Page 71 of Addicted

Do we kill Lark’s brother and earn her hate? Or do we leave him alive and earn the wrath of Adam, as well as potentially a whole host of future problems?

Often, I’m glad that I’m not the heir to the Tailors.

We leave Lark at the warehouse, venturing out into the rapidly-cooling air of the evening as we take one of the trucks to the rendezvous point. We sit in silence, no one knowing quite what to say after Aeron told the others Adam’s edict with regards to our bird’s brother.

We’re soon pulling up to the site of the stables, and our mood grows even more somber to see the scorched earth and little else left. All that remains of Adam’s beloved stables is a light dusting of ash, and it makes my brows knit together with the thought of the suffering of those poor horses like Blue who were trapped.Fucking Soldier scum.

The site manager, a Tailor called Ralph, strolls over, greeting us before motioning to about a dozen other Tailors waiting to unload the wood ready for the contractors who are due in the morning.

“Everything is all set, Mr. Tailor,” he says to Aeron. It should feel strange that a man in his late forties is showing such deference to someone over fifteen years younger than him, but Aeron, and to a lesser extent ourselves, have had this treatment for most of our lives, so it’s become the norm now.

Soon after, a large HGV pulls into the lot, and our usual driver steps out alongside his son, walking over to us.

“Evenin’ Mr. Taylor,” Burt greets, dipping his head at Aeron, then the rest of us.

“Good evening, Burt. John.” Aeron always remembers everyone’s names, it was why it was so amusing that he purposefully called Lark Dove. “I take it you had no issues?”

“No, sir, everything was smooth as usual.”

“Good. Why don’t you take a little walk? Come back in, say, half an hour?” Aeron suggests, and they both nod, taking off towards the field next to us. “Ralph.”

Ralph calls his guys over, and they get to work unloading the wood from the truck. They make quick work of it, calling quietly when they get to a piece that looks like all the others but is clearly lighter, the edge looking like several pieces stacked together.

“Thanks, boys,” Aeron says, sending them back to the truck as he inspects the piece.

“Coffin concealment?” Knox asks, and Aeron nods.

“Looks like it.”

“Worth a lot?”

“Three million.”

Knox cracks his neck, blowing out a breath and going to open the trunk of the truck. He pulls out a slim crowbar, themoonlight glinting off the metal as he walks towards us and crouches down to run his palm over the wood. His forehead creases in concentration and then he smiles.

“Bingo.”

With a care that should not be possible for such a large man—he’s clearly the biggest of us all in terms of muscle and bulk—he gently slides the end of the crowbar into a tiny gap that I didn’t see until that moment. With careful movement, he levers the crowbar, taking his time and not rushing until the lid of the piece pops off and slides to the ground, revealing the void underneath it.

Inside, wrapped in dark cloth is what I assume to be a square painting, something we’re used to dealing in and what we were expecting. Knox opens the cloth to reveal the glint of an ornate, antique frame and a brightly-colored canvas.

“Load it in the truck. Rupert’s waiting,” Aeron tells us, arms folded over his chest as his eyes dart over to the Tailors still unloading.

Rupert is our crocked art dealer, a former auctioneer of Christies, London and now has his own fine art auction house here in Colorado. We won’t be selling this through him, he doesn’t deal in stolen goods, but he does help us to check their authenticity for our clients, to ensure that no one gets fucked over in a deal. It’s one of the reasons why our reputation is so good as middlemen, we cover all the bases.

“Aye, aye, captain!” Jude salutes, and I’m not the only one having to press my lips together at his antics. Even Aeron’s mouth twitches.

Jude and I gingerly lift out the painting, carrying it over to the truck where Knox already has the hidden compartment in the trunk open. We place it inside, ensuring that it’s well padded and covered, then shut the compartment and the trunk.

We watch as Aeron speaks to Ralph, then leaves a large envelope of cash in the glove box before he heads over to us, his dark navy suit bringing out his stormy eyes. He really is beautiful, but has never swung my way so I’ve not pushed it.

“Let’s go meet Rupert. I want to get back to our little Dove.”

Me too, brother. Me too.

“GROWING UP CAN GO TO HELL” BYMARISA MAINO

LARK