Power Play: A Romance Collection Read online

  “What you want, you mean. I don’t want any of this and you damn well know it,” Caleb spits out. “Father’s killer? I’d shake the man’s hand. The so-called priceless gems he chased all over the world? They had a price. He wanted them more than he wanted us, devoted all his time and energy to finding the next big discovery. Like an addict, he sacrificed his family, everything that should’ve mattered, for something that never even came to fruition. And just like the dutiful son you are, you’re picking up the pieces and carrying on, continuing his legacy even though it only brought pain and death to this family.”

  Caleb’s words are hard to hear, but if I’m honest with myself, his assessment is correct. My father was a cold, business-minded man who gave little more than a passing thought to his sons. I turned his dismissal into a fire to conquer, while Caleb was younger and felt the rejection more pointedly.

  I give him an olive branch, because there’s another price that was paid, not by our father, and the weight of it is upon my shoulders even now.

  “Caleb, I share the same misgivings you do about Nikolai. Still, I need to see this through. He might’ve been a bad father, but Dad deserves someone to avenge his murder. If not that, I at least need to know why. Like you said, he sacrificed everything. I need to hold what he valued so dearly in my hand, really see what’s so great about it, so I can begin to understand why it was more important than we were. I’m not trying to complete Dad’s work in some wild attempt to receive his favor from the grave. I’m doing it to show how worthless it truly was and that he would’ve been better served with us, with nightly dinners around the table, playing catch with us in the backyard, just being a family. Especially after Mom killed herself. It should have been the three of us against the world. But he ditched us with nannies to go gallivanting around. I just need to understand. Then . . .”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I might just take a sledgehammer and smash the fucking thing into a million pieces,” I admit. “Let the dust blow away in the wind.”

  I swallow thickly, surprised at what just came from my mouth. Though I’d thought those things over the years, I’d never actually put them into words before, especially not aloud to another person.

  But of anyone on the planet, Caleb would be the most likely to understand.

  He eyes me for a moment, testing the truthfulness of my confession, and then sags. “Fine. I’m behind you then. Not for the famed Michael Stone or for his name to be cleared of the mud, but for us. Just you and me. We deserve a name that stands for something. We deserve some answers. We deserve the truth. And if this is how we get it, then throw the damn party for Nikolai. I’ll find the girls.”

  I nod, accepting his agreement graciously because it’s not a victory worth celebrating. It’s just a cog in the wheel, one step of many in the plan. “We’ll throw the party and give Nikolai the stones to secure safe passage and access to the caves. It’s as simple as that.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s never simple. Not when the Russians are involved. Don’t fuck with them, Nathan.”

  “I won’t,” I assure Caleb. “I have no intention of double-crossing Nikolai. Just trust me. That’s all I ask.”

  Caleb sighs and rubs at his temples, something I’ve seen him do for years when he’s working a problem out in his mind. His idiot façade intentionally covers his intelligence, his brain the one thing he’s selective in showing.

  “I was afraid you were going to say that. Brother, remember . . . pride goeth before the fall. This is not some step-by-step mission you can outline with target points. This is a whole system you’re trying to manipulate by working Nikolai. A system his people designed, built, and strengthened while you and I were off shooting people and blowing shit up. And he likely knows what you’re up to. You’re at an inherent disadvantage and he’s well aware of it.”

  I nod, but at the end of the day, I’ve weighed the potential risks and possible benefits. And whatever the outcome, it’s a price I’m willing to pay.

  One way or another, permission granted or not, I intend to gain access to those caves.

  Chapter 2

  Emma

  “I got it! I got the part!” I scream into the phone and then quiet when my childhood bestie hisses painfully in my ear.

  But even knowing I probably made her ear ring, I can’t stop my excitement as I run around my apartment like a five-year-old hopped up on Mountain Dew.

  The noonday sun streams through the windows, and I’m so ecstatic over today’s news I feel like dancing, hopping from square to square.

  My next-door neighbors probably think I’m crazy, but after listening to their loud wall-banging every other night for the past year, they can damn well listen to me celebrate a bit.

  Especially for something this big.

  And this is huge for me, finally a sign that I’m doing the right thing in chasing my dream.

  I’ve gone to audition after audition and spent hours practicing lines, only to get turned down again and again.

  Okay, I didn’t get turned down every time. I have scored a few small roles every now and then, but they were barely enough to keep the roof over my head in a city this expensive.

  But it seems the one leading role I had in the way-off-Broadway production of Cleopatra that I was sure no one had even seen is actually paying off in a huge way.

  When I’d gotten the call that the barely off-Broadway production of the same play was calling for a last-minute replacement, I’d been shocked. Actors don’t just lose roles like this, and even when they do, there’s an understudy waiting in the wings to take over.

  But when the lead and the understudy get caught doing some rather bad things together, I guess it leaves a pretty gaping hole of opportunity. And the director had remembered my performance in the role.

  Oh, God, let me say that again. She remembered me!

  And now, I’m starring!

  Me.

  I jump onto my bed and fall back, bouncing on my ass a few times as my breath gushes out in a whoosh. “I did it, Carly! Can you believe it?”

  I can hear her grin even through the thousands of miles between us. “Of course I can believe it! I’m the one who told you to ditch your ho-hum and chase your dreams. Seems like it’s working out for the both of us.”

  She’s right.

  Carly and I grew up together, private schools and debutante balls, privilege and wealth, which sounds like a dream come true.

  We both knew how fortunate we were growing up, but coming from a family like that comes with expectations.

  Lots of them. Plans are made for you, never taking into consideration that you might have some dreams of your own.

  We’d both been good girls, not rocking the boat and always doing as our parents told us—good grades, attending the university they chose, representing the family at galas . . . all the upper-crust society shit.

  Carly had even dated the guy her parents chose for her, like some modern-day arranged marriage between industry giants, but she had, at some point, decided she’d had enough.

  She bailed on everything . . . except me. She dropped out school, broke up with the douchebag boyfriend, told her parents she wasn’t marrying for their business interests, and took off to Europe.

  She’s been backpacking it ever since, initially using her trust fund, but when her parents tried to manipulate her with it, she eventually began truly making her own way in a smorgasbord of methods that was worthy of a whole documentary miniseries.

  Since then, she’s been on a path of self-discovery and independence, living a carefree life, not having to answer to anyone for the first time ever, and more importantly, not being something she’s not to make someone else happy.

  And I’d watched, awed at her gumption and guts and inspired to my own revolution, albeit on a smaller scale.

  My only rebellion at the time had been to choose a major my parents detested.

  I’d majored in Ancient Civilizations, probably the most useless degree
in the world, according to my father, who wanted me to focus on something practical like business.

  But I’d been a lover of ancient cultures my whole life, studying Greek mythology, Mayan ruins, Egyptian hieroglyphics, and more. As a little girl, I’d had to explain virtually every Halloween costume I’d worn. Yes, I know who Athena is, and of course, I know who Hera is. I had a habit of telling their history, relevance, and victories ad nauseam until people would just shove candy in my bag to get me to shut up.

  Still, I had let one element of my fancy life affect my studies, as I’d loved focusing on the artifacts of the various time periods.

  My mom had been slightly more understanding when I’d explained that the giddiness she got from diamonds, I got from ancient figurines and art.

  She’d laughingly said I just liked my baubles dirty while she preferred them shiny. She’d been agreeable, so I hadn’t corrected her gross misunderstanding of what I actually studied and why I found them so fascinating.

  But even that small mutiny against their practical plans for me had nothing on my next sidestep when I’d discovered acting.

  I could be anyone, say things I’d never have the courage to voice myself, and experience life a million times over through the characters on stage and on screen.

  Though I’d finished my degree and even work for a local professor now, being on stage has become a true passion.

  And neither of my parents supports such an absurdly fanciful goal as being on Broadway.

  But Carly always has.

  She was with me when I’d wax on for hours about some article I’d read in Smithsonian Magazine, or when I’d drag her to museums every weekend, and she was by my side at my most pivotal moment when I saw a stage adaptation of Antony and Cleopatra’s story. Not Shakespeare’s famous one, but a modern take on the ancient story.

  While I’d begun by analyzing the authenticity of the costumes and jewelry, the stage props, and backdrops, along the way, I’d become lost in the story, suspending reality and truly traveling to ancient Egypt with the actors on stage.

  It was then that I’d known, and even at my first crazy mention of wanting to ‘do that’ as I’d pointed at the stage, Carly had been my cheerleader.

  She still is.

  “It is working out! You’re a fucking genius, girl. But oh, my God, I made such a fool of myself with the director!” I cringe at the memory.

  Carly laughs. “It must not have been too bad because she didn’t take the role away. What’d you do? Spill it!” I can tell she’s ready to hear that I did something over-the-top wild.

  I sigh, feigning nonchalance. “Oh, the usual. She says, ‘We’d like to offer you the role,’ and before I could stop the words, I said, ‘Get the fuck out!’ and then clapped my hand over my mouth, loudly slapping myself silly. I apologized profusely, of course, and at least Carol laughed at my reaction. But shit, I’m such a dork!”

  Carly is laughing big and hard now, taking twisted delight in my embarrassment. But her giggles are contagious, and I find myself laughing along too. All the euphoria from the news and from talking to Carly bubbles out like champagne, popping and fizzing all around me.

  “You are a dumbass, but such a cute one, so I guess I’ll keep you around. Seems like Carol felt the same way. Just don’t go blasting my eardrum again with the screaming. Damn, girl. Can I suggest you not take on any singing roles?”

  The banter is easy and comfortable, nothing changed between us though we’re separated by miles.

  “Oh, shut up!” I say, lying back and staring up at the ceiling. “I can act my ass off, but I know I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Musical theater is not my calling. But this play, it so is!” I kick my feet and my voice gets high-pitched and loud as the adrenaline rushes through me again.

  I glance over at the wall, worrying again about my neighbors calling the cops on the screaming banshee next door more than popping Carly’s eardrum. The thought of the cops banging on my door makes me realize something else.

  “You have to come! Come back, stay with me, and see my big debut! Please, Carly!” It’s a big request and I know it. She hasn’t touched ground in the US in over a year, correctly believing that the ocean dividing her and her parents provides a much-needed buffer. But I need her for this.

  “You’ve always been my biggest cheerleader, telling me that I don’t have to accept whatever my parents are willing to dole out and pushing me to chase my own dreams. I need you for this. It’s like we finally did it.”

  I’m sniffing by the end of my plea, the emotions at not seeing her in person in so long hitting me hard, and I continue my hard sell. “We can have a sleepover like the old days, stay up all night and eat shitty food, gossip about boys, or I guess men now. And you can come see the play. I promise, it’ll be just between us. Your parents don’t even have to know you’re here.”

  I hear her answering watery voice, and I know she’s fighting back the feels too. “You suck. Don’t make me cry. I’m sitting in a café in public, for fuck’s sake.”

  There’s a pause where I hear her shuffling around, and I imagine her sitting in an Italian café, coffee in front of her, and dabbing gently at her eyes with the linen napkin.

  In my head, it’s like a foreign film, beautiful and poignant.

  “But yeah, I’ll come. If you pinky promise not to tell anyone about it, I’ll come. Just us.”

  I nod hurriedly even though she can’t see me. “Yes! Good. Okay, rehearsals are already underway since I’m joining the cast in the middle of pre-production. But opening night is in four weeks. Book your ticket, girl! Fair warning, I’m going to hug the snot outta you right there in the airport like some cheesy rom-com movie, but it’ll be besties reunited.”

  Her bark of laughter is exactly what I needed to make the warm fuzzies inside me burn a little brighter. “And thanks, Carly. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  She does sniffle now, and I bet we’re both about two comments away from ugly crying. “Oh, please, you give me too much credit. This is all you. I’m just your bitch, here to give you a kick in the ass when you need it—”

  “And advice when I don’t!” I finish, and we share a laugh as though we’re sitting in the same room.

  “Damn, I miss you!” she says wistfully, echoing the thought rolling through my mind.

  “I miss you too. But I get it. You can’t be here. You’re the only child of wealthy and overbearing parents, so the only logical escape is to frolic aimlessly around Europe, trading farm work for a bed. Let me know when you monetize your Instagram documenting your jet-setter lifestyle so I can follow your pursuits.”

  The barbed teases are our way of showing love and laughing sarcastically at the absurdity of our lives. Fairy tale from the outside, but more often, a nightmare from inside the castle.

  But we’re both making that proverbial mad dash for freedom.

  And while Carly’s European life is filled with backpacking, hostels, and day jobs, mine is filled with playing pretend and doing mindless data entry for a Grinch of a boss rather than the real fun of ancient discoveries.

  Still, we are doing it all on our own terms.

  And somehow, that’s more important than any easy, posh life our parents could offer.

  “Oh, I will. And you be sure to let me know when you and your boss discover something new. I mean, something old. Some old terra cotta junk that will change our beliefs about ancient Mesopotamia. Oh, wait! Nobody cares about that but you,” Carly replies, getting her jabs in too.

  “Just the fact that you know the word Mesopotamia tells me how much you love me and actually listen to my rambling. I love you too, Car.”

  She mumbles, “Love you, Em. Better jet though. I’m hoping to do a bit of street performing on the Ponte Vecchio at sundown, so I’d better get my spot.”

  “Street performing? And you give me shit for acting?” I ask, laughing though I know her street gigs are more athletic than thespian. Carly did karate all through her teen y
ears, mostly because I’m actually a better singer than she is, and the debutante balls required demonstrations of a talent.

  Carly had delighted in being the only girl to ever do a fully-choreographed demo of her acrobatic kicks and aggressive punches, capping it off by roundhouse kicking a watermelon in a clear signal to any boy who wanted to take liberties with her. Kind of a ‘fuck you’ to the traditional norms of the ‘sit still and smile pretty’ thinkers and the girls singing the same three songs ad nauseam every year.

  And now she’s parlayed those moves into performing on the sidewalks of Europe. When she isn’t doing hostels or farms, I’ve gotten pictures of her doing spin kicks and more in Amsterdam, Paris, Rome, Athens, and more.

  “Hell yeah. I can make more money in a few hours of exhibition than I can with any other job. Did I tell you I quit my last waitressing gig? Even with the good tips there, I can make double on the street on a busy night. It’s like work and a workout all at once.”

  “Well, then get out there. You’d better werk!” I say, my impersonation of RuPaul weak but clear. Especially when I add the Z-snap that Carly can hear but not see.

  We say our goodbyes, promises to call again soon spoken over I love yous, both of us prolonging the call, but then finally, she’s gone.

  And it’s just me.

  But though I’m alone in my tiny NYC apartment, I feel like I’m finally making it. Like I’m on the cusp of a big change in my life, and I’m going to grab on to this role with both hands and wring every bit of opportunity from it that I can.

  I’m still lying in bed, reflecting on just how far I’ve come, when I hear a firm knock on the door. I give a moment’s thought that maybe my neighbors really are coming over to bitch at me, but then the knocks pound out again.

  And I recognize my older sister’s distinct pattern.

  Bam, bam, pause two three, bam, bam, bam.