Deception, p.5
Deception, page 5
Chapter Six
Sully
I could leave New York.
Take my mustard-yellow Ford Bronco—a car I purchased with my own damn money I’ve earned here and there—and leave this stupid fucking city.
Leave Mom and my brothers.
The motherfucking Morellis.
Constantines and their superiority bullshit.
I’d pack up and head out west. Drive the scenic route the whole damn way, stopping to smell the roses at every chance. I always wanted to go to Cali. Maybe I could learn to surf. I’d be good at that shit, I bet. I’m not a suit like Sparrow, so I could be content working above a souvenir shop, spending all my hard-earned cash on surfer gear or whatever it is California dudes spend their money on. It’d still be a thousand times cooler than what my life consists of now. I’d be a helluva lot happier, that’s for sure.
There’s no California dreamin’ for this big city boy, though.
Truth is, my dream of living my own life is just that. A dream. I know, deep down, I’ll never leave my brothers. We’re not just regular brothers. We’re triplets. One third of something whole. Leaving would mean severing two of my limbs. I just can’t do it.
So, I’ll live in constant mental turmoil.
Or at least until I can convince Scout and Sparrow there’s more to our lives than being Bryant’s bitch trio.
Which is why I’m taking my badass Bronco toward the Hudson Yards. My yellow beast stands out like a sore thumb next to all the Maseratis, Bentleys, Bugattis, and other shiny sports cars Sparrow would nut over.
My surfer dreams will have to wait.
It doesn’t take me long to reach the stunning eighty-eight floor building where I’m to take over my “shift” with the Crofts. This place is much nicer than anything I’m used to, and that’s saying a lot considering my upbringing. I’m a little eager to check out the inside to see if it’s even half as nice as the outside.
For fuck’s sake.
Eager?
I want to punch my own self in the nuts for being even remotely eager about a fancy-ass building. Get a grip, man.
God, it’s so lame that I’m stuck with this job. Naturally, Sparrow and Scout got the good assignments while I’m left with the stupid one. My job is to teach speechreading to the youngest Croft girl. Apparently, upon some quick internet research, it’s basically teaching a deaf person to lip read. Seems easy enough and she’s a kid, so I think I can pull it off, but it still sounds boring as fuck. I bet neither Sparrow nor Scout spent all night attempting to learn the basics of another language like I had to. I can sign the alphabet, but that’s where my skills end. This ruse might end before it begins if I can’t convince these people I’m an expert.
I’m honestly unsure what to even expect when I get in there. Of course my brother was worthless on communication. According to our chat when Sparrow got back home from class, he had an interesting and entertaining day with Landry.
That was all the information he gave up.
Interesting and entertaining.
He wouldn’t even tell me if she was hot, but based on the way he smirked, I’d say he thought so. Hell, knowing Sparrow, he probably fucked her already. This job Bryant has us doing is ridiculous, especially if Sparrow plans to be tightlipped about his encounter with her. Though we’re triplets, we’re so very different. The first time she faces off with Scout, that will be glaringly obvious.
Whatever.
If she finds out, then this charade will be over. Bryant can find some other way to fuck with Croft and the Constantines. Maybe he’ll find something else to obsess over and leave us alone. It might be easier to convince my brothers to leave this hellhole of a city if we aren’t on one of Bryant’s little missions.
I try to imagine Scout as a surfer. He’d probably try to feed Sparrow to the sharks. That makes me smile despite my annoying predicament.
I turn into the C-shaped drive in front of the building the Crofts live in and push the button down for the window. A valet man dressed in a crisp navy uniform rushes my way, his face pinching with distaste when his gaze sweeps over my Bronco.
Fuck him.
Yellow looks cool as fuck.
“May I help you, sir?” he asks, standing a safe distance away from my vehicle.
I grab my wallet and flip it open, revealing the fake driver’s license Bryant gave to each one of us. Same name on all three: Ford Mann. “I’m here for an appointment with, uh, Sandra I think.”
He plucks my wallet from my grasp, studying the identification card. Finally, he gives me a curt nod as he hands it back. “Of course. She’s expecting you, Mr. Mann. When you’re ready for your car, just ring this number and I’ll fetch it for you.” He passes a ticket to me and then steps out of the way.
I slide out of the Bronco and head inside. I’d tried to mimic what Sparrow had been wearing—jeans and a black T-shirt—but I couldn’t get my hair to do what his does since not everyone spends three quarters of their day in front of the fucking mirror and settled for a baseball cap instead. Close enough.
The building is swanky. I’m getting a few nasty looks since apparently there’s a fucking dress code here. Everyone’s wearing suits and dresses like it’s a damn ball, not a residential building. I’m not some poor loser, though. I grew up wealthy, so I eyeball each and every asshole who attempts to look down on me until they avert their gaze.
A man in a security uniform approaches me to check my ID. I’m forced to stand there for several minutes while he scrutinizes it. I know Bryant’s ID guy is good, because he works for the Morellis, but goddamn does it still make me feel like this security officer is seeing me for the fraud I am. After far too long, he eventually hands my ID back to me and points to a bank of elevators.
I wait for the doors to open along with an elderly woman holding a teacup poodle. It cocks its head at me as though it, too, is aware I don’t belong here. If Scout were here, he’d probably growl at it. Since I’m not a total asshole, I reach over and scratch him on the top of his head. The old woman shoots me a dirty look. When the doors open, she purses her lips and steps onto the elevator, making sure to step all the way to the far corner.
“Miss Franks,” a man in the elevator says in greeting. “Sixty-second?”
She gives him a clipped nod, not even bothering to acknowledge him. He looks my way after he mashes the sixty-two.
“You, kid?”
“Eighty-Eight.”
The dog yaps at me and the woman scowls. “That’s the penthouse, mister.”
“You have to have a code,” the man says, frowning.
Since Bryant set all of this up, I do, in fact, have a code. With a smug smile at the bitchy woman, I punch in the numbers on the keypad and then hit the “P” for penthouse. The man smirks at me.
I pull out my phone, needing to do something for the long ass ride to the top. When the man and woman and judgmental pup are finally gone, I breathe a little easier. This place is so fucking stuffy.
I eventually make it to the designated floor and the doors open with a ding into a grand lobby area with high ceilings, marbled floors, and a tinkling fountain in the center. Across from the elevators, beyond the fountain, is a massive door to the penthouse, which happens to be ajar.
Something black flashes out the door and runs past me.
Rat?
The thought is so absurd for such a nice building, I almost laugh. But, a bigger creature with golden hair chases after it, momentarily startling me.
From within the residence, a woman is barking out the name Della over and over again, each time growing more agitated. Rather than heading toward the sound of the woman’s voice, I turn left and follow after what must be Della, if I had to guess. I find her at one corner of the lobby area, crouched beside a plant, reaching her arm behind it.
The black flash I’d seen sounds much like a cat based on the furious hissing it’s making. Despite the angry cries of warning, the little girl keeps up her attempt to grab the cat.
“Hey, kid.”
No response.
A heavy sigh escapes me.
I tap the girl on the top of her head, since she won’t be able to hear me. She whirls around, fire gleaming in her green eyes. Her hand swipes across my forearm, scoring the flesh hard enough to sting but not draw blood. Glowering at her, I shake my head. From the intel Bryant gave me, I learned she’s deaf. No means no in every language, though.
She flips up her middle finger which would be comical if not for the fact she’s like six or something. What the actual fuck. And, yeah, it too means the same damn thing in all languages.
“Back at ya,” I growl, offering my middle finger back.
Her eyes widen and her mouth parts as though she’s shocked. She’ll learn real quick, I’m not about to let some ankle biter push me around.
“Your momma is calling for you,” I say, gesturing toward the sound of a voice around the corner.
Della snarls, baring her teeth. Feral little shit. Her hands move rapidly, no doubt signing something I’m meant to interpret. But, unlike my glowing fake resumé, I don’t know American Sign Language. Something, despite my desire not to, I’ll have to get more proficient at if I intend on keeping this ruse up.
Slowly, I sign to her one of the only things I’ve learned past the alphabet. Hi, I’m Ford.
Her eyes narrow, sharply watching my movements. Then, slowly, she spells out Della, punctuating each sign with irritated gestures.
“Della,” I say, enunciating her name which earns me a nod.
She points toward the plant and then does more of the signing—which I’m pretty sure she’s mocking me based on the sneer on her face—the letters C-A-T.
“If I get your cat, will you go back inside?”
She nods again, flashing me a devilish grin that I don’t believe for a second. No one warned me I’d be babysitting Satan’s little princess.
I grip her delicate shoulders and manhandle her out of the way. Then, I kneel down to grab the poor cat that doesn’t want anything to do with the evil brat. The cat meows in that creepy, leave me the fuck alone way, but I’ve already come this far. I curse when claws pop at my hand.
“Son of a bitch,” I growl under my breath. “We both know this kid isn’t giving up until she has you in her grip. May as well come willingly, heathen.”
The cat continues its low, warning rumbling sounds, but it does inch my way. When it’s close enough, I stroke a palm over its matted fur. Kind of strange for a cat to be in such a sad state when he appears to be the pet of one of the richest kids in the city. After some coaxing, the cat finally allows me to pull him into my arms.
“There you go. That’s a good boy,” I croon as I rise up on my feet.
The devil kid kicks me hard in the shin. Then she does that slow signing and spells out G-I-R-L. I roll my eyes and cuddle the cat closer. “You’re a mean little shit. You know that?”
Della cocks her head to the side, blinking furiously. I’d been mumbling when I said the words, so she probably missed what I’d said. Probably for the best.
“Inside,” I say sternly and pointing to her door, making sure she has no problem understanding that word.
She crosses her arms over her chest and lifts her chin. The defiance rippling from her is powerful. Della may have come into this world at a disadvantage because of her hearing impairment, but she makes up for it by being a baby tyrant.
But, I know all about being a brat. Me and my brothers were the world’s worst at her age. Definitely takes one to know one. Takes one to be able to deal with one. With my free hand, I gently clutch the back of her neck and guide her alongside me. At first she resists, but then she gives in, walking willingly. We nearly run into a woman as she bursts out of the door.
“Della,” the woman exclaims, making sure to also sign the words. “You are in big trouble, missy.”
I take note that the devil spawn doesn’t shoot her mommy the bird. Though, as I take in this woman’s appearance, I don’t think she’s her mother at all. The woman is probably in her fifties, with dark hair streaked with some gray pulled into a no-nonsense bun. Her makeup is flawless. If it weren’t for the wrinkles between her brows from apparently a lifetime of excessive frowning and old lady hair, she could pass for younger.
“Thank you, young man, for finding her. This one is precocious. Most days, she drives me insane.” She studies me for a beat. “I’m Sandra Ellis. Mr. Croft hired me to manage the household. Are you the speech reader tutor?”
“That’s me. Ford Mann.” I glance down at the way I’m still gripping Della as though she might run off if I let go. “I’d shake your hand but…”
“I understand.” Her nose scrunches. “Please tell me that’s your cat and not hers. I’ve had to take the last three strays she found to be put down. Her father won’t allow her to have a pet and she knows it. Not sure why she keeps trying.”
Della stiffens, the muscles under my touch tightening. I decide to throw the kid a bone because Stepford Nanny here looks all too eager for another cat murder.
“Heathen’s mine.” I scratch the cat behind the ears. She growls in warning, like the little psychopath her real owner is. “It’s good therapy for the kids.” Whatever. It sounds legit.
Sandra purses her lips and nods slowly as though she doesn’t quite believe me. “If Mr. Croft has a problem with the animal, you’ll need to take it elsewhere. Understood?”
“Yep.”
“Excellent. Now, let’s go inside. Della can have her snack while I show you around.”
Sandra turns on her heel with robotic precision and glides into the penthouse. Creepy as hell if you ask me. I glance down at Della who glowers at the woman. When she catches me staring at her, Della looks up and smirks. Then, she flips off Sandra to her back.
Stifling a laugh, I guide Della through the door. The condo is lavish and expensive, nicer than any home I’ve ever been in. It has at least twenty-foot ceilings in the living room and glass for walls all along the far side. The view is pretty spectacular, I have to admit. Sandra closes the door behind us and then shoos Della off. The cat—Heathen, I guess is her name now—doesn’t try to escape but remains tense in my grip.
“Mr. Croft believes that it’s imperative for Della to improve her lip reading skills. Not everyone out there in the world will know ASL and he wants her to be able to effectively understand those around her,” Sandra explains as she shows me to a space set up like a classroom. “This is where Della takes her lessons. Your main point of contact will be myself, but in the event Della misbehaves or ignores you altogether, you may also seek assistance from her older sister. Landry is one of the few people she listens to.”
Noted.
An easy way to access Landry. Maybe this job won’t be so boring after all. Based on the way Della’s acted thus far, it’s obvious I’ll be calling on Landry at every turn.
“Any questions? If not, I’ll grab Della once she’s finished her snack and return her to you. Feel free to look around and make yourself at home.”
With those words, she pivots in one fluid motion like before and seems to float away like a goddamn ghost.
“If I set you down, you better behave,” I tell Heathen. “Don’t give that woman an excuse to put you down.”
Heathen growls in what sounds like defiance, but I set her down anyway. She scurries away and slips between a desk and the wall. Just in time, too. The door opens with a creak. I turn around, expecting to see Della demanding to know where her cat is.
Instead, I see her.
Landry Croft.
Silky blonde hair. Pouty pink lips. Wide, bright blue eyes.
The shock on her face is amusing. A thrill shoots through me. Though I hate most jobs Bryant sends us on, I feel as though I might find a tiny bit of satisfaction with this one. Sparrow understated how beautiful Landry was. He’d used the word fuckable, and while the curves of her body are tantalizing to look at, there’s something about her that is captivating.
“Ford?” she blurts out, a flush of pink stealing over her cheeks and throat. “What are you doing here?”
I flash her a wide grin. “It’s my job.”
“Your job?”
“I’m Della’s speechreading tutor.”
Her bewildered expression only makes her cuter.
This job just got a whole helluva lot better.
Chapter Seven
Landry
How?
How is Ford Mann in my home?
He watches me, a brow arched slightly. The way he studies me somehow feels more probing than from before. Not in the taunting way. This time it’s more…intimate.
Is it because we’re alone?
In my home?
“Are you even qualified?” I demand, swallowing down my surprise at seeing him and allowing concern for my sister to rise up. “You have to take this seriously. My little sister isn’t some joke.”
Clearly affronted by my words, he frowns, a crease between his brows forming. I can’t help but drop my gaze to his mouth. Earlier, it’d been twisted into a boyish, teasing grin. Now, his lips are practically pursed in agitation. It bothers me that our easy banter from before has seemed to disappear. The air between us cackles with uncertainty.
“I can handle it,” he bites out.
“You’re acting…different.”
Aside from the small tick of his jaw, he doesn’t react to my words. Just stares me down like an asshole. With the dumb baseball cap on, he looks like even more of a douchebag than from before. It makes me want to knock it off his head.
“I’ve had a bad day,” he says finally.
I flinch at his words that feel like a blow. In our classes, he seemed like he was having a great day. Was this because I rejected a ride home from him?
“Mine hasn’t been so great either,” I spit back, hoping to sting him with my venomous words.
His features soften and his lips quirk on one side. “Liar.”
The rumble of his voice as he says that one taunting word has me forgetting why I’m annoyed with him in the first place. He takes a step toward me but it’s hesitant. As if he’s testing the waters with me. I don’t budge. I’m not about to back away from him and have him thinking he has the upper hand here. The challenge in my stance must call to him because he continues his approach—no, his prowl—toward me until he’s so close I think I can feel the warmth of his chest against mine.
