Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Beckett
Later that evening, I look up from my laptop when I hear the front door open and close. A few minutes later, an engine rumbles and classic rock blasts from the radio.
I yank open the front door and catch a glimpse of Daisy’s arm hanging out of the open window of my dad’s old pickup, blonde hair blowing in the breeze as she takes off down the road.
Two hours later she’s still not back so I do the logical thing and check her bedroom to ensure she hasn’t taken her bags and run.
If the situation was different, I would be relieved to be rid of her. Hell, I’d even let her keep the damn truck. But I need to see this through, and unfortunately for me, that means I need her cooperation.
From the threshold, I spot Daisy’s bag lying open on the floor, confirming that she’ll be returning at some point. Although with Daisy, you can never be too certain.
Her scent permeates the room—orange blossoms and jasmine—and she’s already made it her own. In the short time she’s been here, she’s redecorated and moved the heavy furniture around. The bed is facing the windows now and the sheets are twisted as if she had a wrestling match with the Egyptian cotton.
The wall behind the armoire is plastered with photos that have a nostalgic, almost dreamlike quality. But I can’t study them closely enough to determine whether they’re any good or not since I haven’t stepped over the threshold.
It feels like there’s an imaginary line and stepping over it would be a lot like opening Pandora’s box, so I stay where I am, swipe my thumb over the screen and call her.
My gaze darts to the bed where the buzzing sound is coming from.
I cut the call and take a step inside and then another and snatch up the phone tucked under the pillow. Her phone is one of the early iPhone models and compared to mine, it looks like a relic.
I’m not surprised that she was irresponsible enough to leave the house without her phone but what if the truck breaks down or she runs out of gas on one of the rural backroads?
Why should I even care? I’m sure she’d have no trouble hitching a ride back to the house.
I can envision some asshole trucker hitting the brakes when he sees her stranded on the side of the road in her little T-shirt and pouty lips and that fucking body of hers—slender but with curves in all the right places—and he’d take one look at her and imagine what he could do to her.
It would be just like her to put herself in that kind of danger.
Fucking hell. I shouldn’t even be concerned about Daisy’s welfare. I’m sure she can fend for herself.
The phone buzzes in my hand and a message appears on the screen. Anyone with a modicum of decency would refrain from reading it and normally I wouldn’t invade someone’s privacy to this degree, but I don’t trust Daisy so that’s how I justify my actions.
Finn
The other night was a trip, huh? Thought it was Adderall but the asshole must have laced it with some bad shit
Adderall, my ass. And who the fuck is Finn?
But that explains why she canceled her original flight. She messaged to say she had to reschedule because Something came up . Which also explains how tired she looked. She was probably doing drugs for days and crashed on the flight from New York.
The phone buzzes with another message and this time I have no qualms about reading it.
Finn
Hope that prick’s treating you right. If you need me to come out there and rearrange his face, just say the word
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that I’m the prick he’s referring to but if he thinks he would even stand a chance of “rearranging my face,” he’s an idiot. I’m six foot four and weigh two hundred forty pounds, most of which is muscle.
No one has been foolish enough to pick a fight with me since I was a teenager.
I shove the phone under the pillow where I found it and stare at her bag, debating. If Daisy is an addict and in possession of illegal substances, I’d have grounds to fight her on the inheritance.
But going through someone’s things is a violation of their privacy, and what would my defense be for rifling through her bag?
I checked her messages, so it was within my rights to search her bag.
Not sure that would fly. I’m not a lawyer but even I know that wouldn’t hold up in a court of law.
I back into the hallway and jog down the stairs, still debating what to do when my grandmother calls. “Hi, honey, is this a good time?”
Every time she calls, she starts off the conversation the same way. She never wants to inconvenience me. I put in my earphones and grab a bottle of old vine zinfandel from my father’s private stash. “Yeah, it’s a good time.”
“Oh good. Is Daisy with you?”
“She’s gone out.” I pour a glass of wine and wander out to the terrace as the sun is setting over the vineyard, the sky awash in shades of pink and orange with the purple mountains as the backdrop. I’d forgotten how beautiful the sunsets are out here.
“But yes, I picked her up from the airport this afternoon,” I say, dropping into a cushioned chair and propping my feet on the rattan coffee table.
“I hope you’re not being rude to her.”
I snort and take a swig of wine. I usually stick to beer or whiskey out of principle, but I plan to spend the next three months depleting my father’s wine cellar. Might as well get something out of this deal.
“I’m treating her the way she deserves to be treated.”
My grandmother sighs. “That’s what I was afraid of. But please try to be nice to her. I have a feeling your father was using her in whatever game he was playing.”
I’d considered that too. But until I’m able to track down Astrid’s whereabouts, I won’t know for sure if she’s involved. And with this new development regarding drugs, I’m going to have to watch Daisy more closely. To build a case, I’ll need actual proof.
“I remember her being such a sweet little girl,” my grandmother continues. “She used to follow you around, remember? She looked up to you.”
My grandmother only visited occasionally, so I’m not sure how she even remembers Daisy. “She was only a kid. People change.”
“They don’t change that much.”
I have my doubts about that. Back then, she was still an innocent kid, and I blamed Astrid for my fate, not Daisy. But whoever she is now is a completely different story.
I don’t want to talk about this anymore though, so I deftly change the subject. “How’s everything with you, Grams?”
“Thank you for reminding me. I called to yell at you. How many times do I have to tell you to stop spending your money on me? I can’t accept this. I’m sending it back.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re not sending it back. I already paid for it. Your old car was a piece of shit. It wasn’t safe to drive.”
“It was perfectly fine,” she insists.
My grandmother is the type of person who would say that everything was perfectly fine if we were in the middle of an apocalypse, and the sky was raining nuclear waste.
No matter what shitty cards life deals her, she will always look for the silver lining.
“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for myself. I can’t have you calling and crying every time your car breaks down.”
She laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. I would never call you about that and I certainly wouldn’t cry over it.”
I know. That’s what makes it a joke.
After my father shipped me off to boarding school, he forced my mother out of the house, leaving her with nothing, so she moved in with my grandmother whose already tight budget was spread even thinner.
Whenever I would come home to my grandmother’s shitty little apartment for school breaks, she would scrimp and scrape and deprive herself just so I wouldn’t have to go without.
She only ever wanted the best for me and now that I have the means to make her life easier, she fights me every step of the way.
While I admire her resilience and stubborn optimism, I also think there’s such a thing as being too selfless.
“You either keep the car or I’m buying you a new condo,” I threaten.
She laughs again. “You’re such a bully. You’ve already spoiled me too much.”
“It’s not every day you turn eighty.”
“I still can’t believe I’m going on a cruise. I appreciate it. I really do. But enough is enough, Beck. No more gifts. I mean it. If you buy me anything else, I’ll sell it and donate the money to charity,” she says firmly.
“Who’s being the bully now? Go take a joy ride in your new car. And have fun on your cruise.”
“Oh, you know I will,” she says. “I’ll send photos.”
I have no doubt there will be hundreds of photos but only a handful of decent ones. “I don’t need fifty photos of the food on your plate.”
She laughs. “I love you. And be nice ,” she warns. “I think this will be good for you. You work too much. Take some time off to enjoy the vineyard. And give Daisy a chance. She might surprise you,” my grandmother says before we hang up.
She’ll surprise me, all right, but I highly doubt there will be any good surprises in store.
Where would someone go to score drugs? Since I’m not in the habit of meeting dealers in dark alleys, I don’t have a fucking clue, but I get in my car and drive into town anyway.
Sutton Ridge isn’t that big, so after exhausting my search of restaurant and bar parking lots and cruising up and down the main street and back alleys a few times, it’s safe to assume she isn’t here.
She might have chosen a meeting spot in another town, but this is a wild goose chase, so I turn my car around and head back to the house.
By the time I walk through the door, it’s late, I’m hungry, and I’m pissed off that I’ve wasted so much of my valuable time searching for Daisy Fucking Larsson.
I stalk into the kitchen and find her at the stove. Barefoot. Wild hair tumbling around her shoulders. Hips moving to the beat of the music pouring from the speakers—The Velvet Underground’s “Sweet Jane.”
She’s set up the turntable that I distinctly remember was in the living room on the table in front of the window, and it looks as if she’s used every pot and pan and utensil to cook her dinner.
None of this really surprises me. Daisy has a penchant for disrupting the balance and creating chaos wherever she goes. That much came through loud and clear in her text messages.
When she looks over, I glare at her and fold my arms over my chest. “Where the fuck were you?”
She raises her brows at my tone. “I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding the least bit sorry. “I didn’t realize I had to ask permission to leave the house. I made us some dinner.”
She dips her finger in the sauce she’s stirring and wraps her pouty lips around her index finger, sucking on it. Her cheeks are hollowed, and her eyes are at half-mast in a way I can only imagine she’d look if she was kneeling before me with my dick in her mouth.
She releases her finger and lets out a moan.
I grind my teeth and try to erase the image of her on her knees with her lips wrapped around my cock and my hand fisting her hair.
“Proof that I haven’t poisoned the sauce, Your Highness.” She does a little curtsy, which is in no way designed to look subservient. “Don’t worry, I’ve made enough for the Dark Lord of the Manor too.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’m going out.”
Her face falls, and for a brief moment, she looks disappointed, but I don’t stick around long enough to decipher it.
I stride out the door and get back in my car, cursing her very existence as I rocket down the road, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.
Unfortunately, my dick didn’t get the memo that I hate Daisy Larsson.
Even after leaving Sutton Ridge in my rearview, I’m still hard.