by Ashley Gee
Zaya has gone tense beside me, her eyes narrowing. I gently tap her knee, a reminder that this is under control. “
He can’t even make bail. The public defender’s office is a joke. C’mon Uncle West, this is ridiculous.”
“I shouldn’t be talking to you about this at all, especially without a defense attorney present,” West points out, voice caustic. “You’re lucky I like you, nephew. Anyone else would have been tossed out on their ass.”
“We’re already here. Spill.”
“These are serious charges.” West skims a few pages before shaking his head. “A group of young men were picked up on suspicion of committing a serious assault and robbery. Apparently, some or all of them held up a convenience store in the Gulch, and the cashier was injured.” He glances at Zaya before looking away. “Your brother runs with a very dangerous crowd.”
“And that makes him guilty?”
My uncle glares at me, and I have a stab of sympathy for anyone who comes face to face with him in a courtroom. He returns his attention to Zaya. “My advice would be to hire the best defense attorney you can afford. This case will be going to trial, there really isn’t any other option.”
Zaya visibly deflates. I hate the stricken look on her face. It makes me want to do things that I never do, like protect people even when there isn’t anything in it for me.
I lean forward. “But there isn’t any evidence that Zion was actually there when the crime was committed.”
West snaps the file shut. “I won’t comment on an active investigation. All the men involved are in custody.”
“Zion isn’t a man.” Zaya’s voice is a touch louder than it should be, as if she is out of practice with modulating it. She winces slightly, but then squares her shoulders. When she continues, her voice is a little softer. “He’s still underage.”
Eyebrows raised, West glances down at the file. “So he is. The only one, in fact.”
“That has to count for something,” I reason. “Couldn’t you at least get the case moved to juvenile court?”
West drums his fingers on the desk as he stares us down. “First of all, Zion requires an actual lawyer to represent him before he can get any sort of deal. Another teenager with a God complex doesn’t count as effective counsel, just because he happens to be my nephew. Nothing is official unless you use the proper channels.” His gaze moves from one of us to the other, drilling in so we know how serious this is. “That said, there is a diversion program upstate that is intended for juvenile offenders of serious crimes whom the state thinks are potentially good candidates for rehabilitation. It’s new, still in the pilot stage, and like everything else in this world worth a damn, admission to the facility is pay to play.”
My ears perk up at that, buying our way out of things is a Cortland family tradition. “You should have just said this is a money problem in the first place.”
“Everything is a money problem,” West says, voice droll. “But we’re not talking about getting off scot-free, here, not with these charges. Juvenile offenders can be held in the system until they’re twenty-three, so we’re still talking about a significant amount of time, just better than twenty years to life.”
Zaya’s face is carefully blank. “Tell me more about this program.”
“Blackbreak Academy is set up as much like a private school as it is a juvenile prison. Everyone there would otherwise be in the state prison system, but we hope this setup will encourage a lower rate of recidivism. If the participants complete the program successfully, then their records are expunged. It was only approved by the governor because most of their families are paying dearly for the privilege of keeping their children out of the regular system. Apparently, this fits the definition of a public-private partnership according to our state legislature.”
West isn’t exactly a bleeding heart, but it’s obvious from his tone that he recognizes the fundamental unfairness of this particular opportunity.
From her pursed lips and sour expression, I can tell Zaya isn’t happy with the idea of a system of justice based on the depths of your pockets, either. But this is the way the world has always worked, she just needs to get used to it.
“Sounds great—” I say.
She interrupts. “And Zion won’t have to do anything?”
West shrugs. “If he’s willing to testify against the other members of his gang, that would help me convince the judge to allow diversion. This will be a hard sell, otherwise.”
That doesn’t sound like a deal breaker, but Zaya stiffens beside me. Then she shakes her head so violently it sets the tightly wound curls on her head quivering. “He won’t do that.”
I turn to her in shock. “Why not?”
“He won’t testify against anyone, no matter what kind of deal it gets him. That just… isn’t how things are done in the Gulch. He testifies, and he can’t ever come back home.”
“And that’s worse than twenty-to-life?”
“The rules are different where I live, Vin. Most of us don’t have the luxury of our big house on the mountaintop.” Zaya’s glare is hot enough to sear my soul. Her reaction is as much about Zion as it is about the two of us. “We don’t have an uncle in the state attorney’s office or a cousin that runs the largest bank in town or enough wealth to literally buy and sell a person’s entire life. When we get in trouble, no one comes to bail us out.”
“I’m here.”
I can’t believe those words just came out of my mouth. Even West glances at me with a raised eyebrow.
But Zaya just shakes her head. If she realizes what a watershed moment this is, she doesn’t let on. “He will not paint a target on my back like that, not when he has to leave me behind.”
“You won’t be living in the Gulch, anyway. You’ll be up on the Bluffs with me, safe and sound.”
Zaya stares at me like she has never seen me before, the surprise on her face obvious. Did she really think that nothing would change, that I’d put a ring on her finger and then leave my wife wallowing in squalor?
“I don’t want to live in Cortland Manor.”
“It won’t be the manor. I stay in the pool house.”
She just shakes her head and abruptly stands up. “This is too much to deal with right now. I need to go.”
“We’re not done yet.”
Ignoring me, she addresses West. “Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Abbott. Sorry for busting into your office like this.” She holds up a trembling hand when I move to follow her. “You can finish without me. I’ll take the bus back into town.”
With an annoyed sigh, I collapse back onto the seat. That girl doesn’t know how to do anything without a fight.
West looks amused when I turn my attention back to him. “You aren’t going after her?”
“The buses only run on the hour — she’ll be down there for a while,” I say with a shrug. “I’ll give her some time to calm down, and then I’ll take her home.”
He shakes his head. “You make it sound so easy.”
“Zaya likes to play hard to get, but I always get what I want from her eventually.”
“If you say so,” he says with a laugh. “She’s the one, huh?”
“Not as if I have a choice,” I snap, suddenly annoyed. This situation might amuse him, but it’s my fucking life we’re talking about. “Grandpa Abbott made sure of that.”
“He might be doing you a bigger favor than you think, even if it is from beyond the grave.” West takes another file from the stack and opens it in front of him. “Get the Milbourne boy a lawyer and have them send me a formal plea offer. I’ll see what I can do with Judge Prior. But Zion will have to testify, I don’t see any other way around that.”
“He’ll do it, I’ll make sure.”
“Oh, to have the confidence of youth.” Without looking up from the paperwork in front of him, West waves his hand toward the door. “Now get the hell out of my office, I have real work to do.”
“Love you too, Unc.”
He makes a farting sound with his mouth. “Shut the damn door behind you.”
Zaya is sitting at the sad little bus stop when I stroll out of the building. She stares off into space, so absorbed in her thoughts that she doesn’t see me coming. I smile when she visibly jumps as I sit down beside her.
“Let’s go.”
She glares at me. “I told you I’m taking the bus.”
I relax against the uncomfortable metal bench. “Then I guess I am, too.”
“Vin Cortland doesn’t take the bus,” she scoffs.
“Vin Cortland doesn’t leave his fiancée by herself in a bad part of town to take the fucking bus.” I watch the dip of her throat as she swallows hard. I’d laugh if this weren’t so serious. The word fiancée scares me too, babe. “He also isn’t a huge fan of talking about himself in the third person.”
“Your car is here,” she argues.
“And if it gets vandalized or stolen, I’m taking the cost to replace it out of your allowance.”
Her eyebrows go up as her expression turns stormy. “My allowance?”
“Look, a bunch of things are going to change.” I turn toward her on the bench, careful not to touch her. She reminds me of a spooked horse that is moments from kicking me in the face. “Behind closed doors, this is a business relationship, but it has to look real to anyone watching. I need the marriage to stand up to any challenges in court, and I refuse to let myself be embarrassed where the whole town can see it happen.”
“Not embarrassing you is definitely on the top of my list of priorities,” she replies sarcastically. “What does that entail exactly?”
“Moving out of the house that is falling down around your ears, for one.”
Her lips thin into a frown. “And what about Grandpa?”
“There’s a senior care home on the east side of town that would be a good fit for him.” I hurry with the next point, trying to decide if she’ll slap me when she hears it. “Another item on the agenda will be buying enough new clothes that you can burn everything you currently own.”
Her eyes narrow, but the hand I expect to fly for my face doesn’t move. “You’re trying to Pretty Woman me. That’s a little gross.”
“Richard Gere hired a prostitute half his age, and he didn’t even offer to marry her until she decided to leave him. Give me a little more credit than that.”
I can tell from the expression on her face that she didn’t expect me to get the reference.
A musing note enters her voice. “I could spend a thousand dollars on t-shirts and jeans, just to spite you.”
She has no idea what Giselle’s monthly credit card bills look like, but I let her have the minor victory. “That’s tough, but fair. Go crazy.”
Without her, there won’t be any money at all. She can buy out an entire Nordstrom’s for all I give a fuck. And as much as I hate her wardrobe, everyone else’s reaction is what has me concerned. People in this town can be cruel, and marrying me will paint a target on her back bigger than Cortland Manor. As much as I’ve tortured her over the years, I feel perversely unwilling to allow her to be the butt of anybody else’s jokes.
Her sigh is one of unwilling agreement. “How much do you think it’s going to cost for Zion to be in this diversion program?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I reply with a shrug, because it really doesn’t. “We’ll pay whatever it takes. The hard part is going to be convincing him to go. That’s on you.”
“I was already planning to go see him tomorrow at the jail. It takes a few days before they allow visitors.”
“We can go together. No more taking the bus like a single mom working minimum wage.”
She cuts her eyes at me, but a small smile teases her lips. “You know one of those gave birth to me, right?”
“Nobody’s perfect. Let’s go.”
I only realize belatedly just how many times I said we over the course of our conversation and how natural it seemed. The two of us have temporarily aligned in our goals, I already know that. But I didn’t anticipate how easy it would be to wrap our priorities up together with a little bow.
Zaya is mine, which makes her problems the same as my problems.
Hopefully, she doesn’t go running for the hills when the tide inevitably turns in the other direction.
I hold out my hand to her with every expectation she’ll refuse to take it. To my surprise, she does and allows me to pull her to a standing position. I don’t let go of her hand as we head toward the parking lot, and she doesn’t yank it away. We hold hands all the way back to my car, which feels nicer than it should.
This feels like the start of something, even if I’m not sure what that might be.
I’m so used to holding a knife to her throat that I never thought it might feel good to stand at her back.
When I drive Zaya home in the afternoon, we don’t do much talking outside of the barest pleasantries. She is practically as quiet as she was before I gave her voice back. Her fingers fidget nervously with the frayed hem of her shirt, avoiding my gaze when I glance over her.
I try to picture her in some cupcake-shaped wedding dress made with five times as much fabric as it needs. And she won’t just be in a dress she hates, but standing up in front of hundreds of people who will be studying every inch of her for something to criticize.
It would be excruciating.
She seems nervous just sitting in the damn car with me.
I wonder if she’s thinking about what it felt like to have my hands up her skirt while she was grinding on my dick.
I know I am.
And I bet she’s trying to figure out whether I’ll be sneaking into her room tonight, silent as a ghost but with the intent of something much more physical than spiritual.
Zaya hesitates as she gets out of the car, standing there with the door still open. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I give her a polite smile, even as I resist the urge to grab her arm and yank her across my lap.
“Sure thing.”
She needs to get that sweet ass inside the house so I can set the plans that have been percolating in my brain the entire way home into motion. We negotiated our terms, and I plan to follow them to the letter.
But that means I’m running out of time to get things set up before I burst like a half-corked, furiously shaken champagne bottle.
Confusion twists her features and she drums her fingers on the roof of my car. “Alright, then.”
I love keeping her confused, more than I love almost anything else. She wants me to tell her what to expect next, but I won’t do it. Sure, I could go in after her and finally relieve the tension that has been building between us for days.
The wait is making both of us edgy and overly full with pressure. We’re balloons blown up too far that are moments from popping.
“I’ll watch to make sure you get inside okay.”
She frowns, then seems to realize she’s still standing on the sidewalk staring at me. Her blush is the prettiest shade of burnished rose gold.
As she walks away, I lean back against the window behind me so she won’t see the barely contained laughter on my face.
I know the look of someone who is burning up when I see it.
Zaya seems to realize that her hesitation says more than words ever could and hurries up the grassy embankment to her house. The car door slams hard enough to shake the car on its axels as she whips away. I watch her stomp up the wooden steps to her porch and unlock the door. It’s not a surprise when she doesn’t look back.
She’s angry. But she has no idea how much I want to chase her into the house and fulfill sexual fantasies I didn’t even know I had before I met her. The anticipation is killing us both, but I refuse to give in until the fire burning me stokes even higher in her.
I’m done with the full frontal assaults. Those are precisely what she expects from me. The name of the game is seduction, and I plan to win it.
Zaya will be on her knees and begging me before we’re done.
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Her face flashes in the small inset window after she locks the door, expression still confused and maybe even a little hurt.
I shouldn’t get so much pleasure out of keeping her off balance, but I really do.
Whistling, I feel practically giddy as I put the Maserati in gear and ease out into the street. I can only hope Zaya will spend the next few hours stewing in repressed sexual need and crazed desire.
I’ll be right there with her.
The wait is necessary. There are more than a few things on my to-do list and very little time to get them done. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I’m already connecting with the receptionist for a gorgeous little bed and breakfast a few hours up the coast. When I’m done with that, the next call will be to good old Uncle West to ask for a simple prenuptial agreement that will result in my father slowly dismembering me if I don’t get it signed.
Soon, there won’t be anything else standing in our way.
The future Mrs. Vin Cortland has no idea what’s coming for her.
Twenty-Three
Ten Years Ago
Cortland Manor was always frigidly cold. Even in the dead of winter, or whatever passes for winter in this part of California, the air-conditioner blasted so I could see my breath each time I exhaled. When I would grab my mother’s arm to show her, she shushed me.
She had been working at the manor for a few months before she ever brought me with her on the job. I didn’t really want to come, but she promised there would be someone here our age to play with.
Up until then, we’d only driven by the fanciest mansion in town, waiting in the backseat to drop her off at work. I pressed my nose against the window glass of Grandpa’s ancient sedan while Mom scurried up the long driveway, tugging at the skirt of her uniform. They made her wear a stiff white dress with thick pantyhose underneath, and she never looked anything but uncomfortable wearing it.
I’d always wondered what it might be like inside the imposing stone structure that reminded me of something out of a fairy tale.
