by Ashley
“Good girl,” she whispered, petting the intimidating beast as it sniffed her other hand. The dog eventually licked it as she rubbed its thick coat with her free hand. “You’re beautiful.”
She heard the creak of the front screen door as it was pushed open and she looked up to find a pair of coal eyes staring at her. In one hand he gripped a long-barrel shotgun; in the other he held a bottle of Budweiser beer.
“Guard dog, my ass,” he said. “Com’ere girl!” On command, the dog retreated to its owner’s side, settling on the porch next to the man’s feet. “Who are you?”
Sutton stood. “My name’s Sutton LaCroix,” she announced.
“Sutton LaCroix, you want to tell me why you’re on my property before I shoot you?” he asked.
“I have a job. It requires discretion and I believe it’s something only you can do. I’ve read about your struggles recently. The discharge from the Navy. I think you can see a good opportunity when it comes your way and you can put emotions to the side for business. I could be wrong, but you tell me,” Sutton said.
The man eyed her skeptically and took a swig of his beer. “I can’t help you,” he said.
“I know,” Sutton responded. “I’ll be helping you. Ex–war hero turned public enemy number one. You need to change the narrative. You need the people back on your side.”
“And you’re gonna help me?” he asked. “Little pretty lady like you is gonna fight the world just for me? Why would you do that?”
“Because you’re going to do something for me in return,” Sutton said. “You were the most decorated diver in the Navy’s history. I need that skill for something important, and I’m willing to pay for it.”
“How much?” he asked.
“A quarter million dollars,” Sutton said.
The man emptied the beer bottle into his mouth and tossed it into his yard. “Come in,” he said. He turned and entered his house, whistling for his dog to follow behind him. Sutton smirked as she followed behind him. Finding someone who was qualified to dive beneath the Sinclair’s oil rig was the biggest challenge. She was a master negotiator; she wasn’t concerned about him declining the offer, but finding someone with the know-how and skill to pull it off successfully was the biggest challenge.
She stepped into his home and her heart sank as she took in the conditions around her. The house was old, barely standing, and old furniture crowded the inside. A bucket of dirty water sat in the corner catching water from a leaky, exposed pipe that protruded from the ceiling. Empty beer bottles and filth were everywhere.
“Take a seat,” the man said. He cleared old newspapers from the tattered couch to make a space for her. Sutton reluctantly sat.
“What I got to do?” the man asked.
“I need you to blow an oil rig,” she said, voice low.
“I’ll need my money up front,” the man said. “And it’ll take a team. One diver can’t blow a whole rig. Those things are small cities. My men will have to be paid.”
“Money isn’t a problem. How many men?” she asked.
“Four.”
“I’ll need names and addresses. I need to know who I’m in business with,” she said. “I can pay you half now, half after the job is complete. A quarter for you and fifty thousand for each of your men.”
“Consider it done.”
CHAPTER 8
“What’s this I hear about a strike?” August Sinclair Sr. walked into West’s office. He was an aged version of his son. Distinguished, wealthy, and powerful, his presence filled the room as he entered like he owned the place. In fact, he did. He was responsible for building Sinclair Enterprises from the ground up. Every piece of wood, every nail, every door handle was property of this visionary oil tycoon. He was the only person in the entire building who didn’t need to knock. Known to everyone he loved as Senior, he was the head of the Sinclair family and a mentor to both his sons. West might not be blood born, but he was of equal importance to the Sinclairs.
“The workers on the Galveston rig have walked out,” West answered, standing to embrace the man in front of him.
“Your mother asked me to bring you this,” Senior said, placing a pie on his desk.
“She’s the best.” West chuckled as he rounded his desk and sat in his executive chair. “Every Friday night, win or lose, I came home to this blackberry pie.”
“You’re her son,” Senior said. “Our family changed the moment we met you, Westin. I’m very proud of you. We all are.”
West remembered the days when he was sleeping in a beat-up, old-school car. He would never forget the day Mrs. Sinclair pulled him into her office and asked him if he were homeless. He had been in the sixth grade; and from that day forward, she took him home so he would have a warm bed to sleep in. She went from principal to his foster mom; and before he entered high school, the Sinclairs had adopted him officially. He had clicked instantly with August, and their friendship had transformed into brotherhood. Overnight, West had become a part of the upper class. The Sinclair family had changed his life, and he had planned to pay them back when he made it to the NFL. He had been a star on the field; but in his second year of college, he’d ruined his knee, ending his career before it’d even begun. Since oil was the Sinclair family business, he fell into place and soaked up the knowledge Senior had to offer.
“I appreciate you, old man,” West said. “I’ll never be able to say it enough.”
“You don’t need to say it at all, son,” Senior said. “Now, tell me about this strike. Have you spoken to the head of the union?”
“I’ve requested a list of their concerns. This is bad. The longer we let this linger, the more money we lose. We’re bleeding profit by the minute. Every single second that the rig is down, it’s costing us. My instincts tell me to be very flexible. Also to keep it out of the press.”
“We’ll bend as much as we can. These workers give their lives to the rig. It’s their home. They spend months on end on that boat. I want the conditions as comfortable as possible. Whatever they want, let’s try to meet them halfway,” Senior said.
“You’re the king they love,” West said.
“And you’re the one they fear,” Senior replied. He reached for West’s brandy-filled decanter and poured two glasses. “You’re what I always wanted out of a son. All of this will be yours one day. August can’t handle it. He is too privileged. He never had to work for anything. You know what it’s like to have nothing, and you’ll work hard to keep everything you have. You’re my legacy.”
He handed a drink to West and they tapped their glasses as West thought of the power that came with his position. He was a black man in the energy business. That alone afforded him many enemies, but his business savvy made him a commodity. He was already vice president of the company; but to hear Senior had plans to hand it all over made him wary of the potential conflict that lay ahead with August. The last thing he wanted was to take August’s birthright, but he had worked for it. Most little boys from the hood dreamed of being king of the streets. That had never been West’s plan. When he had lost his shot at playing professional ball, business became his passion. He didn’t want to run a block, he wanted to control an industry. He wanted to be a tycoon and oil gave him the resource to control the world.
* * *
“Senior, it’s our anniversary. I sit quietly and I let you put this company before our marriage every other day of the year. I only ask for one day, this day, to be your priority. This is unacceptable.”
August Sinclair stood in the mirror knotting his necktie. He didn’t speak. He let the words of his wife go through one ear and out the other until his appearance was perfect.
“Senior! If you’re going to attempt to mask business and call it an anniversary dinner, I’ll pass.”
“Abigail, darling,” Senior said as he pulled his sulking wife from the bed. She was stunning. Age hadn’t detracted from her beauty one bit. Her ginger hair was curled in voluptuous waves and her fair skin was complemented b
y matching freckles. He had fallen in love with her at first sight and the Louisiana Southern belle had made him work hard to win her over. “Trust me. Tonight is all about you. We have thirty years to celebrate, my dear. I just need to make one stop and then you’ll have my undivided attention.” He stared into the greenest eyes he had ever seen, and it felt like he could see the history of their life in the depths of her gaze.
Abigail’s reluctance was buried beneath submission as she sighed deeply before following her husband out of the room.
“Looking good, Senior!”
Senior paused for his youngest son, extending a hand, and the two shook firmly. At ten years old, Brandon “Beamer” Sinclair was the youngest of the bunch and Abigail’s miracle baby. He had come well after her childbearing years should have passed; but when she was forty years old, he had blessed them all. He was their pride and joy, and their anniversary was also his birthday.
“Thanks, son,” Senior said.
“You throw on a suit real fast and you can join us for dinner,” Abigail proposed.
“He’s old enough to stay home alone,” Senior said. Abigail smiled at her son. He was the center of her entire world. He was diagnosed with high-functioning autism, and she doted on him more than she should, but she couldn’t help it. He was her baby. He needed her. No matter how much he thought he didn’t.
“But why should he have to? It’s his day too,” Abigail insisted. “Go get dressed, son.”
Beamer raced up the stairs and Abigail smiled at Senior. “Now you can do all the business you like. My baby will keep me company when the inevitable phone call comes that will pull you away from dinner,” Abigail said.
Beamer was dressed in ten minutes flat and the threesome departed. A Rolls Royce awaited them outside their plantation-style Texas mansion. Senior had afforded Abigail a wonderful life. Her every wish had been fulfilled over the years, but he was aware of the one thing he owed her—time. It took an understanding woman to marry a man of his caliber. The world expected pieces of his day. Early mornings and late evenings were the routine, but he had built them quite an estate.
Their driver took them out of the city toward Galveston and Abigail grew disgruntled instantly when she noticed the direction they were headed.
“Senior, you said no work,” Abigail said.
They pulled up to the port where a boat awaited.
“I just have to check something out on the rig, and we’ll be on our way. I promise. It’ll take an hour tops,” Senior stated.
“Senior, you’re blowing it big-time,” Beamer snickered.
Senior chuckled. “Watch and learn, son.” He waited for the driver to open the door and then he went to open his wife’s door.
Abigail took his hand and stepped her expensive Dior heels on the cement.
The rig was twenty-five miles offshore and the disappointed look on Abigail’s face made Senior chuckle.
“You would think this rig didn’t fund our entire lives the way you dread coming out here,” Senior said as he moved a tendril of hair out of her face and they stepped onto the boat that would take them to the rig.
“I don’t hate it, it just consumes everything, Senior,” Abigail said.
“Nobody consumes me like you,” he whispered in her ear. He kissed her ear and then her lips, causing Abigail to giggle. It didn’t matter how long they had been together, he made her swoon.
“Dude, gross. I’m right here,” Beamer said without looking up from his phone.
Abigail and Senior laughed harder as they settled in, letting the boat carry them out to the rig.
A half hour later, the boat dropped an anchor portside of the rig and Beamer hopped up out of his seat in excitement.
“Careful, buddy, the rig isn’t a playground,” Senior said as he watched his son board his pride and joy.
“Senior, you’ve got one hour,” Abigail said.
“Right this way,” Senior said as he led the way to the top deck. Abigail complained the entire way and Senior didn’t utter one word.
“I could have worn jeans and boots if I knew I would be on a dirty…” She stopped speaking when she saw the candlelit table that was in the middle of the deck.
Senior turned to her and extended his hand toward the display. “Happy anniversary,” he said.
“Surprise, Mom!”
Abigail looked at Senior and Beamer, stunned. “You knew about this? You sneaky snook, you! We don’t keep secrets!”
“But this was a good secret, right, Mom?” Beamer asked. Abigail’s eyes misted because her son was so innocent. To another mom, having an autistic son would be a challenge; but to Abigail, it felt like a gift. He was extremely intelligent, possessed a photographic memory, and was the most empathetic kid she had ever met. He sometimes seemed like he was younger than he was, and other times, he seemed like a young businessman. All the time, she loved him.
“A really good secret, Beamer. Your father did really, really good,” Abigail said.
“Beamer’s going to be our waiter for the evening,” Senior said. “Will you join me for dinner, Mrs. Sinclair?”
“You really put me first?” she asked. Beamer pulled out his Bluetooth speakers and connected them to his phone, turning on a playlist Senior had curated. Sinatra crooned through the air.
“I’m going to put you first for the rest of my life. Can an old man have this dance?”
Abigail blushed as she grabbed Senior’s hand, taking a twirl beneath his arm as they swayed under the starry sky.
Senior held his wife close, cheek to cheek, his hand securely on the small of her back.
“I love you, Abigail. If I could give you all the stars in the sky, I would. I’d gift them to you.”
Abigail pulled back to stare into his eyes but before she could fix her lips to respond …
BOOM.
* * *
Sutton’s phone rang incessantly, and she silenced it as she sat in the dark room. Almost as soon as she pressed the button, it rang again.
Gadget.
Sutton silenced it again.
A text.
Gadget
Answer the phone. 911.
Sutton didn’t respond. Her heart clenched. She could hear it beating in her ear. Her pulse raced. Every sense she had was heightened. Her phone rang again.
“What?” she shouted as she tapped her earbuds to answer the call.
“Sutton, what did you do?” Gadget asked. “You don’t decide alone. I told you it wasn’t a good idea. What the fuck are you thinking!”
“I did what needed to be done. Ain’t no free licks around this bitch,” Sutton responded.
“Turn on the news,” Gadget stated.
“I don’t need to,” Sutton replied. “I know what went down.”
“You don’t know shit, Sutty,” Gadget replied. “Turn on the news!”
Sutton hung up on Gadget and powered off her phone. She knew Gadget wouldn’t understand. She hadn’t run it by Honor and Ash at all. She was the oldest. She felt she had the right to call the play.
She reached for her remote control and turned on her television. The chyron that ran across the bottom of the screen was like a punch to the gut.
TWO DEAD, ONE CRITICALLY INJURED IN OIL RIG EXPLOSION
“It was supposed to be empty,” she whispered. “There’s a strike; there weren’t supposed to be people on the goddamn boat.”
Sutton grabbed her laptop in anguish and opened it, Googling the explosion. She gasped, covering her mouth in horror when she saw the pictures of August Sinclair Sr. and Abigail Sinclair on her screen. She clicked the video on the news story and she felt like she would throw up.
“The ten-year-old son of the billionaire oil tycoon, Brandon Sinclair, was pulled out of the Gulf of Mexico after being found clinging to a piece of debris from the explosion of the Sinclair oil rig. He has suffered burns on fifty percent of his body and has been transported to—”
Sutton slammed her laptop closed and rushed to the en suite b
athroom. Her body betrayed her as she vomited her regret.
“Why were they on the boat?” she whispered. “No, no, no, no, no!” Guilt weighed her down so heavy, she couldn’t pull herself from the floor. She sat beside her toilet, back leaning against the wall and elbows resting on her knees as she looked at the ceiling. There would be no forgiveness for this. Two people had been killed. A little boy had lost both parents, and that was if he survived.
The knock on her door pulled her to her feet. She was terrified. Creating scandal and committing murder were two different things. She was smart, cunning, and always willing to push the envelope for a dollar, but a cold-blooded murderer she was not.
She half expected the police to be her guests, but logic told her they weren’t. The news was reporting the explosion as an accident. She was in the clear, but her conscience was being dragged through the mud.
Sutton pulled open the door to find all three sisters standing before her. Even Ashton had climbed out of bed, interrupting her healing to show up.
“What did you do?” Gadget asked.
Sutton’s mouth fell open, but nothing came out.
“What she had to do.”
Ashton entered Sutton’s condo, walking by Sutton. The other girls followed suit as Sutton turned on her television. The report was on every channel.
“Ashton, this is serious. People were hurt,” Honor said.
“I was hurt,” Ashton shot back. “Karma don’t always hit you directly. I hope August Sinclair feels every bit of this shit. So, we created the problem, now let’s make them pay to fix it.” Ashton looked at Sutton. “That was the point of the explosion, right?”
Sutton cleared her throat and gathered her bearings, pushing her guilt aside. She looked at Ashton, then at each of her sisters.
“Sutty?” Ashton pressed.
Again, eye to eye, she focused on Ashton. Her baby sister was silently begging for her to do something. To make it right.
