Perhaps flattered at being called a Sir, Drake said, “Tell me, pet. Why were you celibate until meeting up with me and Jesse? Are all men that completely horrible?”
“Yes,” both Rose and Jesse said at the same time. Then they both burst out laughing.
Rose continued, “It wasn’t just one jerk. It was a massive buildup of jerks.”
Jesse said, “Can you believe it, Drake? With a woman like this, guys were leaving her standing in the rain while they fumbled with the door lock from inside the car? That’s just one incredibly small example out of many.”
“Yes,” said Rose. “Don’t forget the guy who blabbered in the middle of dinner that he liked to wear women’s underwear.”
“Hey,” said Drake, “that doesn’t necessarily make him twisted or even bisexual.”
Jesse added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
Drake agreed heatedly. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“Yes,” agreed Rose, “but it’s just not the sort of image you want your manly man to project, you know? When I think of my man, I’d much rather be thinking of him in a cock harness and leather chaps, not my baby-doll lingerie.”
“Didn’t you model men’s underwear?” Drake asked Jesse.
Jesse shrugged. “Of course. That always paid the best. But there’s a big difference between Calvin Klein and a woman’s G-string.”
Drake said, “Your horse dick and balls wouldn’t fit into a woman’s thong, anyway.”
“Oh, that’s different,” Rose said. “A tiny little black silk thong, now, that’s a different story.”
“Oh, you’d like that?” teased Jesse. He had stuffed his cock back into his jeans but left the top few buttons undone. The erotic line of hair that led from his navel disappeared into the darkness below the zipper, tantalizing Rose all over again.
Now she brushed her hand over his abdomen. Drake had gotten to touch Jesse’s cock, and she hadn’t. Now that she thought of it, Drake had gotten to do a lot of things. She supposed that was normal. He was the Dom, after all. “That part doesn’t sound so bad. I’d like to see your big equipment stuffed into a tiny thong.”
“That can be arranged,” said Drake. He whipped his head around as a commotion of men’s voices came from outside the cottage. “What’s that?” He jumped off the bed and swaggered through the bedroom door, naked save for the chaps, his ass and cock swinging freely.
Rose desperately wanted to join Drake—the men sounded anxious, their voices babbling over one another—but not only was she naked, she still had quite a bit of wax stuck to her. So she shoved Jesse’s arm. “Find out what’s wrong!”
“It sounds like Stony, Drake’s assistant.” Jesse strode through the door, too, the only man who remembered to button up.
Rose knew Stony as an exotic, mournful fellow. He was obviously European—he looked as though he had permanent eyeliner tattooed on his eyes. He wore a pompadour that had a slick cowlick over his forehead, like he was about to break out into a rockabilly song any second. Hearing Stony jabbering excitedly was something completely new. He usually just intoned announcements, like The Addams Family’s Lurch.
Rose frantically got rid of the few wax blobs that remained. The oil had assisted them in basically falling off, and if she ran the side of her hand down her abdomen, most of them fell onto the drop cloth. Yes. Wax in pubic hair would have been horrible. She leaped to her feet and practically into her panties and skirt.
In the next room, Drake bellowed, “Quiet!”
The rough and tumble of men’s voices was finally sorted out. Stony’s voice rang clear as a bell now. “Shining Lands has been robbed!”
Chapter Eleven
Once Drake saw the mess that his library had become, he knew he had to break down and call his father.
He’d been avoiding that, of course, since the phone conversation where he’d been accused of being some kind of ass pirate. Jesus. Just because he’d been fairly roostered and had succumbed to the age-old lure of kohl eyeliner and a bedazzled sari. Drake was a scandalous libertine, all right. That couldn’t be disputed. But of all the half-assed, dangerous, and downright perverted things he’d done in his time, for his father to single out the Goa incident was just insulting. Sam Stinson could have at least raised hell about Drake’s proclivity for sliding dildos made of ice inside women, his proficiency with the singletail whip, or his love for bouncing a flaming fire wand across women’s bellies. There were more radical things than mistaking a gorgeous man for a gorgeous woman, and pretty much every man on the planet wanted a blow job, so the incident was entirely understandable.
No, Sam was a fucking hypocrite. Bending what had at the time seemed like an old lady over his office desk while Sam’s mother was out of town, that was unforgivable. Sending Drake off to boarding school had only amplified Sam’s crimes. Drake had proceeded to whore and drink his way through three years of a hundred other bitter boys all bitching about the same things—their hypocritical, sleazy fathers. No, boarding school hadn’t cooled Drake’s anger against his father. Andover wasn’t the place for penitence and forgiveness. It was where boys learned to strengthen their self-righteous positions against their fathers.
But viewing the shambles of the library now, Drake knew he had no choice but to call Sam. The thief had obviously been searching for the lizard contract. Everyone surmised that from the way every drawer and file cabinet was ransacked, files and papers strewn everywhere in disregard, but a Ming vase and a Steve Reiner clock were untouched. Drake had to find that contract. If he could somehow convince his father to give a shit, Sam might admit where the contract was. If Sam truly planned on deeding the land to Drake, he’d have to admit it sooner or later.
“I’ll just refrain from telling him I plan on blowing the whistle,” Drake said with a tight jaw. The drawer where the Sybian saddle had been stashed had been completely torn from the cabinet and tossed upside-down on the carpet. “If I can convince him I just plan on renewing the contract but just want to read it first, he might tell me where it is.”
“What a mind-fuck,” Jesse said in awe, wandering dazed among the flung papers as though in a war zone. “In-fucking-credible that an executive of the government sends some goon in here to do his dirty work, to destroy your personal property.”
Rose looked with dismay at a pile of files that had fanned out on the floor when they were tossed. “Drake, you said the original contract was fifteen years ago. Is it possible it was a computer file?”
Drake said, “Way back then in the dark ages? What was the format then, eighteen-inch floppy?” He chuckled, surprising himself with how casually he was taking this whole break-in. Stony and Troy Placker were dealing with the security company on the phone in the foyer and waiting for the cops to arrive. Shining Lands was off the beaten track, about ten miles out after Barry Manilow Drive in Last Chance turned back into a state highway, so it could take them another half an hour to arrive. Besides, nothing as far as Drake could tell had been actually stolen. The thief had done the usual CSI tactics of spray-painting the surveillance cameras and wearing a mask and gloves, and he had just walked in a sliding door near the reflecting pool that Drake had left open when coming to the cottage. So how much was there to see on the surveillance tapes, anyway? “I thought of that at the time, and already had my IT guy scan for any file named ‘BLM’ or ‘lizard’ or whatever. Did find some banging porn videos of a chick named Brandi Lea Mack, but that’s about it. That’s my father for you.”
Rose was pointlessly stacking file folders into neat piles. She looked up brightly at Drake. “Oh, like you never watched porn?”
“Not really. I’ve made some porn films in my time—”
“Made some,” Rose echoed simultaneously, and they both laughed. Already, she knew him too well.
Drake tried to sober up. “The burglar didn’t rifle through the computer, either. It’s still open right to the CowBucks spreadsheet I was working on.”
Rose smirked behind her hand. “There�
�s really a program called CowBucks?”
Drake held out a hand for Rose to take. “You don’t need to do that. Come. Let the maid straighten up after the cops have looked at the crime scene.”
Rose truly was arm candy as she accepted his hand. She had a sweet vulnerability about her that awakened Drake’s protective side. Doms were supposed to be protective, but Drake had known so many of them who used their power to abuse. Drake had never done that, to his knowledge. He’d never overstepped anyone’s hard limits. But now, with Rose, Drake’s innate need to protect and safeguard women came to the fore. They’d just had a scene and he needed to provide aftercare. He would make her a sugary drink.
No one had touched the sideboard with all the manly booze bottles, so Drake went to make her a Screwdriver. There was enough sugar in the orange juice.
“You don’t suppose,” said Jesse, “that the thief was looking for that jewelry box, and not the contract? That could explain why he didn’t ransack the computer.”
Drake said, “Yeah, but he would’ve rifled through other rooms if it was the jewelry box he wanted. The library was the only room touched.”
“And he only touched paper file drawers,” Rose added. “If he wants this box, he might send someone back again. You should increase your security.”
Drake handed Rose her Screwdriver. “Look. I need to grit my teeth and call my father in New York. I hate that guy, but it’s just got to be done.”
“Right,” agreed Jesse. “You can choose your friends but not your relatives. Suck it up and talk to him.”
Drake took his cell phone and escaped into his bedroom, successfully avoiding Stony and Troy. He didn’t want to talk to any fucking cops, and they already knew the security tapes were worthless. Jesse had done this room up in soothing tones of regal purple and turquoise, and it was a calming retreat for Drake, but today he slipped out onto the patio overlooking the cactus garden. He had to think of his strategy.
He would ask Sam about the jewelry box first. If he just went straight for pissing Sam off about the lizard contract, Drake would never find out anything about Kitty Chandler’s box. He loathed Burt Macklin for violating the sanctity of his home, but he couldn’t just send thugs over to Burt’s to rough him up. That was like Andover, where a kid might pay a tough to ambush another kid who had slandered his family. Drake had never cared about anyone slandering his family, but he himself had taken on a few preppies who had tried slandering his intellectual skills.
“Sam. It’s Drake,” he said, as though it might be anyone else.
“Drake,” sighed his father, apparently relieved about something. “I’m glad you called.”
“Yeah. There are a few things we need to discuss.”
“I didn’t mean business. I’ve been distraught about how we left things during our last conversation.”
Drake sighed deeply. He didn’t want to dredge up that old argument again. Sam would never change his opinion of the Goa incident, and Drake had been accepting it was futile to try. Let Sam think what he wants to think. What do I care? I’m done with him. “Yeah, I’ve got more pressing matters right now, Sam.”
Sam persisted. “I really need to free up my conscience, Drake. I feel a sincere need to let you know I don’t look down on you for what happened at that Indian joint.” Sam using the word “joint” meant that he wanted to create a casual, fun atmosphere. A more relaxed environment in which to unload his guilt. “If you want to engage in rectal pioneering acts, who am I to say anything about it?”
“Dad!” Drake exploded, forgetting to call him “Sam.” “Just the fact that you call it ‘rectal pioneering’ means you don’t truly accept it! And for the thousandth time, I wasn’t doing anything knowingly. I sincerely protest that, not that there’s anything wrong with it.”
“No, listen to me, son. That Styrofoam asshole, Mike Biggs, he apologized to me for his barbs. He let it be known it was all in jest. It really helped me see that I was making way too big of a deal over your uphill gardening escapades. Those guys at the club all thought it was pretty hilarious, actually. I was being overly sensitive.”
“Jesus!” Drake threw up his hands and walked in little circles to blow off steam. It was pointless—pointless—to attempt to get through to his father. If that asshole Mike Biggs hadn’t apologized to Sam, would Sam be apologizing right now? Drake doubted it. Sam’s fumbling half-assed “apology” was only making things worse.
Drake held the phone back to his ear and cut his father’s rant off. “Listen, Sam. Do you know anything about a Kitty Chandler music box?”
“Kitty Chandler!” Sam raved. “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in decades. Lovely lady, passed away a few years ago. She was married to that playwright who was rumored to be a sausage jockey.”
“Sam!” His father sure was interested in back door bandits, for a guy who professed disgust with it. “Listen, this is important. Would Kitty have left a jewelry box anywhere inside the house?”
“Well, let me think. Your mother would know, of course.”
Drake’s mother Grace had died five years ago of ovarian cancer after decades of pretending her husband was faithful to her.
“Yeah, well, I can’t ask her. Which room was Kitty liable to stay in when she was here?”
“Oh, the Room of Memories, of course. She loved that low linen sofa and the coffee table with the Chinese objects under glass.”
The Room of Memories had been the bedroom of Drake’s grandparents, Grace’s parents. Her father had arguably brought more money to the marriage than Sam, being the head of an LA film studio. Drake and Jesse hadn’t gotten around to renovating that room yet. He was definitely going to recover that vomit-inducing fuchsia couch but had been willing to keep some of the original, pristine vintage items, so there wasn’t much work to be done in that room. However, Drake couldn’t do a “walk and talk” down the breezeway to that wing of the house since the place was crawling with cops he didn’t want to talk to. “Okay, I’ll check it. Listen, Sam. I had a visit from a guy named Burt Macklin with the BLM.”
“Burt…”
“Macklin. You know him. He said fifteen years ago the two of you entered into an agreement. I need to know where the written contract is.”
Sam chuckled, but there was an undercurrent of tension. “Ah, Burt…” he said, as though reminiscing about the good ole days.
Drake would not be deterred. “Yes, he said you used to go to the Sunset Palomino Ranch together. Enjoy a Cock-a-Doodle-Doo and a couple of One Trick Ponies.” It was a low blow, bringing up Sam’s philandering past, but Drake needed to achieve his goal. And holding that over Sam’s head didn’t hurt, either. “Was there actually a paper contract involved? I imagine there’d have to be, in order for you to sublease some of the land to the oil company.” Drake tried to act nonchalant about the whole oil business. If he acted like it was a well-known fact, maybe Sam would, too.
“What do you need the contract for? That land’s been taking care of itself for years. Gotham Industries just transfers the monthly payments to our account automatically.”
“Well, that’s the thing. The contract is up for renewal. I want to renew it,” Drake lied, “and that’s why I want to look it over.”
Sam sighed loudly with relief. “Oh, you’re renewing it, then? Good. That’s what I told ole Burt when he called me a week ago. I told him you’re in charge now, and—”
“Good.” Drake wanted to know about that, too, but first things were first. “Is it true that you gave him a loan of fifteen million as, ah, as an incentive to give you the lease?”
Sam finally dropped the happy act. “Fifteen million? Is that what that gouging, crooked dirtbag said? How much does he want from you now?”
“Twenty-five million.”
Sam was silent for a few seconds, probably busy having a coronary. He finally spoke in a venal whisper. “Listen, son. Don’t do it. The contract is already in place, everything’s running smoothly. Don’t do it.”
&n
bsp; “Good. That’s what I was thinking of doing. You already gave him enough money fifteen years ago.”
“What? No, I mean don’t give him twenty-five. Give him the same again, fifteen. Lock it in for another fifteen years.”
“So where can I find the contract?”
“Well, heh-heh.” Sam chuckled in a good-ole-boy manner. “I had Burt pegged for the kind of dirtbag to come snooping around looking for it, not wanting me to have a paper trail to hold over his head.”
“You were right. He just sent some goombah to break in and ransack your library.”
Sam swore for a while, calling Burt Macklin a two-timing double-dealer, but his rage only enhanced his pride in his intelligence. “I thought he might pull that, so a long time ago I took the liberty of hiding the contract in the back of a painting.”
Drake rolled his eyes that his father would do something so corny. “Don’t tell me it’s in one of the paintings you took back to the Central Park apartment.”
“No. It’s in the library, behind the Seurat of the beach scene.”
Drake froze. He had hated that damned Seurat, so he’d had it moved to a cottage on the grounds. The cottage where Jesse was staying.
Without another word to his father, Drake sprinted down the patio past the cactus garden. He still held the phone and could hear his dad’s disembodied voice yelling, “Son! Son! What’s going on? Has the painting been stolen?”
Drake already had a sinking feeling as he neared the cottage. Two cops were standing around outside looking stern and official. Drake rounded the corner of the door so fast he had to hang onto the doorjamb, and his worst fears were confirmed. Rose, Jesse, Stony, and Troy all stood with hands at their sides, looking bereft.
Drake’s eyes went to the wall where the Seurat had hung. Now it lay facedown on the floor. Thank God it didn’t look as though it had been harmed, but when Drake squatted down and examined the back of it, it was obvious where tape had been torn away.
Jesse was the only one bold enough to say what everyone was thinking. “How’d he know it was behind the painting?”
The Subject Was Rose [The Sunset Palomino Ranch 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 11
