Shattered Dreams (Dreams Series Book 1)

by Hicks, Braxton

  There was definitely an edge to his voice that neither of us challenged. The limo driver got out, opening the door for Trey. Gina was already scooting out of the Lamborghini, giving me a look that said, “Good luck, it's been nice knowing you.”

  Trey slid into the driver’s seat, electronically adjusting it to accommodate his height. The driver closed the limo door after Gina was settled inside. I was afraid to look at Trey. I smoothed the ball cap down; trying to lower the bill enough to shield me from the glare I knew I was getting at that very moment. Someone had to say something.

  “Trey,” I started to speak, humbly, “I know—”

  “Not a word,” he breathed, having difficulty containing his anger. “I’m too pissed off at the moment. I don’t want to risk saying anything to you that I'll regret later. For now, please stay quiet and put your seat belt on.”

  I scrambled to comply. The drive back to the manor felt extremely long despite the speed at which Trey was driving. I crouched as much as I could in a two-seater car away from him, but I could feel his anger burning through me. He'd every right to be. I'd abused his generosity and over-stepped boundaries by taking his expensive sports car out without asking. He'd never forgive me, I knew that. As soon as he pulled into the garage, I opened my door, anxious to put some distance between us.

  “Hold it there!” he ordered. I jumped, startled by his unsuppressed anger now that we were back on his turf. “I want you to go inside and go up to your room. As soon as I calm down, I'll be up and we'll be having a discussion. Understood?”

  I nodded, hating the fact that he was treating me like a child. I spotted the limo with Gina inside winding up the drive. I was humiliated on all fronts. The omnipresent Thatcher was there to open the door as I bolted in and up the stairs like a child waiting for the paddle. I slammed the door to “my room” immediately grabbing the suitcase out of the closet and throwing it wide open on the bed. I was tossing my clothing into it when there was a soft knock on my door. I knew he couldn't have calmed down already.

  “Come in,” I said.

  The door opened and Gina peered in the room, tentatively. Seeing that I was alone, she came in, closing the door behind her.

  “How pissed is he?” she asked.

  “Oh, he's monumentally pissed. Let me put it this way, he needs time to calm down just so that he can get to pissed.”

  “What should I do? Should I go?” Gina asked.

  “Don’t you dare leave me, Gina.”

  “I don’t want to but, clearly, he doesn't want me here.”

  “Please?” I begged. “Just do this. Go to your room and get your stuff packed and ready. I've a feeling I’m about to be banished back to my cottage. That's if I still have a job. You know I can’t stay in that cottage by myself. Please, you can’t leave until I know where I’m going.”

  “Calm down, okay? You’ve got it. I’ll start packing my shit. You come get me when you know what you’re going to do, okay?”

  I nodded, giving her a quick hug. “Thanks Gina.” I was still packing when there was another knock on my door. It was Thatcher.

  “Ms. Preston,” Thatcher addressed me warmly, “Mr. Sinclair's requesting you join him in his suite now if it meets with your convenience?”

  I swallowed nervously. “Sure thing, would you please tell him I'll be there in just a moment?”

  “Of course,” Thatcher answered kindly, almost as if he knew what was coming.

  Chapter 18

  I'd have to finish my packing after our “discussion.” I'd removed the ball cap, and brushed my hair up into a neat ponytail. I walked down the hall, my flip-flops making the trip none too quiet. I heard a “pssst” from behind me. Gina was peeking around the corner. I turned and hurried back to where she stood.

  “His majesty has summoned me to his quarters,” I said. “Here goes nothing.”

  “I got your back, Ty, don’t worry. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but you never can tell with rich, spoiled guys.”

  “Thanks,” I turned back and continued my walk of shame, flip-flopping down the carpeted hallway to Trey’s suite. I tapped lightly on his door. I could hear his stereo playing classical music on low volume. I knocked harder this time.

  “It’s open,” the smooth and silky voice said over the music.

  I turned the knob and went in, shutting the door softly behind me. He wasn’t in the bedroom part, which still bore the remnants of my previous night’s sleep there. What was with this staff? Any other time the room would have been cleaned and sanitized before I'd reached the bottom step. Great! Now, in addition to everything else, I'd probably be yelled at for leaving his room like a pigsty.

  “I’m in here,” Trey called out from the bathroom.

  I walked to the doorway.

  “Come in,” he invited. He'd evidently just showered, having a large bath towel wrapped around his lower half. I was curious as to why he hadn’t put his blue robe on. It was still lying across his bed where I'd left it.

  “Please have a seat,” he instructed, the only one being the toilet next to the double vanity where he was lathering up his face with warmed shaving cream. It appeared as if he hadn’t shaved today. I was curious as to why he hadn’t, particularly if he'd given oral arguments this morning in chambers.

  I hesitantly took my seat on his commode, turning to give him my full attention as he turned back to the mirror and started shaving. He must have a routine on how he shaved, I thought. I watched as he took the razor and pulled his cheek a bit with his left hand, while his razor cleared a path on the right side of his check, just below his natural sideburns. He dipped the razor in the warm soapy water in his sink, shaking the shaving cream off of it. He raised it back up, preparing to shave the dimple on his chin.

  That part was probably tricky, I thought. I watched his reflection in the mirror as he forced a wide grin on his face that helped to smooth out the dimple making the area more accessible for his razor. He stopped suddenly, half-stroke.

  “Son of a bitch!” he hollered, setting his razor down quickly, grabbing a tissue from the box and pressing it firmly against his now slightly bleeding dimpled chin. “I just put a new blade in this the morning I left for Atlanta.”

  Uh, oh.

  I wasn't sure if I should fess up or not. I mean it wasn't like he could get much more pissed than he already was.

  “I’m sorry, Trey,” I said softly. “That’s my fault. I used your razor a couple of times to shave my legs.”

  “I should've figured you were capable of drawing blood,” he snapped. “I know I packed your razor with the rest of your things from the cottage. Why did you need to use mine?”

  “I used your shower and forgot to bring mine in. I meant to put a new blade in it before you got home.”

  He eyed me warily as if he wasn’t sure he believed me. Like I'd lie about using his razor? I mean, it made more sense that a person would lie and say they didn’t use it, right?

  He grabbed a new blade out of the medicine cabinet, ejecting the old blade into the trash. He resumed shaving with no further incidents. I was starting to wonder when our discussion was going to begin.

  He leaned over the sink and rinsed his smooth face with water, patting it dry with a clean hand towel. He applied some of his aftershave lotion, careful to avoid the razor cut. He stuck a small piece of toilet paper on it for the time being. I hoped his dimple didn’t scar because of me.

  “So,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “do you want to explain to me what the hell happened last night?” His eyes were once again blazing at me. His hair was damp and tousled, totally distracting me from answering his question.

  “I’m waiting,” he said, growing impatient. He walked out of the bathroom still only dressed in his towel. I followed and sat down on the unmade bed while he disappeared into his closet. I heard drawers slamming, mumbled curses under his breath.

  “It’s kind of hard to talk to you when you’re out of the room,” I called out.

&nb
sp; He reappeared in a moment having put his boxers on and a pair of jeans that he was zipping up as he exited, still shirtless. “I’m listening,” he replied curtly.

  “Gina and I got a ride from Rodney over to the track to watch the quarter races. We both got a little drunk and—”

  “Damn it! I know that part!” he yelled. “Who do you think arranged for your transportation home?”

  I wasn’t sure what he expected me to say. “Thank you for that, Trey,” I offered. “I apologize for creating the need for you to have to deal with that. It was immature behavior on my part, I admit."

  “Tylar,” he said, with no patience left, “I know you went to the races. I know you got drunk; I saw the little digital picture that came across on my phone with you and the…the fucking…Thompson Twins with their matching hard-ons. You're not telling me the rest.”

  I wasn’t sure what the rest was except for what Gina had told me.

  “I see that I need to interrogate you then, since you're not forthcoming with the information!"

  Oh ho! Go for it counselor.

  “Who slept in my bed last night?”

  “I did,” I answered truthfully.

  “Who else?” he exclaimed, practically screaming.

  “No one else.”

  He walked over to the bed now, bending over, and pulling his white shirt out from where it was laying on the floor, half of it underneath the bed.

  “Who was wearing my shirt?” he demanded, then immediately grabbed his dark blue robe off of the bed, flinging it over at me. “Who was wearing my robe?”

  Tears sprang to my eyes. How could he think those kinds of thoughts about me? When I didn’t answer immediately, he took that as some sort of admission of guilt. He continued on his roll, going over to the side of the bed, eager to present more damning evidence to convict me.

  “What have we here?” he asked in his attorney-turned-detective voice, once again bending down to retrieve something from the floor.

  It was Gina’s unlit cigarette. It must’ve rolled off of the nightstand onto the floor.

  “I’ve never seen you smoke, Tylar, and I know that I don’t. Whose cigarette is this?”

  I’d finally had enough of his relentless badgering. I was prepared for him to yell at me for getting drunk again. I was prepared for him to rip into me about taking his car out without permission; for totally acting like some immature teen-ager, but there was no way he was going to turn me into some slut that would bring some random guy to his home and fuck him in Trey’s own bed. I stood up and walked over to where he stood, staring at him sternly.

  “You want answers? Well, I'll give you answers. I’m the one who wore your shirt last night. I wore it to bed after I showered because I wanted—I needed something of yours on my body. I’ve been wearing your robe all week. If you don’t believe me, please ask your cleaning staff. I wouldn’t let them launder it. I used your razor, too. No other man was in here, Trey. No other man used your razor, or wore your shirt or robe. The cigarette belongs to Gina. She doesn’t smoke anymore, but she likes to hold an unlit cigarette with her morning coffee. Last night was the only night that I've slept in your room since you left. I just wanted to feel close to you. Gina came in this afternoon to see how I was. We watched television in here. That’s why the bed was unmade. Any further questions?” I glared at him but he was still fairly pissed.

  “What about this body piercing you've gone and done?"

  “It’s only a pierced belly button for Chrissake! It’s not as if I went and had my nipple pierced, not that you would know.”

  He ignored the implication of my last statement. “Tylar, why would you want to desecrate your navel like that?”

  This conversation was going nowhere. We were going nowhere. That was apparent when I overheard his dinner plans yesterday evening.

  “Hey - I’m not apologizing to you for anything other than taking your car out. That was wrong, and unacceptable, and I'm so very sorry. I took advantage of your hospitality, and I hope you can forgive me for that. As far as your other accusations, whether direct or implied, I won’t apologize for things that I didn't do.”

  I turned from him and calmly flip-flopped my way out of his room with dignity. Gina stood waiting in the hall.

  “I heard everything girlfriend,” she said. “You really handled yourself well. Where the fuck does he come off all possessive and accusatory like that?”

  “Gina, I’ve got to finish getting packed. Do you think your aunt will object to my staying with you?”

  “No, not at all,” she answered, “in fact, I was going to suggest the same thing.”

  “Good,” I answered. “I’ll come down to your room as soon as I’m finished and we’ll call her, okay?”

  “Yep, no problem,” she said, retreating to the east wing.

  I was able to fit everything from the dresser drawers into the suitcase. I still had my backpack to fill. I opened the closet and, taking the clothes off of the hangers, folded them neatly in stacks. There was a soft tap on my door.

  “It’s open, Gina,” I called out.

  The door opened.

  “It’s me,” Trey said.

  I turned and saw that he'd put a white tee shirt on. Only on Trey could a white tee shirt look haute couture.

  “Why are you doing that?” he asked, as I continued packing. “I didn’t ask you to leave, did I?”

  “It’s what I want,” I answered. It wasn’t the truth, but it should’ve been if I'd any sense of self-preservation.

  “Well, it’s not what I want,” he said, coming closer to me.

  I couldn’t let him get close to me. I needed to take Gina’s advice and get out while my heart was somewhat intact.

  “Look,” I said, “let’s be practical about this. You have multiple responsibilities. All I seem to do is distract you from them, and then you resent me for it. And I know my behavior last night and even today was immature for a twenty-year old, but the truth is, I never lived the life of a teenager - even when I was one. Long story, and it doesn't excuse my behavior but I know I'm getting on your nerves."

  “That’s not true,” he replied, sitting down on the bed, next to my open suitcase. “I only worry about you and want you to be safe. That's why I flew back here to make sure you were okay. I was worried when that picture came up on my phone. It was obvious you were wasted. One guy on each side of you, erect,” he hissed as he said the “e” word. “I'd no clue as to who was taking the picture with your phone and then randomly sending it to me with no message. So I called your phone and it was clear you were totally hammered. In that state I wasn’t sure if you'd end up in the trunk of one of those idiot’s cars.”

  “Oh, please,” I remarked. “Be honest. You were pissed because that picture coming across your phone probably interrupted your cozy little dinner with your mystery woman.”

  “I've no clue what you're talking about.”

  “Remember? You and I on the phone earlier, muffled conversations, then a female voice saying ‘time to go…dinner reservations’?”

  He was thoughtful for a moment, and then a smile broke loose. “Her?” he said, as if I should have a clue as to who she was. “That's an intern at our firm, Beth. She's simply helping with the administrative process on this case; she’s actually more like a junior intern.” He laughed as if that information alone should put my mind at ease.

  “Why would you be having dinner with Beth?”

  “I wasn’t having dinner with Beth,” he replied. “We all–everyone from the firm involved with this case–broke for dinner. It looks to me like someone’s imagination is running away again,” he teased.

  “Yeah, like when someone finds their own clothes strewn around their own bedroom and believes another guy's been there wearing them?”

  Trey frowned at my response. He definitely did not appreciate the parallel I'd drawn.

  “It doesn’t matter, Trey. I’m not staying here. I’m not going to be talked about, called a Twinkie, an
d profiled as a ‘whore.’ I have enough money in my trust for my living expenses for this summer. I'll do just fine.”

  I'd nearly finished packing. All I needed was my toothbrush, which was still in Trey’s bathroom. I set my backpack on the floor, and then zipped my suitcase shut. Suddenly, the stack of mail from my cottage slipped out of the netting and landed on the bed. One envelope in particular caught my eye; it was from Findley, Morris & Sneed in Louisville the law firm handling my trust. It was postmarked June 7th, nearly three weeks ago.

  I glanced at Trey and opened the envelope, unfolding the letter. I saw that the signature line was signed by Andrew Sneed. There was a copy of a returned disbursement check stamped “Insufficient Funds – Trust Closed.” The check had been written to my college for fall registration fees for classes. Andrew Sneed’s letter consisted of a couple of brief sentences, basically requesting I contact him to set up an appointment at my earliest convenience to discuss the matter of my trust. His office, home, and cell numbers were provided in the letter.

  “This can’t be possible,” I said aloud, shakily.

  “What is it?” Trey asked, concerned.

  I handed him the letter. “Could you take a look at this for me? I’ll be right back; I need to get my toothbrush from your bathroom.”

  “Of course,” he replied, already distracted by the letter and looking at the returned check from the bank. When I returned, Trey was folding the letter.

  “Tylar,” he said, “if you don’t mind sharing this with me, do you know how much money was left in your trust at the last accounting?”

  “It was a little over fifty grand,” I answered. “That's before I requested this disbursement for my fall registration fees.”

  “Would you like me to contact this Mr. Sneed on your behalf to see what I can find out? It could save you a trip back there and I’d like to be sure that he's on the up and up with this matter. Didn’t you tell me that your mother worked for this firm?”

  “Yes,” I answered, already fairly certain where he was going with this. “But she had no ability to access my trust,” I explained. “That was clearly stipulated in the terms.”