Page 20 of Just This Once

It meant I didn’t have to think about keeping up appearances to meet Dad’s expectations or irresistible women with dark-blonde hair and eyes that promised to see past all your bullshit.

Nope.

Definitely not thinking about her.

Instead, I imagined my sister Sylvie’s eyes when I dragged my latest finished piece over to the home she shared with Duke Sullivan. My project was a gift for my new nephew and the heritage farmhouse-style trunk was made from handcrafted oak. Little Gus could pile all his toys inside, or maybe it would become the world’s best hide-and-seek spot for him. Wanting to test my hand at a new woodworking skill, I’d used tulipwood to make a contrasting border inlaid across the top.

It was functional and timeless and gave me the opportunity to share a bit of myself with my nephew without having to actually have a conversation with my sister regarding her relationship with a Sullivan. Their relationship should never have worked, but there was no denying the love in Duke’s eyes when he looked at my little sister. The fact that I couldn’t even manage to hate him on principle alone made me want to punch myself in the face.

Or maybe it was just the realization that a love like that wasn’t meant for a man like me.

Ah, fuck it.

I let the wood plank slap against the concrete floor. I swiped a frustrated hand across the back of my sweaty neck, gripping the tension that resided there.

“Still haven’t reined in that temper, I see.” My father’s voice filled the empty workshop, and I found him standing in the doorway. Time and stress had aged him. His shoulders were powerful and square, but the beginnings of a paunch exposed alife behind an expensive desk rather than that of his blue-collar father. Russell King had done everything in his power to escape his working-class roots.

The tips of his shiny loafers didn’t breach the threshold, as if the mere act of entering a working man’s space was beneath him. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his navy slacks as he rocked back on his heels.

Unexpected visits from Russell King were always a sign of trouble—if not for you, then most certainly for someone else.

“Hey, Dad.” I reached for a rag and attempted to scrub the remnants of stain from my fingertips.

Russell King was a ruthless businessman, exceedingly smart and cunning. There was very little that didn’t move the tide in his favor. People in town saw him as a shrewd businessman. He was cunning enough to know where to spend his money in a way that shed the best possible light on the King family.

If he fucked someone over or a deal went ass up, he’d simply make a huge donation toward renovations at the public library, garnering him a nice article in the Outtatowner news and completely overshadowing any misdeeds.

He had lived his life in such a way that no one would believe a bad word said about Russell King, but his children knew the truth. So did the Sullivans, which I suppose is why the generations-long feud had not only persisted but deepened when my father took the helm of the King family businesses.

“What is all this?” Disgust was evident on his face as he looked at the toy chest.

I moved to obscure his view of my work. “It’s nothing important.”

His lips pursed. “You shouldn’t want to be anything other than a firefighter. That’s honorable work. Makes the family look good to have a hero. Don’t waste your time on things that don’t matter.”

I nodded, unsure if I was agreeing with him or at a loss for what to say next.

Everything Russell King did was about optics, never about the long-lasting impact his actions had on his children. It was a marvel only one of us had ended up in prison, and even then, with the help of our father and some hard work, Abel had managed to land on his feet.

There was no world in which a King failed.

The only person who had ever bested Russell King was our mother, and she was the smartest one of us all. She beat him simply by leaving the game—and her children—behind.

“I saw the article in the paper about the Chief’s Company being selected. Congratulations.”

My shoulders bunched. I had been among the few selected for the Chief’s Company award. I was pleasantly surprised, and the pride of being selected only swelled when I locked eyes with Emily. I had sneaked a stolen wink and savored the flush of her cheeks as I shook her father’s hand and accepted the award.

But as he did, my father had a unique way of leaching the joy out of any accomplishment. My stomach soured. “Thank you, sir.”

It was important to stay on the good side of a man in power.

“Perhaps one day I might be able to say that my son is a lieutenant in the fire department rather than a lackey.”

My lips pressed together. I didn’t have the energy to feed into stroking his ego by telling him about my conversation with Chief Martin.

My father adjusted the cuff of his cashmere sweater, his gold pinkie ring glinting in the light. “You know, Chief Martin’s wife is on the board for the Remington County Historical Association.”

And there it was.

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