4. Matthias

4

MATTHIAS

F riday after classes I raced over to the Los Angeles airport. With Vaulteneau Industries having three jets at the airport, I had security bypass privileges, which meant I could meet up with one of our regular informants near one of the external hangers to take possession of the shipment.

Hardly any words were exchanged, other than for me to hand over the bag of cash and for her to hand over the box. I looked inside and my heart dropped.

There were five tiny sea turtles that were probably on the endangered species list.

"Do you know what kind they are?" I asked the informant. Our time was limited, less than sixty seconds, so it wasn't like we could chitchat, but she worked in the U.S. Customs department, which meant she'd have some knowledge.

"Dunno." She looked over her shoulder a few times. "No paperwork with the shipment. Up to you to figure out."

"Helpful," I said. She merely shrugged, patted her bag of easy cash, and hopped back into her car.

Over the years, Filipe, Joan, and I had made enough contacts with trusted veterinarians who would accept endangered animals or animal byproducts, like ivory tusks, no questioned asked. Those veterinarians then worked with the authorities to restore the animal or item to its rightful habitat.

Given the amount of time the turtles were in cargo hold, I didn't think I had much time to spare. As I left LAX, I texted Filipe and Joan to let them know I was taking the shipment to our vet contact in Santa Monica.

Logistically, my actions were pretty straightforward. Give cash. Collect the contraband. It only became dangerous if the people we were stealing it from discovered our operation. So far we'd been lucky.

An hour after making the delivery, I met up with Filipe and Joan at the Pacific Park on the Santa Monica Pier.

Filipe arrived in his neon green, souped-up BMW E45 3-series he used when racing. Joan had her own racer, a purple Toyota Supra MK IV, with flashing lights around the frame. They'd parked near the arcade, and tourists and locals alike always asked to take selfies with them.

Compared to them, I was the schlub wearing athletic attire who'd arrived in my ordinary sedan.

The pier's atmosphere was filled with laughter, carnival game noises, and the fragrance of kettle corn and cotton candy. The sun was in the western sky but sunset wouldn't come for a few more hours.

The Pacific Wheel and the West Coaster were lit up like amusement park beacons. Children screamed with joy while teens walked in groups, attempting to look nonchalant and cool. It wasn't that long ago Filipe, Joan, and I made that exact same promenade.

Filipe shook my hand and pulled me in for a sideways hug, which was about as affectionate as he got in public. In private, Filipe was more touchy-feely.

Joan was more animated in her greetings. She lifted herself up on to her tiptoes to plant a wet kiss on my cheek before wrapping me in a tight hug.

They were dressed for clubbing, Joan in a short leather skort, a chunky sweater, and a thousand necklaces. She jangled every time she moved. As a lifelong surfer and rock climber, Joan had the most amazing shoulders and biceps on the planet. She wore her long, unruly dark hair loose and she smelled like surf wax, a combination of coconut and pineapple.

Filipe, equally built, though taller than Joan but shorter than me, was decked out low-slung jeans, a tight black T-shirt beneath a slim-fitting hoodie, and a trucker hat.

As Joan pulled away, I winced and nursed the shoulder with my opposite hand.

"Shoulder still bothering you?" Joan asked.

I'd gone extra hard during today's two practice heats and my right shoulder was paying the price.

"Yeah," I said. "In a rare form of support, Coach Anderson actually took pity on me. He told me to take it easy this weekend and gave me some muscle relaxers."

I pulled the pill bottle out of my pocket and showed them.

"Your coach is pushing pills on you now?" Joan demanded. "C'mon, Matty. He's pushing you too hard."

I shrugged. Joan wasn't wrong, but I was also partially to blame.

"I've got everything under control." By their expressions, it was clear they didn't believe me. "If I want to make it to the national team, I can't go easy on myself."

Filipe grunted. He knew my lifelong goal was to make it onto the U.S. Olympic Men's Swim Team. Tryouts were this summer. Between the two of them, he understood the situation better than Joan, who was opinionated at the best of times.

Joan, though, was about to launch into a tirade against Coach Anderson when Filipe stepped in to distract her.

"Volcanita," he said to Joan, referring to her as a cute volcano in a calm but cheesy tone. "Take it out on me tonight, sí? Whatever you want." That seemed to placate Joan. To me, Filipe said, "Tell us about the shipment and how everything went at the veterinarian."

"The turtles—five of them—were very sluggish. The good news is that Dr. Welch thinks she can rehabilitate them and return them to the Galápagos Islands. She was pissed at seeing them, but she didn't ask any questions, like usual. She said if we can collect the animals quicker, it ups her chances of saving them."

Joan nodded. I saw the relief on her face. "I'm glad Dr. Welch was able to save them. We'll need to keep the informant happy so she calls us first instead of shopping around."

"Cash keeps them loyal, but only to a certain extent," Filipe said. "We could state up front that we'll offer twice the ‘reward' for live shipments."

"I'm already getting advance wind of another shipment next weekend, one that's got a lot of people talking," Joan added. "It will cost a pretty penny for first dibs."

Between Joan and I, we'd be able to swing almost any price they named. It was mostly the principal of the matter. No one liked being made a fool and I wasn't convinced our informant wasn't playing us against another contact, like Andy.

Still, I was game, even if it was the weekend Theresa and her son moved into the estate. My friends and I were in this to help and cash meant nothing to me. "You know I don't care about the money," I said.

"It's why I love you," Joan purred, rubbing my back.

"You're loaded too, Joan, so don't pull that shit with me." I laughed. "The real reason you love me is because I have unlimited access to LAX's hangers."

"That's just one of the many reasons I love you." Joan's eyes twinkled. "What are you doing tonight?" she asked. "Want to join us? I'm sure there'll be lots of pretty faces to tempt the one and only Prince of Malibu ."

Filipe snorted and I shot him a glare.

Earlier this year, People Magazine wrote an article about America's most eligible bachelors, with my dad, whom they dubbed "The West Coast King," at the top of the list. They'd then gone on to call me the "Prince of Malibu."

Sure, it was stupid, and the team ribbed me for weeks on end about it, but it came with the territory of being a Vaulteneau.

"Instead of dredging up old tabloids," I said with a grunt, "how about you study for finals."

"Naw," Joan teased. "I like my plan better. Anyway, if you're not going out, you could always come to our apartment later, if you're in the mood."

Over Joan's head, I found Filipe's gaze on me. He gave me a brief but perceptible nod of agreement.

Joan and Filipe had been my best friends for almost a decade.

Filipe's dad used to drive for my dad and Filipe practically lived on the estate with me until his dad retired, a nice retirement check deposited into his account for his service and discretion.

Filipe and I fumbled around as pre-teens. The typical "show me yours and I'll show you mine" kind of play.

As for Joan, she used to live next door, the granddaughter of a mega famous film director.

Joan and I also fumbled around as pre-teens.

I liked my play with Filipe more than I did with Joan, but Filipe didn't feel the same, and Joan, well, once she met Filipe, they were just goners for each other since they were thirteen years old.

Over the years, there were times where the three of us fell into bed together, but more than not, after a kiss or two, and some writhing and frotting, one or all of us would fall asleep.

Sometimes I'd wake to find them fucking, Joan on top, and if she noticed me awake, she'd reach over and stroke me until I climaxed all over her hand and my stomach. Filipe didn't seem to mind. He'd watch, umber-brown eyes heated and wanton. Joan liked it because Filipe fucked her harder, though he never lasted as long as I think he wanted to last.

Listening to Filipe's grunts and Joan's moans, I rarely lasted long, either.

But with everything going on in my life, I wasn't in the mood.

I shook my head. "No, not that I don't appreciate the offer. You two are always there for me. Think I'm gonna ice the shoulder, have a quiet dinner with Dad, and call it a night."

"Not taking Coach's daughter out on the town?" she quizzed.

Zoey was Coach Anderson's daughter, which put extra pressure on me to always be on my best behavior, in and out of the pool. Our usual pattern was a Saturday night dinner at Nobu's or Tower Bar, or attend one of the many film premieres, and then have her home by two or three in the morning.

"Not tonight," I said. "Tomorrow night."

Neither had to ask why Zoey wasn't dining with me and my dad tonight, and the simple answer was that paparazzi wouldn't be there. Zoey was trying to break into the film industry and I was just one notch on her path.

My dad had a firm policy of not getting involved even though the merest whisper from him to the right casting director would clear every obstacle. Coach Anderson said he could train me to be one of the best, to land a spot on the national team and a shot at the Olympics. The only thing he wanted was his daughter to be seen on my arm at the right events. There was nothing romantic about it. In fact, Zoey and I considered it a business transaction.

"Speaking of pretty faces," Joan said with relish, "how's it feel to be the middle child now?" Filipe had obviously filled Joan in on Dad's elopement and the development of a new stepbrother. "I hear your stepbrother is a knockout."

"Fuck you," I said with a laugh. Ciaran was not a knockout. "He's just a dumb kid I happen to be related to through marriage."

Joan smirked. "You protest too much. Show me his picture," she insisted. She tried to grab for my phone in my pocket but I twisted away from her. "Filipe says it's on your phone. That you stared at it for ages. Did you set it as your home screen photo?"

So Filipe had noticed that.

During this interchange, Filipe shooed tourists away from his car and buffed out an imaginary dull spot on his door. I could see my own reflection in its mirror shine.

"You'll see the kid soon enough," I said after pushing her gently away from me. Filipe came up and captured her around the waist, nibbling on her neck.

She melted into Filipe's embrace.

"So when do babysitting duties begin?" Filipe asked.

"Saturday next. Dad wants to put Ciaran in the guesthouse, but I'll see about having Miss Paulina move him into the main house."

Filipe laughed. "Bring a good bottle with you."

Miss Paulina was the long-suffering Vaulteneau housekeeper, and arguably the most important person in the house. However, the old dame had a taste for expensive whiskey. If you got in good with Miss Paulina, you were set.

"I'm way ahead of you," I told him. "There's a suite in the far wing of the house that'd be perfect for him," I added. "The old nursery."

"Hasn't he suffered enough?" Joan asked. "He worked in a deli, for crying out loud."

"His mom owned that deli. It's not like they went hungry, Joan."

"Still, it doesn't sound like they socialized in the same circles," Joan added. She and Filipe shifted to head toward their respective cars. She opened her car door. "Do you think it's a long con? It isn't everyday a struggling deli owner marries a billionaire."

I ran my hand through my hair. "I have my suspicions, but truthfully, I've never seen my dad like this, and he can smell a con artist from a mile off." Mentally, I added, It isn't like the Vaulteneau name is squeaky clean, either . People don't accidentally become billionaires. "I'll keep an eye on the kid."

"Speaking of a long con, we'll let you go so you can prepare to escort Zoey to all the ‘It' parties tomorrow," Filipe said, cocking an eyebrow.

I rolled my eyes. "It doesn't take me two days to get ready for a date, asshole."

"Indie film fest or a small gathering at the Beverly Hills Hotel?"

I flipped Filipe off but he took it in good stride, as I knew he would. Filipe had no ties to celebrities, but Joan's family was Hollywood blue blood. The fact that she eschewed all that made her something of a rebel for celebrity gossip. She just wanted to surf, rock climb, and donate all her money to protect the environment. She'd flashed and mooned the paparazzi so many times that reputable celebrity magazines refused to buy pictures of her. The paparazzi didn't just leave Joan alone, they actively avoided her for fear she might ruin good shots of other celebrities.

After a few minutes of additional good-natured ribbing, we made plans to link up next week. Filipe offered me a salute while Joan kissed the air, and they sped away, leaving onlookers to gawk.

On the drive home I tried to work through all aspects of my life. Coach's pressure. Dating Zoey. Welcoming two new additions to the family. On top of that, I had to prepare for finals.

That left very little time for swimming and that's all I really wanted to do.