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“This might not mean jack shit.” Christian inches in front of the billiard table, holding his cue like a rifle. He shoots a perfect cannon. “You’re reading too much into this.”
I’m perched on the recliner behind him at the New Amsterdam. A private gentlemen’s club on the corner of Sixty-Ninth Street. It is the most exclusive club in New York, and therefore relatively empty.
Christian, Riggs, and I have been hitting the place ever since Riggs informed us we could no longer go to the Brewtherhood, our favorite pub, because he’d banged his way through the patrons, the pub goers, and some of the supply providers.
“Hardly.” I flip a page in the astronomy book I’m reading, a pipe tucked in the side of my mouth. “I went to see his estate lawyer today. He couldn’t give me details but said that Grace inherited something of value.”
“That could mean anything. It could mean the good fucking china. When can you see the will?” Christian puts his cue aside to grab his beer and take a swig.
“A physical copy should be sent to me any day now.”
“But why would your dad leave Grace anything?” Riggs frowns, moving around the billiard table to examine where he wants to take his best shot. “Wasn’t she his former best friend’s spunk stain?”
I put the pipe down. “Being a polarizing piece of work runs in the Corbin family. Giving her something he thought I’d want would be the ultimate fuck-you. I don’t think he ever forgave me.”
“For what?” Christian frowns.
“Being born.” I smirk.
“You weren’t the one who shoved his cock into your mom, excuse my French.” Riggs takes a pull of his drink.
“Grudges, like crotchless underwear, make very little sense.” Christian claps my shoulder. “What do you think he left for her?”
The hotel on Fifth Avenue? The yacht? The time-share private jet? The options are limitless. The Corbins are old money. So old you can trace it back to eighteenth-century France. My ancestors ate cake with Marie Antoinette.
“Hard to say.” I toss my book onto a table. “Douglas had a lot of assets and zero scruples. The only thing I know for sure is that he couldn’t have given her too much. We’re not known for our generosity.”
“There’s a silver lining to all of this, though.” Riggs leans against his cue like it’s a cane, ankles crossed, a winning game show–host smile on his face.
I arch an eyebrow in question. “Enlighten me.”
“He’s dead now, and you get to make the final move. To leverage whatever’s in the will to your advantage.”
“Meaning?”
“Whatever shedoesn’tget, you’ll dangle in front of her face like a carrot.” Riggs uses his cue to scratch his back, his eyebrows arched. “You wanted to conquer her, didn’t you? This is how you deliver the final blow. How you win.”
I narrow my eyes. “I didn’t peg you for the cunning type.”
“Oh, I can be ruthless.” Riggs waves me off with a chuckle. “I just never give enough damn to show that side of me.”
Huh.
I’m going to make the most out of the situation.
Even if it means putting flames to Douglas Corbin’s legacy.
Three days later it arrives. A signature-required manila envelope. Alfred from reception calls to let me know it is here. I charge out of my apartment barefoot.
“Who delivered it? UPS?” I pluck the folder out of the old man’s fingers.
He shakes his head. “Hand delivered by some important-lookin’ fella in a suit. I hope it works out well for you, son.”
In the elevator, I muster every ounce of my self-control not to rip the brown envelope to shreds. That would be exactly what my father would have wanted. I can’t risk the infinitesimal chance an afterlife does exist, and his spirit is watching me from above.
I flip the bird upward instead, then downward, toward the floor. “My inkling is you ended up in hell, but there’s just enough chance you bribed an angel for a place in heaven.”
When I return to my apartment, I frisbee the envelope atop my office desk, go to the kitchen, make myself a cup of coffee, and then return. I slit the envelope with my letter opener, then neatly pull out the stack of papers, reminding myself internally for the millionth time that I don’t care either way.
