Chapter 37: Prohibition Confessions
The rest stop’s flickering sign washed the SUV in pulses of sallow light. Briana pushed the heavy door open, the cold air a slap after the car’s recycled heat. “Back in five,” she said, not looking at Grant, and headed for the concrete block of bathrooms.
He watched her go, then slipped out, leaning against the frost-kissed hood. The lighter clicked, a sharp, solitary sound. Smoke curled from his lips, a gray specter in the neon haze.
She emerged, her footsteps quiet on the grit. He didn’t turn. “Curious about the lodge,” she stated, her voice steady. Grant took a slow drag, the ember flaring. “It’s got history.”
“What kind?” He exhaled, a cloud forming between them. “Prohibition-era brothel,” he said, the words casual as ash. “My great-grandfather bought it. Liked the privacy.”
The implication settled, cold and granular. Briana crossed her arms against the chill. “So the rules have precedent.” Grant’s smile was a faint, dark curve. “The best traditions do.”
Simon’s voice, bright and unaware, cut through from the convenience store glow. “Got jerky and Red Bull!” He rounded the bumper, bags in hand, and froze. His eyes darted between them, catching the intimate space, the shared secret hanging in the smoke. The cheerful energy drained from his face.
He just stood there, the plastic bags rustling in the breeze. Grant took a final drag and flicked the butt, a tiny comet dying on the asphalt. “Let’s roll,” he said, pushing off the hood. He walked past Simon without another glance. Briana followed, her shoulder brushing Simon’s arm as she passed. He didn’t move.
He didn’t move. Briana saw the tight hurt in his posture, the way he stared at the spot where Grant’s cigarette had died. The mountain air felt brittle. She made herself turn back, the gravel crunching under her boots.
A soft, deliberate smile touched her lips, meant only for him. “So,” she said, her voice lifting with forced brightness. “Is there anything to actually do at this place, or is it all just atmospheric brooding?”
She tilted her head, aiming for playful. “Any board games? A decrepit pool table?” Simon blinked, the jerky bags in his hands finally stilling. His expression thawed from frozen shock into a tentative, grateful relief.
He shifted his weight, a slow smile breaking through. “There’s a monster old game room,” he said, the warmth seeping back into his words. “Ping-pong, darts, even a vintage jukebox that only plays Frank Sinatra.”
“Compelling,” Briana said, falling into step beside him as they walked back to the idling car. “I’m weirdly good at darts.” Grant watched them approach from the driver’s seat, his fingers tapping once on the steering wheel.
Grant watched them approach from the driver’s seat, his fingers tapping once on the steering wheel. Simon opened the back door for Briana with an awkward, hopeful flourish. “Milady,” he said, the old joke sounding painfully sincere.
Grant’s eyes found Briana’s in the rearview as she slid in. “Darts, huh?” The engine growled to life. “We’ll have to make a wager.” The SUV pulled onto the dark highway, headlights carving a tunnel through the pines.
Simon leaned forward from the back, his voice eager. “I call team captain.” Briana smiled, staring out at the rushing darkness. “What are the stakes?”
“The usual,” Grant said, his tone smooth as the leather upholstery. “Forfeits. Consequences.” The words hung between them, loaded and vague. Simon’s enthusiasm dimmed just a fraction.
“Nothing crazy,” he muttered, sitting back. Briana didn’t reply. The trees thickened, the road climbing steeply. A final turn revealed a wrought-iron gate, its modern keypad glaring beneath a single security light.
Beyond it, at the end of a long, private drive, the lodge’ lights blazed against the gathering dark.
The structure was a hulking silhouette of timber and stone, every window a fierce, yellow square against the deep purple of the mountain night. Two other SUVs, their engines ticking as they cooled, were already parked haphazardly on the circular gravel drive. Music, bass-heavy and thrumming, pulsed from within the thick walls, a heartbeat for the place.
Grant killed the engine, and the sudden silence felt heavier. “Home sweet history,” he said, popping his door open. The cold rushed in, sharp with pine and frozen earth.
He was at her door before she could reach for the handle, pulling it wide. “Watch your step,” he said, his hand offered not for balance, but for possession. Simon scrambled out behind them, his boots crunching loudly on the gravel.
Briana ignored Grant’s hand, stepping down onto the uneven stones on her own. She looked up at the sprawling lodge, its dark wood soaking up the security lights. A shadow moved past an upstairs window, swift and formless.
The massive front door swung open before they reached it, spilling warm light and a wave of laughter into the night. Carter stood framed in the doorway, a black sweater making him look like a cutout against the glow. “The stragglers,” he said, his voice flat. “We’ve already started the tour.”
Inside, the heat was a physical shock, carrying the rich scents of woodsmoke, whiskey, and something underneath—old polish and dried lavender. The grand room soared two stories high, a field of leather furniture, antler chandeliers, and one entire wall of glass overlooking the abyss of the valley. David and two of the girls—Brittney and a redhead—were by a colossal stone fireplace, their laughter echoing off the beams.
Tristan stood at a wet bar identical to the one back at the house, pouring something golden into three glasses. He didn’t look up. Lily was perched on the arm of a sofa, her face tight, watching Tiffany examine a faded tapestry on the far wall.
All movement and sound seemed to suspend for a single, crystalline second as Briana crossed the threshold. The brothers’ glances—appraising, curious, intense—landed on her like physical touches. The other girls’ eyes held a different weight, a cool, practiced assessment.
Simon moved to her side, a silent, warm presence against the evaluating chill. “I’ll show you your room,” he said, just as Grant draped an arm over her shoulder.
“I’ve got it,” Grant said, his fingers squeezing. His smile was for the room. “We keep the pretty things close.”
Briana’s shoulder stiffened beneath the weight of Grant’s arm. She ducked smoothly out from under his casual claim, the heat of the room suddenly oppressive against her skin.
She offered a small, dismissive smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Lily told me where our room is, so I’m good on my own,” she said, her voice cutting clearly through the fireplace crackle. “But thanks, both of you.”
She turned before either could formulate a protest, her boots silent on the thick Turkish rug. Every step away from them felt like crossing a minefield of watching eyes. Simon’s hopeful posture deflated, while Grant’s playful mask solidified into something colder.
The grandeur of the room became a blur of dark wood and mocking taxidermy as she aimed for the carved staircase. Carter’s low chuckle trailed her. “The help always knows the back way,” he murmured to Tristan, who merely swirled his drink.
Briana didn’t break stride. She took the stairs two at a time, the polished banister cool under her palm. The music and laughter below dampened with each step, replaced by the creak of century-old timber.
A long, shadowed hallway stretched before her, lined with numbered doors. She found the one Lily had described, the brass ‘7’ tarnished green. The key turned with a heavy, definitive clunk.
Inside, the room was dark, cold, and smelled of cedar and disuse. She closed the door and leaned against it, the solid wood finally muting the world below. Her own breath was the only sound in the absolute quiet.
The cedar-scented darkness felt thick enough to swallow. Briana fumbled for a light switch, her fingers brushing rough-hewn log wall until a single brass lamp flickered on, casting a dim yolk of light over the space. It was smaller than she’d imagined, dominated by an iron-framed bed with a thin quilt, and the cold seeped up from the wide-plank floorboards.
A faint, rhythmic creaking filtered through the wall to her left, followed by a muffled, feminine gasp. Briana froze, her skin going tight. The sounds weren’t of pain, but of practice, a familiar transaction happening just feet away through the old timber.
She exhaled slowly, forcing her hands to unclench. This is the game room, she thought, the brothel’s history whispering up through the floor. Her suitcase felt alien sitting on the worn rag rug. She clicked the latches open, the sounds sharp in the quiet, and pulled out her thickest socks and a hoodie.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, deliberate and unhurried, pausing right outside her door. A floorboard groaned under their weight. Briana stood perfectly still, her own breath held, staring at the wooden door as if she could see through it.
The knob didn’t turn. After a moment, the footsteps retreated back down the hallway. She let the air rush from her lungs, the knot in her stomach pulling tighter. From her suitcase’s inner zipper pocket, she retrieved the small, heavy flashlight she always packed.
She twisted its head, and a stark, clinical beam cut through the room’s dusty gloom. She ran the light along the baseboards, over the bed frame, probing the seams of the simple room. The beam caught on a deep, unnatural groove in the timber headboard, a long, narrow scar in the wood.
Briana knelt on the cold quilt, bringing the light close. The groove was worn smooth in the center, darkened by time and something else. Her mind provided the image before she could stop it: a rope, pulled taut and sawing back and forth, night after night.
She jerked the light away, the beam darting to the window. Her own pale reflection stared back, wide-eyed, superimposed over the perfect black of the mountain night. A soft knock at the door made her flinch.
“Briana?” It was Grant’s voice, softened to a concerned murmur. “You okay in there? It’s pretty stark.” She clicked off the flashlight, plunging the room back into the dim lamplight. “I’m fine,” she called back, aiming for neutral. “Just settling in.”
“Open up for a sec?” The knob rattled lightly, a testing shake. She didn’t move. “I’m already in bed,” she lied, her voice flat through the wood. A long silence followed, thick enough to feel.
Then his low laugh came, a warm, mocking sound. “Smart girl.” His footsteps finally moved away, this time for good. Briana didn’t move until the sound had completely faded. Then, with silent efficiency, she dragged the room’s single, spindly chair over and wedged its back under the doorknob. It wouldn’t stop anyone determined, but it would make a hell of a noise. She sat on the edge of the creaking bed, the heavy flashlight cold and solid in her grip, and watched the door. The faint, rhythmic noise from next door had finally stopped.
The faint, rhythmic noise from next door had finally stopped. The new silence in the cold room was somehow worse, a listening silence. Briana was very uncomfortable in her room.
She put on tights and an oversized tee with fuzzy warm socks, the soft fabrics a shield against the chill seeping from the logs. She left the flashlight on the bed but kept the wedged chair under the knob, a silent sentinel, before slipping out into the empty hall.
She went down to the huge common room and sat in front of the fireplace, such a beautiful sight. The flames roared, casting dancing amber light over the vast space now mostly empty, the heat immediate and penetrating against her skin.
The giant room was deserted, the remnants of earlier laughter just ghosts in the shadows. She curled her socked feet under her on the leather hearthrug, staring into the crackling core, the fire’s roar filling her head.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” Simon’s voice came softly from the archway. He walked over, holding two mugs, and settled on the floor beside her, not too close. “Brought hot chocolate,” he said, offering one. “The real kind, with the little marshmallows.”
She took the warm mug, her fingers brushing his. “Thanks.” She took a sip, the sweetness a stark contrast to the cedar-taste of her room. “It’s quieter now.”
“They all scattered,” Simon said, nodding toward the dark upper floor. “Carter’s probably writing grim poetry in a closet.” He tried a smile, but it faltered as he watched the firelight play on her face. “What Grant said at the rest stop… about this place. That got to you.”
Briana watched a log collapse into a shower of sparks. “History’s just history,” she said, but the words felt thin. Simon was quiet for a long moment, his own gaze fixed on the flames. “Not here it isn’t.” He drew a knee up, resting his arm on it. “I don’t like the rules either.”
Before she could answer, a floorboard creaked overhead, followed by the distinct, synchronized sound of two separate doors clicking shut down the long hallway above them.
The twin clicks echoed in the firelit silence, precise as traps snapping shut. Simon’s gaze drifted upward, his earlier warmth leaching into the cold air between them. "Game night," he finally said, the term hollow now.
Briana studied the side of his face, the firelight carving shadows under his eyes. "Is that what we're calling it?" Her voice was quiet, but it held an edge that made him flinch. She thought of the ledger back at the house, its handwritten columns.
Simon turned the mug in his hands, watching the last marshmallow melt. "It doesn't have to be...that." The protest died in his throat, unconvincing even to himself. He looked at her, truly looked, seeing the tension in her drawn-up shoulders.
"You’re not like them," he said, a strained earnestness in his whisper. Briana said nothing, just waited. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I’m not like them, either."
Another log cracked, sending a spiral of sparks up the chimney. "Then act like it," Briana said, standing suddenly. The heavy quiet of the house pressed in, a listening presence. She placed her unfinished mug on the stone hearth.
The heat from the fire was stifling now, clinging to her skin. She needed the sharp, clean cold of her room, the chair wedged under the knob. Simon remained on the floor, a still figure in the dying light.
"Briana, wait." His voice was small. She didn't turn, walking toward the dark mouth of the staircase. Each step away from the fire felt like entering deeper water, the shadows thickening around her.
The hallway upstairs was a tunnel of absolute black, the weak light from below failing at the third step. She paused, listening to the vast, groaning silence of the old lodge. From behind one of the numbered doors, she heard a low, muffled laugh.
The laugh was cut short, swallowed by the lodge’s deep quiet. Briana moved quickly down the hall, her socks silent on the cold boards, the fire’s warmth already a memory on her skin.
Simon’s footsteps followed, a hurried patter behind her. “Hey, slow down,” he whispered, his voice strained.
She stopped at her door, her hand on the cold brass knob. “What do you want, Simon?” she asked, not turning. He stood a few feet away, the shadows from the sconces hollowing his cheeks.
“To talk. Without everyone…” He gestured vaguely at the surrounding doors. “I meant what I said downstairs.” She finally faced him, her expression unreadable in the low light. “You’re not like them, but you’re here,” she stated. “You play the game.”
He flinched. “It’s not a game to me. Not with you.” The earnestness in his voice felt like another kind of trap, softer but just as confining. From somewhere down the hall, a bedframe groaned against a wall.
They both froze, listening. The sound didn’t repeat. Simon ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “This is all coming out wrong.”
“It usually does,” Briana said, her tone flat. She turned the knob and pushed, the chair she’d wedged earlier scraping inward. “Goodnight, Simon.”
Briana went to her room. She stepped inside and pushed the door shut on his pleading look, the latch clicking with definitive finality. The chair was re-wedged under the knob with a solid thunk.
She leaned against the door, listening. His footsteps hesitated, then retreated slowly. Only then did she exhale, the deep cold of the space seeping into her bones. In the dim light, her eyes went again to that dark, smooth groove in the headboard.
The groove seemed deeper in the weak morning light, a polished testament to forgotten friction. Briana had barely slept, each settling timber of the old lodge sounding like approaching footsteps.
Now, gray dawn bled around the edges of the thick curtain, dust motes swirling in the stale air. She pushed back the rough quilt, the cold of the room immediately biting through her socks.
A single, sharp laugh echoed from somewhere downstairs, followed by the clatter of a pan. The sounds of a morning after were already beginning, ordinary and grotesquely out of place.
Her door was still firmly wedged shut, the chair untouched. She listened for a long moment, hearing only the distant murmur of voices and the smell of coffee climbing the stairs.
With stiff fingers, she dressed quickly in the same jeans and sweater from yesterday, the fabric carrying the scent of woodsmoke and travel. A light knock, almost inaudible, sounded at the door.
"Bri?You awake?" Lily's voice was a cautious whisper through the wood. Briana silently moved the chair aside, opening the door just enough to see Lily's tired face, her makeup slightly smudged.
"They're making breakfast," Lily said, her eyes avoiding Briana's and glancing instead at the groove in the headboard. "You should come down."
"Is that an order or a suggestion?" Briana asked, her voice husky from lack of sleep. Lily finally met her gaze, a complex apology flickering in her eyes before being banked by a familiar, practiced cool.
"Just come downstairs," Lily repeated, turning away toward the noise.
The hallway floorboards were icy under her socks as she followed the noise down to the vast great room. The scene that greeted her was a curated portrait of morning after casualness, every laugh a little too loud, every gesture a studied performance of ease.
Grant was at the massive kitchen island, flipping pancakes with a showman’s flourish while Tiffany hung on his shoulder, her laughter a bright, hollow chime. Carter, shrouded in a black bathrobe, silently pushed a steaming mug of coffee across the granite toward Briana without looking up from his leather-bound notebook.
“Sleep well in the museum?” David called from the table, his arm slung around Carissa, who was scrolling on her phone. Simon looked up from setting out plates, his hopeful smile like a beacon. “I saved you the non-burnt ones,” he said, pointing to a stack.
Brittney glided past, smelling of someone else’s soap, and squeezed Briana’s arm. “You looked so cozy by the fire last night,” she purred, her eyes sharp with unasked questions. The forced camaraderie was a thick syrup in the air, cloying and artificial.
Briana accepted the coffee, its heat seeping into her palms as she took a seat at the edge of the long table. Grant slid a perfect pancake onto her plate, his fingers brushing hers for a second too long. “Fuel up,” he winked. “Big day of wholesome mountain activities.”
Briana said to herself why can’t they just be nice and not fake nice. The thought was a clear, cold knife cutting through the performative warmth. She forced a small, polite smile, meeting his gaze. “Wholesome,” she repeated, the word tasting like ash.
Carter finally looked up, his dark eyes connecting with hers across the table. “Wholesomeness is a relative construct,” he stated flatly, then returned to his writing. Simon, oblivious, cheerfully passed the maple syrup. “I found a sled in the garage!”
Tristan entered then, impeccably dressed, a financial times folded under his arm. He assessed the room with one sweep, his gaze pausing on Briana’s untouched plate. “The forecast calls for more snow,” he announced, as if delivering a market adjustment. “We’ll be fully isolated by tonight.”
The silence that followed was complete, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace. All pretense of light conversation died. Grant’s playful smirk solidified into something harder. He raised his orange juice glass as if making a toast, his eyes locked on Briana. “Perfect.”