Jailbait (17 page)

“Huh?” I lean back, and then it hits me. “You stole it. You stole money from your own club!”
 

“Keep your voice down, dammit.”
 

I put my hands on the table and lean forward. “You stole money. From the club.” I have to repeat it; I don’t believe it. Only an idiot would steal money from the Jackals. And only an idiot with a death wish would steal that much.
 

“Yes.”
 

Apparently my father is both. I stare at him, pulse pounding. “Why?”
 

“A business opportunity came up and I needed the cash upfront to invest. Things are going slow, but it’ll pick up. I’ll get the hundred grand back and then some.”
 

I feel a sudden ache in my chest that throws me for a second. I miss Pepper. I want to be back in New York with her, not dealing with this. Because no matter how casually my dad talks about it, no one steals money from the Jackals and gets out alive. I’m only fucking nineteen. I shouldn’t be having this conversation. I should be back home, fucking my girlfriend every day and night until her fall break is up and she has to go back to Cornell. Whatever business opportunity he’s starting has to be shady as fuck to keep it from an already shady as fuck motorcycle club.
 

“So why is it an issue if you’re getting the money back?”
 

“I might not get it back fast enough.”
 

I push my plate to the center of the table, no longer hungry. “They’re going to kill you.”
 

Finally, the graveness of the situation shows on his face. “I know. That’s why I need your help. My business partner has the money…we need to get it back.”
 

Chapter Fourteen

Pepper
 

Savannah’s 10th story apartment has a large balcony that overlooks Central Park. I stand with one hand on the railing, the other holding a coffee cup, and look down at the trees. We’re way above them, way above the chaos of the city. I feel oddly untouchable up here and can pretend my problems, all my issues, are down on the streets below.
 

I take a sip of coffee and close my eyes, turning my head to the wind. I’ve been up for a few hours already, and came out here to take solace in the quiet sunrise. My father has been on my mind, of course. He devoted himself to work, to expanding his business and finding ways to increase revenue and make more money.
 

Once he told me he wished he had spent more time with family, more time with my mother before she died. In the end, that’s what matters. Having someone you love, someone who makes you a better person, is worth more than gold.
 

My thoughts drift to Grayson and how good it felt to be with him. One look can send sparks of warmth through my body. One kiss can ignite my heart. And hearing him tell me he loves me sets my soul ablaze.
 

That was then
.
 

He’s not the same man I loved, and I need to remember it. Just like I’m not the same girl…only I feel like that’s exactly who I am.
 

Sunlight sparkles off my mother’s ring, and my heart hurts. I miss her. I miss my father. And I miss Grayson. So much hurt. So much loss. I blink back tears and look out at the trees again. The view is breathtaking in the literal sense; my first reaction is to inhale and admire the beauty of the city. I lower my eyes, looking straight below. My heart flutters at the thought of falling. I’m not afraid of heights, and though I grew up outside the city in the manor, I’m rather used to high rises like this.
 

“How the hell did I forget?” I ask myself out loud, suddenly remembering my father has a penthouse not far from where we are right now. I’d been in it a time or two before, but purposely avoided it. My father never officially dated anyone after my mother died, but I knew he saw other women, and that’s where the penthouse came in handy. It wasn’t something I wanted to think about, so I avoided the place.
 

I’ll need to go through his things before I decide what to do with it. Keeping it just like this sounds tempting, though an unoccupied penthouse isn’t something I want to deal with. It’s a desirable piece of real estate and should sell relatively easily, and I’ll donate whatever it sells for to charity.
 

I go back inside and browse through Netflix until Savannah wakes up. We go to breakfast, and then she convinces me to go to yoga with her. The instructor is hot, and I could use the relaxation, she says. I can’t argue against that, and the hour of guided breathing and stretching gives me a clear head…which I’ll muddle up soon enough.
 

Like now, just minutes after walking out of the class. Savannah asked me to help her pick out a new painting to go above her bed, which I know she only did to try and keep me busy. I don’t know why people think staying busy is the best way to get over grief. I think it does the opposite. Distract your mind and you only end up prolonging the pain. Process it while it’s fresh instead of going through it later.

It works for me.

Or maybe not. I’m not one to give advice on getting over a loss.
 

After the art gallery, we get lunch. The afternoon is slipping away, and I want to go to my father’s penthouse before nightfall. Savannah offers to go with, but I decline her offer. This is something I have to do alone.
 

My chest tightens when I step into the building, and my heart begins to race when I get in the elevator taking me up to my father’s penthouse. Sunlight pours through the floor-length windows, and the view puts Savannah’s to shame. I’m so high up, can see so much.
 

And yet I feel like the walls are closing in on me.
 

The first level is modern, open concept, and decorated in stark shades of white and gray. I’m a little overwhelmed, feeling slightly dizzy. The house is unfamiliar to me, and going through my father’s things seems wrong, like he might come through the door and scold me at any second.
 

My breath hitches in my chest and tears prick the corners of my eyes. I’d give anything to have my father be angry with me again.
Keep it together.
 

One room at a time, I slowly move around the large penthouse, collecting anything personal to take home with me. I’ve found a few family photos, and my mother painted the photo above the fireplace.
 

My father’s office is a mess. When he was deep into a work project, he’d forbid anyone from entering his office. Sometimes weeks would go by before it was cleaned. Coffee cups and dirty plates stacked up in towers, and dust collected all over the polished wooden desk.
 

There’s business in art, and art in business he used to say. And artists thrive in creative chaos.
 

I sit at his desk and put my hands on the notes scattered about. His handwriting is difficult to read, and from what I can make out, these are notes about a new partnership that was in the works. I gather them up to give to my uncle; they might prove important. I open his laptop and enter the password the lawyer gave me.
 

I look through files, hoping to find something about why he thought I was in danger. Keeping the cancer from me…I hate it, but I get it. Keeping a threat a secret…that wasn’t my father. He wasn’t one to wait around for someone to strike. He would get them first, taking out any opposition before they even had time to consider an attack.
 

His phone and computer are linked, and I open iMessages. Grayson’s number pops up. I bite my lip then scroll through their exchanges.
 

Grayson told the truth. He texted my father many times, telling him to come clean to me about being sick or he would tell me himself. Each text was followed by a vague threat from my father, who reminded Grayson he “paid for his life to start over”, and an empty promise that he would tell me soon. A few times Grayson asked, okay demanded, to be informed on who was supposedly after me and he got the same run around that he’d be informed
later
.
 

I look through file after file, and find nothing, though it’s not like I expected to open a Word document titled
People I Don’t Trust
or anything. Still, the lack of evidence nags at me. And even if it wasn’t a specific person, but just a general fear that I would be manipulated, why didn’t he say anything to me? Give me pep talks, warn me about how cutthroat the business world is?
 

It just doesn’t make sense. I poke around the computer a bit more. The battery is dying, so I search for the power cord, finding it in a computer case on the floor next to the desk. A black USB is in the pocket with it.
 

I plug it in; it requires a passcode. I enter the ones my father’s lawyer gave me, but none work. I stare at it, almost nervous to see what’s stored inside. I tap my fingers on the desk, thinking. On a whim, I enter my birthday.
 

The USB unlocks.
 

I double click and a single folder titled “Grayson King” pops up. Holy shit. My hand flies over my mouth, and I stare at the screen, unblinking. Maybe I will find a secret document after all.
 

I go through each document one by one. The first are screen shots of email exchanges between my father, a private investigator, and Grayson’s dad. They’re dated from nearly twenty years ago and include photographs of Grayson as a child living in deplorable conditions. A few highlight bruises on his arms and face. It’s followed by legal documents, ones I’m not sure my father should have had access to. My heart beats faster and faster as I read through them, learning how Grayson’s mother was a heroin user who was eventually charged with abuse and neglect. Grayson’s father was granted sole custody of him just months before we ever met.
 

I lean back in the chair, trying—and failing—not to think about Grayson as a child growing up with a drug-addicted mother. He never once mentioned it.
 

It’s not hard to put the pieces together: my father paid for the PI and the lawyers needed to take Grayson out of a bad situation and make sure he never went back. But why would he bring it up to Grayson, reminding him that he wouldn’t have another chance at life if he hadn’t paid?
 

I hate being mad at my father right now. I close the computer and let out a breath. This changes things, and I’m feeling worse and worse about being so angry with Grayson for not telling me about my father’s illness.
 

I take a minute to collect myself, and then continue the search for important articles. I open the top drawer of the desk and find a very worn envelope.
 

“My dearest Alcott” is written in flowing cursive, the exact opposite of the chicken scratch my father writes in. I know that script to belong to my mother. Careful not to tear the fragile paper, I open the envelope.
 

Inside is a wedding photo, a newborn picture of myself, and a family portrait taken at Christmas when I was only a few years old. Behind the photographs is a hand written love letter from my mother to my father. I don’t read it; the words weren’t meant for me after all.
 

The sentiment of my father keeping this right here, on top of his work, hits me hard. Tears roll down my cheeks, and I grieve my parents’ deaths all over again, but there is something else inside my heart, blackening it from the inside out.

I’m grieving the loss of something I haven’t had the chance to lose. My own family. A person who loves me enough to save my letters from years ago.
 

I had it, didn’t I?
 

I put the photos and letter away, and wipe my eyes. I never doubted Grayson’s love when we were together then. Am I wrong to doubt it now?
 

*

“Lots of spirit,” Raymundo says, patting Spartan on the neck. “You do good.”
 

“Thank you,” I tell my horse trainer. I came to the stable to ride and be alone, and was surprised to see Raymundo here this late. Unless I’m preparing for a show, he’s done working the horses by the time they’ve had their dinner. Paranoia set it and I almost turned and went back into the house.

Feeling like I can’t trust anyone is terrifying.
 

Raymundo is here on a visa and doesn’t speak English all that well. Crazy things can happen, but I don’t think he’s trying to weasel his way into my newly inherited company. Horses are his passion, and he has a true calling for it.
 

I run a brush over Spartan’s sleek black fur, doing my best not to freak the fuck out. Horses can sense that kind of thing.
 

“I’m surprised to see you still here,” I say, keeping Spartan between us.
 

“Hot day,” he tells me. “Even arena hot.”
 

Well now I do feel like an ass. It was horribly hot today with high humidity. The large indoor arena is open and well-ventilated, but even the rows of ceiling fans aren’t enough to rid the air of the humidity.
 

“I get you tack,” he says with a smile and goes into the tack room, returning a minute later with Spartan’s saddle and bridle. Once Spartan’s tacked up, I lead him through the barn. The roar of an engine echoes in the distance, and my heart jumps.
 

Grayson
.
 

It’s too early for him to be making his normal round, and that motorcycle engine sounds…different. Which might be a crazy thing, but I’ve heard his bike fly by enough to be familiar with what it sounds like. This one is higher pitched, and just a minute later it’s joined by another.
 

I get a flash of the man on the motorcycle last night with that reaper symbol embroidered onto his leather vest. My fingers wrap around Spartan’s reins tight, enough to make his toss his head back against the pressure.
 

“They up and down all day,” Raymundo informs me. “Horses not happy. Except him. He no mind.”