Page 12

The rain lashes against the windows in a torrent of violence, the weather warning us winter is around the corner. I look at the traffic far below, a blur of navy speckled with red and white lights, before taking out my cell phone and scrolling to my photos app. It’s been another long day of meetings after a late night in the office yesterday.

My thumb hovering over the icon, I wonder what the hell I’m doing. Why I am even entertaining this ridiculous nonsense.

But I can’t stop thinking about her. Taylor Peyton. The fiery, contradictory minx who looks like she’ll fall apart one second and rip out my guts the next. She’s like the weather in Tibet—sunny one moment, pouring rain the next—calamitous and unpredictable.

A fucking hurricane blowing through my calm and orderly life.

The fireplace crackles, providing more warmth inside the luxurious confines of the gentlemen’s club within The Orchid, where I’m waiting for the rest of the guys to show up for drinks.

“It’s been six years! I’m over this! The past is in the past!”

“I’ll never understand twisted men like you. You can’t get hard without hurting women?”

Her vicious words and haunted eyes float to the surface again. The way she stared at Ian in horror. The fear in her eyes at ABTC and at The Sanctuary. She’s out of her fucking mind and I shouldn’t pay her any attention, but a niggle of doubt bothers me like a phantom itch I can’t scratch.

What if?

“You never listen to us! You always think we’re overreacting! Look what that got us, Charles! Look what happened to Firefly!” Liam shoved me and I staggered back, collapsing on the pavement, the storm drenching my clothes.

I blow out a heavy breath. What if I didn’t listen this time? But that doesn’t mean I need to entertain the whiplash moods of someone clearly disturbed.

“Charlie, it hurts,” Little Firefly cried as she burrowed her face into my side. The little pipsqueak was so short, she barely reached my chest.

I ruffled her sunset strands. “Just a skinned knee. Next time, don’t go climbing on the monkey bars without someone with you. You’re too short for them.”

“Will you come with me next time?”

Smiling, I gave her the biggest hug—my bear hug, as she liked to call them. “Of course. I’ll always be here for you.”

My broken vow to her. One that’ll haunt me the rest of my life if she doesn’t wake up.

My throat is parched as I scroll through my photos app—I don’t take a lot of pictures, so there aren’t many to go through before I get to the ones from six years ago.

I smile at the images of Firefly—her grinning at the camera, her smile teeming with life, a pile of books gathered in her arms. One of the three of us back at the Hamptons—the last time we were there as a trio—her waving her hand in hello, her silver bracelet flashing under the afternoon sunlight, Liam throwing his head back, his sleeve of tattoos on full display, and me staring at the two of them, a smirk twisting my lips.

Then, there are the photos Uncle Ian sent me back then. Snapshots of him in Paris, teaching ballet in his academy there, him relaxing on vacation in the Mediterranean. I distinctly remember making fun of him for not being back stateside, claiming the hot European women must’ve kept him busy. I click the social media app and scroll through his posts from that time. Everything was in Europe, just like I remember.

He wasn’t here. He wasn’t in New York. Whoever hurt Taylor, Ian had nothing to do with it. But whoever it was, I suspect it was something physical to elicit such a vehement reaction at The Sanctuary last weekend.

The thought of someone snuffing out her spark makes me want to punch something, and the sudden burning rage rising inside my chest terrifies me.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. And another. I won’t turn out like my dad.

“Why are you gripping your phone like it’s your worst enemy?”

Startling, I turn around, noticing Maxwell leaning against the doorframe, his charcoal eyes narrowing at me pensively.

“What?” A forced chuckle escapes my lips as I slide my cell phone back into my pocket. “You’re overthinking. I was just waiting for you guys, although I expect Rex to be late. No doubt he’ll have some women troubles to entertain us with.”

“Hm.” The oldest Anderson sibling doesn’t appear convinced. I walk to the wet bar and pour him a whiskey—single malt, neat, the way he usually likes it.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “Of course you know my favorite drink.”

Maxwell’s gray eyes, reminding me of a certain angry ballerina, fix on mine again, and I fight to maintain the grin on my face.

“You don’t let anyone in, Charles. You know we’re here for you, right?”

I huff out an exhale and stare into my tumbler. “I guess we have that in common, don’t we? Aren’t you ‘the reclusive billionaire?’” It’s one of the nicknames the press has given him over the years.

“At least I don’t hide my true self. You hide under your charming smiles and golden prince persona.”

Taking a sip of the alcohol, I wince from the burn. “Maybe it’s part of the curse of being the oldest sibling in the family.” Except he’s loved by his siblings and I’m just a fucking failure in that department.

Something dark flashes in his eyes and he stiffens before looking away. I’ve hit a nerve, but the man is as locked down as Fort Knox, and until he’s willing to share his secrets, no one will know them.

Maxwell lets out a grunt. Apparently, that day isn’t today. “Maybe. But it isn’t healthy, bottling up your emotions. I have art and racing as outlets. What about you? I don’t see you pursuing any interests outside of work, nor do I see you with women. That can’t be healthy.”

I have my occasional subs. But I don’t bother mentioning that weak ass argument.

I press my lips together as a sudden hollowness appears inside my chest.

An outlet?

I’m thirty-six and single, with nothing going on other than my job. Yes, I have lots of friends and am well liked in the business community. But my brother hates me, and Firefly is in the hospital because of me. I’ve had a few superficial relationships with women, and have tried pursuing women I admire—emotionally intelligent, kind, gentle women, everything Mom isn’t—but somehow, they’ve always ended up choosing other men.

Perhaps other men who could give them their whole hearts. I can’t say I blame them.

I don’t want a passionate relationship, one like my parents’, whose every living moment is fire and brimstone—intense love, hate, and all the emotions that end up burning everyone around them to cinders. But I do want a genuine one.

But am I capable of that?

Until I figure that out, all I have is Grandma’s company. Her pride and joy, and protecting it the best I can because it’s the one thing I’m proud of…contributing to her legacy and adding my mark to it.

“Who has time for all that shit when running a company and battling PR scandals is a full-time job? Not everyone can multitask like you, Maxwell,” I reply.

He opens his mouth to say something, but the door bursts open and in strides the rest of the guys—Steven leading the pack in his three-piece black suit, but unlike his former workaholic self, his tie is loosened. It seems like being in love has finally softened his hard edges.

He’s laughing with Ethan, who’s shaking his head in amusement. Ryland is frowning at a stack of papers in his hands. Rex trudges in a few minutes later, his hair in disarray. He heads straight to the wet bar.

“Remind me never to take women on dates again,” Rex mutters.

“What happened? They expected… commitment from you?” Ethan gasps in mock horror.

“You know what they say, the higher the mountain, the more people want to scale it. I don’t do relationships and these girls don’t seem to get it.”

We settle in the living room area and face the roaring fireplace.

“Aren’t you tired of it? Flings and one-night stands?” Ethan asks, his voice turning serious.

Rex shrugs and stares at the fire, a sudden heaviness on his frame. “It’s all I’m good for. Not everyone is cut out for relationships… requited or not .” He pins Ethan with a penetrating stare.

Ethan’s nostrils flare and the two have a silent stare down, seeming to communicate something we outsiders can’t seem to understand.

“Touché,” Ethan murmurs. “I swear, someday, I’ll get you to admit this playboy persona of yours is just an act.”

Rex curves his lips in a half-grin, the spark not reaching his eyes. “You’ll be waiting for a long time then.” He turns to his older brother. “What about you, Ryland? What’s got you smiling like an idiot over there? What are you reading?”

Ryland jolts upright in his blue tufted armchair, and stuffs his papers to the side. His amused smile turns into a scowl. “I’m grading papers, you idiot.”

Rex waggles his brows. “Papers, eh? Any hot coeds in class? Ohhh, Professor Anderson, I’ll do anything to pass this class,” he says in a fake high-pitched voice.

Ryland rolls his eyes and sits back in his chair. “Unlike someone, I’m capable of controlling myself. I teach ethics, you dimwit.”

Steven mutters under his breath, “He’s not saying there’s no one.”

The guys guffaw and Ryland’s glower darkens, a vein throbbing on his temple. He takes out the papers again and his red pen flies across the page. There’s something going on with him.

“What about you, Charles? You look off today. Something bothering you?” Steven asks, and everyone turns toward me.

“What did I say? We know you too well to buy into your bullshit,” Maxwell mutters under his breath.

I hide my annoyance by taking another sip of my drink, which buys me a few seconds to come up with an answer that’ll hopefully fool some of the smartest people I know. After all, Fleur Entertainment’s exponential growth isn’t because they have idiots as management.

Something occurs to me—a misdirection. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the sexual assault scandal at the bank.”

The guys nod.

I tell them about the plan—the international ballet tour, Uncle Ian joining ABTC as the artistic director. And how I’ll even need to oversee parts of the tour myself because my trust in my team is lacking at the current moment.

“Hey, you said ABTC? Have you met our half sister yet?” Rex quips.

I frown. Half sister? Isn’t that Grace? I glance over at Steven and cock my brow in question.

“Grace has a younger sister who is a ballerina at ABTC. Taylor Peyton. Black hair, same eyes as these idiots,” he supplies.

I jolt. What the fuck? They’re related? Heat creeps up my neck. “Pissed off all the time, likes dark makeup, wears an equally dark piercing on her nose, and pale as a snowflake? Yeah, I’ve met her.”

Unfortunately.

Rex leans forward in, clearly interested. “That’s a lot of description from you, Charles. What? You interested in our sister?”

“You’re fucking insane. That woman is as approachable as a feral cat.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “She’s a ball buster. That’s why she’s my favorite sister. She doesn’t mean any harm. Don’t sweat it.”

“Don’t let Lana hear you.” Ethan smirks.

My brows pinch as I survey the room. The guys don’t appear at all concerned about Taylor. Perhaps because they’ve only recently connected as siblings, they don’t know her well enough yet? I glance at Steven, finding him furrowing his brows at me in confusion, like he knows I’m withholding something from him.

But it isn’t my place to tell them what happened with Taylor at ABTC or The Sanctuary.

I return Steven’s gaze with a shrug of my own.

“Did you see the bloodbath on the market yesterday?” Ethan asks.

“Can’t believe Canterbury Pharmaceuticals went down in a few hours. Someone’s engineered that,” Steven comments. I think all of our investment portfolios went down at least fifteen percent yesterday. It’s not every day you see a Fortune 500 giant go up in flames.

“Rumor has it Senator Townsend is behind it. He’s allegedly part of The Association.” Ethan frowns.

“I’d avoid that mess with a ten foot pole,” Maxwell comments, his eyes darkening.

My ears perk up at the organization Grandma mentioned all those years ago, but I bite my tongue, remembering Grandma’s warning, which seems to be confirmed by Maxwell’s ominous comment.

My mind trails to a woman the epitome of lightning in the skies—awe-inspiring yet lethal, who’s apparently related to my best friends. No fucking way. I shove my thoughts to the side.

I couldn’t care less about a certain ballerina with hair the color of midnight magic and eyes that seem to shimmer and transform with her moods.

I couldn’t care less about a woman at least a decade younger than me, a woman who’s too volatile, a ticking time bomb waiting to explode and take down everyone in her vicinity.

A swirling heat gathers in my gut and spreads to the rest of my body and I gnash my teeth together.

I don’t care about her. I most definitely don’t like her.

Not one bit.