Free to Dream

by Tracey Jerald

  I sit for a moment and think it over. “Yes. I’ll head downtown in a while. It shouldn’t take too long. What time is your dinner?”

  “It’s at five.”

  “I’ll call you if it’s a no-go.”

  I manage to get in a run and a boxing workout before hitting the showers to head into the office.

  Standing beneath the warm spray, I brace my thick legs apart as the suds slide down my body, over my abs, and around my cock. Letting out a low hum at the sensation, I realize it’s been way too long since I’ve gotten laid. To be honest, a woman didn’t seem worth the effort when I could rub one out a hell of a lot quicker.

  To me, women came with one of three problems—they want my money, my body, or my face, and pretty much in that order. I need one who not only has her own success, but is a challenge. Beautiful, but doesn’t live or die by the need to look into every reflective surface she passes. A woman who wants to be held as much as she wants to be fucked.

  In other words, I want a fucking unicorn.

  Slipping on a pair of well-worn Levi’s, a thin cashmere sweater over a T-shirt, and my steel-toe boots, I quickly toss my dopp kit into my gym locker. Shrugging on my leather jacket, I walk the mile-and-a-half to my office near Rockefeller Center.

  Sundays in New York are unlike any other day of the week. If you want to know why a person would live in the city, explore it on a Sunday. Sure, there are tourists. I mean, it’s New York, when are there not? But there are also random people finding what little green space there is for a nap, lines for people waiting to eat brunch wrapping around a city block, and random street fairs fucking up traffic. I stop at one of the street fair booths and order a Gyro to eat as I make my way toward Rockefeller Center.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m behind my desk at Hudson Investigations, having tossed my assistant a quick wave on my way in. I shake my head as I pass. Time and again, I let my assistant know Sundays are not required as part of the job. I’ve given up trying and just caution now against burning out.

  When I left the Army, I knew I could live the rest of my life on my inheritance, but that’s not my style. I knew I would be bored within two-point-five seconds if all I was doing was playing golf. I knew I would need something in my life to give me a challenge. I wasn’t like the pampered society darlings my mother kept tossing at me, who wanted to fuck and produce Lockwood heirs. Seriously, the idea of settling for one of those dumb bimbos bored me. If I had to go through life as a bachelor, buying lube so I didn’t chafe while taking care of business, I didn’t care. I refuse to settle.

  Instead of what would amount to buying a relationship, I put my time, effort, and soul into the investigative agency I bought out three years ago. The former owner, Laskey, had a solid business, but he was ready to retire. To me, compiling competitive intelligence and digging into companies to look for things like fraud was better than a woman scraping her false nails up the inside of my thighs. Protection details with the occasional high-level missing persons case could send a chill up my spine more than hips swaying in the right dress. Helping fend off corporate espionage was better than a night of hot sex.

  I want the things in my life to require some effort. I want my life to have meaning. I was born with the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth. I think I spit it out within minutes of it being shoved there.

  I like puzzles. I love a challenge. I crave the high I get from figuring out a mystery. It’s probably why I excelled when I was in Army Intel for eight years. Give me a good case to dig into and I’m like a dog with a meaty bone. I don’t rest until I own all the answers.

  While I’m waiting on the basic financial report and background check I requested on Amaryllis Events from one of our new analysts—mostly to disclaim my suspicion the business didn’t drug anyone—I receive a knock on my office door from my head of missing persons and protection services. He’s carrying a thick file under his arm, a file I don’t recognize.

  First, it’s paper. Second, I would recall authorizing its creation.

  “Charlie, what are you doing here on a Sunday?” I stand, my eyes dropping to the folder now in his hands.

  “You requested the Freeman file, Caleb. I need to know why.” No nonsense and to the point, Charlie Henderson shakes my hand before sitting down in one of my guest chairs. He places the thick file on his lap, his hand absentmindedly tapping it.

  Dragging my eyes away from the file, I find him looking at me with his head tilted. His expression is serious. “The Freeman file? The only thing I’ve asked for today is a business check on an event planner for my brother’s wedding, Charlie. A company called Amaryllis Events.”

  His eyes don’t leave mine. He doesn’t say a word, just continues to stare me down.

  I say slowly, nodding to the file, “And I take it the file you’re holding has something to do with that request?”

  Nodding his head, his hands stop tapping Morse code on the hard copy. He shifts in his chair, but doesn’t speak immediately. I wait patiently, because I know Charlie. He’s not deciding on whether or not to tell me, he just needs to organize his thoughts.

  When I purchased the investigation firm, I inherited Charlie. He’s a rare, raw, tell-it-like-it-is, pain in the ass that needs the right hand holding. He had turned in his resignation when I first met him. Now, he’s one of my best assets.

  I trust his instincts.

  Giving him the minute he needs, I stand and walk over to the wet bar in my office. Grabbing two bottles of water, I place one in front of him before I sit at my desk again. Twisting off the cap, I wait.

  “About eight years ago, a group of kids came to the office. Unusual case. They wanted a background investigation run.”

  I’m not sure what’s odd about that. Parent who left them? Parents, plural, who left them? I tip my head as I take another drink. His next words do surprise me.

  “The Freeman children wanted us to investigate them. There are six of them. They wanted to know how hard it would be for anyone to find them, and they wanted to know if the people in their previous lives were alive or dead. They were all hoping for dead. By the end of it, so were we.” He shudders.

  Charlie Henderson has seen a lot over the years, but I’ve never watched him visibly shudder.

  “Those kids, the Freemans…” Charlie takes a deep breath. “They own Amaryllis Events.”

  Slowly putting down the bottle, I sit up straighter. Ry, you ass. What the hell did you get us involved with?

  “It’s all in there?” He nods. I reach my hand out for the file, and just as I’m about to touch the thick folder, Charlie puts his hand on top of mine. “Caleb.” My eyes lock onto his. What now?

  “Ryan came up as part of the investigation. There might be things; you know…things you don’t know. I have no idea. But from the look on your face, I’m guessing the second.” He releases the file as I sink in my chair. The file is easily six inches thick.

  “I put the flags on the family so I could let them know if someone was trying to hunt them.” He gives me a hard look that tells me if it was, I would easily be facing an aging ex-SEAL in a grudge match. “But based on what you just said, I’m assuming your check has nothing to do with that.”

  I’m left holding what may be the equivalent of a paper bomb. I can’t take my eyes off of it.

  I know instinctively if I handle what’s inside wrong, my whole world is going to implode.

  Charlie turns and walks to the door. With his hand on the knob, he turns and says something odd. “If I lived through what the people in that file lived through, it would be hard for me to choose dedicating my life to ‘happily ever after’ day after day.” He takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “That’s the only copy. Nothing’s digital. I want it back in my hands by the end of the day.”

  Nodding at me, he leaves my office, closing the door behind him.

  I set the file down in the center of my desk. Bracing myself, I flip past the initial confidentiality pages and get to the table of co
ntents. Scanning it, there are names I am sure I’ll become very acquainted with: Phillip Freeman-Ross, 32, Cassidy Freeman, 29, Emily Freeman, 29, Alison Freeman, 27, Holly Freeman, 27, Corinna Freeman, 27, and Jason Ross, 35 (with a notation that he is Phillip’s husband).

  Then, names that make my gut churn.

  Ryan Lockwood, 29.

  Mildred Lockwood, 62.

  What the fuck does my brother and mother have to do with the Freeman’s request?

  Pressing a button on my iPad, I engage the locks on my office door and begin to read.

  Hours later, my world has shifted on its axis and I know two things.

  One, that cunt will never again be called my mother.

  Two, I need to meet the Freemans.

  I pick up the phone, call Ryan, and tell him he’s a go for the meeting with Amaryllis Events, setting their plans in motion. There’s just one caveat. I want to meet the Freemans. As soon as possible.

  Ryan is outraged. Especially when I won’t share the reason why I feel this need to do so. We argue on the issue back and forth the entire time he and Jared are in transit to the restaurant in Westchester, resulting in Ryan hanging up on me.

  Hours pass. After trying to clear up some issues I’ll need off my plate for a trip out to Connecticut in the morning, I find myself unable to think about anything but the contents of that file. I stand in front of my office window, long after the sun sets, not seeing the beauty of the Manhattan skyline. The sky transitioned from a deep color that can only be found over the Hudson in the fall to a deep murky ink color when my phone rings. After a terse call from Ryan confirming I’ll be meeting with the Freemans in the morning, he hangs up.

  I let out my slow breath. I have my time to meet them. What I’ll do with that meeting, I have no idea.

  I’ll use my instincts and figure it out in the morning.

  3

  Cassidy

  It took me forever to figure out what to wear this morning.

  I wanted to dress to give the impression I wasn’t nervous about the Lockwood meeting, but I wanted to carefully showcase the success our company has attained.

  Looking down at my outfit, I’m satisfied with my decision—casual elegance with power thrown in. I figured my mulberry colored cashmere sweater dress, ending right above my knee, paired with high heeled black leather boots conveyed that. Hanging behind the door was a matching cashmere jacket in black that would graze the bottom hem of the dress if I needed to toss it on.

  I can hear Phillip’s words from last night. “But you’re the face of this company, Cass. There’s no one we trust to do this more than you.” I can’t imagine how he could think that.

  My gaze travels over to Phillip and Jason’s wedding photo. Both of them are beaming at the camera, with the rest of our family clustered around them. I hardly spare myself a glance, bypassing my image for those far more important in the photo.

  When Holly showed me the photo after she developed it, she asked me what I saw. I told her immediately, “Golden beauty. I mean, just look at all of you.” My compliment was sincere.

  Holly had cocked her head and said rather enigmatically, “You don’t see it at all, do you?”

  “See what?” I had asked her, confused.

  She patted my hand, took the picture from me and hung it on the wall where it resides today. “One day you will. I just hope I’m around when you do.”

  I shake my head and glance at the clock—it’s 7:50. Perfect. I have enough time to run down the street for a cup of coffee and make it back in time to review the Lockwood notes Phil had tossed on my desk earlier. Phil generates event profiles before clients come in for their consultation.

  After yelling at Phil’s needy ass that I would get him a large, extra skinny latte with whipped cream, I grab my phone and wristlet, and duck out the side door into the crisp morning air, mentally wishing I had grabbed my coat. Fall is going to hit early in our little southern Connecticut town.

  Other than my dreams, my life has become monotonous. My greatest stress comes from what I’ll wear to the office. My complacency hasn’t escaped me.

  Pausing on the street, I take in the former gingerbread mansion on Collyer’s Main Street, which now houses Amaryllis Events. I let out a wry chuckle. Who would have thought that six of the most cynical people—when it came to love and relationships—would become some of the best wedding and event planners in the Northeast? Not this woman, that’s for damn sure. Each of us use our individual strengths for each event, providing unique moments crafted with elegance, considering everyone’s wishes. We even incorporate input from the spinster aunt that no one wants to listen to. We all know feelings matter. Feelings count. Feelings can destroy souls, and an event as important as a wedding. We work to show people that, and people pay us damn well for our attention to the details.

  Strolling down the street of the closest thing to a hometown I have ever known, I nod at several store owners unlocking their front doors minutes before their eight o’clock store openings. I shake my head, not knowing how people can stand to be rushed in the morning. The feeling of never having enough time to take a deep breath, let alone get coffee, before dealing with the good citizens of Collyer, it would be akin to a terrorist attack to my stability.

  Passing by the dance studio and candy store, which I know will be filled with high school students later in the afternoon, I duck down the alley between the Colonial-era buildings to head toward The Coffee Shop.

  Ava and Matt, the owners and my trusted confidants, look up as I enter. Matt frowns while Ava scurries over with her arms outstretched.

  “Cassidy, darling. Why don’t you let us bring you your morning coffee?”

  “Ava, if you did, I would never leave the office,” I reply, leaning down to give her cheek a quick kiss. “Besides, it would give Phil a reason to say we never do a damn thing for him.”

  “Mouth, Cassidy!” Ava scolds me, gently thumping my arm. Ava is a little bit motherly toward me. Toward all of us.

  “Should have heard him this morning while he was whining about not having his extra skinny latte already, Ava. And how can one suck more skinny out of the already skim milk? I told him to stop lying around on his ass and use the treadmill he made Jason buy him, and maybe he wouldn’t be worrying about those washboard abs of his.” Ava tries to hold in her laughter. She finally gives in, and by the time she stops, she’s wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. “Besides, he wants whipped cream. You should have heard what I said about that.” I smile and wink at Ava because Phil is beyond ridiculous about his coffee demands and we both know it.

  Ava lets out one last bellow of laughter, throws a smile at me, and begins making coffee while talking to other customers.

  Matt ambles out of the heat of the miniscule kitchen, resting his arms on top of the counter in front of me. “Not sleeping again?”

  A former VA psychologist, I found I was more comfortable talking to Matt about my past than any other doctor before. Maybe it’s because he’d gladly take one of his viciously sharp meat cleavers to anyone who would try to hurt me. I think it’s because he understands I feel I’m at the end of my rope.

  My childhood was stolen, and that made my future feel bleak. I feel like I’m alone and always will be.

  Matt can sense my isolation and reaches forward for my hand. “You’re not alone, Cassidy.”

  I laugh derisively as I try to pull my hand away from his large paw.

  “You’re not,” he insists, holding onto my hand.

  I lean forward, my braid falling over my shoulder. “Then why does it feel that way when I wake up crying and alone, Matt? No one wants someone that’s ruined or damaged.” I pull my hand away as Ava comes bustling over with my drinks. I stand up and smile at Matt. “I’ll always be alone.”

  I drop a ten-dollar bill on the counter and tip my lips at Ava. Matt can’t hide his concern, which I choose to ignore as I head out the door.

  Holding our coffee slightly away from my body, I mean
der down the tree lined streets, back toward the office.

  Em wasn’t wrong. Something was going on with me. What I felt, I couldn’t put into words to help my siblings understand.

  I always recognize when something is losing its course in my perfectly organized life.

  “Here’s your extra skinny, practically water latte, with fat-laden whipped cream.” I hand the coffee over to Phil.

  “Don’t you start with that mouth today, Cass,” Phil warns, like I’m nine years old again and not twenty-nine. “I’m in no mood. My abs are just as washboard as the day you met me.”

  “It’s not me who has to see them every night. That would be Jason. And I have no idea why you’re freaking out over this, since you look the same as the day I met you. Most days, you act the same way too,” I quip, sipping my cappuccino.

  Phil stares at me for a minute before he puts the coffee down and places his hands on his hips. “I swear to God, that mouth of yours is going to be the death of you one of these days.”

  “What did you say to set him off this time, Cass?” Ali calls as she passes us, walking into my office.

  “Phil, if you took after Ali and worked for those abs, you wouldn’t be worrying about ways to filter out the 0.01% of fat out of skim milk,” I taunt.

  “Ohhhh,” my sister drawls out as she pauses, her Southern accent making it a five-syllable word. “Should have run with me. I got up when y’all did and put in five miles. Maybe I’ll go get a mocha with some extra whip from The Coffee Shop.”

  “Keep out of it, Ali,” Phil huffs. He raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, challenging her to step into our argument more than she already has.

  “Seriously, Phillip, what’s wrong with you?” I ask. “We’re actually here for a reason this morning. You know, a quick briefing before a potentially lucrative client walks through the door in about fifteen minutes.”

  Phil looks at us for a moment before speaking. His eyes, which are so incredibly blue and filled with a raging regret, begin to soften. “If I said nothing, would either of you believe me?”