Page 4 of Rough Ride

“Kye?” Eliana asked when she realized he wasn’t behind her. Seeing he was still standing in the doorway, his blank expression was only disrupted by the slightly panicked and apologetic look in his eyes. Before she could chime in a protest, the door slammed shut. It might as well have been the slamming of a coffin door.

“Miss,” the man to her left said and gestured for her to move farther into the room. As she did, the two of them took their place on either side of the door effectively barring her exit.

In the complete contrast to the foldout table, chairs, and cement floor of the room she’d just entered from, this office was like the cover of a Forbes magazine. The carpet was a short-cropped white that made her worry she was tracking mud. The walls were also white with marble textured reflective flecks of gold. In front of her was an alabaster desk with only a single white leather chair behind it.

To her right was an L-shaped chaise lounge sectional with an all leather, cylindrical resting table in the center. A wooden tray with a decanter of amber liquid and four glasses was the only color the formal sitting area offered. What drew her attention, however, was the gray-marble sculpture in the corner.

The six-foot figurine was a large, flawlessly polished hand whose fingers cradled a bird with intricately carved feathers. The hand was in a slightly strained position, and yet its fingers were not coiled around the bird. Rather it cradled with surprising gentleness considering the powerful figurine. She was still staring at it when the door on the left side of the room slammed open and startled her.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to take a piss toting this piece of shit around?” A man with gray hair emerged from the office bathroom carting a wheeled oxygen tank behind him. He was tall, around Kye’s height, possibly taller, but the way he stooped to pull the tank made it hard to discern. He had thick hair he kept trim and despite obviously having health issues, the muscles in his arms and hulk of his abdomen were evident in the fitted shirt he wore.

Despite his earlier question, Eliana remained silent as the man took a seat behind his desk and pulled the air tube from his nose before taking up the cigar that had been resting on the glass tray on his desk.

“Miss Granville, I presume?” he asked rhetorically as he leaned back in his chair and examined her.

“As ordered,” she retorted, and he smiled in amusement. “Max Strong, is it? Or do you prefer ‘your highness’?”

“Max will do just fine, as long as you mind your manners,” he said, flicking a bit of ash on the tray. “I see you’re admiring my statue,” he observed, his thick Southern accent sounding more prominent. Clearly, he hailed from Tennessee or Kentucky by the sounds of it.

“It’s beautiful,” she admitted and glanced back at it. “I’m not familiar with the artist, though.”

“Oh, you likely wouldn’t be,” he stated. “It’s a local talent. Some young kid from the community school. In fact, all my pieces are bought or commissioned from the local school.” He held his hand out indicating the framed pieces around the room. The colored abstract paintings complete with sculpture and ornate bookends on the desk made quite the collection.

“That’s charitable,” Eliana said, still rooted to her position.

“You sound surprised.”

“Hate to break it to you, but your reputation doesn’t scream ‘local-do-gooder’,” she said, tossing a glare in his direction.

“There’s a town full of people out there who would disagree with you,” Max said, setting his cigar down again. “Maybe I’m not the villain you think I am.”

“Maybe you’re exactly who I think you are,” she countered with both eyebrows raised. He grinned again and stood to walk around the desk toward her.

“Do you know what this piece is called?” he asked as he stood next to her, his presence not nearly as sickly as she would have expected from a man on oxygen. “Power,” he said, answering his own question. “You see, the artist understood the nature of authority. Like a bird, it’s fragile, elusive, and at any time it can just… fly away,” he explained with a wave of his hand.

“Yet the hand is holding it,” Eliana said, not chancing to take her eyes away from Max. “That begs the question, who has the power? The bird with its ability to fly away or the hand that can hold on to it?”

“I like you, Miss Granville,” Max said, smiling at her. “You’re smart. You can see clearly that the bird can flee or the hand can grab. But if that hand grips too tight, he’ll kill the very thing he’s trying to hold on to. There’s a level of understanding between the two, I think. One of the many reasons I liked it.”

“So what’s our understanding then?” she asked, cutting straight to the point. Max stepped just slightly closer to her, and Eliana refused to back up as he looked down at her.

“All in good time, little bird,” he said in a deeper tone. Well, there was no confusion on roles in this situation. Max placed his hand on the back of her shoulder and guided her to the couch where he had her sit. “Your daddy was an enterprising man,” Max began as he lifted the glass lid to the decanter and poured two glasses of the gold brandy.

“My father was a drunk and a criminal.”

“There’s no need to bad-mouth the dead,” Max said, handing her a glass, and she was surprisingly grateful for it.

“There’s no need to romanticize them either,” she said, taking a sip. Max dipped his head to indicate she wasn’t wrong.

“You know he had a deal worked out with some of the less reputable men from my chapters a few years ago?” Max asked as he took the seat to her right.

“I’ve heard a few things,” Eliana replied vaguely.

“Miss Granville, it is in your best interest to be straight with me. While I like a good verbal spar with a beautiful woman, as you can see,” he said, gesturing toward the oxygen tank by his desk, “my time is running short.”

“I know my father was conning contracts with the lumber suppliers. He was charging commission for deliveries based on miles of road while transporting on the train line. I know he was working with a man named Dean to use a boxcar on the train to tote the lumber trucks. In return, the cars would ride back with stolen goods my dad would drop off. I don’t know where or what the items were. Until the night we were run out of town, I didn’t know my dad was involved with anything to do with the Screaming Demons.”

“Am I supposed to believe that? Your daddy would come home with more money than any shit blue-collar job could ever pay, and you thought, what? He got lucky on some gas station scratch tickets?”