Chapter 13
BEACH HOUSE SOUTH OF BAYTOWN
Harry Blackwood slipped through the side door of the massive beach house, the cool air hitting his face as he quickly stepped inside.
The rental typically cost thousands for a long weekend, but he'd offered the house to someone he wanted to do business with, fronting the money so the transaction went through the rental company with no trail leading back to him.
Dad would appreciate my attention to detail, Harry thought with bitter satisfaction. If he knew what I was really capable of.
The location was isolated enough for privacy and upscale enough not to draw suspicion from the neighbors scattered along this stretch of exclusive waterfront. It was exactly the kind of strategic thinking Harrison Blackwood had drilled into his son since childhood.
He'd parked three blocks away and walked through the pine trees that bordered the property, staying close to the detached garage to avoid being seen.
A beach towel draped over the deck railing was the agreed signal that told him it was safe to enter.
Every precaution had been his idea, his planning, his execution. For once, he was calling the shots.
"About time." Robert Whitman appeared from the kitchen with the casual arrogance that made Harry's jaw clench.
The UVA graduate student moved with the loose-limbed confidence of someone who'd never faced real consequences for his actions, and Harry recognized that attitude all too well.
He'd carried himself the same way years ago, before his world had come crashing down and his father had been forced to clean up the mess.
But this was different. This time, Harry was in control.
He walked to the study, and Robert followed.
Once inside, Harry studied the younger man, noting the expensive clothes and the Rolex on his wrist. Robert was a member of the same fraternity that Harry had belonged to, but the connection was purely business.
Harry had learned to separate emotion from opportunity, another skill he'd developed while watching his father.
"You said you could handle this quickly." Harry spoke low despite the house's apparent isolation. He was surprised by how natural the authority in his tone sounded, how easily he'd adapted to being the one with leverage.
"I have people who want the good stuff. Not the shit from the lowlifes on the streets," Robert replied with a shrug. "Summer break and graduation are coming up, and there's serious money to be made if we move fast."
Serious money. Harry shifted the hefty canvas messenger bag off his shoulder, feeling the weight of both the contents and the significance of what he was doing.
For years, he'd lived under the weight of his father's disappointment and protection.
Every conversation carried the unspoken reminder of how Harrison had saved him from charges, and of how Harry owed his freedom to his father's connections and his willingness to compromise his own principles.
The debt felt like a chain around his neck, a constant reminder of his failures and dependence.
But this? This was his. His network, his profits, his success.
Robert took the bag and peered inside, his eyes lighting up at the contents. "This should work perfectly. I'll get back to campus after this weekend and distribute it through my network."
"Be fucking careful," Harry warned, his voice sharp with the kind of authority he'd learned from watching his father handle difficult contractors and unreliable suppliers.
"Don't make any mistakes that lead back to you.
Because if it leads to you, I will completely disassociate myself from you. Do you understand?"
The words came out with more force than he'd intended, but Harry found he enjoyed the way Robert's casual confidence faltered slightly. This was what power felt like… commanding respect through his own competence.
"Understood," Robert said, though his tone was still dismissive. "I'll be careful. This isn't my first rodeo."
That attitude was precisely what worried Harry, and exactly what reminded him of his younger self.
Robert treated this like a game, another way to fund his lifestyle without understanding the real stakes involved.
Harry had learned those stakes the hard way, but the education had made him more careful.
He was turning to leave when he heard a soft sound from outside the door. He froze, his senses immediately on high alert. "What was that?" he asked quietly.
Robert frowned, listening. "I don't know. Everyone else is down on the beach."
Harry walked over and looked at the door to the room, noticing Robert hadn’t closed it completely. He pushed it open and stepped into the foyer, scanning the area. There was no sign that anyone was around.
"I'm leaving," he told Robert when he returned. "Get rid of that as soon as you can. Don't get caught with that in your possession."
"Relax," Robert said, already moving toward what looked like a wet bar. "Want a drink before you go? I have some incredible scotch."
"No." Harry's voice carried the kind of controlled tension his father used when dealing with contractors who didn't understand the seriousness of their obligations. "And if you're smart, you won't celebrate until this is all finished."
He left the way he'd come, slipping through the side door and staying in the shadows as he made his way back through the pine trees. Every rustling branch made him tense. The confidence he'd felt earlier was tempered now by the familiar reminder that this business required constant vigilance.
As he reached his car and pulled onto the lane, Harry caught himself checking the rearview mirror more frequently than usual. The delivery was completed, but the mixture of satisfaction and unease remained, as he had after every successful transaction.
In a few days, Robert would distribute the contents of that bag to college students with more money than sense, and Harry would be richer. That knowledge carried its own kind of power and the autonomy he craved.