My gut was never wrong.
Question was—was it his choice to avoid this place, or Brat’s?
I proceeded downstairs and started making some calls. Max was supposed to arrive tomorrow. Miss Thorne required around-the-clock supervision so we had to take shifts. I also called a local CrossFit place. I normally liked to get my workouts out in the open, but the only pieces of green Los Angeles had to offer were the golf courses.
I sifted through emails, checked my Kink app for appealing like-minded people in the area, and then got back to sorting through résumés for the cybersecurity unit.
An hour after her dramatic departure, Brat reemerged downstairs, swathed in black from head-to-toe and dark sunglasses, holding a designer suitcase. She sloped her chin up.
She looked like an especially bad actress on a soap opera.
“I’m leaving,” she declared from her place by the door.
I didn’t answer.
“There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
Wanna bet?
“I’m just taking my keys.” She let go of her suitcase and advanced to the kitchen, then came back, red-faced, to the dining table where I sat.
“Where are all my keys?” she demanded. “This is theft.”
“In my pocket.” I kept typing an email as I spoke. “And those cars are technically under your mother’s name. She confirmed I could confiscate them as I deemed fit for safety purposes.”
“You—”
“So much for being an environmentalist.” I continued typing on my laptop. “Owning four cars.”
“They’re all hybrids.”
“You’re one person,” I reminded her. I had a feeling math wasn’t her strong suit.
“That’s because I like supporting green companies.”
“Sure, on your father’s dime.”
“I’ll call my driver,” she mumbled, more to herself than to me.
“Mr. Drischoll is on an overdue paid leave,” I announced flatly. “He’s spending some time across the country with his family.”
“Dennis!” She gasped, slapping a hand over her chest. “He never had a vacation before.”
“My point exactly.”
“Well, I’ll get an Uber,” she shot back.
“Would they let you pay in pearls of wisdom?” I inquired dryly.
“What?”
I stopped typing. “Your credit cards have been canceled. Couldn’t risk you running into trouble while I wasn’t looking.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Oh, I should warn you in advance—I have no sense of humor. No joking in this household for the next six months.” I double-clicked one of the résumés waiting in my email.
“I’m going to get revenge.”
I yawned, wondering if all one-dimensional creatures of excess in L.A. talked in poorly scripted Riverdale dialogue.
“Revenge’s an admission of pain. Tuck your feelings back in. Everyone can see them, and what they can see—they can exploit.”
“I’m going to find a way out of this.” She was pacing back and forth now, peering at the walls like they were closing in on her. She was coming to terms with her new reality. Good.
I opened another Chrome tab of résumés. A bachelor’s degree in information security, UC Berkeley cybersecurity boot camp graduate, five years’ experience in NESSUS, SPLUNK, and APP Detective, blah, blah, blah.
Not good enough. Next.
“I am!” She stomped her foot. “Just watch me.”
My eyes snapped up to meet hers.
“I’ll watch you, all right, because Daddy Dearest pays me a hefty sum to do so. Your ass is under my supervision for the next six months, Miss Thorne, whether you like it or not. Forget about everything you knew to be your former life. Gone are your days of stumbling out of bars and clubs naked and drunk. From now on, you will have to prove to me that you are responsible enough to operate your social media accounts, to have a credit card, and to socialize with other adults. You will be abstinent, sober—those are your parents’ demands, and on your best behavior—the latter is mine. And by the end of my stay,” this was where I got to the cherry on the shitcake, “you will be gainfully employed, too.”
“Abstinent!” she shouted to the sky, outraged. I could kind of understand where she was coming from. Being sexually active had nothing to do with good behavior. But I didn’t make the rules—I simply enforced them. “Will you be abstinent?”
Wouldn’t put money on it.
I could go without for weeks, sometimes months. Finding the right partner for my flavor of kink was not easy—fortunately my self-control was second only to my stamina. But the Brat and I weren’t playing the same game.
“What I do with my personal time is my business,” I clipped out.
“Yeah, thought so.” She laughed mirthlessly. “And sober? I don’t even drink that much.”
“Then giving it up shouldn’t pose an issue.”
She glanced around, looking for creative ways to get out of the situation. Clearly, the Thornes had allowed her to grow as wild and free as a weed until she was not in the habit of answering to anyone.
“I’ll make your life a living hell,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Kiddo.” I flashed her an impatient smile. “I was forged in hell. I’ll feel right at home. You, however, are in for a challenging few months.”
“This is not over,” she warned, wiggling a finger in my face, an explosion of colors and attitude. “In fact, I’m going to walk out of here right now and sell this story about how you walked in on a naked, sleeping woman to—”
Not interested in hearing the rest of this sentence, or anything else to come out of that smart mouth, I stood up, picked her up, and locked her upstairs, in her room.
It was the first time I’d physically—unprofessionally touched a client.
But it was time Brat got some discipline.
Better late than never.
I was going to kill a man. Violently.
I didn’t know how yet. After all, this guy—what was his name, anyway? Bastard never introduced himself—was at least six foot three, if not taller. And buff. Not in the way Wes Morgan was buff, with enough visible veins to look like a roadmap. Nameless Asshole had a toned body without looking like he lived at the gym. He appeared almost indecently masculine. Like those ultra-athletes who survived in the woods for years at a time.
Complete with jade-hued eyes, soot-colored hair, sculpted cheekbones…okay, since when do you notice men? Specifically, men who barge into your life, while you’re naked?
Anyway, without getting into minutiae, the jerk deserved to die.
Luckily, I still had my laptop in my room. He could take my phone, but he could never take my fight.
My first move was to try to call my parents through a questionable app I downloaded, and in the process, probably installed fifteen viruses on my computer.
I got my mother’s voicemail—twice—while Dad was on another call.
The coward. My father was great about sending me money and gifts, and horrible at being available for me physically or emotionally. He called me frequently, but conversation was always so boring, so stilted, I’d wish he hadn’t even tried.