by Lana Sky
But the purposeful steps echoing through my pillow now don’t sound like him. And Hunter couldn’t march so heavily, even if he were stomping…
Alarmed, I climb out of bed and tiptoe to my wardrobe. I grab a robe and tie it around me before creeping into the hallway. Papa’s study is right off the main foyer toward the back of the house. This time of night, the hall is empty, the lights dimmed—the perfect environment for old memories to thrive in. Like the ones of a younger, teary-eyed Snowy racing down this corridor after school and sneaking into her father’s stuffy, foreboding study—the one place no one would ever think to look.
My favorite hiding place was the small space under the desk by the window. I’d squeeze myself there with a notebook and write down every emotion and childish thought in my head until my ears picked up a familiar sound. Like always, I’d been wrong; one person always knew where to find me.
And it’s his ghost I find when I finally round the corner and peek past the open door of the study. Tall, imposing, and engrossed in a book. Brandt Lloyd was never afraid of my father. Apparently, he has no fear of his memory, either. He braces one hand against that infamous desk as though he belongs here, lording over Hollings Estate.
And then he turns to face me and the resemblance fractures.
Alarm, unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, grips my heart in a vise. “W-what are you doing here?”
Blake Lorenz frowns into the pages of one of my father’s books. He closes it slowly, pinning me in place with a single jab of his chilling eyes. “A better question would be: What are you doing here?”
I clutch at the edges of my robe as I struggle to convince myself that I’m not hallucinating. A covert pinch on my wrist doesn’t snap me awake. “I live here.”
“But do you?” He cocks his head and shrugs. His wry scowl almost conveys pity. “Hunter is still keeping secrets, I see.”
Still? I’ll obsess over the word choice later. I can sense without even running to his upstairs suite that Hunter isn’t home. Neither is Ronan. And the servants? I stare down the branch of the hall that leads to the back staircase. Even at this late hour, I’ve never seen it so dark.
“What do you mean?” I ask him when he remains silent. He lights only one of the many lamps in the room, leaving swaths of shadow that drape the bookshelves. “Why the hell are you in my house?”
“This is my house,” he says simply. “Or at least it will be once it’s out of escrow.”
“Escrow?” My heart sinks to my feet, crushed underfoot as I’m drawn forward a hesitant few steps. He’s lying. I tell myself that, even as a part of me admits that his slow appraisal of my father’s study is far too smug. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m sure they already handed over the notices,” he mutters, frowning. “I guess they didn’t bother changing the locks—”
“What are you talking about?” I can’t seem to catch enough air. My hand flies out, grasping the door frame for stability. Suddenly dizzy, I cling to it. “Stop talking in riddles and just say it—”
“The house, and everything in it, belongs to me,” Mr. Lorenz says coldly. “Everything. Your brother made some foolish gambles. I even own your father’s club.”
I blink. In this instant, neither of my brothers have ever come close to embodying the spirit of my father like this man. Wrathful. Vengeful. Terrifying.
“You’re lying.”
He chuckles at my pathetic whisper. “Am I? I suppose we should ask Hunter.” He makes a show of glancing around the room. “Though, where is he? The last I heard, friends of ours wanted to ask him some questions—”
“You did this.” It’s a childish accusation to make. As if one man could be responsible for so much hardship striking all at once. But the look in his eye… It’s pure hatred, searing my skin beneath its blistering heat. Flickers of it are visible whenever he speaks of my brothers, but nothing compares to the bright flames in his gaze whenever he looks at me. “Why are you doing this?”
“Enjoy tonight, Ms. Hollings,” Blake Lorenz says as he heads for the doorway. “I’ll let you have that much.” He pushes past me without hesitation, continuing his slow advance toward the foyer.
Pain bubbles up, warring with common sense, as a cry rips from my throat. “Brandt!”
He goes rigid, stopping dead in his tracks. “Don’t ever call me by that name,” he warns in a tone so chilling that my teeth begin chattering. “I’ve heard all about what your family did to Brandt Lloyd. What you did to him.” He looks back over his shoulder. “You killed him.”
My knees fail, and I wind up sliding to the floor. Footsteps drift off, and the door opens and closes, but I don’t have the strength to stand and see for myself if he’s gone.
So I wait, huddled in the hallway, a child once again, waiting for a friend who will never return.
Eight
My family home is in escrow.
My brother is being questioned by the authorities.
My life is in shambles.
And I can’t stop smiling.
I wear the expression no matter where I go, clinging to it like a life raft. I wear it during the painful trek up to my bedroom to get dressed and pack clothes before I take one of the cars to the hotel Hunter mentioned. For all I know, the car has been sold as well, but it just makes for yet another location Blake Lorenz can invade in the middle of the night.
I keep smiling when I finally meet Hunter at the hotel and find him half-drowned in a bottle of wine, and my grin remains as he drunkenly tells me everything he failed to mention.
“Sorry, Snowy,” he mumbles before taking another sip from his glass. Ronan is a gluttonous drunk, but Hunter is a sloppy one. With his eyes glossy, he resembles Mother more than ever. “I’m stupid. I fucked up. I—”
“You could go to prison,” I say.
He flinches and reaches for the wine bottle on the settee beside us. It goes without saying that, by booking this room, my prideful brother is still in denial as to our current circumstances. It’s a four-bedroom suite on the topmost floor of the city’s most exclusive hotel. Funny, I never stopped to tally up expenses before now, so I don’t even know which range to aim at. Thousands? Tens of thousands? Either amount is far beyond our reach.
“I’m sorry,” Hunter insists, though he seems more intent on finishing off his bottle than doing anything worthwhile.
“Where is Ronan?”
“Dunno.” He lifts his arm in a shrug and winds up collapsing against the back of the settee. “Dumb…bastard…left.”
With a sigh, I stand and snatch the wine bottle before he can grab it. “Get some sleep,” I tell him, knowing that the request is impossible. My head hurts. The room is spinning, but I do my best to stay upright as I cross into the foyer of the suite and toss the wine in the garbage. Can’t fall apart now. Need to focus.
Need to think.
I take up a position on the couch and attempt to do just that. Ronan was the mastermind at plotting—or he used to be. He devised some of the best plans for outwitting Papa’s rules or Mama’s sensibilities. Once, he was my greatest champion.
And now?
It hurts to think about who he is now, so I move on to a more painful topic. After all, Brandt Lloyd may be dead, but his memory festers on my soul, an agonizing open wound. My craving for misery must know no bounds, because I can’t stop myself from replaying the image of Blake Lorenz’s face over and over.
I could kick myself for not asking him outright about his past. I could kick myself for visiting him alone in the first place.
Hunter and Ronan, as imperfect as they may be, should take the lead on this matter. After all, their bumbling incompetence got us into this mess in the first place. And I’m…
“Snowy?”
Speak of the devil. I look up and find Hunter stumbling from the bedroom, his cell phone pressed to his ear. One look at his face has my blood running cold. My fingers fly to my chest, anticipating the painful surge of my heart.
&nb
sp; “What is it?”
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Bloodshot eyes betray the tears he tried to disguise by swiping them away with his sleeve. I’ve never seen him like this. Not even when Mama died.
“It’s Ronan… There was an accident. His bike.”
God, no. I’m on my feet, swaying. The next thing I know, I’m in Hunter’s arms and he’s whispering words into my hair. Phrases I’ve never heard him utter.
Prayers.
Nine
Ronan’s motorcycle is now nothing more than a crumpled heap of metal adorning the evening news. Surprisingly, my brother survived with his body intact, but not his skull. A brutal fracture has caused internal swelling. The only way to slow it was a medically induced coma that reduced him to a living, breathing statue hooked up to tubes and beeping machinery.
“You get some rest,” Hunter says five hours into our vigil, only one after Ronan left surgery. “I’ll stay with him tonight.”
I grit my teeth rather than refuse. Blinking tears back, I run my fingers over Ronan’s bandaged hands and finger a lock of his hair. Then I leave Hunter slumped on the chair beside his bed and return to the hotel with renewed determination.
Hunter was right: Everything is going to hell. But we Hollingses are natural-born sinners. We always find a conniving, scheming way to survive.
This fall from grace won’t be any different.
Or so I tell myself. In all twenty-four years of my life, I’ve rarely had to take up the family mantle. Just once before has the fate of everyone rested on my shoulders. The memories flicker behind my eyes, desperate to descend, but I don’t let them. I shake my head to banish the past and approach the suitcase of clothing I left by the suite’s entrance.
In my haste, I only grabbed a few things. One of them plays into my favor, ironically: a black dress with a plunging neckline, which I don’t even remember ripping from its hanger. Maybe some subconscious part of me knows what I need to do before I’m ready to admit it to myself.
I’m still not ready. Gritting my teeth, I enter the bathroom and shower. Then I arrange my damp hair around my shoulders and pull the dress on. Red lipstick would complete the look. Or a piece of jewelry. Something to make my intentions painfully clear.
And what are they, Snowy? A part of me demands.
The sick answer can only be uttered out loud to condensate over the mirror. “I’m selling myself.”
Not literally, but I know from experience that there are some assurances even a wink and a smile can garner. Some favors are best left unspoken. Like being seen with a reclusive old baron in exchange for a few “investment” dollars.
I can do this. I’ve done it before…
But none of those previous moments ever left me feeling like this. Tense. Sick to my stomach. Unable to catch my breath. Perhaps because the stakes have never been higher.
Slowly, my fingers drift to my throat, brushing stray hairs from it. I look at myself as someone like Blake Lorenz might. Like meat. Property. My body doesn’t cut a figure in this dress anywhere near like what Sloane’s would. My cleavage is all but nonexistent. My face is pretty but nothing exceptional. Up until this moment, the most valuable thing I ever had to offer was my name.
Though there is one other virtue I have left…
Do I have what it takes to put it up for sale?
My heart lurches whenever I try to come up with an answer. So I run instead and head downstairs to the hotel lobby. Armed with only my purse and a pair of heels, I leave in a town car toward one destination, and I nervously wring my fingers until it finally appears on the horizon.
The Bolles Gentlemen’s Club was always an enigma to my younger self. It was the mysterious, mystical place where Papa held court over the powerful men of Mayfield. Lives were built and ruined within the four walls composing the brick four-story building. Only the most influential men sought membership here. How has it all fared in my father’s absence?
Well, I’m about to find out.
I swallow hard but fail to dislodge the lump in my throat. Elegant settings typically instill confidence in me, but not tonight. My fingers nervously tug at my dress as I struggle to imagine my appearance. Is it too long? Too short? Should I smile? Pout?
Garnering pity is one skill I’ve always possessed, but lust? Even Daniel chose to slake his with someone else. At the thought of him, my lips contort into a frown and it’s suddenly impossible to sit still. Daniel Ellingston, the man I chose to spend my life with, couldn’t be bothered to warn me he’d tear it all apart. Am I hurt by the betrayal or more annoyed that I didn’t see it coming? I can’t tell as anxiety dominates my every nerve.
“Miss?” the driver questions. He’s waiting for a cue from me, to ensure that this is where I want to be.
The reputation of this place precedes it. Even this lone driver is aware of what takes place beyond these walls, though I’ve only heard rumors, most of them from Papa’s mouth. “You want to know where dumb girls who soil their families’ names end up?” he asked me once. “They end up spreading their legs in the middle of Bolles, desperate for a benefactor.”
Tears spring to my eyes. Once again, Papa has an uncanny habit of predicting the worst possible scenario of our misfortune. What would he say were he to see me now? I can picture it clearly. He’d tilt my chin with a nudge from his right hand, grazing my skin with the sharp edge of his signet ring. His cold, gray eyes would stare directly into mine. Then he’d snarl, “Settle only for the highest bid. You’re a goddamn Hollings. That means something.”
“Miss?” the driver questions again.
Squaring my shoulders, I reach for the door and open it without waiting for the driver’s assistance. Two steps carry me over the curb. With my head held high, I march the rest of the way.
Like I’m not dying inside.
Individual pain means nothing in the grand scheme—a lesson all three of us learned at some point. Blood trumps all but one ruling factor.
Money.
I picture a fitting amount as I approach the glass entrance of Bolles, where a man in a black suit stands guard. How much is Snowy Hollings worth, body and soul?
“Madame?” The man pulls one of the doors open and inclines his head inside. He doesn’t bother asking for my name. Perhaps he’s used to it: a parade of desperate women cycling in and out of these doors.
Where do desperate little girls wind up, Snowy? Spreading their legs inside Bolles.
One step over the threshold of the building and I swear I can sense my father’s presence. He dwells within the dark walls of a deserted foyer and the muttered voices drifting beyond a short hallway.
Bolles is different than I pictured: dark, stuffy, and obscured by clouds of cigar smoke. So much for my fantasy of proudly facing a room of lecherous men and picking the least offensive of the lot to save me. Reality is a lot less idealistic.
Instead of a den of shadows, I step into one brimming with heat and sinister overtones that taint the air, richer than any cigar. A chandelier hangs above, illuminating the grand entrance. Up ahead, a swath of light beckons where rich laughter intermingles with muttered chatter.
Somehow, that makes it worse. I’m entering a den of men with no real reason to humor a disgraced Hollings.
I’m entering a world where my name no longer means a damn thing.
I catch sight of myself in a mirror hanging from the wall, which throws my appearance in stark relief. I look so pale against these dark walls. Red rims my swollen eyes—the evidence of too many tears to disguise. No matter. I’ll use the pathetic weakness to my advantage.
Turning toward the narrow hallway, I start forward only to feel my heart crawl farther up my throat with every step I take.
When I finally glimpse the club’s interior through an arched doorway, the air escapes my lungs and my resolve melts into a puddle at my feet. There’s no way in hell I can do this.
Apparently, a woman spreading her legs in Bolles means more than the obvious imagery; it m
eans entering a room where at least fifty of the world’s most powerful men sip from crystal glasses while being served liquor by women wearing bits of lace and silk. It means capturing the attention of men who balance a priceless antique ring on one finger and an eager hostess on the other.
It means more than just sex. A woman in Bolles needs to be willing to spread more than just her legs to command attention here.
She needs to spread open her fucking soul.
And you can, a part of me insists. I only need to think of Ronan fighting for his life in a hospital bed or of Hunter drinking himself into oblivion.
My choice becomes clear; there isn’t one. I’m a goddamn Hollings.
Blinking pricking heat back, I hone my gaze over any likely suspects. Surprisingly, I don’t recognize some of the men. Others…
That’s James Marsten in the corner, oil magnate and an old rival of my father’s. Would he pay for the privilege to humiliate Forrest Hollings from the grave? If he won’t, then the man across from him might. My father negotiated a deal that netted him a huge loss once. My innocence might make a fitting revenge. Or…
I start forward, craning my neck to better survey my options. I barely make it over the threshold before someone grabs my forearm. Hard. A gasp escapes from my throat, but before I can turn to see my assailant, they drag me through an open doorway I didn’t notice.
It leads into a small sitting room furnished with black leather armchairs overlooking a lit fireplace. Then I’m let go to stagger to the center of the room, and I whirl around and find a figure chilling enough to stop even my heart in its tracks. Just as quickly, it surges to life again, hammering so fiercely that I can feel my pulse in every fiber of my being.
“You don’t belong here,” Blake Lorenz tells me, his eyes narrowed.
God, I hate how effortlessly he straddles that painful line between familiar and terrifying. Those eyes belong to me, realer than any memory. But the expression is one from a nightmare. Not even in my wildest terrors could I ever imagine my Brandt so…twisted.
