Murmur (Pierce Securities Book 5)

by Anne Conley

  “Can somebody else help you find what Argyle stole from you?”

  Quinten waited for Valerie’s therapist to leave so he could finish the conversation about her lawyer. There was more to Brandon Fuller, based on her reaction to his question, and he wanted to know what it was. He’d spent her therapist appointment skimming through the transcripts of her trial but didn’t see anything glaring. He would go into more depth when he could.

  When Jenene left, he waited. And waited.

  Later, he was surprised to hear a knock at Valerie’s front door. He went to answer it after checking in with Andrew, who was doing a perimeter check. Andrew was out back and hadn’t seen anyone drive up.

  Quinten answered the door to Brandon Fuller, Valerie’s lawyer and his old roommate from law school. Speak of the devil and imps appear…

  Brandon looked confused but smiled brightly anyway. “Quinten. It’s good to see you again.” He held out his hand to shake, firm and dry.

  “Brandon. I wasn’t expecting you. Ms. Dunaway didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  “Uh, she just called me in. How are things? She told me the detective recommended you to come out and watch the place. Any sign of the intruder coming back?” Brandon squeezed by Quinten, who hadn’t moved to let him by. Smaller than Quinten by nearly a foot, he was a slight guy, thin frame, maybe five feet eight, glasses, and an expensive suit.

  And Quinten wasn’t going to tell him shit.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, he watched Brandon fidget with his tie before responding. “Client privilege. You understand.”

  “Sure. Sure.” Brandon nodded affably, shifting his briefcase from one hand to the other. “I’ve been working on some trust paperwork for Valerie. I’m assuming she’s signed it and that’s why I’m here, but I don’t really know.” He sat on the sofa and drummed his knees, whether from impatience of discomfort, Quinten didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to ask. He’d let him stew.

  “You still gardening?”

  Brandon’s eyes snapped up to his, and Quinten looked for guilt. “Yeah, actually. I’m a Master Gardener now.” Quinten knew that was a title held by some of the best gardeners in the state. “My home is in magazines.” Brandon swallowed thickly. “You, uh, still fighting?”

  “Yep.” Quinten flexed his biceps in a shameless show of testosterone, and Brandon blanched.

  Valerie breezed into the room, wearing a pleated skirt that reached her ankles, paired with a cropped jacket. Her mask matched. Red skirt, red jacket, red mask. Red, the color of power. The effect was casual, yet business-like, feminine, yet powerful, and altogether positively stunning.

  Brandon jumped to his feet and embraced her, kissing her cheek, which she allowed. Her persona was different now, as if donning the red clothes brought out a side of her Quinten had never seen before. Or was it Brandon?

  Quinten had to admit he was jealous of the fucker. Even if it was just the mask he kissed, he still held her hands a little too long while he did it, and the time he lingered in Valerie’s space stretched interminably. Seconds longer than necessary.

  “Sit, Brandon. Can I get you something to drink?” She walked over to a table of decanters set up in the corner and grabbed a tumbler, filling it with what looked like scotch before Brandon responded with a nod. His eyes never left her.

  Clearly, the guy was head-over-heels in love with Valerie. Did she know?

  After taking the glass from her, he took a sip, glancing over to Quinten with a small smirk on his lips. Quinten surreptitiously cracked his knuckles.

  “Brandon, we’ve worked together for a while now, and I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, especially with Argyle and the… incident.” Quinten felt a lightening at the way this looked like it was going. “But I’m afraid I won’t be needing your firm’s services any longer.”

  Brandon choked on his drink. “Wha—?” He stood, flapping his arms around and sputtering. “Is this about the trust paperwork? I told Dad it wasn’t necessary. I can fix it.”

  Valerie graced him with an indulgent smile, and Quinten smiled in spite of himself. He intended to stand there and look broody the entire time Brandon was there, just to remind the little man he could break him in half. But apparently, it wouldn’t be necessary.

  “No. We have a conflict of interest, from the beginning. I should have hired new legal counsel a long time ago. And you knew this.” Her voice remained calm, but Quinten detected a waver that belied her nerves. “What happened between us was not okay, and for me to ignore it sent the wrong signals.”

  Now, Quinten was hella curious what she was talking about, but he knew now was not the time.

  Brandon’s mouth opened, then shut, then opened and stayed that way while he tried to come up with some other retort. Quinten had given the man too much credit. Apparently, he was completely muddled by Valerie Dunaway. The shark-like trial lawyer who had taken Ford for a divorce settlement to rival Steve Jobs’ net worth was a blubbering idiot when it came to Valerie.

  “You can let yourself out. Quinten, I need to speak with you please.” With that, the powerful, in charge Valerie Dunaway was through the door to her inner sanctuary without a backward glance.

  Brandon stared after her for a while before gulping down the rest of his glass and setting it on the coffee table.

  “Well, that was an unexpected surprise,” he muttered.

  “Hope Daddy doesn’t get too mad about it,” Quinten murmured.

  Brandon rolled his eyes. “Oh, fuck off. I know you put her up to that.”

  Shrugging, Quinten replied, “Actually, I didn’t. It was just as unexpected to me as it was for you.”

  Brandon didn’t say another word as he left the house, Quinton locking up after him and heading toward the sanctuary.

  He was needed.

  Valerie went straight to her bathroom and vomited after leaving Brandon and Quinten in her living room. She was ridiculously proud of herself for firing Brandon, but it had been damn difficult.

  Why did she insist on reducing it to terms like episode and incident? Did that make it easier for her? Who the hell knew?

  But she’d known keeping Brandon on retainer was wrong. Letting him work for her essentially was leading him on. Admitting to herself, and to him, that what he’d done was not okay was major. Jenene would be proud.

  After the contents of her stomach were emptied into the toilet, Valerie cleaned up and went to her living room for round two.

  Now, she needed to talk to Quinten. He needed the whole story.

  Valerie didn’t drink much. Alcohol never really did her right. But at the moment, she needed something. She was already on edge and needed liquid courage to get through this conversation. Already shaky, her hands trembled as she poured a glass of wine for herself. But when Quinten came into her kitchen, his scent preceded him, and the woodsy musk of his aftershave nearly made her knees buckle. She gulped her glass of wine and took a deep breath while she poured another.

  “You want one?” she asked, not really caring about his answer. Valerie wasn’t sure if he’d still be speaking to her after she told him this. He seemed to like her, at least on a professional level, and that implied some respect.

  And she was about to rip that respect to shreds.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got a fight tomorrow, and I don’t drink before those.” His voice was a soft, husky murmur at her ear, and when she spun around, he was close.

  Too close.

  Valerie sidestepped him and went to the kitchen table, where she could sit and there would be a physical buffer between them. She was curious about his words but couldn’t let herself get sidetracked. Valerie had to get this out. She’d ask him what he meant later, if he was still friendly with her.

  “I met Argyle in college. He was wild. Still is, I guess, based on what you said yesterday. But he was charismatic, and I had a lot of fun with him.” She took another sip of wine, not looking at Quinten, choosing to examine the grain of the wood tabletop and how it
blended with her placemats. “My parents really liked him, were friends with his parents.” She looked up at him, then, to see his eyes on hers, unwavering. “You know how that goes, right? We had a wild affair, and I did everything I could to keep up with his… tastes.” His hands gripped the tabletop, and Valerie dropped her gaze again, embarrassed. “In fact, I liked the kink. I enjoyed a lot of it, and he knew I liked things on the edge a little.”

  God, this was hard—telling Quinten all of this. Valerie focused on her lap. She really had enjoyed sex with Argyle at first. She realized now, their relationship had never had anything else to it. It was all about the wild sex; the crazier and more shocking, the better.

  “He liked threesomes, watching people, orgies, toys, pain, all of it. He brought Brandon in on a couple of the voyeuristic episodes. That was how I initially met Brandon. Then, Argyle blackmailed me when his parents wanted us married. I think they found out about some of the stuff he did and told him to settle down. Why not marry the girl who let you get away with it?” Valerie shrugged, barking out what was supposed to be a scoff but ended up being more of a gasp. Quinten flinched but didn’t say a word. “I wasn’t sure marriage was right for us. By this time, I’d sort of seen through some of his bullshit, and he had absolutely no remorse.” She sighed. “But we got married. And all the bullshit continued. The drugs, the toys that were more like torture devices, the threesomes, the watching. When I couldn’t get into it anymore, he would drug my drink or something so I was more… pliant.”

  “Did anybody know about this, or were you alone?” Quinten’s voice was no more than a whisper, but the force behind it was mind-numbing. He really cared about her answer.

  Valerie traced the lines of the wood with her fingernail. “Brandon wasn’t really complicit toward the end. He wanted out, but I think he stuck around to protect me. At the trial, none of it came up. Brandon was totally willing to bring up Argyle’s past indiscretions as part of the character slam, but I talked him out of it. It was too embarrassing. But my friends at the time were in on it, like life was a giant party. We lived like big movie stars or something, and they loved every minute of it.”

  “So what happened when he cut you?”

  “I told him I wanted a divorce. I wanted out of that life with him.”

  “And Brandon’s role in all of this?” Valerie looked at Quinten again and almost regretted it. He was seething. His temple ticked where his jaws were grinding together. His face was red, and a vein bulged in his forehead. The tendons in his neck were popping out, like they would snap at any moment.

  “He started out trying to have fun like everyone else, but after we got married, Argyle got more… He hurt me more. He would buy these floggers with metal pieces at the ends that weren’t meant for anything but pain, pure and simple. Brandon tried to stop him, he really did, but he was too weak. When Argyle was high, he was impossible to stop. So Brandon went along with everything to protect me if he could. When he couldn’t, he did what he could to get me out of the situation by helping me out with the divorce.”

  Quinten pushed himself away from the table and stalked around her small living space, his legs eating up the ground as he made his way from wall to wall. Valerie felt like the weight had lifted from her and settled on Quinten’s shoulders instead. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists, like he was looking for something to hit.

  Valerie felt the regret hanging around her neck like a weight, even as she felt better for telling Quinten; he needed to know these things. But clearly, knowing them was changing his perception of her. He was pissed, and rightfully so. She’d been stupid with Argyle and Brandon, but she’d learned so much about herself in the process and was a better person now. At least, that’s what she told herself.

  Valerie stood on shaky legs, not sure if she wanted another glass of wine or to throw up again. Her stomach was roiling as she wondered what he would say. Was he going to quit protecting her now? She felt too stupid to deserve protection.

  When Quinten spun around to face her, she saw the anger in the slant of his passionate eyebrows, the squint of his dark eyes, the scowl that marred his features. He looked so fierce.

  “What about all your charity work? You advocated for abuse victims.”

  She swallowed down the rising bile and forced herself to remain calm. Deep breaths. Just like with Brandon. But this wasn’t Brandon.

  “I did those, too. I still do. I’m more passionate about my work with the Crisis Center now because I finally connected with the women. What just took you fifteen minutes to realize took me years, Quinten. I didn’t see myself as being abused until it was too late.”

  That was it. Those words did it. She couldn’t stop the tears, the harsh intake of air, the sobs leaving her lungs. Her chest tightened, and she was helpless to stop the tears. Her throat closed up, and she couldn’t find air anymore. She’d said the words she needed to say, and it was up to him to decide if he still wanted to do the job she needed him to do. Valerie could only hope she hadn’t been wrong about him.

  In an instant, Quinten was there, holding her in his arms. And she let him. Relieved, she let him hold her while she got herself under control, breathing in his scent.

  When Valerie became more aware of her surroundings, she realized Quinten was making shooshing noises into her hair and her arms were wrapped around him like he was a lifeline.

  He was touching her.

  And she wasn’t freaking out.

  Well, she was freaking out, but not because he was touching her. He was touching her because she was freaking out. He was comforting her.

  And it was comfortable.

  She sniffled once more and let out a soft sigh before releasing him and taking a step back.

  “Well, now you know all of it. I don’t remember much about that night, specifically, but I can imagine what happened.”

  She sat back down in her chair, as did Quinten, the moment they shared broken.

  “So the trial was a lie? It wasn’t because he wanted you to stop modeling?”

  “Oh, he wanted me to stop modeling. But he also fought the divorce with everything he had. So part of it was a lie, and part of it was the truth.”

  Quinten was silent for a while as he digested her words. She guessed he was trying to figure out if it was worth it to work for a liar or not.

  “I’ve got some phone calls to make. You should probably lie down. You’ve had a rough day.” His voice was soft again, and it turned something inside her to mush. She could only nod.

  The last fight of Quinten’s career was tomorrow, and he needed to get out of it. He didn’t want to have the conversation with Larry, the gym owner, but it couldn’t be helped. He didn’t want to leave Valerie alone for the night, even a couple of hours. It would piss Larry off immensely, but Quinten would easily take the spluttering over leaving Valerie alone in the massive house any day of the week.

  Now, with suspects lining up, Quinten’s head spun. Who knew so many people had the motive to ruin Valerie’s life? Argyle had never wanted to divorce her, Brandon was in love with her, but it could potentially be anyone. Hell, Quinten was half in love with her himself.

  He ignored that last thought as he went into his office space overlooking her birds.

  Larry was a former welterweight champ in the boxing world, who had initially opened his gym to the world of illegal fighting a few years back. Quinten didn’t fight there exclusively, but he preferred it over the concrete floors of empty parking garages and brick walls of alleys, so he fought there whenever the chance arose.

  Larry’s personality was a lot like his fighting style. He was a Chihuahua on speed.

  When he answered, his voice was high-pitched, his words shooting at Quinten faster than bullets. “Why the fuck haven’t you been answering my calls? I know you’re calling to cancel. Don’t do that, buddy. There’s a lot riding on this fight, little guy. A lot.”

  He called Quinten “little guy” as a joke, which Quinten had never really found fun
ny, although when he stood next to Larry’s five-foot-six-inch frame, he could find some humor in it. When he didn’t answer immediately, Larry continued on with his staccato ramblings.

  “Shit. You’re canceling. You can’t. I’ve sold out of tickets. Like, I raised the price, since it’s your last fight, and if you forfeit, I’ll either have to refund, or people will be so pissed their liable to burn my gym to the ground. You should hear the talk on the streets. Everyone is excited about The Haymaker’s last bout in the ring. That, and this dude’s paid me an enormous sum of money for you to wipe the floor with his ass, and I’m not giving that shit back.”

  Quinten sighed, deciding to just get the words out.

  “I can’t do it. Something’s come up.”

  “He’s trashing The Haymaker all over the Internet. Have you seen it? Is that what this is about? Some sense of self-righteousness and your stupid sense of fairness and clean fights? There’s no such thing. Dude, you’re a fucking street fighter.” Quinten never did like the sucker punches and shit that happened during the fights. He preferred clean fighting, in and out of whatever arena they were using. But the nature of the game made that impossible. At first, he’d enjoyed it—moving away from his upbringing of manners and gentlemanliness—but as he’d matured, he saw the benefits of being a “good man” inside the ring as well as out of it.

  “No, that’s not it. I couldn’t care less he’s trashing me, and you know that shit’s never stopped me before. But this time I’ve got something else I have to do. This isn’t my life anymore.”

  “NOOOOOOO!” Overdramatic Larry came out in full force, and Quinten heard him pummeling the speed bag on the doorframe of his office. “If it’s your dick, I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker. This will sink me. Do you have any idea what this will do to my rep? Hyping up The Haymaker’s final fight ever, only to have him forfeit? I’m fucking over.”

  Quinten saw the truth in the statement and felt bad, but just a little. Larry took advantage of the business end of the fighting and charged out the ass for tickets. Quinten could make good on the money lost, but it would be a hefty chunk of his own personal wealth, and he couldn’t see the benefit of that, just to get out of a fight. He saw Valerie’s mask in his mind, the one that didn’t hide her fear, her anxiousness at being alone. The mask she wore to perpetuate a beauty she didn’t perceive in herself, to mask her insecurities, to hide her loneliness. And he groaned aloud.