THE LIE (Manhattan Nights #6)

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

ANDREW

Hell-beast: We need to talk.

The only thing worse than hearing those four words from a woman was hearing it from the woman who stamped your timecards.

But a timecard right now is the last item on my mind.

Because right now, the first is not having a f*****g heart attack.

And though I’m a grown-ass man and it’s been seven long ass years since I’ve seen the Fletchers’ attorney in the flesh, it does nothing to ease my pounding adrenaline—nothing to erase the fact that the general counsel for my grandparents' company, Fletcher Financial Group, had always been one of the scariest motherfuckers on earth.

A man willing to sell his kids for a quarter.

But desperation makes you do stupid things.

It makes you show up to places you’d never go. Agree to meet people you couldn’t stand.

And today, I was willing to stand Frank Levins, Esquire, for the next hour or so.

Because my Ma (not my mother but still the woman who raised me all the same), the woman who’d been there for me when my own parents couldn’t be—my grandmother—was now dead.

Because Frank Levins was paying.

And because, to my utter f*****g shame, I was nearly broke (in my sense of the word, anyway), the influx of money coming to my bank account all but halted as I drained my account to make funeral arrangements for the one and only Barbara Fletcher—the grandmother who’d once raised me as her own.

My bartender job was never supposed to sustain my income.

Not when I was born into a billion-dollar empire.

But like any halfway decent barkeep in the city, I’d known when I was on the edge of being fired—knew the time clock was ticking down on my time at The Alchemist, my workplace and watering well for picking up women over the past year and a half.

Nancy’s text practically tells me. The four words “We need to talk” have never meant anything good for a man.

So, as I sit in the middle of an office that could fit a Buick, with a man who could afford to buy fifty of his own, my fists squeeze tight, my skin prickling under a secondhand leather jacket that, in my old life, wouldn’t have seen the light of day.

Frank looks over at me.

“I’m glad you decided to come.”

I blink. “I’m glad you decided to pay, otherwise I wouldn’t have. Thanks for the invitation.”

“You’re welcome.” The fleshy lawyer nods as if I actually mean it. “I know I’ve, uh…seduced you here under strange terms, but I figured you could use the money.”

“Why don’t we just cut the bull here, Frank? You know I could use the money. You’ve known I could have used the money over the past seven years, so let’s not pretend that’s not the case.”

Frank reddens. “Contrary to what you might have been led to believe, Mr. Fletcher… It truly wasn’t my choice to cut you out of the trust.”

“No. Of course not. You were only the litigator who helped my grandfather do it. My mistake.”

The overweight lawyer sighs, sitting forward. “I’d hoped we could get over the past, Lincoln. I want you to know that I have.”

I dare to meet his eye. The eye of the devil himself.

Guess seven years has done something for me because I’m not afraid to call the bastard out on his bullshit.

Brushing the use of Lincoln aside, I welcome the change. Welcome the departure from the scared kid I once was—a rich kid not life-experienced enough to wipe his own ass.

New York taught me that lesson. And many more.

My leather jacket squeaks as I lean forward, and it is all I can do not to knock the smug look off Frank’s face—a face that has never seen a struggle in its life.

I take a deep breath, pulling air in slowly.

“Look here, Frankie boy…if you want to make amends for your past sins, join a church. You’d have a better chance of making amends with your Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. But…if you want me to hear you out, then cut to the goddamned point. I’m already late for work. And I’m risking my bartending gig to make space in my schedule for you, so at the very least, you can make my time worth it. Or if not, call your secretary and she can show me the way out. I’d prefer her company.”

“I’d bet you would.” He smiles. “Always a poon hound from what I remember. That’s your problem… Makes it hard for you to get paid.”

“What the hell does that matter?”

“It matters because that’s all your grandparents—your grandmother, particularly—ever wanted… Was to see you married, I’m sure you know that.”

I snort. “Yeah, sure. Cutting me off from the family’s finances was sure a helluva way for my grandfather to communicate that. As for my grandmother, she was the only one who gave a s**t and that’s why I’m here. So, if you don’t have anything else to talk about then I have a meeting with Ma’s funeral director. Unless you want me to pass a message to my sister, Hannah—who couldn’t seem to give two shits.”

“You’ll be able to give it to herself…if you agree to see her this weekend. Seems you’ve already been beat to the punch. Your sister,” he pauses for effect, “is getting married.”

I swallow. “Which one?”

“Hannah. She’s the blonde, if I remember. With that wide smile.” He smiles as if he’s imagining her—making me want to punch out his teeth.

My sisters have been always really beautiful. Both of them.

But where Hannah was fair and serious faced, my younger sister Sabrina was a brunette ball of energy. At least, that’s what they used to be.

From what I remember…

I’d been cut off from the Fletcher family, and that had its own consequences.

Of course, you lost your access to most of the finances, but you also lost your safety net, your seat at the table…

Your connection to your siblings was the last to go—the final thread to cut to make sure that no one dared crossed the line of the family name. That you didn’t dare step out of your space…

Or else your spot would be next.

I hadn’t drawn my siblings into the drama between my grandfather and me. I couldn’t do that to them.

Not to Hannah or Bri.

We’d already lost enough.

I nod at Frank—nod as if hearing Hannah’s nuptials news is the most natural conclusion on earth, and I slide back in my seat, heart beating, shoulders shrugging as I do my best to pretend I don’t give a s**t.

Even when the word comes out full of heat—strangled and full of sand. “So?”

“So…?” Frank prompts, eyes pinched on my face from not getting the reaction he wanted. He guffaws like a child—a tantrum on the tip of his tongue. “I’m trying to tell you that you’re invited. Well, if you want to be, of course. I can’t very well make you go.”

“And I’m sure you’d break something, if you tried.”

“But” he interjects, “if you do go, I want you to know that there’s a nice little paycheck in it. For you and for me. Most importantly, for me.” He smiles at his own joke. “Turns out your grandmother—sly minx that she was—had updated her trust. Seems she was using another attorney outside of the family. And that lawyer had her own copy of your grandmother’s latest trust.” His blue eyes flash. “I, on the other hand, didn’t get this copy.”

“Gee, I wonder why. Maybe it had to do with your choice of aftershave. Ma was never too keen on the scent of ‘vulture.’”

Frank clears his throat, trying to ignore me. “Be that as it may… I hear this new trust involves you. Thing is: The trust briefing won’t be until after the wedding. Your grandmother’s new attorney,” he almost spits with disgust, “says it’ll be easier this way. All the family will be together and will be able to read what’s in their estate. And that includes you…but you’d have to return to your grandmother’s property.”

“In Connecticut. I have to be in Connecticut? To listen to the details of who gets what from her estate?”

The lawyer shrugs. “It’s the way she wanted it. The way she asked. The way she stipulated. Anyone who doesn’t attend at the reading will get cut out. I had explicit instructions to contact you. To inform you of the wedding. To make sure you were prepared.”

I frown. “Prepared for what?”

But the question hangs in the air. Because my cell phone picks now to start going off.

I wonder if it’s an alarm—some timer I forgot I set.

Until I look down and notice Nancy texting me for the second time today—this message even more urgent than the last.

I read the screen.

Hell-beast: Meet me in the bar in an hour.

It’s unlike her to text me twice in one day, though she’s definitely done it before.

The double texting has become more frequent in the last seven days, and I don’t pretend not to know why.

To know the very reason why she’s been so on edge with me lately.

But the Andrew I know today? He’s at his wit’s end.

And I type back so fast my fingers hurt, every ounce of my body taut like a string that Frank is taking pleasure in thrumming, my nerves almost standing on edge.

I reply fast, a lie forming just a little too damned easy.

Me: Too late. I’m there now.

I glance back up at Frank, shaking my head.

I know I’m pushing it. I’ve been pushing Nancy’s buttons all week.

But right now, I can’t muster up the urge to play nice.

Not with her. Or anyone.

“Sorry.” I glance up at Frank. “Boss is on my ass.” I clear my throat. “You were saying?”

“I was saying…” he starts. But my phone goes off again, chirping out loud.

I grab it.

“Do you need a moment?” Frank asks.

“No. No, I don’t,” I say, handling the phone again.

Another text from Nancy—this one snarkier than the last.

Hell-beast: You don’t have to be there at all. Your shift doesn’t start until tonight.

It’s a threat. And it’s not the first one she’s made this week.

I’m not an i***t…

I know what our new manager Eric has been pressing her to do. What she wouldn’t dream of doing until he showed up in a shiny suit, promising to make everything bad that had happened with the bar in the last year alright.

I type back, repeating myself.

Me: I’m there now.

Hell-beast: You’re really there now?

Me: Yes.

“There” like a ghost. Like a wraith. Like a specter.

Like a big ass liar…but what was new?

I decide to set the phone aside at last, slipping it into my front pocket. But Frank is already staring at me, mouth open enough to catch flies.

He blinks. “Who’d you say was on the phone?”

I can feel my eyes harden. I shift on my seat.

“My boss. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know.” He leans forward. “I guess just because of the fact that you were smiling the entire time.”

“I was?”

Was I?

Nancy and I had always had a messed-up dynamic—a love-hate sort of rapport from the second I stepped inside The Alchemist and filled out a bartender application.

She was head bartender at the time.

Sweet as pie…

To everyone but me.

I didn’t mind. It wasn’t like I was climbing over the rafters to be her friend, either.

She took her job too damn seriously, her green eyes often cutting at me in scorn for slacking off.

I was damn good at my job. But as far as Nancy was concerned, nothing but perfection would do in the bar her estranged father had left her.

I wasn’t a guy like Eric—our newest strait-laced manager with no imagination…which in the book of Sticks-Up-Their-Asses, Chapter Twelve, Verse Seventeen meant I was insufferable.

We’d been at each other’s throats from the beginning.

I shift under my jacket, meeting Frank’s stare. “Must have been a facial tic.”

“Lemme guess,” he wagers, “your boss is a woman.”

“Well, I haven’t had a chance to accurately check to be sure since she seems more android than human. But she looks like a woman. And talks like a woman.”

“Is she attractive?” Frank presses.

I shift again. “She’s…” Very attractive. Strawberry blonde hair, slender shoulders and peachy skin. I search for another word. “Decent. Why the hell do you want to know?”

“Is she smart? Dresses well? Can hold a conversation?”

“Frankie boy, if you’re looking for a woman, all you had to do is tell me. I would refer some options to you but, well, you’re you, and I despise you, so…”

“I don’t need a woman for me.” His blue eyes glow, suddenly hungry as he hunches forward, his jowls jiggling a little as he talks. “I need a woman for you.”

I stare. “For me?”

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you the other stipulation your grandmother has for her estate…” Frank folds his hands on his desk, smile smug. “She plans to leave you the majority stake in this company. Her company. Fletcher Financial Group… A stipulation contingent on you continuing the Fletcher family line, of course.” He holds up his hands. “Her words.”

“So, you’re saying…”

“By the end of this weekend, you can own Fletcher Financial Group—the estate, the house, everything that your grandfather cut you out of. But in order to do that… I need you to get a wife.”