by Angel Payne
Wasted seed. Useless sewer sludge. Like so many other attempts to make his life count for something. To prove Dad wrong.
Damn it! Can’t you kids keep this place clean for one day?
Damn it! Can’t you kids stay quiet for just one hour?
Damn it! Can’t you kids do anything right?
It’s no fucking wonder your mother left.
Though he’d just poured himself out—literally—in the last fifteen minutes, a frantic energy whorled in his gut, up his throat, through his head. He wasn’t freaked by the assault. He knew this shit well. It was his old friend self-hatred, come for a visit in his soul for the day.
He pushed his forehead against the knob to turn the water off, closing his eyes for another moment. The fury swelled up once more, burning and disgusting, finally exploding from him in a long, terrible roar. In the thick silence after it, there was a distinct click. He’d shaken the shower door open. As the glass panel slid out with a slow creak, he let out a bitter laugh then a grateful snort. Without the distraction, he would’ve likely sent a fist into the wall. Retiling Franz’s shower would’ve been an interesting way of staying busy for the next week.
He stumbled out of the stall and into the bedroom, managing to find a clean pair of shorts and a T-shirt that didn’t smell like half-baked ass. Then he walked out to the living room.
Where his gaze zeroed in on the bar.
Where a full bottle of Grey Goose beckoned, a beacon of flawless liquid therapy.
“Yessss.”
He pretended he didn’t see the clock on the microwave, revealing it had just turned ten a.m., as he U-turned into the kitchen to grab a glass. If he was going to be a roasted lush for the day, he’d do it with some manners this time, in the privacy of the lanai. No doing the soused-hobo-on-the beach thing. Correction: Lani’s beach. Not cool to share the dirty laundry with the neighbors, man—even if you did share orgasms with them last night. He had boundaries, after all. He just had to remember where he put them.
In the meantime, he’d get tanked the civilized way, with a glass in his hand and a cushion under his ass. Then he’d pass out more normally, too: silent, angry, and alone. Like father, like son, right?
A rumble chewed its way up his throat. “No,” he spat. He wasn’t like Dad, at least not in the most critical way. He hadn’t totally fucked up the self-worth of a couple of kids before drinking his life into the toilet.
After securing a glass, he swiped up the vodka, headed out to the lanai, and found a comfortable chair that allowed him to prop his feet on the rail. After the short rain shower that blew through last night, the sun had risen on another postcard-perfect day in paradise. Before opening the vodka, he paused to enjoy the tropical panorama. No better time than now, since he wasn’t going to be conscious by the time sunset fell.
Yeah…about that…
A funny thing happened on the way to the great Grey Goose wasteland.
It started after he poured his first drink. He was three gulps in on the hooch, still grappling for a mental off ramp from Memory Lane with Dad, when a different vision replaced the bastard in his imagination.
His stare drifted over to the lanai railing. Where once more, Lani appeared.
She was fuzzy at the edges, but just as breathtaking. Just like yesterday, she sat with legs straddling the rail, turquoise-polished toes peeking from beneath her sundress. The breeze sifted through the dark ribbons of her hair, and the sun glinted off the silver swirls in her eyes.
Suddenly, his mental skirmish in the shower felt like a lame training exercise.
“Leave me alone,” he growled.
She just lifted a serene smile and swung her feet in leisure. Don’t think so.
“Damn it.” With shaking hands, he dumped more vodka into the glass. Chugged the whole thing. Familiar lethargy sank into his blood. He let his head fall back. The buzz couldn’t come fast enough. And after that, the blessed numbness…
After soaking for several minutes in the vodka bath, he pried open his eyes again. The horizon swam a little. It was nowhere near how blasted he wanted to be, but a good start. He’d finally be alone. Once he got to this point, his mind was too busy racing for the Shitfaced Speedway finish line to bother with memories.
He jerked in his chair as Lani’s laugh tinkled on the air again.
He glared to his right. There she was, still smiling at him. Still tilting her head with that inquisitiveness that was too damn cute for her own good. And certainly not for his.
“Fuck. Me.”
The hallucination folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. Are you serious?
“Yes,” he snarled. “Go the hell away.”
So everything you spouted at me yesterday is just bullshit? All that crap about giving up the ‘dome’ on my pain, believing I can have life’s whole meal, taking off the masks even though it’s scary…all that’s okay for me but not you? I’m supposed to try a change, but you aren’t?
Guess that makes you a hypocrite and a lush.
He grimaced and bared his teeth as the lanai converted to a torture room. Somewhere in his soul, he’d tap into the right combination of rage and pain and profanity to hurl back at her. Why was it such a problem to find it all, when it crawled right under the surface of his skin through every fucking day? He tore through the muck of his senses, but the booze had dropped a fog on everything, making it impossible to see or touch anything.
A roar tore from his gut and ravaged his throat.
He seized the bottle and flung it into the dunes.
A second later, he pitched the glass in its wake.
The silence, perforated only by the shoosh of the waves and the music of the lanai wind chimes, was worse than her spiritual laughter. “Feel better?” he finally sneered at her. “Because I sure as hell don’t.”
He knew the drill on this scene now. With the booze gone, he’d have to face the pain. Walk himself through the same shitty, stinking emotional labyrinth he’d progressed a thousand times with the shrinks back at base. Couldn’t someone just pull up his file and read it this time? Mother left the family when subject was ten years old. Raised primarily by father, who died of alcohol poisoning when subject was seventeen. Subject has unresolved issues of guilt, accountability, and—
“Generally being fucked up.”
Hey. That was pretty funny. He snickered while rolling his head back again. The sun washed across his face, imparting a little physical warmth while the ice floes of his psyche kept ramming each other. He let his eyes drift shut. Fate decided to smile, sending the sandman to tempt his mind back into the rescue of sleep. As his mind crossed from consciousness to slumber, he felt himself smile as distant voices echoed in his head.
Why do you let him hurt you, Mama? I don’t understand.
I don’t expect you to, Tait. Sometimes…loving people just hurts.
Do you love him, Mama?
Yeah, Tait. I love him a lot.
Well, I don’t care what you say. It shouldn’t have to hurt. He’s not ever gonna do that to you again. I’m gonna protect you.
Ohhh…my big T man. You’ll always be my hero.
I love you, Mama.
And I love you too, Tait. No matter what happens, remember that…
“Hey, Rumple-shit-skin. What the hell else do I need to do here?”
The crack, which he vaguely attributed to Kell, was punctuated by an icy stab in his thigh. Then his neck. “Mmmfff? Whaaa?”
“Whoa,” his friend sneered. “It lives.”
Two more ice pelts, this time direct hits on his crotch. He jerked upright to observe his friend sitting about six feet away, a bowl of ice cubes on the small table next to him. Revision: only half the bowl was full. The rest of the cubes were strewn on the deck around Tait.
He lowered his feet, which knocked the pair of cubes down from his zipper. “Having fun, asshole?”
Kellan smirked. “It was either this or dump tabasco down your maw. You were sawing logs hard enough to give me
real easy access.”
“Guess you want me to thank you for choosing the frost attack, instead?”
After a moment of contemplation, his friend cocked a brow. Gone was the hot-and-horny lover boy into whom Kell had morphed last night in the forest. Sergeant Rush was back in all his carefully-reined glory. “Someone’s in a rough mood.”
“Yeah, well…” He shrugged, hoping the strange telepathy of their friendship, which had spasmed back to life a little during their time with Lani last night, would activate and convey his words as the apology he intended.
“You look like crap, too.”
“Thanks, honey. But is my butt fat in this dress?”
There was a significant pause. “You been hitting the sauce?”
He let another moment stretch before replying. “Tried to. Wanted to.”
Kellan actually gave half a smile. “But you didn’t.”
Tait surged to his feet. “Don’t go striking up the goddamn violins.”
“Fair enough.” Kell held up both hands, but lowered them the next moment, bracing his elbows to both knees. “But since your head is all here, maybe we should talk about—”
“What time is it?” There was no way in hell he was letting the guy bring up last night. It happened; it was over. He wasn’t about to spill how he’d longed to be the one slapping bodies with Lani last night, or how the woman had taken over his five-knuckle-shuffle in the shower this morning.
“Half past one,” Kellan answered.
“Damn. I slept a long time.”
“You want to go get some lunch? Lani keeps telling me we have to hit the restaurant at the Kilohana Plantation during our stay. Guess it’s famous, and the food’s supposed to be decent. Waitress service, even.”
He sent the guy a broad smile, again hoping it conveyed more than what he put to words. “That sounds cool. Unless we have to wear ties.”
“Dude, when was the last time you saw me in a tie?”
“Hawk’s wedding?” he conjectured. “Well, the first one. Second time around, we all got to make like Ren Faire peasants.”
“Sure made it easier to scratch the nuts. Discreetly, of course.”
He tossed half a grin as they walked out to the rental car. “I assume nut scratching is frowned on at this plantation thing, huh?”
Kell chuckled. “Probably.”
“So we’re on the needle between Windsor knots and open testicle attention. Sounds do-able.”
* * * * *
A little over two hours later, Tait polished off a perfectly-cooked piece of halibut, while Kell had gone for the restaurant’s massive Reuben sandwich. They’d split a plate of fries, too, and scarfed on the last of the potatoes while waiting for the waitress to process the check.
After the fries were demolished, Kellan tossed his napkin on the table and swung a steady gaze across the table. “There is something I need to talk to you about, T.”
Tait took a swig on his water in temporary evasion. How the fuck was he going to deflect the house visit from uncomfortable this time? “Look, man, I don’t really think we—”
“It’s about Gunter Benson.”
“Oh.” He disguised his surprise—and relief—by taking another swig. Both feelings were overshadowed by the ire that came with thinking about Benson and his fashion plate posse. “What about the asshat?”
Kell’s jaw stiffened. “I don’t think he’s got straight-up intentions about Hale Anelas.”
Tait almost laughed. “‘Intentions’? You going all protective papa on me about an estate that’s not even yours, dude?”
“Like you’d blame me? You’ve spent enough time at the stables and the beach with Leo to know why the words mean ‘home of the angels.’”
Or maybe one angel in particular?
It took one fast glance with his buddy to confirm Kell “heard” the thought, loud and clear. He felt a flash of guilt for causing the tight lines at the corner of the guy’s eyes, but trying to reroute the very neurons of his brain was going to be impossible. Kellan had to realize, from the second they’d first seen Lani, that it’d be impossible for Tait to douse some kind of attraction for her—and after last night, that little campfire in his psyche had combusted into a full pyre of lust. But they didn’t have to dissect the issue, either—nor had he been concerned about Kell pushing for such a debrief. In the history of their friendship, the sharing-is-caring sessions had always been Bommer-sponsored endeavors. If he was officially back-burnering last night’s events, he counted on Kell to do the same.
“Okay. Giving you the gold star on that one,” he conceded. “But I still don’t follow your tack on Benson.”
Kell scooted in tighter, sliding his trigger finger up and down along the tablecloth, indicating the rapid spin of his thoughts. “The guy’s hotter for Lani’s land than a dog for peanut butter, right?”
“Nice work, Sherlock. But I still bet you can’t name my last deployment from eyeing my tan lines.”
“Your tan lines do not interest me, dick brain. But Benson and his motives? That’s another story.”
Tait scowled. “Motives?”
Kell pulled in a breath and changed his finger pattern to a full circle. “I don’t think he wants the place to build a resort.”
This time, Tait leaned forward. “You’re right. That’s way more interesting than tan lines, even mine.”
“Something hasn’t added up about the guy for me, ever since we met him and the pretty boy crew that first night. I kept wondering why he didn’t want to survey the mansion, the gardens, or the pasture. He only asked to see the orchard, the beach, and,” —Kell’s voice hitched for a weird moment— “the lookout point.”
“Interesting observation. But I’m not the guy to be asking about accurate memories from that night.”
Kellan cracked only a slight smirk at that. He took back his napkin and started folding the thing with more precision than he gave his airborne harness pack, so Tait knew the guy was entering serious deliberation mode now. “Something just hit me wrong about the whole thing, so I started poking around online. Personally, there wasn’t much to discover about Benson. He’s made a religion out of his privacy. Has a permanent residence—actually, a small fiefdom—in Beverly Hills. He exclusively dates indie film actresses, but drops them if they make it into big commercial releases or start bitching about commitment. He’s got a thing about publicity and relationship strings.”
“What about the company? Benstock?”
“Also privately held. He started it with trust fund money but has worked his ass off to make it into the multibillion-dollar monster we all know and love. There’s a partner, too; that’s the source for the last half of the company name. But he’s more reclusive than Benson. I didn’t hit on anything that his credentials are stellar, ensuring the company has excellent markers on its bets.”
“He…or she.”
Kell stabbed an affirming finger. “Good point.”
Tait tapped the salt and pepper shakers together to keep his own hands busy. “None of this reveals anything crazy.” So the guy owned an estate in the 90210, was in bed with some deep pockets, dated girls who gave him street cred in Hollywood, and was a condescending dickwad to women like Lani, who were the real deal. He studied Kell with expectancy. Where was the Ricin on the guy’s envelope?
“So on the surface, Benstock’s main game is real estate purchase and repurposing, primarily for five-star hotels and resorts.”
“Still not dropping my jaw.”
“Hold onto your panties. I’m getting to the juicy stuff.” The guy rolled his shoulders then settled his elbows back to the table. “Hotels are only the start of Benstock’s client list,” he asserted. “Close to home, they have a division that secures high-end properties for filmings and special events for the entertainment industry. There’s another subsidiary that brokers extended stay property rentals for offshore investors, those needing ‘ultimate attention to luxury and privacy’.”
Tait felt his teet
h grinding. “In other words, oil sheikhs wanting to bang American virgins."
Kellan’s face tautened, too. “That’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
“What?”
His friend nodded tightly. “Benstock has another subsidiary, not listed on their website and deeply hidden on most others. It’s called Forte. Clicking on links for it always leads to a screen requiring a password. Nothing came up when I tried cross-searches, either. I even did a mind-fuck on myself and pretended I was an oil sheikh seeking the ‘services’ of the company.”
Tait hunkered his brows. “And still nothing?” When Kell affirmed with another head dip, he probed, “So then what?” His senses started sizzling in commiseration with the frustration his friend must’ve felt at hitting those dead ends. But he also knew that in true Spec Ops style, Kell hadn’t given up there.
“I bought a burner phone, then used it to call Benstock’s corporate headquarters in California. I faked an accent for the call, something between early Vin Diesel and vintage Omar Sharif.”
Tait chuckled. “And I don’t get a sample?”
Kell pursed his lips with sarcasm. “You’ll thank me for sparing you. Good news is, it worked on the first five layers of gatekeepers that I spoke to at Benstock.”
“Five? Damn. Who do they let you talk to on level six? The Pope?”
“Not sure. But get this: the dude I spoke to on level five was strange enough to make me hang up as soon as he put me on hold, on my way to level six.” The color drained from Kell’s face. The sight was weirdly fascinating, mostly because Tait had never experienced it before. “I’m only going to admit this to you, T. The fucker scared me.”
Tait scooted in again. “Damn. You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Wish I wasn’t.” Kell’s face, still too pale for Tait’s comfort, gave up that answer. “I could’ve dealt with a typical henchman act, you know? The whole battery acid crossed with tacks kind of voice? But this bastard was smooth, like a shiv dunked in butter—that had attended Oxford.”
“An Alan Rickman vibe?”
If it was possible, Kell’s glare narrowed again. “Damn it. Lani hit you with the swoony-over-Rickman thing too, eh?” Though they shared a couple of snickers at that, the guy’s humor faded fast. “Strangely, the weirdo’s accent wasn’t what made me eventually hang up.”
