Page 62 of Pretty Lies & Ugly Truths

No, we need to formulate a plan, and soon. I don’t want her in that house, with that monster, any longer than she has to be.

Jayce—who insisted on accompanying me—follows me to the gate, where Beckham is already waiting next to—what the fuck?

“Really, Becks? You calledhim?” I sneer as soon as I am within hearing distance. Standing next to Beckham, like the smug bastard he is, is Easton Rhodes.

My pretty boy half-brother stands there picking non-existent lint off his Brioni suit, bought with daddy’smoney no doubt, a look of utter indifference on his face.

“Nice to see you too, brother,” he says with a sarcastic smile that makes me want to punch him. I take a step towards him to do just that, but Beckham steps between us.

“Guys, come on,” Beckham says. “Archer, look—like it or not, he is your brother, and if you want a shot at getting Maggie back, then we need his help.”

“Oh yeah, and what the hell’s he gonna do? Bend over and kiss their ass until they decide to just hand her over?” The smile falls from Easton’s face as his hands ball into fists at his side.

A muscle in his jaw twitches before he hisses out through clenched teeth, “You don’t know a fucking thing about me. You don’t want my help? Fine. Good luck getting your girl back.” Then, he turns to stalk off.

Perfectly fine by me. Content to just let him leave, I don’t respond until Jayce smacks me on the back of the head.

“What the hell Jayce?” He just gives me a bland look, likewhat the fuck is wrong with you?

I’m being an asshole, I know, but it’s no secret me and Easton don’t get along. He was our father’s perfect son. While he got the name, the wealth, and prestige that came with being a Rhodes, I was my father’s bastard child. Easton got to keep his hands clean, while I was forced to do all his dirty work.

“Are yousurewe need him?” I ask Beckham.

“Yes, we do.”

I let out a long sigh. We may not get along, but it would be stupid of me to let my pride get in the way. If he is willing to help me, then I suppose we can set aside our differences if it means saving Maggie.

“Easton, wait!” I call out, jogging to catch up with him. “You’re really willing to help me?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

“Ok…but I don’t want Walter to know anything about this. Hecannotknow that I’m here. Understand?”

My father didn’t take my abrupt departure too well. He was pissed, to say the least, at losing his best mercenary. The last thing I need is for him to learn about Maggie, and find some way to use her to drag me back into his clutches.

“That won’t be a problem. Father and I aren’t exactly speaking at the moment.”

Nowthatsurprises me. Easton and our father have always been super close.

“Oh…and what did dearest dad do this time?” I ask once we are all seated in the car.

“Let’s just say we are having a difference of opinion on Violet’s future.” At my puzzled expression, he sighs before continuing. “She wants to pursue a future in dance, but our father has plans to marry her off to some real estate mogul who is almost twice her age.”

In my peripheral, I see Beckham’s head snap up from where he had been busy studying something on his phone.

“This guy is basically looking for an obedient littlewife and has made it clear he would not allow her to dance professionally.”

“I'm sure Violet is thrilled,” I deadpan, and Easton chuckles.

“She’s furious. We both have tried to convince him not to go through with it, but you know how he is. Always looking out for number one—himself.”

Huh—I’ve never heard him speak a word against our dad. I always assumed they had an ironclad relationship, but now I’m wondering if maybe Easton is right. Maybe I don’t really know anything about him.

We spend the rest of the ride to Beck’s penthouse mostly in silence. I haven’t slept more than an hour or two since Maggie was taken, and fatigue has settled deep into my bones, weighing me down like lead.

All I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep for two days straight, but my mind is too loud and won’t allow it. It’s too full of worry and fear. I doubt I will be able to rest until Maggie is back in my arms. So, after a shower and a cup of coffee, I go in search of Beckham, a night owl like me. I know he’ll still be up despite the late hour.

I find him in his office—although, with the amount of computer monitors set up, it looks more like a space station command center—and pass him the cup I made for him before we sit down together to comb through all the surveillance footage.

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