Angry God by L.J. Shen

The next day, I managed to get rid of my parents, who had come along to help me settle in at Carlisle.

My dad went hunting with a bunch of his rich-ass buddies on the outskirts of wherever-the-fuck we were in Berkshire. Mom was busy furnishing my room and spending time with her GBFF (gay BFF), Fairhurst.

I started my morning at six o’clock with a jog to let off some steam. Discipline was going to be the key to surviving this bitch for six months, and I had plenty of it. After a quick shower, a coffee, and a smoke, I picked up the two keys to the cellar where I kept my work in progress and hit the studio. Apart from Edgar, I wasn’t going to let anyone see it before it was done. That was the opposite of the point of having a prestigious internship, but fuck it, I didn’t come here to learn.

I came here to avenge.

Getting into my studio was a tad harder than breaking into the Pentagon. I’d put an entire system in place to ensure complete privacy. To start with, the room used to be the castle’s pantry—cold, dry, and underground—a perfect cave to keep marble and stone. There were two doors, and therefore two locks, so no one could see what I was working on.

And I was working goddamn hard to make sure mine was the best art piece.

I picked up a drill and began wrestling with the sculpture, stone dust gathering at my feet. Metric’s “Help I’m Alive” blasted through my earbuds as I worked. The shape of the statue was starting to sharpen and take on three dimensions. I’d thought about this piece more than I liked to admit while I was fucking around in the Hamptons, playing normal with my extended family for a few weeks earlier this summer. I’d ended up sending it straight to England, because I couldn’t stand to look at it, and I knew there was a good chance people would be able to see it if I worked on it there.

I penciled reference marks, cut, carved, shaped, and polished the sculpture the entire day, knowing Lenora was probably somewhere upstairs, wandering aimlessly, trying to figure out where the fuck I was. She was free to do whatever she wanted with her mornings and afternoons. I wasn’t going to use her services, unless her lips counted as service when they wrapped around my cock every night.

As long as I kept tabs on her, she was good to roam free and play with her garbage.

I tried to push last night from my thoughts—specifically the part where she’d pushed my hand into her jammies. I thought I’d handled it fine. Though she did suspect I was a virgin.

Fuck.

Did it matter how I handled it? She was a fucking no one. Why would I care?

Okay, Vagina McPussyson. Deal with this eternal question after you’re done working.

At around six pm, I heard a knock on the outer cellar door. The way it was designed, there was a cobblestone stairway with a door at the top and another one when you reached the bottom of the stairs. Wiping the sweat and dust from my brow, I turned around and fished for the keys in my pocket. I didn’t wear a protective suit, goggles, or a mask while sculpting. If my lungs were going to collapse at twenty-five from being filled with stone, weed, and tar, so be it.

I opened the first door, and when I reached the top of the stairs, I pressed an elbow against the second.

“Secret word?” I growled.

If it was Good Girl, who’d somehow found me, I was going to chain her to her bedpost and have her suck a gallon of my blood as punishment, watching as she squirmed in embarrassment as she did.

“Bugger off,” I heard Edgar Astalis growl from the other side. The secret word we’d agreed on was Michelangelo, but bugger off seemed more fitting.

I’d told the old man he could monitor my work when we’d agreed I’d take this gig. Someone had to make sure I wasn’t going to present a twelve-foot marble dick at Tate Modern six months from now.

I unlocked the second door, motioning for him to come downstairs.

When we stood in front of the sculpture, he frowned.

“I’d like to make one thing clear,” he said, staring at the general shape I’d worked my ass off on all day.

“I know you made things difficult for Lenny in high school. And for the most part, I turned a blind eye to it, because I believe it is our job to pave our own way in life. But if you try to hurt my daughter—or do it unintentionally, for that matter—I will make sure no gallery in Europe will ever work with you. Am I understood?”

“Perfectly.” I shoved my fists into my pockets, all calm. I took his threat in stride—not necessarily because I didn’t plan on hurting her, but because I wasn’t counting on getting work as an artist. I sculpted because I liked doing it. I could work as a roofer and be perfectly content.

He shook his head.

“The heads are disproportionate. The composition feels wrong. You might have to start from scratch.”

“Fuck that.”

“Watch your language. And as I said—you might. This is not up to par with what I’m used to from you. You’ve put your skill into this, but where’s the rest of you? You need to bleed your heart into this piece.”

I don’t have a heart.“Working on it,” I said instead, ignoring the fact that he was right.

I’d gotten sloppy, not because I lacked the talent or technique, but because staring at this statue was hard, and doing it justice was damn near impossible. The air was thinner at the top. The more successful you were, the more suffocating the expectations for your work became—another reason why artists were depressed all around.

His eyes roved the sculpture. It felt like he was ripping my guts open, poking at my organs.

He shook his head. “Work harder. Connect with this piece,” he rumbled, his voice as big as his body. “Professor Fairhurst is looking for you. He is upstairs. Oh, and Vaughn?”

I turned to look at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You cock this sculpture up, you make me regret giving you this internship, and I assure you, Daddy Spencer is not going to save you this time.”

It wasn’t the first time someone had threatened that my last name wouldn’t get me out of trouble.

But it was the first time I’d believed it.

I pushed Harry’s office door open without knocking, leaning against its frame when I realized what I’d walked in on. He had a guy—a student, I bet—bent with his elbows pressed against the windowsill, pants down, his milky-white ass hanging in the air. Harry was inclined, ass on his desk, pants open, stroking himself and enjoying the view.

Bored, I took out my phone and checked the time, whistling the Kill Bill theme song.

“Bollocks,” Harry groaned when he heard me, shoving his half-saggy cock back into his pants unhurriedly, like I’d interrupted his meal or something.

The teenager at the window straightened his back and proceeded to fall on his ass with a surprised yelp.

I yawned. “Please. Not on my account. You look fucking cute together.”

“Truly?” The young guy eyed me with huge, green eyes while standing up and fumbling for his jeans.

My name had been a big deal in this place due to my summer session shenanigans all those years ago, and a sour face like mine was hard to miss. He knew who I was.

“No,” I said impassively, moseying in. “Now get the fuck out and close the door after you.”

He did just that, still shimmying into his denims when he closed the door. I turned to Harry, who settled behind his desk and smoothed his dress shirt, pretending to have an ounce of decorum.

“Nice wheels,” I commented, still standing.

“Pardon?”

“You’re riding that, obviously.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder, toward the door.

“Oh, that.” He waved a finger at the door, clearing his throat. “He’s a senior. Turned eighteen two weeks ago. I haven’t even touched him—”

“Trust me,” I cut him off. “No part of me cares.”

“Yes. Right. So…” He grabbed a huge file on his desk, flipping through it. He stopped what he was doing, scratching a pink ear, and looked up, opening his mouth, before frowning. “Christ, what happened there?” He motioned to my neck. “Love bite?” He sniffed.

“Don’t taint the special moment with a dirty word like love.” I smiled mockingly. “Why am I here, Harry?”

“It’s Lenny. I wanted to make sure you weren’t too harsh with her.”

No, he didn’t. He gave zero shits about anyone but himself. I took my Zippo out of my back pocket and flicked it. I’d told Edgar what I needed to tell him to get the gig, and he’d told Harry, but no part of me even mildly sympathized with her.

Harry sighed heavily. “We have a problem.”

I glanced at the time again. I’d missed dinner, but I wasn’t worried. My mother had stocked the mini fridge in my room with sick shit.

“It’s about your mother.”

My eyes snapped up. “I’m listening.”

“As you may know, she offered me a position to become a partner in her gallery in Los Angeles a few weeks ago. It is a very successful gallery, so it is with heavy regret that I will have to say no.”

I blinked at him, steadfast. “Please tell me why this is my concern, because I’m trying to weed out the fucks I need to give about this boring-ass story.”

“The reason I cannot, in good conscience, become a partner in the gallery is purely legal.” He sat back in his executive chair, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “Your mother, for lack of diplomatic wording, is a drug smuggler.”

“Are you fucking high?” My eyebrows shot up.

I knew my mother. She was straighter than a ruler, never broke the law in her life. Aside from being the only saint in Todos Santos, she didn’t need to smuggle drugs. As it was, she had more money than the Windsor family. She donated millions to charities every year just to get rid of the greens.

“I am when in Los Angeles—on the purest cocaine, courtesy of the hundreds of kilograms of coke trafficked into the United States under the canvas of the paintings sent to her in crates from all over the world. Quite a pity. Such a pillar of the community, doing something so shameful. Tell me, Vaughn, how many years in prison is it for hundreds of kilograms of cocaine? In California? I think we may be talking about fifty, sixty years in jail.” He tsked, tapping his long, skinny fingers on his table. “Perhaps more, if they want to make an example out of her. Oh, the FBI and DA would be all over Emilia LeBlanc-Spencer. Not quite the low-hanging fruit, is she? A golden opportunity to cut the ties between the Spencers and the local police, who bow to your every whim. And your father has his fair share of enemies who would go to great lengths to see his beloved thrown in the can.”

“Liar.” I bared my teeth, slapping his desk with both my palms. But I knew he had something. Otherwise he wouldn’t be so cocky.

He sighed, as if the situation saddened him. “There are pictures everywhere. Evidence for miles. Guess she is in business with the wrong people.”

“You.”My eyes widened. “You hooked her up with suppliers.”

Hewas the wrong person.

“Did I, now?” He clucked his tongue. “I don’t suppose you can prove it?”

I couldn’t, but it was the truth. He’d done this. Of course he had—made sure she ordered pieces that came with drugs without telling her, and somehow made it untraceable to him. God fucking dammit.

“They’ll know she has nothing to do with it.” I shook my head.

“Is that a chance you’re willing to take?” He arched a brow. He knew the answer to that question.

“What do you want?”

“You,” Fairhurst quipped. “Quiet. Obedient. And out of my bloody hair. When you came here, you thought you had leverage over me. You thought I chose you because I was scared of you. You darling, naughty boy, I chose you because I wanted to put an end to your scowling, scheming, and silly plans—to remind you I’m the one calling the shots. One wrong move, Spencer, and your mummy will find out the untimely answer to the question—does she look good in stripes?” My mother’s supposedly dear friend spread his arms melodramatically.

“I will kill you,” I spat, my entire body humming with rage.

He stood, rounding the desk toward me with his hands behind his back.

“You think I haven’t considered that? You’re a wild card, like your father. That’s why there’s a file on my Dropbox ready to be sent to my good friends at the FBI if I’m found prematurely dead. You can’t touch me, Spencer. At least…” He stopped, raking his eyes over me with a rancid smile. “Not the way you want to touch me.”

I ground my teeth, feeling blood trickling from my gums. I’d bitten myself without noticing. I needed to keep my shit together. Mom was the one sacrifice I wasn’t willing to make in my quest to burn this place down.

“How?” I sneered. How had he made this happen?

He took another step forward, our chests almost bumping. I was taller and broader now—bigger, stronger, and corded with muscles that mostly didn’t exist in his body.

“All those years ago, I saw who you really were, Vaughn. A heartless prince. A beautiful mummy. You lacked basic emotions: love, hate, compassion. I befriended your silly, naïve mother to get ahead in the art world game. Your father? Now, he knew better than to trust me. Fortunately, he was pussy-whipped and easy to manipulate through your mother. If you came here with a vendetta, you may want to throw it out the window. Our secret is ours. You’re going to play into my hands now, my darling child. Or I’ll be the one ending your life.”