Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three

by Lawless, Alexi

  “Sammy, I don’t know what you’re working round to, but—”

  She leaned forward, tossing a stack of photos toward him.

  “That’s what they found of my uncle, Toma Sakurai. You going to tell me now that you had nothing to do with it?”

  “Sam—I—” he blustered, weathered cheeks reddening.

  Sam touched the keyboard on her computer, and Wes’s voice filtered out so strong and so clear, her heart clenched. “I think you took one look in Sakurai’s eyes and decided on some good, old-fashioned cowboy justice. You took him out, Mack. I can see it in your eyes plain as day.”

  Mack paled under his deep tan, but still he said nothing.

  Sam hit the keystroke again, only this time it was Mack saying, “That’s when I shot the motherfucker in the face.”

  She crossed her hands on the desk, her gaze dark and unflinching as she stared him down. “You were never going to tell me, were you? You thought your secret had gone down with Wes. Now all that’s left is to admit it.”

  It was game over. Mack was done for and he knew it. A kind of to-hell-with-it confidence came over him, like a man staring at the end of the noose and thinking, ‘At least let’s make it quick.’

  “Can you really blame me, Sammy? That’s water so far under the bridge, ain’t no one in the world besides you left to give two shits about it,” Mack told her, his chin rising a little in defiance. “There’s no murder weapon, no real proof. Just a phone recording that could have been doctored, which makes it circumstantial at best. No jury in the world is gonna hang an old man who’s done nothing but give to charity, make money for this state, and make friends in powerful places.”

  Carey shifted forward and Sam lifted a hand to stay him.

  “You sanctimonious sonofabitch. Not only did you have no right to kill that man, but you had no right to keep it from me either. I can understand wanting to protect my father’s legacy, and I even believe you convinced yourself you were doing right by me somehow, but you balls-out lied to my face when I came to you with this. I’m the head of this company, Mack—not you. So let’s not pretend for one second that you were doing anything other than covering your own ass, so you could keep shitting in high cotton at the expense of my peace of mind.”

  “Peace of mind?” Mack scoffed, sitting forward, belligerent. “You were never going to get that to begin with. You think any of this brings them back? You think putting me away is going to make anything better?”

  She knew it wouldn’t, but that was the thing about the truth. It didn’t need to feel good. It was like cauterizing a wound that’d been hurting all her life. She’d needed it to move on. She’d needed it to let go.

  “Just answer me one thing, Mack—just one.” She met his eyes. “How did that poor bastard Childress get mixed up in all this? He took the needle for a crime he never committed. I want to know why.”

  Mack’s lips pressed together. For a few interminable seconds, Sam was certain he’d never tell her the truth, but then, maybe by this point, he figured he didn’t have anything left to lose.

  “Childress wasn’t always a drunk,” Mack finally told her. “He used to be a helluva machinist. Worked the tooling on the pump jacks in the fields when we were just two young bucks. But he started hitting the bottle, and I guess he never stopped.” He glanced down at his hands—gnarled with age and hard work. A hard man’s hands, lined and scarred.

  “So was Childress just a patsy?” Carey asked, angry, speaking for the first time since he’d sat down. “You sent a man to prison and let him rot before the lethal injection?”

  “He was already rotting,” Mack replied, joyless. “Childress had cirrhosis from the booze. He was flat broke and on his last leg. He came to me looking for a handout a few months before Sakurai showed up. I gave him a little, out of pity, but I knew he’d just use it for hooch. He thanked me, did what all drunks do—confessed all his sins and regrets—and one of them was that he’d had a son out of wedlock when he was a kid. He’d left his hometown as soon as it happened. Ran off on her. That’s how he ended up working the oil fields. Earl had all these grand fantasies of sending all his extra money back home, but it all went to drink instead.”

  “So he was a dead man walking,” she realized.

  God, that made so much sense now. It was horrible, awful, and just too tragic for words, but it all made sense.

  “I gave Earl what he wanted: a way out,” Mack responded, his frank gaze unerring. “He got health care in prison and a painless ending—far better than cirrhosis anyway. And his bastard son got a check out of the blue, like winning the lottery. Everybody wins.”

  “You’re a sick sonofabitch if you call that winning,” Carey told him, shaking his head. He turned to Sam, disgust written all over his face. “I take back everything I said about what Ry would do. Roast this asshole. Just fuckin’ roast him.”

  She was sorely tempted. A part of her—a big part—wanted to eviscerate him. Make him suffer because she could. But there was a painful, niggling kernel of truth to Mack’s logic. Nothing Sam would do to him could bring anyone back. All she could do now was change the future with it.

  “What’s that old adage?” she asked, thoughtful. “The truth will set you free, but first it’ll piss you off?”

  Mack blinked, unsure of where she was going with this.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” Sam told him in no uncertain terms. “You’re going to resign your position, effective immediately, citing early retirement for health reasons.”

  “I’m healthy as a horse!” Mack declared hotly.

  “Not after I break both your legs you won’t be,” Carey responded, his eyes narrowed, hands tightened into fists the size of beer steins.

  Sam smirked. Carrick Nelson: Best. Sidekick. Ever.

  “Then you’re going to sign over all of your Wyatt Petroleum shares to me,” she continued.

  Mack sneered at her. “And if I don’t?”

  “Oh, I’m not done yet, Mack. You should know better than to interrupt a lady when she’s handing you your ass,” she tutted, making Carey smirk. “Your liquid assets are your own, Mack, but I’d use them wisely, because you’re going to be relocating by tomorrow. And if I were you, I’d pick a non-extradition country.”

  “I hear Uzbekistan is lovely this time of year,” Carey added sagely.

  “No way in hell am I going to—” Mack sputtered.

  “You’re done with Wyatt Petroleum, you’re done with this town, and you’re done with the United States,” Sam interrupted, standing. “I want you gone. And if you don’t do it, then I’ll not only personally deliver all this evidence to Captain Bill Spears at the Houston PD, but I’ll haze your entire family,” she promised. “I’ll devote all my energy to unleashing a swarm of locusts on their asses. No McDevitt will be left standing. Am I making myself clear?”

  Mack’s throat worked. She could feel the fight rising within him, could have sworn she sensed the building confrontation, like the smell of ozone before a lightning storm.

  Sam touched her intercom button. “Marv, you get all that?”

  “Sure did,” he came back. “Got a gentleman who’s chomping at the bit to come in. Is now a good time?”

  “Now’s a great time,” she told him, meeting Mack’s confused gaze.

  Roan Rice, the legal counsel of Wyatt Petroleum for twenty-plus years, stormed into Sam’s office. “Tell me you didn’t do it!” he shouted, pointing a finger at Mack.

  Mack glared at him but said nothing.

  Roan swung to Sam. “I’ll have all the documents ready within the hour. Keep that sonofabitch here,” he said, jabbing a thumb at him.

  “Oh, that won’t be a problem.” Carey smirked. He stood to his full, massive height.

  Roan turned back around, storming right back out, muttering. The door slammed so hard on its hinges, the windows shook.

  “Why don’t you just go to the police right now?” Mack snarled suddenly. “You’ve got nothing a 700-do
llar-an-hour lawyer couldn’t spin.”

  Sam rounded the desk and walked to the bookcases lined with photos, knick-knacks, awards, and binders full of petroleum reports. She pulled down a silver-framed photo of Ryland. He must have been about five or six, perched on the back of her horse and wearing an oversized cowboy hat that fell over his brow as he laughed. Sam came back to the desk and set the photo down in front of him.

  “I’m showing you mercy, Mack. Because that’s what my brother would do.” She leaned forward. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  Mack signed the papers transferring his shares in Wyatt Petroleum that afternoon. The whole ordeal lasted longer than she would have liked, and he did everything from rail, to plead, to bargaining. But not once did he ever ask for forgiveness. Not once did he ever come clean. She suspected it was half because he didn’t want to further incriminate himself and half because he truly believed he’d been in the right. Stubborn bastard.

  Carey escorted him home with two other guards. He watched with his own eyes as Mack and his disoriented, disbelieving wife packed bags as if a tornado were coming. Mack’s kids were grown, so there was that—but Carey put him and his wife on an Emirates flight to Dubai that night. What happened to him after that… well, that wasn’t her problem, unless he tried to come back.

  “Come home to Chicago with me,” Carey urged her as he packed his own bags in the penthouse later, getting ready to fly out the next day.

  She wanted to, badly. She dreamed about Jack constantly, longed for the simultaneous security and pleasure of being held tight in his arms, but she needed time to sort through the upended pieces of her life. She wanted to go back to him with a clear head and a little healing under her belt. She wanted to return ready to start things with him. The only way she could do that was by finishing with what needed to be handled here.

  She gave him an envelope to give to Jack.

  “Are you sure?” Carey asked her one more time.

  “I’m sure.” Sam kissed his cheek, sending him off.

  *

  May—Evening

  The Whitney, Chicago, Illinois

  J A C K

  Jaime slammed the heavy glass pane door leading out to the terrace, shivering and rubbing his bare arms.

  “It’s too fucking cold to grill!” he declared, handing the barbecue tongs to Jack.

  Jack lifted his brows in consternation. “That’s just about one of the wussiest things I’ve ever heard you say, and there’s been a lot. Consider your man card revoked.” He set the tongs onto the counter, then wiped his hands on the dish towel tossed over his shoulder. He’d just finished boiling the super-fine strips of the homemade Tajarin pasta he planned on serving along with the 21-day aged Angus New York strip that Jaime was grilling.

  His brother just rolled his eyes. “Look, if we’re gonna do a guy’s dinner, shouldn’t we be stuffing our faces with burgers and pizza? You’re the only one I know who’d serve a forty-year-old vintage and play Sinatra while we’re supposed to be watching the Bulls away game.”

  Jack pointed at the glass of wine he’d poured Jaime earlier. “Drink that. It’ll warm you up. The guys will be here soon,” he added.

  Jaime swiped the wine off the counter. “Are you sure I should drink around you?”

  Jack sighed. “Jaime, I’m not going to expect everyone to be dry around me just because I can’t drink a Bordeaux anymore. Drink or don’t drink—it’s up to you. How I feel about it is that I just want everyone to act normal.”

  Jaime took a tentative sip. “I can’t imagine a sober Thanksgiving anyway.”

  “Well, thankfully we’ve got a few months to work up to that,” Jack replied dryly, when there was a knock at his door. “That’ll be them. Go grab the steaks, would ya? Dinner’s basically ready after I toss the pasta.”

  Jaime disappeared back onto the terrace while Jack strode to the door. When he swung it open, he was pleased to see Carey, Talon, and Rush standing there, each holding bubble-wrapped frames.

  “Great to see you guys, alive and well. Come in,” he told them, smiling broadly.

  “Thanks for the dinner invite,” Carey said with a grin. “Special delivery from my mama,” he added, gesturing to Wes’s photos. He also lifted a baker’s box. “She sent this along with a thank you card for your generous donation,” he added with a wink.

  Jack accepted the box, grinning. “What is it?”

  “Her prize-winning strawberry-rhubarb pie.”

  “Oooh-wee! I’ve been looking forward to home cookin’ all day.” Rush sniffed the air, catching the delicious scents permeating the air from the kitchen.

  “We’re officially calling this dinner the ‘Thank God We Didn’t Die in Texas’ meal,” Talon laughed as he trailed them in, carefully setting down the frames he was carrying.

  “Good to see you, assholes!” Jaime called out as he came in from the terrace carrying the steaks in on a tray. He closed the door with his foot. “Who’s ready to see the Miami Heat get spanked tonight?”

  “Oh, hell yeah!” Talon fist-pumped. “I’ve got good money riding on this game.”

  “You’ve got good money riding on every game.” Rush rolled his eyes.

  “Get comfortable, guys. Dinner’ll be ready in a couple minutes,” Jack told them as he set down Hannah’s pie and began tossing the Tajarin in warm truffle butter.

  “Let me help,” Carey offered.

  “Help yourself to some wine,” Jack replied as Carey leaned on the counter across from him as he worked.

  Carey made an approving sound as he checked out the vintage. He poured a healthy measure for himself, Talon, and Rush, helping pass out the glasses as Jaime finished setting the table.

  Dinner was a relaxed affair, with the guys chatting amiably about everything from the latest box scores to asking when Jack and Jaime planned on taking their boat back out onto Lake Michigan.

  “We should sail up to my family’s reservation,” Talon offered. “Make a weekend of it.”

  “Maddie would love that,” Jaime nodded. “She’s been asking after you. I think she’s got a little fixation with your long hair,” he said with a laugh.

  “Most girls do,” Talon replied with a wink.

  “Lord Almighty, don’t get him started!” Rush punched Talon’s arm. “You get his ego up and he’ll be unbearable for the rest of the night.”

  They joked and laughed for a good hour, and it was the lightest that Jack had felt in ages. They also demolished the meal, groaning and patting their bellies by the time he served Hannah’s pie warmed with a side of cream he’d whipped up.

  “Best I’ve eaten in ages!” Talon declared as they moved toward the living room where ESPN was rolling the pre-game predictions.

  “Carey, a word?” Jack asked.

  Maybe it was his quiet tone, or the fact that there seemed to be a tacit, unspoken agreement not to mention Samantha during the evening thus far, but Carey sent him an alert look, nodding, “Sure thing, Jack.”

  Jack led him into his office, offering him a seat as he leaned back against his desk.

  “How is she?” he asked, straight up.

  Carey fished out a card envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it over. “I was going to wait to give this to you when we were leaving—but she asked me to give this to you.”

  Jack accepted the envelope, recognizing the same ivory linen card stock. He opened it, heedless of Carey’s presence and pulled out the single card under her letterhead: “Wait for me.”

  “She loves you, you know,” Carey added meaningfully, his blue eyes sincere. “If she could be here right now, she would be.”

  Jack nodded gruffly, staring at the card before looking up at Carey. “I need to ask you for a favor.”

  Carey cocked his head. “What is it?”

  “I need you to let me into Sam’s apartment. I’d like to put Wes’s photos in there for her.”

  Carey’s expression softened. “So that’s why you bought them.”

  Jack sh
rugged. “I think he would have wanted that, don’t you?”

  Carey nodded, expression thoughtful. “Let’s do it.”

  Carey and Jack excused themselves from the guys, who were already talking shit about the GM and who would advance to the conference finals.

  “Where you going?” Rush called out.

  “Just going to put these into Sammy’s place,” Carey replied, nonchalant.

  “Need help?”

  “Nah, we got it.”

  Jack owned the building. Of course he could have walked right into Samantha’s home without asking for permission, but he didn’t want to do it that way. He wanted, at his most instinctual level, to be welcomed into the secret cabal of her heart, into her safest places, because she wanted him there. But for now, this would do. Carey knew her better than anyone, and if he okayed Jack’s idea, then he’d take it.

  “She has a room,” Jack told him as they entered her silent home with the brass key Carey had on his keychain. Carey disabled the alarm. “At the end of the hallway upstairs. Have you seen it?”

  Carey crossed his arms. “Once,” he answered grimly. “I hate it,” he added. “Place gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “I’d like to take the cranes down,” Jack told him. He went to her kitchen and rifled around until he found some box cutters. He went back to the photos and started removing the tape and the bubble wrap protecting them.

  “You want to put those up instead,” Carey realized. “Change it up.”

  “That’s about it,” Jack said with a nod. “I know it’s heavy-handed, but I hate that she’s put up a mausoleum in her home. She’s raked herself over the coals enough, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Jack stepped back as he looked at the first photograph he’d unwrapped. The long, creamy expanse of her neck appeared, her hair long and wild, trailing over the pillow behind her. She was turned away from the camera, asleep. It was a tender and beautiful portrait. The camera loved her as much as the man who’d taken it did.