The thought had me twisting my lips as I turned away from my too pretty features and stepped over the mass of towels I’d left on the floor. I was messy, and I’d admit to it, but that was one thing allowed of me in this household. I had staff who’d clean up after me, and I took advantage of that.
When I returned later on tonight, this place would look like it was a showroom once more. Now? Well, it just looked as if a Tasmanian Devil had whirled around the place, knocking stuff over, and leaving chaos in its wake.
I ignored the rest of my suite and headed over to the patio doors at the front of my room. I had access to the grounds from here, thanks to a set of steps. It was how I was supposed to reach the pool, but I used it to sneak out.
Not that my father cared what I did on a daily basis so long as I followed his rules, returned here every night and slept in my bed, and didn’t give my security detail too much of a run around, but I didn’t want to come across him even accidentally before I got out of here.
The magnificent vista slipped by me. I didn’t even see it as I headed down the steps. My heels sank into the thick grass, but I strode on toward the garage. It was a little awkward to approach this way, but it was worth it. I had to step around the pool house where my brother had lived—a pool house that was like a mini mansion because Donavan Lancaster’s son deserved only the best—and slip between the two tennis courts.
The ten-minute walk in four-inch heels was one I knew well. Though we were relatively new to the area, I’d left the house this way every day of the three months we’d been here.
If there was a chance I’d run into my father, I’d find a way around it. Meeting him usually ended up with me slathering on foundation to cover a bruise on my face, and while I was adept at it, I wasn’t a masochist.
Staying out of his way was the key to surviving this hellhole.
When I reached the garage, my heels tapped against the concrete floor. Spotting Luke’s Lamborghini, my lips curved in a sneer as I let my fingers drift over the sleek lines.
I was tempted, oh so fucking tempted, to take that car out, but if the news hit my father’s ears, I’d have matching shiners. So, instead, I went for another sports car. One my father didn’t mind me driving—a Porsche Carrera. It was a few years old, and that was why I was allowed to drive it.
My father believed women drivers were a plague, so we weren’t to be trusted with the best in his stable.
I pulled a face as I leapt behind the wheel and reversed out. I drove past twenty million dollars’ worth of cars on my exit, and only when I was through the gates did I release a sigh of relief.
Getting out of there always felt like I was escaping a looming storm cloud. It was a weight off my chest that made me feel like I could breathe properly for the first time since I’d made it back here the night before.
When my security detail pulled up behind me, I ignored them. They were always watching, always following, so I just pretended they weren’t there. Tonight, however, I’d need to find a way to make sure they weren’t as on the ball as usual.
That would mean endangering their jobs but, truthfully, they were dicks anyway. I didn’t care if their careers were in the can after the moves I was going to pull tonight. My brother had security too, and they knew what he was up to.
Knew it because they followed him just like they followed me.
Bastards.
Of course, they were probably dead bastards by now. My father had undoubtedly paid someone to wipe them off the face of the Earth, lest they ever think to blackmail him for the shit Luke had pulled.
My hands tightened around the wheel as the ever-present rage washed through me, flooding me with more emotion than I knew what to do with. I’d been locked up tight since my mother’s murder, and subsequently Luke’s death—and the shit I’d inadvertently discovered about him—was creating holes in my control. Emotions were spluttering toward me, and I couldn’t deal with them. I only knew I had to do something, anything, to help.
Making it into town was easy. We lived just on the Caldwell-West Orange border, but the ride was always smooth, and I enjoyed the wind in my hair and the loud music I let blare through the speakers. It was still ringing in my head as I cut the engine when I was parked and, humming to the beat, I climbed out after I grabbed my purse. Once I was standing, I stared at the bar up ahead.
My father had been very vocal in his fight to stop a local motorcycle club from gaining the required licenses to open this particular mall but, for once, he’d lost. I was curious how that had happened, because it meant the MC had more tokens with local councilors than my dad did, and that was impressive.
If I had a hat on my head, I’d take it off to them because, yikes, beating Donavan was nigh impossible.
Dear old Dad had been particularly pissed the day he’d heard of the licenses going through, and he’d been doubly pissed when, barely six weeks later, the club had managed to get some of the businesses up and running. That, right there, told me they had money to burn. Nobody got several businesses functioning that quickly, not unless they were willing to hemorrhage cash.
There was a diner, a strip joint, a garage, and a bar. It was the latter, Daytona, that was my intended destination. The place didn’t look trashy. Sure, it wasn’t swank, not like the bars at the country clubs I usually haunted, but I wasn’t here to get drunk. Wasn’t here to have fun. There was a method to my madness, a method I was praying someone within the confines of those walls could help me with.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I took off, crossing the road with such purpose that I almost missed the car that was pulling around the corner. The sharp honk of the horn had me jerking to a halt, and I was on the receiving end of a glower and a fist shake as the driver, a woman in her seventies, passed me by.
Heart in my throat at my stupidity for not checking for traffic, I tried to ask myself what the fuck was going to happen if I died before the shit I knew could be passed on to people who’d help.
There’d be blood on my hands, that’s what.
Blood that would haunt me even into death.
Breathing deeply, I carried on after looking right, then left, and made it, safely, to the other side of the road. Not messing around, I moved into the bar and, once I’d checked it out and had spied a kind of area that was cordoned off with bike parts—what the hell was that about?—I couldn’t fail to notice all the men in leather cuts, jeans, boots, and Henleys. It was like a uniform or something. Only a few had on wifebeaters that were surprisingly white.
As I wondered if they did their own laundry, or if it was totally like Sons of Anarchy and they had women who did it for them, I headed to the bar and placed an order. “Can I have a vodka, please? Neat.”
Though my request got me a funny look, the server just shrugged when I shook my head at his, “Not on the rocks?” and within a few minutes, I’d chugged down the clear liquid and felt it going to my head in a manner I seriously needed.
While I burned from the alcohol, my mouth tingling from it in a way that loosened my tongue, I caught the bartender’s eye again and leaned forward to say, “I need your help.”
Frowning, the guy leaned into me and asked, “What’s wrong?”
I shot him a tight smile. “Two men are going to come into the bar soon. They’ll order lagers. I’ll pay you a hundred dollars to pour two shots of vodka into each of their drinks.”