Chapter 3
Spencer
Ipull into the family estate driveway like I do every Thursday night for family dinner. Thirty minutes late. Thursday night because my sister has her evening shifts on Friday nights, not because I need to travel those days. Or planning based on anything related to me, for that matter.
Stacey Lockwood is the diamond out of the two children my parents had. A law degree underway and a part-time volunteer position. Her Friday nights are spent helping people she’ll never see again, but it will look stellar on her résumé.
Nope. Vivian and Noel Lockwood would rather stick the salad fork—that’s the one on the outside of the cutlery set to your left—into an eye socket and rotate it before admitting to any of their country club friends their son is a bull rider. Or a college dropout.
I’m in no rush. I would rather use half of my week training for the events where I’m accepted for who I am over trying to twist myself into my father’s idea of a Lockwood man.
My hands tighten around the wheel of my black RAM 2500 Limited.
The white Stetson that would otherwise cover my hair, which is tonight loaded with product to show off my “freakishly Ken-doll features,” as Brady calls them, rests on the rack over the backrest of the long bench seat.
Not the usual factory configuration for a brand-new pickup, but I wanted old school, and I could afford custom.
Well, my family could.
Snow falls outside the truck, and I brace myself for another night of boredom interspersed with disappointment and criticism.
Some days I truly believe I was born into the wrong family.
Stace’s silver Tesla whistles to a stop by my truck before the sound disappears altogether.
I was late, but now we’re both just tardy. Is Stacey trying to cover for me in her own way?
She’s out of her car and tapping on my window a second later. Her auburn hair, an asset inherited from our father’s side, is styled into a wavy locks. And her face, perfectly painted on . . . She could give Montgomery, our circuit bull fighter, some pointers.
I kill the engine and push out from the truck as she steps back.
“Why are you sitting in the driveway?” Her smile tips up as she reaches to mess up my hair.
It’s called procrastinating, Stace.
I slap her hand away. “Ah! Don’t even think about it. I’m not doing this shit again.”
“You look better messy, big brother.” She winks before opening the passenger door to her car.
Why is she—
A woman steps out, looking around as if she’s been transported to another time and place, not Thursday night dinner with the most predictable people on the entire planet.
She’s a breath shorter than Stace, with dark eyes and the longest dark hair I’ve ever seen. Her skin is paler, and her petite frame is huddled in a long coat that looks set to swallow her whole.
“Oh, Spence, this is Riley. She’s my new roommate, and she’s here for a little while working on her postgrad.”
Of course she is.
Of course my sister . . .
Riley holds out a hand, her face unreadable as she says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Spencer.”
Is that . . . ?
Irish?
Stacey laughs. “Spencer probably won’t understand you unless you drawl or grunt. Spends way too much time with cowboys.”
Apparently, my face didn’t get the “it’s rude to stare and pull faces at the new friend of your sister’s” memo, because Riley retracts her offered hand and frowns. “You don’t look like a cowboy?”
Holy damn, that accent.
“He wishes,” Stace leans in and whispers to her, grabbing her hand and leading her toward the front door. “Anyway, now we’re all late. We should make an appearance before one of them has a fit.”
Riley’s long dark hair sways down her back. She’s shorter than Stace by at least four inches, making her at least six to eight shorter than me. I feel like a towering ogre as I walk up behind her and reach around to ring the doorbell.
“Excuse me. Sorry . . .” I press my fingertip to the red button, and the inside chime starts up.
“They’re going to love you. I can’t wait til Mom hears your accent. But don’t let Daddy pummel you with Northern Ireland questions. Or any of Ireland, for that matter. It’s been on his bucket list since Mom and him got marri—”
The door swings open and Bernadette answers, her maid uniform pristine even at eight in the evening, her smile plastered on her face as usual. “Good evening. Your parents are waiting in the sitting room. Please come in.”
Riley flicks Stace a look I’m sure my sister didn’t even catch. Of the two of us, Stace has never been bothered that we live significantly better than most people. The oversized mansion, the staff, the money that never dries up . . . You’d think it would be a guy’s dream.
Not this guy.
Unless you’re career driven or willing to sell your soul to fit in with the ‘it’ crowd in finance or whatever industry your parents made bank in, you’re the same as everyone else.
Only with a healthier checking account.
I’ll take decent people over portfolios any day. And therein lies the source of my parents’ greatest disappointment.
We cross the marble-tiled floor and take a right through the first open set of double doors.
Dad sits on the sofa, his ankle resting on his knee, whiskey tumbler in one hand, newspaper in the other.
Some things never change. Mom is behind the bar cart, pouring herself a martini on the rocks.
The wainscoted walls, marbled tile, and grand, oversized windows with drapes that hug the floor scream money.
My skin itches every damn time I step into this room.
“Honey! Oh, and Spencer, you’re late,” Mom says, arms up, martini in one hand, and a wide smile on her pretty face. Her fair complexion and blonde hair are where I got my features from.
Stace, who is making a beeline for the bar cart with her sidekick, unfortunately took after the old man in the looks department. His ginger hair has mostly turned to grey, which he blames wholly and solely on his oldest child.
Me.
“Hey, Mom. How was your week?”
She sips her martini and puts it down on the end table by the sofa before holding me at arm’s length. “Mine was fine.” She eyes me over. “No broken bones?” Her perfectly manicured brows fall, as does her gaze, over my limbs, checking each one in turn. The frown on her face grows as she does so.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m still on the circuit. In fact, we started the year’s season last weekend.”
Her grip falls from my arms as she sighs. “Spencer. Why can’t you be happy with horses? They’re significantly safer. Not to mention the company you keep on that circuit. So unsavory.”
Riley looks up from the bar cart, her eyes connecting with mine briefly before she dips her head while Stace chats away at her.
I return my focus to Mom. “Drop it, okay? Let’s enjoy the evening.”
The newspaper hits the sofa cushion, and Mom startles before turning back on her two-inch heels.
“Noel, is that absolutely necessary?” Mom’s face pinches. “We have a guest.”
Dad holds Mom’s glare with his own, tracking her movements as she crosses the living room and takes a seat on the edge of the sofa opposite him, her one familial task for the week—asking me how I am—done.
Stacey and Riley finish up at the bar cart, and Dad shifts his attention to my sister, a genuine smile on his face for his precious daughter and her tagalong.
“How was your week, Stacey?” Dad’s face has hardened. Stace takes a long draw of her drink as she hands a glass to Riley.
“Productive, but the same.”
Dad grabs the paper and flips it up, going back to ignoring the entire room of people. Bernadette appears at the threshold of the double living room doors. “Dinner is served, ma’am.” Her words are directed at my mother, but her gaze, tight as her tensed jaw, is homed in on my father.
“About damn time,” he grumbles, tossing the paper.
He plucks up his whiskey and leads the way to the dining room, the rest of us following in his angry wake.
May the mind games begin.
The clinking of cutlery is the only sound that moves around the gilded dining room that is barely used once a week.
I am assuming Riley’s presence is the reason for the brief reprieve from the parental’s nitpicking our lives apart.
I like her already.
Why couldn’t Stacey have thought of this strategy, oh, I don’t know, like fifteen years ago? Imagine the emotional damage and childhood trauma we both could have avoided if we’d simply thought of bringing a guest to dinner.
Watching my folks strain to be polite at their weekly inquisition is almost worth the awkwardness that has Riley’s gaze stuck to her plate. Literally.
I try to break the ice coating the heirloom hardwood table that separates us all by an equal distance. “So, Riley, how many leprechauns have you spotted in your lifetime?”
The second her eyes snap up to me, I add in a wink.
Cringe, I know. The things you do to lighten the mood.
Mom straightens, lips pursing as her gaze turns positively stony, locking onto me like a well-trained sniper.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Spencer, the most asinine dribble comes out of your mouth.
” She turns to Riley, whose eyes have widened.
“Ignore him. You don’t have to answer that; you’re our guest.”
Which roughly translates to Riley being held much, much higher in their opinion than their actual children. Or any of our family, come to think of it.
I distinctly remember both my parents disowning my uncle after he divorced a woman they had considered an advantageous match.
My parents’ regency mindset is going to bite them in the ass one day.
We eat in mostly silence until the main meal runs its course.
“Spencer, you’re with me in the drawing room.” Dad rises, not paying me a glance.
I know a summons when I see one.
Oh goodie, this ought to be fun.
I suck in a fortifying breath and follow. I’m barely over the threshold to the drawing room when he starts in on me. “I had a very upset Mrs. Princeton on the line yesterday. Do I need to remind you that, as manager of Silver Elite, you need to ensure your patrons are happy?”
He drops into a studded leather chair, reaching for his cigar box.
Because of course he does. He’s the epitome of clichés. Always has been.
I wander to the opposite chair and sink into it, my focus wandering to the lit hearth. My gaze sticks to the flames that dance at its center, throwing their amber hue over the dimly lit room.
“She’s fine. Besides, I doubt I can give her what she wants.”
My father leans forward, the cigar pinched between his fingers as he studies my face. “You do whatever it takes to make a business successful, Spencer.”
“Yeah, until it’s banging cougars with a penchant for guys a third of their age.”
“You think this is a joke?” His words are low, his brows drawn.
“I am not sleeping with that old hag just so you can keep her money in the bank.”
His fist slams down on the armrest.
“Show some goddamn respect. That ‘old hag’ is a founding member of the stables. You will give her what she wants. Or you’ll find yourself out of a job, son.
Besides, from what your sister tells me, you have no problem chasing tail on the circuit.
One old lady should be easy for you. After all, what are those charming looks for, if not getting this family what we want? ”
I choke on my last breath as it gets caught in my throat.
He is seriously asking me to fuck the old bitch? Me, his only son. For a membership fee?
Bile rises in my throat.
“Wipe that horrified look off your face, Spencer. Lockwoods do what it takes. You’re no exception. Now, say goodnight to your mother before you leave. And stay away from Stacey’s new friend. The invitation to jump into anyone’s pants doesn’t extend to her.”
He’s up and out of the room before my fists have clenched and unclenched, cigar smoke trailing behind him.
What the fuck just happened?