Mr. CEO(68)

Nathan. I can't help but shiver at the mere mention of that cold bastard's name. Officially, he's our head of family security. Unofficially, Nathan Black is my dad's enforcer, or worse. I don't know for sure, but I don't think I want to know for sure. Nathan has this perpetual look of surprise on his face due to a long scar that winds up and across his left eye, pulling it up slightly. On anyone else, it'd be amusing, but there's nothing amusing about him.

“Fine,” I say and step out into the hallway. Nathan's already waiting. In the dark linen suit he's wearing, he looks like an undertaker coming to collect his next body. He greets me with a slight nod as I come out of Pops' office, but his expression is as unreadable as ever.

“Mr. Jackson,” Nathan says in that quiet, icy voice of his. Jesus, if the Grim Reaper needs a voice, I know who he can call.

“Nathan. Pops wants to speak with you,” I respond.

Nathan's fifty years old, but he could pass for forty, or maybe even younger. Up close it's easy to see the fine network of crow's feet around his eyes, but it's also easy to see how his eyes are completely flat, devoid of any emotion. They're a green shade the color of swamps, and they remind me of gators. Maybe it's because Nathan's clearly a predator, just like them. “Very good. Later, perhaps we can speak on how to avoid further... incidents?” he says.

“Perhaps,” I reply, trying not to stammer. Nathan scares the shit outta me, plain and simple. I've got at least thirty pounds of lean muscle on the man, but I have a feeling that if he wanted to, he could drop me without even blinking. “I need to get going.”

Nathan nods and goes into Pops' office, closing the door behind him. I know I should run along, even if the request to fetch Mom is bullshit. I shouldn't be hanging around. But... it's Katrina, and the look in Pops' eyes...

I know this is stupid, but I can't help myself. It's been years since I've done this, but I should be able to eavesdrop through the lock on the door. The mansion is an old antebellum plantation house, and it took a small f*cking fortune to repair the place after Hurricane Katrina. No relation to Kat, I think to myself. Still, the interior doors are mostly original, and this one happens to date from the original Civil War days. I press my ear against the office door.

“Mr. DeLaCoeur, how can I assist you today?” That's Nathan, professional as always.

“That bitch...the one who set up Jackson. I want her taken care of.”

“Sir, no offense, but haven't we done enough to this girl? You know, ten years ago?”

“I don't give a f*ck!” Pops hollers, slamming his hands on what sounds like his desk. “That bitch dropped a lot of trouble in our laps, Nathan. I want her found and eliminated, got me?”

There's a long silence on the other side of the door, and I can imagine Nathan coldly processing my father's words. Before he can answer, I hear someone coming down the hallway and I beat a hasty retreat, going to look for Mom. As I do, my head whirls. Sure, I've always known that Pops is involved in some bad business, even if I don't like to think about it. Seriously, who the hell has the police chief at his house one night, and then well-known gangsters there the next, unless he's also involved in some shit?

But I never knew for sure how much shit he's been involved with. Of course, I've lied to myself over the years. Denial is a powerful drug. And I guess maybe my coping mechanisms weren't the best, what with the parties and the sluts, and the drugs and the alcohol... but at least I've managed to keep my own hands clean.

Now I know for sure about my father, and I can't get it out of my head. What the f*ck do I do? On one hand, Kat made me look like some high school dweeb who was whacking off in the back of a rented limo or paying some hooker to lose his virginity. But she was angry, and it wasn't the sort of anger I've seen before. It wasn't hot anger—it was the cold, obsessive type. Whatever she thinks my family did...she's been angry for a very long time. And it's the sort of anger that makes me think there's a genuine reason for her to be pissed off.

And then there's the way she made me feel. What the hell was that? A few touches, a few kisses, and I was ready to pop. Where the hell did she learn that? Was it because my body knew it was Katrina even if my brain didn't recognize her at first? Or does she know something that most women don't? I mean, I'd just busted a nut less than two hours before, and she had me trembling on the edge in minutes. I didn't even touch her skin other than feeling those lips on my neck...

I look down, realizing that I'm sporting wood again, and adjust myself. Not what I need. What I need to be doing is looking for Mom. I find her in her bedroom, looking at herself in the mirror. She and Pops have separate rooms now. Great, just great. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the craziest one of all?

“Hey, Mom?”

“Jackson, do you think I'm starting to sag around my neckline?” Mom asks as a way of greeting. Well, no Mom, I think you've got more plastic in you than your average Barbie doll, and that you can't even squint because you've more or less killed off your eye muscles with Botox. In fact, you barely look like a woman anymore.

Instead of saying that though, I ignore her question. She doesn't want my answer anyway. “Pops was saying he'd like to talk with you in a few. He's talking with Nathan now.”