Trouble

Creeping towards the kitchen, I stop short when I hear the clink of ice against crystal. Spencer is sitting in the same leather chair he was in last night when I watched him be so amazing with Oliver.

Again, he’s in a dress shirt—light blue this time—with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His hair is a delicious mess of dark waves dropping over his dark brow. Scruff covers his square jaw, and he seems perplexed. On the large screen attached to the wall is that nature show he and Ollie were watching, still on silent.

“Spencer?” My voice is quiet, and I walk closer to where he’s sitting, seeming lost.

At the sound of my voice, he straightens. “I’m sorry. I thought you were asleep. Did I wake you?”

My lips press together, and I shake my head. “No. I’m on the quest for some more of that ice cream. Or something.”

I shrug and exhale a laugh. He doesn’t smile.

He studies me like I’m something he can’t understand, like I’m something he’s never seen before. With an exhale and a shake of his head, it’s gone.

“I’m sure there’s ice cream left in the freezer. I told Julien to get enough to last a week.”

I take a step towards the kitchen, but then I stop. It’s late, and we’re both tired. He’s had a glass of scotch… it seems like as good a time as any to ask.

“Yesterday you told me you understood Ollie. What did you mean?”

His expression is closed, and I feel certain he’s not going to tell me. The room is quiet, and the tall, gold-faced grandfather clock beside the bookcase ticks loudly. My eyes flick to the television screen as a school of brilliantly colored fish swish past.

Nothing happens.

Still, I wait, hoping he’ll tell me, preparing for him not to, wishing he would, wishing he would trust me enough to let me in those walls again.

My shoulders drop, and when I’ve decided it’s a lost cause, he speaks. “My father was abusive.” It’s a quiet statement of fact, but my breath stills.

I don’t know what to say, and he continues.

“He beat my mother so many times, I lost count.” His expression is neutral as he tilts the crystal back and forth. “No matter how hard I begged her, she would never leave him, so I thought I could protect her myself. That’s when he started beating me.”

His eyes focus on the brilliant Persian rug on the floor, and he lifts the tumbler to take a small sip. He seems so far away.

“How old were you?”

“I was Ollie’s age when they took me away from them.”

I think about what he’s told me, what I know about him, and I’m confused. “They took you away from your father? The antiques legend? I thought he left you all this money…”

“That would be my foster father, Drake Carrollton. My real father was a drunk abuser named Daniel Keane. My birth name was Spencer Keane. Drake had it legally changed.”

Sadness tightens my chest, and I have no words.

He continues calmly, like he’s reading from a history book. “For two years, I would have black eyes, unexplained bruises, cuts… The county finally stepped in when he hurt me so badly, I had to go to the ER.”

Closing my eyes, I realize. “The scar on your back.”

Hazel eyes flicker to mine, and they’re so deep, I’m not sure what I’m seeing. I only know this is sacred ground we’re treading. He’s taking me into a hidden place.

“Drake Carrollton wasn’t a good man either. He wasn’t even a legend as much as he was a hoarder. He was a dusty old dragon who lived for finding and amassing treasure. He procured me because he was smart enough to know he needed an heir, and I suppose he saw some value in having a helper as he got older. No love was lost between us.”

His eyes move to the shelves filled with what I’d always assumed were treasures he’d collected. I want to argue with him, to try and say he must be wrong. Instead, I listen, dropping to my knees beside him as he escorts me through this dusty, dark place in his past, this shadowy corner where the ghosts live.

“He taught me all about this stuff, taught me the worth of every piece. When he died, I was able to catalog his estate and turn it into even more money than he had when he was alive.” Spencer places the glass on the end table. “He never traveled; he never lived his life. He stayed in his cave, clutching his gold like it would ever love him. All these precious things.”

“Is that why they mean nothing to you?” My voice is so small.

“They’re only things, Sin. Forgotten pieces of junk.”