Finding Summer (Nightwind Book 3)

by Suzanne Halliday

  Lethal anger mixed with hatred rose inside him. He exploded like an animal intent on ravaging everything in his way. The sound from his throat began as a howl of pain and ended with feral intensity. Someone, and he knew who, was going to die.

  This time, two sets of hands pushed him back into the chair. Using the voice of parental authority, his dad told him to sit the fuck down. The story wasn’t over.

  The lawyer’s frightened expression let Arnie know he was every bit as wild-eyed and dangerous as he felt. He vibrated with anger but managed to stay down. If there was more, he needed to hear it all before deciding what to do.

  “Um, so,” Wells cautiously continued. “She, uh, well, you see, Giselle believed he who controlled gained access. When Mr. Darnell disappeared, Giselle saw her chance to control the young lady.”

  Arnie growled menacingly.

  “Control how?” his father asked in a calm voice.

  “Well, she intended to scare the young lady. Rattle her cage with a mild threat. She used Mr. Darnell’s absence to insinuate things untrue. But it didn’t go the way she planned.”

  Arnie’s father held the floor and asked the questions. “How so?”

  “The lady in question, Miss Warren, well, she wasn’t buying what Giselle was selling. I believe a good word to describe their exchange was feisty. Money was offered. A fracas broke out. It became aggressive. We were thrown out, and I believe, Miss Warren was fired.”

  “All of it,” Stan snarled. “Tell him the rest and do it fast.”

  In a rapid, lawyerly delivery, he spelled it out.

  “Miss Warren had a surprise or two up her sleeve. She immediately went underground and disappeared without a trace. She covered her tracks well. It drove Giselle batty. Eventually, we picked up her trail because of a fluke. There was a university parking sticker on the car Miss Warren drove and then sold for cash through Craig’s List. It was a simple thing to find a hacker motivated by cash to find a way into her student account. After that, it was a wait-and-see situation. At some point, Miss Warren logged into her student account. It took effort, but Giselle forced the hacker guy to isolate the IP address. It was a public library in North Hollywood. Then it was a simple matter of pinpointing nearby birthing centers. If she was trying to stay anonymous, it was a good bet she’d pick a small health center rather than a big hospital.”

  Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god. He was vibrating with rage, couldn’t breathe, and Arnie was sure he was having a heart attack.

  Summer sold her car and ran away. Not because of him. Because of Giselle. Unless he misunderstood, she was hiding out in the suburbs of Los Angeles. He did the math. A baby of theirs would be about three months old. When she needed him most, he’d let her down.

  He felt sick to his stomach.

  “You have a daughter, Mr. Darnell. Arianne. Arianne Leigh.”

  “Jesus Christ.” His father gasped. “Did you say Arianne? Arianne Leigh?”

  “Oh, fuck,” Stan murmured.

  Arianne Leigh. Somehow, she’d named the baby he didn’t know about after him. And his mother. Lianne. And Arnie.

  The contents of his stomach moved. He vomited into a trash can Stan had at the ready. When he was literally on his knees and completely empty, Arnie struggled back into the chair and hung his head.

  “Is there more?” he croaked.

  Silence answered his question.

  Fear grabbed him by the balls. “Is the baby okay? What about Summer? Are they okay?”

  “By all accounts, healthy.”

  There was another silent pause.

  “For fuck’s sake, just finish it.”

  The lawyer cleared his throat. “Right before the child was born, Giselle installed lookers nearby. Neighbors. That’s when I stepped away, and I believe this was right around the time Dr. Welcher enters the picture.”

  “September,” his dad muttered.

  “Lookers,” Arnie growled. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  More silence.

  “So help me god, Wells, I will rip your fucking throat out if you don’t tell me the goddamn truth.”

  “Since Miss Warren wouldn’t hand the baby over for money, Giselle planned to snatch it. Controlling the great-grandchild of Darnell Senior was her chip in the game. When I found out what she was up to, I confronted her. She’s insane. Completely off her rocker. She’s got some crazy scheme to traffic the child. I can’t stop her because she won’t listen to sense. So I went to Mr. Stanford and told him what she was up to.”

  Stan asked, “How did you find out?”

  Wells snickered. “She’s cluelessly paying for the scheme through her personal checking. The accountant alerted me to unusual activity, and it wasn’t hard to figure it out from there. Plus, she confessed everything.”

  Arnie’s jaw hit the floor. The evil cunt who had made his younger days a living hell not only knew he had a child but the lunatic also had the motherfucking cojones to try to harm the family he didn’t know about but would protect with his dying breath.

  “Where is she?” Arnie yelled. “Bring that bitch to me, right now. She has no idea what kind of hurt she’s about to experience.”

  A terrible stillness claimed him. Terrible because it came with a ruby red haze of seething hatred. Making an enemy of him was a bad move. A very bad move.

  People were talking, but he was down the rabbit hole planning Giselle’s destruction and wasn’t aware of what was said.

  He wanted to wrap his fingers around her throat and feel her last breath, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—for three reasons. Stan, Summer, and Arianne.

  Lifting his chin as a twinge in his neck zapped his shoulder, he ignored the heated conversation happening ten feet away and focused on managing the murderous anger overtaking his thoughts.

  He couldn’t kill the woman, but he was sure there was someone, somewhere in the vast repertoire of individuals he knew over the years who’d have no problem taking her out.

  Priorities, dude.

  What was he doing? Summer and his daughter were out there, unprotected and in danger. Fuck Giselle. She’d get hers in due time. He had to get on a plane for California. Where was she? North Hollywood?

  “I gotta go,” he barked out of the blue and blindly staggered for the door.

  His father said something, but he wasn’t listening. Then Stan grabbed him by the belt, steering him to the suite’s sofa. In the time it took to blink, an ice-cold martini was in his hand. He downed it in two mouthfuls.

  Loosening his already loosened tie, Arnie held up the martini glass and waved it in Stan’s face. “Hit me.”

  He slowed down with the next drink. Taking a hearty slurp, he studied Bruce Wells. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to smack the shit out of him or buy him a sports car to express his undying gratitude. Going against Giselle to do the right thing took guts.

  Wells was talking to Arnie’s dad. The discussion looked serious.

  From an ignored welcome basket, Stan handed him a pack of cookies. With a nudge, he muttered, “Eat this.”

  Chocolate chip cookies and vodka. Olives on the side. Yum.

  More alcohol was consumed along with a two pack of Slim Jims he shared with Stan. The whole time his brother kept the drinks coming, Arnie watched his dad and the lawyer. He wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but it sure was interesting.

  When the bottle of Grey Goose was more than half gone, Wells scurried away.

  Words came from his dad’s mouth, but Arnie had trouble deciphering their meaning.

  A phone call happened. Maybe more than one.

  “How drunk is he?”

  Arnie blinked to help his eyes focus. It was his dad speaking as he leaned close.

  Stan’s snicker sounded amused. “Well, he bypassed tipsy, made a mockery of intoxication, gave sloshed a challenge, and is heading for legless and wrecked. If we have to move him, it’ll take both of us.”

  “Fuck yer dog,” Arnie slurred. He scowled or thought he did.

>   “I don’t have a dog, you pervert.”

  Another drink was pressed into his hand. “Did I ask for this?”

  “Yes,” Stan replied. “And you said extra dirty.”

  “Oh, uh, ’kay.” He made lip-smacking noises as the brine-infused alcohol slid down his throat. “Gotta take a whiz.” He stood, and the room tilted. “Earthquake?”

  “What did he say?” His dad was looking at him with a confused expression.

  “He has an earache?” Stan’s expression was also confused.

  Whatever. He growled, “Pfft,” and blew past them with a wave.

  Stan took his arm and turned him. “That way, bro.” He pointed at a door.

  Slamming the bathroom door behind him, Arnie groaned, “Whoa,” and grabbed the sink counter when the bright lights came on, and he was momentarily blinded.

  Taking a leak took way more effort than usual. He couldn’t figure out his belt buckle and what the fuck with the pants zipper.

  When he stumbled from the bathroom, Stan muttered, “Oh, great.”

  Rising to his full height, Arnie ran a hand down the front of his shirt in an attempt to appear dignified. “I’m going to find Summer. Get my car would you please?”

  Nobody moved. He looked at his dad—focused on one of the faces swimming in his eyes—and said, “What?”

  “Um, it’s a bummer, and you need a jar? A jar of what, son?”

  “I got this,” Stan said with a laugh. He thumped their dad on the back. “Inebriated fuckery is where I do some of my best work.”

  He didn’t have time for these two. Summer was in danger. He fixed his tie and ran a hand over the top of his head. Where were his keys?

  Patting all of his pockets didn’t make them magically materialize. Dammit.

  “Who’s got my keys?”

  “You didn’t drive.” His father reminded him. “Where do you need to go?”

  “I have to find Summer.”

  “Okay,” his dad replied. “Sounds like a plan. Stan! Get your brother another drink while I stuff shit into his bags.”

  Stan asked, “You think that’s wise?”

  “He hasn’t seen what’s in your pocket yet, so yeah. I do.”

  Arnie frowned. Why were they talking ibber-jish. Um, jibber-ish?

  He made wild plans in his head while his dad dragged Arnie’s bags to the bedroom door and picked up his stuff from around the room.

  Stan made a turkey sandwich happen. They sat on the sofa and shared the family classic made the way their granddad preferred with real mayo, lots of it, and chopped pickles.

  “I’m getting married,” he informed his smirking sibling.

  “Oh, yeah? To who?”

  “Summer of course, you stupid prick.”

  Confusion transformed Stan’s expression. “Er, uh, ohh-kay. Does she know this?”

  He wobbled on the sofa, snorting his scorn. Was Stan stupid? “Of course she knows.”

  “But you haven’t talked to her in what? A year?”

  With a drunken wave, he blew off the question and Stan’s concern. “Pfft. She knows.”

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Arnie realized he needed a best man.

  “Wanna be my guy?”

  “Your what? Your guy? What kind of guy?”

  Overcome with the jollies, he guffawed and slapped at his knee. “I’ve got a guy for everything! Bwah! Ha!”

  Stan looked at his as if he were crazy, so he elaborated. “My guy! You know. Best man.”

  “Oh, my god. Are you for real asking me to be your second when you get married? I figured you’d ask one of your work buddies.”

  “You’re my brother. This is how we do from now on.”

  “Arnie.” Stan laughed. “I know you think the words coming from your mouth make sense, but honest to god, bro, half of what you’re saying is jibberish.”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s getting a car.”

  “Are we going somewhere?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s in your pocket, Stan? I heard Dad say.”

  Stan frowned. “Are you good and drunk?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Arnie wasn’t aware of their dad’s return until he heard his voice. “Show him.”

  Nodding more solemnly than Arnie liked, his brother reached into a pocket and withdrew a small piece of paper. He held it out.

  Focusing on the blurry paper, Arnie looked more closely and realized it was a photograph.

  Summer.

  As he’d seen her in his visions. The same but different.

  And then his eyes made sense of the whole picture. Her outfit was waitress garb and on her shoulder was a small bundle. Looking into the barely visible face of his daughter, Arnie felt things he couldn’t contain. A harsh groan was all he had.

  The groan was followed by a howl of anguish. Standing before anyone could stop him, he went crazy and punched a wall. Pain shot up his arm, but he didn’t care. Ready to take down the entire wall with his fists, Arnie was caught off guard when his dad physically grabbed him and tossed his ass back in the chair.

  His father took a knee next to him and put an arm around Arnie’s shoulders. “Son, everything is going to be okay. You have to trust me on this. That little girl is your mama’s grandbaby, and there is nothing I won’t do to make sure your family gets a happily ever after. It’s what Lianne would want. What your mother would expect.”

  Arnie stared at the picture. His hands shook.

  He was too numb after that to keep track of much except finishing off the vodka and Stan grabbing a bottle of tequila off the bar cart. Their dad laughed and said something about how it wouldn’t be the first time someone threw up in his car.

  His grandfather made a cameo, but the circumstances were murky. Arnie vaguely remembered a wild rant about putting Giselle in a box once and for all. The rest consisted of vodka visions—disjointed and meaningless.

  All but the part where his father said, “This is the chance we’ve waited decades for. When she moves …” He smacked his hands together like the jaws of an alligator. “Chomp, chomp.”

  A hard shove sent him rolling onto his back. Arnie lay there for a moment until identifying the solid surface under him. Shit. He was on the floor.

  He heard a deep voice mutter, “Uh-oh.”

  Cranking his eyes open one at a time, he grunted from the effort, focused, and then frowned when he found Kingsley Maddison in full scowling mode.

  His menacing boss hauled off and kicked him. “Dude, you’ve got some ’splaining to do.”

  Arnie struggled like a turtle on its back to sit up.

  Ugh. What smelled? Was it him? He looked at what he was wearing. Suit and tie. Ergh. He remembered being at Granddad’s and getting shit-faced. King’s presence meant he was back in New York. How he got here or why he was wearing a suit covered in vomit remained fuzzy.

  Jon joined in. His smirk was directed at Arnie. Waving something in the air, he jeered, “Like the big man said. You’ve got a bit of explaining to do.”

  The picture of Summer holding his baby was pushed in his face.

  “Care to fill us in?”

  He angrily snatched the picture from Jon’s hand, groaned when the movements made his head explode, and struggled to his feet. “How’d I get here?” he demanded in a surly voice.

  “Fuck, if I know.” Jon chuckled. “Dottie found you, but she stomped off rather than change your diaper.”

  King wasn’t saying anything. He was doing that thing where just by his presence he made the room feel small and lacking in sufficient air. His dark eyes studied Arnie and made him mentally squirm.

  Stan’s amused voice interjected, “Oh, sorry. He wasn’t just dumped.” Holding up two cans of Diet Coke, he said, “I ran to the vending machine, and Dad is parking the car.”

  “Hey, Stan,” Jon politely greeted Arnie’s brother. They shook hands, and Jon asked, “Can you explain the picture we peeled off Arnie’s face?”
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  The whole room ignored him even further when his father walked through the door followed by Dottie. Taking one look at her worried face brought him very close to crying like a confused baby in need of comfort.

  King greeted Ned Wanamaker with unrestrained, effusive delight. His dad was a great guy. Everyone liked him.

  “Ned! When you called and said we had a problem and you were bringing Arnie in, I didn’t envision him passed out drunk.”

  “The situation called for creative thinking. He’s a lot less of a problem when he’s not sober and angry.”

  Dottie came to Arnie’s side and offered a gentle smile. She held her hand out. “May I see?”

  He nodded jerkily, and with trembling hands, showed her the picture.

  “Oh, dear.” She sighed. “The baby looks like you, Arnie.”

  King asked, “Dude, is this your kid?”

  “I didn’t know,” he defended as the picture passed from hand to hand. “Just found out.”

  Jon whistled. “Holy crap, man.”

  “Is this the situation you were referring to?” King asked Arnie’s father.

  “Yes. He’s going to need a plan. A good one.”

  “All hands on deck?” Jon asked.

  Before anyone answered, Dottie nudged him toward his office bathroom. “You get washed up and let the grown-ups talk, okay?”

  Slinking away from the conversation, he lurched and staggered into the washroom like a drunken toddler.

  God, he felt like shit. With a single glance in the sink mirror, he saw plenty of evidence that he also looked like shit. There was no way to fix his appearance without a shower and a change of clothes, so he made the best of it with copious amounts of smelly hand soap from a pump and lots of water. When he’d done all he could, his shirt was soaked, and at first glance, a wet spot on his pants made it look as though he’d pissed himself.

  Sure, why not?

  His head was not any clearer but waiting for the alcohol to wear off seemed impractical. Stepping around the pile of clothes on the bathroom floor—his suit jacket and a tie splattered with vomit—he waddled unsteadily into his office and walked in on what looked and sounded like a war room.

  Jon was standing by the window, speaking into a phone. His body language was tense but businesslike.