Chapter Thirty-Two
RHYLAND
“D amn, son. If I knew you could shoot like a Texan, I’d have signed that contract a decade ago.” Bruce whistled low, squinting at the log on which a Snapple cap had sat just a second ago. “How’d you learn to aim so well?”
I lowered the Remington 870, rolling the gum in my mouth from one side to the other. “My old man taught me.”
“Are y’all close?” He stuck his thumbs inside the loops of his belt, putting one booted foot on a chopped log in his backyard.
Bruce had woken my ass up at six in the morning, first for a run (“you can tell a lot about a man by his physical capabilities”), then for a shooting session. I suspected we were going to finish off the day by hunting a bear with our bare hands, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
Good thing we were at the last dregs of our visit, a breath away from boarding the private plane in the afternoon and going back to New York. I’d marked this whole thing a success, mostly because Dylan and Gravity had brought their A game and were both endearing and agreeable to a fault.
“He’s back in Maine, but we try to catch up as much as we can.”
Once every couple years or so.
I walked over to the logs, fishing for bottle caps in my pocket and putting one on each of the four logs in front of us. Bruce propped his shotgun up. I sauntered back next to him.
“Did you read the contract?” It had been some time since I sent it.
He fumbled with the shells in the box beneath him, pretending not to hear me. After reloading, he aimed the barrel at one of the caps. He was off by at least a few inches. I sighed.
“Watch your stance, Marshall. Feet should be shoulder-width apart, knees bent, slight forward lean. C’mon—it’s not amateur hour.”
“I’ve been hitting the range my whole life, boy.” He took the shot and missed.
“Here.” I ignored his sulks, coming in from behind him and cupping his elbows to push them up slightly and better his stance. I kicked his feet open from behind. “One cheek on the stock, hold it tighter to your shoulder,” I instructed, tilting his head just right. He wasn’t terrible, but he wasn’t great either.
He took the shot with me behind him, and the bottle cap soared through the distance, snapping in two midair.
Bruce lowered his shotgun and turned to me. “You know, Coltridge, patronizing your potential investor is bad for business.”
“Not taking good fucking advice is worse,” I said dryly.
He studied me through bloodshot eyes. He didn’t look like a man who slept too often, and I wondered if his life was as fucked up as mine under all this wholesome pretense.
“I can’t figure you out,” he said. “You seem like a happy-go-lucky guy in company, but every time it’s just the two of us, I get the distinct feeling you’re predatory and dark.”
“I’m both,” I said laconically. “I’ve spent my life perfecting the art of being exactly who I need to be at any given moment. Which is why you’d be a fool not to get into business with me. I know exactly what you need. Now, answer my question—did you read the contract?”
“Yes.” He took his hat off, using the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “I sure did, the night at the restaurant.”
“And?” I didn’t want to seem eager, but I was drowning financially.
He sighed. “Tate helped you draft it, didn’t he?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because you are fucking me over real good if I fail to push it down people’s throats.”
“Shouldn’t be an issue if you plan on helping me make it big.”
“You should be very wary of Tate Blackthorn.” He changed the subject.
“And why’s that?”
“He’s shadier than the Mariana Trench at midnight. Dangerous too—I’m talking underworld stuff. And you know what it’s like. When shit hits the fan, everyone in close proximity gets dirty.”
I’d always suspected as much about Tate. His suits were clean-cut, but I saw the ruthlessness lying underneath them. However, I found his expertise and balls of steel valuable to my endeavors. And it had to be said: he had yet to let me down.
“Thanks for the heads-up. So? Will you sign the contract?”
Bruce pressed his lips together, gave me a puzzling look. “Do you love this woman?” he asked.
What does that have to do with anything?
“Lil Miss,” he clarified. “Are you going to be a family man and treat her and her daughter right? Keep your nose clean and your ass outta trouble? Not run off with my money and resources to seek refuge on a Bahamian island?”
I took my turn to raise my shotgun. I leaned into my shot, focused on my target, and slowly pulled the trigger. The cap danced in the air before falling to the ground.
“Yes,” I lied. “I love her.”
I’d told more brazen lies in my lifetime.
I didn’t love Dylan.
But there was no point in denying it: she was no longer just Row’s annoying, albeit hot, little sis.
These days, I found pieces of her everywhere. On the radio in my car when a Taylor Swift song was on. In tired, happy moms chasing after their kids in the park. In the scent of garlic and tomato wafting out of the Italian restaurant across from my dry cleaner.
“Why do you give a shit about my personal life?” I growled.
Bruce ran his knuckles over his white stubble, ill-contained rage thinning his lips. “The one and only time I entered into a business relationship with a young, single man, it blew up in my face.” He gave me a sidelong glance that dug into my conscience, like he was talking about me.
“Explain,” I instructed, watching him reposition himself to take a shot. This time, he did good.
“I’m talking about Blackthorn,” he barked out.
“Tate never mentioned you two worked together.”
Then again, how much did I really know Tatum Blackthorn? How much did anyone? He always felt like an extension of the three of us—me, Row, and Kieran—never fully integrated into the group.
“That’s the one.” Bruce dug the barrel of his gun into the ground. “He was a spring chicken back when we first met, in his early twenties. I was riding my fourth exit high. I was richer than God. Had everything I ever wanted. Tate tried to force my hand into business with him—first directly, and then, when I shot him down, in roundabout ways. Through hostile takeovers of companies I worked with, getting on the boards of corporations I was considering taking over myself.”
That sounded about right. Tate Blackthorn didn’t take no for an answer. Sometimes I thought his entire existence was about pissing other people off.
“Okay,” I said. “And that was enough to get you so riled up?”
“I wasn’t finished.” Bruce bared his teeth, jaw stretched tight across his skin. “He spent three years butting into my shit, to the point I was fantasizing about taking out a restraining order against him. Then my father passed away after a long battle with cancer.”
We slung our shotguns over our shoulders, making our way to the shed.
Bruce ran his tongue over his upper teeth. “My father’s dream was to be buried on Slipdown Mountain. He used to take us hikin’ there when we were kids, me and my six siblings. We’d camp there. The place holds some of our most precious memories. But Slipdown Mountain is a tourist attraction. There were little private lots for sale there.”
I knew where this was going, and my blood curdled. I had a ruthless streak, but I was by no means a sadist. Tate was.
“Tate purchased all the private lots?” I guessed.
“Sure did.” Bruce offered a brief nod, kicking the door to the shed open. It wasn’t one degree cooler than it was outside. If anything, the air was stuffy and still on top of being hot. “Every spare inch of land.”
“Did he sell it to you at an insane price?” I asked, put off by Tate’s behavior and general existence. I could be a top- notch asshole when prompted, but I’d never understood Tate’s unabashed desire to hurt people.
“He didn’t want to sell.” Bruce’s jaw twitched. “I offered him well above the going rate, allotted three real-estate firms to try to get him to sell, rent me out a spot—anything.”
We hung the rifles over the wooden wall.
“He wanted my business, not my money. My connections. My trade secrets.”
“Did he end up getting them?” I eyed him warily. I already knew the answer. Tate stopped at nothing to get what he wanted.
“Yes,” Bruce admitted, his voice cracking midword. He bowed his head. “He got everything he wanted from me. He extorted me, used my knowledge and means, and went on to build an empire bigger than mine just to throw it in my face. I sold him something far more valuable than companies, materials, or land.” Pause. “I sold him my soul.”
We were quiet for a moment. I finally understood why Bruce Marshall had played me around. That day a few months ago, when I first approached him with my idea, I threw Tate’s name around as a mutual acquaintance, thinking it would give me legitimacy, since there wasn’t one businessman in the entire world who didn’t know Tate personally. I hadn’t taken into consideration his notoriety. Nor his ability to make anyone an enemy.
“Then why did you go to Row’s event?” I asked. “You knew Tate would be there.”
Bruce headed toward the door, and I followed. “I refuse to show him I still care.”
“Even though you clearly fucking do,” I chuckled.
“Even though I clearly do,” he agreed. “But I am very suspicious of people who consider themselves his friends and show the same behavioral patterns as him.”
“I don’t think Tate sees anyone as a friend, me included,” I said honestly. “And I’m nothing like him.”
I jerked the door, about to go outside, but Bruce slammed his shoulder against the wooden thing, trapping us in together. Our eyes locked. I knew I could take the old man down easily, but I wanted to see where he’d take this.
“Son?” he asked.
“Yeah?”
“I’ll sign that contract, but you are going to prove to me you are nothing like your hellion friend. Understood?”
I nodded. I didn’t appreciate being treated like a child, but I was also so close I could practically taste victory on the tip of my tongue.
“If you let me down, I’ll be the Tate in our story,” Bruce elucidated.
I smirked indulgently. “Sure.”
He could think what he wanted.
He was going to make me filthy rich.