Thayer
Holloway stands at the bottom of the private jet stairs.
He cocks his head but doesn’t say anything as he walks me to the town car parked close to my jet.
He doesn’t have to say anything. Because I know damn well what he’s thinking.
If you’d taken me to New York with you, I would never have let you get anywhere near a wedding where Emily Rockwell was.
That’s why I didn’t take my head of security with me. Or any security, for that matter.
“No suitcase?” he asks.
I’ve got my computer bag over my shoulder.
I pulled off my dress shirt on the plane in favor of a T-shirt.
I’ve got clothes here, London, and New York.
It’s one of the reasons I always wear the same thing.
Makes it easier to not miss anything. It’s all replaceable.
Every damn thing. Every damn person. Almost. “No suitcase.”
He rounds the back of the car and slams the trunk closed. I pull the driver’s door open and hop in. Holloway puts his hand on the door handle before he realizes I’m already behind the wheel.
I start the car and open the window. “Are you ready to go?”
“You’re driving?” He shakes his head and gets in the passenger seat. Holloway isn’t my friend. I don’t share jack shit with him. But he’s been with me a long time. And he damn well knows what it means when I want to drive. I’m pissed. I’ve been called to my father’s home like a damn toddler.
I have a very good idea why.
The tires squeal as I pull out of the glossy paved hangar and onto the road. The snowy streets of New York are a world away from the steamy cracked pavement outside this private airstrip.
“Turn here.” Holloway points. I nod. I know the way to the marina. But that’s not where I’m going. Our turn vanishes in the rearview mirror. “Okay. You want to tell me where we’re going so I can let the crew know?”
“I need something to eat.” But it’s more like I need a drink before I’m sitting in the same room with my father. Somewhere I try to be as little as possible.
The big man types away on his cellphone. “An hour is going to be enough?”
“Two.” I throw it out before I overthink it.
I pull around the corner from Yai’s Place. It’s two in the afternoon on a Thursday, but the crowd of people spilling from the door is three wide and ten long.
“I’ll clear the—”
“I’ll wait.” There are stares from the locals. “Good food,” I say, in Thai, to an older man staring at my expensive trousers and shoes.
“Thayer!” Anan, the owner of the restaurant, grabs my arm as we go in.
“You don’t need to wait, my friend.” It took a while to get in his good graces.
He wasn’t happy about what happened to his friend.
But Anan is motivated by money, and I’m not above buying some love so I can eat here.
With a quick call my lawyer made the charges against Anan go away.
And Anan assured me he’s out of the counterfeit passports business. I don’t believe him.
He weaves us through the tables to a booth in the back. “Here, here,” he says, half in English, then taps the table in front of Holloway. “What can I get you, big guy?”
Holloway shrugs, and I end up ordering for both of us. Holloway’s eyes skim the crowd, looking for danger that isn’t here. The real danger is back at my father’s enclave.
One fantastic meal later, I push back my empty plate and finish my beer. I’m tempted to have another. But I’m not my father. One is enough, and the three I had were plenty.
Holloway leans back in the booth, and it groans. He turns to me with a raised eyebrow. “I’ve never known you to hide.”
“I’m not hiding.” I am, though. “Things with James have to be thought through.”
“James,” Holloway repeats. No one calls my dad “James.” It’s Mr. Zambrano, Mr. Zed, or—if you’re a good friend—Ed. I’m none of those. Not anymore. Not after what I’m sure he’s going to tell me.
“I’m ready to meet the devil.” We weave through the growing crowd of Yai’s Place, out into the late afternoon sun. Holloway stands at the driver’s door. “Fine,” I say and get in on the passenger side.
The door to James’s office is closed, and one of his asshole security guards is outside.
Another reason I tend to not be in the same house as him, let alone in the same country.
The people who work for me don’t like the people who work for him, and vice versa.
“Is he in?” I ask the Neanderthal at the door.
“Yes.” He doesn’t move.
“Can I see him, then? He’s expecting me.”
He knocks on the door.
“Yes,” James growls from within.
“Your son is here.”
“It’s about damn time. Send him in.”
I step around the thug and into the dimly lit office. The rows of photos behind my dad’s sofa would lead you to believe he’s a strong family guy, not a tyrant with five failed marriages and three children who hate him.
He doesn’t look up from the file folder on his desk, so I grab a book from the shelf and sink to the sofa and cross my leg over my knee. He’s nothing if not consistent. He’s pissed I didn’t come straight here from the airport, so now he’s going to make me wait.
I’m two chapters into the migration pattern of the white whale when he clears his throat. “Did you know you were in the paper?”
“I do.”
“With Emily Rockwell.”
“We had one dance at Whitney Ashcroft’s wedding.” He would have loved for me to have dated Whitney.
His dark eyes hold mine. “Rockwell. I thought you were done with that ugly girl.”
“Not ugly, and a woman.” I instantly regret defending Emily to him. But I couldn’t help it.
His eyes glow with hate. He’s a brilliant man, and he’s used it for his own narcissistic greed to gain power.
And he can’t let go. The Rockwell lawyers did a damn good job of trying to take my dad down.
But they didn’t quite have enough on him.
He’s damn smart, and I’ve given him a shiny penny. “I haven’t given you kids many rules.”
My face doesn’t show my amusement at his lie.
“You need to do what I tell you from now on.” He holds up a file folder, and I take it. He’s back to his figures. I’ve been dismissed. Fifteen thousand kilometers for a two-minute conversation.
Out in the hall, I open the folder. It’s a picture of Emily and me, along with some others from the wedding. There’s a red x over Emily’s face. In James speak, that’s, Do what I say or Emily will be hurt.