“Shush. Do you want to get my dad on our case again?”
“They’re downstairs. They probably wouldn’t notice if I came in there with—"
I cut him off quickly. “Don’t even think about it. You stay right here, read thought-provoking plays, and be the decent guy I’m pretty sure is buried somewhere deep, deep, deeeeeeep inside of your soul.”
Rushing off to my closet, I snagged a pair of jean shorts, a tank top, and a bra.
It wasn’t until I was in the bathroom, naked with the water on, that I realized I’d forgotten clean panties.
“Sugar,” I muttered, “commando it is.”
Hopping into the steaming shower, the water so hot it bit at my skin angrily, I washed quickly, lathering up every inch of my body until I was sure the smells of running and swimming and nearly-sex antics were cleansed away.
I toweled off quickly, not bothering to blow dry my hair, and I stepped into my clothes. The zipper of the shorts snagged, and I cringed as I pushed it back down to free the small hairs that had been caught. I really didn’t like going commando.
Push bra on, black tank top in place, I hung up my towel and headed back to my room.
Drake didn’t hear me coming, and his focus stayed on the pages of the well-loved volume of plays. I leaned against the doorframe, watching the way he laid on his stomach reading. His legs were bent, feet knocking together in the air. There was something so childlike about the way he was positioned. He wasn’t full of himself, ready to take on the world, able to buy anything he wanted with his money—even people. No, this was just Drake. The boy under all the bravado.
“You’re kind of adorable.” I stayed leaning by the door, arms crossed. His legs fell against the bed and he turned his head. The book fell from his grip, jumping against the mattress like I’d startled it, instead of him.
“And you’re kind of sexy.” He rolled off the bed, landing on his feet, and strode over to me. He pushed his fingers into my wet hair, pulling it away from my face on both sides. He leaned in, lips at my ear. “I could get really used to seeing you like this. Flushed. Wet.” One of his hands left my hair and he lowered it to slip an index finger into the waistline of my shorts. I pulled away from him quickly, giggling but also glaring.
“My parents could walk up here at any second, dummy.”
“You’re not wearing underwear,” he shot back, eyes gleaming.
“Shhhhhh.” I walked forward quickly, pressing a finger to his mouth and pushing him into my room. “Is this how you act with girls? Twenty-four seven sexcapades?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged, moving around me to take up the place I’d once occupied—leaning against the door frame.
“Great, so I’m no different than Tabitha or any other girl. I feel super special now.” I turned away, anger flaring. I don’t know what I was expecting—that a few hours real intimacy would make a tiger change his stripes.
Arms wrapped around me, strong and steadying.
“Stop it, Tarryn. You’re not like anyone else. It’s hard for me to be... open. It’s hard for me to drop the walls and act like a decent guy. I used to be good. I swear I used to be good.” His words were hot bullets against the back of my neck. I stiffened against him and his grip tightened. “I’m sorry, okay. You’re not like anyone else. You’re better than them, better than me. Way better than me.”
“That’s not true. No one’s better than anyone else.”
“That’s bull shit.” He stopped hugging me and gripped my shoulders, turning me around to face him. “Murderers. Rapists. Con artists. You’re saying you’re not better than them?”
“We weren’t talking about murderers or rapists or con artists, Drake. We were talking about normal people Normal girls. A normal guy.”
He laughed bitterly. “I’m not a normal guy. I wasn’t born that way.”
I was about to say something else, when a phone ringing stopped me. I searched the room, but quickly realized it wasn’t mine. This song was cutting, with sharp lyrics. My ring tone was jaunty and joyful.
Drake stepped back from me and dug his phone from his pocket. He pressed a button and lifted the large smart phone to his ear.
“What is it.”
I couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation.
“No, I didn’t forget. I’m just not coming.”
Pause.
“Like Grandmother is going to give a shit if I’m there or not. Mom’s not even back.”
Pause.
“She wants me there?”
Pause.
“Fine.”
He pulled the phone away and hit a button.
“You’ve got to go, don’t you?” I gave him a small smile as I asked, knowing that me acting disappointed wasn’t going to help whatever had been said during the phone call. “Was it your family?”
He nodded, face pulled tight with stress. “My dad. There’s a family luncheon today. Nobody usually gives a shit if I come, but apparently my grandmother’s special requested my presence. And when Grandmother Birdie says jump, people nose dive off cliffs just to make her fucking happy.”
“I’m not sure what to say...” I let my words trail off. My grandmother was a mess, always pushing herself in between my mom and Dad, but the way Drake talked about Birdie—with so much unveiled disgust—I couldn’t imagine what a grandparent would have to do, or what they would have to be like, to garner that sort of reaction.
“You don’t need to say anything.” He cupped my chin, tilting my face up so he could bend down and kiss me.
His lips were warm, damp, but they weren’t as carefree as they had been before.
When he pulled away, I saw the glistening in his eyes again.
I’d never met someone so damaged.
I’d never wanted to make someone feel better about life, and himself, and... god, everything... before.
“I’ve got to go I guess.”
“If it makes you feel better, I wish you could stay.”
He smiled at me.
“Yeah, that makes me feel better. And I’ve got some damn good memories to keep me going until I see you again.”
I blushed, my face becoming hot as fire. I tried to look away from him, but he was still touching my chin, still keeping my gaze fixed forward.
“Don’t look away from me. Every second I can look at you is a good one, Tarryn.”
We kissed one more time, and then I walked him downstairs.
I watched the convertible pull out of our driveway.
And I wondered if this was the Drake that I’d see next time. Or if he’d be the old Drake. The trickster, the womanizer, the boy with too much money to burn.
I wondered, really, if I cared.
As long as I could go back to being on a floating dock, under a bright blue sky, warmed by a blinding yellow sun, exploring my sexuality, would I care if Drake reverted?
Maybe, if I were honest with myself, I liked the bad guy side of him.
Me a square. Him a circle.
Against odds, we sort of fit together. Apollo 13. A round peg in a four-sided hole.
10.
B I R D I E
C A S T L E T O N
[perspective, third]
The apple does not fall far from the tree.
“I’ve told you time and time again to keep a firm grip on that boy of yours, Byron.” Her voice shook as she spoke. She hated being old. Hated it. If Hiram were still alive, he’d have known how to handle the situation. He’d have whipped Drake into line by now.
Byron was useless, despite the tough love and care that had gone into raising the idiot. An absolute idiot, as it were. And he acted like his mother had no idea that he was fucking his secretary. He was making a mockery of the Castleton name.
His wife wasn’t ideal, that was true. She and Hiram had been clueless about her drinking issues when they'd had first proposed marriage to her father and mother. It had been such a good fit—old money and new money, coming together to ensure joint legacies. Birdie
almost couldn’t blame her son for finding comfort in another woman’s arms. But the secretary? And of all people... her? She just wasn't Castleton material. Even if Byron wanted to divorce and take a new wife, it wouldn’t be that trollop.
“Mother, I’m handling it.” Byron shook his glass gently, knocking the artisan ice spheres against the sides of the crystal.
“You’re obviously not handling it, or the boy wouldn’t have fucked his teacher.” Birdie hated foul language, but sometimes passive words just wouldn’t do the trick. Especially not with her thick-headed son. And she was angry. Livid, even. Every day, she was pushed by lawyers and family to sign the Power of Attorney and hand over the company that her husband had built with his blood, sweat, and tears.
They wanted her to surrender to her son, who’d not earned anything on his own in his entire damn life. It had all been handed to him.
That was the one point that she and her beloved Hiram had fought over throughout their marriage.
She believed children should have to pave their own road, not reap the benefits of the generation before them. Hiram, who’d not come from money, didn’t want Byron to suffer like he did. All she knew was silver platters spoiled children and turned them into rotten, entitled adults. And she’d not been wrong.
How could she blame Drake for growing up so wrong? When he had her son as a not-so-shining example.
“The thing with the teacher is over,” Byron’s voice was acid. He had no respect for Birdie, wouldn’t shed a damn tear if the old crow died tonight, right here in the study. He’d burn her or bury her and then he’d take his inheritance and run. If he could only get a good damn look at her will first. She couldn’t die unless she’d done what was right—left everything to him.
“Really?” Birdie picked up an opened envelope and pulled out a letter. When she unfolded it, an eagle logo blinked up at her. “Lane Santos, married surname, returned to 197 Flint Road three days ago after the sale of the property. She has left the premises for groceries and can be seen packing items in the house. She is in the company of a child, approximate age one or two months.” She paused reading, glancing up to gauge her son’s reaction, and then her eyes returned to the neatly typed words. She’d always appreciated Randall’s organization skills. Always tidy, never wordy. “Last night, your grandson arrived shortly after eleven. He stood in the rain, watching the house, until Mrs. Santos exited with a towel and walked him inside. He did not stay within the house for very long, so I doubt anything of a sexual nature took place. The interior was dark, so I can’t guarantee this. When your grandson left, he was obviously distraught. I followed him, worried about his mental state. He drove for hours, aimlessly, until he pulled into a motel parking lot. He checked in, stayed barely long enough for a nap, and then he left again. Driving until he ran into a girl jogging near South Elm in town. She entered the car and they drove away. At that point, I came back to the office to inform you of the evening’s events.”
Birdie folded the letter, which had been dropped off by Randall’s associate earlier that morning, tucked it back into the envelope, and set the communication back on the redwood side table next to her high back leather chair.
“You’ve had Cummings keeping track of my family?” Byron stood up, the crystal glass with the fancy ice forgotten on the matching side table across the room.
“A coaster, Byron. You weren’t raised in a barn.” Birdie’s finger lifted, pointed for a second at the water ring forming around the glass, and then lowered her hand casually to rest against her lap.
“Mother,” Byron seethed, spittle flecking from his lips. “Answer my question. Have you been spying on my family?”
“You pay your incompetent spies at the school to watch Drake. I pay mine.” She clicked her teeth and sighed. “And it’s a good thing too, because obviously, Byron, you do not have control of the situation. Is the baby a Castleton?”
“No, she miscarried that one. This child,” he pointed at the envelope, “must be from the marriage. And it’s too young.”
“Good. That’s good at least. It will be easier to keep this quiet if there isn’t a child involved.”
“She’s sold the house, mother. She’s leaving, and she won’t be back.”
“You must be sure, Byron. Send your lawyers, have her sign a nondisclosure. Pay her whatever you have to and keep her mouth shut.” Birdie lifted a thin-lipped teacup and sipped at pale liquid. The leaves had steeped too long, and it was cold and astringent, the tannins overwhelming the normally mild flavor of her favorite ginger-laced green brew.
She picked up a small silver bell and rang it sharply. Seconds later, a petite maid with a French knot holding back silver hair, arrived.
“Yes, Mrs. Castleton?”
“The tea’s gone cold, Nell. Brew me a fresh pot.” Hands shaking ever so slightly, Birdie placed the fragile cup back down on the side table atop it’s matching saucer.
“Right away, Mrs. Castleton.” The maid scurried over, took the teacup, and disappeared. Her footsteps barely made any sound against the hardwoods. Birdie thought that was one of the best qualities of a good maid—they're able to move about, and do their job, whilst being unseen and unheard.
“I’m not worried about Lane,” Byron said once Nell was out of sight.
“Fine, I’ll leave that to you then, Byron. But if something more comes of it, if something happens to tarnish our name, I’ll hold you accountable.”
Byron didn’t respond, because he worried that if he opened his mouth, he’d tell his mother what he really thought of her. He’d not hold back. He’d say the words he’d been dying to say for so many years.
That she was a controlling, conniving, ancient bitch that needed to die so the younger, better generation could take over. It was long past due.
“You have to stop treating me like a child, mother. I can handle things.”
“You think you can handle things,” Birdie said, looking up at her son who was still standing in front of his chair—directionless. Somehow, he looked smaller standing than when he was sitting. He looked less important. Less worth her time.
“Randall mentioned a girl at Drake’s high school. It sounds like she’s trying to get too close to him. And she’s not Castleton material. In that respect, I suppose your son really does take after you, Byron.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Your taste in women. The ones you don’t think I know about it. That secretary, for instance.” She said the last two words with deliberate nonchalance.
“How...” Byron’s mouth dropped, and it took him precious moments to recover. In that time, Birdie had smiled, knowing she’d caught her good-for-nothing son off guard. “Leave Nina out of this.”
“I’ll remind you, Byron, that your prenup doesn’t look kindly on infidelity. Geneva’s parents made sure of that.”
“I know what my goddamn prenup says, Mother.”
Birdie stood then, her gold topped cane supporting her weight. She managed not to shake as she held her grown. She managed not to show how much time was getting the best of her body and making her weak.
“Then act like it. You want me to turn over your father’s business? You want me to let you have the run of Castleton Industries? Then act like you’ve got a brain in your head. Do your father proud. Show him that his sacrifices mean something to you. He handed you your life on a silver plate, Byron. But you’re going to ruin it, and everything he worked so hard to give you. And for what? A secretary. Or a yoga instructor. Or a kindergarten teacher. Yes, I know about all of them.” Birdie took a step towards her son. “This town doesn’t answer to you yet, Byron. Whether you know it or not, I’m still the Castleton that runs things.”
Red crept into Byron’s neck and then cheeks. Rage filled his chest.
He hated her. He hated his mother, the woman who’d given birth to him. He hated her so much.
Byron didn’t know what he would have done, in those furious moments after Birdie had given he
r little speech and made him feel like less than a speck of dust in the wind, if Nell hadn’t walked in with fresh tea at that moment.
Maybe he would have killed his mother after all.
Maybe it would have been the best choice he’d ever made.
“Drake will be here soon. Let’s try and act like a loving son and mother when he comes.” Birdie turned away from Byron. “Nell, bring the tea into my sitting room. I have a headache. Bring Drake to me first when he comes, and then we’ll rejoin Byron. I need to have a proper chat with my grandson.”
Byron watched his mother leave, envisioning all of the simple, simple ways she might die. She was old. No one would question if she slipped and hit her head, or if she stopped breathing in the middle of the night.
He really didn’t know if she’d ever loved him.
She’d loved his father, he knew that. Hiram had been like a god to her.
Byron was just the mistake that would never be good enough. No matter what.
He looked at his watch, wishing it were a weekday and he could leave after lunch and head into work to see Nina. His mother knowing about her didn’t change anything. He loved her. He could admit that. In his own way, in the only way he knew how to love, he loved her.
He’d never loved Geneva.
Not even for a second.
And he knew she didn’t love him either. And that she’d had her fair share of infidelities. He had the documentation and the pictures to prove it. If he wanted to divorce her, the bitch wouldn’t walk away with a damn thing.
11.
D R A K E
Those born into privilege have a moral imperative to not be total dicks.
The Castletons never got the memo.
I punched in the gate code and slowly rolled the convertible past the twelve-foot iron gates that parted to open the path towards Grandmother Birdie’s estate. Saying I didn’t want to be here was an understatement. I typically talked my way out of most the family gatherings—save for the major holidays. Dad had been pretty damn insistent on the phone though, said Grandmother insisted and she said it would be worth my while.
Brawl: A Bully Romance (King of Castleton Book 3) Page 6