by Ivy Fox
“It’s not you that he’s pissed at. It was Stone saying that we haven’t done anything to get Ken out of her engagement that has him all wound up.”
“Speak for yourself,” I bite back, watching Lincoln’s shadow get further away from the house. “I’ve been trying to get her to call the whole thing off since the day she announced she was going to get married to the dipshit.”
“You can’t change her mind. Only he can.”
“Hell has a better chance of freezing over,” I reply sadly, the knots in my stomach twisting profusely.
“You have got to let that shit go, Colt.”
Easton forcefully stubs the rest of his cigarette in the ashtray, thinking the reason behind my disapproval of Ken getting hitched is because I’m still harboring feelings for her.
If only that were possible.
“Yeah, I heard you the first time.”
“Just focus on the shit that you have on your plate and leave Ken alone.”
It’s his authoritarian tone that hits a nerve.
“It’s funny how deluded some people are to be under the impression they can order me around. I’m my own man, you know? I do what I want, when I want. Don’t ever forget that.”
“You’re an asshole. A man is a stretch.”
I throw him the finger, beating him to the punch, and walk toward the front door.
“Where are you going?”
“Where does it look like? He needs me.”
I don’t need to explain anything further and begin my search to find my pensive, somber cousin through the vast woods. When I finally catch up to him, I don’t say a word. Lincoln knowing I’m here is enough. I’d follow him to hell and back if he’d asked me to. Because while everyone is so quick to point out all my flaws or try to change me in every way, my cousin has always accepted me for who I am. Acceptance in a world intent on wanting to mold you into a version of themselves is only one of the reasons why Lincoln is better than most of us.
As the fall leaves crunch under our feet, my mind wanders onto another dismal day that we walked through these very woods trying to escape the ugliness of our lives and deal with the reality of who we are.
I’m texting Ken a funny meme when my bedroom door flies open, my mother standing stiffly under its threshold.
“Come with me,” she orders, snapping her fingers.
“Why? Where are we going?” I stammer, stunned, placing my phone down beside me.
My mother hardly ever talks to me, much less comes into my room out of her own free will.
“Your cousin needs you,” is all the explanation she gives before turning her back on me.
On any other occasion, I would be reluctant to go anywhere with that woman, but the very mention of my cousin is enough to persuade me to follow her willingly. I get off the bed, making sure to grab my shoes and coat, and rush to keep up with her long strides, struggling to put my clothes on. Once we get into our car, she orders the driver to take us to Aunt Sierra’s house across town. I try not to fidget in my seat, wondering what could possibly have happened to my cousin to warrant a visit from my mother. Even though I have a million and one questions to ask her, we spend most of the ride to his house in silence. Whatever is wrong must be serious, though.
My mother’s shoulders look tense and rigid even if her stoic expression says differently.
Colleen Richfield doesn’t show emotion.
Ever.
“Feelings are for the weak,” she says. “And Richfields are never weak.”
My older sister Meredith is just like her, cold and unfeeling. She just turned fifteen last month, two years older than me, but by the way she mimics our mother so perfectly, you’d swear she had celebrated her fortieth birthday.
I know Mom wants me to be more like my sister, but it’s harder for me.
If I find something funny, I laugh.
If I find something sad, I cry.
If something gets me upset, I shout and break stuff.
And if I love something, I show that, too.
This is unacceptable behavior for my mother. She says I have too much of my father in me like that’s a bad thing or something. I don’t mind that I’m like Dad. At least he still kisses me goodnight, even though I keep telling him I’m too old for it. He still plays catch with me when I ask him to and surprises me with trips to the movies and promises of eating junk food afterward. He isn’t ashamed of showing his feelings and showers me with attention and love at every opportunity he gets.
But that all changes when Mom is around, though.
Then he switches off all emotion to everyone around him, just as easily as one does a faucet.
I’ve been trying to see how he does it, so I can do it, too. I almost have the hang of it, but I have to keep practicing to be really good at it. That way, when Mom is around, she won’t be upset with me once I show her that I can be made of stone, too.
She’ll finally be proud, and for her, pride is as close as she will ever get to loving me.
Unfortunately for me, I’m unable to conceal what I’m feeling right now. Proof of that is how my heart is beating a mile a minute. Wiping my clammy hands over and over on my knees, I wonder what could have happened to my cousin for my mother’s well-mannered poise to show some cracks.
“What’s wrong with Linc?” I ask, unable to keep it in any longer, but my mother refuses to even look at me.
Another pearl of wisdom from dear old mom is that a person should only speak once they have been spoken to. She is adamant that you can learn a lot more from a person through observation instead of filling the time with empty chit-chat. “Talk is cheap and can easily distort the truth.” She’s fond of saying. “Observing one’s actions, however, is worth its weight in gold.”
“Mom. Why are we going to see Linc?” I repeat, tired of her silent treatment.
“All you need to know is that he needs you. That’s all.”
“But why?”
“Colt! Enough with the questions. Should he feel the need to tell you himself, he will. Right now, all I want from you is your presence, not your endless babbling,” she snaps, turning her gaze to the passing scenery out her window. “And remember—duty, honor, and family is all that’s important in this world.”
I hope that’s not true since I mostly hate mine.
When the driver pulls up to the Hamilton Estate, I run up to the house only to stop mid-step when my mother doesn’t follow me. Instead of going inside, she turns around in the opposite direction and heads over to the Oakley Woods. Confused, I trail behind her when suddenly I hear a pained wail coming from somewhere deep inside the woods.
Lincoln.
I race in the direction of his cry, completely bypassing my mother at maddening speed. When I finally find him, he’s on his knees, crying hysterically and shouting at the wind. I’m taken aback by the sight of it, frozen in place.
Lincoln is more than just my cousin.
He’s always been like a brother to me—one that protects and stands up for me when no one else does. While everyone else in our family is fake and cold, he’s the only one that refuses to submit to our heartless legacy. His kindness and gentle soul outshines us all, so seeing him like this hurts my heart.
“Linc? What’s wrong? What’s wrong, Linc?” I stammer while slowly inching closer to him.
I shake his shoulders, trying to coax an explanation out of him, but he doesn’t answer me. He just keeps crying, rocking back and forth in the dirt, mumbling incoherently under his breath.
“Help him!” I yell over to my mother, but she stands back, watching my cousin fall apart.
“Mom, I said help him!” I shout again, but still, she keeps to her immovable state.
How can she just stand there and do nothing?
I’ve never hated her more.
I hug him to me, feeling completely powerless to help him. My tears begin to freefall from my cheeks and dampen the earth beneath, mingling with his. It takes forever for Linc to calm himself
down, but once he stops his manic rocking, I sigh out in relief. After all his tears have dried up, his bloodshot eyes look up at my mother.
“Did you know?” His voice is so hoarse from all the yelling that it takes me a minute to grasp what he asked her.
“Yes,” she answers him stiffly.
“Who else?”
“All you need to know is that no one outside this family will ever divulge what you learned today.”
“Right.” He scoffs, sounding older than his twelve years. He swipes the dirt off his knees but refuses to stand up. “I always knew he hated me. Now I know why.”
My mother takes three quick strides to us, pushing me away to grasp his chin so forcefully, Lincoln has no choice but to look up at her from his kneeling position.
“Look at me, Lincoln. You are a Richfield. That is all that matters. Do you understand me?”
His eyes begin to water again, but he refuses to lower his fixed gaze from hers.
“Say it, child! I am a Richfield!”
“You’re hurting him!” I cry out, trying to pull my mother away, but her nails just end up sinking further into his skin, creating maroon indents on his chin.
“I said say it, Lincoln! I am a Richfield!”
His ocean eyes turn a violent color as he begins to stand up.
“I am a Richfield.”
“Louder.”
“I am a Richfield.”
“I said louder!” she yells.
“I am a Richfield!”
“That’s right! You are. Everything else doesn’t matter. Only that. Am I making myself clear?”
He nods, drying the errant tears that managed to break free during her brutal assault.
“Good. Now tell me. Where is that wretched sister of mine?”
“Inside,” he croaks, squaring his shoulders and tilting his bruised chin to the main house.
“I’ll have a talk with your mother. She should have been the one to remind you of who your true family is.”
“She’s not doing so well.”
In other words, Aunt Sierra must be wasted and crawled off into a corner somewhere.
“My sister never is,” my mother says with a disgusted snarl and then turns to me.
“Stay here with your cousin. I don’t want either of you in the house for the next hour or so. I have to set a few things straight and remind the dear governor who really runs this town.”
I nod, too afraid to utter a single word. I’ve never seen my mother like this. The woman standing in front of me might as well be a stranger since I don’t recognize her one bit. For someone who has tried to drill into me that showing emotion, no matter what it may be, is a sign of failure at its worst degree, she sure let it all out a second ago.
This wasn’t being disgruntled or upset.
This was a show of unrestrained rage.
When she leaves, I look over to Lincoln for answers. “What the hell just happened? Why were you crying?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. Aunt Colleen is right.” He shrugs.
“About what?”
“About who I am.”
My brows furrow in confusion with the vague explanation, as well as the faint smile that is on his lips.
“You came for me,” he says, changing the subject.
“Of course, I did. If you need me, I’ll always be here for you.”
His blue eyes are back to shining their bright light, making me feel like I’m the most important person to him. He wraps his arm over my shoulder, the sides of our heads touching.
“I love you, Colt. You’re the brother I should have had.”
“Ahh, don’t get all mushy on me.” I tease, jabbing my elbow playfully into his gut.
It would be pointless for me to tell him I feel the same way. He knows I do.
“So, what do you want to do for the next hour?”
“We walk.” He smiles, wiping the tears from his cheek, smearing dirty streaks onto his face. “And maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll get lost in these woods and forget there is a life outside of them,” he adds softly, looking deep into the woods as if it holds the escape he longs for. The pain that is back in his voice has my chest tightening in fear.
“If you ever get lost, I’ll find you,” I vow, not wanting to let the woods keep him.
He’s all I’ve got.
He tilts his head toward me, his genuine smile back on his lips.
“I know you would, Colt. You always do.”
Chapter 9
Emma
The Charlotte Library is filled with its usual hushed silence. The blissful quiet only interrupted every so often by a faraway cough or a clearing of a throat by the handful of souls here. While the devout are known to spend their Sunday mornings on their knees in prayer, and the sinful in bed, sleeping off the debaucheries they committed the night before, I find myself in the only place that reminds me of home. There is nowhere I would rather be than right here surrounded by the written word of great philosophers, poets, and historians—their accomplishments giving me the fortitude that I need to achieve mine.
Unfortunately, my happy place is perturbed by the sound of an unwelcome intruder’s footsteps drawing closer to me. I keep my head bowed, pretending to focus on my scribbled notes when the chair opposite me slides back, scraping against the old flooring with the sole intent of grabbing my attention.
“Mr. Turner.”
“Professor Harper.”
How bad is it that I knew it was him all along, even before he uttered a single word?
To my displeasure, I’ve become much attuned to the man sitting in front of me. It’s been a secret burden I’ve been carrying for the better part of a month now. I’ve tried every trick in the book to push the images of my infuriating sexy-as-hell student from my mind, but he’s determined not to make it easy for me.
In class, if I so much as have the misfortune of glancing in his direction, his plastered on cocky grin tells me every illicit thing that he’s reminiscing about. Each time I catch him chewing the corner of his lower lip, eyeing my legs so unabashedly, I know he’s picturing them spread apart, his tongue lapping at my center. For that very reason, I avoid making any eye contact with him, but it’s of little use. I don’t have to look at Colt to feel his eyes peeling every garment of clothing off my body. It only takes one of his heady stares to place me right back in that abandoned alley, the memory of his lust-filled words a never-ending torture.
Every time you talk in class, I imagine your lips around my cock.
When you bend over your desk, I want to ram my nine-inch cock into your pussy in front of the whole damn class.
And when I see your black bra beneath the low cut white shirt that you like to wear so much, I imagine ruining them with my cum.
Safe to say, I threw that shirt in the trash the first chance I got.
It has taken all my willpower, and then some, to pretend I don’t feel his lingering gaze on me at all times or disguise the way my skin heats up whenever he’s near. How my core clenches in anticipation, that he follows through on all his wicked promises, and that I once again fall to the mercy of my desires as I did on that fateful Halloween night. And now, if tormenting me in my own classroom wasn’t enough, Colt has decided to come to my holy church to antagonize me further.
Argh.
Instead of having to bear looking at his godlike features for another second, I return my attention to my notes, pretending that they are far more interesting than my present company.
“I have to admit I’m surprised to see you here, Mr. Turner. On a Sunday morning, no less. Lost, are you?” I state, my tone reserved as I flick a page of my notebook.
“Not at all. Since you’ve been a no-show at the club, I thought my best chance to see you again would be to come here. Happy to see I was right,” he explains, his voice thick and luscious.
I stiffen my back and flip yet another page, a tad too brusquely.
“You see me all the time back in school. You shouldn’t have bothe
red making the long drive to Charlotte for that.”
Flip.
“Some things are worth the effort.”
“Not in this case. You know what my office hours are. For the sake of your environmental footprint, just walk there the next time you want to annoy me.”
Flip.
“And miss seeing you this flustered? I’d fly my family’s Learjet not to miss this.”
“Of course you would.”
Flip.
Flip.
Flip.
When his hand comfortingly covers mine to stop my incessant flicking, it throws me completely off-kilter. He surprises me yet again with his uncharacteristic demure smile. Still, the way the soft green shimmer of his eyes successfully slows my heartbeat to its normal smooth rhythm is what really confuses me. Once he’s made sure I’m more composed, he removes his hand from mine and sits back into his seat as if this vulnerable moment between us never happened.
“So this is how you spend your free time, huh? Reading old books?”
He picks up one of the various books I have lying around on the desk and begins to examine it.
“I don’t see how that is any of your business, Mr. Turner,” I retort, standing up from my seat just enough to snatch the book away from his hands.
“Colt.”
“What?” I question distractedly, still trying to find my bearings.
“You know my name, Emma,” he replies teasingly, apparently back to his old cocky self. “Or are you fishing for me to remind you like I did last time?”
He arches a mischievous brow, making sure to put the image in my head of how he had me screaming out his name last time we were alone like this.
“Colt, it is,” I quip back sternly, praying that my tone will keep him from elaborating further.
“Good. No need for the whole Mr. Turner bullshit. Like I told you before, it sounds like you’re talking to my father, and I would rather not think of him while I’m talking to you if you don’t mind.”
“That’s the second time you said something along those lines. I gather you don’t like your father much?”
“There isn’t much to like,” he replies aloofly, his gaze falling to the open notebook in front of me.