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His lips—framed by a dense but neatly shaped beard—close as his face turns up in confusion. “You having an outing with friends I don’t know about?”
I snort at his remark. Jacques has been the only friend I have ever had. The only person who showed he cared and never left. He knows me better than I know myself.
He raises a dark eyebrow, the sun highlighting his perfectly chiselled cheekbones, the piercing in his left ear glinting.
“You and Penelope are going on a date then. Got it.”
I cringe inwardly. “Did you come here just to disrupt my peace?”
He flashes me his white teeth, eyebrows wiggling. “Always.”
“We’re meeting with the networker.”
He shoots upright in the chair, the black top he’s wearing stretching over his muscled arms from years of boxing. “I thought the meeting wasn’t until next week?”
“That’s why Penelope was here. He wants to meet tonight. He doesn’t want to risk the other gang getting word of what we’re doing.”
“A bit suspect, don’t you think?” He grabs my book and starts flicking through the pages.
He’s the only one who I ever allow to look at my artwork. He’s loved it since we were kids. We used to dream about how I’d be a famous artist one day and make enough money to last us a lifetime.
The latter can still hold true.
But I don’t like anyone else looking at the way I see the world. And especially not now that my art has declined over the years; it’s like my fingers can’t translate what’s in my head. The lines are all wrong, and I can’t finish a single drawing. I used to draw landscapes. But since that day… the inspiration just isn’t there. Whether Jac has noticed or not, he doesn’t say.
“It’s a great deal. It’ll give us a profit of at least one million. He has a legitimate reason to fast-track the deal. Any other reason and I would’ve told him to wait. He wouldn’t be able to turn down that kind of money.”
His eyes widen, a low whistle leaving his full lips. Closing the book, he leans back and contemplates, folding his tattooed arms over his chest. “How much did you offer him?”
“Seventy thousand and five percent profit,” I reply smugly. That’s the lowest of the low for that kind of profit. But, since Aidan already has multiple clients in that area who offered him even less, he couldn’t pass it up.
“You crafty fucker.” Jacques smiles.
“Shipment still on the way?”
“They’re about five hours out. Everyone’s ready to go when we give the word.”
I gather my book and supplies from the table, being careful not to smudge any charcoal down my shirt, and give him a salute with my free arm.
I make my way through the warm oak and black decorated halls of the mansion towards my bedroom. Passing maids clear dust off the modern square wall lights placed an equal distance from each other. They smile at me, and I nod my head at them in acknowledgement.
Entering my bedroom through the dark oak door with a vertical privacy window, I throw my book on top of the glossy, black desk to the side of it. The afternoon light beams through my open windows, the silky net curtains swaying gently in the late warm summer breeze. I like to keep everything neutral in the estate, and luckily, Jacques was in agreement. There’s enough chaos within our business; we don’t need that in our home too.
I amble to the en-suite bathroom, decorated in black marble paired with gold accents.
Opening the mirror cabinet, I pull out a full pot of tiny pills.
Alexander Warren
To be taken once a day for ADHD symptoms as prescribed.
Bullshit. No amount of medication ever helped calm the swirl of chaos in my brain. These pills are ten years old, and I still remember the day I stopped taking them. Nothing changed, but I found ways to cope. It took a damn long time. Something wasn’t right, and Jacques was on the receiving end, but he still doesn’t know I’ve stopped taking my pills. He’d force me to take them, and he’d blame any obsessive episode on the fact that I stopped. But he knows damn well that what happens inside me can’t be diagnosed by a doctor.
And I’m coping.
For now.
I shove the pills back in the cabinet and slide it shut, making the contents rattle.
