Chapter 7
Vaughn
Of course my father kept a well-stocked bar in his mistress’s home. Why wouldn’t the bastard? Remy Martin Black Pearl Louis XIII Cognac. Elit Vodka. Brugal Papa Andres Rum. My old man and his whore have expensive taste.Had. They had expensive taste.
I stare at one of their pictures that hangs behind the bar. I wonder how long it went on—and how my mother or Chloe hadn’t noticed. He always was a few steps ahead of us, doing everything in his power to keep his dark little secrets.
A hard, self-indulgent man was what my father was, and the Radcliffes were nothing more than gold-digging con artists.
I hate my teenage self for falling for their bullshit. I wasted so much energy and emotion on that girl, hell, I thought I was going to die of heartache when that all went down.
Fiery bitterness churns in my stomach.
I guess I always sort of understood what my dad saw in Libby Radcliffe—any man who wasn’t blind would. She had a captivating sexuality that seemed to hit a man hard, bring him to his knees. That’s how my father explained it to me at least. Shewasbeautiful back then. Her daughter, though, her daughter was,is, well, let’s just say her mother could never hold a candle to her. I’ve never met another woman who could.
I pour myself a seventy-two-year-old single-malt Scotch Whiskey and try to wash away the image of Claire Radcliffe from my mind.
But Lord, those lips.
Flawless ivory skin and striking eyes that made the color of tropical water look dull. She always had this way about her, this look. Like she was the sun. One of those girls who even when you tried not to look straight at her you saw her everywhere. She shined. Her warmth touched everything. The girl I once missed with a never-ending ache that I didn’t think would ever stop, she haunted me. For a while it pushed out all reason and sense in my life, until I just numbed to it—to the realization that me and Claire, we were never going to be allowed to see one another again. We were the Montagues and Capulets. Because of what her mother did, we would never be together.
I gulp back another drink.Damn, this whiskey goes down smooth.
Smooth like Claire’s bare skin.
How long has it been since I’ve seen her? Nine years now? Maybe ten. I think back on that night, not so long ago, yet another lifetime away. I can still see Claire in that short white sundress she wore, sitting across the fire from me. The way the hem of her skirt rode up her thighs making me sweat—making all my friends sweat—so much so it drove me crazy with jealousy. Every one of my friends wanted her, but back then she only had eyes for me. And I was a teenage boy, possessed by her. Irrevocably infatuated with her. I would ask her questions just for an excuse to stare at the way her mouth moved. I’d call her up before falling asleep hoping to dream about her. It was like having a head injury.
None of that matters now. Any feelings I had toward Claire are dead and gone. Right now, the only emotion I can muster is utter disgust for my father and his mistress. I wonder if those other envelopes his lawyers held this morning were a sort of monetary inheritance for them, an inheritance he stole from his own family to give to his secret one.
And why was this cabin left to me? The shittiest situation he ever personally put me in was having an affair with Claire’s mother. It created a war zone in our home. My parents fought for years over it. Why would he leave me something that would let me know he was still a heartless asshole? Why would he want me to know he was still enthralled and obsessed with the same woman for over a decade? What did Claire and Libby get from my father? Did he shower them with the love and attention he so harshly withheld from my family? By the looks of this luxury cabin, he definitely gave them money, but he had plenty of that to go around. Until now.
Another drink and my shoulders feel looser. Fuck the Radcliffes. This cabin will go right to my mother and Chloe. I just need to erase every inch ofthat womanand her daughter before I let them inside.
A low vibration sound cuts through my thoughts. Something buzzing against wood, like a phone on silent.
That’s exactly what it is, someone’s cell phone, forgotten on the dining room table. It buzzes again. Curious, I walk over and pick it up. It’s an older model iPhone with cracked webbing that stretches across the entire screen. Claire must have left it here. It lights up in my hand and a preview of a text message fromMomflashes up at me:Your lack of response makes me wonder if you like the idea of your cunt on everybody’s phone and email.
I thought she said her mother was dead. My pulse speeds up.
Why the hell would her mother text that? It’s sick.
I’m not the kind of man who invades people’s privacy, but I need to know what the hell is going on. Curiosity and disgust have a tug-of-war with my insides. I must have read it out of context or maybe my eyes are playing twisted tricks on me.
I hit the message preview and the phone automatically opens. The damn thing is so old there’s no password needed.
Mom: Are you at their cabin yet?
Mom: I gave you explicit instructions to stay in contact with me.
Mom: Have you found the offshore accounts?
So, Claireisafter my father’s money. Did him and his whore set up offshore accounts to hide his money from my mother and sister?
Mom: Do you think this is a game, Claire?
Mom: I said a week, for not answering me you lose a day.
Mom: Believe me, Claire, you don’t want me to share all these pictures.
