I quickly add, knowing this is the only way to get Mother to stop this madness.
“Very well, then,” Princess Mary simmers down. Every once in a while, she gets excited, it’s as fun as watching paint dry, so surely Mother is happy, as I hear a minuet crest of anticipation as she says, “We will all be very glad to see you.”
The call disconnects. I slide the phone across the table to Burt. He rubs his nose, as if not wanting anything to do with the situation.
“I’m to presume that my withstanding as a butler for 39 years with D’Ross has come to an end?” he replies, having heard Mother’s rants. She will do nothing short of threaten lives, and because Burt has been cultivated to know better, Princess Mary will do no less than threatening his career.
“Not until you’re ready,” I reply to the man who’s been more than a father to me. We continue sifting through even more private detectives’ resumes.
We’ve seen hundreds of them. Monica even sent for a few as far as Chicago and down to Miami since I’m not convinced about their ability to keep the Whitsons safe, mostly Luxury.
There was one whose eyes seemed to brighten as he suggested $5000 per month to keep tabs on Lux. When I agreed all too quickly, noting that his resume boasted many positive attributes, his price increased. Money is not a question, but I can’t stand a weasel.
“Burt, what’s the next round?”
He rubs his sunken eye sockets. “Paul has done thorough background checks on the 3 Private security companies who’re already waiting in the lobby, Vic. For our sakes, for your mother’s, and if you care anything of Madeline’s… embarrassment… pick one so we can be on our way home.”
My childhood friend, Maddy, will be okay. But Home? That sends a deep sigh through my abdominals as I arise and decide to head down to the lobby to meet these three potential options. Three choices and one should have a keen sense strong enough to keep Luxury safe. In all actuality, her factor as a threat decreases the further away I go anyway. So, the source would be keeping Whitson safe until Everhart is found.
“Howdy,” a ruddy-cheeked Texan shakes my hand. “I’m Bobby George. At your service.”
“Vic,” is my reply as we take a seat. I’ve read his proposition a few times. He has the manpower to keep someone watching the Whitsons’ around the clock and the ability to check into Everhart’s past. Find out where the doctor has been hiding these days.
I begin to make small talk with Bobby George all in the hopes to get a feel for him. How could I leave Luxury here alone? It’s absurd to think that she needs me to survive, when she’s on the other side of twenty and has done so this long. Yet the thought of letting her go, had me cross the name of too many potential resources to count.
~~~
Day 28. My time is up. Bobby George and his private security associates have proven to be more than capable of around the clock care. They have promised that once Everhart is found, I will be notified. Mother expects me in England and the jet is fueled up and ready for me to go home. I help Burt grab our hard-sealed luggage from the back of the Mercedes and put it toward the back of the Learjet. Rubbing my leather-clad hands together, I clasp another button on my camel coat and go for the larger piece of luggage when Burt stops me.
“Victor, don’t you have a board meeting you need to attend to? I’m sure you can set up on the jet, don’t want to keep the member’s waiting, do you?” Burt asks. His nose is red, and for all intents and purposes he looks as if he has been crying. But I know Burt hasn’t since cold out, though his demeanor is strikingly sad when worried.
“No. I’m content helping my old pal get us out of here as fast as we can,” I reply, drily. Whitson’s words rough, reminding me that the more I’ve gotten involved with Luxury the worst off she will be. Especially since my sole offer is financial stability.
We’re halfway done piling the luggage when a big fat raindrop plops on my forehead. I place down my bag of tactical defense equipment and look at Burt.
Rain.
Luxury hasn’t enjoyed a rainy day since that asshole Arnold ruined them for her. Instantly, I’m running back to the S550. “Burt, the keys?” I shout, and he tosses them to me.
“Where you going?” he shouts, appearing baffled.
“Have to give Lux the perfect rainy day before…” My heart won’t let me say before I never see her again. As I turn to get into the driver’s seat, I see a smile creep up the left side of Burt’s face.
I get into the car, I grumble wishing I had bought the AMG instead of the S550, but style has me in this moment. Besides, soon as my Mercedes zip down the runway, and toward an even more gray sky, I stop short and into all the traffic. Picking up my cellphone from the pocket of my peacoat, I dial Lux.