Preview excerpt
The House on Sheridan Street
Chapter One
I wish I’d never bought this fucking house…
From the safety of his Mercedes, Gale Sullivan stared at the throng standing between him and the latest addition to his property portfolio. Outside 1213 Sheridan Street, a placard-waving crowd lined the damp sidewalk, splotches of angry, vibrant color against the gray of the day. If he squinted, he could convince himself he was six years old again, dragged from one protest to another while his mother lived out her Sixties’ flower-child fantasy.
A woman shoved a sign proclaiming, “Save Old Sheridan!” right in the window. Behind her, an older guy with a megaphone led bedraggled yet defiant demonstrators in a call-and-response cry.
Gale’s PA, sitting directly next to him, ignored them. Ben tapped away at his tablet, planning every second of Gale’s day, from his afternoon meetings to the food the housekeeper would leave out whenever he finally got home.
He glared hard enough at the crowd to make up for Ben’s obliviousness.
“How did they know we were coming today?” he asked.
“Well, I didn’t tell them.” Ben sounded pretty affronted for a guy who wasn’t paying attention.
“I know that, genius, but someone did.”
Ben tensed, a brief stilling of his hand above the tablet screen. “Do you think it was Alvarez?”
Gale’s biggest competitor did seem like a safe bet, especially over a lot that ended in more than the average amount of acrimony for a simple estate sale.
1213 Sheridan Street was a dilapidated Victorian monstrosity, overgrown and unkempt. Once it came up for auction, Gale hadn’t anticipated much competition.
Except Alvarez came in at the last minute with a ludicrous bid, and Gale found himself paying well over the odds to secure the house.
None of that had deterred Alvarez; he’d already put in a couple of laughable offers to take it off Gale’s hands, and now he’d apparently stirred up the local historical society of all fucking things.
“Who else would it be?” Gale muttered.
“If we’re making a list of all the people who’re angry at you,” Ben said, “we’ll still be sitting here when the house falls down.”
Won’t be very long, judging by the look of it…
“It’s not me they’re mad at,” Gale said, “it’s themselves. I’m the fall-guy because they can’t do their jobs properly.”
“And because you tell them that. Frequently.”
“How are they going to know if no one tells them? If I sucked that badly at something, I’d want to know about it.”
Ben gave him a look. “Not everyone is you, Gale. Sometimes you could tell them with a little more—”
“I think the phrase you’re looking for is ‘ass-kissing bullshit’.”
“—Tact,” Ben finished. “Or at least without using the actual words ‘you suck at this’, that might be a start.”
“Ah, but that’s why I keep you around, remember?” Gale clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder and grinned. “Damage control.”
Not that he understood why honesty should cause any damage. Every time someone tore him to shreds, he’d pulled the pieces back together and made something better. He wouldn’t be here if he’d listened to all the hippy-dippy psychobabble he’d heard growing up. Sometimes you didn’t get what you wanted by visualization, or by trusting in the universe. Sometimes you had to get off your ass and get your hands dirty.
Ben was right, though; the people who’d take great delight in screwing up his work were too numerous to mention. Gale didn’t mind. Enemies went hand-in-hand with success.
His thoughts took a different, darker turn as he stared out at the rain. “Maybe it’s not Alvarez. Maybe it’s Oakley.”
As if this house wasn’t enough of a nightmare, two days ago a young man claiming to be Nathan Oakley, long-lost grandson of the late Mrs. Elizabeth Oakley, called Gale’s company to inform them he was issuing a legal challenge to the ownership of his grandmother’s estate.
1213 Sheridan Street.
The kid – he’d sounded about sixteen on the phone, all nervous and polite – didn’t have a legal leg to stand on. Mrs. Oakley had no living relatives, and when she’d passed away a few months ago the house was all she had to her name. Once all the debts had been settled and creditors had been paid the house reverted to the state.
Nathan Oakley, even if he was who he claimed to be, had shown up too late. Nothing more or less to it than that. In another world he might have admired the guy’s sheer persistence, but Gale was running a business not a charity.
“Would you like me to rearrange the meeting?” Ben asked. “I’m sure the contractor won’t mind coming back once we’ve cleared them out.”
Gale grimaced; first-hand experience told him that wasn’t going to happen.
“Trust me, they won’t quit that easily. We’ll work around them.”
The volume cranked up several notches when he exited the car, opening the umbrella as much as a shield from the crowd as one from the rain. Placards rattled, and the pelting rain did little to wash away the scent of trash and the rotting front yard.
“Save Old Sheridan!”
“Conservation not cash!”
Conservation and “saving” things was all well and good. He’d sell the house to the historic society and then what? Assuming they didn’t just go and sell it to fucking Alvarez and pocket the profits, they’d have their cutes little heritage museum, maybe get a page in some academic journal detailing the significance of turn-of-the-century window frames, and that’d be it. No regeneration, no investment, no progress.
No future. Gale happened to believe the future mattered a hell of a lot more than the past.
When it came down to it, there were surprisingly few things you couldn’t just bulldoze and rebuild. And all the stuff you couldn’t? Well, that’s what big, impenetrable fences were for.
Even before he’d been aware of the protestors, Gale had ensured his people built a seven-foot mesh security fence around the property. The signs threatening soul-crushing lawsuits for anyone who dared try to break in were interspersed with the stamp of ownership that was his company logo. Yes, it made it easier for the bastards to identify him, but it was worth it when his rivals had to drive past his properties and see his name plastered all over them.
The entry gate lay directly in front of the original gate-posts, gothic pillars that might’ve been intimidating for any visitor before they began crumbling. An old iron gate hung precariously on one hinge, clanking against the wall with the wind. Gale checked the well-padlocked chain looped around the new gate, satisfied it hadn’t been tampered with.
Brushing the rain off the sleeves of his black trench-coat, he turned back to Ben, hand held out. “Keys.”
There was a suspicious silence, and no reassuring jangle of metal in his palm.
“Is there a problem?”
“You got the spare keys back from the contractor, right?” Ben asked carefully.
Gale could have sworn the din on the sidewalk got louder. Something was sure as fuck giving him a headache, either way. “We decided to pick them up at today’s meeting, remember?”
Ben swore softly, and stared up at the canopy of his umbrella, as if the answers were there if they weren’t stored somewhere in that ever-present tablet.
“They’re not here yet.”
“I can see that.” Gale glanced at his watch. “Call them. Tell them I’m leaving them to deal with this bullshit by themselves if they aren’t here in ten minutes. And they can forget the work that needs doing on the 16th Street site, too.”
“They won’t buy that.”
“You think? Two words for you, Ben: Northside Electricals.”
“Who?”
Gale smiled. “Exactly.”
Ben glanced back at the crowd, evidently weighing up his options: the angry mob, or Gale’s wrath. After a moment’s deliberation, he fished the cell phone from his pocket, stalking off back down the sidewalk to get away from the cacophony.
Leaning against the stone gatepost, the only thing on the entire plot that seemed solid, Gale looked up at the house from beneath his umbrella.
Truth was, what these people really wanted to save was a fantasy. It wasn’t about the house at all. They had an idealized image in their head of some idyllic past, and they thought that by ‘saving’ a pile of bricks and mortar, they could recapture whatever they’d lost. To them, Gale wasn’t just here to pull down a house; he was here to destroy whatever delusions they’d tied up in it.
But like all fantasies, the idea might be tempting but the reality would involve a lot of headaches and nights sleeping on the couch.
He turned, twisting the umbrella around to avoid hitting the gatepost, and instead smacked it on something softer that complained with a pained, “Ow.”
What had he said about damage control? Where was Ben when a guy needed him?
“Sorry,” he began, visions of a lawsuit flitting through his head. Screw Ben, he needed to call Michelle, right now, before he did anything else stupid.
“No harm done.” His victim brushed himself off, graceful long-fingered hands immediately mesmerizing Gale as they combed through hair turned dark-gold by the rain. “I wasn’t really paying attention.”
Okay, so forget about not doing anything else stupid…
The guy standing in front of Gale was at least a head taller than him, with broad shoulders beneath an ugly, shapeless sweater tapering down to slim hips in equally tatty jeans. There was an unnervingly hot juxtaposition between the whole built-like-a-porn-star, dressed-like-a-nerd thing this guy had going on, one that almost had Gale reassessing whether Protestor Chic actually did it for him these days. The guy wasn’t carrying a banner or a placard, but why else would someone who was built like this look at Gale so hesitantly?
“No, I should have been more careful.” He propped the umbrella against one shoulder – safely out of range – and extended a hand. “Accept my apology?”
The man smiled, those fine-boned hands proving to be a stronger handshake than Gale would have believed.
“Sure.”
Letting his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, pleased that the man didn’t seem bothered by that, Gale scrutinized the best thing to cross his path in days. The guy was a few years older than him, he suspected, but that was fine; he was done with loud obnoxious nineteen year olds. Truth be told, he hadn’t had much in common with them when he was nineteen, and even less now.
“Are you here with them?” He glanced at the sign-waving morass. The guy followed his gaze, and to Gale’s desperate relief, shook his head.
“Oh, no. I mean, I can see their point, I guess. Sometimes it’s sad seeing all these old houses disappear.” The man leaned against the other side of the gatepost, seemingly relaxed about getting into Gale’s personal space. “No offence though, if you’re working here.”
“None taken.” He shrugged. “Yeah I’m working here, but the way I see it, it can either be an ugly waste of space, or it can be a new home for a lot of people.”
“Don’t you ever wonder, though?” The man looked up at the house, unsheltered from the rain. He seemed completely unfazed by the weather, hands in his pockets as the breeze buffeted his sweater. Gale envied how utterly careless this guy was, standing in the rain with all the reckless ease of someone made from the same wild force of nature. While the man admired the house, Gale admired him, following his strong jaw line to the man’s collar, where the unkempt ends of his hair curled against rain-damp skin.
“Wonder what?” How it might taste to lick that rain away? Bad, Gale. Bad.
“Who used to live here?” The man ducked his head shyly, as though the thought was criminal instead of just whimsical. “What their lives were like, who they were, what happened here?”
“No,” Gale said. “It’s land, not a family album.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Something like yearning shadowed the man’s smile for a moment, and all Gale wanted to do was apologize again even though this time he wasn’t sure what kind of injury he’d inflicted.
“We only come in when the property’s been standing empty for a long time.” It wasn’t his nature to explain himself to random strangers, but it wasn’t in his nature to apologize easily either. He really did need to get laid if this was the effect the first pretty face in weeks had on him. “Usually the city auctions them off once all the probate work is done because they need the cash, or they need someone to drive up prices in the rest of a bad neighborhood. We have no involvement with anyone directly linked to the property, so it never really comes up.”
“And you got this one?”
Gale nodded. “It’s ugly as fuck, but it’s in a great position.” He let a smile creep into his voice. “And there’s not much that can’t be improved with the right position.”
“That’s what I hear.” When the man glanced back at Gale, there was a reciprocal flicker of playfulness in his eyes. They were a startling ice-blue, the sort of color Gale thought only existed in touched-up photos of glaciers. “But this really is one hell of an ugly house.”
“Yeah,” Gale agreed, “it really is. Everyone’ll feel better when there’s something pretty to look at.”
“Is that right?” The man cocked his head, and looked up at him from beneath thick, damp lashes.
“Well, it’s definitely made my day better.”
“Good to know.” The man watched him silently for a moment, before almost visibly shaking himself out of his daze. “Hey, if you’re working here maybe you can help me? I’m looking for—”
“Gale.” Ben’s clipped tones interrupted, and Gale had the urge to smack his PA with the umbrella. “They’re about five minutes away. They thought we were at 1312 Sheridan Street.”
“Great. And we’re working with these idiots because?”
“Because while they can’t read maps, they have a quick and economical turnaround,” Ben said, missing the sarcasm.
Gale raised a brow. “Thanks for that.”
The man watched their interchange, but the openness in his eyes had turned to wariness. For a second, Gale thought it was because he’d gotten the wrong impression of Ben, until the man asked, slow and careful, the awfully familiar edge of a drawl sneaking into his voice: “Gale Sullivan?”
Gale hesitated. “Yeah?”
“Wow,” the man said flatly, “what a coincidence. I was hoping to run into you today, Mr. Sullivan.”
Feeling the pieces click into place – the words, the tone, the damn questions – Gale stepped back from the gatepost, needing to put some distance between them. He had to ask. He doubted he’d believe it otherwise.
“Nathan Oakley?”
“I’m glad you remember me, Mr. Sullivan.”
Not quite, Gale thought, pushing aside the surprise and the distinct flare of disappointment. He hadn’t made the connection between that soft, polite voice and the man standing in front of him despite hearing it in his sleep. Flirting with the saggy-breasted woman with the placard would have been a step up on this. Flirting with the guy who’d been harassing him and his staff over this house, playing right into his hands with his questions…
Gale didn’t do bad decisions. He certainly didn’t enjoy dealing with them on the rare occasion they happened. Backing up from the gate, shaking off the water from the umbrella, he turned brusquely for the house. The sooner he could pretend none of this had happened, the better.
“I’d love to stay and talk some more, Mr. Oakley, but as you can see we’re in the middle of some business here. So, if you’ll excuse me–“
“This is important.”
Schooling his hands not to reach up to either massage his temples or wring Nathan Oakley’s scruffy, pretty neck, Gale reached into his jacket pocket for a business card. “If you need to speak to me about this, then feel free to make an appointment with my secretary.” He turned around and pressed the card into Nathan’s hand, ignoring the shiver that ran up his arm at the contact. “I’m sure we can fit you in.”
Nathan took the card, staring at it as though it was an alien life form. “I already have your number, I just–”
“Make an appointment, Mr. Oakley.” Gale turned back to the house, glancing over his shoulder. “Though I’m telling you right now, we have nothing to discuss.”
“I think we do.” Nathan met his gaze. “My grandmother’s house, Mr. Sullivan.”
“You mean my legally purchased property, Mr. Oakley.” Gale forced a smile, meeting that look with a glare of his own. “If you insist on pursing this ridiculous claim of yours, I suggest you consult a lawyer before bothering me again, do you understand? Get them to tell you you’re screwed, because you don’t seem to believe me.”
And he never would, Gale could see that. He could tell Nathan that the sky was blue beyond the gray rainclouds, and Nathan would argue him into the ground out of sheer irrational disbelief.
A mentality after his own heart.
Striding down the cracked, uneven path toward the front door, Gale left the rain and Nathan Oakley’s determined stare behind him.
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