Boston Avant-Garde 6: Chiaroscuro by Kaitlin Maitland Page A

number?”
    “No. Said he’d rather come back tonight and talk to you in person.” Malachi’s slate-gray eyes were boring into him as if the man thought he could find the answers he wanted. “You got a problem we need to know about?”
    It wasn’t an idle question. Owen weighed the pros and cons of explaining his unwanted connection to a two-bit thug from Rhode Island. Jason wasn’t known for subtlety. So long as Owen kept his head down and stayed away from the Charlestown area, Jason usually forgot he had a younger half brother. At least until he ran short on money and needed to stage a fight to make some quick cash. Then Owen was nothing more than a rooster or a pit bull waiting in the wings.
    Demon’s stare intensified. “I would rather know what’s coming than wait for it to sneak up on me and mine.”
    “Jason is my half brother,” Owen said. “Let’s just say there’s no love lost between us.”
    Malachi pursed his lips and slowly swung his chair from side to side. “What’s he into?”
    If Jason was contacting Owen, there was no telling what he was into these days. “I haven’t seen him in five years or more. Back then he was working for a couple of bookies. He handled collection and wasn’t afraid to strong-arm when necessary.”
    Malachi didn’t hesitate. “We’ve got your back, Owen. You know that.”
    “I appreciate that, boss.” Owen suppressed a sigh. He’d been right to end things with Lars and Mattie. This was proof he could never put his past behind him. Never. He’d have to handle this latest wrinkle later. For now had to try to keep what was left of his life from crumbling into pieces. “What’s on the schedule for today?”
    “There’s a liquor shipment coming in at noon; beer comes at one. We need to check the stock in all the bars and send back any beer past its born-on date.” Malachi’s grin was underscored by a soft snort from Demon indicating his thoughts on the possibility of discovering expired beer somewhere inside Triptych. Malachi shot his partner a grin. “It’s conceivable…in an alternate universe. Anyway, after that we need to prep the training room for a seminar.”
    If there was a time in Owen’s life when he’d been unaware of a world populated by people who would eagerly sign up for a BDSM training seminar, he couldn’t recall it. He rolled his eyes instead. “I’ll make sure the room is clean and ready to go. Are they coming through the back gate?”
    Now it was Malachi’s turn to snort with adolescent glee over the double entendre in Owen’s question. “Most definitely.”
    “It’s like being in high school all over again,” Owen muttered before turning to leave.
    * * * *
    Lars felt marginally better after a shower, which wasn’t really saying much. He was wrung out. He’d always stayed busy to keep ahead of the bleak reality that had dogged him since discovering the shiny future his mother wanted so desperately would always be just beyond his reach.
    He gazed at his reflection in the dressing-room mirror and tried to mash his unruly dark hair back down. It didn’t work. Selena called it “artfully tousled.” His mother called it “just rolled out of bed.” He called it aggravating. It didn’t matter anyway. Given a few hours, he’d be stabbing his fingers into the mess and trying unsuccessfully to rip it out.
    Brushing at the imaginary lint on his tailored navy jacket, he straightened his collar. Diamond cufflinks and his favorite watch completed the look of a useless playboy. It wasn’t just an image. It was armor.
    He left his suite and followed the sounds of conversation to the morning room at the back of the house. One set of the three French doors on the back wall was thrown open to take advantage of the unseasonably warm fall day. The antique furnishings were arranged to encourage conversation, and the coffered ceilings added an airy feel to the space.
    “Lars!” His mother waved him over to the divan. “Come and see your