Page 23 of The King (Masterpiece Duet 1)
He grimaces. “Look, I’m sorry. This is a tough situation. I know that. But the core issue isn’t time, not really. It’s money. You don’t have anything worth that much money. And you won’t, not ever.”
I peek through my fingers. “Is this you trying to make me feel better?”
“Yes,” he says, sounding rueful. “And not doing a good job of it. It’s just—he’s a heavy weight. You know? I don’t want you to hold on so long he pulls you to the bottom.”
The words land inside me, hard with impact. He’s right, of course. Daddy’s addiction will sink him. And it will sink me too, if I let it. Am I just supposed to walk away, though? I’m ashamed to admit that the thought scares me even more than it should—not only because of what would happen to Daddy. Because of what that would mean for me. I’d be well and truly alone in the world. And if I’m going to be underwater I’d rather hold onto an anchor than nothing at all.
“What if—” My voice cracks, though less from fear. More from a strange, dark excitement. “I know this is bad. Maybe I shouldn’t even talk about it. But you’re my best friend. And I have to at least consider this option—what if I paid off the debt a different way?”
It speaks to how common such ways are in the west side that Brennan doesn’t ask what I mean. Sex. “That’s really fucking stupid, Penny.”
I flinch. Of course it is. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it to you.”
“You shouldn’t even be considering it. There are worse things than your dad being held accountable for his debts. This could break you.”
“Do I seem that fragile?”
“You’re strong, Penny. But these men, they’re fucking mountains. They will crush you. And they’ll enjoy doing it.”
He sounds so sure, as if he understands the impulse to crush me. As if he would enjoy it, too. Maybe it’s inherent in men. And only the rich can indulge it. “Look, I’m not… I’m not saying I want to do it. I’m saying, isn’t that option better than Daddy dying? In a totally objective way, I mean. After that we’d both be alive.”
“You and your damn logic,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t sound angry anymore.
Only sad.
“What else is there?” I ask, honestly unsure.
“There’s pride,” he says.
“Yours or mine?”
He laughs a little. “I honestly don’t know.”
Chapter Eleven
And so after a week of circling the problem, a week of failed attempts to solve it, I find myself in a cab heading deep into Tanglewood. The windows are down, letting muggy air brush into the black interior. Gouges mar the plastic handles, as if someone tried to get out. And failed.
I have this sense that everything has led me to this moment.
Everything has led me to Damon Scott.
The Den is a gentleman’s club, which doesn’t mean there are flashing marquee lights and free buffets inside. It’s an exclusive membership, where you have to know someone powerful and pay a lot of money. In other words, my father’s never been inside.
I stand in front of the carved wooden door, wondering what I’ll find inside. Half-naked women?
Completely naked women?
For all I know they won’t even let me in the door, but I’m counting on my body to carry some weight. The same way it can be used as the entry fee to a high-stakes poker game.
The sun ducks behind the buildings, sending hot rays across my vision. It leaves the steps in shadow. I wonder if that’s on purpose. A smile tugs at my lips. As if rich men can bend the elements to their will. Then again they brought me here, didn’t they? As surely as rapids in the river.
The knock sounds quiet on such a heavy door. This is the historic part of downtown. There are no doorknobs. No fancy fingerprint scanner or security camera, at least not that I can see.
With a creak the door opens.
The dark silhouette is tall and familiar, the dark eyes a strange relief.
I would have expected a doorman. Maybe a bouncer. Not the man himself, his jacket missing, his shirtsleeves rolled up. He looks disheveled, as if I’ve pulled him out of bed.
Well, maybe I did.
“Damon Scott,” I say, making my voice as hard and as haughty as I can.
He gives me a small smile. “Penny.”
“I’m here to talk about my father’s debt.”
One dark eyebrow rises. “Do you have ten thousand dollars? That was fast.”
Of course I don’t have the money. It may as well be ten million dollars, because I’ll never make either amount. He doesn’t even want the debt repaid, not with cash. He wants a different currency.
“Can I come inside?” I ask, hating how nervous I sound.
He could tear me down with just a sentence. With a word.
Instead he steps aside, opening the door wider. The foyer is empty. No naked women. Nothing at all except an antique side table that actually seems demure. Only in the face of such understated class do I realize fully that I expected a bordello, garish and blunt.
