“That reminds me, Miss Reynolds. Wesley is having a party this weekend. Make sure you and your,” she looks pointedly at Gwen, “friends stay out of the main rooms downstairs. Unless…did he invite you? He invited everyone on staff.”
My face and chest grow extremely hot. Hannah knows Wesley never invites me to his parties. She once caught me peeking in on one of his rowdier keggers. I’m not sure what made me stop to look in, curiosity maybe, but Hannah saw me spying behind the doorway. She brushed past me and shut the door in my face, and I swear she did it just to be spiteful. I don’t know why she feels it’s her responsibility to keep me out of Wesley’s way, but she sure takes pleasure in doing it.
“Hannah, you would do well to remember Mr. Kent is not your only boss,” Gwen says to her. “Miss Reynolds lives here too, and if she wants to go into the main rooms, that’s her prerogative.”
Hannah purses her lips into a pretty pout. “My bad. It’s just that Wesley asked me to take care of this for him.”
Gwen snorts. “I doubt he asked you to do that,” she says, looking about two seconds from snapping. “And to you, his name is Mr. Kent.”
“I’m not lying.” Hannah says, all innocence. She achieved what she sought out to do, so she saunters away from us. Before she leaves, she looks over her shoulder and smirks. “Excuse me if I prefer to use Wesley while I’m screaming his name later tonight.”
Both Gwen and I gape as she slips out the door. For several seconds I stand there like that, wondering whether I heard her correctly.
“What a little ho-bag,” Gwen mutters, shaking her head.
Nausea twists inside my stomach. I’m completely disgusted. “You have no idea how much I would love to strangle that girl.”
Gwen waves that aside. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you fire her instead?”
“For what reason?” I scoff. “Because she’s banging the boss?”
“Her food tastes like shit,” Gwen says, smiling. “Half this household will vouch for you on that one.”
Although I know I won’t actually fire Hannah, there’s something about knowing she’s an awful cook that’s really funny. This is why I love Gwen. She can pull me out of a bad mood faster than anyone.
“As tempting as that sounds, I’m not embarrassing myself like that.”
“Fine. We’ll figure out another reason.” She taps her fingers against her chin, thinking. I can practically see the wheels in her head churning from here.
“Wesley would be pissed,” I remind her. “We don’t get involved in each other’s business.”
It’s still hard to believe Hannah knows Wesley better than I do. I mean, Jesus, he’ll sleep with the cook, but he won’t even talk to me. It bothers me more than I’d like to admit.
“Let me fire her for you.” Gwen looks truly excited by the idea. “Trust me, I’ll have no problem doing it in your place.”
She’s ridiculous, and I don’t have the patience to argue with her anymore today. After dealing with Wesley and his friends last night, and then taking two finals this morning, all I want to do is curl up in my bed and sleep. Gwen isn’t letting me get out of going to Graffiti Bash either, which means I’ll be up all night again.
“I think I’m gonna take a nap, Gwen. Do me a favor. If you see Wesley, tell him we’ll stay away from his party.”
Gwen nods. “I’d rather tell him to kiss your ass, but you’re the boss.”
That must be her selective memory talking, because she completely forgot that earlier while she was yelling at me.
I take one last look around the library. Harland and I used to spend hours in here researching. Memories of him are everywhere in this room, from the sound of his voice, to the spicy old-man cologne that I loved, to everything he taught me about reading hieroglyphics and studying ancient artifacts. Spending time in here isn’t the same without him. This room makes me wish for some of that old magic back.
What’s even sadder is that it’s obvious no one comes in here anymore. This place is in desperate need of a good cleaning. We usually keep the library locked up, which is why it’s been overlooked. Dust is caked on the shelves, and it smells a little musty too. Maybe later I’ll come back and work on getting this place back to its former sparkling self.
Gwen’s voice rises from out in the hall, catching my attention. “Hannah, pack your bags—you’re fired!”
Holy crap, I didn’t really believe she’d do it!
The two of them argue in the next room, their voices growing louder by the second. I could easily go put an end to it by telling Hannah she can keep her job, but my feet refuse to budge. Instead I quietly head the opposite way towards my bedroom, a wicked smile pulling at my lips.
I’ll probably go to hell for this. But right now I don’t seem to care.
~ ~
When I walk inside my bedroom, my cell rings. There’s an unknown number on the screen. It could be important. I guess.
“Hello?”
“Hey, baby, it’s Styler. You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice.”
Gah!
I pull the phone away from my ear to look at the screen again. Why didn’t the damn thing warn me he was calling?
“Dolly?” His voice reverberates against my hand. “You there?”
I place the phone next to my ear again, inwardly groaning.
“How did you get this number, Styler?”
“Hayes gave it to me.”
Mental note to self: strangle Hayes.
I changed my number since the last time Styler called. I never gave him my new one, and there was a reason for that.
“I still don’t get how you two became friends.”
Styler is part of my past. We dated in high school, back when I lived with my mom in Savannah. I wish he would stay part of my past, but one could only be so lucky.
“We met on Facebook, remember?”
“You mean do I remember how you maniacally stalked all my guy friends to make sure I wasn’t dating anyone new? Yeah, I remember.”
A snorting noise comes from his end. “I didn’t do any such thing.”
I roll my eyes. As far as exes go, he’s the delusional kind. “So what do you want?”
“Can’t I just call to see how you are?”
“No, you can’t just call to see how I am. Styler, we broke up.” I’ve told him this before. I hate constantly spelling it out for him. He’s not that stupid. Actually, he’s kind of smart. Book smart, anyway. It’s what attracted me to him in the beginning. Emotionally, on the other hand, he’s the biggest idiot ever.
“Like you have more important things to do,” he says, mocking me. “If you weren’t speaking to me right now, I bet you’d be going through Harland’s old books. Or watching documentaries on the History Channel.”
“Hypocrite. You like those documentaries too.”
“Yes, but unlike you, I enjoy doing other things. Like having a life.”
This time I’m unable to stop from groaning out loud. “Okay. I’m done.”
“No, don’t hang up. Dolly, wait—”
“I’ve asked you not to call me that.”
“Sorry. Just stay on the phone for one more minute. I need your opinion.”
I sit down on the foot of my bed. Might as well hear him out at this point. “About what?”
“What if I told you I may have found your map?”
I suck in a breath. He’s messing with me. I know Styler, and he always has tricks up his sleeves. This is one of them. “I would say I don’t believe you.”
I should’ve never told him about the map. It was mine and Harland’s thing. Something we researched together for fun. It leads to an ancient sword covered in gemstones. I dream about finding that sword almost every night. Most people think it’s a legend, but I happen to know it exists. Harland had already found one half of the map before he died. If I can just find the other, I could get to the sword.
“What would you do if it were true?” he asks me curiously.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re lying, and I’m not feeding into your games, Sty.”
“I always said I’d find it for you, Doll.”
“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure I’ve spent more time than you researching. There’s no way you could’ve gotten to it before me.”
“That map is everything to you. What would you do if I actually found it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Humor me.”
I let out a breath, still wishing I’d never answered the phone. “Probably anything short of selling my soul.”
“That’s what I thought.” His tone lightens, and he says, “I’ve decided to come to Gainesville, Doll.”
He’s told me that before. The first time it scared the living bejesus out of me. Now I take everything he says in stride. All the talk of winning me back, of coming here and sweeping me off my feet—it never happens, thank God.
“Yeah, okay, Styler. Listen, I’ve gotta go.”
“I’ll see ya soon, babe.”
“Okay then. Bye.”
I click the end button before he can say anything else. Stupid phone. I need to figure out how to block him.
CHAPTER THREE
WESLEY
Fucking treasure hunters.
They can try every tactic they know, but they won’t beat me through intimidation. Fear is something I let go of a long time ago. Why let some baseless emotion stand in my way? It didn’t take me long to figure that one out. There’s too much to gain, and I have nothing to lose. Seeing things from that perspective kills the fear pretty quickly.
I’d never even heard of Black Templar up until last year. Sounds like some boy scout secret society, if you ask me. I doubt they’re affiliated with the Knights Templar. Probably just fame seekers looking for the next great find.
Well they aren’t getting it through me—and they sure as hell aren’t getting a hold of my sword. It took me years of research and dead ends to find it. The only thing their threats manage to do is piss me off. They can come after me if that’s what it takes.
I log out of my email and slam my laptop shut.
The effects of my hangover come back in full force, and I groan. This headache is nothing short of a pounding hell.
Alka-Seltzer dissolves in the glass of water sitting in front of me, foaming around the outer ridges, popping and sizzling. I don’t reach for it though, just continue to sit there on my barstool, rubbing my temples. Yesterday is a blur, but not so much that I don’t remember how I ended up this way. Images of Tyson handing me shot after shot run through my head, each one hazier than the last. Later I’m going to kill him.
I shift in my seat, and my stomach lurches in response.
Yeah. Kill him.
Francisco breezes inside the kitchen through the swinging door, surprising me. I didn’t expect him to be here today. “You won’t get rid of your hangover that way,” he says, nodding to my glass on the counter. “How about I fix you up something better?”
“Sure. Why not.” At this point I’m willing to try anything.
He opens the cupboard and takes out the blender. He’s always doing these kinds of things, checking up on me, making sure everything is okay around here. He’s just my dad’s old attorney. Technically he doesn’t have to do shit except to make sure the stipulations in my dad’s will are carried out. He’s supposed to verify that Dahlia and I get our bachelor’s degrees and that neither of us move out of the house, but those are the only things he’s required to do. Everything else he does because he and my dad were good friends.
“I learned this recipe in the islands,” Francisco says. “Ancient cure—only the locals know about it.”
I fold my arms over the counter, watching him concoct his island remedy. Francisco is Puerto Rican, but he grew up in New York, and then moved down to Florida three and a half years ago when my dad passed away. The Spanish accent is genuine, but I think he thickens it on purpose.
Throwing several tomatoes into the blender, Francisco casts a look in my direction. “You look bad, Wes. Rough morning?”
“You have no idea.”
Aside from the email those bastards from Black Templar sent me, I’d been cornered by Hannah, a pretty cook I use to mess around with. She’d been crying hysterically, barely sustaining enough breath between sobs to tell me what was wrong. I’ve never been able to deal with emotional girls before, but this was a thousand times worse, because every tearful wail made my head feel like it was being split open. When she finally got around to telling me what happened, I was mad as hell.
“Miss Reynolds—she f-fired me! I d-didn’t do anything wr-wrong, I sw-swear!”
Kent House doesn’t keep that many employees to begin with. Firing the few that are here is crazy. My roommate doesn’t have the right to get rid of Hannah or anyone I hire, so I don’t know why she thinks I won’t be pissed. Up until now, she’s never gotten in my way. Three years of living together, and aside from the occasional formalities, this is the first I’ve heard from her. It’s okay though, because I’ve been itching for an excuse to make her life miserable since my dad died. She’ll regret it—that much I can promise.
Francisco presses a button on the blender, pulverizing the questionable ingredients he placed inside. I cover my ears, hoping to God the noise will end soon.
“Are those the photos from the dig?” Francisco pours the brownish-colored liquid into a glass.
Photographs are strewn across the counter, but they’re not from the Egyptian dig he’s talking about.
“No—well, yes.” I slide one of the photos toward him. “This was my own personal project.”
Francisco sets the glass in front of me. I take a whiff. It smells like sewage. “Just drink,” he says, picking up the photograph. “Trust me.”
I don’t know how I get the slimy liquid down my throat without vomiting all over the place, but I manage to drink the entire glass.
“Is this what I think it is?” Francisco asks. He leans back against the refrigerator, running a hand over his bald head.
I nod, unable to keep from grinning from ear to ear. “The Saiful Azman.”
“The Sword of Dreams.” He lets out a deep breath, still staring at it. “I can’t believe it actually exists…it’s beautiful.”
Seeing the scimitar in person was even more incredible. The gold hilt is encrusted with hundreds of glittering jewels worth a small fortune. I remember holding it, thinking I was imagining the whole thing. My family spent lifetimes looking for that sword—and there it was. In my hands. I couldn’t fucking believe it.
Sam would’ve cried. My brother was emotional that way, and he cried over everything he found. He once got teary over a damned Mesozoic rock. “This existed during the time of dinosaurs, Wes,” he said, holding it up to show me.
My brother was good at finding the exceptionality in ordinary things. More than anything though, he wanted to find that sword. Some guys fix up old cars with their dads. Sam and I searched for treasure, the Saiful Azman our holy grail of all treasures. When he died, I promised I’d find it for him. He would get his dream, even though he wasn’t here to live it out.
Years from now, after Black Templar stops watching my every move, I plan to take the sword out of hiding. I’ll bring it back here, to Sam, and bury it with him. Then he can rest knowing he got his dream. Hell, maybe I can rest too.
“Does anyone know about this?” Francisco’s question is edged with worry.
I shake my head. “Only Tyson and Chase.”
“Are they trustworthy?”
I nod. The three of us have been friends for years. There’s no way they would rat me out.
“Did you hide it?”
“It’s in a safe place.”
Francisco rubs his chin, smoothing out his goatee. “If you get caught—”
“Not gonna happen. Besides, most people think the Saiful Azman is a myth. No one will believe it’s real, or that it was found by some random college student.”
; “Maybe not.” Francisco hands me back the photograph. “But people would believe a Kent found it. You better get rid of these.”
He’s right. I need to burn the evidence. It’s going to suck ass. These pictures are all I have to prove I’m not dreaming, and I’m the owner of a priceless relic.
“How are you feeling?” Francisco asks. “Did my remedy work?”
Now that I think about it, my head isn’t killing me anymore. “Yeah, actually it did. Thanks, man.”
“Anytime,” he says, smiling. “So what are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“Just some stuff for school…maybe later I’ll hit up the gym.” Exercising sounds like a good way to blow off some steam. I’m still pissed as hell over that email and how my roommate tried to fire my cook. “Do you wanna come?”
“Wish I could, but I’ve got stuff going on.” He walks toward me, resting his hand on my shoulder. “Your dad would be proud, Wes.”
“Yeah, well…” I shrug, clearing my throat. “It doesn’t really matter.”
Francisco eyes me, as if he’s trying to read something between the lines. I wish he wouldn’t. The way I feel about my dad—it is what it is. I just don’t give a shit. Even when he was alive, he was dead to me.
“Well I’m proud of you,” Francisco says, clapping my back. “Hopefully that matters.” He reaches for his keys, but pauses at the door. “We’ll catch up more soon. I want to hear more about your trip.”
“Okay,” I say, relieved the awkward moment is over. “See you later.”
I sit there in the kitchen for a few moments. My headache is completely gone, and I’m grateful I didn’t have to chug that drink for nothing.
Someone’s voice in the hall catches my attention. I glance up, noticing Dahlia’s maid pass by the door.
“Hey, you—” What the hell is her name again? “Dahlia’s friend.”
She doesn’t stop, so I jump up to follow her. Up close, I notice she has earphones attached to her head. She’s bobbing up and down, humming along to the music and twirling the feather duster in her hand.
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