6
STELLA
“HONEY, I’M HOME,” I SAID, shutting my front door.
From deep inside the apartment came a loud, squawky, “Fuuuck you.”
I shook my head and started unlacing my boots. “Why are you cranky, Amos? I spent an hour with you at lunch, and you were the one who threw me out at the end.”
“Treat?” the parrot cawed back at me. “’Stash, ’stash, ’stash, Snack Bitch.”
I grimaced. African grey parrots were like toddlers. You had to be careful what you said in front of them because you never knew what they’d fixate on. I’d jokingly referred to myself as his “Snack Bitch” one time three years ago, and now it was the only thing he called me. And yes, I knew it was intentional because usually he laughed afterward. Also? His species was known for being as smart as a three- to five-year-old child, and most of Amos’s other phrases changed on a weekly basis. Yet this one had stuck.
Because he knew it was an insult and no one could convince me otherwise.
My apartment was right above the tattoo parlor, and parrot hearing was on par with human hearing, so I’d had the contractors soundproof the floors during the build, wanting to keep it as quiet as I could for Amos.
I kicked off my shoes by the door and went to find him, passing through the small entryway into the open-concept living room. Amos’s cage took up almost the entire far side, surrounded by plants meant to mimic his natural habitat. In summer, the cage sat close to the floor-to-ceiling picture window, which looked out onto the back deck—again, filled with so many tropical plants that it resembled a small jungle. I’d also put bird feeders and plenty of pollinator-friendly flowers outside so Amos had something to watch all
day.
We called it Bird TV.
Right now, there wasn’t much to look at. It was past midnight, and beyond the window, the sky sat low over the city, heavy with clouds and the threat of rain.
I snagged the bag of pistachios (aka, ’stash, aka, Amos’s favorite food) off a side table and approached his cage. The only light on in the apartment was a small lamp in the kitchen set to a timer matched to the sunset. The bulb was soft and warm, and dim enough that it wouldn’t keep Amos from falling asleep. I’d tried to do the whole cage-cover thing with him, but he wouldn’t have it, constantly complaining and gnawing at it through the bars until I finally gave up and let him have his way—a regular occurrence in this household.
Thankfully, the lamp provided just enough light for me to see where I was going, and I threaded through the plants to the cage. Amos was already climbing the bars toward the door to meet me, doing his signature mix of whistling and chirping to show he was happy.
“Only one. You had one at lunch earlier.”
“Three, three, ’stash. Shit please,” he said.
Amos swore so much because I swore so much, but he didn’t quite have the knack of when exactly he was supposed to curse, so he ended up throwing the words in randomly whenever he wanted to emphasize
something.
“One,” I told him, opening his cage.
He strutted out onto the knobbly wooden perch and then flapped onto my shoulder, cuddling right up to the side of my face like the manipulative little asshole he was. His feathers were soft against my cheek, and while his talons pricked at my skin, I could tell he was trying to be as careful as possible. Something most people didn’t know was that African greys have an oddly clean scent, like fresh linen that’s been dried with fabric softener. I took a deep breath of it and leaned my face in to cuddle him back.
He let out a happy whistle (clearly sensing his win), and popped his head forward enough to look me in the eye. “Peekaboo!”
“You’re too cute and you know it,” I grumbled.
“’Stash? ’Stash?”
“Yes, fine,” I said, holding up a nut for him.
He took it with one claw, and had it open and down his gullet in less than a second. “’Stash?”
I held up a second, and he demolished it as fast as the first.
“Okay, but that’s it,” I told him. “You’ll get the shits if you have too
many.”
“Shits, shits. ’Stash?”
“No, sir. Now come on, I have to go shower and you need to go to bed.”
“I love you,” he said in an adorable little sing-song voice.
“I love you, too,” I told him. “Which is why you can’t have more.”
He mimicked a sad sound effect that he’d picked up from a movie, but allowed me to transfer him back to his perch, and then walked into the cage
himself.
“Go to sleep, bud,” I said.
“Go to sleep, bud,” he shot back at me.
I shook my head, shut the cage door, and headed toward the bathroom.
I’d inherited Amos from my paternal grandmother after she passed. He’d spent the first thirty years of his life in a much smaller cage with almost zero environmental stimulation and no one for company but another crotchety old bird (my grandmother), and I wanted him to live out the rest of his days as happy as he could possibly be in captivity.
At first, I’d tried to introduce other birds because the experts said that was best for a parrot’s social and mental well-being, but Amos hated absolutely every creature besides me, so instead, I focused on improving his environment, diet, and physical enrichment. Which meant no more than three pistachios a day, no matter how much he begged.
The sound of his complaints followed me out of the room. This apartment had the same footprint as the shop below it, and my bedroom and en suite branched off the living area. I headed straight to the shower, cranking up the heat in hopes that it would ease some of the ache in my back. As steam started to fill the room, I paused to glance at myself in the mirror, my expression guilty.
Today, I’d sunk to a new low. I’d kissed a client. What was worse, I’d chosen an obnoxious gym bro to swap saliva with. No, wait. That wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was how much I’d enjoyed it.
I grabbed the edge of the sink and bowed my head, trying to calm my racing pulse, desperate to ignore the little throb of unfulfilled longing emanating from my core. My underwear was still slightly damp, slick since Theo dragged me over his cock and definitely not before that moment.
Thank fuck Derrick had interrupted us again before things got out of hand. God, what had I been thinking, letting a virtual stranger manhandle me like that?
I hadn’t been thinking, and that was the problem. Even after I’d resolved to be the better person, I kept letting Theo antagonize me into reacting to his childish needling. And then all it had taken was one brush of his fingers for me to launch myself at him.
My face heated with embarrassment. Ugh, he was right. I had attacked him. And the bitter truth was that I’d spent the rest of the appointment fighting the urge to kiss him again. In my defense, it was a good kiss. Hot, bruising, our disdain for each other spicing it with enough heat that I’d felt like my clothes were about to catch fire.
I really needed to take a day off and go find some other, nicer person to hook up with. For the safety of all my future clients, because, clearly, I could no longer be trusted.
The shower spray was nearly scalding when I stepped beneath it, but I couldn’t tell if it was because it was just that hot or because my skin was still so hypersensitive. I had my answer when I brushed my soaped-up loofah over my breasts and my nipples tightened painfully. Giving in, I closed my eyes and dropped my hand between my legs, the first roll of my fingers over my clit shooting stars across the inside of my lids. I came less than a minute later, definitely not imagining Theo’s thick fingers inside me instead.
Afterward, I toweled off and did my skin care routine in record time, resolving to never think of Theo again. Or at least not until I had to when he came in for his next appointment, scheduled for a week from now.
I dressed in sweats and a ratty old band tee and quietly padded back into the kitchen.
“’Stash?” Amos sleepily called from his cage.
“No, bud. Go to sleep.”
He grumbled under his breath, half words, half grouchy noises, while I looked for a bedtime snack for myself. I’d eaten dinner a few hours ago, but I always went to sleep with at least something in my stomach to help settle it. Usually a few pieces of bread or some crackers.
I was just opening a cabinet when my phone chimed with the notification that someone was out front on the street level. Normally, I’d ignore it—my
standard assumption was that anyone pushing the shop’s buzzer at this hour was either drunk or had some nefarious motive—but I worried it was Derrick, having accidentally left something else behind.
I pulled up my security app and saw a dark, hooded shape standing outside. Yup, definitely ignoring it.
They pushed the buzzer again. And again.
I tapped the microphone button. “Get fucked.”
The figure pulled their hood back and turned toward the camera.
Surprise shot through me. It was my brother. What the hell was Blake doing here this late? And why hadn’t he texted or called first?
Frowning, I went downstairs to let him in.
The second Blake was through the door, I locked it behind him and reset the exterior alarm. If I took after Mom, he took after Dad: tall, sandy- haired, freckle-faced, with shoulders too wide for his gangly body. He looked like shit. Like he’d aged a decade in the week since I’d last seen him. Dark circles stood out beneath bloodshot brown eyes. His cheeks were hollow, skin paler than normal, and the reek of stale alcohol wafting off him was strong enough to turn my stomach.
What the hell happened to my baby brother?
I ushered him over to the seating area. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer, stumbling past me to collapse onto a chair and bury his head in his hands. Unease crept up my spine. This wasn’t Blake. He’d gotten Dad’s personality, too—lighthearted, jovial, a permanent smile
etched on his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
When he still didn’t answer me, I reached out to feel his forehead, wondering if he was sick, but his skin felt cool, clammy.
I sat across from him. “Say something. You’re starting to freak me out.”
“I fucked up,” he croaked.
“Fucked up, how? We talking you accidentally ruined a pair of Mom’s heels, or you broke one of Dad’s golf clubs?”
I figured it had to be something like that because Blake never got into trouble. That had been my role, and I’d taken it very seriously right up until I’d gotten into the sort of trouble you couldn’t come back from. Blake had been young enough during my experience that it had scarred him for life, turned him risk-averse. He became the good kid, the smart kid. Where I’d
been a constant headache, he was a straight-A student. Our parents trusted him to leave the house without worrying they’d get a phone call from the police by the end of the night.
Blake finally lifted his head, expression bleak, and said the absolute last thing I could have predicted. “I gambled away my inheritance.”
“Ha ha,” I said, relief sweeping through me. Blake might have been arrow-straight, but he was also a prankster, constantly pulling my leg or setting up ridiculous scenarios that would end in my own embarrassment.
This was obviously another grift, him showing up here looking devastated so he could laugh at me for falling for his dumb act.
“I’m not kidding,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Fine. If he wanted to take it too far, we’d take it too far. “Okay then, while we’re making confessions, I should tell you, I’ve recently been introduced to the world of dendrophilia, and it has really broadened my horizons.”
He blinked. “Dendrophilia? What is that?”
I grinned. “Tree humping.”
Instead of finally cracking a grin and giving up the bit, he shot out of his seat, fingers fisting his hair as he started to pace. “I’m serious, Stel. Last week, I got this mysterious invitation to some kind of party. I didn’t know what it was, so I wasn’t going to accept it, but Henry and Grant caught sight of it and insisted we all go.”
I frowned. Henry and Grant were two of his frat buddies, and some of the most annoying rich kids I had ever met, which was saying something because I’d grown up surrounded by nepo babies. I had no idea why my brother tolerated them. Blake had tried to tell me they weren’t that bad when you got them on their own, that most of their assholery was just for show, but I wasn’t convinced.
Blake paced back toward me. “It was an illegal gambling party or something. We all had to dress up and wear masks. I don’t know how it happened, but I lost track of Henry and Grant while I was talking to the guy hosting the event, and then he led me over to the poker tables. We’d pregamed before going, and the waitstaff kept serving me drinks I didn’t ask for. By the time I started playing, I was already drunk.” He paused to shoot me a guilty look, like it was inconceivable that an underage kid might be drinking illegally.
“Then what?” I asked, my mind spinning. Was he actually serious right now?
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s all a blur. I got really drunk. Most of it I only remember in pieces. Running out of cash. The dealer telling me the house could front me money for the next bet. And then the next one. I kept accepting because I was so out of it that I don’t think I really understood that it was real money I was losing, and …” His sharp inhale sounded pained. “I lost Grandpa’s watch.”
He pulled up his sleeve to reveal his empty wrist, and my stomach dropped. That watch had been his most cherished possession; he would never joke about losing it. As a little kid, he’d been obsessed with the vintage Patek Philippe timepiece, and Grandpa had regularly taken it off so Blake could watch the back gears move as the seconds ticked by. It was the beginning of Blake’s mechanical obsession, his need to know how things worked. When Grandpa passed, he’d left Blake the watch, and I’d never
seen my brother without it.
Shit. He was telling the truth.
I sat forward in my seat. “Do you remember who you lost it to? Maybe we can get it back.”
Blake shook his head, looking like he was about to cry. “No. Everyone was wearing masks, and my memories are so hazy that I don’t think I’d remember anyway.”
“How …” Oh, god. “How much did you lose?”
He stopped pacing and closed his eyes. “Three million.”
I stopped breathing.
Three million dollars.
His entire inheritance.
Gone in one night.
Our parents might be swimming in money, but they’d made it clear to us that they only planned to leave us a comparatively small amount, the rest going to charity when they passed.
Blake didn’t even have access to his yet, which would make paying off his debt impossible.
“You were drunk,” I said, latching onto a small but hopeful thought.
“And you’re underage. There’s no way they can hold you to your losses.”
Blake’s exhale was shaky. “I doubt these people care about either of those things. The entire party was illegal. And the guy who runs it,” his eyes met mine, looking scared, “everyone says he’s ruthless. That if you don’t pay him on time, he’ll destroy you.”
Fear wormed its way up my spine. “We need to tell Mom and Dad.”
They’d know what to do. They had the kind of money to fix this situation.
Blake gave a violent jerk of his head. “No. Please, Stel. They can’t find out. I’ve never done anything bad before, and I can’t handle them being as disappointed in me as you are.”
I pushed to my feet and hauled him into a hug. “I’m not disappointed in you. I’m shocked. And I think our parents would feel the same. Really, you should be more concerned about Mom going on the warpath for you.”
Someone had hurt her perfect angel baby. She would be furious when she found out.
Blake pulled free and went back to pacing. “No, you … you don’t understand. Mr. Strickland has no morals. He’ll do something to Mom and Dad. Or threaten to leak my losses to the press. I don’t want to put them through another scandal like yours. It almost broke them last time.”
I went rigid.
Blake’s face fell as he caught sight of me. “Shit, Stella, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“What was that name you just said?” I asked, my ears ringing.
“Mr. Strickland?”
My head spun. No. No fucking way. “What did he look like?”
Blake shrugged. “I don’t know, he had a mask on.”
I lunged forward, grabbing his shoulders. “But you must have seen something. Hair color, eyes, height, anything?” My fingers dug into his arms. I was squeezing him too hard but couldn’t help myself, my mind stuck on something from earlier. “Theo. You’re going to want to remember that.” The smug look on Theo’s face when he’d said it. The way he’d followed it up with, “Or you can call me Mr. Strickland if you prefer.” How he’d seemed like he was secretly laughing at me the whole time he’d been here.
“He was tall, I think,” Blake said. “With blond hair? Maybe blue eyes?”
I tore myself away from him and flew out the door. It couldn’t have been more than half an hour since I’d closed the shop. Theo could still be nearby.
This block had several bars that were open until 2 a.m. Maybe he’d popped into one of them. Or, considering his vanity, was standing under a streetlight admiring himself in the reflection of a window.
I froze half a dozen feet away, trying to remember which direction Theo had walked in. Left? Right? Passersby turned to look at me, no doubt wondering what the hobgoblin with the messy bun and pimple patches was doing out here.
Shit, shit, shit, think, goddamn it, I told myself, trying to ignore the onlookers. That motherfucker had come into my shop, after doing what he’d done to my brother, and acted like a smug asshole. He’d goaded me. Flirted with me. Kissed me.
Blake materialized at my side. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to remember which direction Theo went when he left.”
“Who the hell is Theo?” Blake asked, clearly confused.
“Mr. Strickland.”
Blake made a choking noise. “He was here? Oh, fuck, Stella, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “Did you see a blond man on your way in?”
“No.” He glanced up and down the street, fear taking over his expression.
My blood was singing for immediate vengeance but I forced myself to be rational. Theo was probably long gone. If, by some miracle, he was still close by, there was likely no way I could find him, and even if I did, what then? It wasn’t like I could beat him to death in the middle of a bar. The man was huge, and something about the way he’d said I could try to hit him told me he knew how to fight, that all those pretty muscles weren’t just for show.
What I needed first was more information.
Reluctantly, I led Blake back into the tattoo shop, relocking the door behind us. Once inside, I made him a cup of strong coffee from the break room in the back—because, god, he reeked of booze—and forced him to drink it while I recounted tonight’s events (minus the kiss I wished I could banish from my memory).
“I can’t believe he was here,” Blake said when I was done, glancing around like he was waiting for the boogeyman to jump out.
I was quiet in response, my mind in overdrive. Blake said the party was last week, but Theo and I had been emailing for over two. It reeked of a setup.
“Come take a look at this,” I said, heading toward the front desk. With a few shakes of the mouse, I woke the computer and navigated to my security footage. Today’s video feed filled the screen. I snapped forward in time to 11:25 p.m., and right on cue, Theo strolled inside, somehow looking both douchier and hotter than I remembered.
I hit pause and turned the monitor toward my brother. “Is this him?”
I had to ask the question. Because even though all signs pointed to Theo being the Mr. Strickland, there was still a sliver of a chance that this was some horrible coincidence and I was planning to violently end the life of a completely innocent, albeit obnoxious, man.
Blake leaned close to the screen. “Can you zoom in on his face?”
I did, but it pixelated the image.
“Shit, I don’t know,” Blake said, straightening. “I was so drunk. I’m sorry.”
I gripped his shoulder. “Stop apologizing. This isn’t your fault.”
He pulled away. “Yes, it is.”
I shook my head. “It can’t be.”
He made a low sound of annoyance. “Don’t do that. Don’t make it out like I’m some little kid who got taken advantage of.”
But you are, I almost blurted.
“I’m twenty years old,” he said. “I chose to go to that party. I chose to get that drunk.”
“You said they kept giving you drinks you didn’t ask f—”
“Yeah, but I didn’t have to drink them,” he interrupted, dark eyes blazing with frustration. “Just like I didn’t have to keep playing when I realized I was in over my head. At any point during the night, I could have folded and gotten out of there.”
“Then why didn’t you?” The second the words were out, I wished I could take them back. It made it sound like I was mad at him. I wasn’t; I just wanted to understand how my brother had gone his whole life without screwing up only to gamble away his entire inheritance in one night.
“Alex broke up with me.”
My heart sank. Alex and Blake had been together since their junior year of high school. Our parents were good friends. I was pretty sure our moms had been secretly planning their nuptials for years. They were the perfect couple. Meant to be. And now Blake was telling me Alex had ended it?
He must have been heartbroken. No wonder he’d gotten blackout drunk.
“What happened?” I asked, reaching out to comfort him.
Blake shirked my touch. “He cheated on me.”
My mouth dropped open.
“For the past six months.”
Anger bubbled up from the pit of my stomach, not just at Alex for hurting my brother, but at Mr. Strickland for taking such obvious advantage of his heartbreak. Blake was kind, compassionate, and empathetic. He saw the best in everyone, was always ready to give people second chances, and didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He’d planned to use his inheritance for good, following in Mom and Dad’s footsteps, with the brightest possible future ahead of him.
And Theo Strickland had stolen it all from him.
I was going to fucking kill that man.
