Suspended: A Bad Boy Rockstar Romance

by Zoey Oliver

  I feel the futility in my plea, but still. “There has to be something. I’ll have my legal team look into it, maybe get it thrown out of court.”

  My friend leans over, feeling for the scotch bottle then gives up. He relinquishes his glass as well, setting it on the side table before fisting his hair between his fingers. “You can’t. I know you’re my oldest friend, but you’ll just make things worse.”

  “Worse?” I yell. “Worse? Your sister is about to be rammed by fucking Finley Prescott — for the rest of her life.”

  Spencer catapults from his seat. “I don’t want to hear that shit, Henry.”

  Without a second of hesitation, I rise from my chair as well, and Spencer and I face off in the flicker of firelight. “I don’t give a fuck what you want to hear, Spencer. You and me, we don’t pull punches.”

  I give him a moment to respond, but all I’m waiting for is the briefest flash of bluster from him, and I’ll swing. I’m at the edge — my world is shattered just like the vases on my floor, and I’ve reached my limit with Spencer’s excuses. I watch the steady rise and fall of his chest and search his eyes, looking for any sign of a fight.

  Spencer convulses forward and drops to his knees, and for a moment, I’m sure he’s going to vomit. Instead, feels along the floor for the bottle of scotch. And just like that, it snaps into place. The cognac in the library. The bourbon in the music room. The vodka and the gin. He’s been smashed every day he’s been here — and he was drinking heavier than usual before he left to go chase tail on the other side of the world, too.

  My jaw clenches, huffs of air pouring out of my nose like dragon fire as I stare at him. “How long have you known?”

  He slumps onto the floor, coming to rest on his ass, and hangs his head. “Since the beginning of the year. It’s why I took off.”

  “So, there was no girl?” I pace in front of the fire.

  “Oh, there was a girl — Candy. I wasn’t lying about that. She was a hot mess, Henry.” He looks up at me. “But it was still better than this. I just hitched myself to the first opportunity that came along and got the fuck out of this place. It was too much.”

  “How do you think Abigail feels?” I lean down toward him, fists curled, ready to make him swallow his fucking teeth for leaving her to deal with it alone, but Spencer waves his hands in surrender.

  “I know, man. I know.” He crawls over to the bottle of scotch beside his chair, pulls himself up by the legs of the side table, fumbles for his glass, and pours another finger of the amber liquid. “I just wanted to have a normal life, you know? A life where my inheritance doesn’t swing on who my little sister fucks.”

  He tosses back the shot and sprawls his legs out on the floor, back against the apron of the chair.

  “You have to do something, Spencer,” I admonish.

  Spencer’s laughter is near hysterical. It fills the empty corners of my suite and ricochets off the broken shards of the vases. “Really? I mean, fuck me, Henry, what exactly do you propose I do? Tell Abi that she can just go ahead and run off to Africa? That Mom and Dad will be just fine?”

  I spin my empty glass on the side table, anger filling me again. “Yes. Tell her that.”

  He swallows hard and when he speaks his voice is low and strained. “She wouldn’t go. She always puts everyone else first,” he sniffs, his voice cracking. “She’s too good for this family.”

  “She’s too good for all of us,” I say, and the truth of my words sting, biting at me, even through the rage and the liquor.

  A flicker of something nags at the back of my mind as I pace in front of the hearth. I think back through Spencer’s words, and it clicks into place. I turn to him. “Wait, did you say Finley is in charge of this agreement?”

  My friend nods, his eyes watery. “Yeah, he’s the original signer’s descendant or some shit — the current legal representative of this old jackass, Goutley.”

  Hope takes seed inside my chest and a small grin spreads across my lips for the first time in days.

  Spencer looks at me, his brow furrowed. “Why are you smiling?”

  “I have an idea. One that could free Abi from Finley’s hellish grip and fix this nightmare for your family for good.”

  Spencer staggers to his feet, grasping the arms of the chair to steady himself. “What? What are you thinking?”

  He needs to see. “Wait here,” I tell him before bolting out of my bedroom.

  I dash down the hallway to my private office and burst through the door, heading straight to my writing desk. The moonlight streaming through the windows on this side of the wing provides enough of a pale glow to guide me to the spot.

  Unlocking the bottom drawer, I pull out a large manila envelope holding all the information I’ve been able to collect so far.

  Pierre has been an invaluable help with filling in the details and securing well-buried documents, adding to the growing evidence against Finley. I don’t care how careful Finley’s been or how much money he’s thrown around to make things disappear — there’s no man on earth who could hide for long from the head of my security team. If Pierre wanted to know about the volume and quality of every ounce of breath someone had drawn since birth, he’d find a way to get that information. As children, Spencer and I used to joke that only Pierre could track Saint Nicholas across the globe on Christmas Eve.

  I jog back to my bedroom where Spencer is standing beside our chairs at the hearth. When I draw close, I hold up the bulky manila envelope, so he can see it in the glow of firelight.

  “I know she won’t believe this coming from me,” I tell him. “But you’re her big brother, Spencer.”

  “What is that?” he asks, his voice is surprisingly clear.

  “It’s what’s going to make this problem go away, for good. But it has to come from you,” I stress, holding the thick package out to him.

  He takes it from me cautiously. “Why me?”

  “She wants nothing to do with me — you know that. Even if she would agree to meet with me, I doubt she’d believe any of this if I’m the one who shows it to her. But whatever, this isn’t about me. It doesn’t fucking matter if she never looks at me again. This is about your family and Abi’s future.”

  “Damn, what’s in here? It’s heavy as fuck,” Spencer says, hefting the package in his hands. “A bar of gold?”

  “Maybe, my friend. Those documents might prove to be worth their weight in gold.”

  Spencer raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “I’ll go through them with you and explain what I’m thinking.”

  He makes a face and his shoulders sag. “Right now? I’m pretty fucked up, man.”

  “Yes, now. Abi needs you, goddammit! Time for a cold shower and a lot of fucking coffee — it’s going to be a long night, my friend.”

  Chapter 21

  ABIGAIL

  Fuck my life. That’s the summary of everything about this meeting, this day, this week — hell, the entire month.

  Once again, we’re gathered in the business annex, too many people stuffed into this small conference room for my comfort level, and once again, everyone is twittering on like birds, chatting excitedly instead of getting this meeting started.

  The difference is that this time, I’m not fidgeting. I don’t care if the meeting starts or not. I don’t care about anything, really.

  There is no naked, beautiful Prince waiting for me to rush to when things wrap up here, no hope for a future that doesn’t involve Finley Prescott, and no chance of ever seeing Africa again, not unless it’s to accompany my arrogant, callous husband on a hunting trip.

  Three days ago, I dutifully took the stage with Finley at the awards banquet after the charity polo matches in Doremont, joined by both sets of our parents as they joyfully announced our engagement. I played the part, smiling and waving, even allowing Finley to hold my hand while we walked forward to the edge of the stage to be cheered by the crowd of foreign dignitaries and members of the royal court, celebrities and di
stinguished guests packing the room.

  That was bad enough — seeing all my dreams fading away as I stood there, a smile frozen on my face, pretending to be delighted with my new fiancé — but I fear that moment on stage may turn out to be the highlight of our engagement. My gut tells me it’s going to be all downhill from there. Way downhill, like a boulder cracking off the edge of an overhang, hurtling down the mountain, taking out everything in its path.

  Henry may have been using me for his own reasons, but he was right about one thing — Finley is not a good person.

  Mere moments after walking off stage from the engagement announcement, he pulled me into an empty storage room behind the banquet hall and grabbed me, pushing his lips against me.

  “What are you doing?” I shrieked, twisting my head away.

  “No foreplay? That’s fine with me.” He stepped back and unzipped his pants. “Time to sample the goods. Get that dress off.”

  “What?” I recoiled in disgust, clutching my arms across my body.

  “Since I’m the one verifying the agreement, there’s no need to wait until our wedding night. So, let’s get to it,” he’d said, pushing down his underwear.

  “I am not sleeping with you.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You do know, if our marriage isn’t consummated, the agreement is considered breached, and the Beauregard estate is mine,” he said with a laugh.

  “Fuck you,” I spat.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what you’re going to do if you want your family to stay in their nice home.”

  I stared at him with steely eyes, refusing to let my gaze lower from his face.

  He just stared back, hands on his hips, waiting for my eyes to wander down to what he had on display, growing impatient.

  “Now, Abi.” He reached down, grabbing himself. “Come on, get over here and get me hard.”

  I nearly gagged at the thought but managed to disguise it with a firm shake of my head, desperate to not let him see the nausea and despair coursing through me.

  He finally shrugged and pulled up his pants. “Fine, have it your way. You don’t want deep dicking right now — that’s fine. We both know who the whore is in this arrangement.”

  He zipped his pants and opened the door to the storage room.

  “Keep that virgin cunt to yourself for a while longer if you want.” He sneered, looking back at me. “But on our wedding night? It’s mine.”

  With that, he slammed the door shut, leaving me standing alone in the storage room in utter shock.

  Sitting in the meeting space, I shudder at the memory of that day behind the stage with Finley. He’s been even more intolerable and cruel since, but I can’t bear to think about it anymore. I’ve just been going wherever I need to be, doing whatever needs doing, numbly following my parents’ lead, feeling like a shell of who I once was.

  Sir Eldridge clears his throat. “Let’s get down to it, shall we?” he says, and the room grows still. “Baroness, have you and Lady Abigail chosen a wedding planner yet?”

  My mother nods. “Yes, we interviewed several agencies and have selected the Thomasia Firm. They seem very capable of handling a large wedding on short notice.”

  Sir Eldridge nods. “Very good. That brings us to the press release. It really must be taken care of as soon as possible. I realize, of course, that Finley’s injuries delayed things a bit, but we really do need to get the engagement pictures taken as soon as possible. The media packets should have been sent out as soon as the date was set.”

  “The photographer is coming tomorrow,” my mother replies.

  “Excellent. Now, other items of business…”

  I tune out as Sir Eldridge goes down a long list. Items of business. That’s what this is, no mistake about it. Business. Not sacred vows of commitment, not love, not passion. There’s no desire or tender feelings or happily-ever-after here — just business.

  My mother is so excited about the wedding, she’s practically glowing. It’s the best outcome she could hope for — a grand wedding to a wealthy man with good social standing. She was terrified I’d be stuck with an old geezer three times my age, or married off to a penniless pauper because no suitable bachelors would be available on such short notice.

  If only. I’d take a sassy old man or a broke-as-a joke sanitation worker over Finley. Hell, compared to Finley, even Horace the Horrible looks like a winner.

  As Sir Eldridge rambles on, checking off things with various people in the room, I notice my brother slip in the door, carrying a large manila envelope.

  His entrance surprises me. He’s not attended a single meeting and has been incredibly disconnected about the whole situation. Instead of getting involved, he’s spent most of his time away, and when he did come home to Beauregard, he staggered in drunk, eyes bloodshot, reeking of a bender and no shower for days.

  The day of the engagement announcement, he saw me leave the storage room in tears and cornered me, demanding to know what had happened — the first time he’d shown interest in my life in months. I told him about Finley’s cruelty, but he just shook his head and stalked away. By the end of the awards banquet he was so hammered my father had to help him to the limo. I haven’t seen him since — until now.

  He’s standing quietly in the corner of the conference room, his eyes darting between my parents and myself. He clutches the envelope to his chest and licks his lips nervously as Sir Eldridge rattles on and on.

  Finally, the senior advisor comes up for air, pausing to look down at the meeting agenda to see what’s next.

  My brother steps forward. “Excuse me.”

  Sir Eldridge turns, and all eyes shift to Spencer. “Sir Strathmore? Do come in, we’ll find an extra seat.”

  Spencer holds up a hand. “That won’t be necessary. I actually need to meet with my family, alone — just my mother, father, and sister.”

  I straighten in surprise and glance at my parents to see if they know what this request is about, but they look just as bewildered as I do. I turn back to my brother, and he’s staring at me, his cheeks flushed. Normally, I would chalk that color up to his drinking, but today his eyes are clear and his hands steady.

  The senior advisor frowns and glances down at his list. “Would you mind terribly if we wrap up first, sir? We’re almost through the list of items that need to be addressed for the wedding of Lady Abigail and Mr. Prescott.”

  Spencer shakes his head. “No need to continue with the wedding plans. My sister won’t be marrying Finley Prescott.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” My parents’ advisor rises to a high note and he does a double-take, his hand flying to his chest in astonishment. Everyone in the room stirs and murmurs fill the space.

  “I request the room, immediately,” Spencer says, his voice even and firm. “Please leave me with my family.” My brother and the older man lock eyes, Spencer never wavering.

  Tense seconds tick by as the two conduct a silent battle, but it is the older man who relents and sets his eyes dancing over the table as he quickly collects documents into a pile. “Very well. We will move to the library and finish the business at hand.”

  My parents and I remain silent as Spencer thanks the assembly and the Council shuffles from the room, many of them looking back over their shoulders at us questioningly. He waits until the door is securely shut and then hesitates only a moment before pacing forward, tossing the manila envelope onto the table. It slides to a stop in front of my parents.

  Father is the one who reaches for it, not questioning Spencer until he has a series of affidavits and high-resolution photographs in hand. His eyes narrow, and I see a light of comprehension.

  “What am I looking at here, son?”

  Spencer leans across the table and presses his fingertips onto the still bulging envelope. “This package contains ample evidence of Finley’s illicit activities. For starters, his involvement in a drug ring.”

  My brother starts to pace the room. “I don’t mean selling pills to some college
kids on the side. All those investments he claims to be making all his money on? It all traces back to the drugs he’s having smuggled into the country.”

  My brother digs more papers from the envelope and hands them to our mother. Having managed our stock holdings for the better part of a quarter century, her practiced eye skims the small print littering the pages. She flips through the papers, scanning each one, glancing back and forth between the documents. “All these companies are just shells.”

  “That’s right,” Spencer says. “His millions have been made dealing drugs, not playing the foreign currency exchange or investing in real estate. And that’s not the worst of it.”

  This time, the papers Spencer removes from the folder — he lays them in front of me. I flip through them with growing horror. Hospital records, results from a rape kit. My hand moves to my mouth, my eyes wide. Several sworn statements from multiple women attesting to Finley’s unwanted advances and the violence with which he took what he wanted anyway, the dates spanning several years. The last of the papers are banking records of wire transfers to various accounts — women, investigators, judges. Incredible sums of cash, all linked back to Finley. Hush money to keep the assault charges from any further proceedings out of court.

  I can’t form words. This is the man I’m to marry. It’s all too grotesque. I shake my head, tears coming to my eyes. I breathe deep, forcing back my nerves which are frayed to the breaking point.

  My father’s voice is low and quiet. Dangerous. “Where did all this come from? My God. The drug charges alone could put him away for life.”

  Spencer’s cheeks flush with righteous anger. “Yes, they could.”

  “This has to be made public. Based on these records,” my mother says, sweeping another glance across the table at the stacks of papers, her jaw firm and the muscles in her neck tight, “Finley should have been in jail long ago.”

  I jump as my father’s fist collides with the table. “Get my advisors back in here right now. I’m turning this over to the press immediately.”