The Inheritance (Volume Two) Page 8
“I don’t want to talk about him. I want to talk about you.”
Neal waves his hand. “Ask away.”
“What made my father want to pass the business onto you and not George, or someone who’s been at it longer?”
“I don’t really know the answer. Only that your father and I were very close. He trusted me more than he trusted anyone. Especially George. He’s an idiot.”
“He adores you.”
“Which is the only intelligent decision he’s ever made.”
I laugh and Neal’s eyes light up.
“There’s a lot of responsibility on your shoulders, isn’t it?”
Neal nods. “I can handle it. Julian knew that, he was grooming me for it. Besides, this is all I’ve ever wanted out of life.”
There it is again, the flash of my father standing in Neal’s shadow. One in the same.
“Can I ask about your parents?”
“Depends on what you want to know.”
“You said your mother’s from South America?”
“She is. Immigrated two years before I was born. Met my father, a German immigrant who owned a deli in Little Italy. I grew up selling sandwiches to men like your father. Rich and successful men who admired my father’s work ethic but pitied him for wasting it.”
“Was your father doing something he loved?”
“Of course, but I make more money in a year than my parents ever had in their bank accounts.”
“Are they still alive?”
“Yes. They live in Hawaii, in a house I paid for.”
Neal slowly crosses the room, each step bringing him closer to me. Our bare toes press together as he slides his fingers beneath my chin, craning my head up to meet his.
“That’s enough about my parents,” he says with a smirk. “I want to focus on you.”
Our mouths are centimeters apart when I break away.
“What’s wrong now?” Neal says.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
I lock the bathroom door behind me, my feet slapping against the cool tile as I make my way to one of two sinks. Am I prepared for another round with Neal Dietrich? A night of passionate kisses and touches that create the border between love making and fucking?
I need to wipe off my eye makeup. There’s nothing worse than waking up to someone else’s stained white pillowcase. Under the sink, I rummage around for an extra roll of toilet paper when my fingers slide across a slip of glossy paper.
It’s a photo of Neal, a few years younger, his hair a bit longer, arm thrown around the waist of a pretty woman with long black hair and olive skin. They’re grinning at the camera, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, his lips turned towards her hair. On the back, a messy scrawl reads, Alanis + I, Hawaii. A girl he took home to his parents.
I throw the photo beneath the sink and clean off my make-up. I’m not naive enough to think there weren’t women before me – Look at him! – and I’m not stupid enough to think there won’t be women after. What’s important is I’m the woman here with him tonight.
Neal sits on the edge of his bed in nothing but his undershirt and boxers, undressed and ready for me.
“I was going to get started without you,” he says, leaning back on his elbows. His undershirt rises, exposing a portion of his abs and the trail of dark hair leading into his boxers.
I shrug off my dress. It pools around my ankles as I slink towards him.
My hands grip his knees and I lower myself to the floor, the same position as the night before, only now our roles are reversed.
“Since you waited I’m going to let you come in my mouth.”
His cock instantly hardens.
Neal pushes a strand of hair behind my ear.
I stick my tongue between my lips and lick his boxer covered bulge.
Eleven
Around two am I make my way to the kitchen, tucked away towards the back of the house, off the back deck and fenced in yard. There’s a pile of dishes in the sink. Pots and pans heavy with grease and egg and various shades of red sauce. On the fridge, a note, written in Neal’s erratic but neat handwriting: Marta, remember to hand wash.
I down a cold bottle of water, my arm thrown across my stomach, bare feet flexing against the floor.
I’m leaving soon. We both know it and yet whenever I bring it up something flickers in Neal’s eyes, a glimmer that says he doesn’t believe me, that he can keep me in Chicago forever but there’s nothing for me here. My mother, my job and my apartment are in Baltimore but what about my heart?
I almost choke on my laughter. I’m transforming into one of those women, the ones who throw logic and reason out the window for a handsome man. But Neal isn’t just handsome. He’s successful, smart and engaging but – and I must remember this – he’s just like my father, he just hasn’t shown all of his cards yet.
If I were to wait it out (which I won’t) I’d end up like Gina, or Darlene, or my mother, dramatically curled in the shower, scrubbing my skin raw until the water turns cold.
The voice comes from behind.
“Two seconds,” she says, followed by a loud click. Something heavy presses against the back of my skull. “Tell me who you are and what you’re doing in this house.”
My stomach drops. “I…I…”
Her shoes stomp against the wooden floor, the heavy object sliding from the back of my head, to my ear, to my cheek, until she’s standing in front of me, the barrel of a gun fixed between my eyes.
Her black hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, sharp brown eyes trained on mine. Her small mouth is puckered in a menacing pout and lathered in pink gloss that stands out against her olive skin. The girl from the photo in Neal’s bathroom. Alanis.
“I’m being generous,” she says, waving the gun in my face. “You’ve got five more seconds to explain yourself.”
“My name is Caitlin.”
“Caitlin what?”
“Caitlin Wheeler and --”
She drops her arm. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
My eyebrows furrow as she takes a step closer, inspecting every element of my face, starting with my hairline and ending at the curve of my chin.
“No shit,” she says. “He really is fucking you.”
She grabs a handful of her dress, army green with a deep brown belt around her waist, and pulls it up her thigh. She locks the safety and pushes her gun in the holster before her dress falls around it, concealing the weapon and the three brown freckles above her knee.
I imagine her laying on Neal’s bed, hair splayed across his pillow like a halo, knees parted as his lips travel up her shin. He reaches her knee, tongue peeking between parted lips, connecting her freckles like a constellation. Her leg, the sky. Her body, the universe.
“Who are you?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
The corner of her mouth quirks up. “Of course he didn’t tell you about me. Is he up?”
I follow her up the stairs, her feet skipping every other step. She’s wearing boots in summer, black with white laces, thick green socks peeking out of the top. She’s the epitome of a cute tough chick. Someone who can kick your ass and fuck your boyfriend without giving you a second thought.
She kicks open Neal’s bedroom door. “Hey, asshole,” she says.
The dark blue sheets of his bed are ruffled, pillows slept on and misplaced, but Neal’s nowhere to be found.
She whips her head around. “Where the fuck is he?”
“What are you doing here?” Neal steps out of the closet, dressed in nothing but his briefs, wielding a long silver bat. The handle’s wrapped in black, the red and blue Chicago Club’s logo curved around it.
Alanis pushes out her leg, she tugs her dress over her thigh, exposing the gun. “I’ve come to save your ass.”
Neal’s face falls. His confident mask cracks open to reveal a sliver of vulnerability, the corners of his eyes turning down, his lips fixed in a soft frown.
“How long?” he says.
Alanis checks her watch (she still owns one of those). “Fifteen minutes.”
He drops the bat. The metal sings against the wooden floor, click-clack-click-clack-click-clack as Neal moves quickly into the closet.
“Why didn’t you come earlier?” he growls.
“I did,” Alanis says, crossing her arms over her chest. “But I ran into your girlfriend first.”
I expect Neal to come storming out, his face fixed in a serious expression, mouth tight and eyebrows furrowed as he glances between Alanis and I. She’s not my girlfriend.
He steps out of the closet, a leather bag in hand. Packed and ready to go.
“Did you pull a gun on her?” he asks.
“I’m right here,” I say.
My own voice sounds foreign to me, bursting in the air like a popped balloon, sharp and surprising, drawing the attention of the other two people in the room.
Alanis tosses a perfectly raised eyebrow over her shoulder. “I did,” she says. “But she’s fine.”
“Once again,” I say, stepping past her. “I’m right here. What the hell is going on?”
Neal tugs on a pair of jeans. “Get dressed,” he says.
“Did you not hear me?” I say.
“He heard you,” Alanis says. “But we really don’t have time for this. Twelve minutes.”
A humorless laugh passes my lips. Neal tugs on a t-shirt, ignoring me as he slides on a pair of expensive sneakers.
“She held a gun to my head,” I say.
“Caitlin,” he snaps. “I need you to get dressed now.”
“I’m not doing anything until someone tells me what’s going on.”
“Ten minutes,” Alanis says.
Neal picks up my dress from the floor and pushes it into my arms. “We’ll explain in the car.”
“You’ll explain now.”
Alanis dramatically throws up her hands. “It’s Lee Geon,” she says. “He’s pissed the fuck off and the only thing that will make him feel better,” she pantomimes a gun, “is a bullet through Neal’s skull.” My eyes widen. “Four of his cronies are on their way over to shoot up the place and make it look like a robbery gone wrong.”
I glance at Neal, hoping this is all part of some game but he raises his eyebrow and says, “Now, can you get dressed?”
I nod.
Alanis spits out a sigh of relief. “Eight minutes.”
______
I shuffle in the backseat of Alanis’s SUV, Neal in the passenger’s seat, Alanis behind the wheel, the three of us hunched down as we watch the street through the back window. There’s no one out this time of morning, Neal’s neighborhood filled with the sound of early birds chirping in the dark.
“One minute,” Alanis says.
Two bright lights appear down the road. Shining yellow orbs, the size of marbles, growing with every second.
My chest tightens. “Is that them?”
Neither Alanis nor Neal answers, their gaze fixed on a grey Honda, four doors, economy. Manufactured for teenagers or middle class moms who need something to cart around their kids. As non-descript as you can get.
All four doors open. The men are dressed in black – black hats, black jackets, black pants, and black shoes – the perfect color for blood stains. I think of Neal’s suit at his party and Carl’s blood splashing over his wrists.
They crowd around the front door, three covering one as he expertly picks the lock in seconds. One of them brandishes a gun from his hip as they storm inside the house.
Alanis starts the car, calmly driving to the end of the block, then around the corner where she presses her foot hard against the gas and floors it.
It’s all in my head – the sound of gunshots, of couches flipped, glass shattered, bullets ringing out in the night – but I can’t shake the image of Neal’s ransacked home.
I’m not naive enough to think we can call the cops. The Chicago PD knows to stay out of disputes involving my father or Lee Geon. “You’ll work it out,” I remember a police officer telling my father the summer after the FBI raided his apartment. A hand clapped against his shoulder, a relieved smile on his face. Thank god we don’t have to deal with this shit.
“What’s Lee pissed about?” I ask.
Neal meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I’ve screwed him over for years and taking over your father’s company is the biggest fuck you I could give him.”
Alanis scoffs. “That’s not the only reason and you know it.”
Neal shoots her a warning look.
“What’s she talking about?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Neal says.
I lean forward in my seat.
A small smile plays at the corner of Alanis’s mouth. “A relationship built on lies is a sinking ship.”
Neal ignores her, fixing his gaze out the passenger side window.
“Do you know Carl Geon?” Alanis asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Yes, you do,” Neal says, his eyes flickering to mine. “Carl. The guy from the club.”
His sweat-stained face flashes in my mind. “Carl’s last name is Geon?”
Neal nods.
“So that means --”
“Carl was adopted. He’s Lee’s brother. A few nights ago this idiot,” Alanis punches Neal’s shoulder, “broke four of Carl’s fingers and his nose. The icing on a poisoned cake, Lee was already sending Neal’s way.”
Neal won’t meet my eyes in the rearview mirror.
“And now Lee wants to kill Neal?” I ask.
“Or cut off a couple of limbs,” Alanis says, casually, like she’s ordering her morning coffee.
A sliver of panic raises inside of me. “And there’s nothing we can do?”
“Of course there is,” Neal says, “We can beat Lee at his own game.”
My skin pales. “You mean kill him?”
“No,” Alanis says. “I mean yes, that’s exactly what Neal means. But there might be another way to get through to him.”
“How?” Neal says.
“It has nothing to do with you,” Alanis says, glancing at him. In the rearview mirror our eyes meet. “And everything to do with Caitlin.”
Thank You!
Writing The Inheritance (Volume Two) has been such a wild ride. I hope you’re excited for more! If you enjoyed volume one, please let me know in a review on Amazon and Goodreads. I depend on you, the reader, to craft an enjoyable and steamy story.
The Inheritance (Volume Three) will be released in November. For updates, cover releases, other exclusive goodies, and to connect with me personally please LIKE my Facebook page.
Once again, thank you!
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Other Works by Zelda Reed
The Inheritance
Part One
Escape
Part One
Part Two
The Kids Who Were
Volume One
Volume Two
About the Author
Zelda Reed has never met a glass of whiskey she didn’t love. A Los Angeles native, she moved to the windy city of Chicago to complete a degree in Fiction Writing before falling head over heels for every romance novel she could find. Writing is her passion and she lives for making her readers happy, using her novels to spread a little more love in the world.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Table of Contents
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One
Two
Three
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Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
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