‘Don’t I? You’re, what’s the word? Énèrve. Pissed off. You’re also thinking about ripping my head off when you’re finished here.’ His hands hover under the bar as I lower it to the frame this time. ‘And yesterday, you were shitting bricks. I thought you were going to hurl all over your shoes. But tell me again how she can’t be your sister.’
Metal clunks against metal, and I twist on the bench, rising to sit.
‘AB+ and O blood types can’t lead to a child with AB+ blood.’ My heart and head pounds, and though I owe Rhett no answer, I long to repeat the science and speak the truth. ‘There has to be a commonality in the alleles. Her father can’t be mine.’ As I wipe the sweat from my face, I send another thanks to the heavens. ‘I’ll confirm it, of course. But these things take time.’ Even though DNA will confirm what I know in my gut to be true.
‘Had she fucked him, though? Before he died?’
‘She’s hardly likely to have done so afterwards.’ Elbows on my knees, I drop my head between my shoulder blades.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘You really want this, don’t you?’ I turn my head to look at him. Really look at him.
‘Fuck, yeah. A bit of humility could be the making of you.’
‘I’m sure you’ll learn to live with the disappointment because she doesn’t know him. She never met him.’
‘Or maybe she just doesn’t want to admit to it, admit to selling herself to him. I’m not judging. Poor girl, a rich man, and a chance of escape. It’s just the way the world works. You know it’s true. What though the Rose have prickles, yet ’tis pluck’d.’
I stand from the bench and languidly stretch, before I twist from the waist, swiftly and violently planting my right fist into Everett’s gut.
‘You won’t speak about her that way again.’ Shakespeare or not. My hand on his left shoulder, my warning is a growl in his ear as he tries to catch his breath, not that it stops the bâtard stupide from wheezing out his retort.
‘Getting information out of you is like getting blood out of a fucking stone.’ His smile is more grimace than smug. Regardless, I wouldn’t chance punching him again. ‘I shouldn’t need to goad you into a grand fucking reveal. You could’ve just said you were into her.’
‘Who says I am?’
‘My mistake,’ he says as he straightens, stretching the kinks out of his neck. ‘You must’ve lost a contact lens this afternoon. Did you find it in her throat or her underwear?’
‘Casse-toi.’
‘Such fine words from a man defending a lady’s honour.’ With a flutter of his lashes, he fans his face like a debutant.
‘If you mention this to anyone . . .’ I let the threat hang in the air.
‘You’ll what? Throw me off the top of Wolf Tower?’ His eyes drop to where my hands are balled into fists by my sides. ‘How long have I worked for you? No, how long have we been friends? You should’ve told me, Remy. If for no other reason than because your enemies become her enemies, too.’
‘There was nothing to tell. Not until this afternoon.’
Even as the words leave my mouth, I recognise them as lies. I’m drawn to her. I have been since that first night. No matter what transpired before or even after, I know the true Rose. The woman who opened her heart to me, as well as her door. I know her beyond the feel of her under me. My recognition of her is soul deep. Rose with the soft skin and generous lips. She is made of the tears of those who both built and broke her somehow. The sum of her parts, brittle and battle worn.
I know this about her. And I’ll know more.
‘What about Ben?’ Rhett’s question pulls me back to the moment. ‘You heard him—he saw her first. He’s not interested in her as a bit of skirt. He knows there’s something going on.’
‘I’ll find something to distract him.’
‘Are you going to tell her about the money?’
‘I will. When I’m ready.’
‘And you say you’re not like him,’ he scoffs, shaking his head.
‘Few sons are like their father,’ I retort as his head comes up fast.
‘Many are worse.’
‘A few are better.’ I keep my words mild.
‘That’s not how it goes. Not according to Homer.’
‘Stick to the fat yellow man, Rhett. Leave the dead philosophers to someone else.’
‘Fuck you,’ he retorts, throwing his sweaty towel at me as we exchange places.
Few sons are like their father, I intone silently. Few are better. Many are worse.
With regard to the business, I’m well aware I’m no facsimile of my father. Despite being christened the wolf cub, since I took over the helm, I’m much worse than a pup. I am much worse than my father.