Page 8 of Hitched

He gives me a look. “It’s the truth”

“You know Laney McAdams?”

He hesitates, trying to place her.

I help him out. “Billionaire mogul. Owns a hedge funding corporation.”

“Oh yeah.” He nods. “Wasn’t she voted the most successful entrepreneurial woman last year? That whole feminist charade deal?”

“Yeah.” I scoff. “She’s the biggest bitch on the planet, too, trust me. Hates men. All of them. The only thing she ever wants to do with men is advance herself in some way.”

“Are you speaking from experience?” He asks me, taking another sip of beer. “Have you had a little tete-a-tete with Laney McAdams yourself?”

I look at him like he just called da a cocksucker. “Are you out of your mind? I wouldn’t touch that woman with a ten-foot pole.” I pause and decide there’s no better time than the present to say what’s on my mind. “I better get used to it though.” I add, and pause again, looking at him, point blank. “My da is forcing me to marry her.”

His eyes widen. His brows furrow. “Get out of town. Really? Like an arranged marriage?”

I lift a hand to stifle him, and then lift the other hand to tip my beer bottle to my lips. After I swallow, I continue. “I don’t want to talk about it.” I lift my bottle again, gesturing to it. “It makes me do this.”

“I get it.” He changes the subject. “So, what do you think, man…do you think the old man’s wife found out, or do you think that he’s moved on to another woman to warm his bed?” Beckett asks, referring back to Harry and his sudden and unexpected change of heart. Harry is the owner of NovoMax, the company that the Ford boys are trying to make a huge deal with. Recently, the deal has been sullied by a paternity suit. It seems that Chas Ford couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, and messed around with Rachel, Harry’s lover, and consequently his Executive Assistant, which is how she and Chas crossed paths. Oh, rest assured, he didn’t get her pregnant. Evidently, it was just front seat shit that they did, but Rachel decided to play the manipulation card, and filed a suit against Chas Ford, to try to threaten the billionaire family.

The plan backfired when the Fords hired Ericka, an attorney, that responded to the lawsuit with certain expectations that couldn’t possibly be met, namely a positive pregnancy test backed by a laboratory of their choice, which would reveal that Rachel is so full of shit her eyes are brown. It came down to the Fords considering walking away from the deal, to avoid buying themselves further trouble. However, Henry had unexpectedly made a call to Beckett right before I called him, saying that he’s decided to drop the suit and move forward with the deal, confusing the Ford boys, my new investment clients, to no end.

“He better hope he found someone else to warm his bed.” I say.

“Why’s that.” Beckett asks conversationally, lifting his beer to his lips.

I look at him, like I’ve got all the answers.

Feeling suddenly as sober as a judge.

Feeling like everything is finally falling into place.

...“Because that Rachel lass is dead.”

His gaze darts to mine. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

I play dumb and numb, sipping my beer again. “You mean you didn’t know?”

Now it’s his turn to make a face that looks like I just called his da a cocksucker. “Is this the face of someone in the know?”

“Take it easy, buddy.”

He rises. “No, I will not take it easy! What the fuck are you talking about? Never mind, you’re fucking crocked! I’m outta here.” He walks out of the bar, pissed right off. I consider ordering another beer, but I’ve once again attracted an audience. All eyes are on me. It’s time to get the fuck out of here. If anyone didn’t know who I was five minutes ago, they do now. I pay my tab, surprised that old Bruce is letting me drive, but then he stops me before I put my wallet away.

“You got a driver, Caleb?”

“No, but I can get a ride.”

He gestures with his chin towards the door. “Your friend waiting outside for you?”

“That’s doubtful. But I’ve got someone that has wheels. Don’t sweat it. Thanks for the concern.”

He smiles. “I’m not fond of my patrons leaving here dead is all.”

“I get it.” I pick up my phone, showing him that I’m calling someone, and I do. One of my goons is outside, as always. I wouldn’t say that I have a permanent bodyguard, but I usually have an entourage of some sort within a few blocks' radius of my whereabouts. Minutes later, I’m in a car, and another goon is driving my truck home. Once I reach home, I wait to go to bed, until I know that my truck is home first. My house is big and modern and filled with enough medieval shit I could probably wear a different suit of armor every day, and host regular sword fights.

That is the one thing I miss about living full-time in Scotland. I love castles and history. America, at least where I live for most of the time, has nothing historical. No architecture, no cathedral buildings, no castle ruins, nothing. But that could also be because I never get out enough to see it if anything like that did exist. I’ve only had a home in America for the past ten years, and it’s only been five years since I’ve lived here more than in Scotland. Mama and da still live there, in our childhood home, running our flagship business. Da had me, along with a load of family and some friends, move out here, to help expand.

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