A Taste of Peace - J. J. Sorel Page 0,3

was naïve of me to assume that running the family business would be straightforward, especially with my shady father at the driver’s seat for over thirty years.

He’d never gotten over Brent’s death, and given that I was the creative one in the family, my father was bereft.

For an ex-party animal who played gigs, boozed, and fucked a different girl every night, running Peace Holdings successfully was my only chance to prove that I was no longer that spoiled rich boy whose nights ended at sunrise.

Britney buzzed in over the intercom. “I’ve come up with something.”

“Good. I also need to speak to you about Benson Gray.”

“He’s been calling again?”

“All morning.”

“I’ll come now.”

I leaned back in my chair, my hands beating on my thighs-turned-drum-pad, practicing paradiddles—a strange little tic known only to drummers. It was a habit I’d formed from the age of five after my first drumming lesson.

I missed having hours of free time for music. There were my neighbors: Sam Chalmer, Orlando Thornhill, and his dad Aidan, who were all talented musicians. Before taking over my dad’s empire, we’d often meet up for regular jam sessions and racing. Fast cars were another of my passions.

Britney stepped into my office.

“So tell me all about Benson Gray,” I said.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll speak to him,” she said.

“He mentioned something about calling the cops. I thought it was about the condo developments in San Jose. But he’s not listed as an investor on that project.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

I studied her for a moment. “So I gather. He’s saying that he sunk ten million into Bird of Paradise. Apparently, there are other investors too. Should I be worried?”

Britney shook her head decisively.

“Then why is he on my fucking back?”

“I’ll handle it,” she said, lingering. “I thought Miranda, that new hire you met earlier, could accompany you tomorrow night.”

I nodded. “That’s not a bad idea. She seems like a nice and demure girl. Just my type of date.”

Britney’s head tilted. “Who are you kidding?”

“I’m not that guy anymore,” I said.

“I’ve noticed,” she muttered.

“I heard that,” I said. “Tell Miranda she’ll be paid for attending. Can you arrange it?”

“Sure. I’ll get a stylist on it. I take it you want her to look plain and unphotogenic to keep the cameras away?”

“That’s a good plan.” I took a deep breath.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I visited Dad this morning.”

“He was doing fine yesterday,” she said.

“Where’s Tamara?” I shook my head. “A little wifely support wouldn’t hurt.”

“She’s in Miami. Or I assume she is, according to the credit card statements. A young Latino personal trainer’s probably taking up all her time.” Britney’s cutting comment matched my own views about my father’s latest bimbo wife.

“Okay. Leave it to me.” She stood at the door. “And about Benson Gray’s threats, there’s no need to worry about the SEC. I’ll make sure the books come up clean.”

Had I mentioned the SEC? My neck tensed. The longer I sat behind that imposing mahogany desk, the more I realized that my father didn’t share my ethos.

Was it too much to hope a company that I headed be on the straight and narrow?

3

MIRANDA

Britney led me into a guest room, where a dreamy view of the sea and a red wall of art competed for my attention. I turned away from the window as a Monet caught my eye. Recognizing the image of a yellow vase of flowers, I studied it closely. My jaw dropped. The painting was a fake. As a student, I did my senior thesis in undergrad on Monet and had visited Monet’s touring shows, where I’d familiarized myself with his brushstrokes.

“Oh right, you studied art history,” said Britney.

“Yes,” I said, turning toward her.

“I was at Sotheby’s when Clarke Peace bid for it.”

I kept studying the painting to make sure I wasn’t mistaken. “That’s kind of weird.”

She looked at me. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a fake.”

“Fake?” She frowned. “Peace Holdings doesn’t buy fakes.”

“I’m sorry. But this is not an original.”

Her piercing scrutiny made me forget about the butterflies in my tummy. I’d never been to a ball before, and when Britney told me I would be my new boss’s date, I nearly fell off my chair.

“That’s your outfit.” She pointed to the bed, where she had placed a gown.

Although I welcomed the shift in focus, I regretted opening my big mouth.

I looked down at the dress. It was awful. Despite not being into fashion, I knew what I liked, and that was one very ugly ball gown. I reminded myself