17. Bastien Montclaire
Bastien Montclaire
Restoring cars is better than therapy—at least here, I know what’s broken.
The car gleams beneath the fluorescent lights. It’s black, sleek, and hungry—a beast with its throat bared, waiting to be fed fire.
This isn’t restoration. It’s a ritual.
For her.
Aimee.
She used to talk about this model as if it had a soul. Like it could fuck you better than a man. Her favorite car. We never rode in one together, but I speak to her now through steel and piston, through every polished fender and reassembled engine block.
The socket wrench is halfway to my hand when my burner buzzes, cutting through the stillness. I wipe my palm on an old rag, eyes locked on the screen.
One photo.
One message.
Thought you’d like to see how good the necklace looks on me in the daylight.
The small medallion rests in the hollow of Laurette’s throat. But the photo frames more than that—her collarbone, the soft curve of her shoulders, the swell of her tits teasing me.
Intentional and inviting. Intoxicating.
My lips curve.
I clench the phone in my hand, every muscle drawn tight. Fuck, how am I supposed to not drive straight to her house?
I meant to give her time, let her marinate in the game, let the obsession sink deeply. But this?
She isn’t backing down. She’s beckoning.
That necklace carries meaning now. And this is bait she knows I can’t resist.
It isn’t just an invitation. It’s surrender.
Naughty girl, you knew what this picture would do to me.
Yes, I did.
My initial rests on that sweet throat like it’s always belonged there. You wear it like you were made for this, Babygirl. Next time, that necklace is all you’re allowed to wear.
When will I see you again?
I’ll see you before you see me.
When will you come to me again?
Eager for me?
Yes.
Soon, Laurette.
A familiar sound—tires whispering over concrete—pulls my focus to the drive. Matt’s new Porsche eases in, the last light of evening slanting across the windshield, turning glass to gold.
He steps into the garage. I wasn’t expecting him, but a visit from my brother never needs a reason.
I slip the burner into my pocket. “This is a surprise.”
Matt shrugs, heads to the garage mini-fridge, and grabs two beers. He hands one to me without a word.
“Just want to hang out with my big brother,” he says, popping his beer open.
The caps clink against the counter. We take that first sip in silence. The fizz sounds loud in the quiet.
“She’s finally running,” I say, nodding toward the Stingray.
Matt circles the car, his fingers gliding over the paint. “Damn. She looks dangerous.”
“She knows she’s the prettiest girl in the room.”
We climb into the seats and the leather wraps around us.
Matt nods at the wheel. “Well? Fire her up.”
I twist the key, and she roars to life.
Matt laughs, shaking his head. “Aimee would’ve hot-wired her just for the thrill.”
I smile. “She’d floor it without hesitation, laughing as if the world could never catch her.”
We sit in the rumble and let it thrum through our ribs. When I kill the engine, the silence presses in again. We’re both thinking of her.
Matt clears his throat. “So… your girl.”
I arch a brow. “She’s not my—”
“Don’t,” he cuts me off. “You’ve had me rerouting her security cam feeds through a triple-encrypted proxy just so you can watch her breathe in her sleep. She’s yours.”
I don’t argue.
Matt smirks. “How’s it going with her?”
I take a sip of beer. “Better than expected. She’s very… receptive.”
“Receptive. Is that code for she’s not calling the cops?”
“Well, she called a cop in the beginning. But we’ve moved past that.”
He laughs, taking a long drink. “Hey, as long as she’s into it, who am I to judge?”
“She’s into it,” I say.
“Just be careful, bro. You let her get too close—let her see who you really are—and it won’t be desire she feels. What’s buried in you, Bash, isn’t for the weak. And bringing her that close? That’s the most dangerous thing you could do.”
I don’t answer. Because he’s right.
I can tease her. Obsess over her. Claim her in every filthy, fucked-up way. But the truth?
No woman gets that part of me. Not ever.
Matt finishes his beer, tosses the bottle into the bin with a soft clink, and nods toward the house. “You stink, bro. Go get a shower. We’ve gotta be at Mom and Dad’s in an hour.”
Time to step out of the shadows. Be a son and brother. Even if only for an evening.
The Montclaire house smells like every wonderful memory I’ve ever had in this home, built on butter, broth, and bone-deep love.
Smoked andouille, shrimp, and garlic swirl through the air, layered over a holy trinity of onions, bell pepper, and celery.
My mother’s shrimp and grits are a sermon in scent and taste.
The table is set, silver gleaming, linen napkins folded in sharp triangles. A pitcher of tea sweats beside a carafe of red wine. Voices roll through the kitchen, soft and musical, familiar as breath.
My baby sister’s laughter cuts through the chatter, high and teasing. She’s wearing a dress too short and a smile too smug.
Juliette sneaks a praline off the cooling tray, thinking our mother won’t notice. But she does, casting a sharp expression over her shoulder that makes Juju grin and pop it into her mouth anyway.
“I’m starving,” she whines.
“You’re always starving when there are pralines,” Mamère says from her perch at the table, shelling pecans like a queen on her throne. Her voice is rich and low, a French accent curling around every word. “But you never eat enough of the good stuff.”
“I eat plenty of good stuff,” Juliette says with a wink.
We all settle around the table. My mother sets down the cast-iron skillet, steam rising from a bed of creamy grits crowned with butter-seared shrimp and scallions.
Mamère lifts her rosary, beads wound tight around her wrist as always, then bows her head. “Bon Dieu, merci pour c’te belle bouffe. Bénis ceux qui l’ont préparée, et garde cette famille soudée. Amen.”
Good Lord, thank you for this beautiful meal. Bless those who prepared it, and keep this family strong. Amen.
She makes the sign of the cross, and we echo it without question. The ritual is as much a part of the meal as the food itself.
My mom clears her throat and sets the conversation in motion. “So, Bastien,” she says, reaching for the skillet of grits and shrimp, “how’s the private detective business?”
“Going well, Mom. A couple of tricky cases, but I just wrapped one up.”
The deceit comes out smoothly as it always does. But it tastes bitter every time. I hate lying to her. To all of them. The way her face softens, proud and trusting, guts me in a way nothing else can. She thinks I’m out there helping people, digging up lost truths, and chasing down justice.
Not hunting predators when justice fails. Not spilling blood in quiet rooms, making monsters disappear because no one else will.
But this is the cost of maintaining the illusion. So I drink my wine and let the lie settle between us.
She nods, satisfied. “And you, Matt? You’re keeping those computers running for Uncle Sam?”
Matt chuckles, reaching for his drink. “You know how it is. Can’t say much, but the government keeps me busy.”
Dad chimes in from the head of the table.
He’s a man of few words, but they always land.
“You’ve both earned your calluses.” He looks at Matt, then at me, something proud simmering beneath the surface.
“Hard work’s in your blood and always has been.
Military, agency work, doesn’t matter. This family is filled with men who don’t flinch. ”
I used to live to earn his approval. Busted my ass to earn it. Joined the military straight out of high school, clawed my way into the Green Berets just to prove I had the grit, that I could be a man he respected—disciplined, brave, and unbreakable. Like him.
And now?
I kill for money, erase men who slip through the cracks, and I smile while I do it. If they suspected the truth—what I’ve done, who I’ve become—this table would go silent for real. There wouldn’t be a proud word left in the room.
But I keep my mask on and raise my wineglass as if I believe I still belong here.
Across the table, Juliette’s gone quiet, too quiet for someone who never stops talking.
My mother notices, of course. She never misses a thing.
“So, Juju, any news in your world?”
She perks up a little. “Actually, yes. I have a date this weekend.”
My fork halts halfway to my mouth, and the metal clanks against the plate when I lower it.
“With whom?”
She lifts her chin, already bracing. “His name’s Marc. He’s in my lit class.”
Marc. The name tastes wrong.
I say nothing as I study her. She’s too pretty for her own damn good and too trusting for this world. The idea of some punk putting his hands on her makes my jaw tighten.
If he hurts her, I’ll bury him where no one will ever find the body. Because that’s what older brothers do.
“How old is this Marc?”
“Eighteen.”
“Is he respectful?”
“Yes.”
“Does he have a job?”
“Bastien,” my mother warns.
I ignore her. “Does he drink? Party? Do drugs?”
Juliette rolls her eyes. “Not that it’s your business, but no. He’s a good guy.”
The dangerous ones don’t always appear harmful. Not at first. Not until the mask slips.
Juliette hasn’t learned that yet. But I have.
My chest tightens, and an old pressure coils in my ribs. The kind that hits seconds before I drive a blade home or squeeze a trigger.
“You’re too young to date.”
“I’m seventeen, Bash,” she says, rolling her eyes again. “Not five.”
Matt leans back in his chair, mouth twitching around a smirk. “You’ve gotta let her live a little, man. Not every boy’s the devil.”
“I never said that Marc was the devil. But in my line of work, I’ve met charmers who make the devil look like a fucking altar boy.”
“Bastien!” Mamère snaps, scandalized.
Her voice slices through the air sharper than any blade I’ve held. I bite back the rest of what I was going to say, the heat still simmering behind my teeth.
Too far in front of her.