Rebel North by J.B. Salsbury

Twenty-Eight

Kingston

“Kingston, get up.”

At the sound of Alex’s monotone command, I pull the covers over my head and burrow deeper into the pillows. “Go away!”

“You’ve been in bed for long enough.”

“Says who?” The comforter is ripped away in one firm tug. “Hey!”

Alex glowers down at me from the edge of the bed, his power suit and scowl giving him an air of authority. “Up. Now.”

“Fuck. Off.” I pull a pillow over my head, only to have it taken and tossed across the room. “Why are you such a heartless asshole?”

“Shower. Dress. Meet me downstairs.”

“Um… no.”

His glare tightens.

“No, thank you?”

“Go. You have thirty minutes.” He slams the door behind him.

“Impossible! No one can get ready in thirty minutes!” I contemplate going back to sleep. He’ll have to Weekend-at-Bernie’s my ass if he wants me downstairs in any position other than flat on my back.

When I consider that he will probably do just that—come up here and toss me over his shoulder—I decide maybe a shower and a glass of the nearest booze might help me sleep better.

I’ll endure Alex’s come-to-Jesus lecture. I’ll reassure him that I have a plan, get him off my back long enough to drown myself in scotch, and go back to sleep until the pain in my chest goes away. After all, we’ve replayed this scenario more than once over the past two weeks.

The shower’s too hot, and I don’t even look at the clothes I’m putting on. Eventually, I drag my bare feet downstairs with wet hair and a chip on my shoulder. I stop at the bottom step when I see all three of my brothers standing around Alex’s dining room table.

“Hey, sweetie,” Jordan greets me and hands me a fresh espresso. “Are you hungry?”

I pull my eyes from my brothers to her. “No, thanks. What are they doing here,” I whisper.

A tiny grin tugs her lips. “Why don’t you get over there and find out?”

Knowing Jordan wouldn’t send me into my own death without a warning, I walk toward the three. “If you’re here for an intervention, you’re wasting your time.”

“Have a seat,” Hayes says in an uncharacteristically hospitable way.

I take in the folders that sit next to Hayes and his computer and decide they’re probably going to ask me to sign some legal binding statement that ensures my silence about August and North Industries that will follow me into the afterlife.

Hudson pushes his laptop aside. “How’re you doing?”

I throw back the rest of my espresso and set the cup down a little too hard. “How does it look like I’m doing?”

He nods and smiles. “I’m hoping what we came here to say will change all that.”

“Okay, can you get to the point already? I’ve got a half bottle of Glenlivet upstairs waiting on me.”

“Ms. Coleman lied,” Alex blurts from his end of the table.

Hudson looks embarrassed.

Hayes looks angry.

“How’d you figure it out?” I say.

“Alexander felt like something was off the day August fired you.” Hudson pulls his laptop back in front of him. “After some digging, and with the help of a PI, we discovered that you were telling us the truth about her. North Industries isn’t the first company she’s tried to weasel her way into.”

“We questioned Lisa Darby, her assistant.” Hudson’s jaw ticks. “She overheard Coleman threaten you. We let Lisa go with a hefty severance package.”

“And Coleman?” I ask.

“We let her walk with the threat of legal action if she even whispers the name North Industries again,” Hayes says proudly.

“How’d August take the news?”

My brother’s all share a look.

“Not well,” Alex says. “Stubborn son of a bitch.”

I shake my head, not at all surprised that even with the evidence before him, he’d still rather villainize me than he would the guilty party. Prick.

“We have an idea.” Hayes opens a folder and slides it to me.

I stare down at the pages inside, seeing nothing but blocks of words and dancing letters.

“Shit,” he grumbles. “Sorry.”

Hudson pulls the folder between us and reads the first couple of paragraphs.

“Stop,” I say and look around the table at the three men who look at me with cautious hope in their expressions. “You guys want to go into business with me?”

“Not exactly,” Hayes explains. “We’d like to invest in your business. We’ve each agreed to give a significant donation so that you can start your decorating company.”

“Outside of North Industries?”

“Independent of North Industries, yes.” Hudson pushes the folder back toward me. “Here’s the total number right here.”

I see the five and a whole lot of fucking zeroes. “Are you guys shitting me?”

“Nope.” Hudson hands me a pen. “Sign the bottom here, and you’ll be on your way.”

“The contract is cut and dry,” Hayes explains. “You take the money without obligation to pay us back. It’s ironclad. I know because I drafted it.”

Jordan takes the seat next to me. “I looked at the contract too, and it’s exactly as simple as it sounds.”

My eyes burn, and I take the pen to sign. But before I do, I ask, “Does August know about this?”

“He will,” Alex says. “Because I’m hiring you to redecorate this building as well as the North Industries building.”

And then my eyes let loose, and I fucking cry. Like a baby, right there in front of my brothers. And not one of them looks anything other than proud.

Jordan hands me a tissue, and once I dry my eyes enough to see clearly, I scribble my name on the contract.

“One more thing,” Hudson says. “We did some research and found out there’s a ton of software available to help people with dyslexia in business.”

Alex pulls a laptop out of a black case and walks it down to me. “It’ll scan documents and read them to you, voice to text applications, and more. The guy who designed all the software is coming in tomorrow to walk you through it.”

“The guy that designed the software? You hired him to come teach me? Is he here in New York?”

“Silicon Valley.”

“Holy shit,” I whisper. “You guys aren’t messing around.”

“You deserve better than we gave,” Hudson says. “We’re here to right that wrong. You’re a North, and we’re your family. We take care of our own.”

I swipe at my eyes and my nose. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing to say,” Alex says. “Just get to work.”

“This is going to be so much fun!” Jordan claps her hands excitedly. “Go get your shoes on, and let’s go looking for an office building to buy.”

“Lunch first? I’m starving.”

The relief in her face matches my own.

Finally, some direction. A plan. Hope.

It almost makes me feel complete. Except for that gaping empty hole left behind by Gabriella.

Gabriella

The Manhattan Ballet Studio is housed in an old Anglican church built in 1823. The stone walls and stained glass surround the wood floors and mirrored walls, creating a space for dance that lends itself to spiritual reverence.

The scent of wood polish mixes with a musty perfume as if centuries of incense burning have sunk into the decaying stone. I grip my ballet shoes tightly against my chest and move deeper into the space. Memories wash over me. A place that once felt more like home than my own opens its arms and welcomes me in.

The prodigal daughter comes home.

I spot Mrs. Gould across the room. She saw something in me when I was thirteen years old, and she dedicated her time to making me the best dancer I could be. She came to my first recital at Julliard. She brought me a dozen roses.

“Gabriella, is that you?” Her English accent brings me back to a simpler time when I had dreams of becoming a prima ballerina.

“Mrs. Gould, it’s been a long time.”

Her arms wrap tightly around me. “I can’t believe it’s really you.” She draws back to hold me at arm’s length but keeps a grip on my shoulders. “Look at you, all grown up.”

“It’s good to see you again.”

Her gaze dances lightly over my scars, and I can see in her eyes that she knows my story. I assume my parents must’ve relayed my excuse for no longer attending Julliard. “How are you, love?”

“I’ve been better.” I stare around her at the studio to keep from having to see the pity in her eyes and to keep her from seeing the sadness in mine.

“Life is that way, I suppose.” Her gaze drops to the pointe shoes in my hands. Her eyes light up. “Are you here to dance?”

“I don’t know. It’s been so long, and the doctors said I’d have to relearn…” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I don’t know if I even remember how.”

“Doctors see the body. Dance is from the soul.” Her dark-brown eyes warm. She takes my hand and puts it against my heart. “Ballet lives here. Not in your brain or even your muscles, but here. In your heart. You never forget it.”

“I want that to be true. It’s been so long since I’ve tried.”

She takes my shoes from my hands. “Let’s start slow.” Her chin kicks up, and her shoulders stiffen. “Put your things down, kick off your shoes, and get on the floor for stretching.” She snaps and points.

There is comfort in her stern command. Familiarity. Rightness.

I don’t know if I’ll ever come back to this place after today, but right now, I know I’m exactly where I need to be.