Red Thorns (Thorns Duet 1)

“Excellent, sir.” Her smile widens as she speaks with a slight Spanish accent. “He’s grown and has been looking up to you. He didn’t sleep until he watched the game last night.”

Poor kid, looking up to a fraud. My smile, however, remains in place as I reach in my back pocket and produce two tickets. “Give him these and tell him I’ll get him my shirt next game.”

“Oh, sir.” Her eyes water. “Thank you so much. This will make his week.”

At least that’s one of us.

“My old folks inside?”

“Y

es,” she whispers. “You’re late, sir, and so is Mr. Nathaniel.”

I don’t blame him.

If I didn’t want to intentionally piss my grandparents off, I would’ve used the same tactic myself.

The bell rings again and I beat Lisa to it.

My uncle, Nathaniel Weaver, stands at the door in his sharp suit and with his clean-cut look that he uses to intimidate the hell out of anyone in or outside of the courtroom.

“Nephew!” He opens his arms, apparently not worried about the bottle of wine in his left hand.

“Nate!”

We clasp each other in a bro hug and he pulls back to offer me one of his rare smiles. “Congrats on the win yesterday. I watched it with my colleagues and now they’re bugging me about autographs.”

“No, sorry. That comes with a price, Uncle.”

“Don’t call me that. Makes me feel ancient.”

“You are ancient. What are you? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-one, Rascal.” He gives me the middle finger behind Lisa’s back as we step inside. “Ready for battle?”

“Always am.”

The interior of the Weaver mansion is as extravagant as the exterior, if not more. Due to my grandparents’ expensive tastes, it’s full of rare finds, auctioned paintings, and exotic rugs.

The heads of a few dead animals hang in the entrance area as a showcase of Grandpa’s love for hunting.

When I was younger, I believed they were spirits that would come for us one day. In a different world, that might have been true, but now, it’s just another reminder of what a heartless bunch we are.

As soon as Nate and I step into the dining room, it’s like we’re in the midst of a chess game. The king is the man sitting at the head of the table.

Brian Weaver.

Being in his early-sixties doesn’t take anything from his composed demeanor and sharp, piercing eyes that aren’t only befitting of a politician but also of a Weaver.

The queen is the woman sitting on his right, wearing a soft smile. Debra Weaver is the definition of the saying ‘behind every great man is a great woman.’ She didn’t only fight tooth and nail for his political career, but she was also as ruthless about it as he was. At least, behind closed doors.

On the outside, people can only see a soft woman with golden blonde hair and a queen-like posture and wardrobe.

Uncle kisses her cheek first and I follow suit before we nod at Grandpa, then take our seats on his right. Soon after, the cook brings in some sort of ham casserole that I don’t recognize.

Grandpa is all about meat, although his doctor says it’s not good for his health in the long-term.

“You’re late,” Grandma chastises, but it sounds loveable—worried, even—when she’s, in fact, mentally checking a strike against us.