Rebel North

by JB Salsbury

  She drops her gaze with a sigh. “Your brother is doing so well working for your father. Maybe there’s something you could do with them?”

  I laugh humorlessly. “You don’t listen. I am content. Why is that never enough for you guys?” When she doesn’t answer, I turn to head upstairs. “I have to go. I’ll be late for work.”

  “Work. That’s funny,” she mumbles.

  I keep toward the stairs.

  “I’m going back to Los Angeles this weekend! Maybe we can have dinner before I leave?”

  “Can’t!” I holler down the stairs to her. “I have plans.”

  Once behind the safety of my bedroom door, I flop onto my bed, slam my face in my pillow, and scream.

  Kingston

  It’s been two days since I’ve been transferred out of Hayes’ torture closet into Ms. Coleman’s department, and I’m actually missing my asshole brother.

  I tried to fight the move. Showed up every day to Hayes’ office only to find the woman waiting for me. She reminded me I had a choice—grunt through whatever work she sends my way or give her dirt on August.

  She placed me under the guidance of a woman named Lisa, who is supposed to show me the ropes and get me trained in all things project management. But everything she says sounds like a foreign language, and the paperwork she’s given me to study may as well be written in Sanskrit.

  “Kingston,” Mrs. Miller, Alexander’s assistant, greets me as I approach her desk. She’s old enough to be my mother… Actually, I think my mom is younger. “Are you all right?”

  I run a hand down my face and moan. “Not at all.”

  She frowns. “The transfer isn’t all you thought it would be?”

  “Actually, it’s exactly what I thought it would be.” I lift a chin toward Alex’s office door. “Is he in?”

  “He is, but he’s asked that I don’t disturb him.”

  I roll my eyes and bang on the frosted glass door. “Open up! I need your help.”

  Mrs. Miller’s desk phone rings. “Yes, Mr. North?” She studies me. “He does, sir. Distressed, a little pale, and uncharacteristically modest. Yes, I will.” She hangs up the phone. “You can go on in.”

  The door clicks, indicating that it’s now unlocked, and I push inside to find my brother in front of multiple computer screens, his focused gaze darting between them.

  “What do you want?” he barks.

  “I want my job with Hayes back.” I lie down on his couch, one foot thrown over the arm, the other flat on the ground. I’m a mess.

  “Ms. Coleman’s that bad?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s the problem then?”

  I sigh and sit up so I can make eye contact with my oldest brother while I beg. “Let me come work for you. Design is so much more my thing.”

  “I work alone,” he says firmly.

  “I know, but I’m sure there’s something I can do—”

  “There’s not.” He leans back in his executive chair, his scowl on me.

  “I can’t do the job that Coleman’s asking me to do.” With my elbows propped on my knees, I run my hands through my hair. “All the people in the department have experience in engineering. I don’t understand any of the shit they’re trying to teach me.” I turn my head to meet his gaze because I know he’ll understand what I have to say next. “I’m so sick of feeling stupid.”

  His scowl darkens.

  “I shouldn’t even be here. North Industries is not my gig.”

  He makes an mm-hm sound.

  “There isn’t a single department in this company that I’d fit into.” I slump back against the couch. “Why is he forcing me to work here?”

  He stands and moves to his drafting table. “My best guess? He wants you to earn your money.”

  “I get that. I do. I just wish there was a department more my speed, somewhere I could lend my talent and interest.”

  “Create one.”

  My gaze snaps to the top of his head, the only thing I can see with his head down. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a North. You belong here. There’s no reason why we can’t modify the company to include your skills.”

  I cross to him and lean against the bookshelf. “I don’t think North Industries has any interest in the fashion business.”

  His cold, hazel eyes come to mine. “Interior design.” He hunches back over the drafting table. “You did a great job decorating Jordan’s restaurant. I don’t see why we can’t offer your services to our clients.”

  “Hold on,” I say with hope swelling in my chest. “You think August would go for that?”

  “Be stupid not to,” he says so softly it’s almost to himself.

  “You really are a goddamn genius.” I try to pull him in for a hug, but he shoves me away.

  “Fuck off.”

  “I love you, brother!” I say as I jog out of his office. “Have I told you lately, Mrs. Miller, that you get even more beautiful every day?”

  She smiles and shakes her head. “There’s the Kingston I know.”

  I blow her a kiss and take off toward August’s office. His assistant isn’t at her desk, so I grip the handle, only to find it locked. I knock on the glass. “August, you in there?”

  “Go away,” he says, accompanied by a female giggle.

  “Gross.” I take his assistant’s seat, and my mind goes crazy with ideas—textures, fabrics, natural woods, and colors. I picture buildings as blank canvases and how I could bring them to life with my ideas. The structure its body, the interior its soul. Industrial, coastal, modern. From tile to art, the visions surge and make me feel the most alive I have ever felt inside the walls of North Industries.

  “Oh!” Miss Vogul stumbles out of August’s office with the buttons of her blouse done up all wrong. “Kingston.” She tries to smooth her hair as if that’ll help her freshly fucked look. “I didn’t realize you’d still be here.”

  The man keeps piling reasons upon reasons for me not to like him. Using his position of authority to seduce his assistant is another layer that makes me sick we share the same blood. I grab my pages of notes and head in to see August.

  “August, do you have a minute?”

  He’s slipping on his suit coat, looking much more put together than his assistant. “No. I’m busy.”

  “One minute.” I hold out my pages of notes. “I have an idea of how I can contribute to North Industries.”

  He holds his palm up, ignoring my offered notes. “And how’s that? Adding a nap room? Arts and crafts time? Maybe we can get Mrs. Miller to read bedtime stories over the PA.”

  Okay… ouch. “If you’d just hear me out, I really think I’m onto something—”

  “Forgive me, Princess, but I’m running a real business here with adults that have earned their positions and have bills to pay.”

  “I—”

  “You’ll continue on with Sophia, and when she gets sick of your lackluster performance, you’ll move to another department until you either find a place that fits or you quit and you’re off my payroll. Is that understood?”

  I clench my jaw. “If you’d just listen to my idea—”

  “I don’t pay you for ideas.” He chuckles. “I’m not sure what I pay you for, but I know it’s not your little ideas.”

  My heart feels like it’s shrinking, and a bitter grin pulls my lips. “And what exactly are you paying Miss Vogul for, huh?”

  His face reddens.

  “Better tell your wife to make room in the penthouse for another North heir.”

  “How dare you—”

  I nod to his pants. “Your fly is down.” I turn on a heel, feeling as small as humanly possible. “Prick,” I mumble before walking out the door.

  Fourteen

  Gabriella

  I hadn’t heard from Kingston since the night at the diner when we agreed to hang out. When I show up at his building, I’m eaten alive by nerves.

  “Miss Gabriella, Mr. North is expecting you.�
�� The concierge greets me, settling my nervousness. He walks me to the elevator bank and calls the carriage. “Do you remember which floor?”

  “I do, thank you.”

  A woman who looks to be in her thirties but is probably in her fifties joins us in waiting for the elevator, and we climb in together.

  Her eyes are seared to my cheek and neck. And although she’s keeping her thoughts to herself, it’s not hard to read her expression.

  I face her head-on, and joy swells in my chest at her look of horror. “Bad fillers.”

  “I… I’m sorry, what?” I applaud her for playing stupid, but her face pales, giving her away.

  “My face.” I pull my hair away and really shove the worst of my scarring at her. “I just figured you should know. Hyaluronic acid expires, but they never tell you that before they fill your face with the stuff.”

  She shakes her head, her hand covering her open mouth.

  “When it goes bad, it turns into hydrogen sulfate—you know, sulfuric acid. Burns you from the inside out. Anyway…” I drop my hair but stay in her space. “You should have seen it before. Took multiple surgeries for me to look this good.”

  The elevator dings.

  “This is me.” When the doors open, I walk out.

  She shoves her hand between the doors. “What’s the name of the doctor? Is he here in New York?”

  I suck in air through my teeth. “I can’t say, sorry. We’re in the middle of a malpractice suit. The tragedy of it all is he is still working. His office is nearby—oh shoot.” I rub my forehead. “I’ve said too much.”

  I watch her throat bob with a hard swallow.

  I smile as sweetly as I can muster and watch her eyes widen on my cheek. “Goodnight.”

  She steps back into the elevator, looking a little sick.

  I turn to head to Kingston’s door and nearly scream. He’s standing in the open doorway looking like he just stepped out of a designer men’s cologne ad with his shirt unbuttoned and his hair a mess.

  “Making friends?” he says in that slow, sexy drawl.

  I clear my throat and resist the urge to fan my face. “Not really. She was just apologizing for farting on the elevator.”

  His expression turns sour.

  “I know, right?”

  He steps aside to let me into his condo.

  I set my purse on the kitchen counter next to a bottle of scotch and a crystal glass. “Bad day?”

  He pours himself a quarter of a glass then drags it off the table and to his lips. “No.” He doesn’t take his hazel gaze off mine, and something fiery burns behind his eyes that makes me a little nervous. Tells me to be cautious.

  “Are you hungry?” He needs something to soak up the booze. “I’m starving.”

  “Order whatever you want. Anything within ten miles that delivers has my card on file.” He heads to the couch and turns on the television.

  I pull up the map on my phone, looking for something close that is hearty. Italian. Perfect. I hit the number. “What do you want to watch? Any new movies that look good?”

  I order spaghetti and meatballs and lasagna. When I give the woman the address, she says she’ll charge Mr. North’s card. I fish some cash out of my purse and leave it for him on the counter.

  “Food will be here in twenty-five minutes.”

  “Help yourself to a drink,” he says, scrolling through movies so quickly I’m surprised he even has time to read them.

  I open the fridge and grab a cold Pellegrino, then pour some into a glass before joining him on the couch. “So?”

  “You pick,” he says with a lazy smile.

  Yep, he needs to eat, or he’ll be passed out in an hour.

  I slip the remote from his hand, push the power off button, and wait for him to look at me. “What happened?”

  “Nothin—”

  “Are we really going to play this game?” I ask. “You say you’re fine when clearly you’re not.”

  His expression falls a little.

  “Something happen at work?”

  His jaw hardens, and he looks down at the glass in his hand as his thumb follows the lines etched in the crystal.

  “If you talk about it, maybe it’ll help.”

  He shakes his head. “Nothing new. Same ole shit.”

  “Your dad or Hayes?”

  He chuckles, and his answering smile looks genuine. “You already know them so well.” He shakes his head. “But I really don’t want to talk about it. I’ve been looking forward to tonight for three days. Can we please not spoil it with talk about my family?”

  I chew the inside of my mouth, wondering if I should push him.

  He cups my jaw. His gaze intent, he runs his thumb down my scar to my throat.

  I jerk free of his hold. “What are you doing?”

  He cringes slightly. “Sorry, I don’t like seeing you chew on your mouth like that.”

  “You can’t just touch people.” I press my palm to the place where he touched me, still feeling the singe of heat his thumb left behind.

  “It’s soft.”

  My gaze darts to his, and he holds eye contact.

  “The scars, they’re really soft. Like silk.”

  I don’t know whether to scream or cry or hug him. No one ever touches my scars. Not my parents. Hell, even I avoid them when I can.

  But Kingston touches the hideous marks without hesitation, and he actually likes the way they feel?

  “I should probably take a shower.” He pushes up from the couch. “If the food comes—”

  “I’ll get it.”

  He walks toward his room slowly, and I’m ashamed to admit I watched him the entire time.

  “We’re going out,” Kingston announces after we’ve finished eating a feast worth of carbs in noodle form.

  I rinse off our plates while he tosses the paper containers.

  “I’m wearing jeans.”

  He shrugs. “So am I.” He is dressed casually—casual for him, at least. His casual is an average man’s dressed up.

  “Yeah, but my jeans are ripped, have bleach stains, and are not the cool kind. They’re the kind you get from cleaning the bathroom while wearing jeans.”

  He takes my hand and pulls me toward the door. “You look great.”

  In my defense, I did put on some makeup, wash and dry my long hair, and although my jeans are crappy, they fit perfectly. I wore an off-the-shoulder top and brown leather sandals. I’m not night-out-in-Manhattan worthy, but I did make an effort.

  I grab my purse, and we wait for the elevator. Unfortunately, there are mirrors on the doors, and I’m made painfully aware of one downside to having a gorgeous gay man for a friend. He always looks prettier than me.

  “Where are we going?” I say as we climb into the carriage.

  “A friend of mine is having an art show in Red Hook.”

  “An art show!” Visions of little black dresses and champagne glasses fill my vision. “I can’t go to an art show looking like this.”

  He chuckles. “It’s not that kind of art show.”

  We take the elevator below the building to the parking garage, and Kingston pulls a key fob from his pocket, making the headlights on a sexy-looking black sports car flash.

  “I didn’t know you had a car.”

  He opens the passenger side door. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know,” he says playfully.

  “That I believe.”

  Once inside, he fires up the engine, and techno-house music blasts through the speakers. I cover my ears, and he scrambles to turn it down.

  “Sorry about that,” he says with a shy smile.

  “Someone had a fun night,” I say through my laughter and lower my hands from my ears.

  The quiet growl of the engine hums as he pulls out of the underground parking and onto the street. The intimacy of the small space and silence makes me antsy.

  “Do you ever get back to France to visit?” I ask to break up the silence.

  “No.”


  “Don’t you miss it?”

  He shrugs. “I do miss it. Not the people so much.”

  I’m about to ask what he means.

  “Not the French. They’re great. More specifically, the man living with my mother.” His handsome face twists with disgust.

  “Your stepdad?”

  He recoils.

  “Is he a dick?”

  My question seems to loosen his tense jaw. “No, actually.” He clears his throat, and his gaze darts to mine for a second before moving back to the road. “He was my best friend.”

  “Oh. Oh. Wait, what?”

  “Rafe. Or Raphael,” he says in an exaggerated French accent. He shakes his head. “We always had fun flirting with older women. I never thought he’d carry the fun into my own house.”

  “Is that why you decided to move to New York?”

  He laughs, but there’s only sadness in the sound. “I didn’t want to leave. My mom forced me to leave. Every time I’d see him coming out of her room, I saw red. Guess she got tired of cleaning blood off her Parisian rugs.”

  “Oh, my God, so she chose her lover over her own son?”

  “Gross. But yeah. Pretty much.” He frowns.

  I reach over and pull his hand between mine. The action seems to call him out of his feelings, and he interlaces our fingers and squeezes.

  “I’m sorry. Some people are so selfish.”

  His dark mood returns along with a tortured expression. He releases my hand. “Aren’t they.”

  A few minutes of uncomfortable silence stretch between us as I retrace our conversation to pinpoint where things went wrong. Without an answer, I change the subject. “At what point did you realize you were gay?”

  The car comes to a slow stop.

  “We’re here.” He’s out of the car and comes around to open my door.

  He throws the keys to a man wearing a black-on-black suit and offers me his elbow to lead me to a single door of a red brick warehouse. We’re met by someone wearing all black, dark hair slicked back beneath the straps of a full-face respirator gas mask. On the front of their black shirt in white letters, it reads CRTQ. I assume a clever play on the word critic or critique.

  Kingston gives them his name, and we get handed similar masks.