“Can I get something for you, sugar?” the waitress vying for my attention asks, her eyes wide and her lips in the perfect pout. She doesn’t do anything for me. Tits in my face. G-string-clad ass bumping into me every time she serves us.

  She’s a distraction more than anything, but I don’t fault her for working for her tips. She sees expensive suits and designer watches—wealth. We all do things we don’t like to make money. Maybe she likes it. We all put on a show to distract from the truth.

  I pull a couple hundred from my wallet, hand it to her, and point to Rhett. “Take him in back for a lap dance?”

  Her eyes light up at the overpayment. She can do with it what she wants. Pocket it. Give Rhett a little extra grind. I don’t fucking care, so long as he’s out of my face for a few minutes.

  “Sure thing.” She leans forward and pulls on Rhett’s tie. “I do believe your friend wants me to show you a good time.”

  Hesitate. I dare you.

  She does a little shimmy with her hips, her free hand accidentally bumping against his cock. “Let’s go, honey.”

  Rhett eyes me, and for the first time ever I see distrust. My smile is taunting at best as he walks away, looking over his shoulder several times.

  When he disappears into the back room, I shift to stare Chad squarely in the eyes.

  “So,” he says and takes a long pull on his drink.

  I make him nervous. Good. Maybe that’s why this is the first and only time he’s been alone with me.

  “So,” I repeat back to him and offer another disingenuous smile.

  “You’re new here,” Chad says.

  “Can’t say I’ve ever been to this strip club before, no.” I glance around at all that the darkened room and red-hued lights hide. The desperate. The dejected. The feckless.

  “I meant to Westmore.”

  “I knew what you meant,” I say.

  “Don’t know the lay of the land quite yet, do you?”

  “Why, Chad, are you offering to show it to me?”

  “No. I think you’re more than capable of figuring it all out for yourself.”

  “Appreciate the vote of confidence.” I lift my glass and take a sip.

  “My—uh—family…”

  “What about them?” Where is he going with this?

  “They run the sheriff’s department. Head the circuit solicitor’s office.”

  The fuck? “Should I be worried that I’m going to be arrested?”

  He laughs nervously. “No. That’s not what—I mean … I just … in case you need anything, they can help.”

  I angle my head to the side and study him. Why, Chadwick Williams, I do believe you just tried to posture yourself in my favor.

  I grin. He truly has no idea who I am or that I know just how fucking corrupt his family is. Wow.

  I feign innocence. “Help? Meaning what?”

  “Nothing.” An anxious smile. A quick look over his shoulder to where Rhett disappeared. “I just thought you should know. Things happen sometimes. Rules need to be bent.” He shrugs. “I could possibly get them bent for you or find a way to work around them.”

  “Ah. Got it.” You know all about bending rules, don’t you, you fucker? “He’s still preoccupied,” I say when he glances again to the lap dance room. “Is there a reason you’re nervous to be alone with me?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Hmm.” I pause and let him worry about what that sound means. “Tell me, Chad. What are your thoughts on the buyout? It seems you’re always standing right beside Rhett so I don’t know what your individual opinions are.”

  “On what?”

  “On why the company is bleeding money. You wouldn’t have any insight on why that would be, do you?”

  Are you going to throw your best buddy under the bus? Save yourself and throw him to the wolves? Is this where the two of you finally turn on each other and point fingers? Or are those secrets you’ve hidden this long going to follow you to the grave?

  Chad shifts in his seat and glances around. “Raw material input costs have risen. Insurance has risen. The labor market is in the employees’ favor. We’re getting hit with fines in our current distribution center location, which is why we’re looking to build and own a new one. It’s not just one thing.”

  Liar.

  “And how is Rhett being on the city council going to help with this?”

  The flash of shock across his face gives me what I need. There’s a purpose to Rhett’s sudden desire to serve. Of course there is. Rhett’s a man who only does things to serve himself.

  “Who s-said it would?”

  “C’mon, now. I may be someone who bends the rules every now and again too.” I flash a shark’s smile. “I know it when I see it.”

  Chad looks to the back room again then his eyes jump around the club. “Just trying to get around some regulations. Win some favors. Nothing big.”

  You’re hiding something, Williams.

  “And your thoughts on Rowan and the marketing department align with Rhett’s?”

  His slightest hesitation is noticeable. Friend or future wife? Which one will it be? “Not exactly. She takes pride in being a part of the company … but…” He shrugs.

  “But you plan on making an honest woman out of her, so I’d be doing you a favor by doing away with her department. No job means you’d have less of a fight on your hands getting her to quit working. Because that is what you’re going for, right? Williams as her last name?”

  It’s not like their moms don’t already have the country club reserved for a wedding reception. Several dates actually. It’s always good to have a plan A through G apparently. A few keystrokes gave me access to the online reservation system to show me that.

  “She’s a strong-willed woman,” Chad says.

  “As many are.” I bet you hate that, don’t you? “And your point is what?”

  “It’s her family’s company. She deserves some kind of role.”

  “Like the sex kitten tempting you in the ad campaigns?” I ask.

  Does it get you off thinking you’re going to marry the woman every man who sees the TinSpirits ads jacks off to?

  No. You’re more the jealous type who’d be afraid she’d leave you for a real man. One who has his own opinions rather than his friends’.

  He blanches, which says I’m right. “Her position, the part she’d get, would be up to you, wouldn’t it?”

  “But you do think she deserves a place or part?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Even if it’s in name only.”

  I lean forward. The movement catches him off guard, and he jumps. So damn satisfying. “And is that being said because you believe it or because she’s yet to let you fuck her?” My stare is unrelenting as I swirl my drink around so the ice cubes clink against the glass. I watch anger flicker and fade through his expression. Quickest way to the truth sometimes is through shock value. Chad’s lack of an answer is telling enough.

  “I’d appreciate it if you don’t talk about her like that,” he finally manages.

  Scared? Insecure? Worried she won’t have you? Probably a bit of all three.

  All I know is if a man said that about my future fiancée, he’d have a lot more than a gentle request to contend with when it came to my wrath.

  “You forget, Chad. I’m not from here. I don’t have to play by the good ol’ boy rules you all do. I can talk about anyone however I want. Rowan. Rhett. The woman you went on a date with last week that you don’t want anyone to know about.”

  Surprise flashes through his eyes but he buries it as quickly as I can glimpse it. “I’ve known Rowan for years.”

  “That’s not an answer. That sounds more like a pussified excuse for why you let her brother treat her like shit.” I shrug as I see Rhett walking back from the lap dance room, his gait a little unsteady from both the booze and perhaps the dance. “But hey, it’s no skin off of my back that the three of you are all secretly trying to take each other down,” I say.

  “What do you mean take each other down?”

  “Ever read Lord of the Flies, Chad?” I barely have time to get a chuckle out before Rhett slides into his chair at our table.

  Rhett’s hair is tousled, and his tie is undone and draped around his neck. The smug look on his face says he probably lasted a whole thirty seconds before blowing in his pants.

  Rhett emits a satisfied sigh that says everything and nothing. “So … what are we talking about?”

  “You,” I deadpan. “And Piggy.” Another Lord of the Flies reference that has Chad darting a glance at his best friend before looking back at me with a perplexed expression. His eyes beg for clarification I won’t give.

  I’ve gotten in his head. Perfect.

  I’ve planted the seed that Rhett and Rowan are going to screw him. Rhett will soon think the same. And then Rowan will shortly thereafter.

  Trust is a funny thing. It’s there … until it isn’t, and it doesn’t take much to erode it. A few white lies. A couple of suppositions. A lot of suspicion.

  Fucking with them is going to be the fun part.

  Watching their house of cards crumble, even more so.

  When I look back over to Chad, he’s still staring at me. I lift a glass in mock toast and smile.

  Let the fucking shell game begin.

  TWELVE

  Rowan

  The room needs a facelift. Its walls are marked with yellow stains where water has leaked slowly and consistently. Its ceiling tiles are broken, if there at all, exposing wires, air ducts, and the ugliness that hides between floors. Its carpet is worn, faded to almost white in some places, and butts against scarred baseboards.

  The women in the room look much like the room itself. A little worse for wear. Some with visible bruises while others harbor scars on the inside—between floors—where the damage is unseen but just as brutal.

  That’s what makes the sight of them all the more jarring as they sit—some with eyes closed, others staring straight at me, a few with tears sliding silently down their cheeks—as they sway or become visibly impacted by the music I create. The cello’s melody is deliberately haunting. I’ve found it’s a therapy of sorts, a soundtrack to their pain, that they can get lost in without having to explain a single reason why.

  Isn’t that what I did after Cassie died? Allowed myself to get lost in music? Allowed it to express the things I couldn’t?

  The Sanctuary is a battered women’s shelter that has been here for over thirty years. Its only rules are simple: you must be sober, and you must be willing to trade something to be here. Chores. Childcare. Job training in whatever field you know. Food service. Anything to help better the place for everyone else who needs it.

  In turn it provides a safe, secure place for women and their children who are trying to leave their abusers. It requires individual counseling sessions and group therapy.

  The women who sit before me? I don’t know their stories. Where they’ve been. Who has bruised them. What other scars lie beneath that might never be spoken about or shared.

  But they know they can count on me to be here once a week. That I’ll hold their hand as we talk or sit in silence or as a comfort to them as they cry. And that I’ll play music for them. That I’ll let them use the sounds to lose themselves for a little bit—whether it’s to provide a safe space for them to think more about what they’ve been through or to shut it out altogether.

  My time spent here is not my societal good deed in the Rothschild name.

  It’s not my way to try to make up for everything that Cassie was that I’m not.

  It’s not even something I talk about in my circles because I feel like that would cheapen the experience and what it means to the women sitting in this room battling things my friends could only imagine battling.

  It’s my way to give back. My way to carry on a tradition that Gran started years ago.

  She wasn’t allowed to work and needed something to do with her time. She saw the humanity in this place, this organization. She saw what it did for other women who weren’t able to live the life she did merely because of who they were born to.

  I stepped in for Gran in her later years, when her mind was going and she couldn’t fulfill her duties. Back then it was about honoring her and her commitment.

  Now it’s a way to connect with people—real people. My world only cares about money, pride, and egos. None of those things matter here. There’s a simple beauty in that.

  One that draws me back here week after week. Month after month.

  Song after song.

  I end my song, the last chord still vibrating through the room. Tears are wiped. Smiles are offered. A few nods are given when I meet their eyes, but I don’t allow them to clap for me. My being here has nothing to do with me and everything to do with them.

  “Until next week,” I say and begin to pack my cello in its case while the ladies in the room shuffle to their feet. Some are off to counseling sessions. Others back to their children who are being watched for them so they can attend my music therapy. A few to meet with the staff lawyers to discuss the status of their pending cases against whoever has caused them to end up here.

  A sniffle at the back of the room draws my attention. I look up and offer a soft smile to the woman sitting there. She’s new, a face I haven’t seen before.

  “How are you today?” I ask.

  Hollow eyes stare at me for a beat before the slightest smile curls up the corners of her lips. “Hi.” She pauses and then gives a quick shake of her head as if I interrupted her thoughts. “Sorry. I don’t mean to still be here. I’m—I’m just trying to take everything in.”

  Never having been in any of these women’s shoes, I hesitate to give anything remotely close to advice. “No apologies needed. Ever. I’m glad you’re here. I hope you find whatever it is you need.”

  She angles her head and just looks at me. “Me too.”

  My heart aches for her. A woman I don’t know in a situation I could never imagine.

  With a nod of encouragement, I exit the room and head toward the reception area.

  “Heading out?” Mei-Ling asks from the door of her office. She’s the director of the Sanctuary, and a survivor herself who I’ve gotten to know over the years I’ve been volunteering here.

  “I am.”

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” She lifts her chin so I follow her into her office for some privacy.

  “Sure. What’s up?” I ask and set my cello case down.

  “We’ve been hit with an unexpected blow, and I hate even asking you this.” She sighs heavily and now that I’m closer, I can see the lines of worry etched in her face and sense something weighing on her.

  “Please. Ask.”

  “We’re losing the building.”

  “What?” Shock reverberates through me. “What do you mean?”

  “The owner has decided to sell it. The area’s too run-down now. He’s lost tenants in the rest of the building and he can’t recoup his costs enough to pay the mortgage. And on and on.”

  “Oh my god, Mei.”

  “I know.” Tears well in her eyes but she promptly blinks them away. “He’s been warning this might happen for the past four years. Apparently, this time, he really means it.”

  “So what … I mean…” Where is everyone going to go? What happens to this program? What about the women and kids in the rooms upstairs who use this as their protection from whoever forced them here, who need to live here until they can get on their feet again?

  “Exactly. There are no words. We’re searching for other places as we speak, but our funding most likely won’t cover a place sizable enough to house everyone we currently have living here.”

  “I was hoping you weren’t going to say that.” I shake my head. “What can I do to help?”

  “You’re better connected than us—obviously—with your family being a staple in Westmore. If you happen to hear of anyone who has a motel for rent or an apartment block—anything, we’d be more than grateful if you could let us know.”

  “Of course.”

  “In the meantime, we’re going to try and do some fundraising, hopefully have some of the endowments we’ve been promised come through. Something. Anything.” She emits a defeated laugh. “I can’t let these women down.”

  “And you won’t. I know you won’t. But yes. Definitely. If I hear of anything or think of any other way, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you. I truly appreciate it.”

  I leave her office feeling defeated when moments ago I was content.

  “Need any help with that, Miss Rothschild?” Simon, the facility’s security guard, asks like he does every time I leave.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got it.”

  “One of these days, you’re going to say yes.”

  “One of these days you’re going to accept my marriage proposal,” I repeat our typical banter. Simon is a burly man with an undying devotion to his wife and a penchant for baking magnificent pastries that he spoils me with often.

  “Maybe.” He draws the word out and winks. “Maybe.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “And I’ll be watching you head out to your car to make sure you’re safe and sound.”

  “Thanks.” I lug my cello case with me down the sidewalk but try to make it look effortless or else Simon will most definitely jog after me to help.

  Graffiti mars or decorates—depending on who is looking at it—the brick walls as I head to the parking lot at the end of the block. This Fairmont neighborhood is sketchy at best with the inner city and its crime having reached its long, tentacled fingers into what used to be a lower-income neighborhood. Apartment buildings blanket one side of the street with front stoops lined with drying clothes while empty industrial buildings and abandoned lots pepper the opposite side of the street.

  I’m lost in thought. In thinking about the generational wealth my family has and wondering how I could use it and the Rothschild reputation to benefit the Sanctuary.

  The family trust has to approve all expenses and donations. I highly doubt they’d approve spending it on something like this since it would have to be done without fanfare or the society of Westmore knowing. The Rothschilds don’t donate to anyone unless it helps to further cement their status or notoriety. These women don’t deserve to get caught up in the dog and pony show my family would ensure.