The Dare (Truth or Dare Book 1)

“Just a quick visit to the fam, right? We’ve got work to do, Boss.” Elle’s teasing today is a bright spot of fun in the nerves tensing my spine.

“Yes. Just what we need to do.” There’s more I should say, but I don’t. Not yet. I want to pretend just a bit longer.

After a few oohs and ahhs, Elle falls silent. I can feel her eyes on me, but I continue looking out the window of the Ghost.

I suppose it must be clear, the expression on my face. I see so many things that are familiar. There’s the Tesco’s I’d stop by after boxing practice, and the chippy shop I’d frequent for lunch on the go. Even just the street signs, the people on the sidewalks, and of course, the pubs, all bring back memories. They all feel like home.

Oliver makes a turn, and I see one change that pierces my heart . . . the gym’s gone. Sure, it was old, a dilapidated brick and concrete box built with public funds and barely kept together, but I loved that place.

The roof leaked when it rained, and it was a sweltering sweatbox in summer and a dank, half-frozen icebox in winter.

But it was real. It was a place where money meant nothing, social class meant even less, and the only way to prove yourself was through blood, sweat, and skill.

“Do you know what happened to the boxing club that was there?”

Oliver’s eyes look to the corner where the club once stood before turning back to focus on the road. “It closed a few years ago. It was a bit of a kerfuffle, but then some minted hen tossed a coin at it, and Bob’s your uncle, the jammy bastards got a fresh place. It’s north of the High Street.”

Elle laughs and then leans over to whisper in my ear. “What the fuck did he just say? I know he’s speaking English, but I got lost after ‘it closed’ and didn’t understand a word.”

I lean into her ear, not because I need to but because I’ll take any opportunity to nibble them. “My best idea? Nan bought the boys a new club.”

She pulls away before I get my taste, her eyes wide and jaw dropped. “As in, funded a boxing gym? Minted, indeed.”

My lips quirk, amused that she understood a bit more than she let on.

My attention turns to the land rolling past us as we find our way closer to home. By the time we make the last turn toward the compound, my heart is racing. Elle holds my hand, and I trace a line along her skin with my thumb, not in affection but in distraction. It gives me the smallest grounding to something beyond home, beyond London, beyond . . . my family.

The twin hedges that line the lane come to a halt, and we can see my ancestral home for the first time. Elle is transfixed, and I wonder what her first impression will be. Will she be impressed or disgusted by the obscene showiness? Will she think it charming and posh and dance around like at the Rosewood, or will she shrink under the weight of history and high society rules?

“This makes Allan Fox’s estate look like my place,” Elle says as the asphalt ends and the tires start to crunch on the crushed marble that makes up the rest of the park lane. “And I’ve always been amazingly uncomfortable with Mr. Fox’s whole shebang. I mean, how many forks do you need for one meal? I can tell you . . . one. Just lick it clean between the salad and the steak.” She’s rambling nervously, neck craned as she looks around. “You sure this isn’t a royal palace or something?”

There’s no walking this back. Allan Fox measures his estate, a very fine house in all respects, in acres. The Wolfe compound is measured in square miles, although a good portion of it is a working farm. And that’s just the main property of the family home. There are others—vacation homes, country homes, city apartments. All of which make Mr. Fox’s home, and even my US penthouse apartment, look dinky in comparison.

I try to see through Elle’s eyes, imagining seeing it for the first time and not growing up here with it seeming normal. The house truly is impressive, and I feel a weight in my chest as we approach the front of the main wing.

A true country estate for the landed gentry, the three floors of Victorian splendor stand in a solid, slightly imposing façade, austerely ornate and lined with windows that make me feel watched even as the car stops.

Elle is nearly silent as she gets out, though I think I can hear her heart beating as fast as mine. It’s for an entirely different reason, however. She gawks at the manicured gardens stretching off to the left and right of us, searching for the source of the sound of the horses in the stable.

The front door opens, and a servant descends the stairs toward us.

“Master Colton.”

The man who greets me is a long-familiar face, and while there’s significantly more gray in his perfectly coiffed, conservative haircut, he looks exactly the same as he did when I was just a boy running around the family estate. Even his suit and cravat look the same.

“Alfred!” I greet him, grinning foolishly. “You are a sight for sore eyes. Bloody good to see you!”

I don’t think I’d realized how much I‘d missed him until he was standing right in front of me. There’s a part of me that would love to pull the older man into a back-slapping embrace. However I know Alfred, I know the way he was raised and trained, and instead, I offer my hand, shaking his warmly.

“Quite lovely to see you as well.” The words are formal, but the affection feels good. I think he’s missed me as well. “And your guest?”

“Oh, of course. This is Elle Stryker, a coworker . . . and friend.” I know I stumble over finding a label for Elle, but it seems like something I should discuss with her before tossing out anything more . . . significant.

Elle offers her hand, and Alfred shakes hers as well. “Alfred Duncan, ma’am.”

She smiles, looking from me to Alfred. “Do you really have a butler named Alfred? Are you sure your last name isn’t Pennyworth?”

Alfred chuckles. “Quite sure, ma’am. And technically, I’m not a butler but a house assistant.”

“Oh, my apologies.” Elle’s hand covers her mouth. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

Alfred dips his chin deeply, not offended in the least. “Master Colton, can I show you in?”

“Coltie! Wotcher!”

The cry echoes from the front steps of the house as a manic ball of rugby shorts, trainers, T-shirt, and blondish hair comes pelting out the front door and down the steps. Lizzie launches herself to hit the grass before flinging herself into my arms.

“Lizzie!” I yell, swinging her around me in a huge circle. A fresh wave of emotion floods through me as I feel the tickle of my sister’s hair under my chin, of her wiry arms locked around my neck.

It’s been too long. Far, far too long.

“I’d say surprise, but I’m certain everyone knew of my arrival before the plane even touched ground.”

Lizzie rolls her eyes, huffing heavily. “You know it. Like the bloody MI6 around here.” She elbows Alfred, who offers only his polite ‘of course, Miss’ smile before he steps back to direct Oliver.

I trust that Alfred will have Oliver squared away with parking and a scrummy snack in no time.

For the first time, Lizzie notices Elle, who’s looking on with a mixture of amusement. “Hi, there . . .” Lizzie’s stilted greeting says she’s searching her mind for something, and with a raised brow, she settles on . . . “Assistant.”

Lizzie steps closer to me, putting herself between Elle and me and effectively giving Elle her back. “Coltie, what’s with the fit bird?”

I move so that we’re back in a circle, placing a hand on Elle’s lower back. “Lizzie, this is Elle Stryker. Elle, this is my sister, Lizzie.”

Lizzie’s eyes are sharp, not missing the intimate touch. “Ah, taking after Father after all, Coltie? Getting off with the closest tart?”

The venom in the words surprises me. “Lizzie, don’t be rude. Elle is my assistant and my friend.”

Lizzie doesn’t pout. She’s too well-trained at Mother’s elbow to do that, but I can feel the sulk. “Sorry, Elle. Just miss my brother. It’d be nice to have him to myself, you know?”

Elle’s smile is kind. “Of course. I hope he’ll have time to really hang out with you while we’re here.”

Lizzie scents blood in the water, and like a shark, she attacks. “Why are you here, Coltie? And does Nan know?”

Before I dodge those questions, I hear Nan herself bellowing in the gardens.

“Get out, you old cocker! Get out of my gardens!”

I run for it, wanting to make sure Nan is okay, with Elle and Lizzie hot on my heels.

Nan is a lady through and through, proper and posh at all times. Well, at least when she’s in public. Privately, I’ve seen her a bit knackered, singing an old dirge off-key, while holding court over an empty ballroom. But these are things we don’t speak of. Suffice it to say, yelling is not her style by a long mile. But her voice calls out again.

“No. I’ve already told you. Bugger off.”

Around the east end of the house, we find her in her garden. If I weren’t so worried, I’d probably shed a tear at seeing her in the flesh, but I can’t take time to take in her dark hair, dyed but again one of the things we don’t discuss in polite company, startling blue eyes, and arms that used to rock me to sleep as a boy.

None of those things matter, considering she’s holding up a dirty spade, threatening an even older man with it as though she could decapitate him at any second.

As we get closer, I can see that it’s Geoffrey Blackwire, a sour old wanker who used to work for the family. I understood he retired, but it’s not uncommon for lifers to be allowed a space on the estate. If I recall, his grandson lives with him as well. Will, I think his name is. He’s Lizzie’s age, give or take a year or two.

But right now, Geoffrey’s sneering at Nan as though he doesn’t know who the fuck he’s talking to, to borrow an American phrase. Another flits through my mind. I’ll kill the motherfucker.

“What is going on here?” I boom. A side effect of being in the US, where everything is loud and aggressive. There’s no finesse and delicateness there like there is in the UK, but as Geoffrey jumps nearly out of his skin, I’m finding it a rather useful tool in my arsenal. Perhaps not as much as Nan’s spade, but sufficient enough to turn his attention to me.

“You.” Geoffrey’s entire face pinches together as if he’s sucked a lemon. “What are you doing home?”

I certainly don’t answer to him, but when Nan drops the spade and runs to me with open arms, I hug her and answer as she asks the same thing. “Home for business, and wanted to see you, of course.”

Nan beams. Geoffrey sniffs as though something smells dank. Lizzie smiles. And Elle . . . watches it all play out like a show on the telly.

Geoffrey tries to interrogate me again, but Nan has had enough now. “Geoffrey Blackwire, you hear me proper . . . get out of my garden and don’t touch my roses or I’ll have you in a row house on your arse.” She points, and though he grumbles, Geoffrey does comply this time. Nan tsks. “That man is going to destroy my hard work.”

To be clear, Nan’s rose garden is her favorite place in the world. She reads books about roses, strolls the rows of blooming flowers, and even goes so far as to prune them on occasion. With gloves on, of course. She would never deign to actually touch the soil to plant them, but she oversees the gardeners and has a tight-knit relationship with each of them.

“He’s messing with the roses again?” Lizzie asks, letting me know this isn’t the first time this has happened.

Nan sighs, anger replaced by sadness. “Poor sod, so forgetful these days. Thinks the garden’s his, tells me about planting it himself. To be fair, he did plant a bit. But he comes to cut flowers for his bedroom several times a day, having forgotten that he’s done it already twice before tea.”

With that drama handled, for now, at least, Nan seems to see Elle for the first time. “And who might you be, love?”

Lizzie jumps in. “Coltie’s got himself a sweetie. He works with her.”

She’s sacrificed me like the fatted calf on my own return. Nan’s eyes are sharp. “Are you, now? Colton’s sweetie. Well, isn’t that the bee’s knees?”

“Elle Stryker, this is my grandmother, Dorothy. Nan, this is Elle.” I swallow, but the damage is already done, so I drive the final nail in the coffin with a confirmation. “My girlfriend.”

I feel Elle tense, and I know we’re going to have a conversation about this later tonight. But perhaps I can talk her down with apologies for my presumptiveness on my knees. Or by letting her offer a dare of her choice.

Elle fumbles, trying to be polite through her shock. She fetches a pretty poor curtsy, her foot slipping on the grass as she does and causing me to catch her.

“Hello, madam. It’s a pleasure.”

Nan waves Elle off. “Bollocks, Elle! I’m far to old to faff around with all that bowing and curtsying codswallop. I’m not Queen Lizzy. Call me Nan as Coltie does and come over here so I can get a good look at what he’s got himself into.”

Nan looks Elle up and down boldly, having no reason or care to be subtle. “Lovely child. You must be a special lass to have captured my Coltie’s heart.” Under her breath, she mutters, “Better than the harlots his brother brings home, for sure.”

“What?” I exclaim. “What’s Eddie doing now?”

Lizzie rolls her eyes again, something that’s apparently a habit now. “What isn’t he doing? Or more like, who isn’t he doing? He’s shagged half of London by now, I’d bet.”

“Hush, Lizzie,” Nan scolds, but I can see the truth in her eyes. Lizzie’s right, and Eddie’s even more of a git than I’d thought. “Have you seen any of them yet?”

Them. We are a family divided, always have been. On one side, Nan sits with Lizzie and me. On the other, Dad and Eddie hold court as though their shit smells like Nan’s roses. And somewhere floating in the middle is Mum, pulled this way and that by whichever way the tide is going.

“Not yet. I didn’t call first, didn’t want to give them warning that I was coming. You know Dad would’ve had Mum coached and worked up over what a tosser I am.”

Elle’s touch on my arm is so soft but meaningful. She doesn’t know the storm we’re walking into, but she’s supporting me. I adjust my mental image of the battlefield, adding her to my team with Nan and Lizzie.

“I don’t know what rubbish has gotten into that daughter of mine.”

Nan’s bite is unexpected. She’s usually a bit more genteel with her turn of phrase, but perhaps she’s as fed up with Mum as she is with Mr. Blackwire.

“She’s allowed that prat, Eddie, to make this entire family miserable and treated you so badly, it made you leave not just your home, but the entire country.” Nan looks at me sadly, as if apologizing for all the years of hell I went through. “I don’t know where I went wrong with Mary. She was such a happy girl when she was young. There are times I wonder if she traded in her brains for her fanny when she got married to your father.”

“Nan!” Lizzie says, aghast. I know while she can hardly tolerate Eddie, Lizzie still gets along to some degree with our mother. “Mum is doing her best. It’s not all on her.”

“Her best is not enough. Not when she lets your father run feral all over the country. And Eddie is even worse, his father exponentially degraded.”

Bollocks. I’m not sure what to say. I hate Eddie with the very fibers of my being, but he is Nan’s grandchild, and Mum is her daughter. I wonder how much I’ve missed if it’s gotten so severe as to warrant Nan’s ugliness. Or maybe it’s Nan herself. Perhaps she’s gone off her rocker a bit? Or at the minimum, permanently damaged her mouth’s filter?

Alfred reappears, interrupting Nan’s rant. “Master and Lady Wolfe have arrived and are prepared for guests now. They are waiting in the parlor and request your presence.”

All formality. All business. We are family. That should mean something other than this coldness. But though my heart wishes it were different, I’m well-versed in this song and dance.

“Let’s get this over with.”