Chapter 8
ROWAN
I walk into my dad’s study, hands in my pockets so he can’t see they’re clenched into fists, and take a seat in one of the well-worn brown leather lounge chairs. It’s all I feel when I’m around him lately—restlessness, as though I’d rather pull a Forrest Gump and book it cross-country on foot than be in his presence, or do his bidding, or hear him speak. He doesn’t have me in a stranglehold; my leash is long. But it’s a leash, nonetheless.
He’s talking at me—I don’t say to, because it’s never to me—from his side of the desk. I’m not pretending to care, we’re beyond that at this point, only pretending to listen.
I could’ve gone to college. I’m smart enough, and always got good grades. I thought about it for a while when I was younger, studying business management or something practical. Anything to give me a shot at normalcy, at going legit. But my father didn’t think I needed to. “What are you going to learn about business management that I can’t teach you?” he said, the one and only time I brought it up. “I’ve built you an empire. I’ll show you how to keep it.” Back then I didn’t have it in me to tell him I didn’t want it. I’m not sure I have it in me now.
If only I’d had a brother, the son he longed for who died alongside my mother in the delivery room when I was six years old. Then I wouldn’t have to swallow this shit sandwich. And I probably wouldn’t have been such a lonely kid, either. Someone else would know what his love looks like, how hollow and conditional it is. When I have a minute to think about it, I wonder if he’s a sociopath, if he’d give a shit about me at all should I openly refuse to follow orders.
“Rowan, did you hear me?”
“No. Sorry, I’m pretty wiped.”
“Well, do I know this girl?”
You sure do. “No.”
“Hmm. Best to get it out of your system now before things get serious with Elisa.”
Things will never get serious with Elisa. “You’re right. So, you were saying?”
“Don’t open any of the boxes at the marina. I just need you there to supervise and deliver them.”
Like a felonious Amazon driver. Cool cool. “How many boxes are there?”
“Seven.”
Lucky number. “And you’re not going to tell me what’s in them?”
“Do you want to know?”
“Not really.” I’m sure whatever it is could kill someone, or a lot of people.
“It’s safer for you if you don’t.”
“It would be safer for me if I weren’t involved at all, but okay,” I mutter beneath my breath.
He raises an eyebrow at me, folds his hands, and leans across the desk. “What was that?”
Shit. “Nothing.”
He clears his throat, straightens his teal tie. Nice color. That’s something I’ll give the man, he’s an impeccable dresser. I can’t remember the last time I saw him in anything other than a three-piece suit. His eyes bore into me, green and intense—I inherited that gaze and those eyes from him. From what I can recall of her, the rest of me is all my mom. “Don’t create a problem where there isn’t one. Be there, keep an eye on things, and leave as soon as it’s done.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t take your Jeep. Alistair’s Porsche is in the garage. Grab the keys from the rack on your way out.”
Now I’m confused. “If Al’s back, why am I?—”
He slams his palms against the desk. “Just do what I’m telling you to do, goddamn it!”
If he were anyone else, I wouldn’t let him get away with raising his voice at me for no reason. Parental privilege. “Can I go now? I gotta change.”
“Yes. Call me when it’s done.”
“I will.” I turn to leave, but only go a few paces before he stops me.
“Where’s your gun?”
I run a hand over the empty holster at the small of my back. “In my car.”
“Why is it in your car and not on you?”
“Because I had no intention of shooting the woman I was with last night?”
He lets out a sound that’s sort of a laugh, but not really. “You never know who might intend to shoot you, though.”
And whose fucking fault is that exactly? “Makes sense.”
“I gave it to you to keep on you, so keep it on you.”
“Alright.” I nod and try to escape again.
“And bring that idiot friend with you.”
He means Ben, not Merrick. Merrick’s been my best friend since we were in first grade, and my father likes him so much he had hoped for a long time that we’d get married. The whole gay thing quashed that idea, but it worked out just fine for his grand plans in the end, with Elisa Rossi being into women and men.
Ben is Alistair’s son. He’s exactly two weeks younger than me, so we were brought up in this twisted circus together. Al was smart, though. He never wanted Ben to follow in his footsteps. Ben’s a hopeless case, dying to make his bones regardless of his dad’s best intentions. “I’ll text him right now.”
Meet me at the marina in forty-five. Cool?
He replies immediately.
Cool.
I hate doing shady shit in broad daylight. I feel so exposed. Not that it matters who sees what here; my father owns the Charlestown Yacht Club. It was a smart investment on his part—it operates like a legit business with members and dues, a fancy swimming pool and spa, a restaurant open to the public, a function hall, one hundred boat slips open year-round to any rich bastard who can afford it. It’s how my dad launders his drug and gun money. He’s a clever criminal. Today the dock area is closed for a few hours under the guise of dock repairs. Anyway, Tuesday mornings aren’t peak business hours. I guess even wealthy people have to work.
I watch through the windshield as Ben careens into the marina parking lot like a NASCAR driver who just snorted an entire 8-ball of blow. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday he narrowly avoids taking out a crosswalk full of children on their way to school, plus the crossing guard and a few parents. Windows down, music blasting, he drifts his Mustang into the open spot beside me.
“Hey, asshole”—I hop out of Alastair’s Cayenne and slam the door harder than I’d intended—“this isn’t Fast and Furious. You’re gonna fucking kill someone.”
“My bad, Mom.”
“I will punch you in the face.”
He smirks. “Why do you have my dad’s car?”
That’s a good question. “It’s more spacious than my Wrangler.”
“Must be a big haul.”
I shrug. “You know I don’t ask questions.” Even though I should.
He nods. “Which slip is it today?”
“Sixty-nine.” And before he can fall apart laughing like a teenage boy, I add, “Act like you’ve gotten laid before, you child.” He contains himself and falls into step behind me.
There’s a black 40-foot yacht waiting for us at the end of the slip. It’s one of my dad’s fleet, registered in the Bahamas to some shell company or another, an evil genius move if ever there was one. Two crew members are hitching it to cleats on either side and the captain, John, is overseeing them from the deck. “Hey, Rowan!” He hops onto the pier, then continues in his musical accent. “It’s been ages. Look at you, you’re all grown up!”
I smile at him, taking notice of the salt and pepper that’s sprung up in his curly black hair since the last time I saw him. He’s one of the few genuinely kind people in my father’s employ. I bury the thought of what would happen to him if he were ever caught in international waters smuggling shit for my dad, and say, “Bring it in, old man.” He wraps his arms around me and lifts me off the ground with a huff. I imagine this is how he greets his kids, with big papa bear hugs. Must be nice. We make some small talk. The weather in Nassau is hot and the tourists are insufferable. His family is doing well. Mine is… chronically unwell, but I say, “Dad’s fine,” then get down to business. “You have some cargo for me?”
“I do.” He whistles at the crewmen. One jumps back onto the boat, the other positions himself at its side to receive. The first guy unloads a hand truck, the second sets it up. The process repeats seven times until the dolly is loaded.
“All set,” he says.
“Great.” I turn to Ben, palm open.
He looks at my hand. “What?”
“Empty your wallet.”
“Why?”
“Because my father is your father’s boss and that means I’m yours.”
He pouts as he removes his fat billfold from his back pocket. As expected, he’s carrying around stupid money, twenty-dollar bills in a purple bank strap, which he slaps into my hand.
I give the stack to John. “For you and your guys.”
John’s a proud man, not a stupid one. He doesn’t argue. “Thank you.”
I nod and say, “Take care of yourself.”
John whistles again and the crewman pushing the dolly starts up the pier.
“It’s the white Porsche. Make a right into the lot, first row,” I call to his back.
Once he’s out of earshot Ben whines, “That was two grand, Rowan!”
“I know. How many times have I told you not to keep that kind of cash on you? It’s conspicuous. Get a bank account and debit card like a normal person.”
“But they’re traceable.”
“Yes. However, the IRS doesn’t give a shit about deposits smaller than ten grand. Stop being an idiot.”
He shakes his head, but he’s grinning. “Okay, lesson learned, Mom.”
“Call me that again, I dare you.”
“Mom,” he repeats, then takes off running.
“You punk-ass little b—” I snicker and chase after him. I catch him at the top of the ramp leading to the parking lot, but rather than punching him as promised, I shove my fingers into the sides of his ribs. “Tickle attack!”
“Shit, no!” He swats at me. He’s always been ticklish. And I’ve always capitalized on it to keep him in line. He’s screeching like a little girl, and I realize as he grabs my wrists that he hasn’t changed at all since we were kids. He’s still the same dopey fool with the loud, annoying laugh. None of his bones ever turned mean. I have no clue why he wants to be a gangster.
Just then, a shout in the distance, “Please!” Both Ben and I turn toward it. I don’t have time to rationalize or bark directions to him, my feet just carry me in the direction of the frightened shriek. I’m moving fast, faster than I’ve run in longer than I can remember. I toss a look over my shoulder and see that Ben is barely keeping up. Before I know it, I’m rounding the bend into the first row of parked cars. There’s a gray pickup truck blocking Alistair’s Porsche in its space, and a man is shuffling boxes from the dolly into its bed. A second man is pointing a gun at my crewman’s head.
My instinct is to scream at the gunman, but on second thought that could startle him into pulling the trigger. Instead, I reach back and yank my gun from its holster. In one swift motion, I flip the safety off, aim at the guy’s leg, cock the hammer, and pull the trigger. I never grasped how loud it is—the chemical reaction of gunpowder igniting, which forces a bullet from a barrel. I’ve shot guns before—a dozen times at the firing range—but I wore sound-dampening headphones then. Unhampered it sounds like an M-80, the deafening boom echoing all around me, off boats, and out over the calm water. And that smell… pungent, an odd mix of burned sugar and graphite.
The bullet hits its mark. The man yelps as a torrent of blood turns his dark blue jeans a sickly purple-red; the sight of it causes a surge of nausea in me. He drops his gun on the loose gravel and wraps his hands around his thigh. Ben thunders past me full speed ahead, undeterred by the sudden violence.
The other thief slams the truck’s tailgate closed and hurries to help his accomplice, shoving him into the truck through the open driver’s side door. Ben almost makes it to the pickup in time, but thief number two manages to scramble his way behind the wheel again. Door still ajar, he stomps on the gas pedal and takes off. Air resistance forces the door to close as the truck speeds out of the lot.
I catch up to Ben, who’s already interrogating the crewman. Looking at him now, shaking with fear and adrenaline, it hits me that I don’t even know his name. He’s probably just some random day laborer looking to make a quick buck and John took him on for the voyage. He could’ve been murdered for a couple of boxes of who-the-fuck-even-knows-what.
“Are you okay…?” I ask, leading for his name.
“Damien,” he says. “Yes.”
“Ben, did you recognize those guys?”
“I didn’t get a good look.”
“Me either. But they knew we’d be here, so they must know who we are. Get Damien back to the boat. I’m gonna call my dad.”
My father doesn’t sound the least bit surprised to hear of the hold-up or the fact that I put a bullet in a man’s leg. Cool and collected, he replies, “You did what you had to, don’t worry about it. Did they get all the boxes?”
“What the hell, Dad? Did you set me up?”
“Don’t ever say anything like that to me again. You’re the only person on the planet I give a shit about. Now answer me, did they get all the boxes?”
Well, it isn’t an “I love you” but it’s as close as he’s ever gotten. “All but one.”
“Good. Open it.”
I put my phone down on the hood of Ben’s Mustang and rifle through my pockets for my folding keychain knife, forgetting for a moment that I didn’t come here in my Jeep. Shit. Instead, I use Alistair’s Porsche key to cut through the packing tape on the last remaining box and swoosh the flaps open. Inside I find tightly packed bottles of ibuprofen. My rage is unbridled; I yank the phone up to my ear and scream, “Are we trafficking for CVS now? Are you out of your goddamn mind? I fucking shot someone for generic Advil!”
He is unbothered by my anger. “We have a rat. Someone’s been telling the Calloways when our shipments come in.”
The Calloways… Panic climbs my ribcage like the rungs of a ladder. It could be me, however unwittingly. I told Jules I had to be here today. No. She wouldn’t. “Do you know who?”
“I have an idea. That’s why I sent you. I trust you.”
“Who is it?”
“Alistair.”
What? “Did you say?—”
“Yes.”
My eyes lock on Ben, his figure emerging from the dock in the distance. If his father betrayed us, my father will rain down his wrath on the pair of them. He’s a follower of Shakespeare more than he is of Christ—the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children. “Do you have any proof? And are you sure it’s the Calloways?”
“Yeah. The Porsche. They only target cargo I send Alistair to receive. He reports scuffles or that the goods were missing before he got there. There are never any problems for anyone else, just him. Days later the shit is on the market and Teague Calloway’s the one hocking it.”
I see. He didn’t set me up, he set up Alistair—and Jules’s family. He’s going to start a war. This is the catalyst he needs. “Al’s not back from his trip yet, is he?”
“No. He’s still in New York with Celia. He parked his car in our garage, and I sent them in luxury, a nice stretch limo to a room at the Waldorf. I told them to take a few days, catch some shows, have some gourmet meals. There weren’t any shipments on the agenda until next week, so he jumped at a vacation on my dime.”
I think, You dastardly no-good fuck, but I’m not sure if I mean my father, Alistair, or both of them. If either of them could scheme to betray the other without a care… This game is ugly. I want out. I never wanted in. All the laws I’ve broken, all the violence I’ve done and been subjected to at my father’s behest. And now there’s a man—not innocent, but still a human being—somewhere out there with a bullet in his leg because I put it there. I know now, without a doubt, that I’m going to have to kill someone someday. Or I’m going to be killed. “I shot one of Calloway’s men. I don’t know who, it could’ve been Teague.”
“That would be a problem. He’s not just a hired hand, he’s blood. Get home now. Bring Ben with you.”
No! I am not leading the lamb to slaughter. I refuse. “Ben stays out of this, understand?” I’m shocked at my tone, so firm and unmoving. With that single sentence, I’ve jumped into perilous waters. I’ve got to tread lightly or risk becoming shark bait. “Our problem is Alistair, not his kid. Please, Dad. I’ve never asked you for anything, but I’m asking you to let Ben go.”
He’s silent for longer than a beat. My uneasiness swells with every passing millisecond. “Fine. Make sure I never see his face again. And if he causes any trouble?—”
“He won’t.” I hang up without so much as a goodbye.
I turn around to find Ben posted up against a dock piling, arms folded—not impatient, simply waiting for instructions. Or an explanation of what the hell just happened, I’m unsure which. My heart is heavy, and it sinks further into my gut with every step I take toward him. My head dips instinctively. I can’t look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, man. You’re done working for us.”
“What the shit? Why? Did I do something wrong?”
The bewildered sadness on his face makes him look like a schoolboy anticipating a scolding. I can’t tell him that I’m saving his life. And I can’t tell him that I don’t have the power to do the same for his father. I could drop to my knees and beg at my dad’s feet, my face soaked with tears, but he wouldn’t be moved. A second who is disloyal to their first has no hope of salvation. Alistair knew that and he did it anyway. I take his hand, pull him to his feet and into a hug. In his ear, I say, “Ben, you’re like a brother to me, so I’m forcing you out. Find a legit job behind a fucking desk or something, okay?”
He steps out of the embrace and looks at me for the longest while, trying and failing to suss something out. I’m careful to keep my face stony, give nothing away. “Yeah, okay,” he says, suspicious. “Maybe I’ll take a trip first. I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii.”
I guess he’s not such a buffoon after all. “Excellent idea. But you’ll need to get a goddamn bank account before you can book anything, Mr. Always Pays with Cash.”
He rolls his eyes. “Okay, Mom.”