by Ivy Fox
“Practical? Like what you do is so important,” I snap back and then slam my mouth shut when I realize I actually vocalized my inner thoughts out loud. Elle’s eyes grow as wide as her grin, but her father’s expression doesn’t look as pleased.
“I am a humanitarian. The foundations I’m a part of, and the fundraising events I organize, depend on me for their success. It’s the only way our community can assess where they can best use their resources to help the world. I doubt that playing a silly song can compare to the valuable work I do every day,” she sneers.
“And which degree did you have to acquire to do such valuable work? I wasn’t aware there were courses that taught how to throw a party for the obnoxiously rich, so they could squander on the latest philanthropic fad,” I quip heatedly.
Elle begins to choke on a coughing fit and almost spits out her water. The diversion is long enough for me to feel Vivienne’s nails clutch on my wrist and break the skin. I hold the pain in, and with a grimaced look, I turn my head to face her.
“I think you should excuse yourself from the table and deal with that. Come back only when you’ve composed yourself. Am I clear?”
I press my palm over my open wrist and do as she ordered, excusing myself to use the ladies room to powder my nose. Of course, what I end up doing is cleaning the blood off my skin, drowning the nail marks with cold water to stop the bleeding.
I look at my reflection in the mirror and repeat the mantra that gets me through all of my mother’s abuse, “She will never be the end of you, but rather the fuel you need to start your own beginning.”
One more summer, that’s all I need to endure. I’ve survived this long; I can survive two more months.
At least I hope I can.
Chapter 8
Roman
I park my bike across the street from the Ivory, already feeling the nerve on my forehead bulging in contempt for having to be here at all. I’m late as fuck, and I know I’ll probably get an earful from my asshole of a father the minute I step foot inside. Though, depending on the company he’s entertaining this afternoon, I might escape with just some passive aggressive bullshit, so as not to draw too much attention to his anger, or ruin his pretense of having perfect, obedient children.
Either way, I don’t give a shit.
But I’m here for Elle; it isn’t fair she has to deal with the old man all on her own. The twins are lucky that our father doesn’t trust them enough to behave amongst his snobby, two-faced friends. I know he doesn’t trust me either—nor should he—but he knows that whenever he involves my baby sister in his elaborate theatrics, I try my hardest not to be a dick and lessen the burden on her shoulders.
It’s not an ideal situation to put myself into, but Elle has enough to deal with back home—she deserves a medal for playing the part at being our father’s pride and joy. Whereas the twins and I are the bane of his existence and the sore in the picture-perfect family he so likes to publicize, Elle knows how to placate his ego, enough to make others envious of his talented, well-mannered daughter. Of course, behind the scenes she isn’t shy about giving the judge a piece of her mind when the opportunity presents itself. But who can really blame her? At least we don’t need to use our masks behind closed doors. He sure doesn’t, so why the hell should we?
Still, I’d rather be anywhere else but here. Spending any amount of time with my father always ends badly, but until Elle is old enough to shed his ruling thumb, I need to associate with the bastard and suffer his rules.
I run my fingers through my hair and take a long, deep breath, dreading the next hour or so.
“Just suck it up, Rome. For Elle’s sake,” I tell myself, crossing the street and walking the few steps up to the Ivory’s doors.
“Roman Grayson, what a pleasure to see you this afternoon.” Alphonse greets me instantly, running his tongue over his lower lip while taking an eyeful.
“How are you doing, Fonsy?” I wink flirtatiously, knowing I’m making his whole damn day with the endearment.
“I have to say, my day just got ten times better,” he replies hoarsely, as I take off my leather jacket and give his wandering gaze more eye candy to feast upon.
I might hate my father, down to the very last cell of him, but I am grateful for the physical attributes he passed on to me. Not only am I a smidge taller than him, but I also got his broad physique and tanned skin. Of course, while he’s in his forties and has to work his ass off to look like his doppelganger, Jeffrey Dean Morgan, I’m in my prime, so my six-pack and chiseled frame comes as easy as breathing—this body along with my permanent fuck-you scowl never fails to grab attention wherever I go.
Elle and I are also the only ones who got his liquid amber eyes, which is another plus in the list of jaw-dropping attributes he afforded us. But while Elle was fortunate enough to have our mother’s kind heart, I got stuck with the same jaded, stone-cold counterpart the fucker himself possesses. Inheriting his good looks opened as many doors as it does dropping panties on the floor, so it is not the physical resemblance that is hard to stomach when I look back in the mirror—it’s the cold, calculating mess inside my soul that churns my stomach.
“Would you like me to show you to your table? Your father and his guests are already inside,” Alphonse adds, his hungry eyes still milking every last inch of me for posterity.
“I just need to pop in the restroom real quick to wash up first. Be there in a minute,” I tell him with a lazy smirk, and then turn to head toward the restroom to buy me some more time before I face the firing squad.
I swagger my way there, knowing Alphonse’s eyes are probably locked dead center on my ass. It’s a nice ass, so let him have his fill. If it were a girl ogling me, I’d give her the same opportunity to gawk. I don’t discriminate; hotness should be appreciated. My only rule is look but don’t touch. I decide who is worthy of that pleasure, and there aren’t many who fit my demanding requirements.
I’m about to turn the corner to the restaurant’s private restrooms when someone rams smack into me. I’m almost knocked over, but keep both my balance and hers by holding onto the waif of a girl who thought she could bulldoze her way through me.
“Oh, damn it! I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?” A soft, musical voice asks hurriedly, paired with a look of concern.
Her bright-gray eyes remind me of someone else who ran through me like a freight train, too; eyes that carved away at my very own heart like a hot knife through butter.
Devil eyes that played at having angel wings.
I shrug the thought away from my head and focus on the docile creature whose expression looks troubled for my well-being. She’s a dainty thing compared to me, and could hardly hurt me even if she tried with all her might. I can’t help but chuckle at her unjustified concern.
“I’m fine, but are you? That was one hell of a collision. Are you sure you’re still in one piece, sweetheart?” I question, taking one step back to appreciate her fully. Although I tell myself it’s just to verify I haven’t, in fact, hurt her in any way.
The top of her head comes just a smidge under my jaw, and I like the fact she has to tilt her head back to look me in the eye. She’s wearing a light purple number that leaves too much to the imagination, but not enough to hide her best features. The mid-thigh dress only taunts my curiosity by doing a poor job of covering her long legs. Her bare arms and long neck show more of that gorgeous, glowing, fair skin. Her neckline is completely free of any jewelry, so I don’t have a valid excuse to stare at her full, round breasts, hidden behind white lace. But I can’t help doing it anyway since her rapid breathing makes the soft swells jump up and down, catching my eye and my cock’s attention.
However, what really grabs my total focus is the long platinum hair, which hits just above her waist, begging to be wrapped around a man’s hand as he’s defiling her from behind. Whoever this girl takes to her bed is one lucky bastard, I’ll give him that. The only reason I’m not applying to be th
e fortunate candidate, right here and now, comes down to her smoky eyes reminding me too much of well-spoken lies and false promises.
“Hey, you sure you’re okay?” I ask again when she doesn’t reply, looking as lost in her head as I was in mine.
She nods, offering me a small smile, which barely constitutes as one, keeping one hand covering her wrist.
“You sure? You’re holding on to your wrist as if your life depended on it,” I say, trying to joke.
Having had enough of her shyness, I pull her hand back from her wrist and inspect the damage myself. There are four thin, half-moon cuts to her inner wrist, and one deeper one on the outside. I know right away I wasn’t the culprit behind such a wound. It looks like someone held onto to her so tightly that she was left with nail marks as souvenirs.
“Those are some nasty cuts you got here, sweetheart. Do you want me to get you something to cover that up before it gets infected? A band-aid, maybe? Or some gauze and antiseptic to clean it?”
“No. Antiseptic actually does more harm than good, but thank you for offering. This is nothing really. Just a little scratch,” she relents solemnly, this time taking her own step back away from me, so I’m forced to let go of her arm.
“You seem to know a lot about how to treat a cut. Do you get those a lot?” I interrogate, knowing when someone is holding out on me.
It’s a gift I picked up over the years living with my father. It was inevitable, seeing as he’s such a master when it comes to deceit. And in my twenty years of life, he’s given me plenty of lessons to learn from. Now I can smell a lie ten miles away, and this girl is definitely lying through her teeth. It kind of makes my mind wonder why.
“Hmm.” She nods, continuing with her charade. “I guess I’m just clumsy that way. I’m sure you gathered as much when I knocked into you.” She tries to laugh it off, but it’s as fake as the words coming out of her clover-shaped lips. “Sorry again, by the way. Promise I’ll be more careful next time,” she adds, her shoulders becoming rigid in place, as she bounces on the balls of her feet, looking like she wants to run away. “I guess I should be getting back. I hope you have a nice lunch,” she says, already dismissing me completely and on her way to God knows where.
“Yeah, you too,” I reply back, although she’s already too far to hear me, without even giving me a second glance or thought.
That alone has my curiosity peaked beyond measure. Most girls would have used this small, serendipitous encounter to get my phone number. Or at least ask me my name so they could stalk me later on social media and slide into my DM’s. This one, though, wanted nothing to do with me and was ready to bounce the first minute she could.
Forgoing my trip to the restroom, I follow behind the somber girl and stop just before entering the main dining area. I stand behind one of the varnished oak pillars, keeping myself hidden enough from the dining crowd, but making sure my gaze doesn’t lose sight of her. And to my added puzzlement, I watch the jittery, melancholic girl transform right before my very eyes. Her spine becomes fully intact, no longer indulging in keeping her head down, but raised up high like she owns the place. Each step she takes is with intention and a confidence that was nowhere to be found just a few seconds ago.
But the real kick in the head is the company she keeps. My stomach drops when I see her taking a seat next to a woman I’ve seen on many occasions at the high-end parties our family is obligated to attend. Right in front of the two blondes, sit my sister and my scumbag of a father. I hold on to the pillar as I witness the hungry look that my father is so carefully trying to disguise. Unfortunately, the way he takes in the platinum blonde’s beauty with wolfish focus is so flagrant that it can be seen from all the way across the room where I’m standing.
The girl doesn’t say much, but nods every once in a while and, from time to time, offers the same half-assed smile she gave me earlier. It takes me a few seconds to see the resemblance between the girl and the socialite sitting next to her, but once I do, there is no mistaking their familial affiliation. The Ice Queen of the Upper East Side—Vivienne West—apparently has a daughter, who, at this very moment, sits obediently at her side while my sister engages in small talk and my father tries hard to conceal the game he’s playing in his mind of who to corrupt first.
My teeth grind in such disdain and loathing that it’s a miracle every patron seated here doesn’t hear it. I love Elle with all my heart, and I’d do anything for her, but to sit at the same table with my father, as he looks at his next prey with greedy eyes, is just too much for me. It brings up memories I need to keep stored away in the confines of my dark, black soul, ensuring they are never brought to the light of day again.
I turn around and rush past everyone in the lobby who stand idly by, waiting to be ushered to their seats. The second I escape the stuck-up crowd and feel the warm sun on my face, I feel ten times lighter. Without sparing it a second thought, I grab my bike and hightail it out of there. I’ll just call Alphonse later to get my jacket delivered.
Elle will be pissed, for sure, but I can deal with her wrath. My father will probably be less forgiving, but fuck him. No way in hell I’m going to sit through lunch at the same table with another unsuspecting girl, knowing all the while that he’s imagining the many different ways he can use her.
She really was stunning, though. I’m sure her sad, doe eyes are one of the reasons she caught his fancy. I always knew Vivienne West was a bitch, but to use her daughter as bait for such a vile man is cringe-worthy. I wonder what she’ll get out of this deal.
Not my problem. I have my own demons to deal with, so I can’t be worried about a total stranger. No matter how beautiful she is.
When I get to the house, it’s eerily quiet. The twins are probably at the little diner across town, stalking their girlfriend. I’m a skeptic when it comes to the concept of love. However, their infatuation for this Snow girl almost makes a believer out of me. But at the end of the day, too many incidents happened in my life that reminded me that love is nothing but a four-letter word, spilled from liars’ lips and used as ammunition to get whatever they want. Love is a myth in all accounts. Fuck love. Give me hate any day of the week. It’s a better motivator anyway.
I grab a six-pack of beer in each hand, choosing a liquid lunch to better my mood, and go up to my room and pretend to watch whatever looks good on Netflix. As much as I didn’t want to let my father spoil my entire day, he was successful in doing so, without even making an effort. Two hours later, I pass out cold, only for my nightmares to resurface and torment me.
I store my winter coat in the front-hall closet and drop my gym bag on the floor. I still can’t believe how Coach fucking laid it on me this afternoon, telling me if I can’t get my head in the game, then I’m just wasting his time.
“Take this winter break to think long and hard if you want to stay on this team. I expect you to give your best inside this court. Your teammates deserve it, I deserve it, and frankly, so do you. However, if you only want to half-ass your way through life, then don’t bother coming back. We need winners, not entitled assholes with a chip on their shoulder. You hear me?!” he shouted, before kicking me off the basketball court.
As much as I didn’t appreciate him telling me off in front of the guys, he’s right in giving me an ultimatum. My head isn’t on basketball and it sure as shit isn’t on school work, either. It’s been years since my mother passed away, but the pain of losing her is just as raw and debilitating as it’s always been. Especially at this time of year.
Maybe I should just quit and be done with pretending that I’ve moved on and everything is alright. It’s not, and it looks like it will never be. I won’t be able to breathe easy until the twins and Elle are old enough to leave this house—and my father’s influence—with me. I have to protect them at all costs; it’s the only thing that matters. Going to practice every day to perfect my jump shot doesn’t seem too high on my priority list.
I do have one thing g
oing for me, though. I have Addison. That’s the only reprieve I have. My cock stirs in my gym shorts thinking about my gorgeous girlfriend, and all the ways she can turn this shitty day into pure magic. I immediately grab my phone to text her and ask when we can meet up at her place today. Sure, her parents are probably home by now, but they’ve never made too much of a fuss about me screwing their daughter in her room. Her dad might give me the side-eyed at the dinner table afterward, but that’s as far as the reprimand goes. And anyway, it beats the alternative of having to bring Addison back to my place.
It’s not that I don’t like it when she comes over here, but every time she does, she always ends up chit-chatting with my father. I know it’s her courteous upbringing that makes her be nice to him, but I hate her wasting her soft smiles on that dipshit.
When she doesn’t reply right away, I remember she said something about staying at the library back at Pembroke this afternoon, to study for her physics exam. Maybe I should do some studying of my own and meet up with her there. If I’m lucky, I can steal her away and get her to go down on me behind some bookcase. That will brighten up my day. But knowing Addison, I have to take a shower first. No way is she touching me when I smell like a boys’ locker room.
I’m about to go up the stairs to my room when I hear a low moan coming down the corridor from my father’s den on the first floor. The moan is followed by a loud grunt, and curiosity gets the better of me. I find myself walking on soft steps, closer to the room where the low groaning sounds are coming from.
Before I reach the door, I recognize the sounds for what they are—two people fucking their brains out and not caring who hears them. I know the twins are at their swim meet, but Elle will be home any minute from her ballet class. The asshole should know better than to bring his whores to our house when my baby sister could so easily walk in on him. I crack the door open, intent on stopping his fuckfest and giving him a piece of my mind, but then stand rigidly still under the archway, too stunned to say a word.