Page 30 of Lamb

I left the troublemaker to her own devices as I slipped out Justine’s bedroom door, glancing down each side of the corridor before creeping towards the kitchen. As much as I wanted out of this house, I needed something in my stomach first or I wouldn’t make it past the threshold.

My fingers had just closed around the handle of the pantry door when a solid palm slammed down on my shoulder, freezing me in my tracks.

“Where have you been, boy?” Prescott’s voice boomed from behind me. He didn’t care to wait for an answer before grabbing me by the back of the neck and guiding me towards the stairs. “Borrow one of Tate’s old suits. We have a special guest coming for dinner tonight and the whole family’s invited.”

43

ADRIAN

Ibrushed a loose strand of dark hair over the gash in my forehead as I eyed myself in the mirror. Smoothing the black tie along the seam of the matching vest, the silver glint of the polished buttons catching the light as I adjusted each of the sleeves of my black dress shirt and secured the cufflinks. As much as the thought of stepping foot in my room sickened me, I refused to wear someone else’s throwaways. Especially when that someone else was the twisted son of a bitch looking to starve me to death like a discarded pet he couldn’t be bothered to euthanize.

At the same time, I wasn’t naïve enough to think the old man didn’t have some ulterior motive behind tonight’s dog and pony show. We didn’t do “family dinners.” At least not where they concerned me. I was no more part of the Prescott family than the used tube socks tossed around Tate’s en-suite bathroom.

But if the old man insisted I dressed for whatever bullshit he had up his sleeve tonight, it would be in a three-piece fitted suit I had custom tailored to my measurements… in exchange for a few sexual favors with a local seamstress. Her handiwork was impeccable.Mine was better.

Either way, the widow’s lax bartering system served to keep my closet fully stocked over the years without having to dip into my savings. If I needed new shoes, I’d slide a handful of tranquilizers under the right salesman’s door while a few bottles of pills gave me free rein over most of the local clubs. Drug use might not have been tolerated but it sure as fuck was enjoyed by the occasional rule breaker at Original Sin.

And when I stepped through those doors, my mask in place and my identity as obscure as my sexual preferences, I wasn’t the bastard son of Tate Prescott anymore. I was “the doctor,” thanks to my choice of profession and face-wear. A few more years, and I’d be upgraded to the rich folk’s favorite plastic surgeon. Spending my days pumping tits with silicone and foreheads with Botox while lining my pockets with the fuckers’ cash.

That was what I reminded myself as I shoveled another protein bar into my mouth, glanced at my reflection one more time, and then strolled back upstairs with my hands in my pockets. Appearing as unbothered by big brother’s cheap shot as he wasbotheredby my existence.

The jingle of the silver chain of my pocket watch announced my presence before I stepped foot in the formaldining room, set for four when there were only three of us in attendance. Tate leaned an arm over the mantel. A small white bandage covering the incision on his nose as he grinned in my direction. His eyes flicked behind me, then back again. Until I had no choice but to spin around to see what he was seeing.

My gaze dropped to a set of modest heels. Raked over two long stocking-covered legs and the flowy hem of a rose-petal pink dress before hinging on a silhouetted waist that curved outward to cradle a perfect set of tits, a gold pendant necklace, and a few loose curls of dark hair. And then my focus was forced up to a pair of green eyes. Eyes that had lost that last flicker of life I was certain I’d seen there a few days ago.

I was too far gone to notice Tate had stepped up behind me until his arm circled around my neck in a headlock as he pushed up on his tiptoes, lifted his mouth to my ear, and whispered, “Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” He smirked. I could feel the tightening of his jaw muscles against my cheek. “Mary, this is Adrian, our houseboy. Whatever you need, the good man will be sure to get it for you.” He tapped the back of a hand on my chest before shoving me a step forward. “Adrian, I’d like you to meet my fiancée,Mary. But you’ll address her as the future Mrs. Prescott.”

PART THREE

44

MARISELA

YESTERDAY

The sun had just crested over the hill, the sky a rosy pink that reflected onto the little plot of white crosses then flicked back up towards the window, when four men in matching blue scrubs had burst through the hospital room door. I’d barely turned around before one of them was pinching my jaw open while the other shoved a handful of drugs down my throat, strapping me to a gurney and shooting something else into my veins when I’d spit most of the pills back up the way they came.

Couldn’t do much about that one. Though if you were to put a razorblade within arm’s reach, I might have found a way to cut the liquid out of me.

Then again, whatever it was made it so I didn’t care. So that the colors were both brighter and duller in some fashion. My skin heating up while also cool to thetouch. And I smiled, without making any expression at all. My lips just pulled taut, like someone else was tugging on an invisible puppet string that kept my legs perfectly crossed and my hands resting neatly on my lap.

In a matter of a few hours, I’d been discharged, washed down and dressed up, and then deposited on another doorstep. A whirlwind of activity that had me feeling like I was standing still while everything and everyone else darted around me. Except I wasn’t standing at all. I was sitting. In some sort of parlor that smelled like the inside of the boys’ lavatory. Musty with more testosterone than oxygen, and a stale odor that hinted at the fact that several types of bodily fluids had been left to dry where they’d landed.

The gray hospital room had faded away. Replaced by darker, richer hues and coordinating wallpaper. The cold floors morphing into warm hardwoods and plush area rugs. The blue scrubs traded in for starched dresses and pleated pants. The faint screams growing more melodic…

I blinked at the sound of an old grandfather clock chiming from somewhere down the hall, announcing the fact that it was nearly time for dinner and I’d yet to move from the spot where the woman in the black-and-white maid uniform had left me, while the ornate fireplace crackled in the background. The orange glow bouncing off the crystal accents and vaulted ceilings, dusty bookshelves and decorative vases, occasionally lighting up the taxidermized animal carcasses and ancestral portraits that eachbared little resemblance to whatever creature they were trying to emulate.

Just wall upon wall of deadened eyes and similarly forced smiles. Some stitched in place and others bogged down by lead paint and an artist’s quick brushstroke.

I couldn’t help but feel as though they were all staring down at me while at the same time wondering if they were inviting me to stay or warning me I might be the next stuffed head to join them…

Until a thunderous bang had me sinking deeper into the sofa cushion that was more stiff than forgiving as I bit back a yelp. A storm was brewing outside, thrashing against the rooftop so that all I could hear past my own morbid thoughts were the low grunts and mumbled words of the two men in front of me. Talking in hushed whispers meant for their ears only and certainly not for mine.

I watched them anyway. Studying how the flames cast an eerie shadow over my father’s unfurled arm, obscuring his face entirely, while making the appendage somehow appear more cephalopod than human in the dreariness of the smoked-filled air that seemed to curl around them like a python ready to strike.

A few curt nods and then he was clasping a tentacled hand around an equally slimy palm. Squeezing until his knuckles were as white as the generational wealth seeping out of every crevice of this room.

It was a gentleman’s agreement, made over cigars and whiskey-laden tumblers, while neither of the shadowy figures was forthright when it came to what the other wasreally getting out of this deal. Because it sure as hell wasn’t whatever it appeared to be. A daughter for some political backing didn’t make much sense.

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