“I dunno,” Brennan said. “I kinda want a do-over. I wanna walk away from it all, never see any of these people again. I wish I could turn it all off, be someone else. Something else.” He sighed. “You were right. I know like zero telepaths, you know? I’m nothing special, and nobody I know is either. Or if they are, they ain’t telling. But everything I know just leads to being buried in a ditch, you know?” He shrugged at Frederick. “Maybe I’m too old to be dealing any more, I dunno. The longer you do something the more wound up you get in everyone’s little games and the more likely you are to get shot in the back by people you trusted.” He blinked and chewed more fries before he spoke again. “I’m only twenty-two, and I feel like I’m forty.”
Frederick chewed to give the impression that he was carefully considering Brennan’s words. The poor boy wasn’t to know that he wasn’t alone in his escapist fantasies. Most people wanted to get out of their own lives at one point or another. Brennan simply fell into that percentage for whom the desire to run wasn’t as strong as the chains which held them back.
When he was sure that he appeared as though he had given the appropriate amount of cogitation, he set his sandwich down and wiped flour from his fingers with a napkin. “You must realize by now that nobody is truly free. We all have obligations, we all require water and sustenance. Everything anybody does is to try and survive another day, and hope that the next day is more comfortable. Everything has a price.” He folded the napkin and set it to one side, then leaned back to watch Brennan. “Even thieves pay the cost of their crimes. You know that. Oh, not in such foolish currencies as money or justice, but in other ways. You’ve paid that price for years now, haven’t you?”
Brennan swallowed and scowled at him. “What price?”
“Fear.”
Silence settled around them, blanketing the table like fog.
I’m not afraid.
Idiot, I’m totally terrified. Why the fuck else did I come here?
Because he’s hot.
Because he made me do it?
Because I don’t know what to do any more?
Stop thinking! He’s in here!
Dumbass.
Frederick spread his hands, palms upward. “You’re afraid. Constantly. You don’t even sleep for more than three hours at a time. Your fear keeps you awake.” His lips quirked. “You feel forty instead of twenty two.” He settled his hands around his sandwich and lifted it halfway to his mouth. “Freedom is never free. Of course it will come with a cost. But that cost won’t be fear. I’ve no interest in frightening you or maintaining any sort of terror over you.” He took a bite to give Brennan time to ask the obvious question.
Brennan eyed the sandwich, then drew his own closer to him as though guarding it. “So what’ll it cost me?”
Frederick shrugged. “To begin with? Hard work. Compromise. Change. This effort will be undertaken by you, not me. You will attend any and all appointments that I set for you. You will endeavor to work as hard as you are able to learn the lessons taught to you.”
Brennan narrowed his eyes. “What kinda compromise are we talking?”
“To begin with, I shall never in a million years call you Mikey.” Frederick crinkled his nose. “Your name is Michael, so we shall adhere to that.”
His distaste was echoed in Brennan’s thoughts. “Only my Mom ever called me Michael,” Brennan muttered.
“If you earn a more familiar term of endearment in the future you shall have it. But until then, Michael it is.”
Frederick finished his sandwich while Brennan wrestled over the idea.
There was something about utilizing a full, original name which made people feel small. It harkened back to their childhoods, to when parents would speak sternly — or sometimes even shout — and only use the child’s given name to do so. You are subordinate, it said. Listen to me and do as I say. Which was, of course, why he intended for Brennan to agree to this point.
It would render further obedience far more attainable.
Brennan huffed and then shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. You say ‘to begin with,’ though. So there’s a longer-term cost, right?”
“Absolutely.” Frederick chuckled. “Shall we cross that bridge once we reach it?”
Yeah, that doesn’t feel like a deal with the devil at all. Brennan’s thoughts were sour, but he chose his words more carefully. “No, how about you tell me exactly what this is gonna cost?”
Frederick rewarded him with a genuine smile. The boy had earned it.
“Everything,” he murmured. “It will cost you everything you are for you to become anything I wish for you to be, and you will have to learn to trust that I will restore you to yourself once I am done with what I have shaped you into.”
It took a while for Brennan to work out what he meant, but even once his brain had slowly begun to grasp the enormity of it, doubt chased through him and made him question his deduction. “You want,” he said slowly, as though afraid Frederick would scold him for his stupidity, “to… to what? To rewrite my mind? Treat it like Play-Doh? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Correct.”
Brennan pushed his chair back from the table with such force that it nearly fell, and one of his feet got caught in a chair leg. He landed his hands against the table and held the chair up with his foot for a second. “You’re insane!”
“Not at all.” Frederick grinned. “Insanity is a legal definition, not a psychological one, and I have never legally been declared insane.”
“Maybe you should be!” Brennan managed to disentangle himself and set the chair upright before he backed further away from the table.
“You and I know that isn’t ever going to happen. I wouldn’t allow it.” He nudged his plate away as he stood. “Think it over, Michael.” Frederick took pleasure in the way that his use of Brennan’s name tugged on the very core of the American’s being. It would be a tool to use sparingly, that was certain. “Don’t take too long. Either you want me in your life or you don’t. But you might as well get your passport application underway, regardless of your decision.” He strode past Brennan, well within touching distance as he headed for the stairs. “Stay here if you wish, or not. I am going to the gym for a couple of hours. If you’re gone by the time I return I shall assume you are not interested in my offer.”
“Just tell me one thing.”
Frederick paused at the bottom step and glanced back to Brennan. He lifted an eyebrow and waited for Brennan to ask.
“Why me?”
He gave a wry smirk. “You say that you are nothing special.”
Brennan flinched. “So?”
“I disagree.”
18
MIKEY
Two hours didn’t seem a whole lotta time to figure out whether he wanted to spend the rest of his life like some kinda puppet to some rich asshole, but the truth was Mikey was already just a puppet to rich assholes. Those rich assholes were half a world away, living the life of luxury off on private islands or vast palaces protected by private militia, and they would never descend from their ivory towers to meet with the likes of him: the street vendors who pushed their product and made them the billions of dollars they sat on.
Mikey prowled the suite in Frederick’s absence. The Brit’s gym gear made it way apparent that he had an ass that could crack walnuts between its cheeks, and even though he’d been gone ten minutes Mikey kept thinking about it.
Fuck, like his cock hadn’t made enough bad decisions already.
Ten minutes gone meant he was down to an hour and fifty minutes to make his mind up.
Mikey pushed hands through his curls and came to a stop in the kitchen. It seemed big enough to be an apartment all on its own. He already knew there was nothing to eat in here.
Maybe he should find out more about the guy before he tried to wrestle with what Frederick wanted from him. While this wasn’t Frederick’s house, it was as close as Mikey was gonna get right now, and what people chose to keep close when they were on the m
ove said a lot about them. His customers would leave ID at the scene of a raid, but they’d make damn sure they took their smack with them. Fucking idiots couldn’t even think straight enough to pick up their wallets before they ran.
What did a guy who had everything consider important enough to carry halfway across the world?
Mikey stalked from the kitchen with a newfound sense of purpose and went for the stairs. There was nothing in the bedroom he’d slept in last night, he knew that already, so he made a beeline right for Frederick’s room.
Crossing the threshold felt weird. This place wasn’t his, and Frederick made it clear last night that this room wasn’t his either. Mikey was an invader into someone else’s personal space, and for the first time in years that actually felt like a bad thing, and he paused just inside the room.
It was huge, and this wasn’t even all of it. There were more doors than the one he’d just come in from, so there had to be a bathroom through here at least, if not more. Why did rich people feel the need for so much space?
Maybe it was to keep the poor people further away.
Mikey snorted and pushed himself forward. The room was as gray and white as the rest of the suite, with some kinda abstract art hanging from the walls. He figured those belonged to the hotel rather than the guest and had little to do with Frederick’s personal taste.
Everything was neat and tidy. Housekeeping had come while Frederick was out on whatever errands he had in the morning, so all the beds were freshly made, and there was no indentation now to suggest Frederick sat on the bed to change into his gym stuff. Either he did that standing up or used one of the chairs littered around the place instead.
Rich people seemed to need a lot of chairs to fill up all the space they bought, and the hotel probably provided enough so guests didn’t feel lost without them.
Frederick’s clothes from earlier were draped neatly over the end of the bed. There was no way for Mikey to know whether that was habit or just a one-off because nobody here was gonna pick up after him, but everything else Frederick did or said seemed to be so meticulous that it felt unlikely the guy’d just ditch his shit on the floor.
Lights hung from the ceiling down over the bedside tables, and he eyed the table contents for clues. The little flower vases were probably supplied, but Frederick could just have easily either requested them himself or had them taken away and ask the hotel to stop refreshing them. Either he really liked little flower vases or just didn’t care enough either way.
Mikey cursed at himself. This Sherlock Holmes shit wasn’t as easy as it looked. He wasn’t really figuring out a damn thing about Frederick from any of this crap. There had to be other stuff somewhere. Clothes, if nothing else. Or did Frederick spend his entire life in the same cream-colored slacks?
He made his way to one of the doors and peeked inside, but it wasn’t a closet. It was a vast bathroom with a dumb boat-like bathtub taking up the center and enough room to dance around it in all directions, though he imagined it’d be pretty cool to sit in and watch the bay through the massive tall windows which every room seemed to share.
Mikey backed out and found another room, but this one was some kinda walk-in closet. There was space for him to stretch his arms out and still not reach the walls, and clothes hung from rails above drawers and shoe racks all around him. He began to rifle through the rails, though there only seemed to be a couple of weeks’ worth of stuff. Looked like Frederick favored light colors, cream and white, and mostly smart-casual stuff. The quality was there, though, under his touch. They were all soft materials, evenly stitched, with no sight of manufacturing flaws like stray threads or loose buttons.
The drawers were like more of the same. Vests, pajamas, socks.
Briefs.
Was it getting kinda hot in here all of a sudden?
You can’t go through the dude’s underwear, man!
Mikey sucked in air and shut the drawer. There wasn’t anything in there other than proof that Frederick liked to stop his cock roaming around inside his pants.
Or he’s huge and needs the support.
Shut the fuck up, brain.
He wandered through to the bathroom again and fiddled with toiletries. They were tiny bottles, and when he turned them over and squinted at the small print they all had text which said they’d been packaged specially on behalf of the hotel, so Frederick didn’t even travel with toiletries or buy any when he got where he was going. Was that weird, or did fancy hotels provide such awesome toiletries that rich people were satisfied enough with them? Mikey didn’t recognize the brand names on the bottles, that was for sure.
Mikey checked his phone and cursed again. He’d wasted well over thirty minutes searching through Frederick’s stuff and had nothing to show for it yet, and he wasn’t any closer to making a decision. Instead it just felt like he was procrastinating.
Maybe he was going about this all wrong. Instead of looking at what was here he should be Googling the guy, but he didn’t even have a last name to work with.
It was like a lightbulb had gone on over his head, and he felt a sense of purpose all of a sudden. If he could find Frederick’s last name he’d know who the guy was, and then maybe find him online. Rich people had followers, rumors, all that kind of crap to deal with. Someone had to have said something Mikey could dig up.
He looked around the closet. There had to be luggage in here somewhere, and he spied a door he’d initially taken to hide yet more clothes, but it was big enough to fit a couple of suitcases behind too. He pulled it open.
Pride flushed through him at the sight of one large and one small roller case tucked neatly against the back wall of the closet, and he ducked half into the closet himself to maneuver the cases around in search of a luggage tag.
Bingo.
He turned the larger case and found three tags hanging from the side handle. One was attached with a leather strap, the second was a printed paper strip, and the third was a bright orange thread-through tag with PRIORITY in big, black letters on it. The orange tag had nothing else interesting on it, so he pushed it aside and scrutinized the other two.
The plastic tag was matte gold, and had EXECUTIVE CLUB GOLD embossed in the top left corner, along with what at first looked like it might be a name in the bottom left, except when Mikey turned it toward the light so he could read it, all it said was Viscount d’Arcy.
He frowned. Neither of those words were Frederick, so he checked the other tag. This one was like a long, thin strip of printout with sticker backing. It was threaded through the handle and stuck together at the ends, had bright green stripes along either edge, and was covered in bar codes, letters, and numbers. There weren’t any names on it though, so he went back to the gold tag.
Viscount d’Arcy.
Well, it was all he had, so he pulled his cellphone and typed it into Google, then stared at the results.
Frederick Mortimer d’Arcy is the son of the Duke of Oxford, and bears the courtesy title of Viscount d’Arcy. The second son of Hieronymus Udell d’Arcy, 13th Duke of Oxford. Frederick Mortimer d’Arcy has two brothers: his older twin, Quentin d’Arcy, the Earl of Banbury, and younger brother Nicholas d’Arcy.
Mikey closed the door and stumbled away from it. There was no point putting everything back neatly like he’d never been there. Frederick could just read his mind and know everything Mikey had done while he was gone.
Google wasn’t lying to him. It showed a handful of image results, and they all sure as fuck looked like Frederick.
The guy was every bit as rich as he said he was. Shit, he was the son of some duke of England or however it all fucking worked over there! He had a twin brother!
Mikey swallowed at the thought and tapped a link, but huffed in relief as pictures of Frederick’s twin cropped up. The guy didn’t look at all like Frederick: sleek and dark-haired where Frederick was muscular and blond. Like yin and yang, there were faint elements of similarity — mostly in the eyes — but otherwise they were light and dark pe
rsonified.
He turned back to the bedroom and thumbed his screen. He’d meant to go back to the previous page, but he slipped, and the screen scrolled instead.
And something caught his eye.
Mikey came to a halt three steps into the bedroom.
There were way more pictures of Frederick’s brother than there were of Frederick, but most of them that slid into view bore golden curls alongside the glossy black locks.
His heart stammered so hard he felt it pulsate in his chest. His skin prickled and his mouth turned drier than the desert. His hands shook.
Laurence.
Jesus fucking Christ, Frederick’s older brother was dating Laurence Riley.
All of a sudden it felt like Mikey’s entire world had come to a crashing halt.
This meant something, but he was damned if he could work out what. Was Frederick using him to get to Laurence, or was there other stuff going on? Either way it seemed obvious how a guy like Frederick had ever even discovered that Mikey so much as existed.
My life is filled with delicate maneuvers and careful choices.
There was no way in hell this was a coincidence. Frederick wasn’t a coincidence kinda guy. When he’d gone through Mikey’s memories, he’d dredged up Laurence’s overdose among all the other things he’d nosed at like they were museum exhibits.
Mikey eyed the time. He had thirty minutes to decide whether to sign his whole life over to a guy who claimed Mikey was something special but was probably just using him in some huge international family feud, and he couldn’t work out what hurt more: that Frederick had lied to him, or that for one whole hour he’d been stupid enough to believe it.
He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, then stormed out of the bedroom and rushed the stairs.
If he left fast enough, he might get away before he could change his mind.
19
MIKEY
He ran all the way to the Jack in the Green, which was suspiciously close by. Like within three blocks levels of close by.
Reeve of Veils (Inheritance Book 4) Page 12
