By Chance (Courtland Chronicles) (15 page)

Afterward, they lay tangled and ruined on rumpled sheets, the bedroom’s postage-stamp-sized window cracked open to let in a faint breeze and the ubiquitous white noise of city traffic.

“So,” Nick slurred, “do home-cooked meals come with the apartment?”

“Spoken like a true romantic.” Or a walking stomach, more like. He’d burn through his allowance pretty quickly, cooking for Nick every night. Couldn’t think of a better way to spend it. “Does this mean you’re taking me up on my offer?”

“Soon as I pack my one and only bag.” Smiling, Nick propped himself up on one elbow. “It’s senior year. I want it to be the best yet, for both of us.”

Eric smiled back. “As far as I’m concerned, it already is.”

Originally published from 2008-09, the
Courtland Chronicles
was my first series, and frankly, I was still too green back then to realize what a daunting challenge I’d set for myself. Five books—three novellas, two novels—following a m/m/f ménage over the course of twenty years? Yup, I was not only green, but downright crazy.

I’d never intended to start out writing a series, but once
The Arrangement
was published (after two years’ worth of resounding rejection everywhere I sent it), plot bunnies for the three prequels (
Strictly Business, By Chance
and
Complications
) attacked fast and furious. Of course, the plot bunnies couldn’t attack in proper order, which meant all kinds of continuity headaches. (I should’ve written an outline for the rest of the series after I’d finished the second book, but that would’ve been too easy!) In short, I never really felt that the series jelled the way it should have, so when the rights reverted back to me, I jumped at the chance to give these stories a top-to-bottom rewrite.

Along with fixing a plethora of tiny details, this has also allowed me the opportunity to address wider issues readers had with the original versions, mostly centering around my main protagonist, Eric Courtland. Eric’s very near and dear to my heart (in fact, he’s exactly who I’d be if I were a young bisexual man), though he can be quite prickly and difficult to like. I wasn’t a skilled enough writer back then to delve into his mind and make readers empathize with him, but hopefully I am now. I want everyone to feel for Eric as much as I do, and root for him, Nick and Ally to have their happy ending.

And just FYI, the true internal chronology of the series is:

By Chance

Strictly Business

Complications

The Arrangement

Triad

December, 1998

“E-Eric?” his mother whispered through cracked, bluish lips, plucking listlessly at the bed covers.

Eric sat up in his chair and reached for her hand. “I’m here, Mom. What do you need?”

“Thirsty…”

He fed her another ice chip—the only thing she was capable of swallowing anymore—his breath catching as she sucked it slowly, her throat working with the effort. “Better?”

“A little.” Her eyes drifted open for a second or two, distant and unfocused. “I, I’m glad you’re here, Eric.”

At least now she recognized him. She’d been lapsing in and out of dementia for the last few days, her oxygen-starved brain trying to make sense of what was happening. Eric squeezed her hand tighter, her pulse thready under the pad of his thumb, and listened in vain for the telltale slam of the front door and the clomp of his father’s footsteps on the stairs.

“Tired,” she murmured, “so tired…”

Don’t go, Mom. Don’t leave me.
The same thing he’d begged her countless times, for all the good it’d done.
You don’t have to die.

At last her eyelids fluttered, her breath leaving her body in a tiny, toneless puff. Eric held on to her hand, chafing it when it grew cold as if he could bring her back to life by sheer force of will.

He leaned forward to kiss her softly on the forehead, then tugged the lilac-scented silk sheet over her face. His eyes burned, but the tears wouldn’t come. It was just as well; he’d done enough crying—alone in his room, of course—this last year and a half, watching her slip away from a heart condition her doctors claimed was treatable. But nothing Eric said or did had made her want to go on living.

He headed downstairs to his father’s study, his footsteps echoing sharply in the empty hallways. He’d dismissed the private-duty nurse yesterday, preferring not to share his mother’s last hours with a stranger, but now he found the stark quiet unsettling. He stopped to stare dully at the Picasso hanging in the foyer and tried to swallow against the lump congealing in his throat. His mother had loved this painting so much. He remembered the day she’d had it hung here, back when they’d first moved from the city to this house on the northern edge of Seneca Lake. He’d been ten years old then. It was one of the few times he could recall seeing her truly happy.

He made two difficult but necessary phone calls from the house phone, then hit the top number on his cell’s speed dial.

Nick Thompson picked it up on the second ring. “Hey. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said tightly. “It happened about half an hour ago.”

“I’ll catch the next train up from Grand Central. I should be there by nine.”

“Don’t. There’s no need to take time off from your job on my account.”

“I’m sure the
Herald
can spare a cub reporter like me for a day or two.”

“I know you want to help, and I appreciate it. But…” He exhaled slowly. “The coroner’ll be here in a little while, and once that’s done, I’d like some time alone.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Nick, I can handle this myself.”

“I know you can,” Nick said gently. “But that doesn’t mean you should have to.”

No wonder he loved this man so much. Still, Eric couldn’t suppress a sigh. “It’s not like I’ve had much choice.”

“You still haven’t heard from your father?”

“His cell phone’s been off for the last day and a half.” Which, of course, meant he was probably shacked up at the Manhattan penthouse with his latest mistress. More than once Eric had seriously considered driving up there and yanking him out of that tramp’s bed, but the thought of his mother dying alone quashed that impulse. “His secretary’s trying to track him down, but who knows how long that’ll take?”

“Jesus,” Nick breathed. “I’m sorry, Eric. I really am.”

“Not half as sorry as he’s going to be.”

* * *

Eric was sitting in the living room nursing a double scotch when his father came through the front door around midnight. “How good of you to put in an appearance,” he spat, tossing back the last of his drink before standing up. Raw willpower alone kept him steady on his feet.

Edward Courtland’s tall, sturdy frame filled the doorway, casting an elongated shadow in the crackling light from the fireplace. Cold gray eyes swept Eric from head to toe, jaw tightening in that familiar expression of disapproval and disgust that had made Eric wet his pants when he was ten. Now, ironically, he could barely summon up a chortle. “Madeleine didn’t mention that you’d come home from grad school.”

“Well, it’d help if you’d bothered answering your phone, or even your fucking email.”

“I’ll thank you not to take that tone with me,” Edward rasped, turning toward the stairs.

“You’re too late. She’s gone,” Eric called after him. “It happened this afternoon, in case you actually give a damn.” Bitterness mingled with triumph, a sweet, heady taste lingering on his tongue when he saw the utter devastation on his father’s face. “She kept asking for you. Toward the end I let her believe I was you, so she’d have a chance to say goodbye. She was so out of it she didn’t know the difference.”

Edward turned and headed for his study, trudging down the hallway like a man sleepwalking through knee-deep snow. He dropped into his chair with a heavy groan, staring blankly at nothing.

Eric followed, grateful for the fresh anger fueling him, burning away everything except the tight fist of hatred inside his chest. “Nice try, Dad, but you’re about a year and a half too late with the show of grief.”

Edward’s glance flicked instantly in Eric’s direction, hard and steely once more. “Once the funeral’s over, I want you out of here.”

“This is more my home than yours. I can count on two hands the number of days you’ve spent here since I graduated college.”

“Nevertheless, it’s my name that’s on the deed.” He opened his briefcase and reached inside for his laptop. “With your mother gone, I see no reason to go on pretending you’ve ever been anything but a disappointment to me.”

Christ, that stung. Twenty-four years of the same callous treatment, and it still hurt like a son of a bitch. “I tried,” Eric ground out through gritted teeth. “But nothing I did ever met your standards of perfection.”

“Trying means nothing. Achievement’s the only thing that matters in this world, Eric. You’ve never understood that.” Turning his attention to his laptop screen, he added, “Don’t worry, you won’t starve. I’m sure your mother’s left you well provided for.”

* * *

They buried her two days before Christmas, on one of the coldest, bleakest afternoons Eric had ever experienced. Snow flurries chased them the entire way from the lake house to the city, mile after endless mile of mind-numbing whiteness as he stared out the limousine window. Luckily, he’d had the foresight to filch a tranquilizer from his mother’s well-stocked medicine cabinet; it made the rest of the world seem remote and slightly unreal, but at least it kept him from screaming.

To his surprise, he found the memorial service rather touching. Relatives and old friends of his mother’s, most of whom he’d never met before, paraded up to the church podium one after another, telling their stories about her. People who hadn’t seen her in over twenty years still remembered her with affection. For the first time since the afternoon of her passing, Eric’s composure threatened to crack, but he bit his lip and steeled himself. He’d be damned if he’d give his father the satisfaction of seeing him lose it.

His mother's will specified that she be buried in a small private cemetery a few miles north of Manhattan, next to her father and older brother. The snow had finally subsided, but it was still so cold Eric’s hands felt like lumps of frozen lead inside his fur-lined gloves by the time the graveside service drew to a close. He spied Nick shivering near the back of the crowd, as well as two men whose faces he didn’t recognize—one tall, one not so much, both clad in plain black suits and overcoats, hovering by the hearse and limousine. Eric’s stomach plummeted when he realized who they must be.
Shit!
Why did they have to pick today to show up?

At least they had the good grace to wait until the mourners dispersed before approaching. “Edward James Courtland?” the taller one asked, flashing his ID—a big, shiny FBI badge. “I’m Special Agent Parker, this is Special Agent Harris. We’ll have to ask you to come with us.”

When Edward’s face went as pale as the half-spent clouds up above, Eric almost felt sorry for him. Almost. “Gentlemen, I’ve just buried my wife. Can’t this wait for another time?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid it can’t. The US Attorney’s Office has been trying to contact you for days now.”

“And what on earth do they want with me?”

The shorter one reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper with the US Attorney’s seal on it. Edward skimmed it, eyes bulging as they traveled down the page. Eric had to bite his cheek to stave off wildly inappropriate laughter. “Insider trading and stock manipulation? This is someone’s idea of a joke.”

“No, sir,” said Agent Harris. “Now, will you come with us quietly? We’d rather not use the cuffs, but we will if we have to.”

“All right,” Edward snarled, then, turning briefly to Eric, added, “Call my attorney and meet me downtown,” before following the agents to their government-issue black sedan.

* * *

Eric didn’t see his father again until the next morning, on the opposite side of three-inch reinforced safety glass down at the federal holding pen. Edward’s burnt-orange jumpsuit provided a perfect complement to the pungent, metallic odor of ammonia and desperation. Eric could hear him getting ready to breathe fire through the private phone’s tinny connection.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” he accused. “You’re the one who reported me.”

Eric smiled. He couldn’t help it; this felt every bit as sweet as he’d anticipated. “How long did it take you to figure it out?”

“You’re the only one who had access to my laptop. It had to be you.”

“It’s your own fault for leaving it out in plain sight. And for making your password so easy to hack.”

“I can’t believe even you’d sink this low.”

“I would’ve thought you’d be pleased with me. Achievement’s everything, right?” He leaned closer to the glass, skewering his father with an icy glare. “Since it looks like you’re going away for a while, all your assets—including your Courtland Industries stock—now fall under my control. Which, along with the block of stock Mom left me in her will, puts me in the CEO’s chair. How’s that for an achievement?”

Edward’s face flushed the color of bruised plums; for a moment, Eric thought he might stroke out on the spot. “How long have you been planning this?”

“The ironic thing is, I didn’t plan it at all. I stumbled across those doctored stock reports by accident the other night when I was trying to dig up some exploitable dirt about you and that skank Amber to leak to the scandal sheets.”

“How serendipitous. But with my connections, I won’t be in here for long.”

“Funny, but I haven’t noticed any of your cronies rushing down here to bail you out. Might prove a bit awkward, seeing as they’re under investigation too.” Eric sat back with a sigh. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry they showed up to arrest you at Mom’s funeral. But if they hadn’t, you’d be sipping daiquiris on a beach in the Cayman Islands by now. And yes,” he added acidly, “I found the tickets in your briefcase too.”