The Tycoon

“Bea?” I slipped my hand over hers on the railing. “What’s going on?”

She shook her head and pulled her hand away. “What happened to Dad?”

“He died. Heart attack. Apparently he’s been sick for a while.”

“When’s the funeral?”

“Three days”

“At the ranch?”

I nodded, studying her face for hints, cracks, clues. But she only stood there with eyes full of tears she wouldn’t let fall.

Daddy issues are the worst.

“Sabrina told you?”

“Actually…” I took a deep breath. “Clayton.”

“Holy shit.” Just like that, my sister was off the steps and yanking me into her arms. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“Are you lying?”

My breath shuddered in delayed reaction. That had been him. For real. It wasn’t a dream. “A little.”

“You should have let me burn down his condo when we had the chance.”

“We never had the chance.”

“We’ll do it when we go back for the funeral. Burn the whole thing down to the ground.”

“I don’t want to go,” I said into my sister’s hair. She smelled like sawdust, from the building project she was working on with her boyfriend. A bar. They’d bought the property—a ramshackle building on a gloomy side street downtown. She was excited. I was dubious. Frank was one of those charming men I could never really get a bead on. But my sister was in love. And when Bea fell in love, it was everything. It consumed her life.

And mine.

“I know,” she said, stroking my back.

“But I have to. Don’t I?”

“Well, I’m going. And I know you won’t make me go through that on my own.”

No. I wouldn’t.

And I wouldn’t let Sabrina go through it all alone. I would pull myself together, put my father in the ground, and I wouldn’t look twice at Clayton. I wouldn't…feel him there. I wouldn’t care. I could do that. I could.

I’d done much harder things.

“How was it? Seeing him?”

Awful.

“Okay. He looks…the same. Thinner.”

“Did he try—”

“He apologized.”

“Asshole.”

“Exactly.”

I leaned back, eager to put Clayton out of my head. It had taken me years last time. Surely, I was better at it now. “What did you need to tell me?”

She shook her head. “Nothing, really. It can wait.”

“You sure? Because—”

“We’ve got enough going on, don’t you think?”

Funeral. Will. Clayton.

It felt like almost more than I could handle.

So I let it go.

I shouldn’t have.

That night in bed with my laptop and Thelma, I opened up my email and pulled up the last known email address I had for Dylan King. My half brother. We’d been in touch over the years using this ancient Hotmail account. Every time I was sure it wouldn’t work—it worked.

He was in the military in some super-secret capacity and I knew that I was his next of kin should something happen to him. Which was weird. Being the next of kin for a guy I hardly knew, even if he was my half brother.

His mother and our father never married. Dylan’s mother had been Hank’s mistress before he married my mom. But because Dylan was Hank’s only son—illegitimate though he was—the custody fight had been bitter. Dylan grew up with his parents at each other’s throats. As soon as he was of age he joined the military.

We spent one awkward summer together when he was fourteen and he’d let Bea, Sabrina, and me follow him around like puppies.

I wrote him after I ran away from the engagement party, to let him know the wedding had been called off. I was pretty sure he wasn’t coming anyway, but it had felt good to just…write it all down. To scream it into the void, sort of.

Dylan had sent back one email.

Fuck that asshole. He doesn’t deserve you.

Oddly, it had been comforting.

Hey, I wrote, while Thelma snored. I hope you’re doing well. Saving the world, etc. etc. I’m writing with some news—not sure if it’s sad or not—but Dad died. A heart attack. Apparently he’d been sick for a while. Funeral is next week down at the ranch. Will reading immediately after. I’m sure you’re not interested in the funeral but the will reading might concern you. You know the old man still had some tricks up his sleeve. Bea and I are going. It would be nice to see you there.

I clicked Send and then emailed a few other people. Cancelling appointments for next week. Shuffling things around.

It usually took him ages to respond, so I was slightly stunned when the notification of his reply popped up in the corner of my screen.

That explains why the lawyer is after me. I won’t be there, he said. The asshole can rot. You shouldn’t go either. He doesn’t deserve it.

Strange how much I appreciated the sentiment. I couldn’t say a whole lot about Dylan, but the guy was consistent when it came to hating our father.

And I was envious of his ability to just say no. To tell all the Kings to fuck off and mean it. I wished I had said that to Clayton today at Patsy’s. I wished I had said a thousand—