“She was yours, Johnny.”
Bullshit. The little shit was trying to get under my skin. Just trying to manipulate me. I’m sure he ran straight home to Nik afterward and painted me as heartless. Too bad the truth’s the opposite. I care so much it fucking hurts. I just keep it buried deep and locked up tight. Letting the monster out? That gets results. Emotions don’t.
What neither of them knows is that I’ve been working nonstop behind the scenes. As of this morning, one of my plays is finally paying off. Everything falls into place if you’re patient enough, and I’ve been patient for years. Eight, to be exact.
I’m pulling up to brunch at the Nashville Country Club, wearing my best future-son-in-law smile. I roll up to the gate in my black Range Rover, and the attendant recognizes me and waves me through. I follow the winding path until the immaculate white facade of the clubhouse comes into view.
Places like this make my skin crawl. Gilded cages for rich assholes to flaunt their money and morals. But it’s served its purpose: I joined to “accidentally” run into Walter Rutledge on the golf course. One round later, he was practically foaming at the mouth to introduce me to his precious daughter.
I valet the Rover, toss the kid my keys, and head inside. Familiar faces nod my way, but I don’t stop. This brunch will already cost me a few brain cells.
“Muffin!”
Rachel’s voice cuts through the air like a dentist drill. She totters toward me on stilettos that could double as medieval weapons, her teased hair defying gravity. With her skeletal frame and glassy eyes, she looks like a bobblehead on a diet of cocaine and compliments.
She throws herself into my arms, squealing. I catch her like the doting fiancé I’m pretending to be. Then she kisses me—open-mouthed, wet, and full of tongue—drawing a polite cough from the table behind us.
“Sorry, Daddy,” she giggles, dragging me toward her parents.
“Jonathan,” Walter greets me with a clipped nod.
“Good morning, Sir.” I nod back. “Rebecca.” I acknowledge Rachel’s mother.
We order drinks, and the conversation slides into club gossip, wedding logistics, and weather. I smile through all of it. Even when Rachel’s hand creeps up my thigh. I grin, lift it, and press a kiss to her knuckles. She swoons, while I imagine snapping each of her fingers. One by one.
After the meal, Walter leans back.
“Jonathan, join me in the lounge.”
It’s not a request.
“Daddy,” Rachel whines. “I was going to introduce him to the girls!”
“Let the men talk, Sweet Pea,” he says with a wink. “You’ll get your show pony back soon.”
I grind my teeth. Show pony, indeed.
He escorts me down the hall, stopping too often to introduce me to his cronies. “Future son-in-law,” he boasts. “Sharp kid with a bright future.”
I smile on cue, shake hands, and play the part. If anyone’s treating me like a show pony, it’s Walter.
Finally, we reach the lounge. Cigar smoke hangs in the air. Leather chairs squeak under the weight of egos. Whiskey decanters sweat on dark oak trays. A staff member ushers us into a private room at Walter’s request.
Walter orders a top-shelf whiskey and a Cohiba. I mirror him, ordering the same.
He swirls his glass and leans back, watching me with a thoughtful look. I prepare to lie my ass off.
“So, son. What’s next for you? I admire the work ethic, self-made and all, but private security doesn’t exactly cover Rachel’s tastes.” He chuckles, like we’re two good ol’ boys. “My daughter’s expensive.”
Understatement of the year.
He thinks I run a boutique private security firm. Not entirely wrong. Just not the kind listed on Yelp.
“I enjoy my work,” I say smoothly, puffing the cigar. “But I’m open to… more lucrative opportunities.”
Walter nods, clearly pleased.
“That’s what I was hoping to hear. You’re sharp. I’ve got a side business you’d be perfect for. It pays extremely well, but, it’s not entirely above-board.” He meets my eyes. “You got a problem with that?”
