"Initially, I thought, it's no wonder Samuel's unmanageably disobedient. His mother's not a good role model or leading by example." Spacing twelve freshly baked vanilla cupcakes onto the kitchen's marble island, I spooned white icing into a piping bag and spiralled frosting. "I pre-judged. Mrs Ashworth loves her son," I swapped the white icing for green, "but she's exhausted. Haggard. You can see she hasn't had an easy life."
Liam's the cynosure of tonight's bake-off. He's unhelpful in the decorating department but companionably at my side, sampling flavoursome buttercream. "I prefer the chocolate," he praised, sucking decedent caramel cream cheese off his thumb. "Not a fan of this one."
"I like caramel." Spooning a dollop to my mouth, I savoured the taste for an honest review and frowned. "Is it supposed to be that salty?"
His lip twitched. "No."
"Oh." Setting the caramel glaze aside, I picked up the yellow piping bag and squeezed small flowers onto the iced-grass cupcake. "Well, I don't need mud, anyway." It's hard to concentrate when the man's scrutinising every mishap. Freshly showered with imposing muscularity, he's bare-chested and wears low-hanging slouch pants, a photo-worthy specimen. "You need to put a T-shirt on."
Folding his strapping arms, Liam put his back to the counter. "Why?" He did not attempt to conceal his vainglorious smirk. "Do you not approve?"
Heat flooded my cheeks. "It's distracting."
My aroused awkwardness amused him. "I would love to say the same about you." His fingers effaced something from my cheek. "The facial flour shelves approbation, though."
"Trendsetting means nothing in the kitchen." I laughed, spraying edible gold glitter across decorated creations. "If you exclude the heels, of course."
"Of course," he imitated in a hollow whisper, inspecting the black six-inch Stuart Weitzman shoes on my feet. "So, this Samuel kid. You think he's one of our errand confrères?"
"Would you recognise him if I showed you a picture?"
"Doubtful. Nate manages street underlings. I merely authorise transactions." When I proffered the phone to show him an image of Samuel on the Inseperable Youths' website, he zoomed in on the screen. "Even if I knew of this boy, what do you require? Preferential treatment? Safeguarding?"
If Samuel's embroiled in the syndicate, even if his involvement is that of a small-scale, I want Liam to consent to his instant dismissal. Samuel's better than opioid addiction and the life of organised crime. "Give him the boot. Eliminate his drug supply."
Liam set my phone on the counter. "I will inquire," he said, texting someone on his phone. "I can't promise anything." He eyed me then, quiet and reflective. "I assigned you a new bodyguard. Alfie. He's part of Club 11's elite security team. I trust him to do right by you."
Yes, I remember standoffish Alfie. He usually guards the door to Liam's office. "Why do you always allocate temperamentally disinclined Suits? I am a talkative person. If you insist on forced companions, the least you can do is give me somebody conversational." A thought occurred. "Can I keep Josh?" Josh is the brother I never had. We are like two peas in a pod, unrelated twins separated from birth, a bunch of diabolical busy-bodies who understand one another. Life's fun when he's around, and he's the most entertaining driving instructor. "Please?"
"No," Liam said resolutely, and my shoulders sagged. "Don't give me that face. I need Josh with the brothers."
I suppose. "Will Alfie teach me how to drive instead?"
"Josh can proceed with lessons."
Somewhat relieved, I glanced at the cupcakes and felt the blood run cold in my veins. Icing thawed and lost their colourful identities. "What's happening?" I watched in sheer horror as the once thick frosting melted down my fingers. "Liam?"
"I am not a profession pâtissier," he half-joked, eyeing the liquified mess, "but shouldn't you wait for the cakes to cool down before icing them?" With a half-cocked smile, he snatched my wrist, brought the ruined cupcake to his mouth and sank his teeth into its crumbling destruction. "Artistically clinquant and delightfully appetising." He slowly licked buttercream from his upper lip. "I admire your work."
And I appreciate his white lie. "Can I ask you something?"
Liam used a paper towel to wipe his mouth. "Go ahead."
"A teenager's abused by his parents. Would you gather additional information and report it or coax him into an admittance?"
"If parents victimise their child, then both scenarios significantly correspond," he answered vaguely. "Why?"
"There's this boy." Gathering dirty bowls, I loaded the dishwasher. "I worry about him."
He watched me intently. "Do you believe he's in peril of his life?"
"Yes—no. No," I said firmly, unsure of the words I speak. "I don't know, Liam. I'm new to this stuff."
"This stuff," he repeated, extracting a whiskey bottle from the cupboard. "Yet, you of all people comprehend the accuracy of child abuse. You lived it." He poured himself a glass of strong liquor. "If anyone can help this lad? It's you."
I inhaled through my nose. "How do I get him to talk?"
"Easy." He downed whiskey in one mouthful. "Don't shield him from the truth."
His response was ambiguously enigmatic. "What does that even mean?" I asked, and he chose not to answer. "How would you handle this situation? Would you rough him up for some harsh truths?"
His eyes were scarily dark and Rhadamanthine. "No, I'd simply eliminate the problem."
Cold shivers slithered up my spine. "By throwing the rule book out of the window."
"I am not a law-abiding citizen," he reminded me, refiling the glass. "If guardians abuse their power to oppress and mistreat the young and vulnerable, they warrant far more than incarceration."
I wilted under his unsmiling watchfulness. "Do you suggest I kill his parents? Free him from their contemptible sins?"
"I would never encourage my wife to commit murder." The neanderthal yanked me in by the elbow, caged me in a tight, inescapable hug and peppered kisses along my jawline. "I am, however, offering my services for a small price."
"What does his lordship require?" My arms enveloped his broad shoulders. "I thought you were above bribery?"
"One kiss from you," he whispered against my lips, and I could almost taste the whiskey on his tongue, "and they'll be dead before sunrise."
"No, Liam." His seriousness caused my heart to stutter. "We cannot murder his parents. It's unforgivable." If we killed them, Logan may uncover the truth and hate me. "Leave them unscathed. Meanwhile, I'll do whatever I can to earn his trust."
For an extended period, we stared at each other, both silent, wordless. He broke eye contact first, turning his head away from mine to reach for the whiskey glass. "What's the lad's name?" he asked casually, sipping a generous amount of alcohol. "Presuming he has one."
I recognised that look. Cold, deadly, threatening. "I'll check the file tomorrow." I cannot trust Liam with Logan's personal information. He's mentally equipped to intercede, act on my behalf and unburden Logan with or without an agreement. "I can text you," I lied once again, hoping he'll forget our conversation by tomorrow. "So, the cakes?"
"Yes, the cakes." He nabbed the ugliest cupcake and held it between us. "Why must we bake again?"
I missed out on cake decorating at the youth centre. "I baked. You unhelpfully stood back and stared at my ass all night."
"I did." He takes a large bite, talking with a mouthful. "You have a great ass."
Nowadays, I have nothing to flaunt. But again, I appreciate his white lie. "If I ordered a new batch online, do you think Matthew will notice? I can arrange them in a container and pretend I knocked them together."
"Who cares if Matthew believes you?" he clipped, repulsed by thoughts of me working so close to a male. "You don't belong in a place like the centre. Come back to the club and work beside me."
No, I am too jealous. If I see one naked, promiscuous dancer make a pass on him, I'll throw her over the glass balcony to her unstoppable death. "I don't want to work at Club 11."
"Why?" he asked sharply. "I will pay double."
"It's not about the money." We share wealth anyway. "I like it there. It's refreshing. Rewarding."
Giving me a meaningful look, Liam put the half-eaten cake to my lips, tempting me to taste. I opened my mouth to sample the goods, but he tossed it on the counter and snatched a kiss from me instead. Tasting chocolate on his tongue, I pulled myself into his awaiting arms, felt the cold marble suddenly on my backside and spread my thighs for him. Kissing me hungrily, fiercely, he stood between my thighs. "We don't need these." He knocked the disastrous cakes and decoration supplies onto the floor. "Or these." Hiking my dress to the waist, he tugged the lace thong down my legs while simultaneously freeing his hard shaft. "Moan for me," he ordered, right before his thick fulness rammed into me.
So much for a great British bake-off.
Josh had a set of keys to the Manor. He never knocks on the front door or informs me of his presence. Every morning, I find the sticky-fingered ghost inside the kitchen, foraging the fridge freezer, scavenging fruit punnets and cartons of orange juice. On the sly, he overindulges carbohydrates and saturated fat: buttered toast, bacon sarnies, whole milk and jelly gumdrops. His unquenchable gluttonousness originates from Nate's strict, uncompromising fitness regime. When left unattended, the poor sod craved everything in sight. "Not a word," the secret binge-eater warned, scarfing down everything but the kitchen sink. "Nate can't know, Alexa. He'll grill my ass for weeks. And you know what? I am sick of late-night track and sprints. I hate running—I just hate this fucking diet."
"Hey, if it's any consolation," I motioned to his muscular transformation, "Nate's proficient. I mean, look at these arms." Curling my hand around his bicep, I gave his tense muscles an investigatory squeeze. "See? You used to be lean and sylphlike—"
"Sylphlike?" he barked, raising his shirt to examine his washboard abs. "I have never possessed a feminine waistline." His deadpan eyes drilled into me. "I could bench one hundred and thirty-five pounds with those lissom arms, so what are you saying?"
"Impressive," I mocked. "How much can you bench press now? You know, since Nate's gruelling training sessions?"
Josh's lips puckered. "Three hundred?" he deliberated, biting into a slab of mature cheddar. "Bit more on a good day."
My brow raised. "I rest my case."
Although Alfie, the cheerful, green-eyed, auburn-haired Suit who's unpredictably loquacious, accompanies me from house to errand to work, Josh continues to coach me behind the wheel. Venturing to unoccupied car parks to drive around in monotonous circles for an hour ceased to exist. I am confident enough to steer the Bentley onto main roads and ease towards traffic lights without running through a red light. I stalled on six occasions Monday, three times the day after and only once this morning. Music and pedestrians no longer distracted me. Josh's carping dwindled. Liam promised new wheels if I pass my test.
"It's in three days," I said, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder. "Come on, Jace. I need you." Conveying boxed arts and crafts to the youth centre's grand hall, I used my hip to shove open the main door and flinched at the ear-piercing sound of teenage rowdiness. "Please?"
Jace's weary breath sounded in the receiver. "Am I there as your friend or as a temporarily hired sports coach?"
Why did I tell him Andrew broke his ankle on the field last night? Now he suspects an ulterior motive. "Friend?"
"You sound unsure."
"Well, I want to see my best friend. If you cannot assist the young, sad and demoralised teens in winning what might possibly be the centre's first championship in over fifteen years, I won't hold it against you."
"Fine," he relinquished after a beat, and I bellied relief. "Text me the details—wait. Did you get the email from Grayson?"
Gray invited me to attend happy hour at a local cocktail bar next weekend. "Yes, I haven't replied yet."
"I'll go if you go," Jace said as I dropped the heavy box onto a random table. "I can drop you home if Warren's cool with it. It'll give you a break from security."
I doubt Liam will agree. "I'll mention it to him tonight."
"Sure. I'll message you later."
"Love you." Ending the call, I stuffed the phone in my jeans pocket, flipped open the box and rearranged supplies: colourful paint pots, crepe paper, glitter and confetti. Stumbling across unopened spray cans, I pondered experimental utilisation, but nothing sprang to mind, so I set them to the side.
"Do you need any help?" someone asked in a shy yet manly voice. In my peripheral, Logan appeared at my side to read tinned labels. "I'm not good with a paintbrush. I can hang shit." He scratched the back of his neck. "You don't have to climb on the ladder and all."
Logan's always the last teen to arrive and the last teen to leave. Locking up scattered, puzzling thoughts, I played it cool. It's completely normal, him being here, offering to assist. "Unfold the tables," I said aloofly. "Come back to me once you finish."
Nodding once, Logan retreated, and I espied him near the back door, clicking table legs into place. Assured I had hallucinated or mentally fabricated the entire conversation, I blinked rapidly, left him to assemble visitors' chairs and carried the paint pots to Jesminder. She's in the process of creating a Greek island-inspired background for the teens' Mamma Mia concert. "Here." Setting supplies on the wooden floor, I peered up at the spectacular floor-to-ceiling scenery. "Who's our Sophie?"
"It's between Christie and Ashley." Wiping her grubby hands in an apron, she climbed down the metal ladder and chose brilliant white silk. "Do you need a paintbrush?"
"No." I backed away from the crazy lady. "Don't trust me anywhere near your art, Jes. I will ruin it."
Jesminder waved me off. "Good riddance then."
I stepped off the stage and ran straight into a dismayed Matthew. "Alexa?" His hand on my lower back, he steered me towards the craft table. "Notice anything unusual?"
God, I am popular today. "Unusual?" My eyes roamed over his tight, suspicious features. "You grew a beard." The man prefers to be clean-shaven. "Fancied a change?" No, he visited the barbers. They cut his brown hair short at the sides. "I don't know, Matt. Help me out."
"Logan," he whispered, throwing a thumb over one shoulder. "He's early."
"Oh," I extended exaggeratedly. "Yes, he offered to help."
"It's odd." Matthew rubbed his chin. "The sun's out. Logan only comes here at night."
"Don't make a big deal out of it," I advised, having noticed Logan keeping a close eye on our tête-à-tête. "What I have learnt, in my short time working for you, is that all our teens are stubborn by default. You tell them to go left, and they'll go right and so forth. They hate people advising or telling them what to do. I am in the preliminary test stage of practising imperceptible persuasion."
Matthew's brows shot to his hairline. "I like it."
"Good." I smiled at his commendation. "Also, a friend of mine offered to stand in for Andrew. I figured you could use the extra muscle for the football championship."
"Great." He sighted Trudy wandering somewhere behind me and visibly shivered. "I'll be in my office if you need anything."
The teenagers attributed to Inseparable Youths' imminent fair. With a helpful hand from team members, they basked in fun-based activities and transformed the hall into a splendid theatre.
I paired Logan and Christie, which could be disastrous. If the duo decides to kill one another by the end of the night, I will not be surprised. Whilst they argue over the recently delivered candy floss machine, I unpack boxes of multi-coloured bunting flags. "Miss Haines—I mean, Mrs Warren." Lifting his ball cap to smooth a hand over dishevelled hair, Samuel trudges alongside me, dodging strewn boxes on the floor. "I, uh, I did that thing you said." In his rigid hand, a creased sheet of paper. "It's that, uh, you know. That thing."
"The drawing?" I asked, and he nodded. "Let me see it."
Coughing into a tight fist, he submitted the sketch. "It's shit." A shade of blushed red glided up his neck and sweat dripped from his temple in beads. "Actually—"
I turned in time to dodge his hand, unfolded the paper and studied his work. He'd vibrantly chalked patterns and designs, but not in the typical sense. It was graffiti art on a smaller, restricted scale. "Samuel..." The spray paint beckoned consideration. "It's incredible."
"Yeah?" He looked sceptical. "I added black to outline and smooth the surface."
The centre, he'd scrawled. Dream big.
With a microphone in hand, he'd drawn a young, black male, who very much resembled his friend, Tre. Behind Tre, the back of another young boy, Samuel. They stood close yet to the side of the others: music notes, aesthetic sports logos and hidden messages.
"Come with me." Lifting a box and heading outside, I walked past the occupied benches and engaged courts with Samuel near, set supplies onto the grass and pointed to the dominating brick wall. "Do you know who did this?"
He glanced at the faded graffiti. "No."
Uncapping a spray can, I handed it to him. "I want you to cover this wall with your art. Recreate the drawing on a large canvas. Leave nothing out." I placed the drawing by his feet. "Not even the cryptic symbols."
Testing the weight of the can, Samuel sprayed a long white line across the shambolic display. "What about Matthew?" He pulled the grey hoodie off over his head, fixed his cap backwards, swapped the white spray for brown and squirted the brick. "He'll expel me for vandalising."
"Let me handle Matthew." As I walked away, he whispered something under his breath. "What was that?"
Samuel looked at me and understanding stretched between us. "Thank you," he said respectfully. "For what you did with my Ma."
I offered him a pleased smile. "You didn't get an ass-whooping then."
"No, Ma'am. I got a McDonald's, though." With flushed cheeks, he sprayed curves and bends onto the wall. "We don't get those much."
My chest caved. "Maybe if you behaved more...?"
"Nope." His puckered lips made a tsking sound. "Ma works three jobs, and we still struggle. You know, that's why I like to help with money and stuff."
An admittance sat on the tip of his tongue—dealing drugs. "Get the wall finished." Leaving Samuel to his own devices, I returned to the hall to finish the buntings. Upon arrival, in heart-stopping slow-motion, a marshal of nonchalant, tailored men, one by one, came through the central door in an orderly fashion. Everyone stopped to stare at the unexpected visitors, the youth workers, the kitchen staff, the atypically subdued teenagers. Speculative, brooding silence descended. I, however, with a small degree of uneasiness, fell into action before my husband made himself known. Ignoring Liam's deplorably intimidating men, I slipped through the increasing throng, ducked into the crammed, dimmed hallway and collided straight into someone's chest. I knew it was him. I recognised his pungent cologne, the ringed fingers adhered to my waistline, the overwhelming imperiousness limiting our breathing space.
Craning my neck to meet his intense blue eyes, I stared in reverence, in bemused speechlessness. "You can't be here," I whispered, and as I tried to move him away from the curious hall, he seized my wrist, thwarting non-literal defenestration. "Liam, people fear you."
"I am not here for them," he said, the fury in his gravelled voice strengthening innermost anxieties. "We need to get you out of here."
"What?" I struggled to disengage from his tenacious grip. "Liam, what the hell? Quit manhandling me." Opening the centre's front door, he stepped out into the frosty night with me shielded behind him. "What's going on?" Black Bentleys crammed either side of the road. From one parked vehicle, Alfie soared from the driver's side to nudge Brad's knuckles. "Why so many men?"
Frolicsomeness danced in Brad's eyes. "What's happening, Boo?" He licked a toothpick to the comer of his mouth. "Causing trouble again?"
"Liam?" Not understanding Brad's equivocal raillery, I withdrew my arm from Liam and rubbed the soreness he inflicted from my wrist. "Can someone please tell me what's going on?"
"Counterfeit license plates." Ignoring my existence, Alfie addressed his boss, showing him captured images on his phone. "Four vehicles. Armed men. Early twenties, perhaps. They drove down," he motions to the road, "stopped right outside the building and waited—kept the engines running, too."
Incapable of hiding anger, Liam flicked through the photos. His thumb and forefinger enlarged a shot. "I can't see their faces." He gave the phone back. "Gun activity."
"Christ," Brad growled, toothpick wedged between gritted teeth. "Impending drive-by?"
"I reckon," Alfie concurred, and the severity of their conversation dawned on me.
Brad rested his back to the parked vehicle. "Why didn't they hang around?"
"Warren merchandise." Alfie motioned to his personalised licence plate. "Those docile delinquents might pose a threat, but they know better. If Alexa has a bounty on her head? They'll get the job done. Incognito. No mishaps or opponents."
Since when did I have a bounty on my head? "But they outnumbered you," I stated the obvious. "Why not kill you and then take a hit on me?" No, something doesn't add up. I have never noticed strange activity here, nor have I felt threatened or endangered.
Disorderliness echoed from the centre behind us. While the men debated, I glanced across the road to see Samuel exit the building alongside Tre and the others. Paying no heed to the imposing Suits and humming vehicles, they gaited down the street, loud and leary.
Chewing my thumbnail in contemplative numbness, I half-listened to Liam relay orders when harrowing probabilities sprouted to mind. "It's not me," I whispered, tugging on Liam's suit sleeve. "They weren't here for me. They came for Samuel." He disregarded me, so I pulled harder. "Liam, listen to me—"
"What?" he snapped, thrusting a hand through his hair. "I need a fucking minute to think, Alexa."
"It's not me," I stressed, and his brows met in bafflement. "They want him."
Liam's confused gaze drifted over my head to watch Samuel and his friends turn the street corner. "We can't be sure." Pertinaciously refusing to consider possibilities, he opened the Bentleys passenger door and gestured for me to climb in. "You'll stay home until I figure this out."
I stood my ground. "It's the centre's fair this weekend. I must be here."
"No, you will stay at Manor, where it's safe." He dismissed his men with an arrogant click of the finger. "Don't fight me on this, baby," he growled, putting us nose-to-nose. "You will lose."
"I can tolerate your overbearing dominance in the bedroom but not outside." Feeling impossibly enraged, I shut the door and put my back to it. "Liam, I married you for love. I did not marry you to live inside a cage for the rest of my life."
His nostrils flared. "I am trying to protect you."
"By shielding me from life?"
"By keeping you alive!" he spat, cutting his murderous scowl across the street where his men awaited. "Why must you be so difficult?" Rage, determination and heat emanated from him. He snatched my jaw. "I won't risk losing you."
Trapped in his hold, I reached for his other hand and placed it to the Eagle hidden beneath the waistband of my jeans. "I am armed," I enlightened, licking my suddenly dry lips. "If at any point I fear for my life, know that I will not hesitate."
Our lips brushed lightly as he laid down the law. "It's not enough."
"We don't hide, Liam. You taught me that."
Liam's lips grazed my ear. "I will assign additional security," he said, and I breathed out a thank you. "Inflexible arrangements. If you insist on being disobediently problematic, do it dexterously and with the syndicate in your corner." His soft lips teased mine. "I should feed you." If I leave, I worry he'll prevent me from coming back. "Alexa, I will not intervene if you agree to work beside me, not against me."
It's a fair compromise. "I can return tomorrow as normal?" I asked, and he gave me a curt nod of agreement. "And I will assist Matthew and the others at the fair this weekend?"
"Done." He uprooted a set of keys from his pocket. "Come." We walked to his Bentley. "I'll text Will to prepare us a table at the restaurant."
"I need to collect my bag first."
Liam held the passenger side door open. "Alfie can retrieve belongings."
"Okay." I slipped onto the seat and buckled up. As Liam rounded the car to fall behind the wheel, Logan, gym bag draped from one shoulder, pushed through the youth centre's front door. Unlike Samuel, he reduced fast strides to extinguish curiosity, to observe the never-ending line of Bentleys. Drivers roared the vehicles to life and sped down the street. His narrowed eyes went from the departing wheels to our car in puzzlement. Black tinted windows obscured, yet I shied away from his searching glare.
"Who's that?" Liam asked, the tyres shrieking as he spun the car around. "He looked lost."
Via the rear-view mirror, my eyes followed Logan as he sprinted in the opposite direction. "Just a troubled youth."
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Thoughts on Alexa?
Samuel?
Logan?
Alfie?
Any theories yet? Curious.
Is anyone else a secret binge-eater like Josh? I am a fucker for walnuts—don't shoot me, 😂.
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