Sebring
Page 7
Then Dad would forget him and my sister would offer her sugar pussy to whatever green recruit she’d make promises of living large, drowning in Cristal, fucking on soft beds covered in greenbacks.
It wouldn’t take long before the fresh one would learn.
We had very few soldiers left and all of them were uneasy.
Except Tommy.
Because of me.
And Gill.
Because of Georgia.
Green was right.
I should get out. I should get away. I should go to Thailand. Bali. Any end to this earth where he wouldn’t find me.
I didn’t because I knew that place didn’t exist.
Vincent Shade had lost nearly everything his father stole, dealt, stabbed, lied, tortured and killed to get.
But there were two pieces in the chess game he played very poorly, a game that just happened to be our livelihoods, pieces I’d learned without a doubt he’d never lose.
Not ever.
His girls.
Chapter Two
She’ll Have Company
Olivia
My phone was ringing as I drove into my garage.
After I turned off the car, I grabbed it and looked at the screen.
I took the call before I shifted out of my white Range Rover Evoque.
“Hello, Pam,” I greeted my real estate agent, moving to the door that led to the house, clutch under my phone arm, my other hand out to hit the button to close the garage door.
“Hey there, Olivia,” Pam replied. “Listen, that couple that looked at your house on Monday, they wanna come back tomorrow.”
I walked to my marble kitchen counter and dropped my clutch to it, responding, “Excellent.”
“They have to come in the evening. Around five thirty. Can you do something after work so they can see the house?”
Could I do something after my work of managing drug dealers—who these days had no drugs to deal—and keeping a variety of books for really not legitimate enterprises my father ran very poorly, considering we barely had any money—as well as laundering said money, how little of it there was?
“Yes,” I answered.
“Great!” she cried. “I’ll let them know and set it up. This is looking good. We haven’t had a second visit since we put your place on the market.”
That day was apparently my day for people to tell me things I already knew.
Because I already knew this, I had no reply.
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed we’ll have an offer by Friday,” Pam carried on.
“I will too,” I said. “And if you can have their agent tell you when they’re done, I’d appreciate it if you’d text me when I’m good to come home.”
“Of course,” she stated.
“Wonderful. Thank you, Pam. Have a good evening.”
“You too, Olivia.”
I took the phone from my ear and disconnected.
Then I looked around my house.
From my position standing in the acres of extraordinary ivory, russet and bronze-veined marble countertops and custom-made cream cupboards, I could also see the kitchen seating area (which was not a place to eat…it was a place to sit on couches by a fireplace and converse). I could also see the great room, the formal dining room and vast expanses of wood-that-was-imported-from-Europe floors.
It looked fabulous, as it would. I was responsible for every inch of fabric, every stick of furniture, down to the ribbed silver or mirrored Kleenex box holders.
It was like my office. Classic elegance, except more refined.
I did not hesitate to congratulate myself on wringing a miracle, because even with its extreme beauty, it was also welcoming and comfortable.
I loved it.
But it had to go.
It had to go because, along with all I’d mentioned, there were also four bedrooms, a casual family room, a game room, a study, a “mom’s room” (that looked like a place set up to make crafts or wrap packages, as everyone knew it was mom’s job to be craftsy and wrap presents), a laundry room that was as big as a bedroom, a larder that was as big as most full baths and a master suite that the Queen of England would feel comfortable in.
This didn’t count the mini-me-mansion guest house with its own sitting room, small kitchen, bedroom and bath at the back of the property.
All of this (save the guest house, of course) was in a u-shape flanking an in-ground, heated swimming pool with a massive mosaic-tiled deck. This situated on a huge lot situated in Governor’s Park, in other words, smack in the middle of the city proper of Denver.
It cost millions of dollars.
It was too much for me.
When viewing it, as gorgeous as it was, I’d wanted nothing to do with it.
But when I moved out of my father’s home, he would not hear of me living in one of the lovely high-rises that straddled the south side of the city that offered two- to three-bedroom condominiums.
A Shade lived like a Shade.
Not a real Shade, those being degenerate criminals, two of whom hid this behind Christian Louboutin shoes and Givenchy blouses.
But the Shades we showed the world. Those of us left who had not escaped my grandfather’s need to perpetuate a massive, grisly, scheming, brutal Fuck You! to those many who thought (rightly) they were better than him as well as to those who didn’t care either way.
Namely my father, because even if Georgia lived in a fabulous penthouse apartment, she thought her place was too much too.
Therefore, since my father wanted me to have that house, I had no choice but to have it.
Now, it wasn’t only too big for me—a single woman rambling around what could be described as nothing other than a mini-five-thousand-square-foot-mansion—we couldn’t afford it.
Dad’s rambling manse would never go. He’d die in there in a shootout rivaling the Alamo before he’d let anyone take it from him.
It wouldn’t take long before the fresh one would learn.
We had very few soldiers left and all of them were uneasy.
Except Tommy.
Because of me.
And Gill.
Because of Georgia.
Green was right.
I should get out. I should get away. I should go to Thailand. Bali. Any end to this earth where he wouldn’t find me.
I didn’t because I knew that place didn’t exist.
Vincent Shade had lost nearly everything his father stole, dealt, stabbed, lied, tortured and killed to get.
But there were two pieces in the chess game he played very poorly, a game that just happened to be our livelihoods, pieces I’d learned without a doubt he’d never lose.
Not ever.
His girls.
Chapter Two
She’ll Have Company
Olivia
My phone was ringing as I drove into my garage.
After I turned off the car, I grabbed it and looked at the screen.
I took the call before I shifted out of my white Range Rover Evoque.
“Hello, Pam,” I greeted my real estate agent, moving to the door that led to the house, clutch under my phone arm, my other hand out to hit the button to close the garage door.
“Hey there, Olivia,” Pam replied. “Listen, that couple that looked at your house on Monday, they wanna come back tomorrow.”
I walked to my marble kitchen counter and dropped my clutch to it, responding, “Excellent.”
“They have to come in the evening. Around five thirty. Can you do something after work so they can see the house?”
Could I do something after my work of managing drug dealers—who these days had no drugs to deal—and keeping a variety of books for really not legitimate enterprises my father ran very poorly, considering we barely had any money—as well as laundering said money, how little of it there was?
“Yes,” I answered.
“Great!” she cried. “I’ll let them know and set it up. This is looking good. We haven’t had a second visit since we put your place on the market.”
That day was apparently my day for people to tell me things I already knew.
Because I already knew this, I had no reply.
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed we’ll have an offer by Friday,” Pam carried on.
“I will too,” I said. “And if you can have their agent tell you when they’re done, I’d appreciate it if you’d text me when I’m good to come home.”
“Of course,” she stated.
“Wonderful. Thank you, Pam. Have a good evening.”
“You too, Olivia.”
I took the phone from my ear and disconnected.
Then I looked around my house.
From my position standing in the acres of extraordinary ivory, russet and bronze-veined marble countertops and custom-made cream cupboards, I could also see the kitchen seating area (which was not a place to eat…it was a place to sit on couches by a fireplace and converse). I could also see the great room, the formal dining room and vast expanses of wood-that-was-imported-from-Europe floors.
It looked fabulous, as it would. I was responsible for every inch of fabric, every stick of furniture, down to the ribbed silver or mirrored Kleenex box holders.
It was like my office. Classic elegance, except more refined.
I did not hesitate to congratulate myself on wringing a miracle, because even with its extreme beauty, it was also welcoming and comfortable.
I loved it.
But it had to go.
It had to go because, along with all I’d mentioned, there were also four bedrooms, a casual family room, a game room, a study, a “mom’s room” (that looked like a place set up to make crafts or wrap packages, as everyone knew it was mom’s job to be craftsy and wrap presents), a laundry room that was as big as a bedroom, a larder that was as big as most full baths and a master suite that the Queen of England would feel comfortable in.
This didn’t count the mini-me-mansion guest house with its own sitting room, small kitchen, bedroom and bath at the back of the property.
All of this (save the guest house, of course) was in a u-shape flanking an in-ground, heated swimming pool with a massive mosaic-tiled deck. This situated on a huge lot situated in Governor’s Park, in other words, smack in the middle of the city proper of Denver.
It cost millions of dollars.
It was too much for me.
When viewing it, as gorgeous as it was, I’d wanted nothing to do with it.
But when I moved out of my father’s home, he would not hear of me living in one of the lovely high-rises that straddled the south side of the city that offered two- to three-bedroom condominiums.
A Shade lived like a Shade.
Not a real Shade, those being degenerate criminals, two of whom hid this behind Christian Louboutin shoes and Givenchy blouses.
But the Shades we showed the world. Those of us left who had not escaped my grandfather’s need to perpetuate a massive, grisly, scheming, brutal Fuck You! to those many who thought (rightly) they were better than him as well as to those who didn’t care either way.
Namely my father, because even if Georgia lived in a fabulous penthouse apartment, she thought her place was too much too.
Therefore, since my father wanted me to have that house, I had no choice but to have it.
Now, it wasn’t only too big for me—a single woman rambling around what could be described as nothing other than a mini-five-thousand-square-foot-mansion—we couldn’t afford it.
Dad’s rambling manse would never go. He’d die in there in a shootout rivaling the Alamo before he’d let anyone take it from him.
