Chapter 3 Lance
Lance
The Lye reopening isn’t news, more of an inevitability. I’ve never been under the illusion that I was free, even after getting rid of Frederick.
I lift the gun.
A sharp, pained laugh bleeds out of Frederick’s mouth. “He’ll kill you if you stay down there.”
I shrug, even though the thought of him—Brutus Myrddin—sends a chill down my spine.
My life’s forfeit every time I step into the ring anyway.
“Then I guess I’ll see you in hell.”
A muffled noise breaks through the memory, and I’m on my feet before Art can blink.
“Anyone else supposed to be here?” I ask.
Art shakes his head but keeps his face turned away. Still, he falls into step beside me without a word, the way he always does—the way we have since we were kids.
I don’t know what I expect to find when we round the corner, but it’s not Benjamin Voltaire with his pasty hand over Genevieve’s mouth, her body thrashing like a wildcat clawing her way free.
Fucking Benny.
Marcus and Frederick’s nephew. A two-for-two in the lost uncle lottery, and every bit the smug shit you’d expect from someone who got his status through nepotism.
“Get your hands off her,” I snap.
Benny smirks and loosens his grip just enough for Genevieve to drive her elbow into his ribs. He grunts and lets her go, and I hold back a grin at the sight of this tiny woman manhandling a guy almost twice her size.
She has terrible form, but not too bad, all things considered.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” I cross my arms.
“Relax, boss,” Benny says.
My fingers twitch at that stupid nickname.
“Was just showing Gin what happens when you eavesdrop where you don’t belong.”
Her cheeks are flushed, mouth tight, but when our eyes meet, her chin lifts.
Of course she was listening. Genevieve never can stay in her lane.
Art steps in. “Are you out of your goddamn mind? We’ve been working overtime to keep your name clean from the bullshit you’ve been stirring up. And now you’re putting hands on my girl?”
Benny straightens, waxy blond hair falling across his face.
“Yeah, well, maybe your girl should learn her place,” he says. “And nobody’s asking the mayor’s kid to clean up after me. Believe it.”
He spits the word mayor like it tastes rotten, and Art stiffens.
Genevieve jumps forward, rising on her tiptoes to get in Benny’s face. “Shut the hell up, Benny. Jesus, this whole town’s run by douchebags. What are you even doing here?”
“Ask your boyfriend, Gin. I was invited.”
Art sighs, grabs Benny by the shoulder, and drags him toward the storage room. “We’ll be right back.”
My brows shoot up.
Benny and Art have never gotten along, so why the sudden buddy-buddy?
Genevieve’s dusting herself off as if Benny’s germs sprayed on her clothes like grit. “Benny’s a creep.”
“He grows on you.”
Not really.
“Like mold, maybe,” she says.
My lips twitch.
She glances down the hall. “Should we go with them?”
“We shouldn’t do anything.”
Genevieve scoffs, shooting me a look that could kill, and then moves into the small back office across the hall.
I follow, propping my shoulder against the door frame and crossing my arms.
I’ve always been good at watching people—recognizing their tells. You train long enough, you start clocking weaknesses like every person is a potential opponent.
What side they favor. How they stand in line at the grocery store. Which hand they use to scratch their neck or which leg they rest their weight on.
Right now, Genevieve is rattled.
Sure, her chin is held high, but her mouth is pressed tight and she’s shifting on her feet like she can’t get steady. Every so often, she taps her ear, twisting the lobe. That’s one she always seems to do.
“Your fighting sucks,” I say.
Her head jerks back. “I fight fine.”
“Sure. If your goal was to throw an elbow to the air while you’re being kidnapped.”
“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”
“Because he was distracted and not trying to hurt you,” I tell her.
“God, you’re insufferable.”
I laugh and reach out, flicking her forehead. “Whatever you say, Half-Pint.”
She swats my hand away with a scowl. “Ew. Don’t call me that.”
Art peers around the doorframe. “There you two are.”
Genevieve tenses and I stay stock still as Art slips into that too-calm mode he learned from his father—the one he uses when he’s about to lie.
He’s a politician’s son, whether he wants to admit it or not.
“Benny’s gone already?” I ask.
Art gives a sharp nod and sinks down into a chair, the cheap metal creaking beneath his frame. He leans back and drums his fingers on the desk, his eyes locked on Genevieve.
“If you’re about to say that freak had any right to grab me…”
“No,” Art says. “But you shouldn’t have been in the bar still.”
“Technically, I wasn’t. I was in the kitchen.”
“Near enough.”
“Oh, so now I’m not allowed to breathe unless it’s where you specifically tell me to be?”
He slams his hand on the table.
I straighten off the wall.
“Sorry, I’m just… I’m tired,” he says.
Genevieve blinks. “You’re never gonna let me in, are you? Do you even want me here, Art?”
“Gin, baby, of course I do. It’s not about that.” He sounds tired, like they’ve had this conversation a thousand times.
“Whatever, Art. Come find me when you take your head out of your ass.” Genevieve turns on her heel and stalks out of the room, the door slamming behind her.
The echo settles into the walls.
“We pretending everything’s fine still, or…”
Art shakes his head. “Lance… I need you to listen.”
My stomach tightens. I hate when he uses that voice, it reminds me of my father—of all the times he’s been in my ear barking commands.
Lance, listen to me and stand up straight.
Lance, stop scowling.
Lance, you’re such a disappointment.
My body shudders, and I shove the thought of my father down.
Art glances at the door Genevieve just stormed through. “Genevieve’s dad is potentially in some major shit, okay? And that causes problems for me.”
“Easy solution. Ditch the bitch and you’re home free.”
“Can you please let go of whatever grudge you have with the woman I love and try to understand my perspective?”
I throw up my hands. “Fine. Explain it to me, then.”
“Her dad’s on thin ice with Brutus.”
Brutus fucking Myrddin. The one who owns the Lye, who runs Badon Hill out of Boston, and who’s been in bed with my father for years. He doesn’t show his face in Rosebrook unless something’s worth his attention, but his name lingers like a putrid smell.
If Genevieve’s dad is involved with him…
“What kind of a father knows about Myrddin and still lets his kid walk into a snake pit like the Lye?” I ask.
“I said he was in shit with him, not that he’s on a know-everything basis.”
“So how do you know?”
Art taps his fingers on the chair’s arm and flashes me a grin. “Because I’m charming and people like to tell me things.”
“People like Brutus Myrddin?”
He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Benny told me, okay? Brutus was asking him questions about Ginny. He was giving me a heads-up.”
“That’s why Benny was here?”
Art gives a quick chin jerk.
“So move her into the mayor’s mansion with you. Your dad’s a dick, but he’d protect her if you pushed.”
“It’s not that simple.”
It is, but okay. “You’ve gotta make a choice here. You either want your father’s approval, or you want the girl. Fuck him if he doesn’t like her. What’ll he do, disown you? That’d be the opposite of his obsession with you presenting as the perfect family.”
“Yeah, it just…needs to be the right time.”
I laugh, throwing my head back.
“What about this is funny, dick?”
“Nothing,” I say, pressing my lips together to hold it in. “It’s just so ridiculous. Both of us out here acting like we get a say in our lives, but still terrified of our fathers.”
His brow furrows, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “We agreed to never say that out loud.”
“Which part?” I chuckle again.
“Listen, I’m a man, okay? My father wishes he could be as fucking loved as me.”
“Mmhm.” I nod along. “Probably as humble too, right?”
Now Art does crack a smile. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”
The laughter fades between us.
“How do you know she’s not a plant?” I ask.
“Her dad’s a lawyer, not a Fed.”
“And you don’t know what kind of trouble he’s in?”
Art lifts a shoulder. “I don’t want to freak her out by bringing it up, you know? She’ll just lose it and run back to Boston.”
The way he says it feels clinical, but I know Art better than I know myself. He’s scared if she leaves, she won’t come back.
He groans, dragging a palm down his face. “She’s probably outside the door listening to us.”
“Support for the whole ‘she’s a plant’ theory.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Dude.” I put my arms out. “It’s me. Come on.”
He moves to the desk, his fingers toying with a stack of papers. “I don’t trust Myrddin, do you?”
“Are you seriously asking me that right now?”
“If he’s curious about Ginny, and her father’s lawyered up with them somehow, I don’t know… It feels like she’s in danger.”
My head tilts. “You think he’s their lawyer?”
Art drops the papers, spinning around and leaning against the lip of the desk. “I think chances are high. Benny says they’re wanting to keep Leo in line, and there’s nothing better than a daughter to do that.”
He should tell her.
I want to say it to him, but if I push Art with direction, he’ll rage against it, the same way I did for so many years as a “fuck you” to the man.
My back hits the wall as I take him in.
His face is drawn, shoulders hunched, and it reminds me of when we were eight, his father ripping into him for missing a line in some press junket script. He hadn’t lost all his baby teeth, but his dad talked to him like he was a political liability instead of a kid.
And I related to that because if there’s one thing my own family’s always done, it’s try to mold me into something I’m not.
Art didn’t cry that day. He just stood there with his hands behind his back and his eyes locked on the grass, waiting for another verbal punch, and I left when I was told to leave, wishing I could spare him the pain of feeling like he wasn’t good enough.
Later I found him at the falls in the county park, throwing stones into the water with a busted lip. I picked up a pebble, stood beside him, and we skipped rocks until our arms ached and our families’ fucked-up burdens weighed on us a little less.
That’s when we cut our palms and made a pact.
The Silver Spoon Survivors’ Club.
Blood brothers. Loyalty. No questions asked. We may not be good enough for our families, but we’d be good enough for each other.
That loyalty still presses down like it’s the most important thing.
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”