Solace (Devastation Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  Then

  I didn’t sleep that night after talking to Ms. Blaine. We had a bunk bed in our room, and of course I took the top bunk. Long after Mom softly cried herself to sleep, I laid there and stewed in my anger. I wanted to go hunt down the Ronald family and have it out with them. I wanted to contact a journalist and spill my guts about my parentage, and Emma, and the suspicious connection between her visit to their home and her death.

  That’s what people did in TV shows and movies, right?

  I wanted what was owed to us. All those years, Mom struggled by herself to raise us, and that fucker was rich?

  Except I had no proof, not really. Sure, DNA evidence could prove the man’s my father, but I had no proof Emma went to visit them.

  Ms. Blaine had told me I could call her Casey. Yes, I told Mom to sign the papers, and I remember the guilt eating at me while watching her sign her name where indicated.

  This made me an accomplice in my fate. I hoped I hadn’t royally fucked up and screwed myself. That some ICE assholes in windbreakers wouldn’t show up to take Mom away and then take me somewhere else.

  Before she left, Casey quietly spoke to me with a warning and slipped me a flip-phone.

  “It’s a burner. Keep it on silent. I put my personal cell in the contacts. Do not answer it unless my name comes up, understand me? And call me if you need me. Day or night.”

  “We’re going to the cops with this, right? The papers?”

  She looked a mix between angry and sad as she softly snorted. “Short answer—no. Long answer—hell, no. Not unless you want to paint a target on your back. Can you please trust me? There’s a reason Father Benjamin called me specifically to help you, and we can talk more tomorrow. Do not talk about any of this with anyone, not even him, and definitely not with your mother.”

  “If we call the press, can’t they help?”

  In her heels Casey stood about two inches taller than me. She glanced around and leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. “If I hit the Powerball numbers tomorrow, sure, kid, then we can go after the Ronald family. They aren’t just well-off—they’re rich. The kind of money that uses Caymanian offshore accounts and can piss away more money throwing a dinner party than your mom makes in an entire fucking year. The best I can do is keep you alive.

  “But if you can even find some J-school drop-out stupid enough to take on the Ronald family’s entire fucking team of attorneys, and the Rutherford County Sheriff’s Office, be my guest. It means I’ll be reading about your unfortunate and tragically early death, and probably the reporter’s, too. Because your sister isn’t the first person to die under mysterious circumstances around that family.”

  I wasn’t sure what stunned me more—the information I’d just learned, the intensity she’d delivered it with, or that she’d dropped the F-bomb. I mean, I wasn’t a stranger to the word, although I was smart enough not to say it around Mom. But that was the first time an adult actually said it to me, on purpose.

  Multiple times.

  “If you keep your mouth shut,” she added, “and do what I tell you to do, I can probably keep you and your mom alive. If you want to go off on your own and call attention to yourself, I guarantee you I’ll be helping your mom figure out how to bury you, too. Or, worse, they might kill her if they can’t find you.”

  That was my weak spot, my mom, and I didn’t know if Casey knew that for sure, or if it was an easy and lucky guess.

  I nodded. “I’ll stay quiet.”

  She held out her hand and shook with me.

  Casey returned late the next morning. Father Benjamin pulled me out of class, and I met with Casey in the same room where she’d seen us yesterday. Mom was over at the shelter, doing housekeeping there, working in the kitchen, tasks like that. Father Benjamin had asked the shelter manager to let her work there in exchange for our room and board.

  Now, I understood why. She was never alone, for starters. It also meant she didn’t have to go somewhere else and possibly be recognized or exposed.

  Casey showed me a sheaf of papers. The judge signed the emergency order yesterday, and Casey had already filed for my new birth certificate.

  “I should have it by Monday, and we can get you enrolled in public school again.”

  I stewed in my anger. “Why do they get away with this? Emma’s dead, and they go on like nothing happened.”

  She sighed. “Sometimes, life really fucking sucks. Shitty people do bad things to good people who don’t deserve it. When you can’t get justice through the legal system… Well, sometimes you need to remember that old saying about revenge being best when served cold. We have nothing but circumstantial proof, all the physical evidence was destroyed by the fire, and the man who supposedly confessed to killing your sister, a man with a prior criminal history, is dead.”

  “Can’t we ask for one of those DNA tests to prove I’m his son?”

  She nodded. “Sure, we can. I refer you to what I told you yesterday—there have been other deaths around that family. Junior’s been cleaning up Daddy’s indiscretions for a few years now. Ever since this lawsuit started.”

  “What?”

  “I know of at least three other people who died under somewhat murky circumstances. People who probably were illegitimate kids of Senior’s.”

  “But…” I swallowed hard. “My name. Couldn’t they track down me and Mom by my old birth certificate?”

  She shook her head. “Your mom listed your father’s name as John Smith. For you and your sister. That’s who’s listed on your new one.”

  “Then why was our last name ‘Ronald?’”

  “Because you can put whatever name you want on it.” She pulled out a copy of my old birth certificate, which, to be honest, I’d never looked at.

  Never had a reason to.

  She also had Emma’s.

  Sure enough, our father was listed as John Smith.

  “That fucker gets around, let me tell you what,” she observed. “John Smith has probably sired more kids than any man in this goddamned US.” She sat back. “He was also the father of the other people who died. Funny coincidence, that. I’m sure what Ronald did was pay for the births, the medical expenses, and probably paid money for a few years, or a small lump sum. Maybe he had your mom sign an affidavit saying she wouldn’t file for child support, or she denied he was the father. That’s how he usually handled it.”

  “Handled…it?”

  “Hid what he did. Sure, they could try tracking you through ‘John Smith,’ but seriously, they’re not going to bother. That would raise flags. You are on their radar now, though, thanks to your sister, and your last name. Your mom didn’t know Emma had gone to talk to them. The witness heard her say that.”

  “Why doesn’t he go to the police?”

  “Because he’s a fucking priest.”

  I think I trusted her more because she was so blunt with me. “Priests have to talk if there’s a crime, though, don’t they?”

  She bitterly snorted that time. “Riiiight. Just like they reported to the cops all those priests who raped and molested kids for decades.” She leaned in. “I’m going to give you some advice, kid—you make your own luck in this world. I can give you cover and hopefully keep you safe. We’ll try to figure out a way to get back at them, but not right now, when you’re still a kid and it’d still be too easy for them to get to you and your mom.”

  “Get back at them how?”

  “I don’t know. We can think of something. But you’ll need money to do it if you want any hope of not ending up like your sister. I’m not poor, but I’m not a fraction as rich as the Ronald family.”

  I really looked at her now, studied her. Her nice clothes, the expensive phone and laptop.

  “How much money do you make a year?” I asked.

  She studied me for a moment before answering. “Last year I pulled in almost $300,000, after taxes.”

  “Do all attorneys make that much money?”

  A slow smile curled her lip
s. “No. Especially if they go to work for the government in prosecution, or the public defender’s office. I’m in corporate law, but I do more pro bono work than other attorneys in my firm, so my bottom line tends to take a hit.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not putting in as many billable hours.”

  “No. Why do you do so much free work?”

  I didn’t think I imagined the dark mask that seemed to wash over her face before she finally smiled. “Because under other circumstances,” she quietly said, “I easily could’ve been your sister.”

  * * * *

  Casey took me out for lunch at a barbecue place not far from the church. She drove a new Mercedes, the nicest vehicle I’d ever ridden in. I asked her about becoming an attorney, what I’d need to do, the kinds of grades I’d have to earn.

  The schools to apply to.

  In my mind, I was already thinking about scholarships and grants to chase down, once I was able to go back to public school.

  “I like you, Declan,” she said halfway through our meal. “You’ve got a fire burning in you.”

  “Promise me you’ll help me get them. If I have to stay quiet right now, give me a reason to stay quiet.”

  She slowly nodded. “If you listen to me and do what I say. This is a long game we’re playing. I’m talking years.”

  I nodded.

  “Before I came here,” she said, “I filed the paperwork to have your sister’s body released to the funeral home.”

  I remember blinking back a sudden sting of tears. Mom cried all the time when we were in our room. Cried herself to sleep, woke up crying.

  I was cried out. Emotionally numb, scorched.

  Or so I thought.

  I set down my fork and breathed through the sting of tears demanding I shed them. By sheer force of will I blinked them away and maintained my composure.

  “Are you okay?” she gently asked.

  “Mom’s going to want to bury her, instead of cremation, and we can’t afford it.” I bitterly laughed. “We can’t even afford cremation.”

  She sighed. “It’s taken care of.”

  “By who?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me.”

  She arched that eyebrow at me, an expression I would come to know all too well. “It’s taken care of, Declan,” she quietly said. Except there was something steely in her tone.

  A tone that clearly told me she wanted me to drop it.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I finally said.

  She nodded. “If you’re serious about going to law school, I mean really serious, I’ll help you prep. I can put you in contact with the right people, get you introductions, even get you in on the ground floor with some of the city’s and state’s biggest political juice.”

  “How?”

  “Are you in?”

  I nod. “I want to be able to do something. Tell me what I have to do, and I’ll do it.”

  “Anything?”

  “As long as you’re serious about helping me, yes. Anything.”

  She smiled. “You’re going to become a wunderkind in state politics. And I’m going to give you your most valuable piece of advice ever right now.”

  “What’s that?”

  Her smile faded. “Listen, watch, and never let them see you watching them. Store every single bit of information that comes your way for future leverage. Also, always assume someone else is watching and listening to you.”

  She lifted her phone and I realized she was taking a couple of pictures of something or someone behind me.

  When I started to turn to look, she pulled me up short with a soft noise.

  That got me rewarded with a smile. “Good boy,” she softly said.

  I didn’t understand the mix of irritation and pleasure that rushed through me over those two words. Or maybe it was the tone in which she said them, I don’t know.

  Looking back on it all, I can see the events clearly and in their context as they played out over the years. Some people might even say I was taken advantage of by her, at some point.

  But if you think I regret a single damn thing, or even fault Casey for one second about what happened?

  You’d be dead fucking wrong.

  Chapter Six

  Now

  George and I spend longer in the shower than we should. I’m so deep in subspace it’s hard to keep track of time.

  Then George does something that totally takes me by surprise—he shaves me. No, not everywhere, just my face, transforming my beard, which I’d let grow out this week, back into a neat mustache and goatee. He always enjoys washing me, and I won’t deny it feels like I’m being pampered when he does, but this is a new one.

  Then again, much of what we’re doing right now is new to both of us, in many ways.

  I stand very still, my cock dripping I’m so hard and aching, and watching him as he carefully focuses on what he’s doing. I usually use an electric razor, but he uses a regular one on me, shaving cream and all.

  Once he’s finished, I rinse my face and run my hands over my bare cheeks and jawline, the outline of my goatee.

  He’s done damn good.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  He leans in for a kiss. “You’re welcome. I think I like this look better than the full beard.” His gaze lingers on me, and I’m loathe to break that eye contact.

  I don’t know how to explain this. I’ve never felt like this before, even with Casey.

  It’s like I’m plugged into his soul at a far more intimate level than I am with her. Don’t get me wrong—she makes me feel loved. But this is…

  More.

  Like I could indulge myself in the impossible fantasy that maybe, one day, he’d propose to me, whereas I know Casey will never marry me.

  Again, that was the deal I agreed to from the start, and I’m fine with it. I’m an attorney, not a romantic. Being single is a lot less messy, anyway, for a myriad of reasons.

  When we step out of the shower, after he dries me and then himself, he tells me to wait there. He leaves the bathroom and returns a moment later with the chastity device Casey is fond of using on me. It’s silicone and flexible, so while I won’t say it’s comfortable, it’s definitely more comfortable than some of the hard plastic or even metal ones she’s used on me in the past.

  He has his keys with him. I don’t know when Casey slipped the key for the lock onto his keyring, and neither does he.

  Just one more way in which she’s tricky as hell, in all the good ways.

  She’s earned her position as chief of staff. Not the first or even thousand-and-first time I’ve seen her pull a metaphorical rabbit out of her hat. Her reputation as a litigator in Nashville is such that, when she assumed her role as George’s chief of staff, several law firms in and around the city sent her thank-you bouquets, because it meant they wouldn’t be going up against her in court anytime soon.

  I received a few of those myself, although I’m not as blatantly ruthless as her and George. I’m simply sneakier. I like being underestimated. It means the opposition gets sloppy.

  People used to underestimate Casey, years ago. One day, I hope to have as ruthless a rep as George and Casey.

  Because I’m never running for office. I have no desire to. I much prefer working behind the scenes. Also, I have no desire to paint a target on myself. Right now, I’m fairly insulated and can swim through political waters with little risk to myself. I can pick up information and finagle secret handshake deals and never face fallout.

  George hasn’t actually put this device on me before, although he’s taken it off me once. Except…I currently have a problem.

  Which, unfortunately for me, George quickly susses out without asking for input. He grabs a washcloth, wets it in the sink with cold water, and pulls me in for a kiss as he grabs my cock and balls with it, making me yelp into his mouth.

  Makes him chuckle, too.

  The cold washcloth does the trick. At least he didn’t use ice wate
r, like Casey is fond of doing.

  Then he dries me off and locks me up. I wince, because almost immediately I’m trying to get hard again.

  I can’t help it—Casey’s sort of conditioned me to get hard when I’m wearing the goddamned thing, because she’s a fucking sadist.

  That wasn’t a complaint, by the way.

  Sir smiles down at me and I already know I’m in for a rough night. Multi-tasking in this condition will be difficult, to say the least.

  “Hands behind your back, boy.”

  I immediately comply.

  He pinches my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and begins rolling them, lightly tugging on them. Not hurting me—well, not torturing my nipples—but teasing me.

  The discomfort comes from my cock trying to harden inside the damn chastity device.

  Considering Casey has trained me to get hard over pain and physical discomfort, that only exacerbates my…problem.

  Of course I moan, and whine, and find myself involuntarily rocking my hips.

  Sir leans in close. “Oooh, I have a very needy boy right now, don’t I?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Excellent.” He gives my nipples one final tweak and releases them, chuckling as he does.

  It takes me a moment to get myself under control. I have to breathe deeply, try not to think about my aching cock stuffed into the silicone torture device, and drag my protesting brain back into work mode.

  George watches me with the intensity of a scientist experimenting on a test monkey.

  Which…I guess, in a way, that’s not an inaccurate analogy. I’m a shiny new toy to him. He’s still trying to map my body and brain’s hard-wiring, checking my reactions, learning my triggers, gauging how far is just enough to get the reactions he’s looking for.

  Considering he was with his wife for over two decades, and even by Casey’s accounts George never cheated on Ellen, I don’t have any worries of being thrown over for a newer model. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d get bored and discard me.

  We get dressed, and I help him tie his tie. If the guy has one trifling weakness, it’s that he cannot tie a necktie or a bowtie worth a shit.

  Yes, I get the irony, that’s he’s damned good at tying knots in ropes.