Chapter 6: DAMON - A Very Good Bad Idea

I bring my bags in in a single trip—one in my left hand, the other slung over my right shoulder, dropping them on the dulled black-and-white checkered marble tile in the foyer. It takes Jade three treks to get her stuff inside.

My parents were good people—they didn’t raise me to be a prick—it goes against every instinct I have to do nothing while a woman struggles with her luggage. But I’m not here to make a single thing easier for this particular woman, so I tamp down the chivalrous impulse and keep my feet rooted to the floor, watching her with irritated impatience.

Finally, Jade sets the bulky designer trunk down and huffs out a breath that blows her blond bangs off her forehead.

The door creaks closed behind us—the latch catching with an ominous, echoing clang.

And we stand there for a moment looking around, checking out our prize and prison. It smells mustier than I remember. Closed up, and oddly quiet. When I came to visit, Clara always had a record playing. For a centenarian, her taste in music wasn’t half bad.

Otherwise, it’s all the same. The same dark coffered ceilings; intricate crown molding; dusty, crystal-laden chandeliers; and wide, arched entryways. The same curving staircase with its ornate, hand-carved railing that draws your eye up to the same round, ocean-hued, Tiffany-glass mosaic skylight.

I walk to the right, and Jade follows me into the parlor with its gaping stone fireplace that’s big enough to roast a small person, thick drapes framing the windows, an ugly Persian rug on the scuffed hardwood floor, and Clara’s favorite paisley-cushioned rocking chair. It’s a large room with twelve-foot-high ceilings, but it feels cluttered—the way a space is bound to when it’s filled with a long lifetime of mementos. Framed black-and-white photos, decorative plates and thimbles, music boxes and vases, and a creepy-ass porcelain doll sitting on top of the secretary desk—watching our every move with dark, dead eyes.

“Home sweet home,” I breathe out.

Jade takes a small pad and pen from her pocket and starts scribbling.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a list for Piper.”

We’re allowed to leave written requests for supplies in the mailbox by the gate for Ian and Piper to bring during their twenty-minute, bi-monthly drop-offs. Stymie’s assistant will pick up the notes, but any extracurricular communication is strictly prohibited. Clara thought of everything—gotta give her that.

“Once you leave,” Jade continues, “I’m still going to have to stay here for the full four months, and I plan on being as comfortable as possible.”

I smirk. Because it’s almost funny. Little Miss Silver Spoon is trying to psych me out? I practically invented the psych.

“That’s some oversized confidence you’re sporting there.”

“Not really.” She shrugs. “I just know what I’m capable of.”

“Driving away any human being within a twenty-foot radius until you end up loathed and lonesome like your old man? Not a talent I’d be crowing about.”

If my dig hit the bulls-eye, she doesn’t show it. She flashes a sugary-sweet smile up at me. “In this case, it will serve me well.”

Then she spins around and walks away, her hips swaying and her gilded sandals clicking and clacking as she goes.

And I stick to her like glue.

Because that’s my plan for the first few days, maybe the whole first week—recon. Observe, monitor, and take note. So when the time comes, I’ll know exactly which buttons to push and how much pressure to apply for maximum effectiveness.

Back in the foyer, Jade folds her arms, gazing up at the staircase. “You can take the east wing,” she directs like she’s on a job site. “I’m happy with the west.”

“Of course you are . . . that’s where all the wicked witches come from.”

There’s a perverse sense of enjoyment when that one gets a frown out of her.

“Are you going to be like this the whole time?”

“You mean dashingly clever, shockingly handsome, fascinatingly charismatic?”

“Hair-yankingly aggravating.”

“No.” I chuckle, waving a hand in the air. “I’m going to get so much worse. Just wait ’til I’m fully sober—it’ll blow your mind.”

“Awesome,” she sneers.

“But, you know, the door’s right there. You can use it anytime.”

Her lips pucker sourly, but if she had a comeback, she swallows it. Because a muffled whining sound comes from one of the smaller bags that draws both our attention. And the sucker moves—jostling back and forth. As Jade crouches down and unzips the rectangular compartment, I realize it’s not a bag at all.

It’s a dog purse.

She stands up holding a beige-and-white, bulgy-eyed, Dumbo-eared caricature of a chihuahua, with a diamond-studded collar and a gold bone-shaped tag engraved with Precious in bold letters. Jade’s eyes go soft when the little mutt stretches out a bubble-gum-pink tongue and starts gently licking her chin.

“Hold the fuck on,” I object. “The will didn’t say we could bring pets.”

“It didn’t say we couldn’t,” she shoots back. “You want to complain, Stymie’s office is just a short walk away. Like you said—the door’s right there.”

It’s not really the dog that bugs me. It’s the fact that Jade successfully made a move that I didn’t see coming. That could possibly give her an advantage.

“Whatever. Just keep her away from me.”

Jade’s eyes narrow in my direction. “You don’t like dogs? What kind of sick son of a bitch doesn’t like dogs?”

“I like dogs. I just don’t like your dog. And Precious is a stupid name. It’s a serial killer dog’s name.” I mutate my voice to mimic Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. “Preccccious—”

“He,” Jade spits out.

“What?”

“Precious is a he. And it’s not a stupid name—dick.”

I tilt over and check the undercarriage. “Jesus Christ, it is a he! That’s diabolical, even for you. Now I feel bad for it.”

I reach out to scratch his miniature head and the mongrel takes a nip at me—snapping his tiny, pointy needle-fangs at my hand. I pull back in the nick of time, but it continues to snarl and tremble.

Jade presses the ball of fur against her breast, gloating like the proud mama of an ugly little gremlin.

“Hey.” I snap my fingers to get the dog’s attention—three quick clicks close to its snout but out of striking range. “Now I’m gonna call you Cujo. And just so you know, Cujo—I bite back.” I bare my own teeth. “Watch yourself.”

* * *

I dump one of my bags in the far corner bedroom of the east wing and bring the other down to the kitchen. Jade’s there with her little dog scurrying around her feet, and a medium-sized Louis Vuitton open on the round kitchen table.

“I call dibs on the fridge,” she says without looking at me.

“It’s all yours,” I agree.

Because I packed like a peasant prepared to survive a harsh winter. A sack of rice, cans of green vegetables, black beans, tuna, and a tub of protein powder.

Clara had a separate stand-up freezer that she mentioned a few months ago had crapped out and she wasn’t going to replace it since Gunther prepared her meals fresh.

From the corner of my eye, I watch as Jade puts her food supply in the refrigerator—bottled spring water and individually packaged three squares a day that daddy’s chef probably made for her. Every item is highly perishable.

Then she uncoils a bike chain from her pocket, wraps it around the fridge, and padlocks it.

“So distrustful,” I murmur.

She ignores me, heading upstairs with the rest of her luggage and staying there, presumably unpacking, for the next hour. I spend that time checking out the rest of the first floor—the solarium, the library, formal dining room, and music room where the furniture has been covered in white sheets that billow eerily on occasion from the air that whistles through the drafty windows.

Eventually, I end up in the den, staring at the blank screen of the ancient box television that only plays VHS tapes from the attached VCR. Which means it’s gonna be no phone, no cable, and no internet for the duration of our stay. Excellent.

I end up dozing off for a few minutes, and the next time I open my eyes, there’s total and complete blackness outside the windowpanes. I push a hand through my hair and immediately realize Jade is outside on the side of the house, taking her dog out to take care of business.

I know this because she’s talking . . . in an unnaturally high-pitched, singsong voice.

“Go pee-pee, Precious. Go pee-pee.”

The insulation in this place must be like Swiss cheese, because I can hear her as loud and clear as if she’s standing next to me.

“Come on, Precious, go pee-pee, go pee-pee, go pee-pee.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

When we were packing up my stuff, Gage made the point that it was crucial I stay clear-headed at all times, to prevent a sneak attack. So the booze stayed home.

Huge fucking mistake.

“That’s it, Precious, good boy! Who’s a good pee-pee boy? Who’s a good pee-pee boy?!”

I am definitely gonna need alcohol for this.

I throw myself back on the comfortably worn antique sofa and do some talking of my own. To the painted portrait hanging above the fireplace.

“Jesus tap-dancing Christ, Clara. If this is what I have to put up with for the next four months, one of us isn’t leaving here alive. And when I say one of us—I mean her.”

The front door opens and I’m sitting up straight when Jade walks in with her glorified rat at her heels. She switches off the flashlight in her hand, and her expression is already locked and loaded with a glare. “Don’t start,” she hisses.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to. It’s all over your smug face.”

“And what is my face saying?”

“That you think I’m an idiot.”

“No, I don’t, actually. I just don’t like you. This is my I-don’t-like-you face.”

She goes on like I haven’t said a word. “But I don’t give a damn what you think! Precious has performance anxiety. He needs my encouragement.”

There’s a cold bite to my words because it’s been a long day, and I’m sliding from annoyed to pissed off at a rapid clip. “Well, how about you encourage him a little quieter?”

“How about you eat shit and die? I’ll talk,” Jade increases her volume to maximum level, “as loud as I want! And if you don’t like it, you should leave.”

“That’s not happening. Get it through your bratty, blond, Buchanan skull.”

“Then get used to Precious’s pee-pee times. He has a very small bladder, so they’ll be frequent.”

If I’m being honest, Riley’s scheme of a weaponized wooing has been on my mind since he brought it up. I couldn’t shake it, even while getting hammered last night. The primal details of how it would all work. The things I’d say, the moves I’d make to ultimately coax Jade right where I wanted her to be. What she would look like, sound like, taste like as I wrung pleasure from her admittedly delectable body again and again.

But that plan is officially incinerated. No matter how badly I want her gone, no matter how much I want to win . . . I don’t have the patience, and I’m just not that good of an actor.

I stand up from the sofa, my voice as hard and harsh as my movements. “I think we need to get a few things straight—clear the air.”

“Go for it.”

“I didn’t have a lot growing up, because a lot was taken from me. But this”—I motion to the house around us—“this is mine and I’m keeping it. I don’t plan on sharing it with you or your rotten fucking family. One day, I’m going to ruin your father—because he deserves to be ruined. In the meantime, I’m going to make the next weeks of your life absolutely miserable. And I’m going to enjoy doing it. Until you break, and go fleeing back to your ivory fucking tower and the condo daddy pays for.”

Jade says nothing for several seconds. Her chin is dipped and her face is veiled by a curtain of silvery-blond hair. For a second I think maybe I scared her—and a sick jolt of self-disgust roils in my gut. Because my parents raised me better than that too.

But then she lifts her face to mine. Her cheeks are flushed, her jaw is taut, and her eyes glow with a fearless, ferocious, feral light. “Since we’re laying our cards on the table, there’s a few things you ought to know about me.”

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

“I have no intention of sharing shit with you either.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, it is. I’m sorry you and your band of lost boys had crappy childhoods, but believe it or not, you aren’t the only ones. My entire life has prepared me for this—this time, this moment—and no one is taking it away from me. Least of all, you.”

She moves in closer, and her voice drops low—a hostile, heated whisper. “I don’t break. I don’t quit. And I never fucking flee. From anyone.”

She spits out the last word, turns on her heels, and stalks out of the room.

And maybe it’s the weariness from the all-nighter or the remnants of the alcohol still simmering in my blood, but as Jade ascends the stairs . . . I can’t take my eyes off her.