BLOODLINES: The Juice Chronicles

The butler’s eyes lifted to meet Dak’s, weary and slow, and something unpleasant moved through them and then went still. Disdain, maybe.

“They call me Silas, sir.”

“I’m Dak. My folks are already inside. Mind if I come in?”

Something fired at the base of his neck—sharp, electric, gone in a second. He’d learned not to ignore it. Silas smiled with his mouth only. “Of course, sir.”

What’s your deal, Jeeves? I might not be high society, but I ain’t trash.

He stepped past the butler into a shadowy foyer, grand archways branching off in three directions, the floor tiled in something old and expensive.

Silas directed him left, toward the parlor. Dak pushed through the archway and the low murmur of voices cut off. Everyone turned.

His parents stood near a fireplace big enough to park a compact car in, listening as a couple—the Westlands, presumably—explained something about the stonework. The room was built for money: oversized paintings, heavy furnishings, the kind of quiet that settles into expensive spaces and stays. Dak stood in faded jeans and flip-flops and felt exactly as out of place as he looked.

The silence stretched.

Ann Kent crossed the room first, Gordon trailing behind her. Five feet of tight curls and maternal disapproval, and she came at him with both hands already moving.

“Meat Lover’s, I imagine.” One hand smoothed his shirt while the other picked a dried mozzarella blob from near the alligator logo on his chest. She tucked it into a crumpled tissue under her bra strap without breaking stride, surveyed the grease ring it left, and exhaled through her nose. “And your feet are filthy. I didn’t raise you to be this sloppy.”

Dak stood there, shoulders dropped.

The Westlands moved closer as his mother finished her inspection. Gordon and Ann flanked him on both sides.

“This is our son, Doral,” Ann announced. “He’s had a rough day.”

The way she always said things about Dak in company: brisk, explanatory, preemptive. “We adopted him when he was a toddler.”

The man stepped forward without hesitation, hand extended. “Caleb Westland.”

“G’devening,” Dak said, shaking it.

“Doral, is it?” Caleb tasted the name like he was placing it somewhere. He appeared to be in his early fifties, black Armani suit cut for him specifically. Jet-black hair, gray at the temples. Hard, composed features. The kind that photograph well and give nothing away.

“Just Dak. My initials.”

“And your middle name?” Caleb’s gaze held him briefly, then drifted to the grease stain on his shirt. It landed there and stayed a half-beat too long.

“Don’t laugh. It’s Adonis. Ain’t that a hoot?”

Something shifted. Caleb’s attention cut sideways to the woman beside him. Subtle, but Dak caught it.

“What? Did I miss something?”

Caleb returned to him. “Forgive me, Doral.” His voice was smooth, but something beneath it had gone quiet. “Adonis is a rare name. I knew another Adonis. Many years ago. Allow me to introduce my wife. Agnes.”

The woman beside him was slender and composed, dressed in black, pale against it.

“A pleasure, ma’am.” Dak took her hand. It was cool, dainty. Her dark eyes met his with what looked like genuine warmth. Then the lids widened—fast, involuntary—and she withdrew her hand.

Do I have something on my face? A booger on my nose?

“So where do y’all hail from?” Dak tried to keep it light. The back of his neck went hot.

Caleb held his gaze a half-beat longer than the question required. Something moved through his expression—not quite a frown—and then his attention shifted smoothly to the fireplace.

“We retain ties to Greece,” Caleb said, “though we have resided in this country for many years. My endeavors keep me occupied here. We hope to linger in this vicinity more frequently, if circumstances permit.” He tilted his head. “And what is it that you do, Doral?”

“He’s always on his phone or chasing some new scheme,” Ann said.

“No worries. I left it in the car,” Dak added.

“Agnes is going to show me her antiques!” Ann’s eyes lit up in the way they only did for things that cost a lot.

“I’m staying put,” Gordon said.

“Come, gentlemen. Allow me to introduce the young men,” Caleb said, steering Dak toward the billiards table with a gesture. “Our son, Isaac.” The young man had a modern haircut that covered one eye and gold hoops in his ears. He sank a ball into the corner pocket with a sharp clack. “And by the window, our nephews, Trent and Anthony Marriott.”

The two near the window shared curly hair, black suits, and an expression of coordinated boredom.

Dak nodded at all three. “Hey, fellas. Who’s winning?”

None of them answered. Anthony and Trent exchanged a look Dak couldn’t place. Too synchronized. Like they’d already had the conversation.

“Nice shot,” Dak said anyway.

His eye drifted to an arched opening on the right. Through it: a sitting room loaded with expensive electronics and a screen covering most of one wall.

“Holy crap that’s a big TV screen.” Beyond the glass, lights flickered on water. “Is that a pool?”

“Yes,” Caleb said. “It is a luxury we seldom employ. The children prefer it after dark.”

“They swim at night?”

“Our family is afflicted with a condition that causes us to burn in sunlight,” Caleb said. The explanation came out practiced and smooth. “They prefer to avoid it when possible.”

“Huhn.” Dak watched Trent line up his next shot. “I avoid it too. Get headaches. Bright sun kills me.” He crossed his ankles against the wall and let his eyes move around the room. “Look, if they want to take a dip, go ahead. I wish my daughter were here. She’d get a kick out of this place.”

Something shifted in Caleb’s voice. Measured warmth. “We should very much like to meet her.”

The boys glanced up, a flicker of something in their faces, and Caleb gave them a small nod. They moved to rack their cues.

“Finally,” one of the nephews muttered. “We can get out of these rags.”

Dak kept a straight face.

“She’s away at school. Shyanne. Coming home this weekend.”

Caleb smiled. The full-wattage version, white teeth in the dim light. Then settled into a chair near Gordon, crossing his legs, straightening the crease on his trousers with unhurried attention.

“Tell me more about what you do, Doral.”

“Dak.”

“Very well.” Caleb adjusted his cufflink with the same unhurried precision. “Dak.”

“Not much to tell. I have a few things running, but one I prefer to devote time to. I get ideas and try to make them go. Some do, some don’t.”

“An entrepreneur,” Caleb said. “A man with a high tolerance for risk who thinks large.”

“He never did much actual work,” Gordon said from his chair. “Always chasing the dream.”

“Go big or go home,” Dak chimed.

Caleb turned back to him. “Do you ever pursue anything solely for the benefit of others? Or does the ledger always factor in?”

“Charity doesn’t pay the bills, Caleb.” Dak uncrossed his ankles and spread his arms along the table edge. “Some of what I make does help people. More of a side effect.” He glanced at the room around them. “You look like you know how to turn a buck yourself.”

“Fortune has been kind, my friend.” A slight smile. “Do not mistake my curiosity for judgment. I seek to understand, not to condemn.” He paused, and his eyes did something patient and particular. Like he was reading print that was slightly too small and had all the time in the world for it. “What lies beneath the surface tends to interest me more than what is presented.”

“He’s sharper than he looks,” Gordon said.

A crash from the adjacent room. Laughter, running feet, a door slamming hard enough to rattle something on the wall. Then a woman’s voice, clear and furious through the glass: “Stupid childish dipshits!” Another door.

Caleb exhaled once, controlled.

“My apologies, gentlemen.” A phone appeared in his hand—no reach. Just there. “DataOne. In Asheville. I believe that is your venture, also. Allow me to make a brief inquiry. Silas will bring drinks. Make yourselves at home.”

He was gone before either of them could respond. Caleb moved the way water moves. No effort.

Must be how foreigners move.