Page 129 of Brutal Prince

Briar

“Evening, Son.”

I choke on my own spit as I’m walking into Briar Manor. When I look up, my father’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, a wine glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Suddenly, I’m very glad I didn’t join Marcus for that last round of shots. It’s only nine, but I’m a bit unsteady on my feet.

“Dad,” is all I can manage.

“Been keeping well?” he asks, although his gaze is on the dark woods outside the kitchen windows. He’s wearing a business suit, hair immaculately combed, freshly shaved.

“Yeah.” I nod. “Yeah.”

“That’s good.” He finally turns, and does a double take. “I suppose you didn’t receive my message?”

I shake my head. I was distantly aware that my phone vibrated earlier in the evening, but I was deep in discussion with Marcus and hadn’t bothered to check.

Dad shrugs. “I won’t be here long. Just came to pick up one of my pieces to show a prospective client.”

I can’t even imagine how much my father makes his insurance company sweat. That’s one of the main reasons he comes home these days — to select a piece of jewelry usually well over the million range, and fly it with him to some far-flung part of the country to brag.

His success rate at scoring new clients is easily close to ninety percent.

“Where to this time?”

“Los Angeles. Actress.” He smiles at me then, and for a very brief moment, I’m sickened.

His wife, Natalie hasn’t even been dead five years and he’s already scouting around for fresh pussy.

But then I realize his smile isn’t roguish, it’s almost apologetic, and the bitterness inside me subsides. I drop my gaze.

He’s not cheating on my mother — he loved her as much as I did. We walked around like ghosts for close to a year after the accident. Not speaking to each other. Barely eating. If it weren’t for our staff back then, we’d probably both have died in a dusty old house, leaving nothing but skeletons and grief behind.

In the past, I used to wonder if he was one of those guys that lead multiple lives. The ones that have like two or three families. Different wives, different kids, different jobs. All would include heavy traveling, of course. Sales, consulting, that kind of thing.

Here, at the Briar’s, he’s a gemologist. Earns a pretty penny designing lux jewelry. His specialty is designs utilizing precious and semi-precious stones as their centerpieces instead of diamonds. Says they’re boring as heck, especially since they’re hardly as rare as the people buying them think they are. He even designed a necklace for one of the state senators last year.

Wouldn’t think someone like my father would have any influence over this town, but gold and jewels are revered like gods in this place. My father’s many, many connections make him a big enough deal that sending a few pretty stones someone’s way is enough to get them to look the other way.

His phone rings, and he answers it with a sedate, “Edward Briar.”

His full name is Prince Edward Briar, but my father hates the family name of Prince as much as I do.

As much as grandfather did.

And yet, every generation, the firstborn gets those unwelcome letters thrust upon him, without a say in the matter.

I can change it, of course.

But then I wouldn’t see a cent of any of my trust fund, or my inheritance.

“The meeting is at eleven,” Eddie says. “I will let you know as soon as I do.” Then the call is over, and his phone is back in his pocket.

Another prospective client, or one of his other kids?

“How long you in town for?” I head over to the fridge to grab myself a bottle of water.

“Until Sunday.”

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