Chapter
Twenty-Nine
KEANE
By midday, I can’t stop thinking about him—whether he’s eating, if he remembered to take a break from work, if he’s still rattled. So I send a message.
Assignment. Secret code. Come up with an emoji or word you’ll use when you’re anxious or need something you don’t know how to ask me for. (Like becoming sexual with your Daddy!) Has to be easy to drop in a chat, no overthinking. Bonus points if it makes me laugh.
If I know Oren, he’ll stew over it like it’s a creative writing prompt, but the truth is I just want a shorthand. A little flag he can wave when the world gets too loud.
The rest of the morning is a blur of client calls until Adiel rings. He says he’s combed through Vince’s Playground application again and flagged “financial irregularities.” Which is the polite way of saying shady-as-hell paperwork. Suspicious bank statements. Contacts that don’t make sense. Too much smoke for there not to be a fire.
Thank God my buddy runs a tight ship when it comes to the application process. He vets his applicants thoroughly, since half the club’s population are a vulnerable, impressionable crowd.
“Fraud?” I ask, already booting up my firm’s database.
“Feels like it,” Adiel says. “You’ve got the better tools for digging. See what you can turn up.”
I don’t need more than that.
Hours later, the puzzle pieces start slotting together. Loan applications. Multiple. Spread out across different institutions, all papered with someone else’s credit. Not Vince’s. Oren’s.
My stomach drops as I scroll through the files. The loans list Vince as the beneficiary, Oren as the applicant. Classic fraud. Identity theft wrapped in manipulation, right under his nose.
I shove a hand through my hair, jaw tight. I’d bet every dollar of my retainer Oren doesn’t know. And when he finds out… he’s going to blame himself.
Not on my watch.
My cursor blinks backat me, concern pressing heavier with every second. Vince has been bleeding Oren dry on paper, and the kid doesn’t even know it. My heart burns with the thought of handing him that truth. His hard-earned money from book releases, years of savings, gone. Wiped out by a conniving bastard.
The buzz of my phone yanks me out of the spiral. A picture pops up.
The journal. The bonbons. Both set on Oren’s desk like some kind of offering.
Beneath it:
Oren: Snack report and the thing that makes me feel safe.
I choke on air. My throat closes up, eyes stinging, because I don’t know if he’s messing with me or if he’s serious, and if he is… I’m going to introduce my boy to the joys of spanking.
My fingers hover, useless.
A beat later, another ping:
Oren: Kidding!
I slump back in my chair, half strangled with relief and half furious that he can rattle me like this. Does he know what that did to me?
Does he know I’d drop everything, right now, if he ever said that without a smiley face? To think my boy is getting high to avoid his hurt feelings, numbing his pain? What kind of Daddy would I be to let that slide?
I stare at the screen long after the little laughing emoji fades. My chest feels tight, like Oren’s fingers just curled around my ribs and squeezed.
I text back:
Thank God. How would I tell your friends they got you hooked on drugs and porn?
Oren: They’d be so proud!
