CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Brad

As the acting head of Warren Enterprise, I had to behave in a certain manner: work ethic, proactive management, speed and conviction, loyalty and commitment.

Yet, in a disorderly fashion, similar to any other dishonest traitor, I hid from reality, lined a rival’s pocket and imbibed expertly crafted cocktails in the subjugation of electric blue decor, intimate velvet booths, mid-century armchairs, mirrored tables and blissful serenity.

Yes, I am Judas, the one who double-crossed under the guise of The Brotherhood. Warren’s empire is set to collapse, so what do I do? I abandoned Club 11 to load cash registers elsewhere.

It’s not as though the club is marked by bad blood, under threat of impermanent closure to protect employees and core assets, or the grand casino is gone, half-blown to smithereens because of the long-standing feud between The Warren Syndicate and The Cosa Nostra, or The Grape and Vine, faced with an onslaught of challenges like customer attrition and suppliers refusing to supply, is on the threshold of being taken to the cleaners.

Nope. Nada. Zilch.

Everything is peachy in gangland-note the fucking sarcasm. The satirical utterance. The pessimistic jargon.

My whole life is falling apart in conjunction with Warren Enterprise, and I can only stand back, wait for the war to come to an end and pick up the fragments of mass destruction as a result.

I may not be the right man for the job. I should submit to failure, throw the towel in and hand over the reins to the boss’s brother.

second in command

noun

Second-in-command in the syndicate’s crime family hierarchy, the boss’s right-hand man next in authority to the head (also known as the boss of all bosses and/or king of the criminal underworld) of the organisation.

Bossman appointed me as Command to take over the institution for the duration of his absence. I have to wonder why. Sure, I am a damn good underboss with a considerable amount of power and influence. I am highly trained with specialised firearms and equipment. I can shoot at long range and kill on demand.

Most importantly, I have repeatedly proven that I will die with honour to protect the boss.

But I do not have what it takes to be him, think like him, function like him, or operate like him. I am the homicidal joker, not the brains behind the madness. That is his job. His chair. His crown. His empire.

In the throes of self-doubt, I glared at the whiskey old-fashioned, the cold, condensed moisture leaving a lightly coloured ring mark on the bar top.

A pleasant range of blended spirits-crafted with unique ingredients and served by friendly, attentive staff-lightened the load of weariness, moroseness and peevishness.

My phone vibrated.

Terrence: About the assignment. Do I inform you if Miss Emma is showing signs of distress? Is extreme anxiety considered an emergency?

Me: No.

Terrence: Very well.

The complexity of ambivalence is most paradoxical. Mixed emotions are ablessingand acursebecause the connection I have with a particular woman isbeneficialandunbeneficial.

Emma had successfully become the bane of my life. A source of misery. The cause of unavowed celibacy and blue balls. Emma is also the reason I live better, smile for longer and try even harder.

Sure, I can ignore the elephant in the room and feign boredom and disinterest, but the issue will not leave anytime soon. I had to address the problem sooner rather than later.

I, myself, am the actual problem.

As I refused to be a hypocrite-pride oneself on sincerity, truthfulness and straightforwardness, then lambaste someone for being one and the same-Emma is irreproachable, open and honest about how she feels and what she wants. I had to accept her wishes for her to heal at her own pace, not by force or pressure.

Let go, detach myself, forget about her. If I hadn’t been so caught up in sublimeunavailability, I’d have done it already, bailed out, regretless, and moved on. However, on the quiet, resisting the urge to get what I want, to take her, to claim her, to be in this together, is destroying me.

I am seriously considering that trip to The Cook Islands, with palm-fringed beaches, aquamarine lagoons and tremendous tranquillity.

A prime hammock.

A pair of flip-flops.

A bastard inflatable.

I had worked my bollocks since the takedown of Liam Warren when he was arrested, denied bail and thrown in the slammer for the rest of his selfish, ignorant and ungrateful existence.

Iearneda sabbatical to the Caribbean for my unfaltering devotion, blood, sweat and tears. Ideservedfresh, salty sea air in abundance, the soft sands of wild beaches and the delicious cuisine of dark rum and rich culture.

Mary, the attractive blonde with hard-set green eyes and the mind of a raconteur, is harmlessly talkative but embarrassingly inebriated. She sampled the entire cocktail menu with the excessiveness of a (questionably) functioning alcoholic, which, as you might expect, is an accident waiting to happen.

Listening to the woman’s long-winded speech about controversial topics, such as psychology and religion, I watched the rambunctious crowd by the panoramic window.

“Heretical beliefs?” Mary’s snort was loud and deliberate. “Ijoyouslyrecanted and embraced atheism the moment I landed on Scottish soil. You can thank Pappa forthatchange of opinion.”

Pappacan choke on dick for all I care.

“Hey,” Mary implored the mixologist to get us another round. “Can I get Purple Pineapple?” Her brow corrugated in thought as she assessed the leather-bound cocktail menu. “Actually, I want to sample Infinite Banana. No, Golden Levain!”

“You indecisive halfwit.” I swiped the menu, threw it on the green marble-topped bar that overlooked the sweeping views of the river and intervened before she got us barred. “Ice water.”

“Oh, Brad. You are no fun anymore.” Mary, with a sombre expression, fumbled with a stack of blue and gold resin coasters. “You know what? You might be right. I should take it easy. I have guests over for dinner tonight. Imagine if I go home late and drunk. They will never visit again.” Her glossed lips puckered. “That would be really sad.”

I looked down at my phone.

Eli: Permission to abort the mission.

Me: Declined.

Eli: Command, with the assistance of Cole and Eddie, I have turned Sicily on its head. Ignazio Corrazzo’s potential love interest isnoton the Mediterranean island.

Ruminating on the text message, I heaved a deep sigh, tapping my thumb on the brightly lit screen.

Eli: Trust me, I would have found her by now if she were here.

Me: I want Christina Moschini. I want her more than I want my next meal. For a self-proclaimed fat bastard, that means something.

Eli: I appreciate that, but what if I cannot deliver?

Me: You can dig your own grave.

Eli: Intransigence will only complicate the task.

Me: And insubordination will be the death of you.

Eli: How long do you expect us to stay? What if Christina Moschini is elsewhere? Rome? Milan? Bologna? I have every reason to suspect that she travelled further afield: a neighbouring country, Austria or France.

Me: Then, why are you texting me?

Eli: A new assignment?

Me: You will visit every destination in Europe to track down Christina Moschini. Do what is necessary to escort her overseas. Only then will you have a valid reason (permission) to come back to London.

Eli: As you wish.

“Hello.” Mary waved a hand in my face. “Earth to Brad. Why do you do that? You start a conversation, then zone out. If this were a date, I would slam you as the worst romantic engagement in the history of traditional courtship.”

The god-awful sight of her babyish pout evoked previous discussions about lateness and drunkenness. “If you do not want to go home, tardy and unkempt, steer clear of the alcohol and soberise.” My phone went onto the bar top. “Maybe then, and only then, will the guests be willing to stay.”

“Neanderthal.” Face like thunder, Mary thanked the master mixologist for the tall glass of ice water presented on an embroidered napkin. “Unkemptness is subjective.”

If I wanted to be brutal, I would tell her to visit the ladies’ room for an image touch-up. Mascara had smudged beneath the eyes. Her cheeks were a peachlike bloom, and her hair looked as though it had been dragged and twisted by a metal rake. “Unkemptness isnotsubjective. You are messy, or you are not.”

“You are one to talk. Your eyes are like pissholes in the snow because of all the cocaine you sniff in the men’s room.” Mary, with the tender tips of her fingers, brushed unruly strands out of my eyes. “Are those natural highlights, or do you spend time and money in the salon?”

“Natural,” I stated, gleeful and proud. “Be honest. I rock the man bun. And do not start me on headbands.” Or the styled braid at the deft hands of Mrs Warren. “Those tools are the best inventions of all time. A dime in a dozen.”

Mary laughed, her eyes dazzling like fine diamonds. “You know, you remind me of someone…” She gave me a half-hearted nod. “The actor, Adam Demos.”

“No,” I rebuked her for the insult of comparing me to another man. I have no recollection ofthe actor, Adam Demos. “Have you seen me? I am without equal.”

“Yes, I have seen you.” Mary’s breath held as she awaited a response. “My opinion stands.”

“Hey, I found my own path to individuality,” I said, then proceeded to describe myself precisely and materialistically. “I am the embodiment of muscularityandmasculinity-one of a kind. Do not be a hater. It does not suit you, not one bit.”

“Who is hating? You are every designer’s wet dream.” Mary scrutinised me with rapt overtness. “I love the stylish pairing. The pin-collared shirt and broad peaked lapels draw attention to your large chest.” Her stare roved over me. “Throw in a Rolex watch and twenty-four karat gold…You must be worth a bloody fortune.”

“Are you done?” My scowl warned her to back off. “One, I will not be objectified. Two, I cannot differentiate between admiration and eye-fucking.”

“I am not eye-fucking you.” Her delicate brow arched. “Brad, I am a fashion designer shaping the menswear industry. Obviously, I get excited when I see models in the making. You are a natural trendsetter.”

My eyes rolled to the back of my head.

“You could earn an extra income and influence plentiful gentlemen in the process.”

My back relaxed against the bar. “An extra income doing what?”

“Photoshoots and advertisements…” A sigh slipped past her lips. “London Fashion Week is due to take place. I could probably pull a few strings to get your foot in the door…”

“Are you mad? I might be a notoriously bona fide fashion icon, but I have absolutely no interest in runway shows. Besides, I am not strapped for cash. I do not need an additional income.”

“Good, Lord. Your short fuse is staggering.” Mary picked up my glass of whiskey, forcing me to take it. “A countermeasure to escape objurgation.”

Royally pissed, I sipped at the whiskey.

“All jokes aside, I have a great line coming out in the summer.” Mary unlocked her phone, clicked on a pin-coded folder and turned the screen toward me. “Gold brocade on flocked black velvet with matching jacquard blazer. Tell me this is not right up your street.”

“It’s got the whole Dolce and Gabbana’s jacquard look going on.” I marvelled at the slim-fit jacket with black and gold print on the Bogart fabric. “And this is one of your designs?”

“Yes, Sir.” Mary slipped the phone into the Birkin handbag. “You can have first dibs if you are nice to me.”

I might take her up on the offer.

Soon, our conversation flowed with good banter and familiar badinage. I don’t know how it happened-or when I agreed for it to happen-but we got sidetracked and took that prohibited trek down memory lane.

“You loved Annmarie Speight,” Mary teased, and I felt sick to my stomach. “And don’t you dare lie to me. Everyone knows you had a huge crush on her.”

“Speight?” The cute brown-haired chick with bright-pink spectacles and dental braces. “You have mistaken me for Braggart.”

Mary pulled a face. “Who?”

“Brian, the blatherskite,” I rasped, and her eyes, watery from tears of laughter, rounded widely. “Brian, the pussy-bragging braggart.”

“Pussy braggart.” Mary cackled hard, her forehead dropping to the bar as she keeled over at the waist. “You are an awful friend.”

“I am,” I said far too casually. “But then, some might argue that he is the awful friend.” Sitting on the stool, I stared at her for a couple of seconds, then looked back to the raucous crowd near the window. “Brian had a soft spot for Annmarie The Great. They took each other’s virginity inside the old barn down by Moor Road.”

“Brian never told me about Annmarie.” Mary wiped away the tears underneath her eyes. “In fact, when I noticed her sniffing around the two of you, I asked him about her, and he specifically said thatyouwanted to be her boyfriend. I never thought to question it.”

“Brianis a pathological liar.” My head shook slightly in further disappointment. “So, when did he feed you this bullshit? Was it before or after the two of you decided to hang out without me?”

Mary’s firm, steadfast eyes fixated on me. “What do you mean?”

“You both forgot about me.” No hard feelings. Only curiosity. “You would creep out in the middle of the night and hide in the woods. I would be at home, wondering what I did wrong.”

“That is not true,” she denied the accusation. “I always invited you to come two out. Brian told me thatyouhad outgrown us. You wanted to be left alone. I think it was something about consoles…” Her tongue pushed into her cheek. “When your mother turned in for the night, you liked to sneak on the game.”

Not overly surprised by the dickhead’s unoriginality, I scoffed into the whiskey glass. “Is that what he said?”

Mary smiled confidently.

“I don’t even care anymore.” Fact. I am over past troubles, especially where Brian and Mary are concerned. “Brian is old news.”

“So, where is he?” She wondered aloud. “Brian, I mean. You both disappeared together. I assume he left with you.”

Tapering down feelings of uneasiness, I chose my words carefully. “Yes, I stayed with him for a while. But our ambitions varied. He went one way, and I went another way.” My shrug was uncaring. I am not compelled to divulge. My secrets are exactly that.Mine. “I haven’t seen him since.”

“Just like that?” she mused, and I tipped my chin. “God, I hope he is okay. Maybe we should try and track him down someday.”

Good luck with that. Last I checked, Brian was ash and soot in the wind alongside ex-girlfriend Tiffany, the bed-hopping whore.

“Enough about my adventures.” Leaving the empty whiskey glass on the coaster, ready for a refill, I turned on the stool to face her head-on. “Let’s talk about you. Why did you leave?” My ring-laden fingers weaved together. “Or rather, how did you escape the lair of Daddy Dearest.”

“Har, har,” Mary mocked, and I smirked down at her. “Truthfully, I ran out of lifelines. If I stayed for another minute, I reckon my father would have killed me.”

Face devoid of emotion, I listened with attentive ears as she nervously tore a napkin to shreds.

Mary’s hands flattened on the bar top. “How much do you remember about my family?”

Not much. Mary had strict, religious parents and a couple of brothers. “My mother used to call you the preacher’s daughter.”

“Your mother was right,” Mary said, and I did not overlook the fact she referred to Yolanda in the past tense, which indicated that she knew the vile woman was no longer with us. “Hamish is an ordained minister in the Mormon Church. I could sit here all night, explaining all the reasons why the man is the devil incarnate, but I will focus on one major issue I had with my father.” She reached for the water glass and sipped generously to slake her thirst. “My father is a heartless, narrow-minded bigot. In his eyes, homosexuality is unholy and unbiblical and warranted the highest degree of reprehensibility.”

My stare hardened. “Hamish is homophobic?”

“Yes…” Her chest shuddered on a breathless inhalation. “Do I need to spell it out for you?”

I am lost.

“Brad, I am gay,” Mary blurted out, and I swear, when I shot her a stunned look, I broke the bones in my neck. “I have always liked women, but I did well to hide it from him until, when I was much older, someone caught me kissing a girl and informed my father immediately. All I remember is my phone blowing up with calls and text messages. Hamish left countless voicemails, too. I remember the day as if it were yesterday. He was going to beat seven shades of shit out of me when I got home. I was terrified.”

My tongue tripped over itself. I had no words. None, if you can believe it. Brad Jones, who, on a typical day, does not shut the fuck up, is speechless.

“The Mormon church is a cult. Can you imagine whattheywould have done to me?” Mary’s entire body shuddered at the thought. “They would have whipped the demon out of me whilst he watched from the sideline. You cannot tell me otherwise. You know he is a bad man. The worst.”

I had yet to compartmentalise the woman’s family into categories. A blank image whenever I ponder about them. “Are you happy?”

Mary looked at me, the wickedest smile on her lips. “Yes, I amveryhappy. Getting out of that house was the best decision I ever made. I have zero regrets.”

“Then, you made the right choice to leave.” Christ, I might need another shot of whiskey to get through the conversation. I cannot believe my childhood crush is a full-fledged lesbian. “Gay, huh?” My smirk was wolffish. “You naughty little-”

“Do not make any crude pussy jokes,” she said with an admonitory point of the finger. “I mean it, Brad. I will take off my shoe and beat you with it.”

“But we do need to have this chat,” I practically begged, and her eyes flickered to the ceiling. “Mary, I just discovered that my childhood crush has gotten naked with other women. You know that’s every man’s fantasy, right?”

“I am every man’s fantasy?” Mary deadpanned, and I vacillated with a response. “Oh, right. You mean I am an active participant inyourfantasy. Got it.”

“Use to be,” I corrected as she leaned closer, her face inches away from mine, one dimple denting her cheek. “A fantasy as told in the past tense. I got over you a very long time ago; however, I am somewhat, in the present, interested in your bedroom shenanigans.”

“I was your crush,” she said quietly, and I simply stared, knowing the message was loud and clear in my eyes. “I never would have guessed.”

“I tried to kiss you once.”

“You were only curious.”

“I followed you around like a lost puppy.”

“You were my friend.”

No, I was pathetic, so pathetic, it was embarrassing. I hate all that I used to be. If I could erase every memory, I would do it in a heartbeat. “I gawked at you every second of every day.”

Her expression became serious. “Are you still in love with me?”

“Do not be ridiculous,” I said airily, and her glossed lips tipped at the edge. “I was never in love with you.”

Mary squinted in suspicion.

“So, what do Mary and her lover look like in bed? Hot. Naked. Hot. Sexy. A dusting of perspiration…” My arms folded over my chest. “I need raw material for imagination purposes-” The woman clouted me over the back of the head with a leather-bound menu. “Christ, I was kidding.”

“You said hot twice.” Her lilac-varnished talon jabbed me in the chest. “Keep my sex life out of your head, or I will brand you as a pervert.”

“Calm down, Florczyk.” Rubbing the sore spot on my head, I snatched the menu out of her hand and hurled it behind the bar. “Fuck, that hurt. I should clout you back.”

“Do not make idle threats.” Mary flicked her hair over one shoulder. “You wouldneverhit a woman.”

Positively delusional.

“You are too kind,” Mary insisted, and I welcomed the change, the error in judgement, for one night only. “I know you, Brad. Therealyou. A good man: patient, committed, attentive, loyal and honest. You are the one to hold doors open for old ladies. You assist old men across busy streets and offer to carry their groceries home. You helped the neighbours mow their gardens and paint their fences. Hell, you were a saint.”

“You speak of a weak, pathetic little boy,” I said, having no memory of the abovementioned instances. “We are not the same people.”

“Brad…” A sorrowful shadow crossed over her face. “Nobody can change that drastically.”

My brain caught up to the jazz music playing in the overhead speakers. “I beg to differ.”

“Fine. I will no longer try to convince you that you are a nice guy. You can claim the moody title of an uncivilised troglodyte.” Mary sighed, tired and defeated. “So, is Brad Jones on the market?”

“Why?” My eyebrows danced mischievously. “Are you interested?

“No,” she said with a light laugh. “I am engaged and very much in love.” A diamond engagement ring glittered on her finger. “Her name is Patricia, but everyone calls her Patty.”

“Patty,” I whispered, testing the name on my tongue. “Will I get an invite to the wedding?”

“Absolutely.” Mary swallowed hard, glimpsing at the time on her wristwatch. “Although, wedding plans are on hold until further notice.”

“Really?” Unzipping the leather wallet, I paid the mixologist for a whiskey refill. “Why?”

“My brother…” An incredulous look. “I had to break into savings…” Her mouth opened to say something, but she tucked her feelings away. “It’s okay. I can be a party planner in the future. My family is more important.”

I put two and two together. “You moved to London to be closer to your family?”

“Yes.” Mary had sobered. “My brother called me one night. He was upset. I was worried sick. I briefly chatted with my partner and made a mutual decision to relocate. I wanted to be closer. At least, that way, I am only around the corner if and when they need me. Anyway!” Her legs crossed elegantly at the knees. “You have yet to answer my question.”

With an expression of faux cluelessness, I leaned one elbow onto the bar, biting my lower lip. “What was the question?”

“Are you married?” she asked, acutely aware I am not. “It is a straightforward question.”

I barely suppressed annoyance. “I do not see a ring on my finger.”

“I see many rings on your fingers.” Mary grabbed my hand, examining the gold bands and ice diamonds. “Except the unbreakable bond of lifelong love and commitment between two married people. I need to understand why the handsome, undeniably rich man is single. Please, do not tell me you are the successful bachelor stereotype. I will vomit.”

I am disgustingly transparent. “I am single because I have not met the right woman yet…” Her eyes cruised over my face with a quizzical glint. “What?”

“Who is she?” The empath shovelled through my head like a professional burglar, stealing my thoughts and replacing them. “Come on, Brad. I know that look. You got your sight set on someone. Spill the beans.”

“Sky’s the limit,” I joshed, polishing off the rest of the whiskey. “I can have whoever I want, whenever I want. Hey, maybe I can introduce you to some of them. You can help me decide if any of them are wifey material…” I tried to downplay the seriousness of how I truly felt, but my chest was too heavy. “I have to exclude one girl, though. I am not mad. She has a lot on her plate. I only complicate matters.”

Mary sighed like a lovesick teenager. “What does she look like?”

“She is the definition of beautiful,” I said honestly, placing the empty glass on the resin coaster. “Everything I could want in a woman, I found in her. But she is emotionally unavailable. I have, after many tantrums, reached an acceptance and agreed to walk away for good.”

Her chin rested on the heel of her hand. “Why is she emotionally unavailable?”

Emma’s story is not mine to share. “Irrelevant.”

“Well, I think this mystery woman would be insane not to fight for you.” Mary fixed the knot of my tie, which had skewed due to tension-tugging. “Are your feelings reciprocated?”

I am not so sure anymore. “Perhaps.”

“Then, be patient and trust the process. If you two are meant to have a happy ending, she will come back to you when she is ready to choose happiness over emptiness.” Her hand stayed on my shoulder as she re-claimed the water glass. “I have to leave soon. You are more than welcome to join us. Patty is cooking. And Brad, Patty is an amazing cook.”

No, I am not in the mood for social gatherings. “Maybe another time.”

“You know, I still cannot believe Brian lost his virginity to Annmarie Speight. Moreover, I am stunned that he kept it from me.” Her hand moved to my thigh instinctively, which was a bad idea. Not because I am easily aroused by a woman’s touch, but…three, two, one- “That is not normal!” Her hand withdrew sharply as if the slight graze of a man’s fantabulous cock was poisonous to her. “Holy shit. Never mind the fashion industry. You were born to be a fucking porn star.”

And there you have it. I rest my case. “Hey, I never told you to get touchy-feely with me,” I said with a twitch of the lips. “You did that all by yourself. Now, I want to touch upon the compliment. A porn star? Yeah, I can dig that.”

“I will take that Golden Levain now!” Mary yelled across the bar to get the mixologist’s attention. “Brad, I am so glad I do not have a penis. Good Lord, I would not know what to do with something like that swinging between my legs.”

“No,” I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Firstly, do not put my name and penis in the same sentence. I have a cock.”

Her face was red, hot and bothered. “A very large cock.”

“Yes, and I love it.” You cannot change me. I will always embrace a good ego stroke with open arms. “Secondly, I know how said cock operates, so if you require more knowledge about a man’s reproductive organ, I will be happy to lead the way to privacy and show you.”

“We are not having this conversation.” Paying the mixologist for a drink of colourful components, she tucked the debit card into a purse emblazoned withSaintLaurent. “On a more serious note, do you have plans next weekend?”

I always have somewhere to go and people to see. “Why?”

“Well, I have this thing…” Mary’s fingers curled around the glass as she contemplated what I assumed was the weekend in question. “An international conference on fashion design technologies. There will be seminars, congresses, symposiums, workshops, programs, etcetera…” Our eyes briefly connected before she put the glass to her lips and knocked back the entirety of its contents. “Okay, I am just going to come out and say it. Almost everyone attending the event believes I am straight. Of course, I will still bring Patty along for the ride, but she will only be there as a friend. I need a believable plus-one, and Brad, walking into the building with a man like you on my arm is the statement I need to make.”

The woman lost me the second plus-one left her mouth. “Are you asking me if I can be your fake date for an entire weekend?”

Mary nodded.

“Absolutely not,” I protested, and she looked at me despairingly. “Do not give me those puppy dog eyes…” Her eyelashes fluttered like helpless butterflies. “Mary, I am not a male escort. If you need a fake boyfriend to hide your sexuality? More fool you. Personally, if I were in your shoes, I would not give a shit. People can take me as I am, or they can get fucked.”

“Will you consider it?” Her plea came out as a breathy whisper. “Brad, I will cover all the expenses. You only have to show up with a suitcase and in style. Please, I am not above going on my hands and knees and begging.”

“Just go online and search for escorting services,” I suggested, and she droned on like a grouchy teenager. “I am not for hire. For fuck’s sake. Even saying that out loud sounds ridiculous. To Hell with fucking freebies. I got more money than sense.”

“I know you are not cash-strapped.” Snagging the suit jacket on the back of the stool, she stuffed her arms through the creased sleeves and half-heartedly tidied her appearance. “I ask you as a favour. You could literally be the answer to all my prayers…”

No, I do not buy it. There is more to this than meets the eye. “Why is this event so important to you?” My stare was accusatory. “If you cannot be yourself, why bother? That is no way to live, Mary.”

“Trust me when I say that my reasons are valid.” Mary pinched my phone and held it in front of my face for the biometric scanner to deactivate the lock. “I have saved my number, just in case you change your mind. Who knows? You might fancy a change of scenery or a well-deserved break from reality.”

Refusing to allow her to negotiate, I drained the refilled whiskey glass in one mouthful and left the glass on the coaster.

“I am almost ninety-nine percent sure there are spa treatments on site: swimming pool, sauna, gym and massage…” Mary’s lips pushed forward. “Okay, I know better than to pester and push my luck. I have to get back home anyway.” She slapped the phone onto my upward-facing palm. “But if you do, by some miracle, have a change of heart, bring a friend for Patty. It will look even more convincing if the two of us have dates. You understand.”

Mary bid farewell and exited the cocktail bar through the revolving doors of glint and glass. I stood there with incoherent thoughts, but ultimately, I knew, in my gut, that I wouldneveragree to be someone’s fake boyfriend.

Would I? No. I am not that desperate for attention. But I am desperate for downtime to unwind and regroup…

Shaking ridiculous concepts out of my head, I returned to the bar stool and ordered another drink.

I might stay here for the rest of the night, ingest alcohol until I cannot see straight or think clearly, then track down a nearby takeaway and gatecrash Nate’s place. I do miss late-night encounters with the brothers.

My phone jarred on the bar top.

Mabel’s name is on the screen.

Unlocking the phone, I clicked on the notification to read the old bird’s message and instantly soured.

Mabel: Alice is acting out of character tonight.

My blood churned into molten lava the second I registered the name.

Me: Can you be more specific?

Three dots danced on the screen.

Mabel: Well, I am not sure if any of the men have touched base, but she is distraught and impossible to console. I had to leave the bedroom to go downstairs and see what all the fuss was about.

Me: She better not be in the main house.

Mabel: No! Alice only knocked on the back door. A guard escorted her back to the annexe.

I am done with adulting.

Mabel: Mr Jones, I am worried about her. She looked distressed, and she is, of course, pregnant with your child. I do not want to hear of complications in the morning.

Me: Why was she upset?

Mabel: She flat-out refused to talk to anyone.

Me: Then, how can I be of assistance?

Mabel: Alice requested an audience with you. Judging by her tears, she might need some reassurance. You are never home. You never check in on her or ask about the baby.

I do not reply because Mabel is right. I avoided Alice Montgomery like the plague and never considered the pregnancy or the baby.

Mabel: I suggest you come home earlier this evening to deal with her. As I said, I do not want to hear of complications in the morning. Mr Jones, you will never forgive yourself if something happens to the baby. Please, from one friend to another, be mindful of the potential consequences of your actions.

Christ, I hated this meddlesome woman at times. Why I put up with her is beyond me. I should have given her a kick up the backside weeks ago.

Me: Fine.

Mabel: Will you be home soon?

Me: Yes.

Mabel: Thank God.

Sick to the back teeth of trials and tribulations, I exited the message thread and almost locked the phone when Mary’s name called to me like a moth to the flame.

Starting a message thread with Mary, I typed a short message and sent the unthinkable.

Me: I will think about it.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Emma

My trip to the shopping centre started with the right intentions. I would overcome innermost fears and protracted anxieties and walk into Harrods with my head held high to buy the perfect gift in preparation for Benjamin’s firstborn child, but the juxtaposition of beauty, clothing, accessories, homeware and baby fever central was the exemplar of the Devil versus the Angel technique.

The uninvited phantasm of light and dark is entirely incorporeal, dualistically defined, forcefully persuasive and destructively accurate.

I had to choose between baneful selfishness and sheer selflessness.

Did I want to be in the vicinity of newborn babies whilst blithesome mothers contemplated nursery furniture?

Is it reallythatbad if I listen to the dourness of evil and ignore the reality of truth? I could pretend for a while longer, go about my day being deliberately obtuse on the matter in the name of broken-heartedness.

Or I could heed the plea of good and face the shadow of pain. Not only for Benjamin’s benefit. For mine. For the baby. For the relationship I will, someday, crave and cherish.

I had to pave the way for the little person’s auntie because I knew when my twin brother’s newly born child, with the eyes of an evergreen forest, was swaddled in the safety of my arms, I would forget all the reasons why I feared our family’s new addition and experience the true meaning of love at first sight.

“I have a crazy aunt and I am not afraid to use her” is what the ever so chatty embroiderer stitched onto the stark white vest I purchased to go inside the neutral-coloured gift bag alongside sleepsuits, blankets, cuddly toys and soft books.

I got carried away and almost bought everything in sight until Terrence, the permanent bodyguard and impermanent roommate, interjected on behalf of my bank balance and advised against wasteful expenditure. “It might be wise to double-check with your brother” is what he suggested whilst I stood in the middle of the store and designed the baby’s nursery.

I might have died of embarrassment. I mean, who does that? Who takes it upon themselves to rearrange someone else’s home? I do, apparently. I got over-excited and lost one’s sense of proportion.

My heart was in the right place, though. I wanted to prove to Benjamin and Quinn that I cared about them and the new baby and that I wanted to be present, kind, loving, considerate and thoughtful rolled into one perfect package.

Irrespective of insuppressible mortification, I left the store happier than when I entered, with a bag of goodies in hand and the largest of smiles on my face.

One down, two to go.

Free of guilt, I peregrinated nomadically throughout London until I mustered up the courage to make an appearance at the restaurant like an apparitional body of wide-eyed dumbfoundedness.

There was a time when the thought of returning to work seemed like an impossible task, when the responsibility of waitress service, welcoming guests, taking orders and communicating with the kitchen was like murky waters, too deep to stand in and beyond the capabilities of someone struggling with mental health.

Yet, there I stood, with the immutable path to the boss’s office within walking distance.

I am not the person I was yesterday or the day before that. I am growing as an individual and learning to trust what fate has in store for me.

Sure, I will never be complete without my son. But I can survive his loss for the sake of existing.

Laurence was less than impressed to see me. He told me to take a seat whilst he throned himself on the opposite side of the desk in a high-back leather chair like the King of England to read me the riot act.

When I could be bothered to show up for work, I was unpunctual, unpredictable, unforthcoming and unproductive compared to other employees.

As a further matter, I allowed personal issues to affect my job performance and ignored the man’s calls, text messages and emails.

I disappointed him and did nothing to warrant a second chance.

However, Laurence, with innate kindness and gentlemanly considerateness, decided that I was worth more than what my actions portrayed. He opened the window of opportunity for me to prove myself and rectify the matter with a clean slate.

I shook his hand and vowed to be the best waitress he’s ever hired, which, of course, Sade jokingly argued from the confines of the hallway, where she twigged the conversation with an ear to the door. I know if Laurence declined my request for reemployment, she would have stormed into the office, truncated the dismissal and laid down the law until he agreed to throw awelcome-backmat beneath my feet.

Two down, one to go.

It was easy to spot my brother through the crowd of casually dressed customers and unformed supermarket assistants. I lingered by the automatic sliding doors, with the gentle zephyr of bravery on my face, watching the boy I grew up with stack shelves and slap bright yellow discount labels on the food that was approaching its use-by date.

Benjamin looked miserable and out of place. He did not want to be here, wearing nondescript black trousers paired with maroon and orange fleece and cotton. He wanted to be at the cafe, in the kitchen, where he felt at home.

When we were younger, I remember my brother coming home from rugby practice late, and our father would be on the doorstep, ready to berate him. Hamish would drag Benjamin inside by the ear, then beat him with the belt for every defiant minute he stayed away.

I hated it, the sound of brutal lashes on raw skin, the gruffness of my twin’s broken voice when he begged to be heard-just like I hated it when Martin cried, or when Miles sobbed, or when Mary whimpered.

God, I was a coward. I hid in the bedroom every time, with the door closed, my eyes shut, and my hands over my ears, praying for a higher power to intervene. I counted in my head until silence replaced sadness, and I knew it was safe to breathe again.

I never checked on my older siblings in the aftermath of our father’s tyranny because they were closed books. You could not approach them to see if they were okay. You’d get a door slammed in your face if you did. I used to think it was resentment. I seldom got on Hamish’s bad side, and they felt bitter about it.

Now, I realise the act of cold-hearted refusal was fierce protectiveness in disguise. My older siblings did not want to burden me, the baby of the family, with fear, worry and helplessness.

If only the book of knowledge had come sooner. Tiny or not, I would have fought my way through boundaries and hugged the shit out of them, even if they rejected me because I know now what I did not back then, how much they needed to be loved and appreciated in those dark moments of insanity.

Benjamin, on the other hand, was never off limits. He was always available and approachable. I could go to him at any time of the day for a cuddle. He could have been battered and bruised and broken beyond repair, but painful conditions were powerless against the unbreakable bond of twins. If I walked into his bedroom, sat next to him on the bed and put my head on his shoulder, not a word between us, he caved within seconds, wrapped an arm around my waist and snivelled into my hair.

I was his protector, and he was mine.

Sometimes, Benjamin’s sadness morphed into anger in the wake of our father’s cruelty. He would lock himself in the bathroom with the murderous thoughts we touched upon later that day, and I would sneak across the hall to rearrange his bedroom. A game I played to wind him up, to divert his frustration.

So, when my brother left the trolley of canned vegetables in the aisle to show a customer where the frozen fish was stored, I tucked the gift bag under my arm, dashed to the abandoned station and made a mess of the shelves.

I switched the seeded bread for tinned tomatoes, turned the canned beans upside down and dumped random crisp packets next to the bagels.

Stealing the price gun labeller, I discounted freshly baked doughnuts for ten pence a pack. Then I ran like the clappers into the next aisle in time for him to return and continue the task.

It took a lot for me not to laugh. I peered around the end of the aisle in between boxes of branded cereal and witnessed the moment the confusion etched across his face. He glared at the trolley, then turned to the bagels to comprehend how the Walkers brand landed in the bakery section.

Benjamin gathered the crisp packets and returned them to the rightful shelf. He stared at those packets in anticipation, as if he half-expected them to grow arms and legs and crawl back to the hand-sized rings of baked dough.

The yellow-sticker bargain doughnuts caught his attention. Recognising the error, he picked up one of the boxes and looked for the misplaced-or rather-stolen price gun labeller. When he came unstuck, he left the plastic container of sugary goodness on the trolley and retraced his footsteps. He probably thinks the gun is somewhere near the frozen fish. It made sense.

Adjusting the gun’s information display, I changed the label’s pricing and quickly printed stickers for the doughnuts. He will have a panic attack when he sees the freebies in the store.

This time, when my brother came back, red-faced and flustered, I stayed in the aisle but at a distance, pretending to be a customer. He never batted an eyelid or cast a sideways glance. He was too distracted by the free doughnuts.

“What the fuck?” he muttered to himself, and I had to look away to refrain from laughing. “I hate my life.”

Chewing my lower lip to stifle amusement, I peeked out the corner of my eye and watched as he ripped yellow stickers off the containers like a savage beast.

Those poor doughnuts never stood a chance, springing into the air and swivelling across the floor, not that he cared enough to acknowledge the confetti of sprinkles. He was done. It’s not like the store manager’s radar meant anything to a man who felt as though he had nothing to lose, specifically his job.

Holding the gift bag to my chest, I sidled closer. “You dropped the tortilla wraps-”

“I don’t care!” Benjamin’s green eyes, cold with contempt, swung in my direction. “I have more important things to worry about…” The words died on his tongue when he saw me. “Emma…”

Trapped in his gaze, I gave him a demure smile. “Hey, Ben.”

His lips pressed firmly together as he stopped himself from saying something he might regret. A reprimand I deserved, but my brother, no matter how angry, chose to be a better man.

Apart from the night outside his apartment building-where I pushed and probed and aggravated until he could not take any more of the emotional pain I had inflicted-he never lost his cool with me. Today is no different. He stepped away, head low in despondency and hands curled into fists, then proceeded to fix the disarranged shelves.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Benjamin whispered, and I swallowed the large knot in my throat. “Did you honestly think the hide-and-seek game would work? You cannot come to my workplace and fuck around. I could lose my job.” He fixed the upside-down cans of baked beans. “We are not kids any more, Emma.”

“It used to make you smile,” I said, leaving the price gun labeller on the shelf of pre-cooked baguettes. “You liked it when I distracted you. You would spend hours looking for hidden medals and trophies. I never made it easy for you.”

My brother was silent.

Even though I stared at the floor in shame, I could sense the heat of his eyes on me. “I had this entire speech planned, but when I got here and saw how sad you were, I just wanted to do something right for a change.” My cheeks were flushed hot. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

He studied me closely. “I guess I did forget for a short while.”

“Yeah?” I asked, peering up meekly. “Is it too soon to ask what’s on your mind?”

“That depends on the nature of this visit.” He canted an eyebrow. “If it’s worth my while, I will be honest with you.”

“Well, I had a lot of free time on my hands. I had time to think…” That is not how I should start the apology. “You know what? I could stand here all day and tell you that I deserve to be hated and resented and unloved, but the truth of the matter is, I do not deserve those things. I am a good person, but I made a terrible mistake. I came to your home and hurt you in the most unimaginable way because I was too selfish to consider anyone but myself.”

Benjamin listened intently.

“No excuses. You loved Carter like a son, and I was wrong to suggest otherwise…” My eyes briefly flickered to the ceiling to blink back tears. So help me, God, I will be strong. This is not about me. It’s about him. “You are not wrong for leaning on Quinn and choosing happiness during the darkest moments of our lives. You, of all people, deserve the best and only the best. If your new family can provide even the smallest measure of fulfilment after our boy’s disappearance, I can sleep peacefully at night, knowing that my favourite person in the whole world is going to be okay.”

My brother watched a single tear fall down my cheek.

“We are not replacing Carter,” I said aloud, and he grimaced at the internal pain I knew he felt. “We are preparing for his cousin.” Bringing the gift bag into view, I placed it on the trolley, reached for the personalised sleep suit and held it up between us. “What do you think?” He read the needlework without any degree of emotion. “I am a bit crazy, but I reckon this kid is going to love my craziness-”

Two large arms came around me. My body was crushed, yet I could breathe properly for the first time in a long time. All was right in the world just as long as I had my twin by my side.

I hugged him back, looked heavenward and thanked the lucky stars for granting one wish.

“I love you,” he rasped, and I clung to him for dear life. “You are a pain in my fucking arse, but I would not change you for the world. You wanted to know what I was thinking about. You. Emma. Always you.”

My hands latched onto the material of his shirt on his upper back.

“Mary invited me over to her place for dinner.” His chin rested on my head. “She mentioned that you might be there, and I was worried that you would leave if I showed up, but I would never miss an opportunity to see you.”

My sister is so crafty. “A guileful puppeteer is controlling us,” I said, recalling how she tried to play cupid when Hugo was around. “Mary is determined to fix everyone.”

“Yes.” Benjamin released me with a quick rub on the back. “But I would not change her, either.”

“Same,” I agreed, inspecting the loaves of bread bespattered with yellow stickers. “We better get those off before your manager-” My brother, without my watchful eye, had stealthily picked up the gun and stuck afor salesticker on my forehead. “Seriously?”

“What?” He bore dimpled cheeks with a self-satisfied grin. “I thought you liked this game.” Another sticker on my face-right on the cheek. “Isn’t that what you said?” Ninety-nine pence on the nose. “You wanted to distract me in the best possible way.”

“Do not get carried away.” Whacking the gun out of my face, I peeled labels off my cheeks but damn if those sticky buggers were inexcusable as they came down on me like hot showers. “Okay! You made your point!” The onslaught was never-ending. “Benjamin Hughes!”

“Yes…” He slowly lifted the gun and ejected a sticker onto my chin. “Sorry, the perfectionist in me could not leave a space.”

I glared at him. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

He nodded.

Payback is a bitch.

Unboxing a pack of four chocolate doughnuts, I selected the one oozing custard and-to the sweet sound of my brother’s complaints-slathered it across his face. He choked in shock when the creamy filling trickled into his mouth.

“There.” Dusting off my hands, I tossed the dismantled doughnut onto the trolley. “We are even-” I got slapped in the face by a chocolate eclair, the hollow shell crumbling, the sickly-tasting filling forcing its way into my mouth. I spat out a lump of pastry. “I cannot believe you did that.”

“Oh, there is plenty more where that came from…” He uncapped a can of squirty cream and shook it for good measure. “Now, where do you want it?”

My eyes rounded. “I will murder you-”

Before I could make sense of the change in the air, I ran down the aisle like a naughty teenager with my brother hot on my heels, spraying cream on everything in sight to catch me in the process.

“Ben!” My panicked voice startled the customers, but I slowed down for no one. Everything went in the air: fruit, veg, rice and pasta. “You are going to lose your job!”

“Fuck it,” he said, breathless, then pied me in the face with a sour-tasting lemon tart. “Yellow is your colour.”

Unable to open my eyes, I came to an abrupt stop and removed chunks of gooey pastry from my lashes. “And here I thought I was the childish twin.” The sliding doors opened for me to leave the store. “Terrence is going to kill me. I cannot get in the car when covered in sugar…”

Benjamin is gone. I half-expected him to say goodbye before I left, but I guess the fun was over.

Bystanders gawked as I walked on by like one of the Lost Boys from the movie Hook. Hell, I had cream in my trainers, squelching with each step I took along the pavement.

“Emma!” My brother called, and I spun on my heel to see him jogging toward me with the gift bag gripped tightly in his hand. “You left without me.”

“I thought you went back to work or something…” It sounded stupid when I said it, so I do not know why I thought it. “You are not going back, are you?”

“No, Ma’am,” Benjamin joked, and honestly, I kinda liked his rebellious side. “I never belonged at the supermarket. I mean, with all the talent in my hands, I should be fighting for a head chef position, right?” He used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the dollops of custard on his forehead. “You and me. Let’s make a deal right now. I will get a job at Hélène Darroze at The Connaught or something, and you will get your arse in university for a photography degree. Come on.” He raised a hand between us. “Pinky swear, or I will go back inside and beg the manager for my job back.”

“Emotional blackmail?”

“I will not apologise if it works.”

“What happened to Mrs Warren?”

“Alexa never got back to me.” He shrugged it off like it was no big deal. “It’s all good. When one door closes, another opens.”

“I don’t know…” I love capturing the world through the art of photography, but the practice of taking and processing photographs was only a hobby. “I am not even that good. Plus, I cannot afford the extortionate cost of a university degree.”

“You cannot put a price on happiness.” He nudged my chin with his fist. “Or natural talent. You have a gift, Emma. An eye for detail and a passion that sets your soul on fire. It’s always been about Carter and me…” He never broke eye contact. “Put yourself first for a change.”

I suppose I did have a clear vision and a passion for sublimating life to the creation of photographs. “Fine,” I agreed reluctantly, but deep down, I was excited to enter the next phase of my life. “I am pretty good with a camera. I should share my talent with the world.”

“Attagirl.” A proud smile touched my brother’s lips. “Pinky swear.”

“I swear.” My little finger curled around his not-so-little pinky finger. “That I will get myself into university and get that damn photography degree. Hell, I will be one of the best damn photographers in history. How does that sound?”

“It sounds like we are about to break generational curses and put an end to the toxic patterns that surround our family.” His arms outstretched. “Shit, if Mary can get out of that hellhole to take over the fashion industry, then anything is possible, right?”

I laughed. “Right.”

***

My sister’s townhouse in Chelsea is the epitome of solid architecture and sublime grandeur. I spent the first thirty minutes in complete astonishment, inventorying the entire property.

The double-height living was indisputably the heart of the home, with bespoke floor-to-ceiling windows and open shelving in matt lacquer showcasing the most beautiful books. A dramatic fireplace clad in a textural ribbed dark grey presided over the formal seating area of warm blues and golds, where hand-knitted rugs and contemporary furniture elaborately fringed the softly painted walls.

If the outstanding living quarters did not steal the show, then the six-tiered, smoke glass chandelier centred above the twelve-seater dining table certainly did. Or perhaps the landscaped garden with antique furniture, outdoor bar, external hot tub and ground spotlights were the cynosure of eyes. It could be the luxurious bedroom that was bigger than my whole flat. I had yet to decide.

Patty, wearing a bright pink apron over the sparkly black dress, poured three glasses of expensive-looking wine after placing the cheap bottles I bought on the journey over here on the kitchen counter.

“Where is Quinn?” she asked my brother, and he told her that Quinn would meet us here soon. “I am afraid to ask why the two of you have dry shit all over your clothes. You can find something clean to wear inside Mary’s office.”

“Thanks.” Benjamin is already removing the dirty Sainsbury’s uniform. “Where is Mary?”

“Your sister is running late.” Patty slipped on a pair of oven gloves. “Don’t worry. She won’t be too long.”

Shooting Terrence a quick text message to let him know I got inside safely, I left the phone on the kitchen table and followed my brother to Mary’s office.

Racks of new clothes took up most of the space. I flicked through garments to find something comfortable to wear, but my sister mostly hoarded men’s fashion. “I am not wearing a suit to dinner.”

“Well, I am.” Benjamin selected a grey three-piece suit. “It’s not every day that I get to boast designer labels.”

I almost left the office to ask Patty if I could look inside my sister’s wardrobe for something more appropriate to wear when the criss-cross dress made of champagne satin and thigh-high splits on the old-fashioned desk beckoned my fingertips.

Imbued with a sense of confidence, I touched the sequined detail on the plunge neck design with covetous hands. It would fit my body like a second skin.

“What do you think?” Benjamin looked ridiculously handsome and very smart in a suit. His hand flatted on the paisley waistcoat. “I might keep this one.”

“You should,” I agreed with him. “I am sure Mary will give you a free pass.”

“Probably.” My brother checked his reflection in the free-standing mirror. “There is a packet of facial wipes on the sideboard.” He scrubbed away the dry cream on his face, then hightailed toward the door. “I will be in the kitchen, telling Patty how to cook.”

Once the door shut behind him, I peeled the dirty clothes off my body and folded them onto the desk, ready for the washing machine. Then, with the delicate straps dangling on the tips of my fingers, I pulled the dress over my head and let the soft material fall to my feet. It was too much for a dinner party in someone’s home. It was very unlikely that I would wear it outside of the office. But I had to try it on.

Rounding the desk, I stood in front of the mirror and smoothed my hands down the front of my body to iron out the barely noticeable creases when the door creaked open and my sister’s reflection appeared in the mirror. “Hey,” I said, watching her stride toward me. “Sorry, I should have asked you first. I just wanted to see if-”

“I am not mad.” Mary came to my side and admired me in the mirror. A long pause lengthened between us before her throat cleared. “You look just like our mother.”

Taken aback, I felt instantly bitter. “I am nothing like her.”

“Do not be insulted. Our mother might be a heartless cow, but there is no denying her beauty.” Mary opened the pack of facial wipes and removed the smatters of cream on my face. “I have yet to finish the dress. I wanted to add a spine of crystals, but I can see now that you have it on that intricacy is unnecessary. Do you like it?”

“I do, but my opinion is irrelevant.” My sister is beyond talented. To say I am proud of all her achievements would be an understatement. “You know best as the designer.”

“Your opinion is relevant.” Grabbing a soft brush from the desk drawer, Mary styled my hair into a low, elegant bun. “I designed it for you.” Satisfied with my tweaked image, she threw the hair accessories aside and palmed my shoulders from behind. She had kicked off the shoes before she joined me in the office, but the lack of footwear did not make a dent in her height. “You look beautiful, Em.”

“Thank you.” My cheeks warmed at the compliment. “Patty said you were running late. Is everything okay?”

“Yes.” It was then, whilst I shadowed her into the hallway, that I noticed she was a little unsteady on her feet. “I went to a bar for a tipple after work.” The front door suddenly knocked. “I will get it!”

My sister ran like a crazy person down the hall and seemed to vanish into thin air. To get on her level, I had to consume alcohol and said alcohol was in the kitchen with Patty, Benjamin and…Quinn.

My footsteps faltered when our eyes collided. I had to make things right with my friend, but now that she was in front of me, I did not possess the ability to speak.

“No,” Quinn scolded with a finger aimed at me. “You do not walk in here and cower away from me.”

I could not tell whether she was serious or not. “Quinn…”

“You silly girl.” Quinn’s heeled shoes clicked along the floor as she barrelled toward me with arms opened wide and a smile from ear to ear. “You know I am incapable of staying mad at you. I love you too much.”

“I am so sorry-” Her hug caught me off guard, not that I shied away. I embraced her for so many reasons. One, I owed her an apology for how I behaved that night at my brother’s place. Two, I did not need a reason to hug my best friend. Three, I missed her so much. “We might not be related by blood, but you have been the best sister I could have asked for and the most incredible auntie to Carter. When you found out that you were pregnant, I should have been the least of your concerns. I will never stop apologising for making you feel like you could not be happy.”

“Hey,” she cooed, her hands coming to my cheeks. “Look at me. I get it, okay? The timing was shit. I knew it would set you back, so I wanted to wait for an appropriate time to tell you. Truthfully, I am glad it’s out in the open now. I won’t rub it in your face, though. I promise. As far as I am concerned,” she covered her small bump with her cardigan, “I am not even having a baby yet.”

“No.” Peeling her fingers off the hem of the cardigan, I parted the material and touched the smallest of mounds. “You will talk about the baby every day, and I will be right beside you, happier than a pig in shit,” I added, and a burst of airy laughter left her lips. “I am so happy for you and my brother. I am even more thrilled that he finally got the balls to come back to you.”

“Thank you,” Quinn mouthed.

“Do not thank me. I am going to be the best, the coolest, and the craziest aunt that you pair of lovebirds could have asked for.”

“I love how she is stealing all the limelight.” Mary’s light-hearted joke faded into the background when I noticed a tall figure skulking into the open space. “Emma, I invited your friend Hugo to dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” I lied with a fake smile. “However, I wonder why he did not message me directly.” Hugo texted this afternoon to see if I was okay, yet he never deemed it appropriate to give me the heads-up. “The thought slipped your mind, did it?”

“I wanted to surprise you.” Hugo’s appreciative gaze swept over me as he leaned in to give me a hug. “You look really nice.”

“Thank you,” I said politely, then accepted a glass of fizz from Benjamin. “So, what’s for dinner, Patty?”

Quinn’s eyebrows raised when she detected the saltiness in my tone of voice, but she never commented. I was unsure if the vexation was directed at my friend, Hugo, or my sister, Mary. Maybe both.

“You have a few options.” Patty gestured to the fancy casserole dishes on the kitchen island. “There is a fish and mushroom casserole with crispy phyllo. Hasselback eggplants with parmesan. And, last but not least, my favourite: Puglian-style paella. I hope you like mussels.”

I had never tried mussels before, but I am not against seafood. “It smells delicious.”

Mary offered to carry the wine bottles. “Let’s eat in the garden.”

Dinner beneath the stars went surprisingly well, considering the untalkative awkwardness between certain individuals.

I parked myself between Patty and Benjamin to avoid Hugo. It’s not that I disliked the man in any way, shape or form. I am glad that I found a friend in him. However, I could not shake the irritability I felt since his unexpected arrival, which is probably unfair, because he did not invite himself. He was asked to be here.

I sighed into nothingness.

Mary had to learn the definition of boundaries and fast. I have asked her nicely not to meddle in my personal affairs. What must I say or do for her to take me seriously?

The Sunshine Band’s “Give It Up” played softly from the bar’s overhead speakers. I have lost count of how many times it has invaded the playlist tonight. I will know the lyrics word for word by the time I hit the sack tonight.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Patty’s brisk sternness had everyone’s eyes lifting from the dinner plates. “Mary, I am not looking for an argument, but you promised to take it easy on the alcohol.”

“Please do not start with that nonsense,” Mary rebuked, and I snuck a glance at my brother, who was already watching me for a reaction. “When was the last time I sat down with the twins and enjoyed dinner with them? Oh, that’s right. Never. This never happens. A glass of wine is not going to hurt anyone.”

“You were half-cut when you got here.” Patty set the plate of half-eaten eggplant to the side. “Which reminds me, why didn’t you answer the phone when I called.”

My lips puckered.

Okay, so they are about to have a lover’s spat with an audience.

“I was busy doing thatthing,” Mary enunciated every word with precision. “Don’t look at me like that. You know what I am talking about.”

Patty’s eyes narrowed. “You are lying.”

“I am not lying.” My sister spilt wine on her legs when she snatched the glass on the table. “Hey, I never planned to get drunk earlier.”

Some might argue that drunkenness is still ever-present.

“But when an opportunity arises, I must do whatever it takes, remember?” Mary’s bulbous eyes pleaded with Patty for cooperation. “Oh, for goodness sake. I might as well come out and say it. I have, potentially, found fake dates for Martin’s wedding next weekend.”

Feeling slightly nauseated by thoughts of the dreaded family reunion, I reached for the wine bottle, refilled the glass and threw effervescence down my throat.

“Why do you need fake dates?” Hugo forked paella into his mouth. “Aren’t you both in a relationship? No judgement. Only curious.”

“You are more than welcome to join us.” Mary is on a destructive roll tonight. “My bet is Emma does not have a plus one on standby. You should totally take that spot.”

Hugo’s lips parted to speak, but I beat him to it. “Mary,” I hissed, and she shrugged one shoulder. “Will you stop? If I wanted a date for the wedding, I would have asked Hugo directly.”

“Fine. Do not come as her date. Be there as her friend,” Mary continued to interfere, and I had to stop myself from kicking her beneath the table. “Anyway, I am on the hunt for fake dates because our father is a homophobic prick who will more than likely strangle me if I show up with a woman on my arm.”

“That sucks.” Hugo, with a tight smile in my direction, swigged wine to wash down all the food he’d inhaled. “I guess it’s not the worst idea. You can still share a room but step out as straight friends. It works.”

I cannot believe that everyone is entertaining this madness. “Our father is not stupid,” I said, low and serious. “Besides, he will remember Patty. The moment he sees her, he will know she is the girl you ran away with. You know I am right.”

“No, I don’t think her name was ever mentioned.” Benjamin embarked on the crazy train. “Someone from church told him that Mary had been caught kissing a girl. He was too angry to ask for a description.”

Irked by the entire conversation, I shot him a warning look. “Do not encourage them.”

“Hey, what they do in their spare time is their business,” Benjamin defended himself, and my eyes rolled back. “Em, be reasonable. Mary is right. If she wants to attend the wedding and forgo Dad’s judgments, she has to play the part. No one is asking her to leave Patty behind. But I agree with them. Fake wedding dates is a smart move.”

I could not suppress bitterness if I tried. “Since when did we care about Pappa Hughes’ approval?”

“It’s not about Hamish.” Mary twirled the wine glass by its delicate stem. “For Martin. I will not be the ruination of his big day.”

“This is wrong,” I said, and Patty placed a hand on my knee in a comforting gesture. “No, I am not upset with you. I think it is really unfair that you guys have to hide your sexuality. You are gay and proud.”

Mary and Patty smiled at each other.

“I will never understand why Martin invited our parents.” No longer hungry, I slid the plated mussels out of view. “The wedding could have survived without them. Why must everyone pretend to be okay because they demand respect? We hate them.”

“Martin has forgiven them.” Mary had an agreeable glint in her eyes, but she would be understanding for our brother. “Miles, too.”

“You have got to be shitting me.” My jaw was on the floor for most of tonight’s shenanigans. “Why? Our parents do not deserve forgiveness. Not after everything they put us through.”

“Who cares?” Mary’s nonchalance was a facade. I know that our father’s hatred and our mother’s rejection crippled her. She would give anything to be accepted by them. “If our brothers are willing to let bygones be bygones, who are we to question them? All I know is I have not been in the same room as my siblings since I was young.” Her smile was sad. “I cannot describe in words how excited I am to see the gang back together.”

Benjamin’s eyes searched mine for reassurance.

“I am okay,” I told him, which did nothing to mollify him. “Really, I am. But Mary, if our father so much as gives you a dirty look, I will not be held accountable for my actions. I will air all his dirty laundry if he upsets any of you.”

“We are not obligated to speak to Hamish.” Mary checked a message on her phone. “Oh, shit. Our ‘maybe’ dates said they would think about it.”

My brows welded in confusion. “Think about what?”

“To think about attending the wedding. God, Em. Keep up.” Mary’s hands drummed on the garden table with excitement. “You know what that means, don’t you? It means that I am days away from receiving a guaranteed yes.”

Patty’s hands covered her ruddy face. “Are these guys even nice-looking?”

“I can only describe the one gentleman because I have not had the luxury of meeting his friend.” Mary delved in for a second serving of casserole. “Think tall, muscular, handsome, dangerously confident and the type of eyes that stare into your soul.”

I huffed in dismay.

He sounds like my kind of guy.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Brad

I never thought I would see the day when syndicate business and personal matters were almost unendurable. I used to work better under pressure (stress and inconvenience mostly powered performance), but lately, I could not think of anything worse than punctuality, reliability, or dependability.

Truth be told, I lacked all of the above and more: unusual lethargy, questionable amnesia, inherent self-destructiveness and a general sense of directionlessness. I am what the boss would call an incompetent imbecile.

A short break is requisite to overcome mental exhaustion. I can go away for a couple of days, clear brain fog, eliminate multiple stressors, find positive ways to distract myself, and, in the process of stress recovery, restore energy, decrease fatigue and get my head back in the game.

Christ, I could see it so vividly: five-star luxury hotel, relaxing space, maximum comfort, aromatherapy oils, mineral-rich body formulas and leisure facilities. A nice gym to work out. A bevvy or three. Moreish congenital breakfast delivered straight to my suite.

Three days of sheer bliss is a no-brainer. I will return to London with fresh vitality, magisterial enthusiasm and impetus to the rise of Warren Enterprise.

The Italians won the first battle, but victory will descend on The Syndicate. I have to pick up the fragments of mass destruction to rebuild Liam Warren’s empire, but each brick will be golden, expertly placed and virtually impenetrable.

Ignazio Corrazzo is misinformed. He is under the illusion that Liam Warren’s men were brought to their knees in a pitiful display of cowardice and acquiescence and that every fallen soldier decamped to no man’s land in the wake of self-pity, defeatism and humiliation.

The end of the criminal war could not be further from the truth. I am not dead yet-and until the day I am pushing up the daisies, I still have a lot of fight left in me. I did not get thus far in the syndicate by playing all my cards at once. Sure, I have to reshuffle the deck of devious stratagems, but opportunities are endless, and the power of hierarchy is inevitable.

Mark my words: I will have the last laugh.

Assignment One: Steal Joslynn.

“No.” Josh, who lived in a gothic building guarded by concrete gargoyles, is by the church-style doors in nothing but grey jogging bottoms and gold jewellery. “You texted. I said no. You called. I said no. You turned up, uninvited, to my home, and I continued to say no.” He regarded me with an icy stare. “I am not easily persuaded, Brad. You can beg until the cows come home, but I will not change my mind.”

My back leaned against the parked Bentley. “I need a wingman.”

“The fuck you do,” Josh bickered pointlessly. We both know, come hell or high water, when all is said and done, I will be driving to Yorkshire this afternoon with him strapped to the passenger seat. “An overconfident man in need of a hand-holder?” He snorted indignantly. “Yeah, I do not buy it.”

My hackles rise. “Do not patronise me.”

“I am not patronising you.” He had the cheek to look offended. “I am stating inarguable facts.”

“Is it so hard to believe that I might actually need a friend?”

His eyebrow arched.

“Fine. You are right. I do not require a wingman. But if I want to get out of London for a few days and luxuriate in spa treatments, I need a guy, preferably easy on the eye with a conversational charm, to pretend to be in love with a hot chick for a mutually beneficial goal.”

“A hypothetical scenario should not convey such a strange amount of detail.” He is nonplussed by the ridiculousness of the discussion. “Wait, I have to pose as a lovey-dovey do-gooder? Are you fucking tapped?”

I imagined numerous mental health professionals would diagnose a borderline personality disorder. “Partially.”

“Let’s say I am leaning toward the possibility of a deep tissue massage.” He stood with arms akimbo and a bright red lollipop in his gob. “What personal benefits do I gain by going on this stupid trip?”

“Is a deep tissue massage not beneficial to you…” My thought process dwindled when his jaw muscles ticked. “An all-expenses paid-for vacation.”

Josh sighed in discontentment. “I am not convinced.”

“An inexhaustible supply of food and alcohol.”

“I am still not convinced.”

“A bastard knickerbocker glory with a cherry on top.”

“Unconvinced.”

The son of a bitch is out for my goddamn blood. “What the fuck do you want?

“I want to get laid. It’s been a hot minute since I received a good blowjob. So, if you can guarantee that I will come out of the hotel on a damn stretcher, I will shake your hand to seal the deal.”

Speechless, I tell you. “You want to be fucked into paralysation.”

“I want to be fucked until I cannot walk straight.” Removing the lollipop from his mouth with a wet pop, he hurled it across the overgrown garden of grotesque gnomes and confused-looking goblins. “So, Wingman.” His sarcasm is limitless. “Do we have a deal or what?”

“How can I guarantee that you can pull a bird with such an ugly mug?” If he does not get upstairs and pack a bag in the next thirty seconds, I will toss him over my shoulder and dump him in the boot with a muzzle of duct tape fixed to his trap. “The likelihood of a bedmate is on you, Casanova.”

He pondered in silence.

“Joslynn, I came here to ask if you would attend the event as a courtesy when, in reality, I make the rules, and you do not get a say on the matter. You can get in the car willingly or unwillingly.” Unlocking the Bentley, I swung the driver’s side door open and gestured to the comfortable heated seat on the left-hand side of the vehicle. “Either way, I will be driving to Yorkshire today with you in attendance.”

“Fine.” Josh, with a slew of expletives in a strained, sotto voce tone, shoved the heavy-duty door open, ready to go inside, and I spied an array of random leather shoes on the tiled floor in the foyer, the messy fucker.. “I will go, but only because you asked nicely. And quit with the emasculation bullshit. I never agreed to Joslynn.”

Assignment Two: Make friends with Mabel.

Matching a flame, I lit the end of a blunt, perched onto the edge of the driver’s seat, feet planted on the floor outside the car, and sent the sourpuss a text message.

Me: I have a business trip this weekend. You have guards aplenty and entertainment galore. Take care of my son. I will see you when I get back.

Me: P.S. I left a slice of chocolate cake in the fridge for you 😉

Mabel: A cake?

Me: You like cake.

Mabel: I hate cake.

Me: Why be stubborn?

Mabel: Fine. I love cake. But gifts, bribes and cajolery will not get you on my good side. I am still angry at you for not coming home.

When I went to the bar with Mary last week, I promised the old bint I would console Alice in her hour of need.

To the Nanny’s dismay, I got shit-faced, coked-up and crashed at Rosewood London instead, where I have stayed ever since.

Hotel accommodation did not affect work performance. Most nights, I slept like a baby in the grand executive room, basked in the walk-in shower compulsively and indulged in the chandelier-decked dining room almost every morning.

And still, I made it to the club, nice and early, decked to the nines, to irritate the younger Warren brother.

I only swung by the estate this morning to pack a travel case and hang suits clad in garment covers on the car’s built-in hook compartment.

Home is supposed to be where the heart belonged, but the unwanted presence lurking in the shadows had turned the safe haven into an eerie prison. I felt like an intruder whenever I pushed through the main door.

Mabel: Not to mention Master Dominic. He did not sign up for an absent father. You promised, Mr Jones.

Me: I love my son.

Mabel: You have a funny way of showing it.

Me: You are cruising, Mabel.

Mabel: I only want what is best for the lad. And you. Not that I should give a rat’s arse about your feelings.

Me: I never asked you to.

Mabel: But I do, Mr Jones. I care about you and your son very much. I do not want present actions to have a knock-on effect in the future.

The bubbles of chastisement on the screen proceeded to dance.

Mabel: Master Dominic will not be a baby forever. He is to be a fine young man one day and a smart one at that. He will eventually notice the man he calls father is never around to see him. His mother also. He will ask questions. Do you want his pain and confusion on your conscience?

No, I will ensure that my son does not know hardship.

Me: You are one text away from dismissal.

Mabel: Is that a threat?

Me: I like you, Mabel. You are a fantastic Nanny to my son. But you are replaceable. Remember that the next time you forget your place.

Mabel: I am only trying to help.

Me: I never asked for help.

Mabel: Fine. Your relationship with Master Dominic is none of my business. What about Alice, though?

Me: Alice is not your problem.

Mabel: But the baby…

Me: Not your problem.

Mabel: What if she does something stupid? You did not see her that night, Mr Jones. I am genuinely concerned.

This woman is relentless.

Me: I need specifics.

Mabel: I fear that she might hurt herself.

Mabel: And your unborn baby.

Me: Get to the point.

Mabel: You see, when Alice came to the main house, inconsolably tear-drenched, she said something to one of the guards that unnerved me. Mr Jones, she might have been arguing with others, but she looked at me when she said it.

Me: What did she say?

Mabel: Do not push me. I push back.

Me: Alice is emotionally charged. Correct me if I am wrong, but it is normal for pregnant women experiencing hormone changes to be hampered by wild mood swings.

Mabel: No, you did not see the look on her face, Mr Jones. Well, I have never encountered evil quite like it.

I almost laughed.

Mabel does realise that she is surrounded by killers, right? Alice is a mere fish in a world full of sharks.

Me: Alice is a harmless brat, looking for attention. Ignore her.

Mabel: I have time to think and reflect when I lie in bed at night. My thoughts often wander to Edith. A conversation or two might be playing on my mind.

Me: Her death was unfortunate.

Mabel: I don’t want to make accusations.

My attention sharpened.

Mabel: Edith had reservations. She came to the main house one morning for a cup of tea. Before she started the cleaning rounds with Lilith and Iris, she asked if I liked Alice. Or if I trusted her. I explained that I had no reason to dislike the young girl. Edith felt differently. Instinct told her that something was very wrong. She was determined to prove that Alice was up to no good.

Me: What is the accusation?

Mabel: Edith died twenty-four hours later.

Goosebumps rose on my arms.

Mabel: What if Alice is behind Edith’s death?

Me: You have a wild imagination. The clumsy old mare fell down the stairs.

Mabel: You must consider the other housemates. Iris, Lilith, Gilbert and Jonah. They could be next. You must look into it.

Me: If they live in fear, why have they not come to me? All they have to do is knock on the door. Not one member of staff raised grievances. Only you, which is ironic because you do not reside in the annexe building.

Mabel: Please, I beg you. Keep tabs on Alice. She is a danger to herself and others. I feel it in my gut. You have to believe me.

The Nanny’s solicitude qualified for deliberation. I might loathe and resent Alice Montgomery, but the baby, who did not ask to be here, is due acknowledgement.

Pulling a drag on the blunt, I exhaled a sigh of indignation. I am not even sure how I feel about the baby. I know what is expected of me: security, involvement, financial support and unconditional love.

But how can I love something that cannot be seen or heard? There is no connection, excitement or anticipation.

A harsh truth, but I secretly wished for an alternate ending. Me and my son against the world. And, if life was fair, Emma and Carter. An ideal situation.

I did not see a future with this baby, and I hated myself for such brutal heartlessness.

Me: Alice is fine. If she wanted to do something stupid, she would have done it by now.

Mabel: How can you be so sure?

Suicidal people do not think. They act.

Me: I trust my gut. The damsel is desperate, not depressed.

Mabel: What of the other housemates?

Me: I will move one of the guards into the annexe building.

Mabel: Will you investigate Edith’s death?

Me: How can I prove foul play unless someone witnessed the incident? What I can do is install surveillance.

Mabel: But the annexe building should be private for the staff.

Me: Do you want me to take action or not?

Mabel: Mr Jones…

Me: Final warning.

Mabel: Fine. Enjoy the business trip. I will see you soon.

Me: Kiss Dominic for me.

When she left the message unread, I sent another one.

Me: I have taken everything you have said on board.

Message read.

Me: I will keep an eye on Alice.

Mabel: Thank you, Mr Jones.

Josh, freshly showered, clean-shaven and dressed to impress, reappeared by the historical replica of The Addams House with all that ice and gold and that pretty boy hairstyle. He locked the front door, tucked the key in his back pocket and walked backwards with a large, wheeled holdall scraping along the uneven path.

“You owe me big time.” Josh had a million and one complaints that no one has ever died from. “And I demand extra pay.”

Assignment Three: Ask Vincent to take the reins until further notice.

Deleting the conversation with Mabel, I thumbed through contacts and shot the man himself a request.

Me: Vincy Boy, I need a favour.

Message delivered.

“Unlock the boot,” the grumpy sod in the background demanded. “Come on, Brad.” A sharp fist rap to the rear windshield. “I am freezing my bollocks off.”

Ebbing away from homicidal tendencies, I held my breath, respired slowly, and then pressed the boot release button.

“You just sit there and look pretty.” Josh put the holdall in the boot, closed the power-operated door and threw himself onto the passenger seat seconds later. “I will do all the work, as per usual.” He spotted the Starbucks Caramel Frappuccino in the cup holder. “Is that for me?”

“Yes.” I had to come with reinforcement to get Josh out of the dilapidated mansion on the hill. “Not that you deserve it.”

My phone pinged with a message.

Vincent: What can I do for you?

Me: I have a business trip this weekend.

Vincent: And I have a date with Eva Longoria.

Me: You are into the whole sugar momma, huh?

Vincent: Rather, I find sophistication and maturity attractive.

Me: Whatever rocks your socks off.

Vincent: What do you want, Jones?

Me: Take care of the syndicate for me until I get back.

Vincent: It bothers me that you might be serious.

Me: Oh, I am deadly serious.

Vincent: You are never too busy for work.

Me: I earned a sabbatical.

Vincent: Should I be concerned?

Me: No, I will only be gone for three days.

Vincent: May I ask, what is the purpose of travel?

Me: No, you may not.

Vincent: Consider it done.

On that note, I clicked on Mary’s recent text message to read the address, then typed the postcode into the infotainment’s navigation system. “Four-hour drive.”

“You are taking the piss.” Josh slipped a pair of sunglasses over his eyes, slurping the blended iced coffee through a green straw. “Why do we drive everywhere? Warren owns a private jet.”

Yes, I am aware.

“And a helicopter.” He is overcome with indefinite dread. “I swear, you do this shit on purpose.”

“Yes, because my only goal in life is to get under your skin.”

“Well, I am beginning to wonder.” Josh ransacked the glove compartment for a protein bar. “I breathe too loudly, and you threaten to kill me.”

“Just go to sleep.” Or I will put you in a chokehold until you pass out, I thought in exasperation. “I mean it, Joslynn.”

“Why are you so moody lately?” Reclining the seat all the way back, he stretched out with arms locked at chest level and legs crossed at the ankles. “I much prefer the other Brad Jones.” He stuffed a rolled-up hoodie behind his head as a make-do pillow. “Let me know if you find him.”

Reversing out of the driveway laden with untamed hedges, I waited for the steering wheel to automatically return to the centre, switched to first gear and steered onto the main road. “I am the same person.”

“I disagree.” He remonstrated that I am delusional and too self-centred to notice personality changes. “You used to be so laid-back. The life and soul of the party. Nowadays, I only have to walk into a room, and you bite my head off.”

The assertion that I am not the man I used to be exposed a nerve.

Am I different? If so, why?

Is the resentful admission a ruse to drag me back to the past because he felt left behind?

No, Josh is not a bitter man. There is nothing he would not do for the brothers. For me. For the institution. For Liam Warren himself.

Perhaps I am too hard on the lad.

“Maybe you have changed.” Feeling like an arsehole, I stared concentratedly at the road. “Ever thought about that? For starters, I do not remember you being this annoying. You are difficult to be around.”

“People say I am a younger version of you.” A noisy exhalation left his mouth. “If I am too much to bear, then you are too much to bear.”

The petulant geezer made shit up as he went along. I am incomparable. “Nobody says that.”

“Everyone says that.” The incessant drivel hurt my head. “I want to be obdurate and run with insincere joyfulness, but candour is admirable.” He lectured me with some prolixity. “As quoted by Jim Rohn: You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.”

“Horseshit.” Christ, I hate motivational speakers. They talk the talk, but can they walk the walk? Nada. Apart from making vulnerable or penniless people feel unsuccessful, they impose the belief that happiness equals wealth without concrete evidence, which is utter nonsense. Take it from a man who lives a high life. I am stinking rich and have friends in abundance, but I have never been truly happy. Always searching for something or someone to fill the void in my chest. “Jim Rohn is a tool, and you are a bigger tool for listening to him.”

“Just admit that I am a product of my environment.” The antagonistic tosser gave me a self-deprecatory smile. “That I was heavily influenced by the syndicate’s quipster during the initial months of transformation.”

“You got a promotion. Not a fucking facelift,” I said, laughing in an insane manner. “Okay. You win. I shaped you to be the man you are today. I take full responsibility.”

“Good.” He scrolled through news articles on his phone. “Can we get food? I will waste away if I do not eat in the next three seconds.”

My body shifted in the seat for comfort. “What do you want?”

“McDonald’s?” he suggested, and my eyes twitched. “I could murder an Egg McMuffin.”

And I could murder the person responsible for the foul-tasting fast-food chain. “Sure.”

Josh squeezed my knee. “You are very agreeable since our heart-to-heart.”

“Shut up, Joslynn.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Brad

The spectacular grade two listed Victorian hotel in Doncaster, South Yorkshire, is set in the background of picturesque expansiveness, with over two hundred and fifty acres of clear blue skies, alpine pasture, cedar thickets, rural ponds and historical architecture.

A hidden gem.

An impermanent home.

I was aflutter with excitement, and great enthusiasm and eagerness were not limited to the long overdue pampering session. The international fashion conference enticed the fashionista in me. I might get the first refusal of the industry’s newest collections and style trends.

Positively blissful.

• Armani shorts for the sauna.

• Versace sunglasses for the rooftop.

• Cesare Attolini’s suit for the bar.

• Macallan whiskey for the balcony.

• Massage oil for the masseuse.

I was organised for every possible event.

Nothing can go wrong.

Not one setback.

As I could not find a space in the hotel’s adjacent car park of bumper-to-bumper vehicles-the story of my life-I drove further afield for the exploratory visit, reversed the Bentley onto a small, grassy knoll next to the lakeside Staff House and tapped Josh on the cheek to wake him up, not that he awakened from the land of the dead. He was out for a count in the arms of Morpheus.

“Joslynn.” I clicked the digital handbrake button to deactivate the system, then powered down the engine. “We are here.”

Josh, with long, sinewy arms crossed under the chin, snored softly, not even a flutter of the eyelashes or muscle movements. He is the worst travel buddy. Thanks to the bone-idle mute, I spent four and a half hours of motorway driving with only my thoughts to contend with.

“Sleeping Beauty.” My hand tap to his face was slightly more aggressive. “Get up and bounce. I have a hot date with the masseuse.”

He did not budge, but when I curled my finger and flicked him clean in the nose, he jolted upright with a choked snort. His watery, nerve-stricken eyes reopened. A death stare. Bloody fuming.

“Good afternoon.” I cachinnated with mirth. I am, after all, the syndicate’squipster. “We have reached our final destination.”

“Brad,” he croaked, fingers checking for invisible blood on the schnoz. “I think you broke my nose.”

No broken bones. His nose was perfectly intact.

Josh groused pitifully. “Why are you like this?”

I put the car key in my trouser pocket. “Like what?”

“Incurable!” He unfastened the seatbelt, throwing the extendable strap to the side so forcefully the steel buckle chinked on the window. “A gentle, sensory input next time, Brad.”

I will not dignify that snide remark with a response.

Josh complained whilst unloading the boot, not that I tuned in to listen. I was too busy marvelling at the restored building, where Mary-who had sent a couple of cheesy usies to let me know that she had arrived-enjoyed afternoon tea in one of the many suites with the pale-faced, raven-haired fiancé, Patty.

Travel case and suits sheathed in garment covers in possession, I locked the Bentley, walked lightly to the building via the cobblestoned path and entered through the porticoed entrance, where the concierge service stood beneath the ornate chandelier of coruscating gems, greeted guests by the grand bifurcated staircase.

“Reservation for Brad Jones,” I said to the slim, brown-haired receptionist behind the oak-panelled desk. “A friend made the booking on my behalf.”

“Brad Jones…” The woman’s fingers clicked the keyboard as she scanned the computer for a booking. “Ah, yes. The King Suite. A dual aspect room on the ground floor with garden views.” Two keys with embroidered leather keyrings landed on the desk alongside information pamphlets. “Free high-speed internet. A complimentary bottle of sauvignon blanc in the wine cooler.”

“You can keep the wine.” I tucked the folded printout of our booking details into the inner pocket of my suit jacket. “Where is the gym?”

“Gym?” Her expression was a mixture of confusion and wariness. “The hotel does not provide gym facilities; however, there is a tennis court on-site and a fitness centre down the road.”

Josh gave me a funny look. “No gym?”

“No,” she replied, alert and wary. “But you do have an open bathroom. It is the room’s best feature.” Her fingers laden in accessory rings patted the stack of information pamphlets. “You might catch a glimpse of the strutting peacocks if you wake up early and stand by the window.”

Fuck the strutting peacocks. I want to know which docile architect eliminated the en-suite. “A what?” I asked, and the woman, detecting a hint of hostility, eased back in the upholstered chair. “I did not request an open-plan bathroom.”

“And the room only provides a double bed,” Josh piped in, having wrestled with the stony-faced receptionist to read the booking details on the computer screen. “That is not going to work for us. We need separate beds or separate rooms.”

“I am sorry.” Her face was aflame. “But The King Suite is the only accommodation I can offer. We are fully booked until Monday.”

I will throw a bitch fit. “Where is the shower?”

“You have traditional bath-mounted mixer taps.” Her defined eyebrows raised as if to persuade the audience. “It is very classy.”

“I have to climb inside a freestanding bath to wash,” I intentionally deadpanned, and her lips meshed in abashment. “Yeah, that’s not acceptable, Dollface.”

“Bathroom facilities are the least of our concerns.” Josh is distraught. “I am a grown man. I need my own room.”

I am not ecstatic about the sleepover, either. “Do not downplay the significance of the problem. A large container for water will not suffice.”

“A bath can work if the hotel can supply a room divider screen,” Josh stressed, mistaking thalassophobia for gymnophobia. “But the double bed got to go.”

“How am I supposed to wash?” I asked him, and he scratched the side of his head in bewilderment. “I have a minimum of two showers a day.” Four or five, but who’s counting? “I will not budge.”

“Are you worried that I might see the donger,” he spoke like a ventriloquist, albeit very loudly, and the nosey receptionist looked away to pretend she was not listening. “Because I have seen what’s in your trousers many times before. You are not shy in the bedroom.”

The receptionist choked on air.

“No. We are not…” Heat travelled to my face. “We do not do that kind of stuff…together…” I stuttered to a red-faced halt when her curious eyes bounced from me to Josh, then back to me. “We are not lovers. He meant parties that involve a group of people.”

“Oh, yeah,” Josh said casually, resting one arm atop the desk as he stared down at her. “We do not, like, touch each other…” A line of contemplation formed on his forehead. “Well, I mean, there was this one time when I could feel his scrotum on mine, but there was a beautiful woman between us. Killer breasts.”

My eyes closed. “Stop talking.”

“Yes. Right. Of course.” Josh’s eyes cast to the floor. “Foot in mouth syndrome. I excessively talk when I fuck up. I know. It is a bad character trait, but I am working on it.”

“Anyway.” My palms rubbed together. “About the room.”

“Mr Jones, I cannot apologise enough for theinconvenience.” Her glossed lips cracked into a small, sheepish smile. “But I can only offer what is available. The King Suite.”

Josh looked at me.

I looked at him.

A vow of silence.

I resigned first. “You will have to compromise and sleep on the floor.”

“And you can get fucked. You promised a luxurious break away. Not a goddamn camping trip.” Josh removed the sunglasses in one swift motion and wielded the force of playful flirtatiousness to get on the recalcitrant woman’s level. “Hi.”

The dithery receptionist glared at him over the rim of black-framed glasses, the plastic ridge balancing on the tip of her crooked nose. “Hello.”

“I know you will do everything you can to satisfy customers.” A slither of the man’s chest could be seen through the crisp white shirt, where two buttons had miraculously popped open. “I cannot stress the inconvenience of our current situation enough.”

“Yes…” Her soft eyes fluttered at half-mast. “The popularised motto is the customer is always right, but as I told your friend, the hotel is fully booked until Monday.”

“You understand why two-men-in-a-bed is not on the agenda for us.” The warlock beguiled with expressive eloquence and a boyish charm. “I mean, what if I find a pretty woman here?” The suggestive undertone caused the shameless woman to squirm in the seat. “How can I invite her over to my place with Oscar the Grouch.”

My smile dropped.

Oscar the Grouch.

Smooth, Joslynn.

“That is quite the quandary.” She tapped a pen on the desk. “But you could always invite the pretty woman to the library or the dining hall.”

“Right, I will just eat her out on the public dining table,” Josh whisper-shouted to emphasise logic, and I should not encourage churlish behaviour and bad manners, but I laughed before I could get a handle on myself. “Look at the fucking size of him.” He gesticulated dramatically at the length of my body, and I admired my reflection in the foyer’s mirrored wall to see what all the fuss was about. “I will not share a bed with Gulliver’s Travel.”

Taken aback by the brigade of insults, I huffed out a breath of annoyance.

“It’s a violation of human rights.” He was apoplectic with rage. “You know what? Fuck this nonsense. I want to speak to the manager.”

The lady stood on shapely legs, her hands splaying on the desk. Oh, she meant business. “I am the manager.”

A frown sat on my brow as I looked between them. When the silence became unbearable, I cleared my throat to remind them of the other people in the foyer.

“Right…” Josh studied her for a beat. “Aren’t you the loyal factotum?”

Her lip curled. “I prefer multi-talented.”

“Or that.” He rubbed his clean-shaven chin in deliberation. “Listen, I know how this shit works. You have plenty of suites available but are disinclined to give them out. Is it money? If so, we can pay more.”

“Mr…?” She hedged with care, and he provided a surname. “Fitzpatrick. If I could offer separate rooms on the other side of the venue-as far away from my station as humanly possible-I would gladly do so. But unfortunately, I do not. You should have made a request prior to the booking.”

Two parties were stalemated.

We are not getting anywhere.

Snatching the keys and pamphlets on the desk, I hoisted the hung suits over my shoulder. “Does the room have a sofa?”

Josh is murderous. “I will not join the sofa crew.”

“Why?” My smile was cheeky. “You said it yourself. I am too enormous to top-and-tail with someone.”

“There is a beautiful window nook in the suite,” the woman informed us with a self-satisfied smile. “And additional blankets in the wardrobe.”

Josh was aghast. “She will tell us to pitch a tent in the fucking garden next.”

“Calm down.” Throwing my arm around Josh’s shoulders, I wheeled the suitcase along the unvarnished hardwood floor, leading him past the curious staff members in the foyer toward the hallway of baroque decor and hotel suites. “Look, I get it. You are mad. I am mad. But I do not want the setback to ruin our trip.” My eyes skittered over the door numbers to locate our room. “Besides, you plan to get laid this weekend. Save all that pent-up frustration for the bird instead.”

“I would have pegged her.” Josh waved aimlessly behind us, to where the receptionist slash manager scowled from behind the front desk. “But I will never forgive her for bad customer service skills. She is shit out of luck.”

Finding our door, I fumbled with the key and inserted the serrated point into the lock. “A shared bedroom will not matter when you are balls deep…” When the door creaked open, the poky suite coming into view, I had to double-check the printout of our booking details because there was no way on God’s green earth that Mary would be so wickedly callous. “Fucking Christ.”

I had no words. None. Not one thought came to mind bar the direness of the plight. A claw foot, roll top bath, right there on the vintage tiled platform, is the focal point of the dusty, malodorous, old-fashioned suite. Mismatched furniture. Threadbare textiles. Patterned wallpaper. Even the arched window frame, with a slight, mucid sheet on the glass, belonged to the Victorian era.

“The brochure lies.” Josh teetered on the precarious edge of a mental breakdown. “This is not five-star accommodation. Look at the maroon carpet! It matches the maroon drapes and the maroon chairs and the maroon light shades!” He slapped a hand over his mouth to suppress a grimace of horror. “There is a maroon bin under the desk. This is a disaster!”

“I get it, Joslynn.” Blowing a harsh breath, I slipped a toothpick between my lips, licking it to the corner of my mouth. “Everything is brownish-red.”

“I feel sick.” He rubbed his chest as if the heel of his hand could ease the ache of doom. “The furniture smells older than Nanna Fitzpatrick.”

Closing the door behind us, I put my back to the wall and thrust a hand through my hair. “Nanna Fitzpatrick is dead.”

“I know!” Josh tossed the holdall onto the antique four-poster bed, and a flurry of dust particles filtered into the air. “Great. Airborne dust mites are just what the doctor ordered. Next, I will be on my back with a bowl of soap and water, scrubbing the fucking termites out of my skin.”

“Do not wind me up.” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I shut my eyes and willed myself not to ruminate over microscopic bugs. “I will not sleep tonight with thoughts of minuscule creepy crawlies underneath the bed.”

“I am unsatisfied. It has been a series of anticlimaxes since we got here.” Josh unzipped the holdall, took out a pile of folded clothes and placed them on the top shelf inside the wardrobe. “You better hope the spa treatments alleviate stress because I am seconds away from having an aneurysm. And before I pop my fucking clogs,” he pointed at me, “I will make sure the pathologist knows that you were the cause of death. Nice and bright. On my headstone.”

Hanging the suits on the back of the door, I dumped the suitcase by the mahogany sideboard and fell backwards onto the bed of duck feathers and down duvets. “The room did not meet expectations.”

“No! Really?” Josh barked out a laugh, shaking his head as he draped suit jackets onto metal clothes hangers. “I never would have guessed.”

“But disastrous accommodation is not the be-all and end-all of sojourning.” Looking on the bright side, I propped onto my elbows, with feet and legs hanging off the bed. “We should crack open the Macallan.”

“Something I can agree on.” Josh grabbed two china cups from the trolley, then went through my bag to get the whiskey bottle. “Do you think the ancient mini-fridge might have a pre-installed freezer? Probably not.” Before he prepared our drinks, he hunted for ice cubes. “Hallelujah, I stand corrected.” He found what he was looking for. “On the rocks?”

I kicked off my shoes. “Sure.”

“What shall we do first?” Dropping ice cubes into the cups with an echoing chime, he uncapped a bottle of Macallan. “Did you pack leisurewear? I am down for a game of tennis. Be warned, I am savage with a bat.”

I packed two grey tracksuits. “I have to check with Mary first. There may be an itinerary.”

“Am I expected to attend all these monotonous activities?” Josh asked, but I was unsure. “Only, I am not really interested in the study of fashion, design and sustainability.” He handed over whiskey on ice, then sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s the deal with you and Mary? I am not completely against spontaneous travel, but she clicked her fingers, and you ran like a doe-eyed lap dog. An uncharacteristic moment of madness, perhaps.”

Irritated by the line of questioning, I sipped the whiskey cup, relishing in the cool, rich flavours.

“You have nothing to say?” Josh glanced over his shoulder at me. “Mary is a blast from the past, right?” he mused, and I jerked my chin. “Why did she call you Brad Kelleher?”

My heart palpitated.

Is divulgence necessary? Yes, I suppose the lad’s inquisitiveness was understandable.

“Bradley Kelleher is the name my mother put on the original birth certificate.” Twirling the whiskey cup, I listened to the somniferous sound of ice cubes knocking together. “A birth certificate that no longer exists. I used a different surname when I moved to London.” Nobody questioned it. Employers were not shit hot with identification back then. “Word-and-mouth was enough to get a job, that and cash-in-hand work.”

Josh stared intently.

“When I met Warren, he used connections to protect my identity.” He erased my old life so that I could start over. He putparents unknownon my record. I guess I just turned up on some poor bastard’s doorstep. “The disappearance of Bradley Kelleher is an unsolved case. I would like to keep it that way.”

“I get it,” he said, but he was wrong. He could never comprehend the madness unless I told him the truth. “Why Jones?”

“Arlo Jones,” I said, hesitant to disclose sensitive information, even though I trusted him with my life. “My father.”

He watched silhouettes sail past the bedroom window, an influx of guests taking an afternoon stroll in the manicured garden. “What about Mary?”

“Childhood friend.” Draining the whiskey cup, I leaned over the bed and placed it on the bedside table. “I thought she was the love of my life.”

He seemed to mull over that information. “Not anymore?”

“No, I got over that little infatuation a long time ago,” I stated confidently, and for some unknown reason, Emma’s face came to the forefront of rumination. The infuriating woman crossed my mind more times than I cared to admit out loud. “I declined Mary’s offer to come here initially. But I don’t know. Lately, I have been tired and fucked off with life. I needed a break. A spa weekend gave me a good excuse to kick back, unwind and relax.”

Josh stood, stripped out of the suit jacket and worked through the buttons of his shirt. “So, the friend.” He meant Patty. “How does the fake boyfriend work? Do I need to learn stuff about her or what?”

“It might be wise for the four of us to get our stories straight…” I spied a dark-panelled door in the corner of the room. “Where does that door lead?”

He followed my line of vision. “Garden?”

No, the garden door is on the other side of the room, where a set of keys were sticking out of the rustic lock.

Pushing onto my feet, I dodged strewn travel cases on the carpeted floor, approached the mysterious door and jiggled the brass doorknob to snoop, but to no avail. “It’s locked.”

“Great. Another blunder.” Josh is ready to bury the receptionist slash manager. “What if someone comes in to watch us sleep?”

And I thought I was the dramatic soul. “You could always grab the gun under your pillow and shoot the fucker to death. I bet there is a prime bush in the garden to dispose of dead bodies.”

“Hello!” Josh’s knuckles rapped gently on the door as he quoted Fifth Officer Lowe: “Is there anyone alive out there?” He was amused and proud of his efforts. “Can anyone hear me?”

I glanced sideways at him. “Are you done?”

“Am I ever?” His eyebrows waggled. “I-Oh! Shit!” He jumped back when the doorknob rattled by itself. “That moved.”

Yes, I had noticed.

“You saw that, right?” Josh’s curious gaze swung to me. “I am not hallucinating again, am I?”

“Brad?” A familiar voice was on the other side of the door. “Is that you?”

I stared at the door in disbelief. “Mary?”

An infinitesimal pause.

The door unlocked.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Brad

Mary wore beautifully crafted lingerie and a lace-trimmed robe. A very tight plunge bra with ever-revealing cleavage. Her short blonde hair, clipped away from her pretty face, accentuated the fine archness of her neck, where the most delicate chain of scintillating diamonds nestled between her collarbones.

“What?” Her hip jutted out. “You are both acting as though you have never seen a pair of tits before.”

Do not flatter yourself, I thought. I see naked dancers in bejewelled underwear, burlesque costumes and extreme platform stilettos on a daily basis. A risqué performance of spinning poles, sexy strippers and erotic stripteases, but the novelty wears off after a while. I can look at women in lace without the embarrassment of random or awkward erections.

“Yeah, but…” Josh’s lips puckered as he ogled at her voluptuous chest. “Those are really nice tits.” He blew out a slow, measured breath. “Are they real?”

Mary looked askance at him.

“What?” He chuckled the tension away. “Come on. Play fair. You cannot blame a man for trying.”

“Oh!” Mary knotted the robe tightly by her middle section. “I remember you. Joslynn, right?”

Josh shot me a scathing glare.

“I prayed it would be you or the other guy,” Mary said, referring to Nate. “But I did not want to be too enthusiastic when nothing is guaranteed. Patty would have been devastated if you were unattractive.”

“Looks are irrelevant.” My eyebrows moved closer together. “You are both gay and happily engaged.”

“What?” Josh was overwhelmed by the revelation. “You did not tell me that my fake girlfriend was a lesbian.”

“Patty’s sexual orientation is not important…” My eyes honed in on his pale face. “Oh, you thought she was a safe bet.”

“Not anymore.” His soul had been shattered by the loss. “Well, I guess it’s just me and my hand tonight.”

Mary’s eyes dazzled. “You like P!nk!”

“I fucking love her.” Josh bonded with his girlfriend’s fiancé. “Those sexy acrobatic performances?” A groan of approval. “Get in my bed.”

“She is a spectacular gymnast.” Mary chewed on her lower lip in an innocent, kittenish manner. “Very flexible.”

“Oh, yes.” Josh’s shoulder leaned on the doorframe. “Flexible indeed. I would not say no to a night with her.”

“I feel like an intruder in some odd groupie sexcapade.” My frown hardened when I noticed the contemporary designs in the other room. “Why do you have an en-suite? In fact, whilst I am on the subject, I did not agree to interconnecting doors, forced bathroom facilities and shared sleeping arrangements. You have a lot of explaining to do.”

“And that is my cue to look distracted.” Josh changed into a black tracksuit. “Go ahead. Please continue. I am not even listening.”

I pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You are full of shit.”

“Obviously.” Josh pulled a ball cap onto his head, then stuffed his socked feet in brand-new white trainers. “You are about to tear her a new arsehole. Of course, I want to listen. A tongue-lashing is only what she deserves for the maroon catastrophe.”

“Why are you both mad? Your suite cost more than mine,” Mary said, and I searched for deceit in her eyes and found nothing. “So you know, I purposely selected ground floor accommodation so that you had direct access to the garden for all that marijuana you smoke. If I wanted to be selfish and put myself first, I could have booked the top floor to be closer to my family.”

“I need a sarnie or three to keep me going.” Josh made a beeline for the door. “I will be right back.”

Mary returned to her room.

I followed, keeping the whiskey bottle with me. “Why do we need interconnecting doors? Is privacy too much to ask?”

“You and Patty can switch if someone comes looking for me.” Mary plonked onto the double bed of silk and satin. “I hope you are sharing the love. I am partial to a neat whiskey.”

Draping the suit jacket on the back of a chair, I crawled onto the bed and stretched out beside her. “The difference is between an intimate relationship and a non-intimate relationship. You and Patty can spoon until your heart’s content. Josh and I rarelycuddle,” I highlighted acerbically. And I am not the safest bedmate. “The poor bugger has to sleep on the sofa.”

“Joslynn is more than welcome to stay in our suite.” Mary motioned to the velvet sofa by the window. “It’s not much to look at, but it pulls out into a bed.”

Josh might take her up on that offer. “Where is Patty?”

“Right here.” Patty appeared out of thin air with a fluffy towel wrapped around her slender, petite body and a plastic shower cap on her head. “Where is my boyfriend?”

“Josh is a fat bastard,” I said evasively, as I could not be bothered to explain where he went or what food he sought to consume. “You have left soapy footprints all over the carpet.”

Women have the effrontery to blame men for untidy living conditions when they are the main culprit for disorderliness. I mean, look at the vanity table strewn with makeup brushes, stained facial wipes, clip-in hair extensions and false eyelashes. You would never think there was a sturdy shoe rack at the bottom of the wardrobe because the carpet is covered in pumps, platforms, stilettos, peep-toes and ankle straps. And do not get me started on the en-suite, which is in the field of view. I could never luxuriate in such chaos and disorganisation: wet towels on the ground, smudges on the mirror and empty body wash bottles in the shower pan.

I shivered.

Patty’s lips thinned in mild aversion. “Your friend is overweight?”

“It was a joke.” Suffice it to say, Patty does not get my sense of humour, and I think she is half-expecting Josh to roly-poly into the bedroom. “Have you got a problem with well-proportioned individuals? I quite like a woman with a bit of meat.”

“Likewise.” Patty unzipped a floral-patterned cosmetics bag. “But I had hoped for a tall, lean, handsome man.” Her cheeks were dusted pink. “Do not judge me. I mean no harm.”

“How can Inotjudge you?” The bitch is hating on my friend because he might be on the heavier side of life. The lad is all muscle, not that she deserved to touch a spec of him. “And women have the cheek to call men misogynistic. Hello, Pot.” My finger wielded between them. “Meet Kettle.”

Patty is mortified. “No, I do not have an issue with overweight men.”

“Are you sure about that?” My wide eyes goaded her to keep it real. “Your attitude says otherwise.”

“Okay!” Mary’s hands shot up in the air to mediate between the war of men, women and fatphobia. “We are going off-track. Patty, I met Joslynn. He is everything you could have dreamed of and more. You will not be disappointed.”

“Still, I think Patty’s attitude is appalling.” If Josh had any sense, he would ditch the judgmental bitch to find a better candidate. “I am inclined to steer Josh in a different direction and leave you boyfriendless.”

Patty’s eyes rolled. “Can we change the subject?”

For now, I thought. “I don’t care what your propaganda has to say,” I spoke to Patty whilst tousling Mary’s blonde, wispy hair. “This bedroom is ten times nicer than ours.” A half-eaten ciabatta roll on the bedside table. “If you overlook the mess.”

“We have the same rooms.” Mary took the whiskey bottle out of my hand. “Only you have a luxury bath.”

I wish everyone would stop selling me the bath fiasco. “Yeah, but our room smells like Josh’s dead grandma. Your room reminds me of…” I picked up a glass bowl of potpourri on the bedside table for an investigatory sniff, then put it back. “A lavender field.”

Patty sat on the footstool to moisturise her legs. “Where is Joslynn?”

“Brad!” Josh’s demanding voice boomed from the other room. “Where are you? You better start talking!”

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear, right by the threshold, with thin neck veins and a sickly pale countenance.

I stared, unblinking. “Problem?”

“You fucking lied.” His eyes bulged out of his head. “You told me the hotel offered spa and massage treatments. A relaxation room does not exist. Not even a jacuzzi.”

My brain frazzled as I tried to interpret the acidic vitriol spewing from his mouth. “What are you talking about?”

“Did I stutter?” Josh mocked me, which seemed a little uncalled for, but what the fuck do I know. “You convinced me to come on this stupid trip. I did not want to be here. But I buckled for the deep-tissue massage. Carol Anne insisted that I have been misinformed!”

My eyes turned into judgemental slits. “Who the fuck is Carol Anne?”

“The receptionist…The Manager…That’s not important,” Josh whispered loudly and angrily. “What am I supposed to do all day, huh? Dust the suite? Polish the shoes? Read a romance novel?” He paused, round-eyed, hand behind the ear, waiting for me to enlighten him. “Prance around the garden with the fucking peacocks?”

“Josh, I have no idea…” When the penny dropped, I glanced from him to Mary, and I knew the second she avoided my gaze, her chin rocking back and forth, that deception brewed. “What did you do?”

“Oh, you have not heard the best,” Josh added, but I did not turn to him. I was busy manifesting Mary’s throat in my hand and the emptiness in her eyes when I strangled her to death. “There is no international fashion conference this weekend.”

Mary looked at the ceiling, the lamp, the rug and the television-anywhere but the man visualising her murder.

“You were clueless…” Josh belatedly discerned the real dilemma when he could see that I was at a loss for words. “Brad, the bitch played us. We got tricked into attending a marriage ceremony.”

“A what?” Slowly, I sat up on the bed, with one foot parked on the floor, ready to flee with urgency. “Tell me it is not true.”

“Brad…” Mary’s eyes squeezed shut. “I was going to tell you-”

I was off the bed in a flash, rushing into the next room to grab the suitcase. I had to get out of here. If I stay, I will drag her to the rooftop by the scruff of her hair, kicking and screaming, then toss her straight off the building.

Make no bones about it.

“Brad! Wait!” Her hurried footsteps beat along the floor. “If I had told you the truth, you would not have come.”

“You lied to me.” Enraged beyond the point of recovery, I snatched the panoply of suits on the back of the door and dumped them on the travel case. “Two seconds, I let you back in my life and you did the dirty on me. Fuck you, Mary!”

“Please.” Her desperation fell on deaf ears. I had already checked out. “If you would just listen to me!”

“You played me like a goddamn fiddle.” Primed for an argument, I squared up to her with arms outstretched and overt furiousness in my round eyes. “Do I want to ask who is getting married, or will cognisance cut deeper?”

“You don’t understand.” Mary’s tear-soaked eyes stared back at me. “My brother, Martin, is getting married tomorrow. My entire family will be present.” Her bottom lip rolled between her teeth. “Hamish is on the guest list. You know I cannot face him after all these years with a woman on my arm. He will raise Cain.”

“A family reunion?” No, I will never willingly walk into my past. Too many bad memories. Too many potential triggers. “You would do that to me?” Every word snapped through gritted teeth. “I left that life behind for a goddamn reason! You did not get to decide!” My hand thrust her shoulder, and she stumbled back three steps. “That’s on me!”

“I know!” Mary reached for the suitcase before I could get my hand on the handle. “I know, and I am so, so sorry. But please hear me out!” We fought over the suits like a tug of war, yanking garments aggressively. “Brad, I am desperate!”

“Why should I care about anything you have to say?” My frantic heartbeat had yet to reduce in speed. “You had no right. I deserved a fucking choice.”

“You did,” she agreed, albeit breathlessly. “And you have every right to be angry at me, but I swear, I was going to tell you.”

“It’s a bit late for honesty. That conversation should have transpired at the bar when you asked for my help.” We both know I would have protested against walking into a room of reminders and that is why she fabricated the international fashion conference. For all I know, Martin has invited every resident from Mostyn Avenue to the wedding. I should not have to engage in awkward and uncomfortable conversations with people who may or may not recognise me because she concluded that I did not have a say in the matter. “Not a day before the actual event.”

“Mary, what are you so afraid of?” Josh, who had moved into the room stealthily, became seated on the cushioned window seat. “It’s got to be something bad for you to shake like that.”

My stare lowered to Mary’s legs, and lo and behold, her joints trembled at the knees as fear and adrenaline wracked her body. “Her father.”

Mary’s tear-brimmed eyes snapped to me. I struck a nerve.Good.

I laughed, low and savage. “Still crying out for his attention, huh?”

“Fuck you, Brad.” Her voice was anything but calm. “Do not pretend I am the only one with daddy issues.”

My jaw tensed.

“Mary…” Patty, who had changed into pink lingerie, went to her lover’s side and rubbed a hand down her back. “It’s okay. We can arrange to meet up with everyone another time.”

I tensed all over. “Do not lay the guilt trip on me.”

“Not everything in life is about you.” Patty was witheringly scornful. “I am allowed to console her when she is upset.”

“Brad…” Mary’s voice broke, a vulnerable moment that evoked memories of our childhood, when she would run into the woods barefoot and whimpering to hide from her father, and I would sneak out of the house to find her. “Please.”

By the river, she would go with tears of pain and misery. Back then, I hated to see her so sad. I wanted to be bigger and taller so that I could stand up to the preacher and protect her in the process.

Now, though, I felt nothing when she sobbed. Perhaps I am heartless. Or maybe I never truly cared about her, but I was too young to differentiate between her sadness and mine.

“Please stay,” Mary begged and implored. “I don’t want to miss out this time. I want to be with my family.”

“It’s up to you.” Josh, having second thoughts, looked at me, an unspoken question in his eyes. He is willing to stay if I am. “I am not exactly thrilled about the spa sham, but we travelled a long way to get some downtime. We might as well enjoy ourselves.”

There are multiple reasons why I am not sold. One, Mary lied to me. Two, I did not want to go anywhere near the pain of yesterday. I am tired, drained and overworked. I am sad every day because I miss Warren so fucking much it hurts. But I am working toward a brighter, healthier future. I am in a better place, mentally, thanks to Fern. I cannot afford to have any setbacks. Not when I am so close to normalcy.

“You have nothing to fear,” Mary whispered so nobody else heard, her hands gingerly touching my forearms. “Your past cannot hurt you.”

I locked eyes with her, the words repeating inside my head. Again, I noted that she knew something about the house of horrors in Mostyn Avenue-how she talked about my mother in the past tense at the bar.

And what’s more, Mary is right about one important detail. I had nothing to fear, with the exception of my capabilities. My mother is dead. I did that. I took a bat to the old bitch and delivered blow after blow until she was unrecognisable, so what is holding me back?

I am a smooth talker. If someone recognises me, I can swindle my way out of the conversation with flirtatiousness alone-a witty remark for the male audience.

What could possibly be outside the door that I dreaded more than the truth of what Yolanda Kelleher did to me? I came unstuck, for there was not a person privy to the secrets I once vehemently denied. Even if someone knew about our dysfunctional family dynamics and dared to bring it to my attention, I did not owe them an explanation or valuable time. I have accepted what it meant to be a young boy in that house. I am not ashamed anymore.

My eyes closed.

I see nothing.

I hear nothing.

No flashback.

No voice.

Christ, that felt good, so good that I could cry, like someone had lifted a massive weight off my shoulders.

When didthathappen?

When did it become okay to think about the past without the shadows coming forth to hurt me?

“Your father is a prick,” I rasped, blindly chasing memories, knowing they had to be somewhere. Arlo, by the crystalline lake, crouched on a moss-covered boulder with a rod on one side and a bait bucket on the other. I forgot about that. He used to go fishing in his spare time, salmon and trout. Then he would go back to the house, bonk and bleed out the fish, remove the scales, skin and innards and toss whatever was left of the catch onto the grill. I liked smoked haddock. Yet, I have not eaten it since I was a child. “I got lucky with my old man.”

“I know,” Mary agreed, her breathy chuckle a mixture of sadness and amusement. “If my father wants to pretend I do not exist, I can live with that. I will not ruin my brother’s big day, though.” Her hands squeezed my fingers. “I know I messed up. I should have been honest with you from the get-go, but I did not lie about being desperate. If I walk into a room with Patty, there will be hell to pay. My father was never one to mince his words. He will be outraged and make damn sure that everyone in attendance knows it.”

I chewed on the end of a toothpick. “What’s on the agenda?”

“Oh, thank God.” Mary’s face is awash with relief. “Okay. So, tonight is rehearsal dinner, but we can skip that occasion if you want. It has been a stressful day.” She thanked Patty for the personalised invitation with a detailed itinerary stapled to the back. “The wedding ceremony will take place tomorrow afternoon…”

“In the library.” Patty reminded her with a warm smile. “Followed by photos and cocktails, a sit-down meal, cake and toast, then a dance.”

“And morning brunch on Sunday.” With a tremor in her hands, Mary placed the itinerary on the side table. “So, what do you say? Shall we kiss and make up?”

Winking furtively, I nudged her chin with my knuckles.

“We should celebrate!” Patty ushered everyone back to the other bedroom, where she proceeded to pour drinks and ransack the mini-fridge for snacks. “If we are not attending the family dinner, I suggest debauchery. I will happily get stoned.”

Mary docked her phone on the bedside table. “Is there any Charlie on the table?”

“No.” Well, that’s not entirely true. I have a secret stash in my wallet and the zipped compartment of the travel case, but Josh is a reformed drug addict, cocaine and pills. “Kush and whiskey.” I tossed a medium-sized pouch of cannabis onto the bed alongside rolling papers and a Clipper lighter. “You can roll.”

Mary and Patty exchanged puzzled looks.

“You smoke, but you do not know how to roll?” Josh’s head shook as he fetched the papers to build a deck. “You are corrupting them, Brad.”

“Maybe I want to be corrupted.” Mary’s hands went to her hips. “You only live once, right?”

I need to get wasted.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Brad

If someone had told me that I would be off my rocker by six o’clock in the evening, I would have laughed in said person’s face.

On a normal day, I am quite literally immune to drugs and alcohol. But tonight, when under the influence of superabundant cannabis and pleasingly rich whiskey, I am uncharacteristically stoned, unsurprisingly inebriated and questionably unstable.

I cannot string a coherent sentence together in my head, never mind out loud, to engage in conversation with the other loquacious halfwits in the room.

“Crazy Little Thing Called Love” by Queen is on in the background. In my professional opinion, Mercury’s tribute to musical heroes outshone the six-minute suite of Bohemian Rhapsody. Jace can argue the matter until he is bent out of shape and offended beyond belief, but we both know I am right. I am never wrong.

My feet alternately tapped the wooden headboard along to the catchy beat of the acoustic-electric guitar and the unforgettable lyrics of rock music.

I had chills as a consequence of heightened emotions and semi-nakedness.

Whoever thought it would be sensible to strip down into underwear deserved to be shot (Mary and Patty, the instigators of nudism, in case you were wondering).

I hate the cold, the chill in the room, and the goosebumps on my skin. I should go for a hot shower, change into warm, comfortable clothing and take advantage of the venue’s inadequate facilities.

A game of late-night tennis surpassed heavy sedation.

Roach to my lips, I toked a long, mind-numbing drag of the blunt and dropped my arm to the side of the bed idly as smoke crawled to the back of my throat, to the convoluted gorge of logicality versus illogicality. “I am fucking flying.”

“Aw, stop!” Mary laughed like a raging hyena, the loud, sharp, hysterical shrill too much for my sensitive ears. “Why am I crying?”

“Pseudobulbar affect.” Josh, topless, sockless and pie-eyed, is stretched like a dead animal on the bed next to me. “You cackle so much you cry. It’s called a giggle fit. That would be your third outburst of nonsensical laughter in the last ten minutes. I should know. I have been countingdedicatedly.”

A host of desirable antidepressants was on the wish list. I might be dopier than usual, but the thrumming sensation of Kush in my veins felt too good to ignore. I pray euphoria can last until the end of time.

My eyebrows incurved.

How is intoxication responsible? A paralytic state of drunk, drugged and disorderly is not sensible but insensible, the most outrageous nonsense for a man who should always be alert and on guard.

“What did you do to me?” If I do not shake it off soon, I will have to crawl into the other bedroom and reacquaint myself with my old friend Charlie. I know he is missing me. “Those sly bitches slipped something in my drink.”

“Brad!” Mary is appalled by the accusation, but she can only laugh because in Mary’s bright and colourful world, everything, down to the bog in the bathroom, is uproariously chucklesome. “I would never drug you.” Her howling crescendoed into the staccato of prolonged hiccups and unladylike snorts. “Not unless you ask nicely.”

“Your high-pitched voice is extremely unattractive,” I said, not caring if I displeased her, for I had already reached the point of brazen insensitiveness when she selfishly prioritised her feelings above my own. “And to think I had a huge crush on you.”

“Who are you fooling?” Mary guzzled whiskey straight from the bottle, and when she ripped it away from her mouth, I watched through hooded eyes as amber liquid trickled down her chin in sticky globs. “We all know that you worship the ground I walk on.” An innocuous statement. “Just admit it.”

“I will not,” I said with a gravelly exhale. “You are not my type.”

Mary’s eyes sparkled with cockiness and vivaciousness. “I am everyone’s type.” A loud, unrestrained burst of laughter. “Isn’t that right, Joslynn?”

Josh grunted.

“Fucking pissant,” I insulted the senile mare, which is nothing short of typical recently. “My heart belongs to another.”

“Ah, the emotionally unavailable woman.” Mary’s red, puffy, bloodshot eyes roved over Josh and Patty before her observation settled on me. “Have you seen her since you and I last spoke?”

My head shake was almost imperceptible.

Emma is probably at home, watching old movies on the box, with a bowl of Smarties and a bottle of cheap wine on the coffee table. I’d trade whiskey, weed and cocaine to hide away from the world with her if only she would let me.

Patty sauntered in her pink underwear across the room to refill the whiskey cups. “Josh,” she said, and he gave her a low, wolfish smirk. “I know you are my boyfriend, but stop staring at my ass.”

“Where do you expect me to look?” His head lifted off the pillow marginally. “You are a walking dick-tease. Put some clothes on if you do not want to attract perverts and deviants.”

Mary, hair thrown up into a messy bun, slumped onto the bed. Her hand felt my bare chest through the popped-open buttons of my shirt. Her touch used to make me feel like I had died and gone to heaven. Now, not so much.

“My sister is looking for me.” Mary’s head swayed as she read a text message on the phone. “My brothers, too. I told them I was not here yet.” Another burst of maniacal laughter. “Lord, I can barely see straight. We need to sober up.”

Tapping her bare thigh, I proffered the blunt. “I have no recollection of your sister.”

“She was a baby,” Mary mumbled over the roach grasped tightly between her teeth. “Well, she is still the baby of the family. Not in these messages, though.” The expressive woman shoved the phone in my face for me to read what seemed like an onslaught of ranting text messages, but I did not have the chance to decipher the lengthy paragraphs because she turned the screen away just as quickly. “Do not be surprised if they come looking for me. We might have to hide.”

“We are not teenagers.” Josh smiled at Patty, dancing somewhat provocatively in the middle of the room to a new tune: David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” on full pelt. “I am not hiding from anyone.” It was obvious that he’d mentally disrobed Mary’s fiancé. In his warped little mind, she was sinfully naked, the pink lace descending to the floor alongside her dignity. “Patricia, I am struggling.”

I suppose Patty’s arse was nice and firm. Yet, I felt absolutely nothing-not a twitch of the cock or a dark fantasy in mind- when she bent over to find the lost packet of cigarettes on the floor.

Two beautiful women in the room-modelling sexy lingerie, I might add-and all I could think about was the family dinner I wanted to gatecrash. I am Hank Marvin. I had to fuel myself.

Mary got up to dance.

Josh groaned under his breath. “They are killing me, Brad.”

“Oh!” Mary had a light bulb moment. “I know how to really get the party started.” Placing one hand on the bedside table for support, she unlocked Patty’s phone, flicked through the Spotify playlist and selected “You Can Leave Your Hat On” by Joe Cocker. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, she reached behind her back and slowly, very slowly, unhooked the bra. “Shall we get naughty?”

“Wait.” Josh raised a hand, and she paused in suspense. He repositioned onto his haunches, whacking random scatter cushions onto the floor to allow room for God knows what on the bed. “Okay. I am all eyes.” His head bowed in an authoritative manner. “You may continue.”

Rolling onto my stomach, I watched aptly as Mary’s full, voluptuous breasts, with protruding pink nipples, fell out of the lacy bra. “I like naughty.”

“Ilovenaughty.” Josh waited with bated breath when Patty joined the fun, removing the bra and exposing small, perky breasts with taut, rosebud nipples. “Get over here and sit on my face.”

“Behave.” Mary winked as the lace knickers fell down her long, silky legs. “Now, that is much better.”

“I am seducible.” Josh moved to the edge of the bed, planted his feet on the floor and gestured to Mary’s most intimate area. “What do I have to do to get inside that?”

“You have to remove the trousers,” Mary teased, and I meanteasedbecause we all know the depiction of raunchiness is not going anywhere. I would rather watch the paint dry. “Both of you.”

“What?” My brows jolted to my hairline. “Why do I have to strip? I’ve had enough pussy to last a lifetime. I can live without entertaining yours.”

“Brad, do not be selfish.” Josh stood on the bed, jumping out of the jogging bottoms, the material strangling his ankles like a bear trap. “My brain malfunctioned. I do not know how to get naked!”

“Come here.” Gripping the hem of his hoodie, I pulled him closer and helped him undress. “Sorted.”

“What do you say, Brad?” Mary dared me to get down and dirty with them as she adjusted a navy, feather linen fascinator on her head. “It is only a little fun. We are not hurting anyone.”

You do not want to see what’s in my trousers, I thought, staggering off the bed to get to my feet.

I have never been one to say no to a challenge, so I peeled out of the unbuttoned shirt to Joe Cocker telling me to leave my hat on-deliberately flexing my pecs-and hurled unwanted layers onto the sofa. “Satisfied?”

“Almost.” Mary bit the tip of her finger. “You work out.”

No shit, Sherlock.

Patty’s arm curled around Josh’s shoulders as she whispered smoke into his mouth. “I still think we should get some lines going,” she hinted, and the lad’s face crumbled. “Come on, Brad. No one likes a boring party pooper.”

“No.” Uncapping the Macallan bottle, I swigged whiskey thirstily, the intense warmth dispersing through my chest. “You cannot turn up to an occasion empty-handed and scrounge freebies.” Supply on demand was not the issue. I had a generous amount ofsniffto get me through the weekend. But I will not be the catalyst of Josh’s downfall if he gives into temptation. “Can we order room service? My stomach is protesting.”

“Good call.” Mary strutted across the room in her birthday suit. “Shall I keep it simple and order a couple of Margherita pizzas?”

“Yes.” Turning to the cluttered vanity table, where the rolling papers and buds of weed beckoned the skill of my fingers, I lined up supplies in no apparent order. “We should get our stories straight before family introductions. When did we meet? When did we get together? Who said I love you first?” Sprinkling dry, brittle greens into the deck, I paused to look at Mary’s reflection in the wall-mounted mirror. “Do you have a favourite colour? I don’t know how this works.”

“Wait! No pizza.” Mary’s hand covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “We can have lamb shank or ribeye steak. Take your pick.”

“Steak is enough.” Pinching the papers between my fingers, I rolled the blunt, licked the seam and worked a roach into the end with precision and fixated concentration. “Answer the question.”

“Which one?” Mary ended the call, easing onto the sofa with elegance and grace. “You asked a lot of questions.” When I sighed out loud in vexation, she giggled again. “Fine. Alright. We met at the movies.”

“What?” Right, because the two of us went to the movies, pathetically dateless, randomly bumped into each other at the ticket station and became friends over a bucket of popcorn. “No, I met you at the bar.”

“We met at the bar. You called me beautiful and said it was love at first sight.” Mary balanced an upside-down cigarette between her lips. “I called you an overachiever and refused to give you my number.”

Josh snorted in disbelief. “Brad’s ego could never.”

“You can go and fuck yourself. I do not agree with instantaneous love and feelings of rejection. I am better than that.” Tapping the unlit blunt on the vanity table, I pondered a believable scenario. “You called me handsome. You penned digits onto a napkin and slipped your phone number into my pocket. I texted you a month later.”

“I agreed to a double date.” Mary unlocked the trellised window to let the cold night wind mask the stench of smoke in the room. “You came with Josh; I came with Patricia. We ate spaghetti and meatballs in a candle-lit restaurant and drank Chateau Margaux by the beach.” Her hands rubbed together. “Problem solved.”

“I am not going to remember that.” Josh scratched his bare chest. “Why overcomplicate it? We double-dated for a while, then worked on our relationships separately. Patty and I fell in love in month five. You and Brad fell in love in month six. There. Bob’s your uncle.”

“I do not have a favourite colour.” Mary picked up her phone when a notification chimed. “I like every music genre under the sun and read books every night before bed. Josh is right. Let’s not overcomplicate the situation because someone will see through the bullshit. We can play it by ear.”

Patty painted her toenails vibrant pink. “Who is texting you?”

“Martin…” Mary stared at the phone, chewing her thumbnail nervously. “We might have to cancel room service and make an appearance. My family has yet to order food because Miles thought it would be rude to start without us.”

“But…” Patty’s toes wiggled as she examined her artwork. “You wanted to save introductions for tomorrow. I am drunk. I will embarrass myself if I meet your family in this state.”

Mary’s teeth worried her bottom lip. “God, I am so selfish. I am not just some out-of-town guest.” She talked about hypothetical scenarios beyond her ken. “My brother’s immediate family must be present at the rehearsal dinner.”

“Great.” Patty is less than impressed. “Mary is reconsidering the stance of non-appearance. Do you know what that means, Fellas? We have ten minutes to get ready.”

“No.” I put my foot down for the purpose of sparking up and overindulging in room service. “I have steak on the way with my name on it. You could not pay me to leave the room tonight.”

“You are my partner.” Mary is overplaying theperfect boyfriendcard. “How can I go to dinner without you? My brothers are looking forward to meeting the man who whisked me off my feet and stole my traitorous heart.”

This woman lied through her teeth. I am only here to fool her parents. “Your brothers know I am at the wedding in an official capacity.”

“Only the one,” Mary said without going into details. “Martin and Miles are unaware of my sexuality. I mean, sure. They asked personal questions when they first got back in contact. But I thought it was better for everyone if I said that past misbehaviours stemmed from defiance and rebelliousness, just to piss off our father. No one can know about my relationship with Patty.”

“Martin seems to have forgiven his father.” Patty shimmied into a short black dress and stepped into strappy-heeled shoes. “They have grown considerably close. We cannot be sure if Martin can be trusted with Mary’s interest.”

“Everything about this situation blows my mind.” If it were up to me, I would tell Mary’s opinionated family members, with their jejune judgements, to stick it where the sun does not shine. “Why are you here? They do not deserve to have you in their lives if they cannot accept the real you. Leave this madness behind and be happy with Patty. Fuck what everyone else has to say.”

“I did that once.” Mary chugged water to sober up. “I ran away to find happiness. Brad, I will never be content without my brothers and sister.” Her eyes were nubilous when thoughts of her beloved siblings ambuscaded the delicate segments of the mind. “I missed them so much. If I have to be someone I am not to have regular communication with them, then so be it.”

My bottom lip stuck out. “But I really wanted the steak.”

“You can order steak at the restaurant.” Mary steered me toward the interconnecting door. “Go and get dressed. I will come and get you in a minute.”

“Let go,” I instructed composedly, and the woman’s claws withdrew from my arm. “If you want me to attend dinner, I have to borrow the en-suite. In addition, I will need twenty-four-hour access to the shower facilities for the entirety of this crazy trip.”

Mary glanced at the clawfoot bath in the other room. “But you have a bath fit for royalty in the suite…” Her frown turned upside down when she discerned the unmistakable dissatisfaction in my eyes. “Alright. I will keep the door unlocked. You can use the en-suite.”

In the suite, I laid out appropriate attire: stark white boxer briefs, a royal blue three-piece suit, cognac leather shoes, matching leather belt, gold and ice jewellery, expensive cologne and manscape products.

After a dose of nose candy, sniffed quickly and unobtrusively to recover mentally, without Josh’s knowledge, I showered in record-breaking time to escape the craziness that is everything female (I refused to clean up after two fully grown women).

“Another complaint.” Josh, as naked as sin, stood in the half-filled bath and scrubbed every inch of skin with a lathery loofa. “The water is cold. I should track down Carol Anne and give her a piece of my mind.”

Carol Anne is on Josh’s radar. I wonder how long it will take for him to coax her into fornication. My bet is Sunday morning, just after the majority of visitants abscond the historic venue.

“My girlfriend scares me.” Josh emptied the bath water, snagged two towels on the wooden dresser, secured one around his waist, draped the other across his shoulders and arranged formalwear for tonight’s occasion. “Mary is no better.”

Brushing my hair thoroughly, I drowned out the man’s incessant protestations, pulled the ends into a masculine twist and secured it messily with two elastics.

A full classic top knot in place, with flyaway yet stylish strands by the ears, I sat on the edge of the bed, unlaced the leather shoes and slipped them over my feet.

Ilookedandfeltlike a million dollars.

“Hurry up,” I said impatiently, and Josh, wearing a grey suit with a black shirt, darted across the room like a flash of disorganisation to find hairspray. “Why do you smell like me?”

“I pinched the Soleil Brûlant.” A shameless grin stretched across his face. “What? I like your fragrance. It made sense that I shared.”

“You can afford to buy a bottle for yourself.” Knocking on the interconnecting door, I cracked it open, wary, and clapped my eyes on two very attractive women in short, revealing dresses, heeled shoes and colourful clutch bags. “You both scrubbed up well.” And their hair had grown a few inches since I last saw them, precisely fourteen minutes ago. “Why do women chop off their hair only to attach someone else’s rat’s tail to the back of their heads?”

“Long hair is high-maintenance.” Mary’s hand smoothed along the sleek length of her ponytail. “It looks good for a night out on the town, but I can rip it out before bed without the fear of knots in the morning.”

Hair and knots didnotbelong in the same sentence. “Are you ready to face your old man?”

“As ready as I will ever be.” Standing on wobbly yet smooth legs, Mary exhaled doubt, inhaled courage and linked our arms together. “Will you promise to behave yourself?”

“Of course,” I lied, knowing that good manners depended on the actions of specific individuals. If you respect me, I will respect you in return. If you step out of line, I will bitch slap you into next week. “Did you cancel room service?”

“Yes.” Mary led us into the hallway of panelled wood, then locked the door once Josh and Patty reached the grand foyer. “Patricia is asking him a hundred and one questions.” Her tight lips barely moved as she spoke to me. “They will be best friends by Sunday.”

Josh is not here to be Patty’sfriend. “You look nice,” I complimented as my fingers slinked to the small of her back. Her shy disposition raised questions. I could see that she was self-conscious and apprehensive. “Are you nervous?”

Mary nodded.

“You needn’t worry.” Hardwood floors graced my footsteps. “I am very articulate. I can introduce myself to those spineless idiots you dare to call family without someone holding my hand.”

“Be nice,” Mary warned, the clink of her heels echoing throughout. “You promised to be on your best behaviour.”

Josh is already by the arched entrance of the dining hall, working the boyish charm and shaking hands with besuited gentlemen. His girlfriend, Patty, looked good on his arm.

“There she is,” came a deep, husky voice with a slight lisp, then happy as a lark pushed through the small, jubilant crowd of guests. “I was starting to worry.” This man, with an angular jaw, dusted in stubble, slicked back brown hair, a well-proportioned nose and familiar green eyes, gravitated to the woman at my side. “God, I missed you.” His large, muscular arms crushed her slender body. He suffocated her with love and affection. “How long has it been? Ten? Fifteen years?”

“Something like that.” Mary snaked out of his hold and moved back for breathing space. “Brad, I would like to introduce you to my brother, Martin.” The force behind her smile had my lips twitching. “Brad is the man I was telling you about.”

“Hello.” Martin’s hand extended between us. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

I stared at the man’s hand for a moment or two, then crushed it with a firm handshake. “Likewise.”

Martin’s fingers flexed to regain blood flow before his hand disappeared into the pocket of his pale grey trousers. “Miles,” the man called, and a blond, moustached, elegantly dressed gentleman with an aura of steady authority arrived at the scene. “Look who decided to grace us with their presence.”

Josh’s bewildered eyes sought mine across the sea of heads. He mouthed something offensive as the siblings reunited with each other. Judging by the grim smile, he regretted the decision to stay.

“Our little runaway has returned.” Miles shoved a crystal glass of what looked like orange juice into my hand-because, apparently, I am the suave waiter hired to look pretty in the corner-and hugged his sister. “Dad is inside.”

Mary swallowed audibly. “And our mother?”

“Yes.” Martin nursed a glass of fizzy (lemonade?) clear liquid. “You are not obligated to speak to them. I have left space for you at the end of the family table.”

It is time to get formal introductions over with so I can hunt down one of the waiters to open a bar tap. “Brad Jones,” I socialised, thrusting the glass of vitamins, minerals and antioxidants into Miles’ hand. “Mary’s boyfriend. Next time your assumption makes an arse out of me, I will acquaint your face with the fucking floor.”

Mary choked in undeniable shock. “Ignore him.” Her fake chuckle was a fruitless attempt to discourage ugly fracas. “Brad has a very weird sense of humour. I take everything he says with a pinch of salt.”

“I can see that.” Miles gave my hand a firm squeeze in greeting. “So, you are the man behind my sister’s recent exuberance. If you do not mind me asking, how did you meet again?”

“At the bar.” My arm snaked across my lover’s slender shoulders. “Do you know when it feels like someone is watching you? I experienced that first-hand when she cooed and ogled from afar. It was quite poetic, when you think about it.”

“Brad said it was love at first sight.” Mary’s face was bright red. “It took six months for me to fall head over heels in love with him, though.”

I am going to kick her bastard teeth in. “Recollections may, of course, vary.”

A fair-haired waitress appeared by the archway of the chandeliered dining hall. “Is everyone ready to become seated?”

“Yes.” Martin gestured for the hoard of convivial dinner guests to follow him into the Edwardian luxury of upholstered wingback chairs, starched white linen tables, fine polished silverware, twinkling brass candelabras and antique sterling epergnes. “And here is the man of the hour.”

Christ, I am famished. I could almost taste Yorkshire’s finest steak on my tongue. I better get a portion of salt and pepper chips, too. A dollop of ketchup.

Mary shouldered past me to wrap her arms around someone whilst I scoured the bricked room bedecked with mediaeval tapestries for the bar.

“Do you ever stop growing?” she asked, and something about the man’s throaty chuckle resonated with me. “You give Miles and Martin a run for their money.”

The esoteric topics amongst siblings bored me to death. I descried the mahogany bar in the dank corner of the room, but there were no employees or bibulous people to be seen.

It dawned on me that Martin might have stripped alcohol from the drinks menu this evening to eliminate aggressive behaviour between dysfunctional family members.

“Brad, I would like you to meet one of the babies in our family.” Mary tapped my back, and I reluctantly returned to the inner circle. “My not-so-little-brother, Ben.”

When my eyes jerked up to greet the familiar face of Benjamin Hughes, I felt every bone in my body turn to mush. My mouth opened to speak, but there were no words for such a perplexing situation. He looked as confused as I felt when hissisterintroduced me as herboyfriend.

If Mary is Benjamin’solder sister, then Mary is Emma’solder sister, which means Emma, the bane of my life, issomewherein this room, and I was seconds away from having to face her head-on.

My heart stopped beating.

Instinctively, I glanced at Josh for an explanation he could not provide. He was fundamentally clueless, much like yours truly, with a dark scowl on his ponderous countenance.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Ben stood taller, played along and shook my hand. “You modelled for Calvin Klien, right?”

I did, what?

“Brad received a personal invite from the director.” Mary’s lies were getting out of control. “Isn’t that right, Darling?”

My eyes closed.

This trip is turning into a fucking disaster.

Benjamin was amused by the hyperbolic attack on my integrity. “Have you met the others yet?” he asked, and I stared right through him. “My twin, perhaps.”

“Brad has met everyone bar those God-awful people who have the nerve to call themselves good parents and our lovely sister.” Mary’s searching eyes tried to pinpoint the only woman in the world with the better half of my heart in the palm of her hand. “Oh, there you are…”

I never heard the rest of Mary’s sentence. The green eyes of a breathtakingly beautiful woman came forth and captured my full, undivided attention.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Emma

My steady footsteps faltered when I saw my sister in the protection of Big Guy’s arms. I forgot how to breathe, the blood in my veins freezing over like glacier ice.

Why the Hell is Brad Jones in South Yorkshire, wearing a smart three-piece suit and the world’s sexiest smile?

I stiffened, visibly and involuntarily, when the conversation about pretend boyfriends came to mind. Mary wanted to fool our father into thinking that she is heterosexual, and of all the eligible bachelors in London to choose from, it had to be him.

“Oh, there you are!” My sister’s glamorous entrance did not register. “I have been looking everywhere for you. Come over here, so I can introduce you to everyone.”

Brad’s relaxed posture did not stand the test of time. The moment our eyes collided, he rose to his full height, with strength, confidence and prestige. He appeared to mute nearby discussions and sensuous music for the consideration of unforeseen circumstances.

I almost laughed.

He must have known that I would be at the venue. Terrence is authorised to keep his boss well-informed on my whereabouts.

However, communication between men is not the reason behind complete incomprehension. I wanted to know how the man I once believed I could love someday hadfortuitouslybumped into my sister and agreed to accompany her to our brother’s wedding.

My mind got pestered by appropriate questions.

When did they meet, and how?

Is the chance encounter a serendipitous coincidence?

Did he accommodate her needs out of the goodness of his heart?

Did he know she was my sister before he decided to grace me with his appearance?

Did he come here knowingly to put my nose out of joint?

I crushed idiotic thoughts before they could grow and fester.

Brad Jones is a heartless, vindictive soul. Laughing at my expense would be a new level of pettiness. He might have questionable personality traits, but he is not completely irredeemable. I very much doubt that he accepted an invitation to be my sister’s plus-one to make a mockery out of me.

“Emma.” Mary pulled me in for a big bear hug, not that I could lift my arms to hug her back. I was too numb from the impact of the smitten wedding dates. “You did not wear the dress,” she whispered in my ear, and I gave her a stiff headshake. “Why? I designed it for you.”

I packed many dresses in contemplation of Martin’s big day, but I have yet to decide on outfits for the weekend, which I now regret, because the unflattering mien ofyours trulydoes not tick all the boxes. My hair is wavy and air-dried. The denim jeans and puff-sleeved jumper were creased due to the long car journey from London to South Yorkshire. I never bothered to touch up my makeup before leaving the room earlier.

“I did not expect fine dining on the first night,” I said, wishing I had made an effort to throw on the resplendent dress of champagne satin and hand-stitched crystals to assimilate with the other guests. “Tomorrow, I will be better prepared.”

“You remember my good friend, Patricia.” Mary tapped Patty’s elbow to spark conversation and a reciprocation of friendly smiles ensued. “And this handsome fellow is her boyfriend, Joslynn.”

Josh, with the devilish smirk of a player, reached for my fingers and leaned down to kiss the back of my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” A polite, respectful greeting. “You and Mary have the same green eyes.”

“Emma’s eyes are much brighter,” Mary complimented, not a trace of jealousy in her modulated tone of voice. “Just like our adorable brother.” She pinched Benjamin’s cheek. “Tell me the twins are not the greatest bundle of cuteness that you have ever seen.”

Mary’s endeavour to reduce tension was motivated by good intentions, but I felt belittled in the presence of criminal deities.

In Brad’s eyes, I am a sexy, desirable woman, not a shy little girl living in her older sister’s shadow.

“Darling, I would like you to meet my baby sister.” Mary smiled at Brad like a fool in love. “Ignore the demureness. Emma is not normally bashful.”

I was jealous, which is absurd because Mary was not in love with this man.

Patty, the woman standing next to Josh, watching the interaction through sad eyes, is of the utmost importance.

My sister, so in love with her childhood sweetheart, ran away from home and fled the country to be in a happy relationship.

Even after all these years, they are still going strong.

Yet, irrespective of the master plan to fool our father, I hated the sight of Mary fawning all over him.

Brad stared at me with a very dark frown between his brows. I could tell by the unshakable horror in his eyes that he was surprised to see me.

Perhaps I was too quick to jump to conclusions and judge him. We are equally concerned about the present state of affairs.

Regardless of the situation, Brad held my firm gaze, took my hand in acknowledgement and feigned airy insouciance. “If you could choose one song to describe this moment, what would it be?”

My face was aflush with coyness under the man’s patient scrutiny. “I would probably choose…” His large hand covered mine with no intention of letting go. If only I could be unaffected by the touch of his soft fingertips on the sensitive skin of my palm. The warm graze of flirtation had my stomach aflutter with butterflies. “Liam Bailey.” A breathless silence. “Crazy situation.”

“I am not familiar with the artist,” Brad said raspily, and I was inwardly grateful for the lack of awareness as the song choice was not supposed to leave my mouth. “Perhaps I will listen to it later.”

No, I prayed for the complete opposite.

Big Guy had the investigatory habit of studying something in careful detail. If he downloaded the song and made a note of the lyrics, I would be forced to hide in abashment until I keeled over and topped myself.

I practically told him I loved him in song form, which is another ridiculous thought. I mean, come on. I do have strong feelings for him. That much is obvious. But he is not the favourite part of reality. I can go all day without thinking about him or wishing he would pick up the phone and call me. I do not gaze into space with memories of us in bed together. I never catch myself wondering if he missed me, too.

Why am I lying to myself?

I am so obsessed with this man. It was borderline disgusting.

And he was at my sister’s side, not mine, because I feared my son’s disappointment more than prioritising my happiness.

Mothers always put their children first.

But I should have known better. Carter is not insecure, nor is he an inconvenience to Brad. They stuck to each other like glue, natural and effortless.

A family in the making.

And I threw it all away.

Brad locked eyes with someone behind me, and I knew, without turning around, that Hugo had returned from the garden. He let go of my fingers with the abruptness of an angry man, then buried his hand in his trouser pocket to most likely prevent a throat snatching.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Hugo, with the demeanour of a true gentleman, came to my side and slipped a flute of alcohol-free champagne into my hand. “Mary, I was wondering when you would show up…” He was flummoxed by the unexpectedness of Big Guy’s arrival. “Hello.” He tried to initiate a handshake. “I do not believe we have met. You must be Mary’s partner.”

I love how everyone had unwittingly joined forces to salvage my sister in the throes of parental rejection. Brad is no stranger to Hugo, but my friend cooperated with the others to authenticate the relationship status.

Brad scowled at the other man’s hand like he wanted to snap it. “If you will excuse me.” His shoulder deliberately rammed into Hugo as he passed. “I have to solicit the waitress for a decent drink.”

I never watched him walk away. Yet, I felt emptier the further we drifted apart. I wanted to apologise to my family and friends and excuse myself. I had to chase him down and explain myself. He is mad, hurt and confused. Hugo’s face may have been the impetus to absquatulation.

“I am baffled,” Hugo murmured in my ear. “Why is Brad here? And how did he meet Mary?”

Your guess is as good as mine. “I will ask questions later.”

Now is not the time for public awareness.

My father is in the building and is due to make an appearance.

According to my older brother, Miles, who I had the luxury of talking to earlier (when he swung by my room to surprise me with hugs and kisses), Hamish and Martha checked into the hotel last night before everyone else had arrived. They played a game of tennis this morning, then enjoyed afternoon tea in the garden. I have been on pins and needles all night, waiting for them to make a grand entrance.

“Emma.” Martin came from nowhere and placed a decorous kiss on my forehead. “I thought you would meet us at the library earlier with Benjamin. He mentioned a headache. I hope you are feeling better.”

Yes, when I initially arrived with Benjamin (the driver), Quinn (the front seat passenger) and Hugo (the journey’s raconteur), I told my twin to cover for me so that I could avoid the awkward family reunion.

My siblings had agreed via group text message to connect before the rehearsal dinner, but I locked myself in the room as an alternative.

If it were not for Miles banging the shit out of my door to get me out of bed, I would still be fake-sleeping with a killer migraine.

“Did you take something?” Martin watched me closely with knowing eyes. “A paracetamol.”

“I downed my weight in water,” I lied, and he swallowed a sigh of dissatisfaction. “But I feel much better now.”

My older brother delivered a blank stare in return. “You avoided us.”

“Yes,” I said, too honest to cope with myself. “Hey, I was nervous. I have not spoken to any of you in years.”

Our father might have been there to meet and greet, and truthfully, I wanted nothing to do with him.

I steered my eyes to the floor, touching the series of chains around my neck. “I have very little to say to everyone, I guess.”

My sondisappeared. He waskidnapped, and I have no idea whether he is dead or alive. I have not received one phone call from my older brothers to ask if I am okay, or to express their deepest sympathies.

Martin is lucky that I am here, for I owed him absolutely nothing, least of all time and effort. I promised to give them a chance for Benjamin. He missed his big brothers, but he would not have reunited with them if I dug my heels in and refused to reconnect.

“I understand.” Martin’s hand rubbed the spot between my shoulder blades. “I will let apprehensiveness slide, but from now on, I demand that each and every one of us makes a conscious effort to rebuild relationships. We have missed a lot of precious years together, Emma.”

“I know,” I said whispery, tugging at the sleeve of my jumper. “Listen, I might be a little on edge, but I showed up. I am here, Martin. Just give it some time, though. Rome was not built in a day.”

Martin sipped lemonade. “Can I introduce you to my fiancé, Judith?”

I had to sneak to the bathroom first. “Let’s get to know each other over dinner.” Remember the promise to say hello to Miles’ girlfriend, Thalia. I think she is the brunette in a silver dress and kitten heels. “I will catch up with you in a bit.”

Strolling behind the bride’s presentable family, the fashionable bridal party and the tweed-suited groomsmen, I approached the door, ready to escape for a breather, when Mary, three sheets to the wind, called for more attention.

“Where did Brad go?” My sister asked as if I had the telepathic skillset to read the man’s mind. “He will not find any whiskey, Em.”

I frowned at the woman’s randomness. “Did you tell him alcohol is strictly prohibited at Mormon weddings?”

“No.” Mary pleaded guilty. “Give me a break. I had to do everything within my power to get him here. He would have run for the hills if I threw the list of Latter-Day Saints in his bloody face. And who could hardly blame him? Martin is crazy for implementing rules to appease Hamish. People like to drink on special occasions.”

Well, I did not want to be anywhere near Mary when Brad found out about the alcohol ban. I daren’t mention drugs, cannabis and cocaine. He lived for both vices. “You should have told him.”

“Do not be defensive.” Mary used a compact mirror to add a layer of red lipstick over her puckered lips. “You don’t even know him.”

I knew him in ways that she could only imagine.

“Can you hold this for me, please?” Handing the flute of bubbles to Hugo, I gave myself a tap on the back for surviving twenty minutes in the company of Martin, Miles and Mary, without killing them. “I need to use the ladies’ room.”

Disappearing through the crowd of guests by the entrance, I slipped out of the chandeliered function room and drifted down the lusterless hallway, where wrought-iron sconces pitched shadows on the walls.

I was just shy of the public bathroom when someone seized my elbow and dragged me into a candlelit alcove of arched brickwork.

I never panicked or made a fuss. I knew he would come for me the second I made privacy easy for him.

“There are less frightening techniques to get a woman’s attention,” I said, not quite brave enough to lift my eyes. I would rather stare at that man’s leather shoes than deal with twenty-one questions. “You could be a psychotic killer for all I know.”

“I am not psycho, nor am I defined by my career.” Brad’s mouth was so close to my face that I could feel his warm breath on the tender skin of my ear. “You should wear heels more often.” His pungent cologne, so familiar and oddly comforting, emitted like a subtle breeze. “Normally, I break my neck to be at eye level with you.”

Knee-high boots with three-inch heels are nothing to write home about, but I have learnt that additional height can be advantageous when in the company of towering dominance.

“Where is the assigned bodyguard?” he asked, and I was bewildered into silence. “I expect an answer to the question.”

“The hired gun stayed in the suite to read a book…” How is it possible that he is unaware of recent events? “Am I supposed to believe that Terrence has not been in touch? He tells you everything.”

Brad hummed the noncommittal reply deep within his chest. “I did not want a rundown of your daily schedule,” he said unapologetically, and I frowned at the rasp of disapproval. “He is only to contact me in the case of an emergency.”

“Right…” My chest tightened from the stab of disappointment. “Well, I guess I will see you later-” His hand struck the wall beside my head to stop me from leaving. “What do you want from me, Big Guy?”

“You never told about her.” Brad was staring at me, but still, the floor absorbed all my focus, for I could not summon the strength to look him in the eye. “I need to know why.”

“I do not speak of them,” I said, honest to a fault. “Martin, Miles and Mary. I think about my siblings often, but the Hughes family fell apart a very long time ago. I have learnt to survive in the world without them. It is unnatural for me to praise the people I have lost along the way when there is no guarantee that I will see them again.” My mouth felt suddenly dry. “Ben is obviously a different story.”

Brad’s stare had only intensified. “I was taken aback by you,” he said quietly, and the tightness in my chest softened to a limited extent. “I was unprepared.”

I am not sure how I felt about his lack of knowledge. I assumed that Mary would have provided a family tree during introductions. “My sister never told you about us.”

“Mary did not intentionally withhold information.” He was quick to defend my sister’s honour. “Ignorance is the culprit. If I had paid more attention when she spoke to me or when you shared details of the former years, I would have figured out the connection.”

My erratic heartbeat had yet to stabilise in rhythm.

“Mary mentioned twins in the past and the present. You and Ben, however, never crossed my mind.” He thumbed a strand of hair behind my ear. “For that, I apologise.”

“You have done nothing wrong.” Our problem is that no one else existed when in the presence of each other. We certainly talked very little about the past because most topics were triggering and off-limits. “Wait. You knew Mary before you and I met.”

“Yes,” he said, short and dismissive. “An exchange that I refuse to entertain and for reasons you understand.”

Previously, I had worked out that Brad lived opposite me on Mostyn Avenue. When the revelation came to light, he dismissed the conversation entirely. He was unwilling to trek down memory lane. I should have known that the two of them had crossed paths. They are similar in age. I imagine they spent many a summer together.

“Why Hughie?” Brad’s random question caught me off-guard. “What is about him, huh? You claim to be emotionally unavailable, but you have the time and the patience to entertain that fucking wanker.”

“Brad,” I scolded lightly, and he huffed a breathy laugh. “You can be unreasonably spiteful. Hugo is always nice to you.”

“And?” He gripped my jaw with punishing fingers, forcing me to maintain eye contact. “If you look for a conscience, you will not find one. I feel nothing but revulsion for that pathetic man.”

“Mary invited Hugo to the wedding,” I explained, not that he deserved an explanation after that piss-poor attitude. “I was happy to come alone. That is not to say I have an issue with the man’s attendance. He is a good friend.”

“You keep saying that as if it means something.” He released my jaw with a harsh shove. “Hughie is not your friend. He is a fucking imposter.”

Tonight would not be the first time that he’s thrown accusations about. “Why is he an imposter? Explain it to me.” When he never replied, I let out a dry laugh. “You cannot provide a reasonable answer you know he is a decent guy.” My gaze slid over the chiselled planes of his handsome face. “Your ego will be the death of you, Big Guy.”

Brad’s mouth flattened in momentary speechlessness. “I feel uneasy when he looks at me. There is something not quite right about that man.” His voice lowered conspiratorially. “I have to trust my gut, Emma.”

Irritated by the ridiculousness of the conversation, I pushed past him to leave, treading clumsily on touchy subjects, when his arm snaked around my waist, firm and protective, like the thought of us separating for another second terrified him.

“Big Guy,” I warned, doing my utmost to wriggle out of his hold. “Your accusations are unfounded.” I worry that jealousy has clouded his judgement. “If Hugo is such a bad person, why have I yet to see this ugly side of him? Help me to understand, or I cannot get on board.”

Brad’s forehead came to my shoulder as his tall, muscular body, braced in the centre of my back, leaned into me so that I could hold him upright. He gave up the fight, for a short, vulnerable moment, just so that he could hold me in silence.

“You do realise the man is scared of his own shadow, right?” My back bore the impact of the man’s abnormally rapid heartbeat. “He jumps during mediocre horror movies, screams like a little girl when a spider crawls across the floor and throws people overboard like sacrificial lambs to get away from barking dogs.” Turning to face him, I escaped the thrall of arms and put my back on the cold brick wall. “He does not have one harmless bone in his body.”

“I do not buy any of it,” Brad said stubbornly, and I had to fight the urge to slap some sense into him. “Your so-called friend…” Then, with a barely noticeable tilt of the head, he zoned out for a couple of seconds. When his eyes swung back to me, sharp and attentive, I nearly asked what had taken him off track, but he slapped a firm hand over my mouth.“Eyes and ears.”

I had to lip-read to understand, for he mouthed the words like a silent prayer.“What is it?”My lips moved without a breath of utterance.“I cannot hear anything.”

Big Guy hearkened to the harmonious sound of swing and blue notes in the distance. Then, licking his thumb, he reached for the sconce above my head and put out the flame.

Darkness.

I thought he had lost his marbles. Before I could question his sanity, I detected a set of retreating footsteps followed by a door opening and closing.

God, he is good.

I would never have known someone had walked down the hall if it were not for this sharp-eared man.

Big Guy relit the candle with a Clipper. “Timeless,” he whispered, and I failed to mask the inability to comprehend the smile on his lips and the nostalgic glint in his transfixing eyes. “My boss loves jazz music. He could sit in a room for hours with a bottle of Macallan on the table and a saxophonist on the stage.” He stepped back slightly, keeping a hand on my hip, to glance down the hallway, where someone had moseyed along seconds prior. “Do you think he was looking for you?”

He meant Hugo. “It could have been him or any other person in the hotel,” I said, and he cavilled under his breath. “You are unreasonable. Why not get to know him before you judge him?”

“I am hardly desperate for allies.” His sarcasm bounced right off me, but when I looked away-to rationalise the feel of his hand smoothing along the back of my thigh-he caught my chin and drew our lips closer. If I followed my heart and met him halfway, I could kiss him and taste a night of whiskey on his tongue. I never budged, though. I had to be one hundred percent sure that I knew what I was doing. He deserved more than regrets and indecisiveness. “Is he in your hotel room?”

My throat burned. “Does my sister share yours?”

“Do not deflect.” He inhaled raggedly through his nose. “You and I both know I am not here to pursue Mary.”

Hugo paid for a separate room. I had a suite with a double bed, en-suite bathroom and garden views on the second floor. “No.”

“You see, I got all these twisted images of you and him in bed together. I am not handling it very well.” The wild, murderous look in his eyes turned my stomach inside out.“It got me thinking that maybe bludgeoning my old friend with an improvised weapon was the wrong call. I should have saved all that anger for a better candidate.”

Oh, I heard the insufferable man’s message loud and clear. “And we are back to you confusing me for someone else.I am not Tiffany!” I whisper-shouted, ripping his hand away from my thigh. “Why must there be another man for our separation to make sense to you? Have you ever thought that maybe I only have eyes for you, but I care about you too much to mess you around? I have to be all in or all out. There is no in-between. Not for us.”

“Go ahead.” Brad gestured to himself with angry hand movements. “Play with my emotions.” A dare that I was not prepared to receive. “Rip out my heart and crush it for all I care. I want you, Emma.” He took my head into his hands, his thumbs drawing symmetrical shapes on my cheeks as he stared determinedly into my eyes. “I will never stop wanting you.”

Heart threatening to burst out of my chest, I caved, leaning in to kiss him, to feel his soft lips on mine, to be consumed by everything that’s him, when someone’s throat cleared and severed the gravitational force of passion between us.

I flinched, losing balance but regaining consciousness. I was so lost to the man’s touch I could barely compartmentalise the line we had crossed and the kiss we almost shared.

Brad spat out a curse, wiping away the smidgen of lipstick from the corner of his mouth. His frosty stare never left my face, all-knowing and all-seeing. “What do you want, Hughie?”

“Martin is looking for his sister,” Hugo replied, and when I glanced over and offered a friendly smile, he mouthed an apology for interrupting us. “Do you want me to walk back with you, Emma?”

Brad shot him a glare of pure rage. “Are you fucking dumb?” He had reached the end of his tether, which only hung on by a thread, to begin with. “You can blatantly see that we are in the middle of something.” His face was puce with lividness, but he had the grace to tone down for my benefit. “Why would she need you when I am standing right here.”

Hugo’s pallid face was obstinate, the countenance of perpetual bafflement and incredulity. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“You have been misinformed.” Big Guy took slow, predatory steps toward Hugo until they stood shoulder-to-shoulder. “I do not hate you.” His imperial height intimidated Hugo. He was mumchance with profound discombobulation. “Idespiseyou. At this particular moment, I am doing everything I possibly can to convince myself not to remove the Glock from my belt and pop a forty-five-calibre bullet in you. Here.” He tapped Hugo’s forehead. “Right between the fucking eyes.”

Hugo’s eyes winded at the threat. He looked from Brad to me, as if to seek interception or moral support.

“I can see that not much has changed since I last saw you,” came the deep, husky voice of a man I knew all too well and the floor beneath my feet seemed to rock and knock me off balance. “Is this any way to behave at my son’s wedding, gentlemen?”

Body restoring its natural equilibrium, I reemerged from the safety of the candlelit alcove with timid footsteps and came face to face with the man I once called Father.

I should have been better prepared. I should have mustered courage to withstand the disgust and disappointment. But I feared him just as much now as I did back then.

You did not have the gall to outstare Pappa Hughes.

You bowed your head, looked at the floor and showed some respect.

And like the coward that I am, I executed all of the above in less than two seconds.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Brad

Hamish is formidably muscle-bound and Amazonian tall, over six foot in height, akin to the heavily built Hughes brothers.

I suspected, by the aura of entitlement and officiousness, that he was the sort of man that ventured through crowded rooms and magnetised the observational attention of listeners and onlookers with his distinctive appearance alone.

A real silver fox, if you may, grey-haired, steely-eyed, iron-jawed and impeccably styled. If only people knew what the detestable hypocrite was like behind closed doors: piss-head, serial adulterer, wife-beater and child-abuser.

Emma loathed the pharisaical piece of shit, or so I thought, until the unmistakable stench of longingness for fatherly love permeated the long, narrow hallway.

People are biologically programmed to care about those who raised them, so when Emma recoiled into her shell and bowed her head submissively to pay homage to her father, I did not like it, but I could see where she was coming from. I used to behave in the same manner when Yolanda Kelleher walked into a room until I wised up and rid myself of the bitch.

No regrets. No love lost.

If Emma can take a leaf out of my book and disown her parents for good, she will be happier in life, that much I can guarantee, because we might share the same blood as those who gave birth to us, but we are under no obligation whatsoever to reimburse them for our existence.

Martha-the gaunt-looking woman with spindly arms and legs, wearing a long-sleeved, ankle-length dress, a hand-knitted cardigan, cross-strap flats and a timorous smile-is a different kettle of fish.

Unlike Hamish, who reeked of self-assurance and superiority, Martha lacked courage and boldness. In the shadow of her husband is where she stayed, wringing her fingers and looking at the floor to avoid eye contact with her estranged daughter.

You would think, after years of separation, with no line of communication, Mummy Dearest would have been thrilled to see her blood in the flesh. But Martha is a weak, inveterate coward, too fearful of her tyrannical husband’s wrath to act on her mother’s instinct and welcome her daughter back with open arms. She would rather fade into the background, which is all you can expect from someone beaten into submission.

Perhaps Martha’s customary timidness and sense of self-preservation were natural defence mechanisms. It only took a cursory glance for me to work out that she walked around in life like an empty shell, blank-faced and concerningly depersonalised.

Who am I to criticise victims of domestic violence? I might have experienced physical and sexual abuse in childhood, but I outgrew my abuser and embarked on the journey of pain-free freedom, whereas isolated women like Martha feared the consequence of non-compliance far too much to elect themselves for happiness and contentment.

Trappedis the only word that sprung to mind.

As I know how to ruffle a dictator’s feathers, I decided to give Hamish a taste of his own medicine by disregarding his not-so-important presence and introducing myself to his wife first. Polite gentlemanliness is the perfect solution for misogynistic wankers with a male superiority complex.

“Aren’t you just the paragon of beauty?” The compliment rolled off my tongue like melted chocolate, rich, smooth and impossible to ignore. As I am all about formal introductions to the wives of violent, controlling husbands, I grazed the underside of the woman’s hand with investigatory fingers, then bowed my head and left a respectful kiss on her knuckles. “Emma must have inherited her mother’s striking features.”

That assumption was directed at Hamish, who glared at me from beneath angrily slanted eyebrows.

Christ, I wanted to laugh in the smug bastard’s face. I am the last person on the planet that he can manipulate and control.

But, by all means, let him test the theory of who wears the trousers around here, and we will see who comes out of the situation irreparably scathed.

With an ersatz air of besottedness, I sent the spineless mare a look of tacit approval. “Martha, isn’t it?”

“Mrs Hughes.” Martha, with a speedy and rude withdrawal of the hand, latched onto her husband’s arm like a desperate leech. I wish I could talk some sense into her and stop her from behaving foolishly and obediently. “And you are…?”

“Brad Jones.” Even though Hamish was unforthcoming, I forced him to acknowledge me by shaking his hand firmly and vigorously. “You must be Poppa Hughes.”

Hamish wore a dark suit and satin tie with sartorial elegance. He was indeed an intimidating man. It was obvious that he could stand firm in argument; however, when faced with an enigma, he held himself wary and cautious until the mystery revealed its true form.

Emma’s father did not reciprocate warm welcomes. He stared at me for a second, then slipped both hands into the deep pockets of his smart, formal trousers.

Dismissal.

Honest to God, I could quite happily snatch the prick’s throat and hurl him straight through a window. It is safe to assume that we will not be friends by the end of the weekend.

“History will not repeat itself.” Hamish’s cold, judgmental eyes flickered between the triad of hostilities. “Have you learned nothing from past misbehaviours, Emma?” His glibness of speech was not impressive. Warren could out-talk him with his laconic, self-deprecatory humour. He would struggle to remember his own name by the time my boss finished with him. “How many brothers must you rip apart before you look at yourself in the mirror and improve bad habits?”

Emma, who seemed to be having a conference crisis, looked away in shame. Holding back tears was all she could do, not to let the tremble in her movements affect her voice. “Brad and Hugo are not brothers,” she responded with newfound fierceness. “Nor am I playing two men against each other. We are all friends here.”

A request for the amalgamation of allies was unnecessary. I might despise Hughie, the tweed-wearing freak of nature, but we stepped toward an accord wordlessly to ward off the evil of a bitter old man like a unified force to be reckoned with.

“In regard to the O’Shea brothers, I am not the cause of sibling rivalry.” Emma’s smile was anything but apologetic. “I loved Tommy and Killian. One as a friend. One as a lover.”

I espied a frown on Hugie’s brow. His greenish, unsmiling countenance went off in my head like a deafening, air-raid siren. If he is just a friend, why is he bothered by Emma’s history with other men?

I am sickeningly obsessed with the woman. And she knows it. I have made a fool out of myself many a time in the hope of mutual affection. But I am not completely psychotic. Despite my bashed and bruised ego, I can take no for an answer.

Yet, irrespective of Emma’s first love, Tommy O’Shea, I have never truly given their time together much consideration:

I will not give the Irish prick the satisfaction of lording it over me.

I compete with no one for a woman’s undivided attention.

I might have jealous tendencies that can most definitely lead to a bloodbath if I feel used or betrayed, but her past encounters are none of my business.

Which brings me back to the original question: Why is Hughie bothered by Emma and Tommy?

If only Emma could see the man’s icy glare right now. I doubt she would fight his corner if she discovered an ulterior motive.

Hughie is pretending to be the caring friend until Emma is inclined to sleep with him, or worse, choose him over me, which is old news. I sussed him out at the inception of the pair’s unexpected friendship. Tonight would be the first time I have witnessed the man’s burning desire, though.

And I did not like it.

“You seem to think if a woman is friends with a man, she must be desperate to get inside his trousers.” Emma’s softly spoken rant pulled me away from wandering thoughts. “The rest of the world-the more logical part of mankind-can differentiate between platonic and romantic.”

Martha stared admiringly at her youngest daughter, albeit the mask of disinterestedness slipped back into place when she realised her error. After all, she is not authorised to feel pleasure or satisfaction. To be proud of her children is against the rules.

Nonetheless, I found the notion interesting, the possibility that Martha Hughes is still in there somewhere, buried beneath the broken armour of defeatism. It made me wonder how far I would need to push for the lioness to come out and protect her cubs.

I do like a challenge.

“A racist, bigoted, sexist renowned for committing adultery, could not possibly understand the pain I felt when someone I considered my best friend betrayed me.” Emma is on a roll, delivering insult after insult. I almost smiled. “It’s not like you allowed me to explain my side of the story. You never saw me. You never heard me. I meant just as little to you then as I do now.”

Hamish masqueraded bigotry with pedantic obscurantism.

“Tommy was my childhood sweetheart. Killian was my best friend.” Emma’s shoulders scarcely lifted as she inhaled a shuddered breath. “Never, not in my wildest dreams, did I think Killian was capable of rape and attempted murder.”

Killian is lucky that he jumped with the rope knotted around his neck that night in the prison cell. If he were alive, I would deflesh the skin off his bones one painful day at a time to prolong the torture.

“Ask me, Father. What is worse? My rapist, leaving me for dead?” A single tear traced a line down her cheek. “Or my parents’ refusal to comfort me during the darkest and most terrifying moment of my life?”

Martha’s eyes welled up. It is evident to everyone in attendance that she wanted to comfort her daughter. If only she would grow a backbone.

“I used to think Killian’s wickedness outweighed the cold-heartedness of those who birthed me.” Emma wiped her face frantically, refusing to shed another tear in front of them. “Now, as a mother myself, I can see that the real monster back then was you.”

Hamish listened intently.

“You are my father, but you did not protect me.” Emma passed the point of no return. “You kicked me whilst I was down and dumped me on the doorstep of humiliation. You have no right to stand there and cast judgement on me. You lost parental responsibility the moment you sided with my perpetrator. As for you.” Her anger diverted to Martha, and tears could be seen on either side when their eyes connected. “You were supposed to be my mother. Did it ever occur to you that our pain and suffering should take precedence over your own?”

Martha’s lips parted to say something, not that words formulated.

“You are no better than him. You stood back like a coward and allowed the abuse to happen.” Emma’s lips twisted into a disgusted sneer. “Pardon the urgency to leave, but there is a bottle of wine down there with my name on it.”

Hamish, with a line of irritation between his furrowed eyebrows, watched his daughter walk away.

Once Emma was safely out of sight, with Hugo hot on her heels, no less, Hamish searched anxiously for answers in his wife’s eyes, then dismissed the entire ordeal with a flippant wave of the hand. “You cannot reason with mentally defective individuals.”

I gave him a pointed look. “Emma is sound of mind.”

“Is that so?” Hamish was deserving of public animadversion. “I must ask you, Mr Jones. Are you often defensive of another man’s significant other?” To think, I had to play along with such tosh. Emma did not belong to Hughie. He is not herman. “Or is my daughter an exception?”

“Emma is my sister-in-law.” An ache settled in my jaw as a consequence of teeth grinding. I promised to be a good man for Mary’s sake because the dutiful daughter had something to prove to her father, but there is only so much I can take before I revert to syndicate rules and regulations, where disrespect is rewarded with a condescending backhander and irredeemability guaranteed you a night in Club 11′s chamber of tortures. It would be a damn miracle if I lasted the entire weekend without stabbing the fucker within an inch of his life. Do not write me off just yet, though. The jury is still out on the likelihood of premeditated murder. “Defensiveness is mostly procedural at this point.”

Hamish hummed throatily. “Do you expect me to believe Mary restored her faith in heterosexuality? No offence, Mr Jones.” His hand fell on my shoulder. “You seem like a charming young man. But I am suspicious of second-hand information.”

“Fair enough,” I said distractedly, studying the faded crucifix tattoo on his index finger. “You could always ask her directly.”

Yes, I had definitely seen the tattoo before, close up and personal, when I walked toward the kitchen of my childhood home and overheard male grunting and female moaning in coincide with furniture banging. I should have known better than to peer around the ajar door, but curiosity had gotten the better of me.

I never saw the face of the man bent over my mother on the kitchen table. I was too disgusted to hang around and watch the stomach-churning show unfold.

Before I retreated to the safety of my bedroom to lock the door, though, I caught sight of the man’s large, tanned hand, with a wedding band on the ring finger to honour his wife and ink below the knuckle to honour what I assumed was Faith in Christianity.

Yolanda was fucking the town’s preacher.

That intriguing flashback went straight into my backpack for a rainy day, which may very well be around the corner, as I sensed a storm was on the way.

I wonder how Martha would feel about Hamish’s secret affair with my mother. The incident involving the kitchen table was not the first time I had caught them together.

Hamish frequently visited the Jones’ residence for sex when my father was at work.

My eyes raised.

I wanted to expose him.

The function room percolated with activity: good music, decent food and tedious conversations.

I spotted Mary, Josh and Patty at the furthest end of the extended table.

Martin made sure that his siblings were strategically placed to avoid any conflict between them and Hamish.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Josh asked once I became seated at the banquet of champions. “I could kill you sometimes.” His voice was a mere whisper. “You left me to deal with all this craziness by myself.”

“Give it a rest,” I muttered under my breath, picking up a fork and stabbing into the herby potato on my plate. “Why is there a water glass on the table?”

“Are you blind or stupid?” He furtively pointed at the jugs of ice water scattered on either side of floral centrepieces and old candelabras. “Mormons believe alcohol is the Devil’s brew. God would never allow reckless behaviour.” His cold, predatory stare turned to Mary, who was feigning cluelessness and obliviousness, but I knew, without validation, that she was secretly twigging our conversation. “Isn’t that right, Mary, The Blessed Virgin? Heaven forbid I get drunk and enjoy myself.”

“Stop.” Her eyes pleaded with him to desist. “You can yell at me later. I will not have a set-to in front of a room full of spectators.”

Josh eye-balled her with bloodthirsty determination. Patty had to rub his back with the quintessence of a doting girlfriend, as if she genuinely cared about his feelings.

“Martin.” Hamish’s deep baritone voice sprouted goosebumps on my flesh. I am an experienced observer. I nearly looked up to watch the interaction between father and son, but pride and stubbornness forbade me to do so. I would rather stab myself in the eye with a blunt fork. I will not show the despicable man that I am agitated by the nearness of exuded disdainfulness. “I apologise for being late.” He proceeded with purposeful rodomontade. “I ran into a minor complication in the hall. You understand.”

Intentionally disregarding the dulcet voices of wedding guests, I forked a cherry tomato into my mouth and chewed in silence.

This is quite possibly the worst day of my life. I had to turn a blind eye to Hughie, who was practically sitting on top of Emma, with one arm draped across the back of her chair, his fingers dangerously close to her shoulder. He spoke directly into her ear, a private, somewhat intimate discussion betweenfriends.

My jaw muscles clenched. I had to breathe and let the scenario play out without losing my cool, which proved to be more difficult throughout the night. I did not want his hands on her skin, touching, caressing and seducing.

“Brad.” Josh gave me a full-blown smirk. “You got it bad.”

I will shiv the son of a bitch.

Josh leaned in, his mouth tickling the shell of my ear. “You are giving Mary’s younger sister the bedroom eyes.”

“Do not spread scandalous rumours,” I whispered so that nearby guests would not tap into our private tête-à-tête. “Nobody likes a shit-stirrer.”

“I am not a shit-stirrer.” He fumbled with a sneaky bottle of alcohol under the table, then alternatively dumped our water onto the vintage-style rug in exchange for neat vodka. “I am a fact finder, and you, my friend, might be a fool in love.”

I snorted into the vodka glass he slipped into my possession, then drained its throat-burning contents until satiated. “As if anyone is special enough to have that kind of hold over me.”

“Are you sure?” Josh sipped at the glass, staring at Emma across the well-occupied table of gormandisers. “Only, from where I am sitting, there is an insane amount of sexual tension in the air, which starts with you and ends with her.” He waved cheerfully at Hughie, the earwigging tool. “How is life treating you?”

“Excellent,” Hugo replied with a perfunctory nod of the head. “I have never been better.” He slid me a smouldering smirk, then regarded Emma with avid delight. For good measure, he squeezed the nape of her neck comfortingly. “Would you like me to get you another drink?”

“No, I am okay.” Emma is unmindful of the man’s antagonistic position. The glass of half-sipped orange juice is the focal point of her contemplation. “Thank you, though.”

Observing the interaction dispassionately, I masked umbrage and, alternatively, paid heed to the bodacious waitress as she schlepped a silver tray festooned with ivory flowers and gilded demitasses along the table.

Her eyes fixated on me. “Can I interest you in the peanut, caramelised sorbet and banana cake?” A kittenish smile. “It is positively delicious. If you ask me, I highly recommend it.”

Josh’s eyebrows canted at the detection of innocent flirtatiousness. No, she is not Carol Anne-the receptionist slash manager he got his sights on-but she is attractive in her own right. If I am not keen to invite her to someplace private by the end of the night, he will gladly take her off my hands.

“No,” I declined the dessert, yet somehow, she confused repudiation with an agreement to extend an arm over my shoulder and set the china plate of banana splodge down in front of me. Of course, the eye-level view of her ample breasts shoved in my face was unintentional. I refrained from an eye roll. “That old chestnut,” I said, quiet and for her ears only. “You need to work on the raffish seduction technique.”

“Wow.” Her lips pursed into a duck-like pout. “You are a dick.”

“Am I?” My uncongenial tone of voice breathed in her ear. “Would you appreciate it if some random guy came along and whipped his cock in your face? Or would that be disrespectful to you and your partner?” With that, I reached for Mary’s hand across the white-clothed table and interlaced our fingers. “You can get back to work now.”

I never watched the waitress leave. For some reason, I looked down at the table in time to see Emma avert her eyes to the empty bar.

Too late, Sweetheart. I know you were keeping an eye on me.

“Brad,” Mary said with a stifled squeal as she closed the small gap between us to plant a chaste kiss on my cheek. “You are perfect.”

“I know.” Raising the vodka glass to my lips, I shot Mary a cheeky wink. “I tell myself that every morning when looking at my reflection in the mirror.”

A chorus of laughter filled the room. I had somehow managed to entertain dinner guests without even trying.

Christ, I only said the first thing that sprung to mind to distract myself with humorous thoughts rather than focus on romantic ideologies.

Josh tapped my shoulder. “Shall we sneak off for a game of late-night tennis? I think we earned it.”

I did not need to be asked twice.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Emma

CHAPTER SIXTY

Emma

Judith’s elegant yet modest bridal gown of velvety tulle, passementerie appliques and illusion scoop neckline stole the show for many, but for me, Martin’s devotion to the beautiful bride marked the highest pinnacle of perfection, for there is nothing more perfect than one of your siblings living the best life.

You want the people you love to be happy, and Judith, irrespective of radiant beauty and intricate lace, is responsible for Martin’s smile.

The private ceremony occurred in the massive ballroom festooned with heavily decorated aisle flowers: pedestal arrangements, table cascades and floor urns.

I had back-row seats alongside Hugo, Benjamin and Quinn, with four empty spaces where Mary and her entourage should have been seated. But Mary never showed her face, which did not come as a surprise. My older sister warned me that lateness might be an issue when I swung by her room earlier.

Miles is the best man. He stood joyfully and proudly at our brother’s side while his girlfriend, Thalia, had front-row seats with Hamish, Martha and the in-laws. All cooped together like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.

I hated both incidents.

Miles and Martin stayed close over the years, and even though three other siblings were benched for the ceremony, there was only one brother amongst the ostracism faced by females. Benjamin was excluded. He was left out in the cold, on the outskirts of the room, with the deplorable sisters, the family’s rejects, like there was not enough space for one more male in a suit at the altar.

It was a hard pill to swallow. I know my twin, whether he showed it or not, would have felt the burn of rejection. His need to protect his sister might have led to sibling estrangement, but Martin and Miles insisted on repairing our broken family because they missed having us around, in particular, Benjamin, as the loss of him damaged the dynamic trio-a missing piece of the puzzle. Yet, they spurned him. They put him in the corner with us, Mary and me. Like he deserved the cold-shoulder. The silent treatment.

Then we have Thalia, who played happy families with our parents as if their biological children were anything but confined to hours of propinquity with them. I spent more time watching the three of them fawn over each other than the newfound joys of love and matrimony.

Once the marriage officiant pronounced Martin and Judith husband and wife, the guests dispersed from one ballroom to another to enjoy a round of mocktails whilst the bride and groom, in the company of the beautifully gowned bridesmaids and smartly suited groomsmen, headed to the manicured garden for sunset photos and faux champagne.

Luckily, there was an alcohol-stocked bar in the hotel’s main function room, where most of the wedding guests ventured throughout the day to sneak shots of liquor.

I am not a vodka aficionado, but I practically begged the barman to lace my drinks as the thought of fake cocktails sent my brain into overdrive. I will never survive the rest of the weekend without the numbing qualities of intoxication.

An exquisite five-course meal happened: pancetta crisps with goat cheese and pear, chestnut fennel soup, chicken gorgonzola served with a garden of salad, honey yoghurt panna cotta drizzled with blood orange sauce and a slice of the six-tiered wedding cake.

Benjamin complained about every dish. He believed in quality over quantity, and the set menu did not tick the right boxes.

“The kitchen staff used frozen chicken.” My twin forked leafy greens across the plate. “You can taste the difference.”

And men have the cheek to call females bitchy. “I loved the food,” I lied to get under my brother’s skin. “The lumpy, salty, unpalatable soup? Chef’s kiss.”

“You are a bad liar,” Benjamin called me out on the bullshit. “I could run circles around those amateurs. Maybe if Martin had paid attention to our text messages over the last few months, he could have saved himself the embarrassment of unsatisfied dinner guests, not to mention the overpriced menu. That must have hurt Hamish’s bank balance.”

“Hamish paid for the wedding?” I asked, pausing with the glass flute close to my lips. “And here I thought prodigality was beneath him.”

“Judith’s parents are relatively impecunious.” Benjamin used an ivory napkin to dab his lips. “At least, that’s what Martin told me.”

Still, I found it hard to believe that Hamish willingly funded an entire weekend of celebrations. “Why do you care about our father’s pocket?”

“I never said I cared,” he groused with a slight note of chastisement. “I am allowed to be bitter. I am a chef, for fuck’s sake. An offer to host would not have gone amiss.”

“And miss all the fun?” Hugo rasped a gravelly exhale. “Let the burden of kith trick those who do not matter. You know different.”

Hugo had good intentions, attempting to be helpful, but I did not appreciate the unsolicited advice to disregard the flagrant divide in the room.

If Benjamin wanted to offload feelings of resentment on his sister, he was within his right to do so. That’s what I am here for, to lend an ear to my brother in his hour of need.

“Ben is right, though.” I quickly jumped to my twin’s defence. “Professional input would have done the menu justice.”

My brother’s flat-lipped smile conveyed appreciation.

Quinn kissed Benjamin’s cheek. Her fondness towards him made my heart swell with happiness. “You will have plenty of opportunities to show off those culinary skills.”

“I suppose Emma’s argument is strong.” Hugo switched from slight disagreeableness to indubitable agreeableness. “Benjamin’s gastronomical success must have crossed Martin’s mind. Maybe the man’s failure to observe was intentional.”

“Scandalmonger,” I quipped, albeit taken aback by the man’s brazenness. “Do you take pleasure in discord between family members? If not, why do you plant the seed of doubt?”

“Is that what you think I did?” Hugo sat back in the beribboned chair with a bemused frown of cogitation slanted over his forehead. “I doubt your brother is susceptible to the faculties of persuasion, Emma.”

“Martin did not intentionally overlook his brother for the catering service,” I said, watching a cavalcade of sommeliers enter the banquet hall to place non-alcoholic champagne on the tables. “You will probably find that Judith worked alongside a wedding planner. Or perhaps Martin assumed that Ben would rather attend the reception than break a sweat in the kitchen.”

“May I have your attention?” Hamish’s cold, emotionless voice felt like sandpaper on my skin. “Settle down.”

He reduced the room’s liveliness. You could hear a pin drop through the air as guests sat taller to regard the man by the head table.

“Hamish Hughes.” A crooked smile masked his priggish tendencies. “Father of the groom. First, I would like to thank everyone for contributing to my son’s special day. Second, I must express gratitude to my youngest children for travelling four and a half hours to reconnect with Martin and Miles.”

Multiple heads swung in our direction.

I wanted to die.

“Our family has experienced great hardship over the years and seeing the four of them back together again goes beyond the scope of what any parent could imagine.” Hamish raised a glass of bubbles. “Benjamin. Emma. Your mother and I felt incomplete without our beloved twins. I am glad the two of you came home.”

“I hate him,” I whispered in my brother’s ear, grateful for the undeserving round of applause my father received as the uproarious clapping provided ten seconds of privacy for us to speak. “He never acknowledged Mary. He quite literally told the entire room she is not important.”

“We are not important.” Benjamin’s hand covered mine on the table. “Hamish only did that to upset you.”

“As for the whole, I felt incomplete without the beloved twins,” I imitated our old man’s bogus admiration. “Our discomfort amused the shameless idiot.”

“Do not let him get to you, Em.” My brother glared at our pompous father from across the room. “Every cloud has a silver lining.”

Mary missed the wedding ceremony, the sit-down meal and the majority of the speeches. I half wondered if she had changed her mind and decided to stay in her room with Patty, Brad and Josh. I would not blame her if she did. Our father hated me with a passion, but the abhorrence he reserved for Mary was bone deep.

Hamish’s impending wrath must be weighing on my sister. I was primed for the old man’s verbal onslaught because I knew the assassination of Mary’s character was imminent. If Hamish thinks, for even one second, I am going to sit here and watch as she is traduced by the hypocrisy of an ungodly ass-wipe, he is more senile than I thought.

With these thoughts in mind, I nursed a glass of vodka and orange in the elaborately decorated room that was fit for royalty, listening to the long-winded speeches of reminiscences amongst the people participating in the ceremony.

If truth be told, I am bored to death. I am starting to think that coming here was a complete waste of time. Sure, I wanted to ensure Benjamin reconnected with our brothers, but judging by the last three hours, where Martin and Miles separated themselves from sibling duties, reconciliation is an unlikely outcome.

Benjamin read my mind. “Why did we agree to this nonsense?” His lips tickled my ear as he leaned in, to converse. “This reminds me of Lee Evans: we are the distant relatives. We won’t be coming in,” he quoted, and I giggled into the champagne flute. “I would have preferred a table thrown outdoors. At least the garden offered scenic views. I have never felt more ostracised in my life.”

“And that’s saying something,” I added with a pointed finger, and his head dipped in agreement. “Coming from the neighbourhoods’ social pariahs.”

“Why do you bother yourselves with distressing thoughts?” Hugo’s elbows rested on the table clad in white linen. “Is bitterness second nature at this point? You both do fine without familial acceptance.”

Hugo’s opinionated commentary was testing my patience. It’s not that I disagreed with him. He spoke facts. But our family quarrels had nothing to do with him.

Benjamin’s arm slid across the back of Quinn’s chair. He closed in, peppering kisses along the side of her throat. “Let me know if you get too tired.” His hand flattened on her tummy. “I will happily call it a night.”

“The pregnancy is taking its toll on me.” Quinn’s hands instinctively moved to Benjamin’s hand on her swollen stomach. “But I expected nothing less from your kid.” She was all smiles, returning his affection with a fused kiss to his lips. “I will survive. A night with your brothers and sisters is more important than a foot massage.”

“A night in the sack is more apt,” I said before I could stop myself, and two pairs of different coloured eyes zapped in my direction. “Please, I heard the two of you this morning, going at it like rampant rabbits. You might want to fool around on the floor next time. Your bed is not the quietest.”

Benjamin’s face reddened.

“What can I say?” Quinn’s nose wrinkled cutely. “Your brother drives a hard bargain. I can’t say no to those puppy dog eyes.”

“The cavalry is here!” Mary’s arm suddenly locked around my neck from behind. “Sorry, I am late.” My sister kissed the top of my head, then leaned over me to smother Benjamin with cheek-to-cheek air kisses. “I had an outfit dilemma. The dress I planned to wear? Too small. According to the broken zipper, I gained weight recently.” Her backside plonked on the chair next to Hugo. “I need to get on a diet post-haste before the cellulite gets out of hand.”

I disagreed. Mary had the ideal body shape. “Pink looks good on you.”

“Purple would have looked better,” she chimed, thanking Patty for the glass of lemonade, which, I imagine, had a hefty dose of strong alcohol inside. “Shit. They are still doing speeches. I had hoped to avoid sentimental tear-jerkers.”

“You missed dinner.” Benjamin is pleased to see his other sister. “Not that food was anything to brag about. Dad got ripped off with this bill.”

“Good.” Mary flashed him a cruel smile. “Hopefully, Martin drained him dry. The best way to hit a man is in his pocket.”

“My boss would agree with you.” Big Guy emerged from somewhere, and when the lower part of his body squeezed behind my chair to reach the empty seat next to Mary, I told myself to look away, to focus on anything other than him, but to no avail. “What have we missed?”

My throat dried at the sight of him. He always looked good, tailored and handsome, but tonight, there was something different about him, and I could not pinpoint what. His hair was styled into a top knot meticulously, not a strand out of place. His jaw had that flawless five o’clock shadow. His pearly white smile was effortlessly beautiful. And his transfixing eyes, indomitably steady, regarded everyone at the table except yours truly.

“Not much by the looks of it.” Josh clicked down a waitress to remove dirty dishes from the table. “Did you remember to bring a friend?” He brandished gift bags with a naughty smirk, then hid them beneath the table. “Champagne bottles to get us through the night.”

“There is a bar next door.” Benjamin slid the empty glass down the table for Josh to splash champagne inside. “Everyone bar the Mormon party is sneaking down there for alcohol refills.”

“I will pace myself until later.” Josh eyeballed an uneaten slice of cake on the table. “Ah, I am slut for red velvet.” Picking up an unused fork, he sliced through layers of ermine icing. “Ignore me. I have not eaten in aeons. I am no good to anyone until I line my stomach.”

Brad’s fingers curled around a crystal whiskey glass. He was not hiding a night of indulgence from anyone. “You ate thirty minutes ago.”

“Snitch,” Josh retorted over a mouthful of crimson sponge. “A packet of salt and vinegar crisps does not count.”

Big Guy did not have the energy to bicker with Josh. He tore his eyes away, gazing around the room, soaking up the intricately draped fairy lights above and the floor besprinkled with rose petals.

“Did Hamish give a speech?” Mary asked, and, of course, everyone tuned in to hear my response. “Or did he just sit there like Lord Farquaad?”

“He raised a toast,” Benjamin spoke on my behalf. “Not that we cared to listen. We had our own conversation.” His shoulder nudged mine. “Isn’t that right, Em?”

“Yes,” I played along, lifting the glass flute to my lips for a quick sip. “Can we talk about how much we hate Hamish tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.” Mary’s hands rubbed together. “Who is buying the first round of shots? I call for sambuca.”

Another two hours into the disastrous night of tuneless music, mixed alcohol and idle conversations, I felt no better than when I first arrived.

I am not in a partying mood, the alcohol thrumming in my veins doing nothing to lift my spirits.

My mother’s melancholic bleakness nearly reduced me to tears. I have observed avidly throughout the night, and she only left her seat at the head table once to use the ladies’ room.

Aside from the bathroom break, she stayed put like the dutiful wife, fading into the background whilst everyone else celebrated joyously around her.

Hugo is here somewhere.

Benjamin and Quinn turned in for the night.

Patty and Josh relocated to the well-stocked bar next door.

And Big Guy…

I have not seen him since he excused himself from the table earlier to take a phone call. I think he headed outside, but it’s not as though I followed his every move or anything, so the jury is still out on his whereabouts.

Mary is refilling champagne flutes under the table, courtesy of Josh’s “bring a friend” method. It did the trick. We barely visited the next room for alcohol because the thoughtful man in a suit came to the party prepared.

“Why are you sober?” My sister pushed a glass into my hand, the bubbly beverage spilling down my fingers. “You sure know how to handle your drink, huh? I wish I had your high tolerance. Too much vodka and I am on my arse for a week.” Her unladylike snicker put a smile on my face. I love how she laughs at her own jokes, even when said jokes are not even funny. “So, little sister. Do we get up and dance with everyone else, or do we sit here and gossip for old times’ sake?”

The illuminated dance floor is a melange of evening dresses and classic suits. Everyone caroused to loud disco music whilst I wallowed in self-pity and for reasons I continue to ignore. “Hamish is talking to the DJ.” I would gouge my eyes out with a fork before moving close to our father. A respectful distance is a must. “Let’s talk instead. You can tell me about your new store.”

“Yeah…No.” Mary’s mouth formed a small circle. “It is important to leave work at work for better performance. Tell me about Hogarth. Do I need to buy a wedding hat?”

“Are you delusional?” I asked, and she blinked at me. “How many times do I need to say it before you take me seriously? I am not interested in Hugo. He is a friend. A friend who I have only known for a strawberry season. Why do you insist on playing cupid? I am not into him.”

“Really?” She sent me a quizzical look. “But he is always around.”

Dear Lord. What is this woman smoking?

“Yes, because you invited him everywhere,” I reminded her, and she smiled guiltily. “Look, I get it, okay. You are my big sister. You want to make sure that I am happy. But you cannot force attraction on me. I like him as a friend only. Do you understand the definition of friendship?”

“Alright.” Her hand shot up to silence me. “I got the picture. You are friends with no sexual benefits. Noted.”

My tense shoulders relaxed fractionally.

“But you must have your eyes on someone, right?” Her pushiness will be the death of me. “Earth to Emma. I know you can hear me, so spill the beans.”

Yes, I heard every word, but something else piqued my curiosity. Brad had returned to the room and somehow wormed his way to the head table. He was talking to one of the bridesmaids. And what is worse, they had good chemistry. He smiled. She smiled. He laughed. She laughed. They were hyper-aware of each other. Here, I sat, watching the flirtatious pair like a jealous ex-girlfriend.

My mouth was suddenly dry. “Are you okay with that?”

“Huh?” Mary looked from me to Brad, then shrugged, completely nonchalant, because he was not her real boyfriend. “What am I missing?”

I had to spell it out for her. “Your boyfriend is flirting with Judith’s bridesmaid.”

“No, he is not…” Her eyes sliced in suspicion as she examined them. Even when the bridesmaid’s hand slipped onto Brad’s thigh underneath the table, she never batted an eyelid. “Oh, I guess that is a bit too far. I should go over there and threaten to break her fingers. But honestly, I am not bothered. He can get laid for all I care, just as long as Hamish is not privy to them in bed together.”

My stomach knotted as the dreaded feeling of nausea swept over me. “It should bother you. He made an agreement that did not involve her.”

Her lips pushed into a pout. “Why would it bother me?”

“He is supposed to be here with you.”

“Em, I am not really dating him.” Mary is bewildered by the conversation. “Fake dates, remember?”

I picked imaginary lint on the tablecloth. “Still, the man’s open flirtatiousness is extremely disrespectful.”

“Emma?” Her face went blank as she sought answers in my eyes, not that I gave anything away. I remained unemotional. “Why does this upset you so much? Brad is a big boy. I am not here to read him the riot act.”

“I do not care in the slightest.” Yet, everything hurts, body, mind and soul. My heart responded to the possibility of him with another woman. “But how can you expect the family to believe the relationship is real if he is chatting up other women? Hamish is not blind.”

“Our family is too busy dancing to notice…Wait a minute.” Her jab to my chest was accusatory. “What are you not telling me?”

I was not prepared for the innocent question. “What do you mean?”

“No.” Mary reached between her legs, gripped the front of her chair and skulked closer to finish where she had left off. “I am not playing that game with you.”

My brain unsuccessfully processed the unexpected turn of events. “Who is playing games?”

Her eyes flared. “You are jealous.”

“What? That’s absurd!” My face became impossibly hot. “Why would I be jealous? He is not my fake boyfriend.”

“You must think I was born yesterday.” Mary placed her glass on the table. “How long have you known Brad Jones?”

Oh, she got straight to the point. “I know of him.”

“Bullshit.” Her arms folded onto her lap. “Emma, if looks could kill, that girl would be dead. Now, how do you know him?” When I hesitated, she got to her feet. “Fine. If you do not tell me, I will ask him myself. And just so you know, I will come back with the truth. Brad is not shy.”

“No. Do not show me up.” Gripping her by the elbow, I forced her to take a seat. “We were friends for a while. Kind of. Sort of. Details are not important.”

“Friends?” she deadpanned, and I nodded sheepishly. “And neither of you thought to mention that during introductions.”

“It’s not like anyone prepared me for his arrival.” Give me a break. I was blindsided when he walked into the room. “Plus, I did not want to blow your cover. I played my part like everyone else.”

Mary studied me, long and hard. “Oh, my God!” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “You are the emotionally unavailable woman! How could I not have seen it?”

My cheeks were on fire. “Could you have said that any louder?”

“Oh, Emma.” My sister was a drunken sympathiser. “You know he is crazy in love with you, right?”

I shot her a double take. “Do not be so ridiculous.”

“I have never been more serious in my life.” Her eyelashes fluttered dreamily. “You are all he can think about. No other woman compares. If you go to him, he will drop everything to take your hand.”

I struggled to swallow. “Is that what he said?”

“Not in those words, but I can spot a broken man when I see one.” Mary’s fingers laced through mine, bringing our joint hands on her lap. “You should have told me. I could have found different wedding dates. He was just there. Not that I regret asking him. He used to be my best friend. I never realised how much I missed him until our worlds collided…” Her words caught up with her mind. “But that’s not the point. You should be here with him. Not Hogarth.”

Giving her hand a light squeeze, I respired a shuddered breath. “Can we talk about this another time?”

“No way. I am invested.” Letting go of my hand, she swiped the glass of champers on the table and threw bubbles down her throat. “I want your side of the story right now. Go ahead. I am all ears.”

My head shook.

“Emma,” she warned, and I huffed out loud. “Talk to me.”

“What is there to say?” I glared at her, weary and hopeless. “There is no romantic love story, Mary. I met him outside of Ben’s Cafe. He was sentenced to a community service order. He swindled free coffee out of me. I let him believe it bothered me when, in reality, I liked having him around. We became friends who opened up to one another and found solace in late-night heart-to-hearts. Somehow our friendship turned into attraction. I liked him. He liked me.” My eyes watered at the memories of us. “But then Carter disappeared. And then Big Guy had to deal with an unplanned pregnancy. It was too much. Fate had other ideas for us. Life ripped us apart.”

My sister is not easily moved by tears. “You are determined to be alone.”

Yes, I randomly woke up one morning and opted for life without companionship. “It’s not that I want to be alone, Mary.”

“Then, why have you pushed him away?”

“I just told you why.”

“Carter’s disappearance is an excuse.”

“Excuse me?” My hackles rose. “Carter’s disappearance is a good enough reason not to be selfish. I can live without a man in my life.”

“Your son would want you to be happy.”

“My son is not here to corroborate those assertions.”

“As for the baby mamma drama? Last I checked, he is not in a relationship with that woman. Yeah, the situation is a little inconvenient. But it does not have to put a wedge between you both. I am sure you can make it work.” Mary’s head cocked to the side. “Or is it that Brad is a big deal in London? You might be afraid. He is not the easiest candidate amongst renowned womanisers,” she added, and I recoiled slightly. “Yes, I have stalked the internet to see what my old friend has been up to over the years. I know what he is all about, so do not look at me like I am out of line. Your guy works for a convicted drug baron, right? His hands are besmirched with illegal dealings.”

My mouth stuttered.

“What Brad does in his spare time is none of my business,” she reassured me. “I care about you. Your happiness is non-negotiable. And Em, if that man is the reason, you get out of bed tomorrow with a spring in your step, I will be his biggest advocate.”

My throat swelled.

“I will not get a good night’s rest until I know my baby sister is okay again.” Her fingers played with a loose tendril of my hair before she curled it behind my ear. “Be okay. You deserve that and more for everything you have been through.”

Listening to my sister, I chanced to look at Brad. He is still engrossed in conversation with the bridesmaid. “I think he is done with me.”

“How will you know if you keep running away from him?” Mary seemed to know more about our situationship than I realised. “There is only one way to find out. Go over there and ask for a moment of his time. My bet is he will come to you.”

“What am I supposed to do, huh? Pretend that months of heartbreak never happened?” My head spun with possible scenarios until I entertained the idea. “Do I just walk over there and beg him for a second chance? I have played with that man’s emotions too many times to demand more from him.”

“Do not jump into action and blow my cover.” An anxious shadow crept over her face. “There are other ways to get his attention.”

“Right,” I muttered into the glass. “I will pull him away from the bridesmaid like a psychopath. If I go over there, he will think I am only showing interest because I am jealous. I am not doing that.”

“But you are jealous,” she stressed, and I slumped back in the chair. “Hey, I am not judging you. You are only human.”

“Yes, I am jealous. I hate knowing that he might wind up in her bed tonight. But this is more than jealousy. I care about him, Mary.”

My sister waited for me to finish. “Does honesty stretch any further?”

“Brad is everything I want in a man, regardless of his line of work or the personal issues in our private lives,” I said, and a slight smile touched her lips. “A future without him makes me feel dead inside. I am sad that he might not be the face I see for the rest of my life. Because that is all I want, him, every day, for as long as he will have me.” A tear escaped the corner of my eye. “Is that honest enough for you?”

“Oh, Emma.” My sister eased back in the chair. “You love him.”

I shrugged.

“For goodness sake, Sis.” Her eyes pleaded with me to do something about it. “Go and claim your man, or I will do it for you.”

“No, I will not go to him under these circumstances.” Soaring to my feet, I grabbed my clutch bag on the table. “I need some fresh air. Do not lecture me.”

Mary’s hands raised in surrender.

Brushing unruly strands of hair out of my face, I meandered through the dinner tables, eager to get outside, and stupidly glanced in Big Guy’s direction to torture myself with more images of him and his possible bedmate.

But someone else had caught his attention.

Me.