His Pawn (The Manhattan Tales Book 1)

  HIS PAWN

  WILLA THORNE

  Book 1 in the Manhattan Tales Series

  © 2015 by Willa Thorne

  All rights reserved. This book is intended for audiences age 18 and older.

  This is a work of fiction. Names of characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination and do not represent any persons, living or dead. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover: Louisa at LM Creations

  Find me on Facebook for upcoming releases www.facebook.com/AuthorWillaThorne

  This book is dedicated to my handsome husband, who has given me the inspiration and insight for Mason’s character.

  “I was angry with my friend:

  I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

  I was angry with my foe:

  I told it not, my wrath did grow.”

  ― William Blake

  1. Mason Woodward

  The rectangular table was brimming with animated talk, mainly in Japanese since my guests hailed from Tokyo. I was bored out of my mind, but the Japanese investors were clearly entertained.

  “Kanpai!” They exclaimed as they raised their crystal champagne flutes in the air.

  I personally abhorred all things fish, especially the texture of sushi. Still, I plastered a smile to my face and raised my own champagne flute in the air before bringing the crystal to my lips. As always, the drink was delicious. It was my own personal favorite, and I pulled out all the stops this evening in order to charm these men and their … female friends.

  Winning these men over would mean that my father’s enterprise, J.A. Woodward & Company, would be well-represented in Japan. My father’s company manages subsidiaries that mainly revolve around various insurance policies. The company and it’s two branches in London and New York have been around for longer than I have been alive. Now the goal is to expand another location in Tokyo.

  Bloody brilliant. Note the tone of sarcasm I have adopted from living in Manhattan for the past seventeen years. My father was never a family man; It has always been business, procreation was done for the sole purpose of creating heirs to the family name. Nothing more. As such, I am here managing the New York branch while he is managing the largest of the locations in London, where I was born and raised.

  I was brought here at the ripe age of sixteen to attend High School, and from there I was thrown into the corporate world of J.A. Woodward and Company. I’d been bred to take over the family legacy and now I must manage the New York location. He assigned me the task of charming these investors and by the looks of it, I’ve done a fine job so far.

  The women they brought along seemed quite happy as they chattered among one another quietly. They were clearly hired escorts. The men seemed to be enjoying American culture; This is an upscale location, so the women were adorned in high-end silks and diamonds. Their behavior, although subtle in this swanky location, suggested these men were paying top dollar and would end the evening wrapped up in those luscious thighs.

  I’ve lost track as to how much I’ve spent on the champagne by now, but it’s really no concern of mine. I discuss business with the men over dinner, although the business end of the talk is not as in-depth as I had expected it to be. I kept the champagne and drinks flowing; running on an open tab.

  I won’t bore you with the monotonous details of mergers and acquisitions. Truthfully, I couldn’t care less myself. This is my father’s agenda and I am merely a pawn. I have my own enterprise to manage, it’s running on ten in the evening, and I need to be in my own Chicago office tomorrow morning.

  After taking a sip from my flute, I cast a quick glance at my dinner date. Although I do not show it, I am agitated by woman at my side. This woman, beautiful as she was, reminded me too much of a past I’ve long tried to forget. The more I look at her, the more resentment stirs.

  Long, glossy blond hair hangs down one shoulder and that fine silk dress is my favorite shade of red. It hugs her cleavage beautifully. She has a body to die for and those red lips… I can imagine those lips wrapped around my cock. I allow my eyes to leer on her form as I decide whether to bring her home with me this evening.

  I watch her stare at the sparkling jewelry that decorates the necks and wrists of the escorts. She gives the man sitting across from us a dazzling smile as she absorbs their compliments on her beauty. I am decidedly not taking her home this evening. I’ve struggled the entire evening to keep my mind focused and controlled. Yet the floodgates open and the memories come crashing down. I remember her.

  I met her in my junior year at Columbia and she quickly became the love of my life. There wasn’t a damn thing I wouldn’t have done for her and I fully intended to give her the world. After I graduated from NYU with my MBA, I purchased the most exquisite ring money could buy. I intended to make her my wife, and it was encouraging that my family approved of her for me.

  That came to a screeching halt when I found her in bed with him. Travis Pryor was my best friend. Hell, he was the first friend I made when my father brought me across the pond to attend High School in Manhattan, where he was managing the office at the time.

  The Pryor family was like my family and I spent more time in their tiny Brooklyn apartment than I did in my father’s penthouse in the Upper East Side. He was my best friend, my brother- and he betrayed me.

  ****

  I still remember the day I met Travis Pryor. I’d only just arrived from London to Manhattan the Friday before and it was already Monday. I’d had two days with my father in his upper East Side penthouse, and life in New York was already both hostile and sterile.

  My father had me enrolled in the Hillard College Preparatory in the Upper West Side. It is a very prestigious High School, or so I was reminded over and over again before my first day of attendance. In other words it meant, “Don’t fucking embarrass me, son.” I had a knack for that, regardless of what I did. The pressure was incredible. I was often angry and rebellious, and it got me into a lot of trouble back in London.

  On that Monday morning, I entered my first class of the day at Hillard: Advanced Chemistry. I deliberately entered the class late, in the middle of attendance, wearing my signature leather jacket over my uniform suit. It was a burgundy suit jacket, burgundy and yellow striped tie and black pants. It was the ugliest fucking thing I’d ever witnessed in my life, and far worse than the navy and gray colors of the boarding school I’d been expelled from in London.

  Having to wear this uniform was punishment of its own, nevermind the fact that I’d been carted across the pond so that my father could keep better eyes on me while he managed the largest branch of J.A. Woodward and Company in Manhattan.

  The teacher cleared his throat in the middle of attendance as I walked in. He was clearly annoyed by my tardiness, and I responded with a snarky salute to him at the entrance. I had a smirk to match, which my new classmates found amusing. As they should. I’m fucking hilarious.

  “Mr. Woodward, so glad you found your way to this class. I’ll warn you now that I do not accept tardiness from any student, so this is your one and only warning.”

  “Aye, aye Cap’n.” I made my way to the back of the class where one lab bench was open next to a scrawny lad in wiry black glasses.

  The teacher ignored my behavior and checked off the rest of the names on the attendance, to which I paid no attention. I was more interested in the rhythmic beat the kid next to me was playing at with two pencils, one in each hand. He tapped those pencils while he read the open text in front of him. The beat he tapped at was familiar to me. It almost sounded like Guns N’ Roses Welcome to the Jungle. His thick dark wavy hair fell into his eyes as he bobbed his head
to his own beat.

  The teacher cleared his throat and said the name very loudly:

  “TRAVIS PRYOR.” The kid next to me dropped his pencils and looked up.

  “Here,” he murmured.

  “Queer,” someone coughed loudly. The insult came from a large red-head kid sitting in front of me. Everyone snickered… well, not everyone.

  “Bloody hell, that was original. You should write a book, mate.” I snickered.

  The boy in front of me turned around, obviously accustomed to being the big shit around here, making his schoolmates squirm like worms. He paused slightly when he saw that the remark came from none other than yours truly. I stared him down, and it was enough to make him flinch. Body language is important. It tells me everything. I’ve learned how to use it to my advantage and survive.

  “Turn around,” I made a twirling gesture with my finger as I instructed the kid to face front.

  The teacher ignored the tension between myself and this bloke and continued down the attendance sheet until he got to my name.

  “Mason Woodward?” He called out and then checked me off. “Tardy. As we all have witnessed.”

  His tone was anything but enthusiastic or forgiving. “I must remind you that your leather jacket interferes with the school dress code, so I must ask you to remove it.”

  “Fuckin’ A,” I muttered to myself as I removed my jacket. I was tempted to leave it on regardless, but I was not prepared to push my father any further than I had in the last few weeks.

  The scrawny kid next to me adjusted his round frames again as he looked at me. I wasn’t there for anyone’s entertainment pleasure and I was in a piss-poor mood.

  “What are you looking at, cracker?” I asked, blowing a strand of black hair out of my eyes.

  “Nothing,” the kid looked back to his textbook while the

  teacher began the instruction.

  I knew I was being a little shit. Actually, I was anything but little. Even back then, I towered over most of the student body and all the teachers. Still, I’d managed to insult three people within five minutes of my first day.

  The rest of the day dragged on like a blur and the weird kid with the glasses was in a few of my other classes. I remembered that his name was Travis Pryor from hearing his name checked off at the beginning of the last four classes. Finally, two-thirty struck and prison was dismissed for the day.

  I pushed through the double doors and walked across the lot to find a safe place to light a smoke. As I rounded the court, I found the kid, Travis, sitting on a bench in the lot strumming a few strings on his guitar. I recognized the song as Led Zeppelin’s cover, Stairway to Heaven. The guitar was nothing special but he played the notes fluidly. He was wearing a dark wash denim jacket over his uniform, and looked a little less dorkified.

  I puffed for a few minutes as I listened to the tunes he strummed out, and then snuffed the butt out beneath my shoe as I prepared to leave the grounds. Travis had also packed up his guitar in its case and held the case in one hand, with a small stack of books in the other arm. He began walking along the brick wall on the other side of the lot, when suddenly a basketball smacked him hard in the back.

  “... And he scores!” I heard someone shout, followed by a cackle of laughter.

  I looked over to see the large red-headed boy from Chemlab stalking toward Travis with his trio of fools in tow.

  Christ. I don’t know why this bothered me so much; Perhaps it’s because I’d been bullied my entire life by my own father, but this unfolding scene struck a nasty chord deep within me.

  “Dipshit, where’s my lit paper?” The large red-head asked as Travis scrambled to pick up the glasses that had been knocked from his face. A few kids had gathered on the court to watch this play out, and nobody was offering to step in.

  “I said I’ll finish it tonight. I had to work late last night,” Travis answered.

  “I said that wasn’t going to work for me, you pussy. Give me your lit paper or I’ll kick this piece of shit in,” the kid threatened, as one of his idiots grabbed the guitar case from Travis.

  Oh good God, really? These tactics were so amateur.

  “NO. Please don’t. That was my dad’s-”

  “It’s either this piece of shit, or your face. Which will it be?” The large kid asked, but I was so pissed at this point and he didn’t see me coming.

  I grabbed him by his collar and slammed him into the brick wall. I knew I was taking all the anger and aggression I had towards my father out on this kid, but I didn’t care.

  “Do your own fucking homework, you king-sized pile of shit,” I grit my teeth in his ear.

  “Lay another hand on me, and I swear, my father will sue your father-”

  “Give it a go, wanker. Try it. I know how these games work out. Lay another hand on my friend and I’ll rip your balls off and make you choke on them. I don’t bluff.”

  I slammed him into the wall one last time just for good measure, leaving everyone in the lot staring in shocked awe. They watched him storm off with his tail between his legs. Good. Public humiliation is the best.

  “Hey, thanks,” Travis said as I picked up the books that had been scattered over the pavement and handed them to him. I grabbed his guitar case from the ground.

  “You should learn a few moves,” I said, brushing myself off. “I saw you playing earlier. You’re good.”

  Travis shrugged. “It was something I did with my dad.” His response was clipped and held an undertone of sadness.

  “I take it your dad isn’t around anymore?” I asked as we walked across the lot.

  Travis was quiet and I realized I shouldn’t have asked that question. “He… died last Spring. He was an officer with the NYPD. He was shot during a drug raid. It was in the papers…” his voice trailed off. He obviously didn’t want to talk about that.

  I remembered how I stopped to stare at him for a moment. Shit. This kid just lost his dad and he had to deal with this hell at school. I wondered how the kid of a deceased police officer was able to afford the cost of this school, but I wasn’t going to ask. We rounded the corner together as I helped him carry his guitar towards the street. There were a few parked town cars, limos, and Bentleys with their drivers waiting.

  “Are any of these for you?” I asked, as I spotted my father’s Bentley waiting for me some yards away.

  “No, I take the subway,” Travis answered as he took the guitar case from me with his free hand.

  I blanched, and then realized how worn his loafers were. His denim jacket was probably something he got on sale at some thrift store. Right.

  “I’m from Brooklyn. I’m on scholarship with a 4.0. My dad wanted me to go here… I hate this place but it’s better than public school, or so I’m told.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Well let me give you a lift,” I offered. I gestured toward the waiting Bentley.

  Travis shook his head. “It’s cool, man. I work a few blocks over at Strings N’ Things.”

  “At what?” I asked.

  “Strings N’ Things, it’s a music shop. They sell old vinyl records, classic guitars. It’s pretty cool.” Travis grinned.

  “Right. Let me give you a lift then. If it’s only a few blocks, it’s not a problem.”

  Travis politely refused, but eventually relented. Only one person has ever been able to tell me no, and it’s my own father. We rode over to the music shop and talked about our favorite bands and discovered that our taste in music was a common ground.

  “Do you play anything?” Travis asked as we were stopped at a very long red light.

  “No. My father would kill me. I’ve been bred for one thing and one thing only.” I answered bitterly.

  “That sucks, man.”

  “Yeah. I did try to learn the guitar once but my father found out and smashed it to bits. I just live vicariously through the bands I like.” I tried to make the statement sound casual, but nobody ever understood how badly that memory affected me.

  “Shi
t, man. I’m sorry.”

  “What about you? How’d you learn?” I wanted to turn the conversation away from me. I hated pity and sympathy.

  “My dad taught me. He used to play in a band before he became a cop, when I was really little. But every weekend that he wasn’t on duty, he’d take me upstate to my Uncle’s shed and we’d play all the good hits: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Led Zeppelin, you name it, we played it.” Travis grinned, reminiscing. “I wanted to start a band, but, now I have my mom and little sister to take care of…”

  I listened as Travis talked about his music and his family. His mom was a school teacher and sister was ten years younger and I could tell he felt a very strong sense of brotherly duty toward her, especially now that their dad was gone.

  As long as the conversation didn’t turn on me, I was willing to listen. I suggested we check out a few concerts that would be playing in the immediate area, but Travis shook his head, claiming they were too expensive. I’d never been friends with someone who couldn’t afford to do what they wanted to do, but instead, Travis invited me to check out some up and coming local bands who played at a few small clubs.

  “They only charge five or ten dollars at the door on most nights, if you don’t drink.”

  I didn’t know what to think of that. Bad music and no booze? It sounded like a piss-poor time, but I figured, why the hell not?

  “Sounds like fun,” I grinned. As it turns out, it was a lot of fun. That was the beginning of a long-lasting friendship with Travis Pryor.

  I wouldn’t meet his mother or sister for another eight years. I believe Travis was embarrassed by his mother’s current state of clinical depression and their lack of wealth. Our usual spots consisted of my apartment, the clubs, and bars but those were the best years of my life.

  When I did meet Mrs. Pryor and Jilly Bean, they took me in like one of their own. I was in awe how close knit they were. I had assumed family shit like that only existed in movies and books.