Wicked Need (The Wicked Horse Series Book 3)(8)
In his spare time, he taught me how to do piercings. That isn’t hard at all and while Pish did my tongue, I’m proud to say I did my own nose and eyebrow. So if someone walks in and wants a piercing and the other artists are busy, I can do that in a pinch.
Right now, however, the shop is dead. Pish is off today and the other artist, Josh, is finishing up a small piece at his station. He’ll head out to a late lunch after, and I’ll hang here until he gets back to handle any walkins. I’m scheduled to work all day today, but if it’s really slow in the afternoon, Pish won’t care if I take off a bit early.
About every five minutes, I’ve been looking at the front glass windows and door of the shop that look out over Pearl Street, expecting Cat to come walking in any moment. It’s nearly two and I haven’t heard a word from her. I don’t even have her f*cking phone number as it wasn’t something I thought to get before I rushed out this morning. I just assume she saw my note, got dressed, and went to the attorney’s office. Frankly, I expected it to take no more than a few minutes to obtain a copy and then she would come to the shop. I thought she’d be here a long time ago, and I’m wondering if she packed her stuff up and left.
It’s a possibility I’m not liking at all.
I hear Josh’s southern twang as he walks out of his cubicle. He’s a transplanted southerner who came out this way about ten years ago to work at Yellowstone and never left. Josh is giving his customer post-care instructions, and then he’s walking out the door to lunch while I handle the payment. Just as I’m counting out change, the front door opens with the clang of a large cowbell, and I see Cat walking in.
She’s a stunning vision of elegant wealth. It’s how I know she probably dressed most days of her married life to Samuel—in designer clothes and expensive jewelry. I’ve never seen her this way because whenever Samuel brought to her The Silo, she was dressed in leather, vinyl, or hardly anything at all. It didn’t really matter what she wore through the doors, she was usually naked not long after that. Looking at her now as she walks toward me with a large, black purse slung over her shoulder and her sunglasses perched on top of her head, I’m having a hard time even imagining that this woman and I have ever f*cked. Or done some of the really f*cking dirty stuff we’ve done together. It’s almost surreal.
She waits patiently while I finish with the customer, her arms casually folded in front of her and looking at some of the design options framed on the wall. Once the dude leaves complete with his bandaged biceps because he had barbed wire inked around his pale, skinny arms, Cat turns to me.
“Did you get the will?” I ask.
She reaches into her purse with a grimace. “That * attorney made me wait for almost two hours.”
Cat pulls the thick document out. It is folded into thirds. She opens it as she steps up to the counter.
I walk out from behind and ask, “Why did you have to wait so long?”
She practically growls when she says, “I was being given the run around. At first, his secretary said he wasn’t in, but I told her that was fine. I didn’t really need to see him, just needed a copy of my late husband’s will. Then she admitted he was in and would need to approve it, but was in a meeting and I’d have to wait. When he finally came out to the lobby, a f*cking hour and a half later, he admitted he didn’t have a signed copy on him. Just an unsigned copy that Kevin had given him.”
I come to stand beside Cat at the counter as she flattens the thick document out before us. Before she starts to read, she flips to the last few pages and sure enough, there are no signatures there.
“If it’s not signed, then it has no power, right?” I ask.
“Supposedly, but the attorney said the signed copy’s in Vegas.”
“And he never asked to get a signed copy before forcing you out?”
Cat shrugs. “Guess not.”
We stand beside each other, our shoulders touching, and lean over the document. It’s long and cumbersome, but within the first few paragraphs, we see the offending language.
I, Samuel P. Vaughn, being of sound mind and body, do hereby will, devise, and bequeath my entire estate, including all real and personal property, in equal shares, to my sons Kevin Vaughn and Richard Vaughn, share and share alike.
The next few paragraphs direct what do with his property if his sons predecease him, including distribution to his grandchildren as apparently, his younger son Richard has two kids. The real kick in the teeth is the next paragraph that states:
I specifically make no provision for my wife, Catherine Lyons Vaughn, in this Last Will and Testament, other than her clothing and other personal effects accumulated throughout our marriage as well as any jewelry I have bought her through the course of said marriage.
Cat makes a sound of disgust low in her throat and flips through the rest of the thick document. We can’t see any other provisions that really apply to her and again, the last few pages are conspicuously bare of signatures.
“This document means nothing,” I say as I stand straight and turn to face her. “Without signatures.”
“Agreed,” Cat says with loathing. “I’m thinking about calling Richard who lives in Vegas. Even though he’s the youngest, he’s the more ‘reasonable’ of the two brothers.”
“Where’s Kevin?” I ask.
“I think at the Jackson house. That’s what the attorney said when he kicked me out. That I had to vacate because Kevin was coming to stay.”