The Grand Duel (The Grand Men #4)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Charlie

T here’s little you can do for a man who doesn’t want to be helped. And there’s nothing you can do for a man who only wants to help.

A man who once made a promise to his best friend that he would be there—that he would show up and take care of the woman he loves.

“I’m not calling down again today, I’m sorry. It’s been over an hour, and I’ve called twice. It’s?—”

“One last time,” I say, my voice tight with agitation that’s not meant for nor aimed at the woman behind the desk.

She knows that though.

Jenny’s face has become a constant in the two years I’ve spent driving out to Thameside Prison to visit my best friend. From the first time her face fell with sadness at the fact Lance Sullivan refused to see me, to the pity she wore a year later, when I explained the little girl in my arms was his daughter and that he didn’t know she existed. And then today, visit one hundred and twenty-four, as she looks up at me with a knowing, defeated look on her face.

“Please,” I add, my patience thinning by the second. “It’s his birthday.”

She relents and picks up the phone.

The flare of hope that sparks in my chest as she starts reeling off information is something I’ve learnt to ignore. Something I taught Scarlet to ignore.

Before Jenny can drop the phone in its cradle, I’m back in my seat in the waiting area, numbly scrolling through my messages.

Scarlet

I can’t come with you Charlie. I’m sorry.

I remember begging Scarlet to let me bring Ave to the prison with me. I huff out a humourless laugh as my knee begins bouncing under the table, my throat working on a swallow. I don’t know what I was thinking at the time, other than desperation to get through to Lance that she needs him. That we all need him.

I’m at a loss now like I was then.

And whilst I wouldn’t do something as reckless as bringing his child to the prison again, I’m probably a liar. Because I know he’s not okay. That Scarlet isn’t okay.

Nothing is quite okay anymore.

The recklessness simmers, making me want to break things. To barrel through doors and march to his cell and drag him up here and into the chair across from me. It makes me hate him on a level I’ve never known hate because I love the man to death.

Scarlet

He knows if anyone is celebrating him today, it’s us. It’s okay Charles.

I lift my head as my chest tightens to a pinch, my eyes burning. I lock gazes with Jenny, and she gives me a sad smile. It’s a You need to get home now, son smile.

It’s not just that though—a smile. It’s a tether, frayed and stretched to the point I cannot keep the tattered pieces from breaking apart anymore.

Scarlet can give me the spiel about doing better and wear her brave face for the rest of the world to see, but I see her . I see what it’s done and doing and will continue to do.

I clear my throat and stand, not having it in me to even thank Jenny for all she’s done to help today.

I pull out my phone and make the same call I make every week.

“Hey, Charles.”

“Scar.”

There’s silence for a moment. A void neither one of us needs to fill.

“The sun’s out today,” she says eventually, her voice a damn sight firmer than mine. “I hope you’re not spending the rest of the day stuck in that office of yours.”

Her way of not outright asking me if I’m okay. “You know I will be.” I walk to my car and lean back against the driver’s door. “I’ll be out, though. To the estate. Tomorrow maybe.”

“You don’t have to. You’ll be here Sunday, and it’s a long drive. I know you’re busy.”

“I’ll be out. Just let me double check my diary, okay?”

She sighs, relenting. “I hate that he’s alone today.”

“Me too,” I mutter back, clenching my jaw tight.

“Thank you for trying. I can’t even imagine how…” She trails off. “I…”

And that’s exactly why I do it.

So that she doesn’t have to.

“It’s fine, Scarlet,” I lie, knowing she’ll be struggling today. Knowing that if I don’t get off this phone, she’ll hear my struggle, too. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? If you need anything, let me know.”

I hang up and blow out a heavy breath, scrubbing at my face.

I have a meeting at my headquarters in forty-five minutes, which is over an hour away, and I left the notes for said meeting in my office.

I pull my hand from my face and look down at my phone screen.

Edna

I’ve got the notes. I’ll meet you there.

Mase

I need you at around five today if you’re free.

I’m not. I open my mum’s reply to our conversation this morning.

Mum

Well it will be good to see you at some point before Christmas, love. No stress. Don’t work yourself too hard please. I love you.

I look up at the prison, my head spinning at the fact Lance still refuses to see us. After so much time, you’d think he’d get the hint and know that we’re not going anywhere. You’d think he’d fucking get it.

I reply to Mase.

I’ll see what I can do.

My mum.

I love you too, mum.

And then I open a new message.

Fuck you, Lance. That’s what I’d have said to you today if you’d had the balls to look me in the eye. Fuck you. For every day passed that you let them be alone. For not knowing that your daughter exists and took her first steps yesterday. For the fact you’ll never read this fucking message. Fuck you.

I hit send and turn to pull open my car door, but my phone slips from my grasp and bounces on the tarmac.

I look down at it and snigger, and then I boot the thing with the top of my shoe, sending it skittering under a row of parked cars. “Fuck!”

The choices we make today define us for the rest of our lives.

It’s all I have at this point—a choice.

To keep showing up.

Today, a week from now, and the one after that.

Lance can make his choices, and I’ll take the consequences of them on the chin and make my own—I’ll come back here and sit in that room again knowing full well he won’t see me—but fuck him for doing this to her. To them. To all of us.

Fuck him for doing this to me .

I locate my phone ringing beneath the wheel of someone’s car. When I pick it up, I find the screen cracked and the edges peppered with scratches, rubble still sticking to the aluminium.

I swipe across the screen and answer. “What is it, Mase?”

Mason Lowell, one of my oldest friends, pauses, his frown likely to be as severe as my pounding head. “Aldridge, you okay? Your message is telling me you’re stressed.”

“I’m fine, Lowell. Five o’clock, yeah?”