Wicked Need (The Wicked Horse #3) Page 11

  To not have to constantly weigh pros and cons of every action you take, or to be forced into something just because your very livelihood would depend on it. Another flare of jealousy burns within my chest for a moment, but I squash it. Rand’s earned his right to have that type of life.

  I haven’t.

  Not yet, anyway.

  “What about you?” he asks, and it takes a moment for the question to permeate. I turn slowly to look at him—that stunning profile of his—and I wish desperately he didn’t have his sunglasses on because I know that low afternoon desert sun would make his green eyes shimmer like spun glass, and he’d become an even more romantic hero than I was already building him up to be in my mind.

  “What about me?” I ask hesitantly, although I know deep in my gut what he’s inquiring about.

  “Your family. What’s your story?”

  My gaze slides back out to the desert as we fly down the interstate. I’ve never felt a special affinity to Nevada, even though I was born and raised here. Right now, the shades of brown from the hard-packed dirt to the creosote brush feels a lot like my life. Dull, cruddy, and depressing.

  I contrast those colors to the palette of Rand’s life and where he lives. Vivid greens, cool blues, and sparkling whites.

  “I have no clue about my father,” I say as I bring my hands to my lap where I twirl my fingers together. “My mom wouldn’t tell me anything about him other than he was an asshole. She didn’t even put his name on the birth certificate.”

  “What?” Rand says in astonishment. “She didn’t think you’d have the right to judge that yourself?”

  “Guess not,” I say glumly. I never knew what to think of the man who gave his sperm to my mom.

  “Do you believe her?” he asks. It surprises me he would question my mother’s character without knowing anything about her. But I suspect Rand is making some preconceived judgments based on what little he knows about me, and let’s face it… he wouldn’t be wrong to question her motives. I question them all the time.

  “Probably not,” I admit softly, still staring at my hands. “My mother wasn’t a very motherly figure. It’s hard to trust what she says.”

  “More,” Rand orders, not in an autocrat type of way, but rather in a way that says he’s not going to let me chintz on the gory details of my life. He’s demanding to know my demons, because as he said, how can he slay them if he doesn’t know what they are? “I promise I won’t judge.”

  My head snaps up and swings to stare at him with my mouth slightly open. “I know you’d never judge me,” I say vehemently. Not once in the entire time I’ve known Rand—whether it was while he was watching me get fucked by other men or while he was absorbing the wretched details of my relationship with Samuel—has he ever looked upon me with anything other than intrigue, lust, curiosity, respect, and most recently, with care.

  “Then lay it on me,” he urges softly as he takes a moment to turn his attention from the road to give me an encouraging smile.

  I take a deep breath, pull my bare feet up from the floorboard, and put them on the dash again. I notice briefly it’s time for a pedicure as the polish is starting to chip, then just as quickly remember I can’t afford those anymore. I actually pull my skirt to my knees and hold the edges there with my hands.

  “I’ll give you a classic example of my childhood,” I say after exhaling. “One night, I woke up really hungry—I was eight, I think. I was hungry because Mom sent me to bed without dinner. She said it was because I was a pain in her ass, but I think it was because she hadn’t bothered to go grocery shopping. But I knew there was probably something I could get out of the cupboards, so I got out of bed and made my way down the narrow hall of our little desert trailer to the kitchen. The kitchen actually stood between the hallway and the living room, and I saw my mom in there with a guy—just some random dude, which was par for the course. They were sitting on the couch, smoking a joint together. There was a pizza on the coffee table. Mostly eaten, but there were two slices left. She saw me and asked what I wanted. I told her I was hungry and asked for some of the pizza. She told me tough shit and to get back to bed. She said it was hers, and she’d need it for the munchies that were sure to come on after they finished smoking their joint. Then they both started laughing hysterically.”

  “Unbelievable,” Rand growls from low in his throat.

  “My mother is irresponsible and selfish. She had absolutely no business having a kid. She didn’t even care when I left home at seventeen. I know this because I came back after a few days to get more of my stuff and she was there. Didn’t even ask where I’d been. Only wanted to know if I had any money, because I’d been working since I was fifteen, to make sure I at least had food.”

  “Was she on hard drugs or something?” Rand asks in wonder, because that would be a good explanation for her lack of care.

  “Nope. I mean, yeah, she smoked some pot every once in a while, but she held a steady job. Worked as a secretary at an auto body shop. She had friends. She’d see a lot of different men, but she didn’t really parade them in front of me. I think she was embarrassed she had a kid.”

  “What a fucking bitch,” Rand mutters.

  “It’s funny,” I say in reflection. “I left home when I was seventeen, didn’t finish high school, and ended up on the streets for a bit. And still… it was better than what I had. I never had someone care for me before, and that didn’t change whether I was in her house or sleeping on some strange dude’s couch in exchange for a blow job. The difference is that when I was with her, I still always expected she’d care a little. As much as she let me down, over and over again, I always still expected it of her. And that means I was repetitively hurt when I didn’t get it. At least on the streets, I had no expectations that anyone could smash.”

  Rand’s hand comes out, and he takes mine. He pulls it across the cab, making me lean a little toward him, and gives a soft kiss to the inside of my wrist. “Your mom sounds like a vile person. I’m thinking one of the best things you ever did was leaving when you were young. You’re in a much better place now that you’re rid of her.”

  I give a cold, bitter laugh, and shake my head. “I’m not rid of her. That woman became a leech on me once I married Samuel.”

  “Come again?” he asks with a head tilt.

  “She saw in the society pages that I got married. Not two days later, she’s at our house, asking for money.”

  “Did you give it to her?” Rand asks.

  “Yeah, I did,” I admit to him, but without shame.

  “Why?”

  “Because it made me feel superior to her. Is that bad?”

  Rand gives a chuckle and squeezes my hand. “You were already superior to her, Cat. That money didn’t prove anything.”

  I squeeze his hand back. “Maybe not, but I couldn’t say no. She was my mom, after all.”

  “Amazing,” Rand murmurs as we fly down the highway. “That you would still have any empathy for a woman who treated you so badly throughout your life. I think that makes you absolutely and perfectly amazing.”

  “Or stupid,” I mutter, and Rand laughs.

  “Maybe a little foolish, but never stupid,” he offers.

  “I’ll take that,” I tell him with a grin. “Of course, she called the minute she heard Samuel had died. I’m sure she saw that in the paper. I figured I’d be hearing something from her, asking about my inheritance, and that’s exactly why she called. You’d be proud. I put her off and told her I didn’t have time to deal with her. Ironic it wasn’t but a week later and I was all but homeless. Good thing she’s not asking for money now, huh?”

  “Yeah, well, you better not give her one dime of that money you got for your jewelry. You earned that the hardest of ways and that’s for your future, not hers.”

  “Agreed,” I say as I see a looming sign growing closer.

  Las Vegas - 56 Miles.

  Almost there.

  And then I’ll hopefully find out what my futu
re really holds.

  Chapter 13

  Rand

  “Big step up from my little trailer in the desert, huh?” Cat says on a low whisper as we stand before the front portico of one of the biggest houses I’ve ever seen in my life.

  The house Cat shared with Samuel is monstrous. She had told me it was eleven-thousand square feet. To be that big, it comes in three chunks with a main center section and two wings that flank at a slight angle inward. Done in taupe stucco, brown brick, and red tile, it fits into the desert scenery well.

  It’s nine AM. We decided that if we were going to enter the house, we were going to do it as if she belonged there. Without really knowing what Samuel’s will truly says, it’s more than plausible that Cat has every right to be here. We thought it would look far less suspicious if done in the bright light of day.

  Thus, we got to the hotel yesterday afternoon, a lower class, budget hotel Cat chose that sat on the outskirts of Vegas. Since she was insisting on paying, I had to let her choose. Rest assured, if it was in my hands, we’d be at the Bellagio, but I’m honoring her need to do some of this on her own. It’s important to her pride.

  “Ready to do this?” I ask as we stand side by side on the bottom step. Before us stands double doors made of solid wood, and either her key will work or it won’t. Same for the security code.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” she says firmly, and then reaches out with her hand to take mine. It feels natural. It makes me remember how much I missed being part of a unit.

  Together, we walk up the steps.

  Cat told me on the way here that Samuel bought this house about twenty years ago after his first wife died. Because she was the love of his life, he couldn’t bear to stay in the family home where they raised their two sons. Since he moved in, Cat had been his fourth wife, the other two before her outliving their usefulness after they reached the age of twenty-eight. Cat told me she wondered if Samuel did to them what he did to her.

  I didn’t offer an opinion because I think we both know he did.

  When we reach the front door, Cat releases her hold on me and digs into her purse slung crossways over her chest and resting at her hip. She pulls out a set of keys, flips through them, and chooses a gold-colored one that doesn’t look much different from the others.

  With a deep breath, she reaches out and slides the key in. Twisting her wrist, she lets out a huge sigh of relief when the lock turns. She looks at me, her lips peeling into a wide grin and her eyes sparkling with excitement. I smile back at her, relieved of course that her key still works, but knowing deep down that it doesn’t mean shit. She may have still been cut out of Samuel’s will, but the locks just haven’t been changed yet.

  Cat pushes the door open, and we both step into a cavernous foyer aglow with natural light from the huge, arched window above the door. A beep from the security panel beside the door catches my attention, and I watch as Cat puts in the code. It shuts the alarm off, and we both let out an audible sigh of relief.

  The house is sparsely decorated—minimalistic. It would be easy to say that was so because Samuel was a bachelor for a long time and didn’t care what his house looked like, but I’m going to guess it’s because Samuel didn’t get much pleasure out of life and didn’t care what his house looked like. From what I know about the asshole, he derived pleasure from watching his wife be degraded, so I doubt fancy artwork and priceless knick-knacks would do much for him.

  “Come on. His office is this way,” Cat whispers, reaching back for my hand to pull me toward the stairs.

  I immediately place my palm against hers, but ask, “Why are you whispering?”

  “I don’t know,” she rasps back with a giggle. “I guess because I’m not sure if I’m actually breaking and entering, or not.”

  “Let’s assume not and talk in our normal voices,” I prod her. Although she’s cute as fuck doing that, it’s also setting me on edge a bit, making me feel like we shouldn’t be here, and I’d rather take the optimistic route that we are definitely allowed.

  Cat had assured me there was no full-time staff who lived in the house. While Samuel employed a chef, housekeeper, and an attendant for his personal needs, none of those employees lived in residence. As far as we knew, Kevin was still back in Jackson, probably never suspecting Cat would come here to search the house. Richard was probably oblivious to everything but we didn’t know that for sure. Cat decided not to reach out to him, mainly because she figured he wasn’t going to help her. He may not have any clue what Kevin was doing from Jackson, but then again, he might have full knowledge. We’d never know, so why alert him any further that Cat was questioning the validity of the will?

  Now, it certainly can’t be helped she let Kevin know she was questioning it, but we’re sort of banking on his ego and his complete underestimation of Cat to keep him happily in the dark. So if we’re lucky, he’s probably on a fishing trip right now on the Snake River. Cat says that’s one of the reason’s he goes to Jackson, and if there’s a God above, maybe he’ll fall out of the fucking boat and drown.

  Cat leads me up a curved staircase done in deep mahogany to a large second-floor landing. Hallways branch left and right… entryways into the wings of the house.

  “My room was that way.” She points to the right, and then back to the left. “Samuel’s that way.”

  I find it interesting she referenced her room in the past tense. Not sure if that’s because she doesn’t believe this house is hers or that she doesn’t intend to come back here regardless. I’ll ask her about that later, but for now, I follow her straight ahead from the landing to a set of double doors that she pushes open to a huge office.

  It’s what I would expect of an egomaniac, billionaire hotelier. Expensively paneled walls, luxurious silk rugs, ornately carved desk, and the faint musk of cigars in the air.

  “Samuel spent a lot of time in here,” Cat murmurs in a grateful tone as she drops my hand and walks in. Glad he spent time in here and not bothering her, I’m sure.

  She heads straight for his desk and pulls back the massive leather chair on wheels so she can sit down in it. Turning to a side drawer, she pulls it open and starts rifling through. I walk up to her and stand behind the chair to the side, watching her progress. She pulls out a thick pack of stapled papers and hands them to me, saying, “Our pre-nup. The will trumps anything in the pre-nup as best I can remember, but we should take pictures of this as well.”

  Before we came in here, we agreed we wouldn’t take any documents with us. Our main goal was to verify if the will cutting Cat out existed, and to look at the current will if we could find it. Because there’s not a copier in Samuel’s office, we’ll have to take a picture of each page with her iPhone.

  I hold the pre-nup without looking at it. I don’t care what deal Cat made with her devil of a husband. I only care about her not getting screwed over right now.

  “Bingo,” she shouts with glee and pulls out another thick document. She lays it on the desk, and I step in closer to look at it over her shoulder. It’s titled “Revocable Trust Agreement and Pour-Over Will”.

  “Quite a fancy name for a will,” I mutter.

  She nods. “Trust agreement… will… I’m assuming they’re just different names for the same thing; how to distribute his estate.”

  Cat starts to skim through it, her finger sliding down the page as she scans and flips pages.

  “Kevin is the trustee, but I knew that. Just means he’ll administer the estate. Blah, blah, blah, blah,” she says as she breezes past paragraphs entitled Debts & Expenses and Administrative Powers of Fiduciaries. My eyes actually start to cross when her finger stops and she says, “This is the paragraph.”

  I lean over closer and see the word Residuary. Cat reads out loud, “Upon my death, I direct my trustee to transfer five-million dollars to my wife, Catherine Lyons Vaughn. Pursuant to our pre-nuptial agreement, she will have no ownership rights or interests in any of my real property at the time of my death, with the exc
eption of the house in Jackson, Wyoming. I further direct my trustee to ensure transfer of title and deed of said property to my wife.”

  “Did you know that was in his will?” I ask her.

  She nods. “Not the exact details, but he told me he would leave me with enough money to sustain me as well as a house. I didn’t know it would be the Jackson house. I suppose that was his way of reminding me in death how much he loved taking me there.”

  I wince at the bitterness in her voice. There’s no way she’d ever want to stay in a place that held such terrible memories for her.

  Cat flips quickly through the rest of the document to the very end, where I can see the original ink of Samuel’s signature as well as a notary public seal.

  “He signed this two weeks after we were married,” she says, still looking at the document.

  “We need to go through the rest of his stuff,” I tell her as I squat down at the drawer that’s still open and start rifling through the contents. “If there’s another will or trust agreement or whatever the fuck you call it dated after that one, you’re screwed.”

  “But if there’s not, Kevin’s screwed,” she says, and my head turns toward her because of the icy tone in her voice. She narrows her eyes at me and in a voice bristling with anger, she says, “That asshole kicked me out over five million dollars and a house? When Samuel’s estate is worth billions? What a fucking douche bag.”

  I give her a wry smile. “I think it was more about controlling you than the money. The fact he wanted you to stay at the house tells me all I need to know. He was banking on you crawling to him for help.”

  “Bet he was stunned I didn’t,” she says quietly.

  Nodding in agreement, I turn back to the drawer, eager to get this over with and get the hell out. I start flipping through hanging folders containing tax returns, bank statements, and deeds of trust. Folder after folder of the story of Samuel Vaughn’s wealthy life.