Backlash

by Geneva Lee

  I was—until now.

  “What the fuck, Lucky?” I growl. Zeus backs away a little and I force myself to take a deep breath. If I can scare him, what does she think of me? Is that why she left? Did I say something? Did I frighten her? Is that why she turned away from me five years ago?

  I look down at the gun heavy in my palm and realize if that’s the case, she’s smarter than I thought—and I’ve always thought Adair was brilliant. I flick on the safety and shove the gun in my waistband. There’s no danger here, except me. I should have seen myself coming.

  I spin around, rubbing my palm against my neck. She can’t have gone far. I feel stupid thinking about my conversation with Percy now. He said she seemed quiet tonight. He meant when she left! I consider trying to catch him before his shift ends to see if he has a clue where she’s gone. Then, I can go after her, demand an explanation. But I know Adair. She gave nothing away. Still, it’s not like I won’t be able to spot the Roadster, even in Nashville traffic. It stands out a little. I’ll make her see that it’s not like before. I’ll prove it to her like I should have five years ago.

  I reach for my phone and start to slip it into my pocket when the lock screen flashes a text notification. All the pieces fall into place in an instant when I see Sutton’s name. The conversation I’d been having with her probably read a lot differently to Adair. She wouldn’t know it was playful. She wouldn’t know it was innocent.

  Because she doesn’t know Sutton is my sister, and that’s on me. I pick and choose what I let Adair see about me and my life. I always have. So why did I hand her my phone so thoughtlessly?

  “Fuck!” My phone hits the wall and crashes to the ground with a loud crack before I realize that I’ve thrown it. What the fuck was I thinking? There are a dozen people I wouldn’t want her to read texts from and I just gave her my phone? Clearly, I wasn’t the one thinking; my dick was. It’s not the first time. It might be the worst time, though. Had Adair gone through them all? Snooped through my life? Does she know who I am now? What I am? I slide the message and read the thread.

  Adair didn’t need to read more than this. Without any context, it looks bad—really goddamn bad. It’s a testament to how screwed up our relationship is that I’d rather she had found a message from one of my clients. That might have gone over better than me saying I love you to another woman. Anyone could have texted me while she had the phone, but it had to be Sutton. It’s just like us to get the short straw.

  Adair might be my lucky charm, but the thing about luck is that it’s bad as often as it’s good. And this time? My luck is as bad as it gets.

  4

  Sterling

  The Past

  Cyrus leans over the bar while the bartender flirts with a few of Adair’s friends. Straightening to his feet, he holds up a bottle of West Tennessee Whiskey. He swipes a glass. “Want one?”

  It’s not the first time he’s offered me a drink. I’m not sure why he keeps asking. Maybe he expects that one day I’ll take him up on the offer.

  Today’s that day. “Sure.”

  He grins and grabs another glass. Then, he tilts his head toward an archway. I follow him away from the party, down a hall, and into a large study. Built-in bookshelves line the walls, filled with a neatly organized library of leather-bound volumes. They’re beautiful books, their titles stamped in gold on their unbroken spines. There’s not a speck of dust to be seen as I wander around, perusing.

  “Adair’s dad is a reader, too,” I note as Cyrus hands me a tumbler of amber liquid. I hold it for a moment, aware of its weight in my palm.

  Cyrus laughs. “No clue.”

  “He has a lot of books,” I point out, admiring his collection of Hemingway.

  “So does my Dad,” he says with a shrug. “His home office looks a lot like this, and I’ve never seen him read a book. He’s too busy with contracts and stuff. I think shit like this comes with a house on Magnolia Lane.”

  I start to pull out a copy of Exit to Eden.

  “Don’t, man,” Cyrus warns me. “There are cameras everywhere. Her dad goes nuts if people touch his shit.”

  No one touches the books, let alone reads them. I force a tight-lipped smile. That explains their pristine condition. Pretty objects to fill empty places. Books mean something else entirely to me. Mr. MacLaine doesn’t deserve this library. He doesn’t deserve this life.

  “I can’t believe he left on her birthday,” I say.

  “It’s better, though,” Cyrus points out. “All our parents take off so they can pretend they don’t know what we get up to.” He taps his glass against mine. “Cheers to absentee parents.”

  It’s a weird thing to toast to, but I guess if daddy pays the bills and keeps you in luxury cars, you don’t care.

  “What about you?” Cyrus asks.

  “Huh?” The glass is hovering near my mouth, but I can’t seem to take a drink.

  “Your parents. You never talk about them.” A shadow passes over his face and his eyes widen. “Fuck, I forgot. I met your, um, adoptive mom, right?”

  “Foster mom,” I correct him. Suddenly, it’s easy to take a sip. The whiskey burns down my throat, igniting a deeper thirst. I take another drink.

  “Sorry, none of my business.” But I can tell he’s curious.

  “They’re dead,” I say flatly. It’s almost the truth. I’m only half lying, and they both might as well be dead for all I care.

  “Fuck.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. That’s rough.”

  Given the worst thing that’s ever happened to Cyrus Eaton was probably dinging his BMW, I doubt he can relate. I don’t hold it against him. Why would I want another human to live through the death of their mother—let alone their mother’s murder? But I wish he didn’t feel the need to sympathize. He doesn’t get it. He never will. His platitudes are meaningless.

  Silence falls between us, and I think he expects me to fill it in with the story of their tragic deaths or some shit. No way am I falling down that hellhole.

  “Another?” Cyrus asks, holding out the bottle.

  I thrust my cup toward him, remembering what Adair said about her mother. Drinking is to escape. I’ll drink to that, because I’ve never wanted out more in my life.

  * * *

  We make short work of the bottle. Cyrus provides the entertainment, telling me about every ridiculous birthday party he’s been to at Windfall. He’s just wrapping up the story of the year an interactive haunted house went terribly wrong as we polish off the last of the whiskey.

  “You two have known each other a long time.” I like the way my head feels, fuzzy like the old television set Francie kept in the kitchen—so old it used a shitty antenna to pick up the local news.

  “We’ve known each other the longest, since like diapers. Most of our friends moved here later, but we’ve always been here.” He tries to pour himself more and frowns when a single drop plops into his glass. “We’re out.”

  “Let’s get more.” There appears to be no shortage of booze at Windfall.

  “I hated her,” Cyrus says as we trip down the hall, the sound of the party growing louder with each step. “When we were kids, I mean. She was a snot.”

  “Ha! Was!” I clap a hand over my mouth, realizing I let this escape.

  Cyrus only laughs. “She’s better than a lot of them.”

  “Not as nice as Poppy,” I remind him.

  “You sure you don’t want to date Poppy?” He raises two eyebrows. Or maybe it’s only one. Or maybe there’s two of him. It’s hard to decide, because things are getting a little blurry around me.

  “I belong to Adair MacLaine,” I tell him, “for now.”

  “What?” he asks.

  I wave him off. “Nothing.”

  Before he can press me for more details, we step inside the atrium to discover everyone is still crowded in a semi-circle around Adair. She’s smiling widely and holding something in the air. A purse, maybe? It’s hard to make-out.

  “S
he’s still unwrapping presents?”

  “A lot of guests. The girls always have to open every present and fall all over whoever gave it,” he explains.

  “And you don’t?”

  “No, fuck that.” His answering grin is sly. “Course, we usually just get booze. We’re lucky if anything makes it until morning. We tend to drink it all. Speaking of…” Cyrus points to the bar. “Be right back.”

  I study Adair while he grabs more liquor. Her smile is plastered on, dulling at the edges and nowhere near her eyes. There’s a crease between them where she’s worn a line from worry. Or is it anxiety? Frustration? Who the fuck knows? I don’t get her. She claims to want nothing to do with all this, but she steps right up and takes all these gifts, laughs off fifty-dollar party favors, and gulps champagne.

  I’m beginning to understand her problem. She wants to believe she doesn’t fit in with this crowd, but it’s just an indulgent fantasy, like the rest of her life. She’s the heroine of her own story, choosing to see herself as a victim waiting to be rescued. But from what? The happy ending that comes along with a padded bank account? Already having everything handed to her?

  Yeah, her life is so fucking hard.

  “Here.” Cyrus returns and thrusts a new cup in my hand, filled to the brim with whiskey. “The bartender is being a bitch about me swiping another bottle. Apparently, he’s never heard not to bite the hand that feeds him.”

  I swallow the drink along with the words crowding in my throat. Of course, he sees it that way. Everything belongs to these people. The world exists for them to take.

  “Ahh, this will be her big present.” Cyrus elbows me and I turn my attention back to Adair. Poppy is tying a blindfold over her eyes. Adair looks fucking thrilled about it.

  “Her big present?” Because half a department store’s worth of shit isn’t enough?

  “From her parents. I mean, her dad,” Cyrus corrects himself quickly.

  I frown. “Her dad isn’t here.”

  “Yeah, but he left a present.” He looks at me like I’m from another planet.

  Maybe I am. Maybe I’m from a planet where dads don’t remember birthdays, so they can’t leave town on them, where there aren’t any presents or cake or music. There’s booze, though, and plenty of it. It’s just not for celebrating or escaping. It’s just a fact of life.

  As if I need proof this is the case, the next thing I hear is heavy foot falls, falling like claps of thunder on the marble floor. My head swivels towards the sound to find a jet black horse being led towards Adair.

  “Is that a fucking horse?” I’m not sure why I need confirmation. Even with half a bottle of whiskey coursing through my blood, I think I still know what a horse looks like.

  “Another one.” He shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure that’s the only thing Angus knows she likes. I think it’s like” —he counts on his fingers— “the third one he’s given her as a present. Maybe the fourth. She got one for graduation.”

  “Does he know you can only ride one horse at a time?” My mouth is dry. I take another drink to wet it.

  “You can only drive one car. That doesn’t mean you only own one.”

  That’s pretty much exactly what it means. I keep this to myself, though.

  Poppy tugs off Adair’s blindfold, and she gasps, jumping up and down. But there’s something hollow in her actions. I half expect to look up and find puppet strings dangling over her head. She doesn’t need them, though. She knows how all the steps, and how the beats work—she can put on her performance for memory.

  God, I hope the horse shits in the foyer.

  The man leading the horse takes it away, presumably to the stables, but I don’t know. Maybe she sleeps with them. I no longer hold these people to any measure of sanity I’m familiar with.

  “I think they want us,” Cyrus says, nudging my arm with his.

  I turn back to Adair, and she’s waving us over.

  I resign myself to joining her, but I can’t stop thinking about what she said earlier. She’d told me I was all she wanted for her birthday. Now I know that probably meant on a silver platter, wrapped with a bow, and delivered to her with minimal effort. I’m just another toy—another object, like the presents scattered across the table. Something shiny. Something new. She’ll play with me until she gets bored. If I’m lucky, she’ll pass me off like a hand-me-down or donate me to a bitch less fortunate than herself. Standing in Windfall, I can safely assume even the richest girls here fall in that category.

  Why did I ever let myself believe we had a single thing in common?

  “Did you see?” Poppy’s glowing with excitement. “An Arabian.”

  “A what?”

  “An Arabian,” she repeats. “Adair’s always wanted one, and her dad got her one.”

  “Lucky girl,” I say pointedly.

  Adair’s eyes flash, but she manages a tight smile. “I wanted one when I was like six, Poppy.” She rolls her eyes as if this can offset the extravagant tribute made to birth tonight. “Like I needed another horse.”

  “Can you have too many?” I pass it off as a joke, but her forehead wrinkles as she laughs. Some part of her heard it for what it really was: a gentle reminder that she’s being an ungrateful bitch. As usual.

  “I promised Sterling some alone time,” Adair says, grabbing my arm.

  “Ohhhh.” Poppy’s mischievous wink tells me that Adair’s been telling everyone about her plans to nail me. I wonder if Poppy’s on the list of girls next in line for a piece of me.

  “I should probably go.” I hitch a thumb in what I think is the direction of the door. “You have a horse to attend to.”

  “Nonsense,” Poppy cuts in. “He’s being taken care of. You aren’t going anywhere. Besides, don’t you have a present for her?”

  I don’t know if she means the pathetic one I left in her car, the one wrapped in cheap paper I found at the student union, or my dick, which seems to be what Adair’s really after. At least one of them’s worth something.

  “He gave it to me earlier,” Adair blurts out.

  Is she embarrassed at the idea of opening a present from me in front of her rich friends? She would be if she knew what was inside that stupid package.

  “I should get back to the dorms,” I repeat, my whole being wanting to walk away from this place, from her, from all of them.

  “But my dad’s out of town,” she reminds me in a whisper. “I thought you would stay the night…”

  So, she still expects her birthday treat. Poor little rich girl needs to fill the gaping hole inside her. Maybe she’d be a different person if her dad actually showed up for her birthday. I don’t know. But then how could he turn a blind eye? Of course, it’s not like he can’t watch all of this on security cameras, relive each happy moment he bought for her instead of being there. No wonder Adair uses people like she does. How can I expect her to think of me as a person when I have something of value she doesn’t own yet? I wonder what her dad would think if he knew his little girl was planning to screw some poor kid from Queens. What would he think of his prize possession on her knees in front of me? I remember what Cyrus said about cameras and how Angus MacLaine hates when people touch his belongings.

  I’ll stay, but I’m going to make her work for it. She’s going to beg for it, and I’m going to make sure Windfall’s cameras catch every minute.

  5

  Adair

  Present Day

  Sterling isn’t my only problem—he’s just the one that hurts the most. The whole shitshow that is my life is why I’m driving aimlessly through downtown Nashville, wondering if I’m crazy or stupid or some dangerous combination of the two.

  I’m homeless. It’s one of the many thoughts rattling around in my brain—and it’s getting louder each second. Self preservation in action, I guess. It’s a problem I can actually fix. The rest of my thoughts?

  They’re all about him.

  Heartless. Evil. Bastard. I’m at least five miles away from Sterling�
��s place and distance is not making the heart grow farther. My brain is shouting every insult it can come up with to drown out the whispering doubts vying for my attention.

  I don’t want to hear those. I scream the loud ones, the angry ones. I call him names. I shout so loudly another driver’s head turns, a puzzled expression on his face. I feel badly until he flips me off. I turn some of my rage on him, but it doesn’t silence the doubts. They scratch at my brain, tickle against my nerves, refuse to be ignored. The quiet thoughts are the dangerous ones.

  I should have known better.

  No one will ever love me.

  I’m an idiot.

  I’ll never be anyone other than a MacLaine.

  And the worst of all?

  He loves her.

  Sutton.

  Sutton who called me a bitch. Sutton who begged him to come home. Sutton who usually gets her way. Sutton who implied this was all a game. Sutton, the woman I’ve never heard a thing about, and Sutton, the woman he loves.

  I want to leave everything behind me. The old Roadster isn’t very fast—not by modern standards—but it’s always willing. I drop into second gear, sending the engine screaming towards the red line. A woman pushing a stroller along the sidewalk screams something at me as I pass, but I’m beyond caring if I woke her baby. I mash the throttle around a corner, sending the tail of the Jag sideways, and I have to wrestle the steering wheel into submission.

  I knew Sterling had an agenda. I sensed it from the very beginning. He told me as much to my face. I let myself believe it was about money—about proving himself. I wanted to believe it, too. I wanted to believe he had returned to Valmont to show off what he’s become.

  I should have known better. He came back to hurt me. I didn’t want to think it then, but refusing to believe something doesn’t make it any less true.

  And knowing that’s what brought him back? It shreds me, because it means nothing we shared was ever real. Then. Now. I deluded myself into thinking that he loves me—that he sees past my family’s wealth, that he forgives my privilege, that he understands me.