Holden's Resurrection (Gemini Group Book 6)

killed in combat before he had a chance to meet his child.
Holden shook that thought away quickly.
“How are we gonna play this?” Holden found himself asking even though he knew he shouldn’t be involved.
“Daley’s digging into Beatrice and Patricia now.”
“Tell him to crawl so far up their asses Charleigh has enough to bury them. This is the third time they’ve pulled this shit. It ends now. Have Daley send me the invoices, I’ll take care of them personally. I want those two bitches leashed and neutralized.”
“Right.” Chasin smiled. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, I don’t want her knowing I’m involved.”
“Holden—”
“Don’t you think I’ve fucked up her life enough? She doesn’t need to know I’m sticking my nose in her business. The last time we had words, it wasn’t pleasant, but I think she understands that there’s no going back, there’s no fixing what I broke.”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” Chasin admitted. “Though I also know the last time the Towlers pulled their shit, you waded in and fixed that for Charleigh.”
“Obviously, I didn’t do a good enough job because here we are and they’re at it again.”
Holden needed this conversation to be over. He didn’t want to think about his trips down to Virginia Beach, and the latest screwed-up game he and Charleigh had played.
A game that had broken him.
“What else do we have going on this week?” Holden asked as he shuffled through the papers Micky had put on his desk.
Chasin gave Holden an unhappy glare but gave him his play.
“Jonny’s got a case he needs help on. He’ll be in tomorrow. Jameson just left to head to Philly to pick up a bond skip and Weston’s finishing up his latest assignment.”
Holden had been pleased when Weston had literally drawn the short straw and was assigned the job of following a cheating husband. Those were boring as fuck, and by the end of the case, you were put off sex for a good long while. Spying and taking pictures of two people doing the dirty made you wish eye bleach was a real thing.
Being as Holden wasn’t having sex, maybe he should’ve saved Weston and taken the assignment. But then the team would’ve been deprived of hearing Weston’s incessant whining about the old man pumping away at his twenty-years-his-junior side piece.
Nothing like watching old man balls swing with a Viagra erection.
“When’s Weston due back?”
Chasin’s mouth tipped up into a devilish grin. “Around two. I’ll bring the popcorn to the debrief. Old Mr. Thompson’s meeting with his latest piece at eleven. It should be a nice long session. Weston’s gonna be in a fit.”
Chasin wasn’t wrong, Weston would bitch and complain about his afternoon live-action porno shoot. Just what Holden needed—entertainment to get his mind off Charleigh.
And if he was lucky, hearing about Mr. Thompson’s escapades would put him off sex and quell the ever-growing ache Charleigh’s proximity created.

3
“I don’t know, Char. Does that say Barnyard Chic or Farmer Jane?” my client, Lizza Powell, asked.
That was Lizza with two z’s.
Normally, I loved my job. In Virginia Beach, I’d worked for a large event planning company. When I moved to Cliff City, I decided it was time to start my own business. Which had worked out wonderfully. I loved being my own boss, I loved executing my vision and seeing my clients’ faces light up with happiness the day of the big party.
But every once in a while, a Lizza with two z’s came along and made me want to drown myself in a bathtub full of vodka.
I wasn’t sure what Farmer Jane was, and if she called me Char one more time my head was going to explode.
Char.
Like I was a charbroiled meat patty.
I took a deep breath, plastered a fake smile on my face, and tried again.
“Lizza, we could move the party from your barn to the main house, but Sydney’s guest list is nearing a hundred. It’d be a squeeze, but we could make it work.”
“No, no. Syd wants the barn,” Lizza sighed then finally came out with the truth. “I just don’t want people to think we’re poor.”
And there it was, the difference between new money and old money. Lizza and her husband were nouveau riche—they’d recently acquired their wealth and it showed in everything they did. Not only was it nauseating, but it was also exhausting to deal with.
“I can assure you no one will think you’re poor.”
It was becoming increasingly harder to swallow the bitter taste of disdain.
“Maybe we should hang crystal chandeliers.” Lizza pointed to the ceiling.
“You could, and it would certainly be a lovely addition to the voile that will be draped along the rafters. You’ll need to hire an electrician to wire outlets.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Lizza spun in a circle. “I’ll have Stone call someone. That’s what we need. A touch of elegance. Very Martha Stewart.”
“Yes, very,” I agreed and fought the need to roll my eyes.
And for the record, Stone was not Lizza’s husband’s real name. It was Steve, but she called him Stone because it sounded “classier”.
“Perfect. Then I’ll wait to hear from the electrician and adjust the sheets of fabric as needed. Was there anything else you wanted to go over?”
Please God say no.
“You’re sure about the caterer?” she pressed.
“He comes highly recommended and both you and Sydney enjoyed the tasting,” I reminded her.
“Yes, well, I just want to make sure he’s in line with who our friends hire.”
Sweet mother of God, I’m going to strangle this woman.
“Mrs. Goldman from your yacht club recommended him, so I’d say you’re fine on that front.”
“Right. I forgot. I just want everything to be perfect for my girl’s party. You only turn fifteen once.”
Right. This fifty-thousand-dollar party was for a fifteenth birthday, and not even a quinceañera. Totally new money. And the way Lizza went through it they’d be in the poor house sooner rather than later.
“Everything will be perfect,” I promised, then added, “So perfect, no one will be able to stop talking about it.”
“Yes, that’s what I want. The party of the