Retaliation: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (4 page)

A
fter holding
Melissa through the night, dozing on and off in between her nightmares, I'm way too tired to go into the city today. I decide to just call the gallery manager instead. The morning sunlight is streaming warm and beautiful into our kitchen, and Melissa's showering while I dial.

“MCS Galleries, how can we help you?” my manager Robert greets in his perfectly polite voice. He's been with me since I first opened MCS six years ago, and he's been a model employee. He joined me after working as a customer service rep at a call center near Baton Rouge. Robert has the best customer service I could ask for. When I was barely nineteen years old, he took a risk and joined me in opening an art gallery, a business that usually has old farts running things. But more importantly, he's given me a great right-hand man on the business side. He's a chameleon, really. He can be snobby and pretentious when he's dealing with society types, or he can be casual and down-to-earth, which helps put our new money clients at ease. I'm glad I have him working for me.

“Hey Robert, it's Carson.”

“Oh, hi Mr. Sands,” Robert says. That's his one quirk, and in all this time I haven't been able to get him to stop. I hate being called Mr. Sands. I'm Carson, always Carson. Nobody should call me Mr. Sands until I'm at least forty. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything's fine. I'm going to work from home today though and just take care of some paperwork. So if anyone calls for me, unless they've got a house burning down, have them schedule an appointment.”

I hear the shower turn off, and the sound of Melissa walking down the hall toward her bedroom.

Robert takes my news in stride and I can hear him smile. “Okay, Mr. Sands. We'll make sure to keep things running.”

“Good deal, Robert. Thanks. See you Monday.”

I hang up. just as Melissa comes in. She's fully dressed in a pair of simple relaxed fit jeans and a t-shirt. It's what she normally wears around the house. I get my first hint of what her mind is like today when I see that she's got her tennis shoes on instead of her boots. She never wears tennis shoes if she's planning on going out to the barn. “Good morning, 'Lissa. How're you feeling this morning?”

Melissa comes over and hugs me from behind, humming happily. “You took care of me, for the ten-thousandth time. Thank you Carson, and I'm doing much better because of it. How about you? I overheard a bit of your phone call, you're sticking around today?”

“Yeah. If anything, I've got some junk to clear out in the back two acres, and I can keep up with the paperwork stuff here,” I reassure her. “I'll have my radio with me, so if something happens, I can be back in two minutes. I'll take the Kodiak with the trailer to haul stuff.”

I bought the Yamaha ATV not so much for utility purposes, although the trailer does make itself useful. Instead it's so I can always be within five minutes of Melissa whenever I'm on our property. With a 700cc engine, I can haul ass if I drop the trailer.

Melissa lets go and goes into the kitchen, taking down a big pot from a shelf above the stove. “You just need to get out to the back to do some target practice. I know you, Carson. Whenever I have a night like last night, you let go of stress with target practice. So, which is it going to be today, the pistols or the bow?”

She is my sister, so of course she knows me. “The pistol today,” I admit, thinking about what I have in my part of the barn. “But I do need to actually clear away the range first. I've been lazy with it over the summer. Now that fall's here, I need to get it hacked back. If I don't, it's gonna get woody, start breaking up the boards on the target area. I just built that thing three years ago. I don't need to go replacing it already.”

“And it lets you work up a sweat, which I know helps you, too,” Melissa says, filling the pot with water and milk and getting out a box of Cream of Wheat. For a Southern family, the fact we prefer Cream of Wheat over grits is nearly a whipping offense, but Melissa can't stand corn in the mornings. It's just another one of her quirks, since she loves cornbread at night. “Well, let me make you breakfast at least. When I was in the shower, I decided that I'm going to work on my paintings today instead of the sculpture. They sell better for you anyway.”

“You know money isn't an issue,” I reassure her. “Seriously 'Lissa, with your eye and your reputation, you could put out one piece a decade and we'd still have plenty of money.”

“Reputation,” Melissa says softly, laughing to herself. “Louisiana's own cross between Vincent Van Gogh and Banksy. The depressive recluse.”

“Oh, you're much less crazy than Van Gogh, and you do go out in public sometimes, so the art community does kinda know your face. I mean, you went to that showing what, six months ago?” I ask, waking up my laptop and opening my e-mail while Melissa cooks. While she waits for the pot to boil she quickly scrambles a half dozen eggs to split between us before she puts the Cream of Wheat in the pot. “Speaking of which, there's one next month too, if you want to go. If not, I can handle it.”

“We'll see,” Melissa says, plating up our breakfast, bringing me a huge bowl of the cereal. Whenever I tell her I'm going to do some manual labor, she makes sure to fill me nearly to bursting. “Here, I know you'll need the energy.”

After breakfast, Melissa retreats to her painting room upstairs while I get my things together out of the barn. Our farm is small, only five acres, and doesn't do any farming anymore, but I do maintain the back field as a place for me to indulge in one of my hobbies, target shooting. Whether it's with pistols, bows, or crossbows, I find the steadiness and concentration needed relaxing.

First though, I wasn't lying to Melissa when I told her I need to clear out the range. The grass is almost to my knees, and the area around the safety backstop is covered with kudzu. I can't completely eliminate it, so I do my best to control it. Using a swing cutter, I take the grass down to ankle height before clearing away the kudzu vines with a machete and a lot of pulling. I strip off my shirt while I work, although I'm still wearing thick denim work pants and heavy military jungle boots just in case. I've encountered cottonmouths back here twice, although they weren't aggressive. Still, no need to risk a bite from some startled snake.

I'm covered in sweat and my back muscles ache when I finish pulling the last of the kudzu off the backstop. I drag it to the far end of the field to join the rest of the pile I've been accumulating for the year. I'll probably burn it off come November, maybe December, right before a forecast rain storm.

The work feels good though, and I'm happy to sit in the shade of my backstop for twenty minutes and down a bottle of water while I let my hands stop trembling. It's not too warm, only in the upper seventies, but the sun is bright and I'm feeling more relaxed as I set up my targets for shooting. I use a revolving metal target, and Melissa added her own little twist to the plain black metal, cutting the round targets into artistic shapes, adding to the challenge.

I walk back twenty yards, not quite competition distance, but I'm not trying out for the Olympics any time soon. Instead, I slide a clip into my Smith & Wesson and take a deep breath, letting half of it out. My hands are still a bit shaky. I haven't had a chance to work this hard in a while, and I accept it, knowing after so many years that the more I fight it, the worse it'll get.

The first clip is good, I hit the targets eight out of ten times, and after taking another drink, I put in my second clip. My Smith can handle fifteen rounds if I want it to, but for target shooting I go with preloaded ten round clips, mainly because I like to keep track of my hit percentage, and ten is easy that way.

I work through ten clips today, a hundred rounds in total, and I'm happy with my final percentage, seventy-nine. Usually I have a drop-off as I get tired, but I'm apparently more at peace and in better shape than I thought. I police up my brass carefully, since I take it to the gun shop I use and the owner gives me a discount on new rounds. I don't need the discount, but it keeps my land clean. Sometimes I give it to Melissa instead, who melts it down in her furnace to add to her sculptures.

When I get back to the house, I park the ATV in its spot in the barn and unhook quickly, taking my shooting gear inside where I've got my cleaning kit. I figure that 'Lissa must be painting still since the house is so quiet, but then I hear something out front. I go into the living room, shocked at what I see in our front yard.

'Lissa is talking with someone! Holy shit! And... wait a second... is she smiling? I want to hear what's going on, but I don't want to interrupt this moment for her. I get closer, staying in the shadows of the house to hover by the front screen door, where I can see them and listen at the same time.

Melissa is maybe halfway between the porch and the chain-link fence that marks the front of our property and by the smile I see on her face, she's excited and happy. And if I didn't know better, I'd say she's interested in the guy. He's tall and well-built with black hair that's just beginning to go gray at the temples. While I can't see his eyes, he's got a wicked-looking scar that starts just above his left eye. It gives him a bit of a menacing look, but it also makes him look like he's surprised. Still, he's smiling at Melissa, and he doesn't look all that scary when he does.

“So you are an artist?” the man says, with a voice that makes him sound like a soft spoken James Earl Jones. “That is fascinating.”

“Thank you, but you're flattering me,” Melissa replies, and I swear I hear flirting in her voice. I've never heard that before. Ever. The fact is, my sister's never had a boyfriend, and despite her concern about my sexual health, I'm pretty sure she's a virgin. “I just do a little bit of painting and sculpting.”

“Still,” the man replies, looking up at the house. “To be able to be willing to harness your emotions, to show them to the world... that takes courage. I know I would never be able to do it. I am too scared of what I know is already inside of me.”

“I can understand that,” Melissa says. “For me, it's also therapeutic. It lets me vent my emotions, and sometimes to imagine the world the way I'd like it to be. A place where things make sense more often.”

The man rumbles deep in his chest, and I can see something about him that makes me think he's seen too much of the insane side of the world for anyone's own good, but he continues smiling as he looks at Melissa. “Making sense... that would be nice. Sometime perhaps, is there a way I could see your work?”

Melissa nods, and for a moment hope flares inside me that she's going to invite the man inside to see some of her pieces that we've kept in the house. I'll make a hasty retreat if that happens, give her a chance to talk to the guy while still keeping her safe from the shadows. It's not to be, however. “My brother has a gallery in the French Quarter. MCS Galleries. I've got some pieces there now.”

The man, who's wearing what looks like a black linen suit minus the jacket, shakes his head bashfully. “No offense, Melissa, but I am not the sort to go to galleries. You know, all society types and things like that. I am just a textbook salesman.”

Melissa returns the shake with one of her own. “I know my brother, he's not that sort of man, and the manager there, Robert, is nice, too. And... well, if you'll be in the area in a few weeks, they're having a gallery show. My brother will be there for sure. If I give him your name, Nathan, he'd be sure to be nice.”

“Will you be there?” Nathan asks, and he certainly sounds interested. “It would be nice to get your point of view on things.”

“Ah... well...” Melissa says, blushing slightly, then she nods. “Maybe. Sometimes I go, Carson appreciates it when I do.”

“Then I will do my best to be there,” Nathan says. “In any case, Melissa, thank you for your help. I will see you around, I hope.”

Nathan offers his hand, and Melissa surprises me even more by actually shaking hands with him before Nathan goes back to his car, a pretty nondescript Honda, and drives off. I hurry back to the kitchen, but Melissa hears me anyway. Damn jungle boots.

“So who was that?” I ask when she comes in, still smiling slightly. “Sorry, I wasn't meaning to spy.”

“Yes you were,” she says without any harshness, smiling dreamily, like a teenager who just met a celebrity or something. “You were protecting me, I know you too well. As to your question, he's a software and textbook salesman. He was looking for the middle school, he turned right when he got off of 90 instead of left, so he ended up lost. He stopped and asked for some help, and I told him how to get back, and we got to talking.”

“I saw. I came in on the end. He seemed nice,” I say noncommittally. “I was surprised.”

Melissa laughs softly, nodding. “Maybe it was the weather today, maybe because I knew you were so close, but also... I saw him drive back and forth three or four times, and I could tell he was looking for something. When he stopped and got out, he looked so frustrated that I had to go downstairs and see what he wanted. He noticed the paint on my forearm, and we got to just... talking.”

“Talking's kind of nice, isn't it?” I ask with a grin. “Especially when you like the guy.”

Melissa blushes, and shakes her head. “He was definitely interesting. I’m sure there’s a story to that scar, though.”

“Well, you know there's a lot more to someone being cute than just a flawless face,” I remind her. “Especially for artists who see deeper than just the surface.”

“Maybe,” Melissa says, her blush deepening before changing the subject. “So how was shooting?”

“Good today, I feel relaxed now. Range is clean too, so I was thinking maybe Sunday I'd go out and try my old recurve bow. It's been a while, and I can't seem to get that cam issue worked out on my compound. How was painting?”

“Really good,” Melissa says, brightening. “I just felt it going today, I made some good progress on the piece I was working on. I just was excited this morning, maybe because I'm looking forward to Saturday. I mean, to actually meet Andrea... to meet a blood sister, I'm excited.”

“Good,” I say honestly, amused by the repetition in her speech. Melissa isn't someone for a lot of words, even with me, and for her to be so jazzed that she's repeating herself is cute and wonderful. “I want you to be excited. I'm excited, too. No matter what happens.”