With a sigh, I move to the front of the line and spy the cold remedies the cashier keeps behind the counter. Someone is looking out for me.
“Can I have some of that?” I point to the Benadryl.
“Anything else?” The cashier grabs a bottle of Benadryl and places it on the counter.
“Just these.” I place down the mystery novel I snagged and three little bottles of booze.
The man behinds me coughs as I flip open my purse to pay. I pull out a credit card. The cashier glances at my card, then flippantly points to the huge sign on the card reader, which says, ‘Reader not working. CASH ONLY.’
“Oh, sorry.”
The man behind me shifts in place, getting impatient as I dig through my purse for the one thing I don’t have. Cash.
I stand like an idiot. Mouth agape, unable to form words. My cheeks heat with embarrassment.
“Uh, I’m sorry. I don’t have cash.” I’m not really sure why I keep standing there. With no way to pay, I should leave, but I desperately need that Benadryl if I’m going to make it through this flight. This must be what an addict feels when they can’t get their next fix.
“Here.” An arm reaches over my shoulder. The man behind me hands over a fifty-dollar bill. “Add this, if you will.” He places a bottle of water down on the counter.
Not used to charity from strangers, I’m not sure if I’m more embarrassed for the help than not being able to pay.
He’s a little older than me, maybe late twenties, early-thirties, though it’s hard to tell because I’m completely captivated by his eyes. They shine like burnished gold and hide secrets I want to uncover. I don’t know why that is. It’s a very uncharacteristic thought for me to have.
His expression is closed. Guarded. Whatever thoughts swirl in his head, they’re locked behind the impenetrable gates of his remarkable eyes.
I itch to pry open his secrets, but there’s a warning in his eyes. It tells me doing so is dangerous, and I should fear what I find. Doesn’t matter; I’m still undeniably captivated.
His phone alerts with an incoming text. The frown on his face after he reads it somehow makes him appear more handsome than less. More authoritative and striking than his overwhelming presence already suggests. And while he’s decked out in a designer suit, tailored to the exquisite perfection of his form, the three days of stubble which peppers his jaw is an imperfection which doesn’t match the manicured nails, tailored suit, and expensive watch.
Tiny worry lines edge the corners of his eyes, either from strain, stress, or pain. It doesn’t matter, because like the scruff of his beard, that tiny flaw adds more than it takes away.
I can’t get beyond the glow in his eyes. If one were to venture close enough, those eyes would pull them in and devour them. But I don’t get a chance to feel that pull, because he dismisses both me and the cashier with a curt, “Keep the change.”
Before I can thank him, he grabs the bottle of water and marches out of the store. Everything about him screams danger and caution. I’d go after him, but he rushes out without a backward glance. His phone goes to his ear, perhaps answering that text.
Not that it matters. I have a plane to catch.
As for change, our total bill comes to less than twenty dollars. That’s one hell of a tip.
The cashier rings up the purchase and hands me the change.
“I think he meant for you to keep it.” I try to hand it back.
The man shakes his head. “I can’t do that.” He bags my things. “Consider it a gift.”
“You sure?”
“It’ll hold you over until you get to a cash machine.” He gives me a soft, understanding smile.
“Is there one that’s close?”
“Not really.” He rattles off a gate number too far away.
Overhead, the gate attendant for my flight announces pre-boarding.
Evidently, I’m now thirty some odd dollars richer.
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
With my purchases in hand, I make a quick pit stop in the ladies’ restroom. It’s there that I open the bottle of cold medicine. The directions are pretty clear, but I double up on the dose. This stuff needs to knock me out; otherwise, I’m not going to make it.
With my entire body a buzzing jangle of nerves, I wait by the gate. They announce boarding for first class, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
Last chance to back out.
I’d leave, except with my eyes shut, all I see is Scott’s naked butt and Sadie bent over the desk. I sway a little as the cold medicine takes effect and reaffirm my decision to place my life in the law of probabilities.
The chance of this particular plane going down is astronomical, and I’m betting the pilots aren’t interested in dying. That means, technically, it’s safe. Right?
Unfortunately, logic doesn’t hold a candle to fear. My palms slick with sweat, and the only reason I move forward is because of the pushy lady behind me.
“Move along. Move along.” She shoves at me.
Geez, what’s the rush? We’re boarding in first class.
Nevertheless, her rudeness provides the stimulus I need to get my feet in gear. My ticket is scanned, and I file down the chute to what I hope won’t be an untimely death. Inside, I feel like we’re all cattle going to slaughter.
My heart pounds so fast it’s going to explode if it doesn’t slow down. My body barely holds itself together as my grip on my carry-on tightens.
But then I’m there, at the end of the jetway. One step puts me inside the living coffin. I squeeze my eyes shut and ignore the fear edging in on me. One step and I’m on board.
First class does not disappoint. It’s spacious, lots of leg room, and dammit if I don’t have a window seat. Exactly what I don’t need. My lips press together as I consider taking the aisle seat. I’m sure my row partner won’t mind? Maybe?
I stow my things overhead, keeping my backpack with the liquor, books, and cold medicine at my feet, and plop into the aisle seat.
Those around me do the same, stowing their gear, as people line up behind us. General boarding has begun. I clamp my seatbelt and draw it tight in preparation for the hurtling into the air part of this trip.
When the flight attendant asks if I want a glass of champagne, I don’t hesitate and down it in two long swallows. He doesn’t blink when I ask for another, and I slam that one down as well.
My lips feel a bit tingly, as does the tip of my nose. People file past, all in a rush to find their seats. First class fills up with the exception of the seat next to me. I’m thrilled by this. With my people skills, sitting next to a stranger is fraught with all kinds of questions.
Do I say hi?
Do I smile?
What about asking where they’re going?
What they do for a living?
If they have a family?
Or what about closing my eyes and pretending they don’t exist? That sounds like the best option.
I sway in my seat as the alcohol hits my system. Or maybe that’s the cold medicine taking effect? Either way, I’m ready for a nap. Considering I got next to no sleep last night, that sounds perfect.
Four
Hawke
A text demanding my immediate response pops on my screen. Mother is in her usual imperious mood. The world revolves around her. Nothing else matters.
Doesn’t matter what I’m doing at the time. She doesn’t tolerate having to wait. I should step out of line, but I’m next up. A frazzled looking woman stands in front of me holding three tiny alcohol bottles in her hand, a book is clutched under her arm, and she stops to ask the register clerk about cold medicines.
With great effort, I school myself to patience. Mother can wait a minute or two.
A minute turns to several when the woman in front of me is unable to pay. She pulls out her credit card, oblivious to the big sign on the card reader that says Cash Only.
Instead of waiting for her to sort it out, I pull a fifty from my wallet and pay
for us both. I storm out of there without a receipt or change.
Not that I care.
Once I’m free of the store, I find a quiet corner to do battle with my mother.
I hate the way she keeps me under her thumb. One day, I’ll be rid of her, but she’s tenacious enough to outlive me out of spite. If I don’t play by her rules, however, I’ll never see a dime of my inheritance. I grit my teeth in frustration and play her little game.
Normally, I would’ve answered her first text. I waited until the second to tell her I would be with her shortly. Talking to her while standing in line at the airport is grounds for disaster.
I need the space to give her my undivided attention. From her reply, that was not the correct answer. Her third text demanded an immediate response. I slapped down that fifty without a care about change and dutifully answered my summons.
That’s what this is. She’s not a loving mother reaching out to her son during the holidays. She would never lower herself to that level. Something’s wrong, likely some bug up her butt. Most likely, I’ve disappointed her and she feels a need to remind me how I’ve failed her expectations.
I find a quiet corner and place myself on a video call. Passengers rush all around me. It’s crowded, but no one pays attention to anything except where they’re going.
Mother picks up on the first ring, and her pinched expression stares out of the screen full of judgment and disappointment.
“About time, Hawke. You have no respect, keeping me waiting like that.”
“Good afternoon, Mother.” I greet her with a stiff nod. “I have a plane to catch, so we must make this quick. What’s the emergency?”
I’m not against going on the offensive. She twists everything to make it look like I’m the one with an attitude. It’s best to attack first rather than respond to whatever it is she intends on throwing at me.
“Well,” she says with a huff. “I suppose you needed time to extricate yourself from between whatever pair of legs are the flavor of the week.” Her nose pinches with disgust.
“I was not…” My fists curl as I control my temper. She doesn’t need to know how close to the truth her words come. I spent last night with two pairs of shapely legs wrapped all around me. Hopefully, I’ll do the same tonight, once I reach Euphoria.
“Please, don’t pretend you weren’t.” She always seems to know about my sexual exploits. I don’t know how. I’m discreet to a fault.
“What do you need?” I school myself to patience. “What’s so important you must interrupt my vacation?”
“So, you’re finally admitting it is a vacation.” Her gaze sharpens with her derisive tone. “And here you had me convinced you were working. I take it you’re headed to your little pet project?”
She hates everything about Euphoria. Listening to her, a person would think Euphoria was a heathen cesspool of STDs, unwilling sex slaves, and a nonstop orgy.
It couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve created a paradise for couples to immerse themselves in romance. We cater to every fantasy; to either rekindle a couple’s love or to allow new lovers to explore their fantasies together for the first time.
Our honeymoon suites sell themselves. That’s how strong our word of mouth advertising has become. As for a nonstop orgy, we’re not that kind of resort. Everything caters to bringing couples together, romantic interludes to satisfy every palate. I operate a classy, high-end exclusive resort, and I won’t have her tear it down.
If Mother knew the truth, that I’m a hopeless romantic at heart, she’d string me up by the balls and remind me there’s no room in life for love.
“If you’re asking, I am going to Euphoria. I finished, and sent, my recommendations yesterday.”
“Received and rejected. Were you even thinking when you went through the proposals? Did you read any of them?” Her derisive snort lifts my shoulders to my ears. It takes effort to forcibly relax and endure her verbal dressing down. “I’m not accustomed to such sloppy work, although considering what I have to work with…” She makes a dismissive gesture aimed directly at me.
I’m used to her disappointment. I’ll never be enough in her eyes, but I won’t cower beneath her ridicule.
Not anymore.
“I gave careful consideration to all the proposals. I read every word. It’s in what I sent, and summarized for you.” She never reads the reports I diligently pass to her desk, but she pours through every word of my summaries.
A matriarch more than a mother, she’s the family tyrant. Her word is law, and the rest of us have no choice but to fall in line. I’ve been bucking her authority since I was five, trying to separate myself from her power trips and abusive manipulation because deep down I wanted to believe there was more to life than the cold heart of a mother incapable of love.
She sits in the center of her kingdom, a traditional Georgian mansion steeped in the tyranny of the past. Her parlor occupies the majority of the west wing, overlooking her prize-winning rose garden.
Nothing in the room has changed since I was a boy. Not the priceless antiques, the overstated Victorian furniture, or the family portrait of my great-great-great-whatever grandparents.
Mounted beside that monstrosity is a picture of our family; Mother and Father with me lying on the floor and my twin sister cradled in Mother’s arms. The only smile in that painting is on the beautiful face of my sister, Cherise.
The only thing which has changed in the room in decades is Mother, herself. She’s thinner and more pale than I remember. It may be the lighting of the video call, but to me, she looks old and frail.
Her skin’s lost its radiant glow, sagging more than I remember. The lines of her face are more noticeable. Her raven locks, the one feature I inherited from her, are speckled with gray and hang limply around her shoulders. The only thing which remains of the mother I know is the piercing set of her eyes.
That same predatory expression sits on her face now, just like in the painting.
A flood of memories wash over me. Back then, we were happy. We didn’t know a few short years separated us from disaster. We didn’t know what would happen to my twin sister.
An innocent mistake forever changed her life. My mother will never forgive me for what happened, although she’s the one who left two children alone and unsupervised by the pool.
I didn’t mean to push Cherise into the water. I don’t have any memory of the event, but my mother’s blame is something I’ve endured for a lifetime.
My sister lives with the aftereffects of that fateful day. She survived but went too long without oxygen; her life profoundly affected as a result.
Unlike me, she’s happy, blissfully unaware of the horrifying consequences of that one act.
I did that, and Mother never lets me forget it.
Even if I’d only been five at the time.
Even though I’m not the one who left two children alone to grab another bloody mary.
Even though, I’m the one who pulled Cherise from the pool, nearly drowning myself in the process.
If not for me, Cherise would be dead. I saved her. I’ve always believed Mother wished Cherise had truly drowned instead of survived.
I take a deep breath and remind myself the past can’t be rewritten.
“What is it you found so inadequate?” I researched the hell out of each proposal, digging deep into not only the business plans put forth by the eager hopefuls praying for the capital investment of funds to make their dreams a reality, but also by researching their backgrounds and personal lives in addition to their proposals. My work is solid, and Sterling Enterprises will reap the rewards of the solid investment of our venture capital.
“You denied two of the top ten that show the most promise. This is our future, Hawke. How many times do I need to explain the simplest thing? You can’t afford to make the wrong decision. Any fool knows the future is in technology. Virtual reality is the next wave, and we need to be riding its crest, not scrambling to keep up. You took…”
<
br /> “I made a detailed analysis of each proposal. They weren’t discarded out of hand.”
One of those is a very promising virtual reality start-up, but their proposed business plan lacks development for full implementation. They’re onto something extraordinary but without a sound business plan, it’s doomed to fail. Of course, I could step in and take over, but I don’t have the time for another pet project. Time is money, and my time is infinitely valuable.
My mother gives one of her false smiles, the complete opposite of genuine. Her imperious gaze stares out of the screen. Those hazel eyes of hers shift, flicking downward as if she can’t stand the sight of me.
Across the way, they begin boarding for my flight. As a first-class passenger, I should be first to board, but I need to wrap up this call.
I don’t know what turned my mother’s heart to a frigid block of ice. She’s surrounded by wealth and success; success from a generation’s long family legacy. When I took the reins of the family business after father’s death, her wealth doubled from what it once was, precisely because of the investments I chase.
I’m very good at my job.
It’s not my fault she’s dead inside. And no matter what she says, my decisions are well-grounded with an eye toward future profitability.
I might be the CEO of Sterling Enterprises, but I answer to the controlling member of our board who happens to be my mother. She never lets me forget I serve her pleasure and not the other way around. My control, what little I have, is merely an illusion.
“Well, I disagree.” Her pinched expression tightens. “I want you to invite the authors of all ten proposals to Atlanta the first week of the new year. We’ll make our decision then.” Her imperious use of our makes my skin crawl.
“With all due respect, my recommendations stand. They’re well thought out. I’ve already consulted with the rest of the board…”
“I don’t care who you consulted.” Her sharp tone cuts deep. “Send the invites. I expect you to attend.”
Of course, she does. She wants to lord her power over me.
I brace for a slap in the face. A reminder that my inheritance is not mine. That she can easily ensure I never see a dime of what’s owed.
Hawke: Christmas in Paradise (Billionaire Boys Club) Page 3