by Ivy Fox
I don’t have to think too hard on the person I want to sink inside of. She’s been the only woman on my mind since Halloween night.
I must be slipping.
My phone blows up with hot hookups left and right, and none of them whet my appetite as much as the idea of Emma Harper cumming on my mouth again.
Who knew I was into the whole hot for teacher kink?
I grab the base of my cock, imagining her sweet pussy squeezing around me and milking it dry. In my mind, she’s here in my bedroom on top of me, running those deep red nails all over my chest, getting me off while giving me just a sliver of pain to go with it. Even my fantasies of Emma are better than whatever thirst trap is DMing me nudes late at night, asking if I want to meet up. I keep to a gentle rhythm as I picture Emma in nothing but her catlike glasses, her hair up in a bun looking all respectable, while her filthy mouth orders me around.
Words like harder, faster, deeper, and more sung in her sweet voice have me close to coming undone. When she wraps her hands around my throat, suffocating me while riding me into oblivion, I cum like a prepubescent teenager who just found Pornhub on his phone.
Fuck.
It was hard enough being in her class and not fantasizing about being inside her, but now that I got a little taste, every time I leave her classroom, I suffer a severe case of blue balls. Not that she flirts with me or anything. As far as she’s concerned, that night never happened. I wish I could dismiss it so easily, but then again, I’ve always been a sucker for a good challenge. Before the year is done, I’ll have Emma on all fours with my cum dripping down her thighs, my name on her lips.
Now that’s the type of morning wake-up call I’m talking about.
But until then, I guess my hand will have to do.
I get out of bed and wash up before putting on my sweats for my ritual morning run. People have no idea the amount of work that goes into keeping this body in shape. They like to gawk and stare, but no one is really interested in the daily sacrifices I make to look this good. Then again, no one is interested in taking a peek behind the curtain at anything that has to do with me. All they want is the superficial image I portray, the untouchable Richfield heir who has the world at his feet.
What a fucking joke.
If only they knew the true cost of being a part of this family.
Goddamn it.
There I go again.
Bringing shit up that I should be accustomed to by now is not how I want to start my day. It was that fucking conversation that I walked in on last night that has me overthinking this morning. I just need to clear my head with a good run and then go over to Linc’s place to tell him what I witnessed last night. Unlike me, I’m sure he’ll be able to put two and two together easily enough. He’s always been the brains in our little group.
As I walk down the large spiral staircase, animated laughter coming from the dining room can be heard throughout the large foyer. Instead of heading out, I walk toward the sound, and just as I expected it, the giggling stops the minute I pop my head in the room.
“Here comes the alphahole,” my sister Irene singsongs before picking up her orange juice, her long blonde hair combed back into a no-nonsense ponytail.
“Not just any alphahole, but Asheville’s favorite alphahole. Good morning, dear brother.” Abigail winks at me playfully.
“Just Asheville, Abby?” Meredith counters evenly, shaking her head. “Why be modest about our brother’s amazing accomplishments when he’s worked so hard for them?”
Always busting my balls these three.
I swear they came out of the womb knowing exactly what to say to push my buttons.
“Meredith,” my mother reprimands without any heat behind it.
God forbid she give Mer—her favorite—any grief.
I have no idea why my mother insisted on having any more children when it’s so painfully obvious she got it right with her firstborn. In her eyes, my eldest sister Meredith can do no wrong—Irene coming in a close second. Little Abby and I got the short end of the stick where my mother’s approval is concerned. Colleen Richfield doesn’t suffer fools well, and unfortunately for my baby sister Abby, she’s a lot like me on that front.
She talks before she thinks.
Impulsively acts before considering the consequences.
And is too damn cocky for her own good.
If the stories are true, that means we got the wrong end of the gene pool and are both a lot like our father when he was our age. In other words, we fail to meet my mother’s well-versed sense of decorum. While our father had a reputation of being wild and carefree in his youth, our mother has had an ice stick rammed up her butt since birth.
Duty, honor, and family have always been her mantra.
It’s ironic she values such things since she has failed miserably at the last one.
My sisters and I don’t have a mother—we have a general intent on preserving the Richfield family name at all costs.
Her very air reeks of privileged entitlement and matriarchal authoritarianism—a far cry from what one would expect of a southern bell. While other women of her stature and age go out to brunch with their friends for the sole purpose of gossiping and throwing jabs at each other as they sip on sweet ice tea, my mother puts up no pretenses. She makes you feel like a minuscule ant that she can squash easily enough with her heel, not giving you a second thought after the deed is done.
Cold.
Uncaring.
And unsympathetic to failure of any kind.
The world could be collapsing in on itself, and my mother would coolly slap it across the face and demand its composure.
But my baby sister Abby still has time to redeem herself in our mother’s eyes. She’s still in high school with plenty of time to become the little Stepford cold robot our mother wishes her to be. I, however, have been dubbed as a lost cause, hence the lack of even a good morning greeting to her only son.
“Morning, ladies,” I greet animatedly, brushing away my mother’s disapproving stare while taking a grape off my baby sister’s plate and popping it into my mouth.
Abby just slaps my hand away, but the mirth in her deep green eyes tells me she doesn’t mind me messing with her one bit.
That’s the other difference between Abby and me and our other sisters. We got our father’s emerald eyes while Meredith and Irene got the traditional arctic blue of my mother’s side of the family.
I place my chin on my baby sister’s head and steal another grape.
“What the hell is an alphahole, anyway?” I whisper in her ear.
Abby opens her mouth to explain, but Irene beats her to the punch.
“Google it, big brother. I’m sure you’ll see a picture of yourself when you do,” she explains mockingly while buttering her toast.
“Funny,” I retort inattentively since my father’s empty chair has my full attention. “Dad not up yet?”
“He had a long night and is sleeping in this morning.”
I bet the fucker did.
My gaze trails over to my mother, who doesn’t seem one bit upset that my father’s nocturnal activities have prevented him from having breakfast with his family. Not that I’m surprised. A woman like her is too busy with more pressing Richfield matters to attend to than waste a single second of her time paying her husband’s extramarital affairs any mind. I bet if he brought his sidepiece home and fucked her right on their shared bed, my mother wouldn’t even flinch or bat an eye.
Colleen Richfield has an ice sculpture for a heart and frozen hailstones running through her veins.
No one can squeeze blood from a stone.
So how can I expect any emotion to bleed from her?
“Are you having breakfast with us this morning like a normal person?” she quips flatly, eyeing me up and down, showing her discontentment with the clothes I’ve got on for breakfast.
“As much as that backhanded invitation sounds appealing, I’m off for a run.”
“Of course you
are. God forbid you to take part in anything this family does.”
“Aw shucks, Mom. I didn’t know you cared.” I place my hands to my chest, taking mock offense.
“Your attitude is getting rather dull, Colt. How about you switch it up from time to time?” Meredith interjects, using the same words and tone my mother taught her to perfection.
I flip her off, causing her to slant her eyes in disgust, as Irene almost chokes on her juice at the gesture. My baby sister, however, giggles in amusement into her napkin. Unlike the other three women present, Abby loves my ass even if she does give me a hard time. I ruffle her hair and stroll away from the room, not even bothering to tell my mother goodbye. It’s not as if she expects me to, anyway.
With my earbuds in place, I go outside to stretch before I get my morning jog in. I’m mid-lunge when a familiar black envelope on the windshield of my car breaks my concentration and makes certain to shoot all my morning plans to hell.
Chapter 7
Colt
Shit.
Guess it’s my turn now.
Motherfuckers!
Ever so cautiously, I casually tread to my car, all the while discreetly searching my surroundings in case anyone is watching me. If they are, they sure are keeping their presence well hidden. I pull the damn thing from my windshield, the weight of the black envelope in my hands feeling heavier than the ones sent out before. When my thumb traces over a lump, a sudden knot in the pit of my stomach surges, reminding me of the last time The Society sent more than just a simple letter with their demands.
Hiding the envelope in the waistband of my sweats, I run back to the house, bypassing Abby on her phone in the foyer.
“That was fast.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Hey, you okay?” she asks with concern, holding onto my forearm to keep me in place. “You know we were just messing with you at breakfast, right?”
She might have been, but no one else at that table was. But instead of adding to my baby sister’s worry, I throw her a devil-may-care grin.
“I know, shortstop. It’s all good. I just remembered I’ve got somewhere to be, that’s all.”
I ruffle her hair endearingly before heading back upstairs to the confinement and safety of my room. Once I’ve made sure to lock myself in, I take the envelope out of my waistband and throw it on my unmade bed. The red wax with The Society symbol mocks me as I pace back and forth, running my hand through my hair while my eyes never leave the wretched thing.
I should just get changed and take it over to Linc’s.
That’s what I should do.
But then why did they send it to me directly? Why not send it over to the Hamilton Estate like they did Finn’s and Easton’s letters?
Fuck it.
I grab the envelope and rip it apart to find the dreaded letter inside, and low and behold, another flash drive just as I suspected. The ominous small device even came with its own note, ordering me to open whatever is inside first. Now last time we got one of these, it was fucking brutal. East almost lost his mind having to watch his mom and stepdad fuck. Mind you, I found it kind of hot, but then again, it wasn’t my parents’ sex tape on show. Just the idea of it makes me nauseous.
Shit!
Is this another sex-tape scandal in the works?
Nah, it can’t be. Colleen is too uptight to be filmed fucking. With my luck, it’s a tape of my dad screwing some Brass Guild whore, and who the fuck wants to see that shit? If that’s all The Society has on me, then they can go fuck themselves. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry in both Carolinas knows my old man steps out on my mother and that she doesn’t give two shits about it either. For all her poise and sophistication, and her endless rants on Richfield pride and proper behavior, the outing of an affair doesn’t seem to rattle her cage any.
My attention goes back to the drive on my bed, and as hard as I try to rack my brain on what could possibly be on the damn thing, the answer evades me.
Only one way to find out, and like hell, I’ll be doing it with everyone else around me glued to the screen like East had to endure.
Fuck that.
I would rather watch it on my own first and prepare myself than take my chances of losing my shit in front of everyone. I’m not as hot-blooded as East, but every man has his breaking point, and it seems The Society are masters at uncovering what those are.
Unlike last time, I don’t have my cousin’s patience to buy a new computer in case the flash drive has any virus attached to it. It’s not like they’re going to get anything from my laptop’s hard drive anyway. While Lincoln has been doing his part in the Richfield Foundation since Aunt Sierra passed away, my mother doesn’t feel I’m mature enough yet to take the responsibility on, leaving Meredith to take the full burden on her shoulders. No skin off my back. I’m in no hurry to be another cog in the Richfield wheel. Right now, my mother’s reluctance in getting me involved with anything pertaining to this family means that there is nothing on my computer that can be of any worth to The Society.
After I’ve inserted the flash drive into my laptop, I sit on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath before opening the dreadful yellow folder with my name on it. When I see another video in there, the hairs at the back of my neck begin to rise. I press play, and just like with Easton’s video, the same black screen appears with The Society’s golden symbol at its very center.
And then nothing.
Just black.
The fuck?
My brows crease, wondering what the hell is going on when suddenly an image appears, one I’m all too fucking familiar with since that night is seared into my brain, branded with a hot iron. The video of the library is grainy, almost as if someone filmed us through a dirty glass. It’s enough to confirm our suspicions that whoever was there that night was able to hide away in the secret passageways of the house without us knowing.
Before I can make sense of what point of the night I’m looking at, a white flash blurs the image, making whoever was holding onto the phone recording the whole shitshow lose their focus for a split second. The image trembles for a bit, but when it zooms back on us, it’s unmistakable what just happened.
Finn and East have my Uncle Crawford bound tight on the floor, wailing in pain from the gunshot to his leg. My hand is still clutching his gun, staring my uncle down with such loathing that it’s a wonder I didn’t finish him then and there.
My heart beats rapidly in my chest, remembering perfectly all the words said that night even though the video doesn’t have any sound to it. I’m sure the real one does, though, since it’s obvious this has been cut and edited only to focus on my part of the despicable night. I fist my hand on the duvet, thankful that Lincoln and Aunt Sierra aren’t in the shot as my uncle continues to spew his filth. But hell must have heard me because, all too soon, my cousin walks into view, slowly heading in our direction. I swallow dryly as I remember the tempest in his blue eyes as he unclenches my hand off the gun and takes it into his own. With a steady hand, Linc holds the gun under Crawford’s jaw, whispering the last words the fucker will ever hear.
My breath catches in my throat as I watch for a second time Lincoln pulling the trigger, making sure that my uncle’s brain matter spills in all directions, his hot blood on our skin sealing the four of us to this unknown fate.
I didn’t feel remorse then, and I don’t feel it now. Even when watching the replay, I feel nothing. The only thing that troubles me is that The Society has ironclad proof of what went down that night, which means we are officially fucked. They’ve got us by the shorthairs, and they know it.
And now so do I.
One wrong move, and we’re all done for.
With the faint smell of blood and gore resurfacing all around me, the video ends. In its place, the same black screen comes up with The Society symbol, only this time, it’s paired with a sinister robotic voice coming through the speakers.
“Colt Turner—Richfield heir and Asheville’s most notorious son. We’ve
been watching you, as you can tell by our little home movie. What a murderous web you and your friends have weaved for yourselves. We’re sure by now you’ve realized this is only a small recorded sample of your misgivings. We’re keeping the full show close to the vest, but don’t worry. We’re not going to use this against you. Not yet anyway. Not if you play by our rules. Unlike your friends, we’ve decided that you are different, and therefore, worthy of special consideration.”
“I’ll show you different, motherfucker.” I grind my teeth.
“Just like your friends, in the letter attached, you will be given a task. However, bear in mind it is not the assignment we are really interested in you performing. Think of it as a decoy in order not to raise suspicion from your so-called brothers. Lying should come as second nature to you now, so we’re sure you’re not uncomfortable with keeping up pretenses even with them. We are going to give you a once in a lifetime opportunity to redeem yourself. Finn and Easton have failed their missions and therefore have been punished for it. You, on the other hand, can set the wrongs they have done right. If you do as you are told, then we will destroy this piece of evidence.”
“Liar.” I scoff.
Just how fucking stupid do these shitheads think I am?
“Remember what is a stake here—your freedom. Our patience is running thin with your friends’ disobedience, yet here we are, offering you a golden opportunity to redeem yourselves. Mercy is not something we shell out often, but we believe your task will be one you want answers to as well. Are you ready?”
“Yeah, asshole, I’m ready,” I spit out like the fucker can hear me.
“You have been lied to.”
My brows crease.
“And this lie is one that we want to be uncovered and told to the world. In exchange for exposing this secret, we will make sure to keep yours buried. No one will know that you were the one who drew first blood that night. No one will know the depravity of your actions. All you have to do is dig deep and unbury the secret that the people closest to you have been trying to keep hidden. Consider it one dirty secret for another. That is our proposal. Succeed in your mission, and we will expunge the wrongs you and your friends have afflicted on us. But for this to occur, you must not divulge a single word about this deal to anyone. If you do, we will find out, and this ‘get out of jail free card’ will be null and void. Your friends’ fate, as well as your own, is now solely in your hands. Do with it what you will. Oh, and Colt, one more word of advice. Trust no one.”