Page 9 of Parker
“What did you both want to see me about?” I ask, sliding into a chair.
“PR,” Ebony tells me, her tone immediately bright. “Your reputation, to be exact.”
“There is nothing wrong with—” My mother lifts her hand, dismissing my objections immediately. But before she can speak again, Ebony interrupts her.
“Joel, you’re divorced from a convict who stole from your family business. The local rags are having a field day. We need to clean you up, present a more eloquent approach. You need to look like a man that has his shit together.” Ebony smiles, pleasedwith her summary. “You need to get out in public. Be seen again. Show everyone you’re living.”
“That’s the last thing I want to be doing,” I mutter, not liking the direction the conversation is headed.
“I know,” she says, reaching over and placing a hand on mine. “But Imelda has had the most wonderful idea.” She glances at my mother. “I’ll be with you every step of the way. I’ll be your PR partner.”
“No,” I snap, pulling my hand away. “You want me to fix my reputation by pretending to have moved on from my wife?”
“Not exactly,” my mother says, her tone soft but deadly. “We just want you to be seen again, my darling. And Ebony will accompany you for moral support. Rumors are rife you’re near another breakdown, and you remember what happened last time.”
Of course she had to bring up the last time I spiraled. Twist the knife a little more—remind me who's boss. What better way to beat me into submission than by exerting her power?
“Let me help you. You’re my oldest friend, Joel. Let me walk beside you.” Ebony reaches for my fingers again, but I place them on my lap. Far enough from her to block any physical contact. She grimaces a little, obviously unhappy, before replastering a smile on her face. “If that will be all,” she says, with a nod to my mother. “I’ll be off. Speak later, Joel.” Then she disappears.
Later that night, my cell rings. I don’t want to speak to anyone. Still in the office, I’m poring over figures instead of going home. Home is too quiet, so I stay here as much as I can. When it rings for a second time, I answer.
“Boss,” Boyd says, his tone sharp. “There has been another issue.”
I sit back in my chair, waiting to hear another long, sordid tale about a client getting out of control at one of our clubs. Another story of justice gone too far.
Boyd heads up security around our nighttime establishments. He used to report directly to my father; now he reports to me. As much as the clubs and their dealings make me uncomfortable, it was a part of our world I didn’t want my mother involved in. So, it landed on my desk. I go there as little as possible.
“Which club?”
“Guilty Secrets. One client got handsy with Missy in the private room. She screamed, and, well, Big Andy showed him the door. He obtained a small knife wound on the way out.”
I groan. That club has been causing me trouble for months. It’s our most profitable but most hidden establishment. At Guilty Secrets, we provide high-end entertainment for the rich and famous, some legal and some not so much. It’s a hive of business dealings and dirty kinks, but it’s lined our family’s pockets for decades. The complications that come with it are just challenges to be dealt with.
“Boyd, is this your way of telling me I should expect a visit from the police?”
“That is a possibility, sir.”
I cut the call and drop the phone on my desk. Guilty Secrets should be burned to the ground—but shutting it down would mean digging up bodies I’ve tried to forget. And in this family, skeletons never stay buried, not unless someone’s watching.
Chapter four
The Smith Family Home, Glasgow.
April 2002
Nicky
My life course changed forever in a single night.
After returning from my part-time bar work to my family’s home in the early hours of Sunday morning, I’m surprised to see a dim light in our living room window. My dad, an early riser, is usually in bed by this time.
Mum is away on a brief break with my aunt, who recently lost her husband. As I slide my key into the lock of our front door, it refuses to turn. It’s open. My family is security-conscious after a burglary years ago. Mum checks the locks on all the windows and doors multiple times each day. She has never come to termswith the invasion of her privacy, never feeling safe in her home since.
Cautiously, I turn the old brass doorknob and let myself into our hall. My eyes scan the room as I take in the scene in front of me. The cheap pine staircase that runs up the left-hand side of the corridor is littered with discarded clothing. Black high heels I know aren’t my mother’s lie on the rug. A low-cut leopard print dress hangs from the banister with a pair of men’s jeans dumped below it.
The bastard is doing it again. He broke her before, and here he is with another side piece.
I silently ascend the stairs. On the landing, the door to my parents’ room is wide open, and music floats into the hall. It’s romantic and sensual; I can see candles flickering against the windows, adding to the amorous ambiance.
