Enemies with Benefits, page 2
My family's hotel lay just past the point where the district ended. Just far enough away that people could find peace and quiet to rest for the night, but near enough that they didn't have to go far for a bit of fun either. It was my mother's parents who had bought the place and turned it into a hotel, but it was my mother and father who turned it into a popular spot to stay. That reputation had wobbled back and forth over the years, but there had never been a time that I could recall when we were in danger of losing everything.
"What the hell," I muttered with a laugh as I rounded the corner to see the mostly familiar sight of the family hotel nestled in the middle of the block. Mostly because the last time I'd been here, it hadn't been splashed with a collage of colors, making it look like a unicorn had puked all over it. It was gaudy and eye-catching, which, considering my mother, made a great deal of sense. "Mom, I knew you'd done some renovations, but this is something else."
Not that I was going to complain; my mother was my mother, and anyone who knew her knew she would do what she wanted. It wouldn't always make sense, at least not to anyone but her, but that was how it was. The one thing you could count on was that it wouldn't be 'normal' or 'expected.' The woman was as stubborn as she was free-spirited, and no one, not even my late father or the man she'd married a few years later, had tamed her. It was something that I, with great pride, had inherited from her.
I came to a stop out front, looked up at the sign, and repeated, in a far more annoyed tone. “What the hell?"
Where once there had been a well-lit sign that read ‘Beckett Place,' there was now a sign that read 'Lincoln Home.' My good mood threatened to dry up as I smacked down the kickstand with my foot and turned the engine off. Lincoln was my stepdad's surname, which my mother had taken when they married, but which Moira and I had turned down, wanting to keep our father's name. Seeing our father's name gone from the building left a sour taste in my mouth, and a piece of my father that I hadn't even realized existed felt like it had been thrown away.
With a snort, I yanked off my helmet and slapped it onto the bike, engaging the lock that wouldn't let the engine turn on unless my key was in the ignition and a passcode had been punched into the fob. Swinging my leg around, I heard the swish of automatic doors and looked up to find my sister descending the steps, one brow raised so high it had nearly fused with her hairline—a clear sign she was pissed and I was about to get an earful.
"Moira," I called, leaning back against my bike and grinning. "I see we're still dressing like a mix of school teacher and pirate with just a touch of hooker thrown in."
Okay fine, the only thing 'hooker' was the thigh-high leather heeled boots. Or at least I assumed they went up to her thigh, her skirt billowed around her knees, so I couldn't actually see. She had a long, black vest over her blouse, the edges tapered to points that dangled below her waist, and was studded with silver buttons. There was a gold coin with a hole through it dangling from the necklace. She had apparently nixed the pixie cut I'd told her last time we'd video chatted, made her look like she was going to demand to speak with the manager, and replaced it with shaved sides and a mohawk that partially stood up and half-hung to one side.
They were hooker boots, though.
"How nice of you to join us," she said wryly. "Never mind that Mom has been waiting for you since you were supposed to show up...seven hours ago."
"Well, I might have taken the long way."
"Seven-hour detour, Mason? Really?"
"A really long way."
"Did it not have cell service? Because we've both called you. Several times."
"Reception was...spotty."
"You turned your phone off."
"I...turned my phone off."
She sighed, pushing a clump of hair out of her face. "Seriously? You could have just said you were going to show up in the middle of the night. You know damn well Mom and I wouldn't have cared and would have just caught you in the morning. The only reason she's in bed is because I swore I was going to stay up until you decided to roll in."
"Mmm," I said, crossing one ankle over the other. "And how much did you have to promise her that you wouldn't maim or kill me before she believed you?"
She continued down the sidewalk toward me, her eyes narrowed as she approached. "A lot more than I would've liked. I was starting to think she didn't believe me."
"A good thing you came out here to find me," I said with a raised brow. "Too many chances of being seen while you try to murder me."
"I can always wait."
"True. Speaking of finding me, how did you know I'd pulled up?"
"Because I knew you weren't going to show up in a car like a normal person, so I was listening for a bike. And I knew you wouldn't come right inside, and would be out here for a minute or two longer than usual."
My eyes flicked up to the sign before returning to her scowling face. "And what would make you think that?"
"Boy, I can't imagine."
"Neither can I."
"Really? There isn't one thing that you can think of off the top of that thick head of yours that might have grabbed your attention?"
"Mmm, nope."
She let out an exasperated sigh. "This is me you're talking to, Mason. Not anyone else. If you think I can’t see that storm cloud over your head right now, then you must have bumped your head pretty hard."
"Now, what would make you think I'd bumped my head? I'm a damn good driver."
"A good one, but a risky one," she said with a roll of her eyes. "But am I supposed to pretend like you don't have scratches on your bike, your helmet, or torn clothes? What were you doing on the way here?"
"Driving."
"You look like a mess."
At that, I turned to look in one of the bike's mirrors. Hazel eyes gazed back at me as I looked myself over and didn't see much that was off. Still the same eyes that were slightly tilted up at the corners and deep-set enough to give me a perpetually sleep-exhausted look that got worse when I was actually sleep deprived. A slightly wide jaw and narrow chin littered with faint stubble, the color so fine it could only be seen if you were close. My hair, admittedly, in cold months, faded to a blond that could be mistaken for early gray but would brighten to a more recognizable blond the more sun I saw.
"Looks like me," I said, tilting the mirror around.
"Try this," she said, grabbing the mirror and tilting it down to show the angry scratches on my neck.
"Ah," I said, reaching to touch them with what I hoped was a thoughtful look on my face. "Well, that's new. I must have done it while I was riding. You know things fly all over the place when you're on a bike. It could have happened any time."
"Looks awfully fresh."
"And could have been recent. You know I don't notice little ouchies like that."
"Or, you were doing something you weren't supposed to."
"Now, why would I do that?"
"Because you're you. You've always been that way."
I gasped. "Moira! That's mean!"
"And accurate."
"What would be accurate would be to point out that you were usually at my side, getting into just as much trouble."
"I was young and didn't know better. It took me a while to learn that charming men with wild ideas is just another name for bad boys who will get you deep in shit."
"Funny, when did you learn that again? Because I remember a couple of your exes—"
At that, her scowl flickered before finally breaking with a sigh. "Well, maybe it took me longer than I'd like. But I've learned. Unlike someone I know."
"I've learned plenty."
"Really? The only one with arguably worse taste in partners is you."
"What can I say?" I asked with a grin. "I like to date eclectic and eccentric people."
"Your last girlfriend was arrested for murder."
"Second degree, and they brought it down to manslaughter."
"And the guy before her was...wasn't he the hooker?"
"He was an escort."
"Who was killed about three months after he broke up with you because he turned witness against the mafia."
"Not the mafia, but a big crime family, sure."
She stared at me and sighed. "At least mine have been normal, run-of-the-mill assholes."
"Really?" I asked, arching a brow. "Your first boyfriend was a gang banger."
"First boyfriend, yes."
"And your first girlfriend—"
"Was a stripper who killed herself because she thought it was a great idea to mix her pill addiction with her alcoholism and crashed her car."
"She drove it off a cliff, and it took a diving team to find her in the Pacific."
I wasn't surprised when she stepped forward and punched me in the arm. She didn't hold back, and I actually felt a dull ache from where she hit me. Not to be outdone, I wrapped an arm around her neck and drew her down, holding her at my side as she shouted. “Mason! Quit!"
"You started it," I said, twisting so she couldn't jab me in the side like she always did. Of course, that made dragging her back toward the hotel a tricky proposition as she was wriggling and keen to find some soft spot to jab. Thankfully, my riding jacket was decently padded, and she couldn't find the right angle. She'd been raised around too many boys not to have learned how to fight, though. As our mother liked to tell me, she and I had come out of the womb practically grappling one another. In reality, I had been first out and had been holding her ankle, and not one to be outdone, she had followed very soon after.
Our fight continued all the way into the lobby before I finally released her, smirking at her outraged look as I righted myself and gave her a wink. "Again, you started it."
"You," she fumed, turning to face a mirror and adjusting her hair. "I'm on the clock!"
I looked around to see what else had changed since I’d last been in the hotel, considering how much my mother had changed things in a little over a year. The front desk was the same, a thick, wood monstrosity that could have withstood the force of a bomb if needed, and the same picture of the city behind it. Beneath it were pictures of people, both famous and not, who had visited the hotel. Those pictures were always being swapped around, and I wondered who was on the wall of fame now.
To the right of the entrance was the restaurant that my great-grandparents had started decades ago and had been maintained by subsequent generations. It had started small and expanded with my grandparents, decorated mostly with wood and some stone, making it welcoming during the day, but at night, when the lights were dimmed, it felt cozy and intimate. The bar behind that was put in by my parents, and it was mostly stone and glass, enclosed and well lit, while still feeling inviting and relaxed.
To the left of the entrance was the small café my mother had insisted on adding when we were kids. It had come about when Starbucks had raised the idea of opening in the hotel, and my mother had balked at a 'corporate parasite burrowing into my skin.' But it had given her the idea to add a coffee shop, although she knew very little about actually brewing coffee, but much more about baking. The problem was solved when she found some college kid with a dream and dragged her in. Against all odds, the damn thing was still popular years later. That college kid was my age and could make the greatest cup of coffee, and was still selling the pastries from recipes that came from my mother.
All in all, the place looked almost the same. Sure, some of the decorations had changed, and the furniture in the parts of the lobby not taken up by other businesses had been swapped around or reupholstered, but that was tame to the point of boring when it came to my mother.
I glanced at my sister, who had finished adjusting her clothing and hair. "Why are you working anyway? Last I checked, the Manager of Sales didn't work overnight; business was done in the morning."
Moira huffed, pushing me out of the way as she walked toward the front desk. "Since I knew you were probably going to show up at some god awful hour, I offered to take over for the night. It's the slow season for another month, so we only need a couple of people up front for the night audit."
I frowned at that. "Since when has slow season been a reason only to have one person at the front desk?"
"You're really going to tell me what we do and don't need?"
"C'mon, Moira, I literally grew up in this hotel right alongside you. I know that even our slow season should call for more hands on deck."
"It's been an extra slow season. They happen every few years, which you should remember even if you're not around to notice anymore."
I ignored the jab and leaned on the desk, staring past her toward the lowest picture on the wall. It wasn't in a prominent position and never really had been, but anyone at the desk could see it. My mother stood in the center, with Marcus beside her, beaming as he wrapped an arm tightly around her shoulders. Beside her stood Moira and I, me grinning and Moira half-smiling, but the gleam in her eyes as she glanced at me said she was trying not to laugh and also not strangle me. That had always been our relationship, with me always daring, and Moira torn between trying to restrain me and going along with it in equal measure.
Behind us stood our half-brother, Milo, his arm wrapped around the neck of our step-brother and Marcus's son, Elijah. Both were grinning like fools, with Milo as tow-headed as ever, while Elijah was as dark-haired as his father. The two had been thick as thieves from the moment Marcus and my mother met, and some inextricable bond had formed between them that had never broken. Even as adults, they were tight, always talking on the phone, gaming together, and finding time for each other.
On the other side of Marcus stood our other adoptive brothers. Arlo, the son of my mother's best friend before she and her husband had died in a plane crash in Jamaica, was giving his normal smile that would make you swear he knew more than he was telling. His hair flopping into his eyes as he gave that secret smile didn't help. Beside him was our other adoptive brother, Dominic, who’d technically come into the family after Moira and me but before Milo. Dom was a product of my mother and father adopting when they thought they wouldn’t be able to have another child and wanting an 'even three' as my mother had put it.
Milo was the youngest, even though he’d come into the family before Arlo and Dominic. It was an interesting family dynamic and had caused some raised eyebrows over the years that I had mostly ignored. These were all my brothers, and Moira was a sister to all of us. Of course, there was the unspoken agreement that Moira and I had a special bond because of sharing a womb, but also a spoken understanding that Milo and Elijah had formed an equally close bond, though no one had quite figured out why. Maybe it was their similar age, maybe it was just their personalities, the timing of our families being brought together, or...Well, I don't know, those two were absurdly close, and I was glad they had each other at least.
I felt a slight tug in my chest as I stared at the picture, wondering how my brothers had been. I could claim that I’d tried my best to keep in contact over the years, but we all knew that wasn't true. Life got in the way, and all too often, I found myself caught up in events in my life, their twists and turns. My mother had been fond of her phrases over the years, and as I'd grown older, some had started to make sense.
"The days are long but the years are short," had been one of her personal favorites, said with a wistful sigh and sometimes a distant look that was equal parts sad and happy. It had taken me a while to understand that one, but I finally got it, especially as I stared at the picture and realized it had been five years since it was taken. That had been the last time we'd all come together as a family. Otherwise, we just saw one another in spurts and moments, nothing coordinated, and not all at the same time.
Moira cleared her throat. "You good?"
I blinked, looking up at her as I tried to remember what we'd been talking about, but couldn't. "Uh, yeah. Just got lost in my thoughts, I guess."
"Don't hurt yourself, thinking hard like that."
"Hilarious. You missed your calling on the stage."
"I have been told my charm and magnetism were made for the stage."
"You're either lying, that person was lying, or they were extremely drunk, and high...and concussed."
Moira rolled her eyes. "And you say I should have been the comedian."
"It's not nearly as funny as the new sign out front," I said, slapping the desk and turning to walk toward the bar.
Moira groaned. "I knew it."
"Nothing to know," I said, walking away.
Had my sister been right about me being bothered by the change? Absolutely. Was there any way I would freely admit that to her face? Absolutely not.
What I was going to do was help myself to the bar. It was shut for the night, but seeing how I wasn't a paying customer, I had no issue grabbing one of our better bourbons and looking for everything else I might want. Owning my own club upstate meant I was used to being up late into the night, and saying good night to the sun shortly after it rose. I was also used to pouring myself a few drinks in the middle of the night if I felt like it, and after the good part of the night, and now the annoying part, a few drinks couldn't hurt.
"Please," Moira said from behind me, and I didn't bother turning around because I knew she'd follow. "Help yourself."
"That I shall," I said, pouring bourbon and following it up with a dash of bitters before going on a hunt for the sweet vermouth. "But thank you, that is exactly the kind of customer service you should aspire to give."
"You're not a customer."
"Think of it as good practice."
"She kept the old name for ages. Thought it was time."
"Time to change it to her new last name."
"Her and Marcus have been married for years. If anything, the change was overdue. It's not the first time. It changed when she and Dad took over the place. So it was bound to happen."
"Hmm," I said as I poured the vermouth into the bourbon along with some ice and began stirring. "And what will you change it to when you take over?"
"Who said I was going to?"
"None of the rest of us have stuck around to manage this place."
