Chapter 7 Lance
Lance
Six Years Ago
My father’s study is a mausoleum dressed up as a room.
Dark wood paneling, leather furniture, and shelves lined with books he’s never read but keeps because he thinks they make him look cultured. The fireplace is lit despite the summer heat, and it casts an ominous glow over everything.
Craig Calloway sits behind his massive desk like a king on a throne, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his expression carved from stone. He doesn’t look surprised to see us. He doesn’t look like anything at all, really.
But he’s not alone.
There’s a man standing by the fireplace I’ve never seen before. Tall, with shoulder length black hair tucked neatly behind his ear. His face is gaunt, but there’s something oddly familiar about it, like maybe I’ve seen it in a dream.
He’s watching us the way a cat watches a mouse it’s already decided to kill.
And beside him, leaning against the bookshelf with his arms crossed and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, is my father’s lawyer, Frederick Lawrence.
Freddy.
I’ve known him almost as long as I’ve known Beverly.
He’s the town’s best attorney and a close family friend.
He floats his way from Calloways to the Montgomerys and even the Voltaires.
Legal stuff, mostly. At least, that’s what people say.
But there’s always been something about him that made my skin crawl.
“Ah,” my father says. “The birthday boy and his sidekick return.”
Art shifts beside me, and the fear radiates from him in waves. Whatever this is, it’s bad. Worse than bad.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Sit down, Lance.”
It’s not a request, because nothing my father says to me ever is. But I ignore him, anyway.
“I said sit.”
“And I asked what’s going on.”
The man by the fireplace laughs. “He’s got spirit. I can see why you have trouble with him, Craig.”
“Forgive his manners, Brutus. There’s only so much you instill in someone who came out wrong at birth.”
My chest smarts and I grit my teeth through the familiar pain.
The man—Brutus—pushes off from the mantel. “Spirit can be useful when it’s properly directed.”
He stops in front of Art, studying him like he’s examining a piece of meat.
“Arthur Penngrove. The mayor’s son. Do you know who I am?”
Art’s face goes white. “Yes.”
My mouth drops open. He does? “What’s going on?”
“It seems the prodigal politician’s son has gotten himself into a bit of a pickle,” Freddy chimes in.
“I can explain,” Art replies.
“You can explain why you owe me two million dollars from your trip to Boston?” Brutus tilts his head. “Please. I’m fascinated to hear it.”
“Art. What the fuck?”
“It was supposed to be a sure thing,” Art says, his voice cracking.
“It was just poker. They said the games were easy, that I could double my money in a night, and you know I’ve been trying to get some capital so I can get out of my father’s bullshit politics.
But they kept letting me play, kept extending credit, and I didn’t realize until—”
“Until you were in so deep you couldn’t see the surface,” Brutus finishes. “Yes. That’s how it usually goes.”
He turns away from Art.
“The boy owes me a significant debt,” Brutus continues. “And debts must be paid. It’s the foundation of civilized society, wouldn’t you agree, Craig?”
“I would.”
“What do you want?” I interrupt.
“What I’m owed.” Brutus spreads his hands. “Unfortunately, Arthur here doesn’t seem to have access to that kind of capital. And his father… Well. The mayor can’t exactly write a check for gambling debts without raising some uncomfortable questions, can he?”
My gaze bounces from my father, to Freddy, to Art, and then back. “You guys are just gonna let this fucker come in here and talk to you like that?”
Freddy straightens off the bookshelf. “We’ve been discussing alternative arrangements.”
“What kind of arrangements?” I ask.
“The kind that benefits everyone,” he says. “Arthur gets his debt cleared without involving his father. Brutus gets his investment returned. And we get something useful in exchange.”
“Dad.” My voice comes out rough. “Can’t you just pay this and clear it?”
For the first time in my life, regret flashes across my father’s face. I hate that it gives me a spark of hope, when I should know better.
“Brutus is an important man for our family,” he says. “He’s helping us change everything for the future of this town. I’m afraid it’s not as simple as clearing it.”
“Jesus, this is about your stupid feud with the Montgomerys, isn’t it?” I groan, palming my face. “Is he the one you’ve had bullying people out of their loans in the HillPoint for you?”
“Arthur can’t pay his debt,” my father continues. “But the debt needs to be paid. Brutus has operations. Enterprises that require certain kinds of people.”
“What kind of people?”
“Fighters.” It’s Brutus who answers, his eyes locking onto mine. “I run a business, Lance. An entertainment business, you might call it. And I’m always looking for fresh talent.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “What, like boxing? You want Art to join a gym?”
Nobody laughs.
“Something a bit more exclusive,” Brutus says.
“Exclusive,” I repeat, the word sitting wrong in my mouth. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means private,” Freddy chimes in. “Invitation only. Very lucrative for the right kind of person.”
“Art’s not a fighter,” I say. “He’s never thrown a punch in his life. He cried when we watched Rocky.”
“I didn’t cry,” Art mutters.
“Not really the time, Art.”
Brutus grins. “Do you have another suggestion for how I should recoup my losses?”
His gaze drags over me, assessing.
“Your father tells me you’re quite the brawler. All those fights at school. All those arrests your family paid to make disappear…wasted potential, isn’t that what you’ve said, Craig?”
I look at my father, but he won’t meet my eyes. He’s staring at his desk like the wood grain is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
“Your nanny. What was her name, Beverly?”
My entire body stiffens. “Don’t bring her into this.”
Brutus smiles now and puts his hands up in surrender. “I’ve simply spoken to her, son. She told me you’ve known how to fight since you were little, is that right?”
“So what?”
I wait for someone to tell me this is a joke, some fucked-up birthday prank Art and my father cooked up together, but nobody speaks. I glance at my best friend again, and he looks like a kid who just watched his dog get hit by a car.
“Art. Did you know about this?”
He shakes his head. “I thought they’d just want money. I thought maybe your dad could make it disappear like he does everything else.”
“And your dad?”
He gulps and stares at the ground.
Right. He doesn’t want his dad to know. Art spends forever trying to be out from under his shadow while simultaneously being afraid of getting left behind.
“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Mayor Penngrove finds out his boy’s been gambling with people like me, and suddenly his entire career goes up in smoke,” Brutus says. “I’m offering a solution that keeps everyone’s hands clean.”
“Except mine.”
Brutus dips his chin. “Except yours.”
The room feels smaller than it did five minutes ago. The fire crackles in the hearth, and I’m suddenly aware of how hot it is, how the sweat prickles on my neck, how my heart beats too fast for someone who’s supposed to be drunk and relaxed on his eighteenth birthday.
“This is insane,” I say. “You know that, right? This is actually insane.”
“It’s business,” Freddy corrects. “Nothing personal.”
“Nothing personal.” I laugh, and it sounds unhinged even to my own ears. “You’re asking me to…what? Fight people? For how long? Where? In some basement somewhere?”
“The details aren’t important,” Brutus says. “What’s important is whether you’re willing to step up for your friend.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then Arthur’s debt remains unpaid, and I’ll have to collect it another way.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means I’m not a patient man, Lance. And I have a long memory.” He tilts his head toward Art. “So does your friend’s father’s voter base. So do the newspapers. So do the people who would love nothing more than to see the Penngrove family fall from grace…or the Calloways.”
Art makes a strangled sound beside me, and my father scoffs. “That won’t be necessary, I assure you, Brutus.”
I look at him. He’s still sitting behind that massive desk, still wearing that stone-faced expression, still refusing to fucking help.
“Dad.” I sound like I’m begging, and I hate myself for it. “Do something.”
“You’ve spent eighteen years making choices that embarrass this family. Making headlines for all the wrong reasons. Maybe it’s time those impulses were put to use.”
The words hit like a slap. No, worse than a slap. A slap would at least mean he cared enough to be angry.
“You planned this,” I say. “You knew this was coming.”
“I knew Brutus needed something,” he admits. “And I knew you needed direction. This solves both problems.”
“I’m your son.”
“Then act like it. For once in your life, be useful.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
I could walk out. Tell all of them to go fuck themselves.
But then I look at Art. At the way his breaths are coming in shallow gasps like he’s about to shatter into a million pieces.
“How long?”
Brutus raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“If I do this.” I swallow hard, my throat dry. “If I fight for you. How long until Art’s debt is cleared?”
Art’s head snaps toward me. “Lance, no.”
“How long?” I repeat, ignoring him.
Brutus and Freddy exchange a glance.
“A year,” Freddy says. “Maybe two. Depends on how good you are. How much you bring in.”
“And then I’m out. Completely out. The debt’s cleared, and you never come near Art or our families again.”
“You have my word,” Brutus says.
His word. Right.
But what choice do I have?
“Lance.” Art grabs my arm, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Don’t do this. Please. I’ll figure something out, I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” I turn to face him, and he flinches. “Rob a bank? Sell your kidneys? You heard him, Art. You’ve got nothing he wants, and clearly my father’s not willing to part with his own precious money to solve this.”
“But you shouldn’t have to do this.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I give him a shaky smile. “I’m just wasted potential, remember?”
Art’s face crumples. “That’s not true.”
“Yeah, well. Guess we’re about to find out.” I turn back to Brutus, squaring my shoulders. “I’ll fight for you. I’ll work off his debt. But when it’s done, it’s done.”
Brutus studies me for a long moment, his eyes giving nothing away.
Then he smiles.
“You’ve got fire, Lance Calloway. We’ll use it to forge you into greatness.”
He extends his hand.
I stare at it. At the manicured nails and the expensive watch and the palm that’s probably signed off on things I don’t want to imagine.
Then I take it.
His grip is cold and firm. It’s like shaking hands with a corpse.
“Welcome to the family,” Brutus says.
“I don’t want to be part of your family.”
He chuckles and releases me, moving toward the door, Freddy falling into step behind him. Freddy pauses just long enough to press a card into my palm. I glance down at it and see the words Badon Hill in cursive script.
“Get some rest, birthday boy,” Freddy says. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Then they’re gone, and the study feels like a tomb.
My father rises from his desk without a word, straightening his cuffs like this was just another business meeting. Like his son didn’t just sell himself into something none of us fully understand.
He locks his cold gaze on mine. “Nobody finds out about this, do you both understand? Not even your mothers.”
I grit my teeth and nod, and Art does the same.
“Good. Then I’ll give you both a moment.” He walks out, and the door clicks shut behind him, and then it’s just Art and me.
The silence is suffocating.
Art’s staring at me like I just stepped in front of a bullet for him. Which, I guess, I kind of did.
“Lance.” His voice breaks on my name. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I never would have done this.”
“I know.”
“I’ll fix this,” he says, grabbing me by the arms. “I swear to God, I’ll find a way to get you out. I’ll talk to my dad, I’ll get the money somehow.”
“Art.” I grip the back of his neck, forcing him to look at me. His eyes are wet and red rimmed. “Stop.”
“But, you just…”
“Listen to me.” I hold his gaze, steady, even though everything inside me is screaming. “I’m not gonna fail you. Not in this. Not ever. You hear me?”
He shakes his head, tears spilling over. “You shouldn’t have to do this, Lance.”
“That’s not how this works.” I pull him in, the way we used to do when we were kids and the world felt too big and too mean. “You’re my brother. Blood or not. And this is what brothers do. They take care of one another. Silver Spoon Survivors, remember?”
He’s shaking against me, his breath coming in gasps, and I hold him there until he stops.
“I’ll get you out,” he whispers. “I promise, Lance.”
I force an easygoing smile and move away, patting him on the back once like it’s not a big deal. “It’ll be fine, dude. You heard him—a year. Two tops? I can handle that.”