Valentine Shepherd: Retribution Part 12

"You're in trouble." He throws a piece of bread at me that bounces off my naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"n.o.body cares about me. A Carressa d.i.c.k-pic would go viral, though."

He stands, walks over, and lies on his side next to me. He runs a finger from my collarbone to my belly b.u.t.ton. "You're starting to show."

I laugh. "You're making me fat."

Blur.

A Frisbee flies overhead, caught by a teenage girl who throws it back to her partner. I'm surrounded by families in a public park, the Seattle skyline glinting in a clear, azure sky. A warm breeze tickles my skin. The gra.s.s around me is so green I think someone's littered the ground with emeralds. A little boy runs up to me with blond hair and gorgeous brown eyes with bursts of green at their centers.

"For you, Mommy," he says, and hands me a dandelion.

I reach for him as he runs away from me to gather more flowers. I feel kisses on the back of my neck, hands resting on my shoulders.

"Let him go," Max whispers into my ear. "He'll be back."

Blur.

I light a paper lantern over the ocean and let it go. Max stands next to me. Tears trickle down his face. We watch the lantern float away until it's only a speck in the evening sky. A tribute to our lost son- In a bittersweet afterglow, Val opened her eyes. Sten breathed hard underneath her, sweat moistening the collar of his dress shirt.

"Do you need me to keep going?" she asked. It wasn't explicitly part of their deal, but if she was going to use him for s.e.x, she could at least ensure he was satisfied. Maybe he'd count it toward her debt.

He laughed. "Val, the generous lover. I never would've figured. Thanks but no thanks. I come when you come. I'm efficient that way."

She slid off him and pulled her clothes back on as he did the same.

"Happy now?" he asked.

Her visions of Max were always the same. They were happy together, then they had a child-sometimes a boy, sometimes a girl-then the child went missing and they were miserable. Max couldn't understand. He hadn't seen it like she had, over and over again. Whatever happiness they found with each other wouldn't last.

"You did your job," she muttered.

"I aim to please."

"You can go."

"I have your permission to get back to my actual job now? Thanks." He opened the car door. "Until next time." Sten stepped out, then dropped his head back in. "And don't drink and drive." He shut the door, got back into his own car, and drove away.

Val closed her eyes and let her head fall backward. What the h.e.l.l was she doing? Having s.e.x with Sten so she could fantasize about a future with Max she was determined to prevent? She was losing her f.u.c.king mind. Val felt around behind her for the vodka bottle. She found it, unscrewed the cap, put the bottle to her mouth, then stopped. An unexpected but familiar taste lingered on her lips, like red meat with a hint of tobacco and mint chewing gum-Sten's mouth. He must have kissed her when she was in her trance. Why would he do that?

Maybe he cared. f.u.c.king Sten. The thought made her laugh so hard she cried.

Chapter Sixteen.

Max tried to focus on the last chapter of Capital in the Twenty-first Century in its original French, but his eyelids kept growing heavy and he'd have to shake himself awake. It wasn't the author's fault. He'd upped his dosage of OxyContin when the previous amount failed to keep thoughts of Val away. His father had begun making appearances in his nightmares, too, lecturing him about family and loyalty and sacrifices, before the touching began. Then he'd wake up in a cold sweat, furious with himself for putting up with the monster for so long, and needing to pop his meds to calm down. And so went his nightly routine.

In the day he'd catch himself thinking of Val, her crooked, sly smile, the smell of apple shampoo in her hair, the salty taste of her skin, the feel of her lips against his, when they'd first made love in the boathouse, their epic fights over a future she couldn't face. He'd wonder what she was doing at any given moment, who she was sleeping with, if she thought of him at all. He would turn his phone over and over in his hands, thinking up excuses to call her just to hear her voice, or maybe set up a meeting so he could see her, until he forced himself to drop the phone, get up, and take Toby for a walk or go for a run instead. The part of him that still loved her wouldn't die, and it wouldn't shut up. So he took extra meds to keep those voices silent. And so went his daily routine, until the days blurred into one another.

After a few more minutes of trying, Max gave up reading. He flipped to the last page and wrote a series of numbers at the top-the winning combination for next month's state lottery. He would leave the book at the library, or donate it to a used book store. If some lucky economist made it to the end, they'd be rewarded with a golden ticket into the world of one-percenters.

Max shut the book, then shook his head, opened it again, and tore the last page out. He'd tried the divine-charity trick before almost twenty years ago, when he was a stupid kid who thought he could use his ability for good. Make the torture of his own existence meaningful in some way other than to feed his father's greed. Lester found out, as he always did when Max tried to exercise some agency without his knowledge. As if someone told him. During the subsequent beating, Lester had "explained" to Max that a dead-on prediction of winning lottery numbers wouldn't go unnoticed by the media. A legion of treasure hunters would track him down. Max had to admit Lester was probably right. Maybe one of these days he'd do it anyway, and jump off a bridge before they could find him.

He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it at the kindling box next to the fireplace. It missed and bounced off the wall, rolling onto the carpet. Toby launched from Max's feet and chased the ball as Abby walked into the living room. She knelt to pet him; Toby eyed her hand and growled.

"Toby," Max snapped.

She gave up trying to make nice with the stupid dog and sat next to Max.

"So...I wanted to talk to you about something," she said.

Max forced himself not to cringe. "Okay." Please don't ask about Val or the bar fight again. Every time she did, and he refused to give details, the tension between them ratcheted up another notch. It was a small miracle the police hadn't shown up yet to question him about the dead guy in the parking lot.

"I want to go back to school for my graduate degree in art history, after our wedding."

Art history sounded like a pretty useless degree. Then again, he had a business degree he never used. Whatever floated her boat. "Okay."

"That's it? Just 'okay'?"

"What else do you want me to say? You don't need my permission."

"No, but I'd like your support."

"You've got my support."

"Do I?"

Great, this was another conversation about Val. He willed himself not to get angry. "You always have my support, Abby." He put his arm around her rigid shoulders. "You'll be my wife in less than two months. I'll always be here for you, no matter what you want to do."

He pulled her to him and kissed her. She relaxed in his arms and nestled her head in the crook of his neck.

"I want to go to couples counseling," she said.

Max felt his calm resolve wane. Another touchy, familiar topic. "You know I can't do that."

"We could at least try it."

"I've been to psychiatrists before. They can always tell I'm hiding something. Then they insist I come clean so the 'healing process' can begin, and I can't."

"So tell them the truth, like you told me."

He pushed her away so she faced him. "They won't believe me." Frustration he couldn't suppress crept into his voice. "I told you because I trusted you, and I could prove it. How am I supposed to convince a psychiatrist I'm not crazy? Jack off in front of him and then spout off tomorrow's NASDAQ numbers?"

"I could back you up-"

"No."

She looked at her feet, her mouth a tight line. "Does Val know what you can do?"

"Stop asking me about her." He stood and folded his arms, holding in the urge to yell. "No, she doesn't know. Only you know. Everyone else I've told is either dead now, or didn't believe me."

Her gaze met his, and he saw doubt in her eyes. Either she knew he was lying, or she didn't believe anything he said anymore.

Max knelt beside Abby and took her hands in his. "I'm only helping Val because an innocent woman is going to die if we don't do something. That's it, baby. I promise. There's only you." He meant every word. Val didn't trust him, and she didn't love him. Val was gone, no matter if his heart couldn't accept it. Abby was with him, and she loved him. Abby was all he had.

Through tear-rimmed eyes, his fiancee asked, "Then why haven't you made love to me since the day you met her for coffee?"

Max froze. s.h.i.t, was that true? It was. "I-" His mouth moved, trying to come up with an explanation, but nothing came out. He'd been busy searching for Margaret. He'd been taking too many pills. And his stupid preoccupation with Val was distracting him from the things in his life that mattered. Max felt the heat of shame flushing his cheeks. G.o.ddammit, he could get Val out of his system. He could fix things with Abby. He could.

The bong of the front door intercom interrupted their painful conversation.

Abby's jaw clenched, and she let out a slow, controlled exhale. "I'll get it." She rose and disappeared down the hallway toward the intercom next to the door.

Max took a deep breath, forcing himself to think clearly and not panic at what an outside observer would think was the slow death of his engagement. He needed to get a hold of his life again. He'd get in Abby's good graces again, have s.e.x with her and remember what she felt and tasted like, and all the other things he'd enjoyed up until a couple of weeks ago. He would remind himself why he loved her-because he did love her.

He went to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee from the fresh pot Abby had brewed a few minutes ago. Maybe later he'd go for another jog to clear his head. From around the corner, he heard Abby invite somebody in over the intercom. He'd leave for a three-hour run right then and there if it turned out to be Ginger. While she remained out of sight, Max snuck to the liquor cabinet and dumped a couple of shots of whiskey into his black coffee. Toby trotted over and barked at him.

"You're not in a position to judge, rageaholic," he said to the dog's accusing eyes.

A minute later, Michael Beauford walked into the kitchen with a twelve-inch square box in his arms. His craggy face split into a genial grin. "Max! How are you, my boy?" He dropped the box on the kitchen counter, then embraced Max in a hug.

Max wasn't big on hugging, though he made exceptions for certain people. Michael was one of them. The CFO of Carressa Industries was the closest thing he'd had to a father figure, and had been Max's only supporter during his run from the law last year.

After Michael hugged Abby, she kissed him on the cheek. "I'd love to stay, but I said I'd go shopping with Carrie." She leveled Max with a cool half-second glare, then left. Dammit, he would make things right with her.

Michael crooked his thumb toward the box. "That was on your doorstep when I came in. Doesn't feel like a bomb."

"Thanks for potentially getting blown up for me. Coffee?"

"Nah. The wife's banned caffeine, thinks it'll cut my life short. Like living to eighty-six instead of eighty-seven is a real tragedy. I'll take a gla.s.s of water, though."

Max poured him a gla.s.s, and they sat down at the kitchen table.

"How's life treating you?" Michael asked. Though he leaned back and relaxed in his chair, he looked Max up and down with wise eyes that took in Max's every movement for clues to things unsaid. Max squirmed under the scrutiny. He had a lot to hide these days.

"Eh, you know." Max shrugged. "Abby's busy with wedding minutiae. We've been...okay." He sipped his coffee, wincing at the whiskey he forgot he put in there.

"Wow." Michael made a popping sound with his lips. "You really know how to spin a picture of premarital bliss."

"Every couple has their ups and downs. So I'm told." He'd had some casual relationships before, got good at faking o.r.g.a.s.ms for a sheen of normalcy, but none of them had come close to being marriage-worthy-not counting what he'd had with Val, which was in a cla.s.s all its own.

"True enough." Michael drummed his fingers on the table. "I'll be honest-I'd like to say you look good, but you really don't."

Max frowned. One thing he'd always liked about Michael was his friend's ability to tell the truth to people's faces. Max usually appreciated the candor. Not today.

"I'm fine. Everything's fine," he said, but couldn't meet Michael's eyes. The CFO had seen Max messed up before, knew what he looked like when he was off the wagon, as he'd been right after his father's death. He didn't want Michael to worry about him.

"Well, good," Michael said. "I'm glad you moved on from all that unfortunate business last year. I thought you'd take more time to settle into your independence and hard-won freedom, though. You look like a man suffering from whiplash, trying to change too much too fast."

Max brought his coffee cup down on the table with a hard clink. "Are you saying I shouldn't get married?" Who the h.e.l.l was Michael to lecture him about how to get on with his life? No one knew the entirety of what he'd been through-no one but Val.

"I'm not saying that," Michael said in a softer tone, perhaps sensing he'd pushed too hard. "All I'm saying is that you look like s.h.i.t. Maybe you need a break from...whatever it is you do all day. Knitting, I a.s.sume."

"You came over here to tell me to take a vacation from knitting?"

"No, actually." Michael straightened in his chair. "I came to talk business."

"Let me guess-the board's finally found a way to force me to sell my shares."

"No again." Michael chuckled. "I'll have to tell them you're not, in fact, a fortune-teller."

Max choked on his coffee.

"I know, I kill me, too. But seriously-they want you to come back to the company."

Max wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "They want me back on the board?"

"Yes, in some capacity, though probably not CEO again, sorry. Carressa Industries has been turning a quarterly profit at about the market average since you left, which as you know is worse than average for us. We're used to performing ahead of the pack, because that's the way it's been for over a decade-right about when you joined the company. Lately our quarterly earnings have come in under expectations, and shareholders are panicking. End of the world, might have to sell their yachts, et cetera. They don't think it's a coincidence that the pinnacle of our prosperity just happened to coincide with your tenure. They don't know how you did it, but they know it was you."

Max remained silent. Only his father knew he used his ability to decide which companies to acquire and which to divest of at exactly the right times. There was no way anyone would guess he could literally see the future, even if that was the only explanation. And Max highly doubted his father would've told anyone else. He was a prized family secret, a golden calf to be bled dry.

"I am the board's emissary of goodwill. We want our financial genius back, and we're willing to make generous concessions-embarra.s.singly generous, even. Name your price. So...are you bored with knitting yet?"

Max chewed on his thumb for a moment. He honestly didn't know what he thought about the offer. He was tiring of the charity circuit. Raising money for worthy causes was definitely fulfilling, and he relished the opportunity to finally contribute to the world in a positive way. But all the expensive dinners and fancy galas with rich, boring people were beginning to wear on him. And when he wasn't doing charity stuff, he was doing...nothing, really. Puttering around the house. Reading. Exercising. Popping pills. Obsessing over Val. Fighting with Abby. A better way to occupy his brain did sound appealing, though going back to using his ability for the company's financial gain felt too much like old times.

"How long do I have to think it over?" Max asked.

"However long you need. Or until you get arrested again. Whichever comes first." Michael leaned toward Max, a new intensity in his eyes. "Listen, kid. Take it from me when I say the Devil makes work of idle minds, and you have one h.e.l.l of a mind to get up to no good. No amount of drugs is gonna whip that sucker into submission if it doesn't want the life you're trying to live."

Max flinched. Before he could offer a reb.u.t.tal, Michael clapped him on the shoulder and stood.

"I'd say my emissary mission's complete. Come back to the company or don't, it doesn't matter to me, honestly. I'll probably drop dead any day now, so what do I care? Do what you wanna do, Max. Simple as that. I'll see you soon, I'm sure, one way or another." He gave Max a quick hug on his way out the door.

Max rubbed his temples and leaned against the kitchen counter, next to the mysterious box. G.o.dd.a.m.n Michael, he knew Max too well. Of course he could tell Max was on drugs. Everyone could probably tell, except poor Abby. She wanted to believe the best in Max, and ignored most evidence to the contrary-until recently, that was. The truth would crush her.

It's cruel of me to keep her hanging on. I should let her go.

The thought hit him like a punch to the stomach. If he couldn't make it work with Abby, he couldn't make it work with anyone. He would make it work. The next time he'd see Michael would be at his d.a.m.n wedding.

Max grabbed the box and ripped it open without concern for the frailty of its contents. He expected to find an early wedding gift, maybe a five-hundred-dollar gravy boat. Instead, buried beneath layers of tissue paper, he pulled out two masquerade-style masks; a wolf and a fox. Max turned them over in his hand. They looked handmade and high-quality, like the mask he'd worn at the Blue Serpent party last week. He set the masks down, picked up the box, and scanned its sides; no address label. Finally, he turned the box upside down and dumped everything out, tissue paper and all. An envelope fell onto the counter. Max ripped it open and pulled out a card made of smooth papyrus that read in cursive script: Maxwell Carressa and Abigail Westford You are cordially invited to the Northwest Mountain Lodge on July Thirty-first at Ten O'clock in the Evening Formal Attire, Masks Required Bring Your Sorrows and Be Cleansed A small coiled blue snake was embossed on the bottom of the card-the Blue Serpent. Max guessed he held in his hand an invitation to the coveted top-tier event, despite his bad behavior at the lower-tier party. a.s.suming Lucien ran these things, why would he want to bring Max into the inner fold? He couldn't imagine he had anything Lucien wanted. And the requirement of a tuxedo as well as the addition of a significant other probably meant something more substantial than a drug-fueled orgy.

He dropped the invitation on the counter and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. With a trembling hand, he dialed Val. Finally, he had an excuse. But this was the last time. It rang, and kept ringing.