Reeves (The Stone Legacy #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

Reeves

The Jazz Funeral: A New Orleans tradition in which the deceased is escorted through the streets by a brass band. The procession cannot begin until everyone who belongs has found their way home.

I step down from the jet and straight into the kind of New Orleans heat that drops on your shoulders and stays there.

Sweat gathers at the base of my neck before I reach the curb, my duffel strap rough against my palm. The pilot waits a few feet behind me, like I might turn around and need him again.

I don’t.

I haven’t been back to New Orleans in three years. It’s been nine months since the night Ridge called and told me our father was dead. Nine months of sand, briefings, and missions that left no room for anything but the next objective.

The city looks the same as it always has, but without him in it, it's off. Familiar and not at the same time.

My brothers waited to hold the memorial until I could get leave. There was always another deployment, another rotation, another reason it made more sense to stay put. It's not like rushing back would have brought him back, anyway.

Fourteen days. I can do fourteen days.

“‘Reeves Stone?’”

The voice doesn’t belong back here. My shoulders lock before I turn.

A man stands just inside the restricted gate, notebook in hand like he walked through a door he shouldn’t have found. He's in his early thirties, if I had to guess.

I don't say anything, but my turning around to my name is answer enough, I suppose.

"Gus Thibodeaux." He extends his hand. "Thought that was you."

I shake his hand briefly. "Do I know you?"

"No, we've never met. I'm with the New Orleans Chronicle doing a story on your father's memorial service and saw in the arrival logs that you were coming in today." His pen hovers over his notepad.

"I'm sorry. Gus, right?"

He nods with a smile, like we're old pals.

"I'm just getting into town since my father's death. I'm not interested in answering any questions. Please excuse me."

I walk away, hoping he gets the message without me having to be any more firm. How the fuck did he get onto the tarmac of the private jets, anyway?

"Nine months since he passed away. You were deployed then, right?"

I guess he didn’t get the message. Welcome home.

My jaw tightens, and the muscles in my shoulders pull taut. I don't turn around, but the heat rises up my neck anyway.

"Do you regret not being here when it happened?"

The question pokes at me, but I keep my face neutral as I turn to face him. "What kind of question is that? For fuck's sake."

"Stone Intermodal announced record profits last year." His eyes stay fixed on mine. "I just meant, now that you're back, will you be stepping into the company? Taking your place at the table?"

Stone Intermodal posted two billion dollars in revenue last year. I know this because Ridge emailed me the press release, and I deleted it without reading past the subject line.

A low thrum at the base of my skull picks up intensity. The company. The legacy. The cage.

"My brothers have the company handled. Sounds like you did your research, so you know I'm active duty military."

"So no plans to relocate back here?"

This guy. Who does he think he is? I shift my duffel to my other shoulder, already half-turned to keep walking. "I'm not staying, no."

Gus nods like I've confirmed what he already knew. No surprise crosses his face as he scribbles something in his notebook. No more questions follow.

I increase my stride away from him, but the interaction clings to me like the oppressive heat. The weight of the Stone is as heavy as it's always been.

The back of my neck prickles from the exposure I feel when I'm out of the SEAL teams and back in this fishbowl of a city. I fucking hate this feeling. The scrutiny. The expectations. The unspoken disappointment.

People don't look at me like this when I'm deployed. There, I'm defined by what I do, not by what my last name is.

I spot Gabe's truck near the exit. The dark green paint is dulled under a film of road dust.

His truck doesn't fit in with the black cars and luxury sedans. It's precisely why I called him to pick up instead of letting Cain send a driver.

Cain would've sent a car. Something blacked out with a driver who wouldn't ask questions. I called Gabe instead because I'd rather sit in a truck that smells like motor oil than pretend I've come home to all the pomp and circumstance I despise.

He pushes off the door when he sees me walking toward him. The movement is easy, but there’s a slight hitch when his weight shifts. His prosthetic leg is hidden under dark jeans. My gaze flicks there for half a second, then back to his face.

“Goddamn,” he says, already closing the distance. “You look like shit.”

I drop my duffel just in time for him to grab me and haul me in. His arms lock around my back in a bear hug. The impact knocks the air out of my lungs.

“Good to see you, too,” I manage, my voice compressed against his shoulder.

Gabe was my closest friend in the Teams until he was injured in a roadside bomb. He left almost two years ago. I still consider him my brother. We just aren't doing missions together anymore.

He squeezes once more before letting go. I drag in a breath, coughing under it, and pick my duffel back up.

“You been standing here long?” I ask.

“Long enough to watch you get stalked by that chump with the notebook.” Gabe jerks his chin toward the terminal. “Figured I’d let you handle it before I stepped in and made it worse.”

A corner of my mouth lifts. “Thanks a lot, dickhead.”

Gabe snorts. “You could’ve had a car waiting. Blacked-out SUV, driver in a suit, whole thing. Might've saved you the fan club.”

I shrug. “You know I don’t do that.”

He takes the bag from my hand without asking and tosses it into the back of the truck. I circle around and climb into the passenger seat.

The leather is hot through my shirt. Gabe slides in behind the wheel and pulls the door closed, sealing us in. The engine hums low as he eases us into the pickup lane traffic.

He glances over, eyes moving across my face like he’s checking for a specific tell. “What's your leave?”

“Fourteen god-forsaken days.”

“That's a pretty long clip. Good for you.”

“Too long, if you ask me.”

He nods once and looks back to the road. “Memorial’s tomorrow. You good?”

“I know.”

“I know you know.” His jaw tightens slightly. “Just saying.”

The truck rolls onto the main road, merging into traffic. The city comes at me all at once. Heat presses in through the glass, and palm trees bend slightly in the breeze. This city smells of asphalt and faintly sweet, dueling scents that don’t belong anywhere else.

I shift in the seat, my knees crowding the dash. Gabe’s truck has more room than most, but it's still tight.

“You're staying at your dad's house, right?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

I look out the window as we pass a strip of low buildings with faded signage and boarded windows. “It'll be weird to stay there without him.”

Gabe doesn’t answer right away. He taps his thumb once against the steering wheel, then again.

“Ms. Landry will make sure you're taken care of.”

“I’m not here for the company,” I say. “Or any of that.”

My grip tightens slightly on my knee. I ease it back before it turns into more.

Gabe downshifts as we hit a light, the truck slowing smoothly. He glances over again, quieter this time.

“I’m sorry, man. About your dad.”

Gabe and I don't get all warm and fuzzy, which I appreciate about him. But he's a damn good friend. He's always been there for me, and he cared about my dad.

I nod once. “Yeah. Thanks, Bro. And thanks for being there for my brothers during all of this shit.”

After he was discharged from the Navy, my father gave him a job at Stone Intermodal. I'm still not entirely sure what he does, but everyone loves him. I think he's basically their bitch.

He's a computer whiz, and as far as I know, he works with my computer nerd brother, Wells. All I know is he's on the payroll.

We sit in it for a second until the light changes.

“You guys are family.”

I look back out the window. The neighborhoods start to shift as we move farther from the airport. Commercial strips give way to narrower streets, older buildings, and deeper porches.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out to see a text from Cain, my other brother who moved back to Louisiana from New York after our father died.

Landed?

I type back.

En route to house. 20 min.

The closer we get to the river, the heavier the air becomes. I don’t need to see the Mississippi to know it’s there. The city bends around it like it did for my father.

That murky water built my family’s name. Every shipment, every contract, every dollar runs through it one way or another.

The Stone estate gates appear ahead. The wrought iron twists into the family crest, going up twelve feet at the top. It was built to keep people out. Or in. The house looms beyond, white columns catching the golden evening light.

My shoulders stiffen. It's jet lag, or maybe dehydration. Nothing to do with standing where my father stood thousands of times, knowing he'll never stand there again.

Gabe opens the gate with a remote and pulls around to the front door. I step out into the wall of heat, duffel in hand.

We step through the grand entrance, and the cool air immediately hits my damp skin. The foyer stretches wide, marble floors gleaming under crystal chandeliers. Every surface is polished to perfection. There's no dust allowed in Robert Stone's domain.

"Hey, man. I've got to run, but I'll be back to catch up. I'll let you get settled. If not today, I'll see you tomorrow at the memorial. Don't forget we're hanging while you're here."

"Thanks for the ride, Gabe. We'll catch up."

He walks back out to his truck, and I look around, taking in the house I haven't set foot in for three years. It's smaller without my father here.