Chapter 1 Lance
Lance
Fourteen Months Later
“Who will be left holding the Calloway and Montgomery reins, and is Roman Montgomery man enough to take over the crumbling empire without a Frederick Lawrence at his side?”
I scoff and click the TV off. The sound cuts out mid-sentence, leaving the small screen in the corner dark and the hum of the refrigerator filling the room.
The Round Table Tavern is oddly quiet when there’s nobody in it.
Grabbing a still-hot wineglass from the dishwasher, I wipe it with a polishing rag and flip the stem upside down to hang above the service bar.
It clanks against the others, and Genevieve, the bartender and resident pain in my ass, stops wiping the counter and stares at me like being here is a personal offense.
“I’ve never met a man who frowns more than you,” she says.
“Maybe my face just reacts to bullshit in real time.”
“So, you admit it’s a face problem, then. That’s big of you.”
I flick my chin toward the now-blank TV. “A man just died. What do you want, a celebration?”
“Two men, actually. And from what I know of both, the world’s better off.”
“Because you know so much?”
She doesn’t. She’s lived in town for over a year, moved here for my best friend Art, and she’s barely left his side.
Art keeps her stashed in a dingy little studio down the street that smells of stale paint, like she’s a poorly kept secret he can’t risk getting back to his father.
And when Art can’t be there himself, he’s got me stepping in as a stand-in guard, despite knowing we’re likely to tear out each other’s throats.
“Aren’t you a Calloway?” Genevieve continues. “I thought your family would be dancing on Marcus’s grave.”
“You trying to butter me up by shit-talking my family’s dead enemies?”
“No.” She wipes down a vodka bottle with a damp cloth. “I couldn’t care less about your family’s weird blood grudge with the Montgomerys. This isn’t Romeo and Juliet.”
She’s not wrong about that, either.
Marcus Montgomery was a patriarch of Rosebrook Falls—the Montgomery side of the invisible line that’s split this town in half since its inception.
I’m sure my father celebrated his death the moment it happened.
He spent years trying to commandeer Marcus’s half of the town.
Too bad it went to shit when Marcus’s “supposed to be dead” son Roman came back and took over the Montgomery empire.
He also decided to fall in love with my baby sister, but I digress.
My brow hitches. “Wrong Calloway sibling. Try my brother Alex if you want someone who’ll play along with references.”
“So you’re giving me permission to cross territories and hang out with your siblings?”
“It wasn’t permission; it was a correction. But no.”
“Oh, relax,” she says. “I’m sure your family wants nothing to do with mere HillPoint peasants like me.”
She puts a hand in front of her, fingers spread like she’s inspecting it for germs.
“And?”
“And that means I don’t know your brothers, so stop looking like I’m about to bite them. I’m not contagious, you know?”
Debatable.
“Why are you so twitchy about it anyway? Is it because Juliette’s hanging out here now that Marcus is dead and she’s fucking his son?”
“Don’t talk about my sister.”
She lifts her hands like she’s innocent. “Touchy subject. Noted.”
I hadn’t thought about it, honestly. Now that my parents, Craig and Martha, have yachted to the Caribbean, and Juliette and Roman have undone the enemy lines between our families, I guess anything is possible.
Probable, even.
Still, as a Calloway, we don’t show up in the HillPoint neighborhood unless there’s a reason.
Unfortunately, I’ve had a revolving one for the past six years.
Frederick Lawrence.
He made me into this. He broke me, and twisted every edge until pain felt like home, and my own reflection looked like a stranger. And you know what they say: You either die a hero or live long enough to become the villain.
I’m still trying to figure out where I fall in the remains.
Either way, I could spit on his grave every day for the rest of my life, and it wouldn’t be enough.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “The tavern’s neutral territory now, since Art took it over.”
The last thing I want is for Genevieve to notice that what she’s mentioning is settling on my shoulders. She might try to talk to me more, and I see enough of her as is.
She brushes a loose strand of red hair from her porcelain face. “Neutral’s an interesting word choice, but you make a good point.”
“At least one of us does.”
“My point,” she tucks the vodka back behind the bar, “is I don’t have grief to spare for rich assholes who spent their lives screwing people over.”
“What are you, the morality police?”
If she is, she’s terrible at it.
She tosses the rag into the bar sink, turning to face me. “You know, you Rosebrook townies act like this shithole is sacred ground. Like anyone not born here is dirt on your shoe.”
“And yet here you are. Living in our mess. Serving us drinks. Keeping our secrets…” My eyes catch hers. “… Sleeping with one of us.”
She crosses her arms. “Is that why you’re such a dick? Because you’re jealous I steal Art’s attention?”
“You think I’m jealous of you?” I laugh, and it’s bitter on the back of my tongue. “I’ve been his best friend our entire lives, and you’re just a girl. One who he won’t let near his dad, even after all this time. So who should be jealous of who, exactly?”
Genevieve flinches, and that bitter taste slides down my throat.
“You’re a fucking asshole.”
“And you’re not worth my time.” I toss the polishing rag on the bar.
“Wow. I’m devastated. Please believe I’ve seen where and what you spend your time on, and I’m not interested.”
“Guess we’ll both lose sleep over it.”
“Why are you even here?” she asks. “You don’t work the bar. Hell, you don’t even work aboveboard.” She steps closer. “You’re just someone’s bitch.”
I don’t know if she sees the sudden flush on my face, but she goes for the throat.
“Aw. Sore subject? What’s the matter, Champ? Feeling directionless now that your handler kicked it?”
Kicked it. Like I wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger that wiped Frederick from the face of the earth.
My finger still remembers the vibrations from every shot. The release after years of watching him strut around town in his tailored suits, shaking hands with my family and our enemies, then showing up underground to run the Lye like some crime lord above reproach.
Piece of shit.
Maybe I should feel remorse for taking a life. Maybe that’s what a better man would do.
But I don’t.
“It’s cute you pretend to know anything about me.”
She tilts her head. “Tell me… Do they have a new boss lined up, or are you still waiting at the basement door like a loyal mutt?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know a dog when I see one,” she says.
“Keep pushing, Genevieve.”
I lean forward and she mimics the motion, close enough to see the flecks in her green irises and every freckle on her face.
“Why can’t you take the hint that nobody wants you here, Lance?”
The words hook behind my ribs and squeeze.
Fuck. Her.
“Just because Art lets you play bartender doesn’t make you privy to what’s really happening here. You think nobody wants me? Take a look in the mirror.”
“I think I know what it looks like when a guy’s in over his head and taking it out on everyone else.”
“You don’t know shit about me or my life.” I grip the edge of the bar so tightly my knuckles ache. “Do us both a favor and shut the fuck up.”
The front door swings open, the little red bell above it chiming sharply, and Art storms inside, pale cheeks flushed, and auburn hair mussed from the wind.
Genevieve and I jump apart, and it’s only then I realize how close we were, how that scent she’s always wearing will linger on my skin.
Christ. Even being near her affects me negatively.
“Good, you’re both here,” Art says, unwrapping the scarf from his neck.
“Unfortunately,” Genevieve mutters.
I turn my back to her and face him. “What’s up?”
His gaze floats between us. “We have a problem.”