Page 7 of Free to Dream
Standing beneath the warm spray, I brace my thick legs apart as the suds slide down my body, over my abs, and around my cock. Letting out a low hum at the sensation, I realize it’s been way too long since I’ve gotten laid. To be honest, a woman didn’t seem worth the effort when I could rub one out a hell of a lot quicker.
To me, women came with one of three problems—they want my money, my body, or my face, and pretty much in that order. I need one who not only has her own success, but is a challenge. Beautiful, but doesn’t live or die by the need to look into every reflective surface she passes. A woman who wants to be held as much as she wants to be fucked.
In other words, I want a fucking unicorn.
Slipping on a pair of well-worn Levi’s, a thin cashmere sweater over a T-shirt, and my steel-toe boots, I quickly toss my dopp kit into my gym locker. Shrugging on my leather jacket, I walk the mile-and-a-half to my office near Rockefeller Center.
Sundays in New York are unlike any other day of the week. If you want to know why a person would live in the city, explore it on a Sunday. Sure, there are tourists. I mean, it’s New York, when are there not? But there are also random people finding what little green space there is for a nap, lines for people waiting to eat brunch wrapping around a city block, and random street fairs fucking up traffic. I stop at one of the street fair booths and order a Gyro to eat as I make my way toward Rockefeller Center.
Thirty minutes later, I’m behind my desk at Hudson Investigations, having tossed my assistant a quick wave on my way in. I shake my head as I pass. Time and again, I let my assistant know Sundays are not required as part of the job. I’ve given up trying and just caution now against burning out.
When I left the Army, I knew I could live the rest of my life on my inheritance, but that’s not my style. I knew I would be bored within two-point-five seconds if all I was doing was playing golf. I knew I would need something in my life to give me a challenge. I wasn’t like the pampered society darlings my mother kept tossing at me, who wanted to fuck and produce Lockwood heirs. Seriously, the idea of settling for one of those dumb bimbos bored me. If I had to go through life as a bachelor, buying lube so I didn’t chafe while taking care of business, I didn’t care. I refuse to settle.
Instead of what would amount to buying a relationship, I put my time, effort, and soul into the investigative agency I bought out three years ago. The former owner, Laskey, had a solid business, but he was ready to retire. To me, compiling competitive intelligence and digging into companies to look for things like fraud was better than a woman scraping her false nails up the inside of my thighs. Protection details with the occasional high-level missing persons case could send a chill up my spine more than hips swaying in the right dress. Helping fend off corporate espionage was better than a night of hot sex.
I want the things in my life to require some effort. I want my life to have meaning. I was born with the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth. I think I spit it out within minutes of it being shoved there.
I like puzzles. I love a challenge. I crave the high I get from figuring out a mystery. It’s probably why I excelled when I was in Army Intel for eight years. Give me a good case to dig into and I’m like a dog with a meaty bone. I don’t rest until I own all the answers.
While I’m waiting on the basic financial report and background check I requested on Amaryllis Events from one of our new analysts—mostly to disclaim my suspicion the business didn’t drug anyone—I receive a knock on my office door from my head of missing persons and protection services. He’s carrying a thick file under his arm, a file I don’t recognize.
First, it’s paper. Second, I would recall authorizing its creation.
“Charlie, what are you doing here on a Sunday?” I stand, my eyes dropping to the folder now in his hands.
“You requested the Freeman file, Caleb. I need to know why.” No nonsense and to the point, Charlie Henderson shakes my hand before sitting down in one of my guest chairs. He places the thick file on his lap, his hand absentmindedly tapping it.
Dragging my eyes away from the file, I find him looking at me with his head tilted. His expression is serious. “The Freeman file? The only thing I’ve asked for today is a business check on an event planner for my brother’s wedding, Charlie. A company called Amaryllis Events.”
His eyes don’t leave mine. He doesn’t say a word, just continues to stare me down.
I say slowly, nodding to the file, “And I take it the file you’re holding has something to do with that request?”
Nodding his head, his hands stop tapping Morse code on the hard copy. He shifts in his chair, but doesn’t speak immediately. I wait patiently, because I know Charlie. He’s not deciding on whether or not to tell me, he just needs to organize his thoughts.
When I purchased the investigation firm, I inherited Charlie. He’s a rare, raw, tell-it-like-it-is, pain in the ass that needs the right hand holding. He had turned in his resignation when I first met him. Now, he’s one of my best assets.
I trust his instincts.
Giving him the minute he needs, I stand and walk over to the wet bar in my office. Grabbing two bottles of water, I place one in front of him before I sit at my desk again. Twisting off the cap, I wait.
“About eight years ago, a group of kids came to the office. Unusual case. They wanted a background investigation run.”
I’m not sure what’s odd about that. Parent who left them? Parents, plural, who left them? I tip my head as I take another drink. His next words do surprise me.
“The Freeman children wanted us to investigate them. There are six of them. They wanted to know how hard it would be for anyone to find them, and they wanted to know if the people in their previous lives were alive or dead. They were all hoping for dead. By the end of it, so were we.” He shudders.
Charlie Henderson has seen a lot over the years, but I’ve never watched him visibly shudder.
“Those kids, the Freemans…” Charlie takes a deep breath. “They own Amaryllis Events.”
Slowly putting down the bottle, I sit up straighter. Ry, you ass. What the hell did you get us involved with?
“It’s all in there?” He nods. I reach my hand out for the file, and just as I’m about to touch the thick folder, Charlie puts his hand on top of mine. “Caleb.” My eyes lock onto his. What now?
“Ryan came up as part of the investigation. There might be things; you know…things you don’t know. I have no idea. But from the look on your face, I’m guessing the second.” He releases the file as I sink in my chair. The file is easily six inches thick.
“I put the flags on the family so I could let them know if someone was trying to hunt them.” He gives me a hard look that tells me if it was, I would easily be facing an aging ex-SEAL in a grudge match. “But based on what you just said, I’m assuming your check has nothing to do with that.”
