Mr. Sugar

by L. D. Fox

  On his way up, he saw Bryce standing a few feet away, eyes wide and a hand in his hair.

  The perfect picture of disbelief and almost catatonic shock.

  A few seconds later, that video began playing again. This time, from his phone. The guard ended it after Bryce’s last words to Angel, his face tightening into a disgusted sneer.

  “Get him out of here.” Greg’s mouth twisted as if he’d just taken a shot of tequila and was still sucking on the lemon. His voice, when he spoke again, was low and tight. “I’ll have HR call about the paperwork. Not that it’ll help; you won’t find a job in this state again, not as a loss adjuster.”

  But Drew couldn’t give a shit about paperwork. He glared at Bryce, staring at that all-too-familiar face. And he could see the smirk buried beneath that faux-shocked expression of his.

  “You’ll pay for this,” he hissed. “I’ll make you fucking pay for this you piece of shit.”

  “What—?” Bryce held out a hand to the cop that was busy cuffing him. “What’s going on? Drew? What’s happened?” Somehow, his goddamn twin even managed to make his voice all unsteady, like he was on the verge of tears.

  Drew spun around and spat as hard as he could. “Fuck you! You did this. You fucking did this!”

  Gregory sidled in between Bryce and the door, glaring after Drew as the guard tried to hustle him down the hall.

  “Enough with your bullshit, Drew. He’s been here the whole day.”

  Most of the doors on either end of the hall were open, loss adjusters watching wide-eyed and confused from the safety of their offices as the guards dragged him down the hall.

  Drew could only manage a splutter before the guards pulled him out of sight of Trent and his now openly smirking brother.

  *

  Bryce caught up with him in the parking garage and tried to grab his arm as he stormed up to his Mercedes. He yanked it free, spun around, and took a breath so deep it hurt his lungs.

  “Fuck off!” he yelled.

  “I’m just so shocked, bro.” Bryce was practically skipping. His perpetual grin spread wider. “I mean, what’s going on with you?”

  “You stay the fuck away from me,” he said through his teeth. “From my house. From my life.”

  “Hey, come on.” Bryce hurried in front of him, walking backward with his hands in his pockets like he was in some eighties music video about the good times and how they just kept rolling. “You know Trent’s busy jerking off to that video right now. You should feel motherfucking blessed knowing you’re banging someone hot enough for amateur porn.”

  He knew the man was baiting him. Knew it, and still couldn’t stop his hands curling into fists. Because, by God, he craved nothing more than to swing those fists into Bryce’s grinning mouth. Knock out as many of those perfect teeth as he could. He wanted to destroy that chiseled face, if only so something like this could never, ever happen again.

  Fumbling his keys from his pocket, Drew unlocked his car.

  Bryce came up behind him, leaning with a hand on the door so he couldn’t open it.

  “Told you she was a gold digger.”

  Drew bit down hard on his lip, trying to ignore the words Bryce put so close to his ear.

  “Wanna know how much it took?”

  “Get away from me.”

  “Five grand. That’s all. I’ve paid more for hookers. Guess she wanted to fuck me, just like Kelly wanted to fuck me. Just like Juliet.”

  Drew shouldered Bryce aside and ripped open his door. He collapsed inside, yanking it closed.

  But Bryce caught the door, opened it, leaned inside. He put his foot up on the step, flashing his teeth at Drew as he folded forward.

  “Face it, Drew. They always choose me in the end. They always choose me.”

  Drew grabbed the door handle with both hands and jerked. Bryce fell away with a laugh, lifting his hands in mock surrender as the Merc’s door crashed closed.

  Bryce was still grinning at him as Drew peeled off in a squeal of tires and started down the road. He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, trying to will away a sudden pounding headache.

  Would Angel still be there, waiting for him?

  Or was it Bryce she was really waiting for now? If she was there, would she always be wishing it was Bryce, and not him? Would she be panting his name while she heard Bryce’s in her head? What if she did? Would be able to put up with it?

  He ran his hands down his face and squeezed his lips together.

  He’d put up with it for Juliet. But would he do the same for her?

  *

  Penny’s car was gone. Drew stared at the spot where it had been as if, if he looked hard enough, he’d see it. Eventually, he realized he must look like a crazy person — idling his car halfway up the drive — so he accelerated until his nose was almost against the garage door.

  He’d silently hoped that Angel wouldn’t be here so he wouldn’t have to answer the burning questions playing on repeat in his head.

  Drew climbed out of his car and glanced over at Kelly’s property. There was no indication that the woman was home — but, then again, there never was.

  He let himself into his house, drawing a deep, involuntary breath as he tested the air. There were no strange smells in the air. Nothing looked out of place. But the house still felt violated.

  His skin began crawling the deeper inside he stepped, and those steps sped up until he was doing a brisk walk to his study to toss down his briefcase, and taking the stairs two at a time to reach his room.

  In the shower, he used the nails on both hands to scrub at his face and neck. He subjected his hair to a furious lather and three washes; he wanted to be rid of Bryce’s oily, pervasive aura.

  It was only when he came out of the shower toweling his hair dry when he saw the note taped to his cupboard door.

  He tore it free, scowling at it.

  We have to talk.

  I’m at the bar down the road,

  the one with the red neon.

  It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t have to be. There was no mistaking the owner of that scrawled, cutesie cursive.

  He inhaled hard and deep and crumbled the note in his fingers. It missed the wastebasket when he threw it, and it took him considerable mental effort not to walk over and put it inside. Instead, he grabbed a navy golf shirt, a pair of chinos, and his sports jacket and began tugging them on.

  His tennis shoes came last. He sat for a moment on the bed, staring down at them and wondering when in the hell he’d last worn them. Trying to remember took all of three minutes before he gave up and got to his feet. He walked over to a large painting hanging opposite the bed; a dreamy sunset over a quiet, mirror-like lake. In one corner, a small hut jutted out from the suggestion of foliage.

  He took down the painting, rested it against the dressing table, and opened the safe hidden behind it. After moving a few files and some stacks of money out of the way, his fingers closed on something small, soft, cubic. He drew it out, running his thumb over velvet. Then he slipped the box into the breast pocket of his jacket, closed the safe, hung the painting back, stood back to make sure it was straight and headed downstairs.

  In the confusion at Trent & Morgan, he’d never gotten his phone back from the security guard. And it would be anyone’s guess when they’d be delivering his things to him. If they did. If they didn’t just decide to dump it.

  Drew went into his study and rifled through the second drawer in his desk. There was a cellphone in it — one of several — and he plugged it in to charge.

  His phones were always in immaculate condition when it was time to upgrade. And he had no one to give the old ones too. No reason to sell them. He’d always thought the spares would come in handy.

  Fancy that.

  He poured himself a gin and tonic, stared at the alcohol swirling colorlessly in the glass, and then downed it. Grimacing, he poured himself another, hesitated, and then let himself back into his study.

  He stared out the windo
w, into the slowly-darkening garden outside as thoughts flashed through his mind like cars on a midnight-empty motorway.

  Thoughts about Angel.

  His brother.

  Juliet.

  A plan slowly began unfurling in his mind. Taking shape. Then transforming. Becoming as solid as the padded leather chair he sat in.

  The gin and tonic was finished long before the phone had reasonable battery life, but he forced himself not to go back into the kitchen to pour another.

  23

  Joes

  The neon sign outside the bar down the road read ‘Joes.’ They hadn’t bothered with an apostrophe. In fact, they hadn’t bothered with a lot of things, like decor or menus. Why Angel had wanted to meet here was a mystery.

  He parked as close to the entrance as he could, glancing warily at the row of motorbikes parked in their allocated spots. Thirteen of them. Was that ominous enough to validate him leaving without even going inside?

  But he had to have this out. Right now. And even here, in the middle of this shitty bar. Because he was done having Angel ruin his life. Bryce, he could do nothing about — the man out-maneuvered him before he even knew they were at war — but Angel was just a girl.

  And that girl sat at the bar, idly swinging her legs under her as she leaned across to speak to the bartender baring ninety-percent of her thighs and the curve of her ass to the entire room and seeming oblivious to the fact.

  It was the pink of thoroughly chewed bubblegum, that tiny skirt. She wore thigh-high socks or stockings — white — and a pair of military boots whose ankles were several sizes too large for her.

  That he noticed from the door. The bartender glanced up when he walked closer, gave a small nod of his chin, and stepped back.

  “He’s here, darling.” And with that portentous comment, the man sidled to the far right of the bar to pour a beer for one of his patrons.

  Angel, still leaning on her elbows on the bar, peeked at him over her shoulder. Then she had the audacity to wink at him as she slowly lowered herself back onto her seat — almost as if she was giving him enough time to ogle her.

  Almost as if she hadn’t just fucked his brother. And, according to Bryce, enjoyed it.

  He nearly didn’t have the strength of will to take a seat beside her. As it was, he moved stiffly and awkwardly onto the bar stool, meshing his hands and keeping them in a white-knuckled grip as he forced himself not to look at Angel.

  “You even play tennis, Mr. Sugar?” she asked, sweet as melting sugar.

  He caught the barman’s eye and stared intently at the man as he ambled closer.

  “What’ll be?”

  “Gin and tonic.”

  The barman shrugged, as if he’d do his best to try and locate a bottle of gin, but that he wasn’t making any promises with the tonic.

  “You said we had to talk.” Drew turned to her then, his neck muscles as tight as his jaw. “So talk.”

  Angel watched him silently for a few seconds, running a pink-painted fingernail around the rim of her glass. Something milky had been in there; the foamy bubbles of what might have been a milkshake clung to the bottom.

  “I got a visitor today.” She dipped her head and made a hellish noise with her straw until Drew yanked the glass away from her. Licking her lips, Angel pressed against the bar with both hands and crossed her legs at him. “You never told me you had a twin.”

  “Yeah?” Drew kept one elbow on the table and meshed his fingers again, turning to face her. “If I had, then you would’ve have fucked him?”

  There was the tiniest flinch in her eyes, but she covered it up by fidgeting with the end of her ponytail. Her short-sleeved blouse was barely buttoned up to the point of decency. When she leaned forward, he could see between the slopes of her breasts and the lacy trim of her bra.

  “Whatever he told you, it isn’t true.”

  “Really?” Drew blinked hard at her, affecting surprise. “So he didn’t pay you to have sex with him?”

  She looked away then, toyed with the straw she retrieved from her empty glass. “He’s out to get you, Mr. Sugar.”

  He grabbed the back of her chair and leaned close. “Christ, you think?” Drew threw a sidelong glance at the other people inside the bar — only a handful had bothered to glance up at the sound of his raised voice. He bumped the side of his hand against Angel’s shoulder until she was looking at him. “Can we get out of here?”

  “So you can shout at me? Thanks, but no thanks.” Her eyes slid past him, and she broke into a wide smile. “Plus, I get free drinks here.”

  Drew’s elbow slid from the counter as he turned to accept the gin and tonic from the bartender. The man coasted another milkshake over to Angel and then held out his hand to Drew. “Eighteen bucks.”

  “For a gin and tonic?” Drew cleared his throat, gave a small laugh. “You’re shitting me, right?”

  “For three shakes, and a gin and tonic.”

  Drew glared at Angel, but she ignored him as she bent over her new glass and began kicking out her leg in time to whatever beat played inside her twisted head. He yanked out his wallet and tossed a twenty at the bartender. “Keep the change,” he mumbled.

  “Was planning to,” the man said with a small, sharklike grin before he strode away again.

  “Thought you drank for free,” he said as he wrestled his cigarettes from his jacket and lit one.

  “I do.” Angel fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Daddy always pays.”

  Drew threw another glance around — Jesus, it felt like every low-life in the place was staring a hole through his head — and leaned closer to the girl. “Don’t call me that.”

  “You’d prefer Sir? Master?”

  Drew straightened, gave her another glare as he tugged hard at his cigarette. Not that she seemed in the least affected by them. “I’d prefer it if you weren’t in my house.” Smoke jettisoned from his mouth with each heated word. “I’d prefer it if I never even fucking met you. I’d prefer it if you never knew I existed.”

  She watched him for a long moment, sucking silently at her straw. Then she pushed away the drink with her fingertips and leaned toward him. He sat back in a rush, thinking she was going to kiss him, and her lips twitched as if she wanted to smile. But then her expression became serious and she beckoned him with quick fingertips.

  When he didn’t move, she frowned. “You want everyone to hear?”

  He flicked ash from the tip of his cigarette. From the corner of his eye, Drew saw the bartender pausing in the act of drying a beer mug. So he inhaled a poor excuse for a calming breath and bent forward sliding his hand around the back of her chair for balance.

  Angel put her mouth to his ear. “He made a video of us screwing. Asked me to call him Drew. I don’t know why, but it seemed harmless so—”

  A chuckle vibrated from the pit of his stomach. He dipped his head and squeezed his eyes shut with a hand, resting his elbow on the back of her chair as he did. That laugh transformed into something ugly and deep and loud.

  He cut it off just before it became hysterical.

  Angel’s eyes were wide and frightened when he glanced up at her again. He took a long, slow pull at his cigarette and blew out a pale stream toward the bar floor. That laugh — stemmed from the incredulity of this moment, this girl’s naivety — had stoked a choking-hot anger fathoms deep inside him.

  “Want to know where I just came from, Angel?” He laid his hand on her shoulder, on the curve of her neck. She tensed under his fingers, but so briefly he could have imagined it. “Go on.” With his other hand, he took his gin and put it to his mouth.

  Angel’s blue eyes flashed to that drink, watching intently as he downed it. Watching it go back on the bar counter. Watching him tap his nail against it to summon the bartender.

  “Your… house?”

  “Correct.” He turned his attention away from her so he could slowly crush his cigarette into the ashtray. “But before that? Go on… I’ll give you three guesses, swee
theart.”

  She licked her lips and took a small sip from her milkshake, lowering her eyes.

  “The neighbor?”

  He flinched at that, gave Angel a sidelong look as he slid his glass off the counter.

  She looked up at him, licked her lips again. Shook her head.

  “No? Nothing?” Drew turned his attention to the bartender, giving the man a grim smile as he topped up his drink.

  He took a few long swallows of his gin, grimacing at the sourness, and then put his glass down again. He tightened his grip on her neck, drawing her close enough that she would feel his words brushing her lips when he spoke.

  “Trent & Morgan. My office, sweetheart. I’ve just been fired.”

  24

  Sir

  Why’d she had so many damn shakes? There was too much saliva in her mouth, bitter-tasting as if she was about to hurl.

  “Fired?” she managed, swallowing hard. The hand Mr. Sugar had on her shoulder had been nice and warm… now it was just plain unsettling.

  His thumb pressed into the hollow of her throat. “As in, employment terminated. No severance. Probably no benefits.”

  She wanted to ask why, but she already knew. Bryce’s eyes had been confirmation enough when the man had been fucking her. There’d been a flash of jealousy, so dark and so deep she’d almost begun fighting him.

  “I… I’m sorry, Mr. Sugar. I didn’t know—”

  “Please,” he hissed. He leaned in again, his other hand grabbing her arm when she reached for her milkshake. “You’d have fucked him even if you knew. Because you wanted to know what it would feel like, screwing me over.”

  He looked as if he’d expected her to deny it. Watching. Waiting.

  She shrugged. “Yeah, probably.”

  Uncrossing her legs, she slid to the floor and snatched her handbag from the floor. Mr. Sugar grabbed the back of her chair, barring her way with his arm. A well-toned, muscular arm despite the fact that he’d probably stopped working out more than a year ago.