by Marie Wathen
“Give me the benefit of deciding for myself if you’re trustworthy,” I suggest, remembering all the times before all of this that he was good to me, and since being here, his attempts at convincing me that he is the bad guy.
“Oh, I’m definitely not trustworthy,” he divulges roguishly, reaching his hand out and stroking the back of his knuckles over my cheek tenderly. His breath holds for a moment while he stares deeply into my eyes. Threading his fingers through my hair and stepping closer, he breathes, “Not when it comes to you.” Perspiration pops up along the back of my neck and my heart begins beating violently, like it has been charged with a set of jumper cables.
My voice softens and I glance down at his hand moving down to cup my jaw. “What does that mean, Mattox?” I can feel his eyes staring at my lips and I don’t dare move, blink or even breathe. Oh God, is he going to kiss me? After a long, hot moment, he drops his hand and steps backward, putting several feet between us. Trembling, I exhale slowly. What just happened?
“It means nothing,” he straight-up lies, and because of that, I don’t even care what his darn caress means. He turns his back to me and I reach my hand behind me, gripping the handle on the door. Could I escape him? If I get him distracted with talking? Perhaps. If possible, my heart rate soars higher, just thinking about freedom.
Hoping to sidetrack his attention away from the door, I ask, “Why did Julia hide you away from the world?”
“She didn’t.” For what feels likes days, I wait. Finally, he cuts his eyes over his shoulder, and clarifies, “It was my father who didn’t want my existence made public.”
I gulp down the nervousness blooming in my belly, seeing strong emotions swirling in his gray eyes. “Why?” I whisper and he shakes his head dismissively. “Please, tell me.”
“I am the bastard child of a disowned heir to the Vivian Andrews fortune,” he confesses mockingly. “That isn’t exactly the type of thing any parent can be proud of, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Vivian Andrews?” I repeat. “You mean, the wealthiest woman from Willow, that Vivian Andrews?”
He chuckles. “Bingo!”
“Your father is an Andrews?”
“Technically? No.” He shakes his head and turns away again, looming over Waverly’s body this time. “He changed his name after my grandmother disowned him for reasons that aren’t relevant to your little friend’s story.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” I counter, forgetting my escape plan, momentarily engrossed in his story. I step closer and pose, “No more shadows between us, Mattox, please?” He turns only his head to glance at me, offering the tiniest nod and smirk before looking away again.
“Dad was a juvenile delinquent,” he begins his tale, taking a seat beside Waverly’s head and running his fingers against her brittle hair before staring up at me. “According to him, his mother was a ruling force and she didn’t tolerate any form of weakness. My dad had a small drug habit. He was arrested and charged, but because of her influence the indiscretion was erased. He was given a clean slate to fall in line and be the perfect son. But she already had her perfect son with his younger brother.”
Catching up, I surmise, “I’m going to assume that last comment suggests there was a cliché bitter sibling rivalry between them because of mommy dearest?”
“Volatile rivalry,” he corrects, smirking. “My father failed at being good almost instantly, and even though he was still a minor at seventeen, she cut him off completely.”
“Man,” I breathe, not believing how cruel some parents can be with their kids. Even when children are rebelling they’re still just children, needing guidance. “Going from being that wealthy to broke must have sucked.”
“Not exactly,” he disagrees, “He didn’t go off penniless. My grandfather, Charles, gave him early access to a hefty trust fund. But, that simple act of kindness toward his son cost him. When Vivian discovered that my grandfather betrayed her by helping his own child, she divorced him.”
“Oh my God, that’s just…mean.”
He throws his head back, while keeping his eyes latched onto mine, and laughs heartily. I smile back slightly, feeling a bit less hostile than earlier. “Understatement,” he declares, still laughing.
“So…” Just this little bit of information has my mind riddled with questions. “If your dad went off with a large trust fund given to him by his father, why would he change his name to his mother’s maiden name? And how does your existence impact this freaky story?”
“He took her name to provoke her, that simple.”
“Wow, that bad apple didn’t fall far from the tree,” I mumble.
“You have no idea,” he professes stiffly.
I nod, “Then tell me.”
“My father is as evil as his mother was. Possibly more so. Really, Vivian probably would have been proud of the malevolent man he is, since he learned it all from her.” What a terrible heritage.
“How sad,” I say, meaning how horrible it must have been for Mattox growing up with both of his parents being so vile.
“I see the look in your eyes,” he retorts, sending a chill across my flesh. “My father didn’t mistreat me. In fact, his parental skills were exemplary; if you believe lavishing his only child with everything I ever wanted makes him a great parent.”
“If that’s true, why do I feel like, that in your eyes, he still came up short for the ‘Dad of the Year Award’ every year?”
“Perfection means flawlessness. I’m far from the ideal son. And Declan is anything but saintly. Keeping me out of his hair was the objective.” He heaves an irritated sigh and with that one sound, I can tell that this topic isn’t a safe path anymore.
Wanting to keep him talking, I ask, “Where does Breesan fit into all of this?”
“She’s the heiress: the only person who will inherit the Andrews billions.”
My bottom jaw drops open, “No freaking way!”
“Truth,” he replies, smiling proudly about shocking me with that bit of information.
“What…How?” I stammer, moving closer and standing directly in front of him. “What?”
“My father is Declan Maxwell, brother to Brendt Maxwell. Because he’s no longer around, she became the wealthiest woman on Willow Island the day that she turned nineteen,” he clarifies flatly. He continues explaining the path to Breesan’s sudden wealth, but my mind spirals back to that tragic night when Tristan was shot. Because of the mind-manipulation effects of Ryske, from a part of one of my many memories that I haven’t experienced yet, I see Tox’s unmasked face in the crowd. “…a secret trust that was only just made known.”
“And if something were to happen to Breesan, who was the benefactor?” I insist watching his face for deception.
His eyebrows rise faintly, as he studies me before responding, “My mother.”
“Julia tried to have Breesan killed for that money!” I exclaim, squeezing my hands into tight fists. “But she missed her target and my boyfriend got shot in the process!” I’m so angry about her trying to hurt my best friend and nearly killing Tristan.
“Enough,” he bellows. That one word echoes down the endless corridor no less than ten times. Livid with my implications, he stands and leers down at me. His face is so close I can smell his intense and seductive cologne, and feel his breath brushing across my forehead. “I can’t believe that I let you bewitch me into revealing all of that bullshit.” Raging, he wraps his long fingers around my upper arm, moving me out of his path, and then storms across the hard floor toward the exit.
“Wait,” I screech, but my plea doesn’t deter his retreat. “Mattox, please stop.”
“No, Anna,” he shouts, swirling around, his face is blistering red with anger. “I’m not fucking discussing this for one more minute with you!”
He hasn’t spoken to me so hatefully in so long that I didn’t expect this attack. I flinch away from his words as if he struck me and my heart thunders loudly in my ribcage. “Fine, but…” I swallow
audibly, and he notices how nervous I am around him when he gets so angry. Thankfully, this time he doesn’t seem so proud of that fact, “… answer one more question.”
He pierces me with a challenging look and I can see an internal battle waging in his dark eyes. With both hands pressing against the door, his chest heaves riotously with his annoyance and he shakes his head looking down at the ground. A few seconds later he growls deep in his throat, “What?”
“Why didn’t you…hurt Breesan before?” His gray eyes lift slowly and he stares curiously at me. “She was with me numerous times at Club Toxic and as passionately as you hate her now, you never acted disrespectful toward her once back then. Explain that to me, Mattox.”
After glaring at me for an uncertain amount of seconds, he confesses, “I didn’t know who she was then.”
Puzzled, I angle my head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t know of her existence until recently. Before then I only knew that Brendt was the thorn in my parent’s side. Once they had him under control, all talk of gaining access to the fortune ceased for years.”
“Under control?” My mind is flooding with confusion and while staring deeply into his eyes for understanding, I state, “Brendt Maxwell was captured in combat.”
He shrugs dismissively. “So I’ve been told.”
“But…” I start with a full on inquisition, but he cuts me off.
“No more!” He pulls open the door, slams it closed and then bolts it. Before getting swallowed up by the shadows of the deep passageway, his last words to me are deception when he promises, “I’ll move you out of the dungeon when it’s safe and not a minute sooner.” His heels slap against the hard floor densely as he leaves me alone again.
After calming down, I realize that I failed at trying to get out of here and I curse under my breath. Then recalling his last words, I stare at the secured door while standing stock-still as a mixture of fear and excitement courses through me. “Dungeon? As in a castle dungeon? Is Mattox hiding us in the Renaissance Castle?”
Chapter Thirty
Breesan
Wallowing in the emptiness that I’ve created, I settle my irrational thoughts and triumph over reigning in my tattered nerves, still hiding behind the closed stall door in the VIP lounge. Escape isn’t helping anything this time around. I must face everything, and everyone, including Marcus. Whether he is playing me or not, I need to know the truth so I can focus on doing what is necessary to save those that I love.
The booming music, from the DJ taking over while Beginning Monday is on a break in between sets, filters into the room beyond the closed restroom door. A moment later, it’s muffled again with the shutting of the door, but the room is anything but silent. Giggling overwhelms the private employee restroom and I freeze, holding my breath, not wanting to be discovered.
“We need to give him a call and invite him down,” a female voice that is vaguely familiar says.
“Mm hmm,” another woman replies before the door shuts, sealing at least the two of them inside with me.
“Unless, yer scared that he’s gonna turn you down again,” the first woman charges, still laughing, and I recognize her southern twang and bitter attitude. Naomi is Miller’s band mate and just as detestable as the lead singer herself.
“Shut your stupid mouth,” Miller growls angrily. “He won’t tell me no. She’s finished and Marcus is mine, again. He will do anything I ask.”
The not-so-innocent touching with my mother, his lack of proving that he isn’t a two-timing scumbag, and now the girl he dated at one time confessing that he’s basically her puppet, are proving that I really don’t know him like I thought. Twined by anger, sadness and fear, their deception is like tendrils coiling around my heart in a braid. It squeezes out all love and hardens it to my former lover with finality. My heart thumps uncontrollably against my ribcage, fighting against the restraints. With dizziness and nausea moving through me, I feel a panic attack building in my veins. I want out of this damn bathroom so desperately, but there is no way in hell that I will allow Miller to see the impact that she’s having on me again.
“Tell me, Milla’,” Naomi drawls, “Are ya certain that he won’t toss you into the trashcan like a used up tube of lipstick and run back to yer little friend or that older woman I saw him cozying up to at the party last weekend?”
“Really?” Miller snaps, “I don’t need to prove myself to you, but since you insist on running that fat mouth of yours, let me set you straight for the last time. That bitch was a job and nothing more. He will never choose her or that cougar over what we have. Marcus Walker is in love with me.”
Naomi bursts into a fit of laughter and the door opens again. Following the closing of the bathroom door, the giggling continues inside the adjacent lounge and I crumple onto my knees. Miller’s words resonate loudly inside my head. I was right. He absolutely felt nothing for me. The burning tears well up in my eyes. Sniffling, I peel off a strand of toilet paper and dab my face.
“Get it together,” I order, pulling myself up from the floor.
I twist the lock and stumble out of the stall. Then I shove weakly against the door leading into the lounge, finding it empty. On a mission to get the hell away from this place, I head toward the back stairway and thrust open the exit door, staggering slightly once the cool ocean air hits me. Engulfed in my inner struggles, I only barely hear someone calling me by my alter ego. A loud shout beside my head scares the shit out of me, and I whirl around coming face to face with Rhys.
“Bea, what’s happened?” he asks, his eyes roaming all over me and landing on my face. “You’re crying.” He tosses a cigarette on the ground and stomps it with the toe of his steel-toe boot.
“I’m fine,” I mumble, moving around him.
“No,” he counters, reaching out and taking hold of my arm. “You are not fine, Breesan. Let me help you. Did Tristan do something?”
I laugh, “Tristan is the only good thing that has happened recently.”
“Don’t talk in circles,” he pleads, watching my eyes fill with tears again.
“I can’t do this charade anymore,” I point at my ridiculous attire. “I need to leave, Rhys.”
He contemplates my request for a moment before nodding. “We’ll go tell Kole and then–”
“No, I need to disappear,” I cut off his request and he shakes his head, dismissing my plea. “Just let me go and then do whatever the hell you want.”
“I’m sure you’ve had enough of this–”
I cut him off, screaming, “Don’t call it a life, Rhys. Terrified. Guilty. Used. Lonely. Unwanted. Hopeless. That is not how I envision life. None of what I’ve been through this summer is how someone should live. Those are the things that lead someone to death.”
“You’re hurting, but it will all be over soon,” he counters sternly, trying to invoke his authority on me.
My voice cracks, “Not until I’m gone.”
“We’ll go together,” he resigns, giving me a dirty look. “I’ll just call Kole once we’re in the car. But you’re not running away. I’m taking you back with me to the compound.”
“The hell you are,” I bark, twisting away from him and stomping toward the front of the building. “I’ll call a cab. Thanks for nothing.”
“Breesan,” he bellows.
Before I can reach the corner of the building, Rhys catches up with me and then seconds later a loud thundering close behind us draws our attention. A large white panel van with high beam lights rolls toward us at a high-rate of speed. No, it’s aiming directly for us. With only moments to react, Rhys shoves me hard against the brick building, saving me from the fatal accident. I slam roughly against the outside wall and then fall facedown because one of my spiked heels catch on a split in the concrete, snapping off. Safely out of danger, I hear the van’s squealing tires zoom away toward the main highway. Scrapes and tiny cuts mark my hands and legs. My wig is wrapping around my limbs and face, obscuring my vision. Frust
ratingly, I thrust the strands away and then push up on my bleeding hands and knees before turning to check on Rhys. But he isn’t beside me.
“Rhys,” I call, looking around the back parking lot where I last saw him standing. Terror consumes me as I frantically search for him. “Where are you? Rhys!”
A blood-curling scream from the front parking lot echoes through the darkness and I spin around, rushing toward the sound. Crumpled on the gravel, Sam cradles Rhys’ bloody head and limp body in her arms. Tears stain her face and she’s pressing her lips against his forehead.
“No, no, no, you can’t. Please baby,” Sam begs fearfully, rocking back and forth before throwing her head back and screaming at the top of her lungs. “Don’t you fucking take him from me, too!”
I dash over and reach for him, but when her eyes land on me she really loses her shit, crying and then screaming, “You?”
“He shoved me,” I pant and lick my dry lips. “A white van…It, it came out of nowhere. Oh my god,” I gasp, looking at the blood gushing from the back of Rhys head and running between her fingers. Flashes of Tristan lying wrapped in Anna’s arms after being shot infiltrates my mind. “I’m so sorry.”
“This is your fault,” Sam booms, glowering at me. “Every person that is near you gets hurt. Why? Why, Breesan?” She doesn’t bother hiding my identity. Hearing her screeching, a crowd begins to form around us. “You are not worth his life. Do you hear me? You’re going to get everyone killed and you are not worth it.” Twisting her head toward the group of people standing behind her, she shouts, “Fucking call 911.” Then she sobs and lowers her lips, brushing across his pale ones softly. “I love you, Blues. You promised me…an eternity…with your loving symphony reverberating me…and to play that stupid-ass song on our anniversary.” When he doesn’t respond, she cries, clutching him tightly to her chest. Her head is tilting back, eyes squeezing and prayers falling from her lips loudly.
Tears slip down my cheeks and true loneliness, unlike anything I’ve ever condemned myself to before, moves through my bones as her words slice through me, striking against the stone that was once my heart. I let them all in and got comfortable with their friendships and now because of me, Rhys could be dying. Sam’s absolutely right. I’m not worth his life or any of their lives. I should have just let that thug take me in the parking garage at the hospital. Then maybe all of my friends wouldn’t be going through this hell.