Prodigal Son (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 3) Page 5

  Get it together, Adkins.

  She said, “This way, girls,” with a composure she didn’t feel and followed Albie and Fox – who tripped all over his own boots – up the narrow staircase to the first floor. Albie didn’t stop there, but went around the landing to the next stair, and they climbed again, up to the second floor. This, she knew, with its Victorian wallpaper and long hall runner, was the beating heart of the place. The parties and camaraderie happened down in the pub. But all the important business happened up here, in Phillip Calloway’s office and the fancified parlors and dining rooms that retained all their original, historic charm.

  Albie took them to the pink parlor: a wide space bookended by two white marble fireplaces, the silk wallpaper a rosy pink, overlaid with velvet bouquets. A wrought-iron chandelier hung suspended over a massive round wooden table, ringed by ornate chairs. Incongruous as it seemed, it somehow suited the strange, half-blood family that ruled this chapter of the club. Learned, enigmatic, even elegant…and smelling of smoke.

  “Hmm,” Vivian hummed, stepping away from Eden so she could rotate slowly, surveying the place. “Not what I expected.” Eden could tell from her tone that it wasn’t a compliment. Almost nothing she said was ever a compliment.

  Albie pulled out a chair and shoved his brother into it. Gently.

  Fox caught himself with his hands against the table edge and shot a bleary glare up at Albie. “I’ll thank you to take your fucking hands off me, Albert,” he said, prim and proper suddenly.

  Eden bit back her immediate response: a smile. Fox could do any accent in the world – Indian, Israeli, Texan, Nova Scotian – but she’d always gotten a kick out of his Prince Phillip schtick.

  But being amused wasn’t helpful now.

  Albie sighed and raked a hand back through his hair, leaving it standing on end afterward. He looked tired; he’d never been as striking as Fox, more ruggedly handsome, more composed, more approachable. All the siblings had the same eyes, but where Fox’s shimmered like reflecting pools, impossible to see through, Albie’s were the gentle blue of faded denim. “You can sit,” he said. “I’ll get Phillip. Track down a laptop so we can Skype with Walsh.” He shook his head. “Jesus.” And left the room.

  Axelle struck off on a slow lap around the table, eyes sliding over everything. But unlike Vivian, her expression was open and curious. She reached one of the fireplaces and ran her hand along the mantle, whistled. “Wow. Fancy schmancy.” She was so American sometimes Eden had to fight back a chuckle. “So.” She turned around and leaned her shoulders against the mantle. “This is where the London Lean Dogs live, huh?”

  Vivian gave her a stern look. “And what do you know about the Lean Dogs?”

  She shrugged, feigning innocence. “Hey, I’m from Tennessee. I know about the Dogs. Everybody does.”

  “You’re from Tennessee?” Fox spoke up. His voice was steady, but there was a looseness in his posture that spoke to the drinks he’d thrown down back at the shop. Not a calculated sprawl designed to set someone at ease – she’d seen that plenty – but a true slouch. Fox was like a predatory feline; he was never not hunting. Except for now. She’d never seen him like this.

  (No, you have, just not in a long time.)

  “Nashville,” Axelle said.

  Fox sent her a lazy grin. “Yeah?” That flirty tone that he used on women he might be interested in sleeping with. He didn’t use it often; he’d never used it on Eden after their first night together, when he learned she didn’t respond to it.

  It didn’t bother Eden to hear it now, because that tone meant Fox was interested – but not serious. It was the serious tone that dropped panties.

  Axelle sent him an unimpressed look. “Wow, you’re slick.”

  His grin widened.

  Eden rolled her eyes.

  “I might suggest coffee,” Vivian said. “And quite a lot of it, too.”

  Thankfully, things moved quickly after that, saving her the chance to walk any farther down memory lane.

  Albie returned with Phillip, who shook Eden’s hand with a perfectly civil – friendly, even – smile and welcomed all of them to sit. Vivian did so with a queen’s grace. Axelle flung herself down in a chair and kicked her legs up over the arm of it. A prospect brought a platter heaped with fresh bakery rolls stuffed with chicken and mustard. Phillip poured drinks from the sideboard, and set up a laptop on the far side of the table where he pulled Kingston Walsh up on Skype.

  “Well there’s the king,” Devin crowed when his second eldest son’s face filled the screen, and Walsh did an admirable job of going blank-faced. Only his blond eyebrows jumped. “Hello, old bastard.”

  Devin clutched his chest. “You wound me. All of my boys, so disrespectful and hateful to their poor old father.”

  “Shut him up,” Walsh said, calmly, voice tinny through the laptop speakers, “or I’m logging off.”

  Phillip leveled a look at his father. “Shut it.”

  And, miracle of miracles, Devin shut up.

  Raven arrived next, in black heels and a black wool trench, glossy and flawless as a magazine photo, smelling of Chanel No. 5. “Devin,” she greeted crisply, tugging her gloves off with sharp, agitated little movements.

  “Raven,” he said. “Where’s your shadow?”

  “I didn’t bring Cass. A seventeen-year-old shouldn’t have to weigh in on this decision.”

  “Decision?”

  “The decision to hand you over.”

  Devin sighed and ran a hand through his silver hair. “No love on any side, hmm?”

  Tommy showed up, and then Miles. The two youngest boys weren’t as good at hiding their emotions as their brothers. Tommy sat beside Phillip, folded his arms and glared at his old man.

  Miles, by contrast, was round-eyed, almost hopeful. Poor kid.

  When they were all assembled, Albie cleared his throat, and started the story.

  Fox, Eden noticed, folded his arms and put his head down on them. He looked drunk and asleep…but she didn’t think he was.

  ~*~

  Fox closed his eyes and pressed his face more deeply into the crook of his elbow, content to let Albie do all the talking for now. He himself was the sort of person who liked to do interesting things; he liked to leave the recounting of such things to people better-suited. People like his grandmotherly, furniture-making, boring-as-hell big brother Albie, who never missed a chance to organize something or suggest someone put a sweater on, or some stupid grandmotherly shit like that. God, Albie was lame.

  Also, Fox was maybe a little bit drunk at this point. He’d had that drink back at the apartment, and three – no, four? – in quick succession from Albie’s secret stash. After the adrenaline crash, the whiskey had hit his system hard, his head swimming, his limbs leaden. What he really wanted was a nap, but he figured his expertise was probably needed in this meeting, so…

  With a valiant effort, one he was more than a little proud of, he pushed himself upright, elbows braced against the table for balance.

  Beside him, Tommy snorted.

  Fox wanted to elbow him, but he needed his elbow at the moment; it was the only thing holding him up.

  Across the table, Raven frowned, line appearing between her perfect, winged brows. “Wait. Pseudonym as in…” She rummaged around in her giant Coach bag a moment and came out with a little glass jar. If he squinted, Fox could just make out the product name on the lid: Gleaux. “This is face cream,” Raven said, frowning, “part of a gift basket they handed out at my last event. Supposed to tighten fine lines around your eyes, you know, and it works. But, here…” She flipped the jar over and swore. “There, on the underside: ‘A Pseudonym Pharmaceuticals Product.’” She set the jar down and looked at it as if it might bite. “That’s the company we’re talking about?”

  “Here, let me see.” Eden leaned over and snagged the jar so she could read the label herself.

  She could stand to use some of that cream herself, Fox thought. She was lovely, beaut
iful – truth told, she’d always been lovelier than Raven, her features finer, somehow realer. He could never tell either of them that, because Raven would slap him, and Eden would get that pinched I-hate-you-Charlie look on her face. He kept that thought to himself. And thought that, due to all her frowning, Eden ought to try a dab of fine line cream.

  Thoughts like that were probably the reason Michelle kept telling him he was an incurable asshole.

  Wow, he was drunk.

  “Yeah, that’s their logo,” Eden said, sliding the jar back. “They’ve got a hand in more than just scripts.”

  Phillip sighed. “That makes things a bit more complicated. Miles.” He turned to their youngest. “Start digging. I want to know every last thing about that company.”

  “I’ve already gathered a fair amount,” Eden said.

  “Good, you can share it with him.”

  Miles smiled at her. “I have access to search engines that are…um, off the books.”

  “Of course you do,” Eden said, rolling her eyes.

  “No being above it all,” Phillip admonished, albeit gently. “You’re in my house, asking for my help. We do things my way. Yeah?”

  Eden stared steadily at the president, but Fox saw a little flicker of tension as she clenched her jaw. She wanted to say something, but in the end she only nodded.

  “And while we’re on the subject,” Phil continued, “do they know you were at Devin’s flat today? Did they follow you here?”

  Eden winced. “I’d say there’s a good chance the sniper saw me through his scope.”

  “They didn’t follow us,” Axelle spoke up. “No one could have. I’m sure of that.”

  “My driver,” Eden explained.

  “Nobody followed us,” Albie agreed. “But if they know who Devin is, they’ll know he’s our dad. So.”

  “If they know that,” Fox said, unable to keep quiet anymore. “Then they know he’s a shit dad and that we all hate his fucking guts. So they weren’t worried about upsetting us.”

  It was quiet a beat.

  “The abuse,” Devin murmured.

  ~*~

  “The decision, then,” Phillip said, big, square hands clasped together on the tabletop, “is whether we wash our hands of Devin’s problems, or whether we take on Pseudonym and eliminate the threat they pose to him.”

  “Right,” Albie agreed.

  “No, not right,” Devin protested, leaning forward in his chair. He was nursing his second drink, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, his outrage shining through his usual humor and nonchalance. In a way it was a relief to see; Albie had a hard time remembering he was human, that he actually experienced emotions.

  “I’d expect this from Charlie,” Devin went on, “but not you, Phillip. You would really throw your own father to the wolves? Not to mention,” he went, gaining in volume and expression, “all of you are in this now.” He pointed at each of them in turn. “They saw us all together today, so they’ll assume you know what I know. Everybody’s in as much danger as me now.” Almost smug on the last, falling back in his chair with his arms folded.

  Phillip looked at him, expressionless, and then turned to Albie. “Either way, he needs to disappear. Or at least give the impression that he has. The more permanent the better. The club can get the rest sorted. And we need to contact the other members of Project Emerald, if we can. Their families, too.”

  “Permanent?” at least three voices asked at once.

  Albie turned to see that Tommy, Miles, and Devin had all spoken together and were now blinking at one another in surprise.

  “That means,” Phillip said, patient, always the eldest, “that we need to stage a murder.”

  Fox lifted his head, finally, squinting. “You mean stage, and not actually commit.”

  “That’s right, Charlie.” Phillip hid a smile with a sip of whiskey.

  Fox shrugged. “Whatever. Sounds interesting.” His head hit the table again with a thump.

  Albie turned to Eden, who was, as expected, holding onto an admirable poker face. “Let’s say we needed an official police report…”

  She sighed. “Yeah. I can make that happen.”

  “Excellent,” Phillip said. “Dad, get ready to be dead.” He lifted his glass. “Cheers.”

  ~*~

  The prospect – Albie still had no idea what the poor kid’s name was – took the girls off to find them rooms and towels and whatever else they’d need to stay the night; he had a brief, inward chuckle imagining someone’s ratty old oversized t-shirt being offered to Vivian Adkins. Everyone else trooped down to the pub, save Fox, who Tommy and Miles laughingly dragged to a room to sleep it off, and Phillip, who retreated to his office.

  Albie gave him a few minutes, and then followed.

  His oldest brother sat behind the hulking antique desk that bisected the room, backlit by the smeared orange streetlamp glow coming in through the windows. He glanced up when Albie entered, and nodded and dropped his gaze back to the notebook he was paging through. “Our guests alright?”

  Albie settled in the chair across from him, one of his own designs, pleased by the solid way it caught and held his weight. People could say what they liked about him, but he made solid furniture. “Guess so. I’ll check later.”

  “Hmm.”

  It was quiet a beat. Albie hadn’t come here with any particular question; Phil no doubt had thoughts about what had just occurred, and he would share those he deemed sharable, in a way he deemed fit.

  After a comfortable stretch of silence, Phillip folded both arms on the desk, and looked up, expression weary. “I keep waiting for it.”

  Albie made an encouraging sound.

  “For the police to show up at my doorstep and tell me they’ve fished Dad’s body out of the Thames. You know: ‘So sorry, but the old fuck’s gone and got himself killed.’”

  Albie felt a fleeting smile touch his mouth. “Any particular way you imagine it?”

  “Oh, lots of ways. He’s drunk and falls in, hits his head on the way down. Or he owes someone money – a professional hit, you know. But my favorite is that one of our poor mothers finally does him in. Stalks him night after night, and hits him over the head with a rolling pin.”

  “A rolling pin,” Albie said with a snort.

  “Or a fire poker. Could be anything, really. Don’t mean to go making suppositions about the fairer sex.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Chelle would have my balls for that.”

  “How is Chelle, by the way?”

  “Happy.” A brief, pleased smile touched Phillip’s mouth. Then he sighed. “Damn, Albie.” He wiped a hand down his face. “I don’t want to deal with this.”

  “None of us do.”

  “But I can’t…I mean, should we? Do like Charlie says and just let the old goat rot?”

  Albie opened his mouth to deliver an automatic response…and then closed it. Giving himself a moment to actually have an honest thought about the whole thing. “I…” The problem was, he’d spent his whole life taking all his emotions related to his father and stuffing them down deep, never dwelling, never letting them color the way he lived, the way he loved, the way he decided things. Each of the nine of them had handled their father differently. Phillip, as the oldest, had taken it upon himself to serve as a father figure for the rest of them, and his cool, unfeeling hatred for Devin was well-founded. Walsh wore his hate as an outright coldness. Raven was cutting and sharp. The little ones were torn, as was natural. There was hate, and distrust, but there was longing and sadness there too. Maybe even a bit of hope on Cassandra’s part. Fox had never seemed to have any kind of opinion, relaxed and indifferent (though after today’s display, and Fox’s current state of drunkenness, Albie was rethinking that).

  And then there was Albie. And he…he wasn’t sure how he felt. And that was dangerous. Uncertainty had no place in the MC life.

  “You stopped Charlie at the shop,” Phillip pressed. “You said no, that you guys needed to
come see me, and to protect him. What were you thinking?” He sounded truly curious, like a scientist observing animal behavior.

  Albie swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. “I just…he is our father.”

  “And that means something to you, clearly.”

  Albie slumped back in his chair, wincing. “Don’t head-shrink me, okay? I don’t know. Is that what you want to hear? It seemed wrong to just – to just – do nothing. I have no love for the man, but I’m not keen on letting some massive, shady, government-funded corporation do whatever they damn well please.” He knew that he was breathing a little hard, and made an effort to rein it in. Shit. He hadn’t had a Devin-related emotion in his life; he wasn’t going to start now.

  He reached up and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Shit.

  Phillip chuckled, not unkindly. “Ah, Albie. You suppress too much. It comes back to bite you that way.”

  Albie shot him a glare.

  “I’m not disagreeing with you. I think we should do this. It’s a risk, yeah, but it’s one we have to take. I hate his ass, but I’m not just handing him over. He may be a bastard, but he is our dad.”

  Albie snorted. Twitched a smile. “Yeah. Same.”

  “Charlie’s the most like him, you know,” Phillip mused. “That’s why this is hitting him so hard.”

  “Afraid someone’s going to throw him in the Thames?”

  “One day, maybe, yeah,” Phillip said, more serious than Albie had expected. “But I think there’s hope, because there’s one crucial difference.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Devin’s never been in love in his life. But Charlie has.”

  Eight

  It was actually a relief when Vivian was done inspecting her room, sniffed disapprovingly, and announced she was going to sleep. Once the door was firmly shut in their faces, Eden nudged Axelle and said, “Drinks at the pub?”