Reckless Intentions: CH. 3

CHAPTER THREE: LEVERAGE

We drive back to the Harrington Estate in what can be loosely described as silence. The kind of silence that's thick with everything unsaid, everything I can't say without revealing that I know exactly what he just did—fucked his friend in a back office—then got in this car like it was just another normal day. Like he didn't just betray me while I sat parked outside, watching the whole thing unfold on a closed-circuit feed.

I look at him. He looks at me and smiles.

That fucking smile.

"Bet that was nice," I say, keeping my voice light and casual, like I'm making friendly conversation. Like I don't have a knot of suspicion tightening in my chest.

His expression shifts immediately—a flicker of something that looks like guilt crossing his features. It's quick, but I catch it. I always catch it.

"Huh? What—what are you talking about?" he asks, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. Or is it feigned confusion?

Guilty bastard.

"Getting to catch up with your friend," I say, watching him carefully. Studying every micro-expression, every shift in his posture, every breath he takes.

The tension in his body immediately relaxes. His shoulders drop. He actually exhales, like he's been holding his breath.

"Right—Kyle's a pretty solid dude," Jack says, nodding a little too enthusiastically. "We go way back."

I bet he is. I bet Kyle's real solid.

"So I assume we're going to see a lot more of him this summer," I say, keeping my tone neutral. Conversational.

The hesitation in his voice makes me want to punch him in the throat. That brief pause before he answers, like he's calculating what to say.

"I mean, it's gonna be a pretty busy summer, but I imagine our paths'll cross a few times," he says with a shrug that's trying way too hard to look casual.

"Cool. I didn't really get to talk to him, but I'd like to," I say, testing the waters.

"Really? Why?" His response comes out sharper than he probably intended.

Why are you so fucking defensive, Jack?

"Well, I mean, I want to get to know all of your friends," I say, spreading my hands like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "That's normal, right?"

"Oh, of course. Yeah, totally." He nods quickly, recovering.

I just stare at him and that smug look on his face. That easy, entitled expression that says he thinks he's gotten away with it. That he thinks I'm stupid enough to believe whatever story he's selling.

"So what else is on the agenda for the day?"

"Well, my mom has her annual silent auction for, um—I don't know if this one's for kids with diabetes or cancer or some other affliction."

"Well, that sounds fun," I say.

"Not as fun as you might think," he says. "I'm actually supposed to help set it up with Ashley."

"Ashley?"

"My mom's assistant," he says. "She's like the only person she trusts."

"Well, that sounds like so much fun for you. I'm gonna go for a swim," I say.

"Just watch out for my dad—he's kinda living in the pool house at the moment," he says, his voice going dejected.

"Of course. Sorry about all of that," I say.

When really I want to say: Sorry I couldn't have done worse.

"Yeah, I still kinda can't believe my dad would do something like that—he loves my mom," he says.

Well, you say you love me, but that doesn't keep you from cheating on me.

"So where's this auction?" I say, changing the subject, because if I have to listen to this for five more minutes, I'm gonna do a Charlie's Angels roll right out of the car.

"Well, you know that ballroom we have in the house that you always ask about?"

The Harrington Estate is a sprawling 17,000-square-foot behemoth of a mansion that sits on 22 acres of privately owned land. It has a half-mile-long private driveway, a private gate, a security team, two tennis courts, two swimming pools, stables, and a full-size basketball court. The inside boasts 9 bedrooms and 12 bathrooms across three floors. There are three private studies, four sitting rooms, a conservatory, a 4,000-square-foot ballroom, and a private theater. The lower level consists of an underground 32-car garage complete with a 4,000-bottle wine cellar, a gymnasium, a sauna, and a vault.

Jack drops me off at the front of the house. The ballroom is in the east wing, and apparently it's quicker to drive there than walk through the labyrinth of hallways. I head inside, making my way to the guest suite where I change into swimwear. Once I'm ready, I grab my phone and call Everett.

"Hey, you okay?" I ask.

"Never better," he says, though he sounds dejected.

"I know that wasn't easy."

"No, it wasn't, but it's part of the plan," he says with a sigh.

"I know." I pause. "I need to swap one of the medications tonight, then next week I'll do another."

"Remind me not to get on your bad side."

"Consider this your reminder."

"Joking, but okay. Anyways, Olivia is with her mom, and the upstairs is clear so you're free to move about."

"Where's Jack Sr.?"

"Still banished to the pool house."

"Good, then I'll visit him next," I say. "You know what to do?"

"The Hampton Job."

"Really?"

"Do I tell you how to do your part? I didn't think so."

"Whatever, just get it done."

Once I'm done upstairs, I head to the pool. Jack Sr. is sitting on one of the deck chairs with a hat, sunglasses, and a copy of Time Magazine.

"You know you can get all that stuff on an iPad."

"Why are you talking to me, you little prick?" he says without looking up.

Part of me is scared he'll drown me in the pool. The other part of me knows he won't try that again.

"You know that's not very nice."

"What the fuck do you want?"

"Maybe I want to play again?"

"Go to hell, you little shit!"

"I'm detecting a little hostility," I say, walking over toward him.

"Unless you want me to shove this magazine down your throat—you'll get the fuck away from me," he says, more than a little anger in his tone.

"No, but maybe there's something else you can shove down my throat," I say with a wry smile.

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