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riptide

Ayla

My closet tells a story. It’s one of opulence. I have shoes that cost more than some people’s monthly mortgages. Don’t get me started on the handbags and the designer crap. I get it. Apparently, the Barones are the Joneses or we’re the people the Joneses work to emulate.

But it’s not me. I almost wonder what Christian thinks of me in my old sweatshirts and faded denim or if this is par for the course.

I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t in leggings and tees aside from Dad’s work functions or Mom’s charity balls. I mean, I clean up okay, but I’m still a ponytail kind of girl.

Apparently, I’m a ponytail girl who has Chanel, Dior, and YSL makeup. Alrighty then.

I dress, slather on some sunscreen that smells like stone fruit and herbs, add some mascara and lip gloss.

I add a spritz of perfume because the crystal bottle was so exquisitely cut only to wish I hadn’t.

The fragrance is heavy and thick and is more suited for a formal event in the winter than a day romping in the leaves.

Oh well. Live and learn.

I exit the bedroom and hear the raised voices of the two men that are the most dominant forces in my life.

My father, the loud and boisterous man, who never settles until he gets what he wants.

And my husband, the restrained, strategic one who reminds me of a riptide—lethal and unknowable, until it sucks me under, carrying me to my watery death.

I’m scared by the accuracy.

“Don’t you dare keep her from me.”

“I won’t even dignify that with a response.” Christian’s voice is chilling in its vitriol.

“I’m not leaving until I see her.” That’s my dad’s irate voice echoing off the floors and walls and vibrating down the hall, getting louder and louder.

“Then you’ll wait until she’s ready to see you.”

I’ve missed something this morning. Or rather, I’ve missed more than a few somethings over the last months and years.

I round the sitting room to Christian’s home office and stop dead. He sits, relaxing behind his desk, a cup of coffee between his clasped hands. Dad leans over his desk, red in the face, a single finger pointing his way, spittle flying as he rails about who knows what.

My father’s behavior lets me know he thinks he’s controlling this situation. Large, loud, looming.

But he missed it. No one is ever in control when they can’t control themselves.

Christian is unruffled. Cool, calm and collected, letting my dad work his way toward a heart attack while he owns the space.

He turns his face to me, dismissing the threat that my dad wants to pose with his stance, effectively minimizing him in the worst way he could for a man like my father.

Christian’s ambivalence in the face of Dad’s anger is enough to have my father slap his hand on the desk, rattling the papers and picture frames it holds.

“Seamus.” Christian’s glacial stare rests on my dad. “Check your anger, or I won’t allow you alone with my wife.”

“Allow?”

“I didn’t stutter.”

This is a train wreck I can’t look away from. My husband and my dad blatantly disrespecting each other and me being the poor pawn on the chessboard about to be sacrificed in their war for the Queen.

I lean against the jamb, cross my arms, and stare between the two of them in complete silence. When I have their complete attention and my dad no longer sounds like he ran here from Lakewood, I speak.

“No one allows me to do anything. That goes for you.” I look to Christian, waiting for recognition to hit his face.

When his lips tip up and he leans back in his chair, I look to my dad who seethes, red-faced and opens his mouth.

“And that goes for you, too. I don’t need your permission.

I also don’t need the stress of this.” I wave my hand between the two of them.

Christian takes a sip of his coffee, and Dad bows his head. “Ayla, I need to talk with you.”

“Then talk.”

“Alone.” He looks across the desk before looking back at me. I sincerely hope he doesn’t play poker because he’s shit at concealing almost everything.

“Why don’t you go to the studio?” Christian offers. “I’ll get your coffee ready and meet you down here when you’re ready to go.”

I’m ready to go now . The words are on the tip of my tongue, but instead I nod and turn my back on both of them and make my way to the stairs.

“I can’t believe you let him tell you where to go. I thought I raised a smarter daughter than this.” The disdain dripping from my dad’s words is unmistakable.

I can’t with him right now. Thank goodness I know he’s team Ayla, because the way he’s acting at the moment is so vile, I want to do the exact opposite of anything he says or suggests.

I open the door to the studio. The windows are all covered. It’s black as night outside, and the white shades blend in almost seamlessly with the window casings. I’ll have to ask about that later.

I’m taken from my musings by a man clearing his throat.

I turn and place my hands on my hips, not in obstinance but in resignation, staring at the floor to brace myself for whatever comes next. When I lift my eyes to the man pacing the room. “You came a long way at an odd hour to see me. What’s going on, Dad?”

“I need you to understand, Ayla. You cannot trust that man.”

“You’ve already said that, and I haven’t forgotten.”

“No, but you’re not heeding my warning or you’re not putting enough stock in what I’m telling you. I’m not blind. You came out of his bedroom this morning, didn’t you?”

“I came out of my bedroom, Dad, and?—”

He walks to me faster than I thought he was able and grabs both of my shoulders, shaking me.

“Listen, Ayla. You need to be smart. If you can’t do that, you need to get out.

I wouldn’t mind having intel, but you’ve got to know how dangerous this situation actually is.

” He glances to the door before invading my space.

Stale coffee breath hits me as I’m held captive by his hands and his eyes.

“That man is using you and is certainly trying to get to me. This isn’t a situation you can cute your way out of or circumvent by pretending it doesn’t impact you.

It does. And it impacts me. By association that means your mom and your brothers too. ”

So he thinks I’m either too stupid to understand or I don’t care enough about my family to give a shit?

“And you think I fell for his play and married him because…?”

“He’s obviously very convincing or a very good actor to get you to believe him. He twisted your mind. I’m telling you. You need to watch and take notes. And you must avoid falling for any more of his bullshit.” He lets go of my shoulders and steps back. “It’s important.”

“Right. Well, thanks for telling me this.” Again . I don’t add that but I consider it.

“Ayla.” His anger snaps into place, before he poorly conceals it.

“I’m worried about you. I know you’re smart.

I know you’re independent. But, sweetie, he’s a master, and you’re not at your best. You can’t know what it’s like to be a father and agonize over your family’s safety.

In this case, I’m worried about your mental health and our physical safety. Cut me some slack here.”

I step into him and wrap him up in a hug, mostly because I want him to stop this conversation. He’s laid it out, like I’m an idiot or too dumb to understand. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“You’re vulnerable, and he knows it. It’s terrifying to feel so helpless in this situation.”

He’s not wrong about that.

“Twice you’ve asked me to monitor him. What are you looking for?”

“Cian thinks he’s laundering money or collecting debts through some transactions.

We can’t prove it, but there are some questionable deals that come his way.

Assets that he acquires below market value, flips that are turned too quickly.

Several anomalies—not every transaction—but enough that we’re watching and asking our partners to do the same.

Obviously, those deals should be fairly bid, and if they were, we’d be winning as many as he is.

When something smells this fishy, it’s usually not without cause. ”

“I can do that, Dad, but you need to know I’m not in the industry. We haven’t talked about his company or business, and he’ll be suspicious if I bring it up, so give me some time and offer a little patience. If I’m undercover, I need that.”

“Play it smart. He can’t catch on. Your safety is too important to jeopardize.” He squeezes me back in our hug and lets me go. “I hear you’re going to Cian’s today.”

“Yeah. Shooting and then there for lunch. I want to meet Eleanor.”

“Meet? You’ve already met her.”

“She knows that, but I don’t. And I want some time with Ci, so…” I let the sentence dangle before releasing him. Over his shoulder, the moose stares at me, as if imparting some wisdom I’m not privy to.

I leave the room with my dad following wordlessly.

It’s as if he was safe in my studio but doesn’t want to be overheard now that we’re out in the open.

I walk him to the sitting room door. I open it, and he turns, brushing a fat thumb over my cheek and wincing at the scar above my temple. “Love you, Ayla.”

“Love you, too, Dad.”

I close the door and am surprised to see Christian standing in the hall behind me.

“What was that about? He’s never been here before at this hour.”

Here’s going for broke. I don’t know if it’s the smartest thing I’ll do or the dumbest, but I’m good either way. “You’re a stranger to me. It’s scary… the not knowing. Dad wanted to remind me that I don’t know you and should be cautious.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, that’s the sanitized version. The more accurate one is I can’t trust you and that you’re dangerous.”

His face registers anger before it goes absolutely blank. I’m left in a negotiation of sorts. Only I have nothing to bargain with and I don’t know which game we’re playing.

“I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” He opens his eyes, and his search mine.