Hate the house as he did, it had been in his family for ten generations, and he could not fathom giving it up completely. Ever since the Frellson family had purchased the land, a male heir had lived under its roof. The acreage had begun as a cotton farm and by the time electricity became available, turned to farmland. By then, the name had changed to Devereaux—for reasons still unclear to Beau—and the family fortune had expanded to gold, railroads, and banking. The brewery had been his great-grandfather’s hobby and had eventually grown into a lucrative source of income. But it was his grandfather, an infamous state senator, who had given the family their political clout in the state. Beau hoped to follow in Edward Devereaux’s footsteps, but only after his career in the NFL had ended.
After passing the edge of the porch, the drive followed the side of the home to the five-car garage at the rear.
Once safely inside the mudroom door, he passed through a set of etched glass french doors decorated with peacocks to a tile floor that traveled to the rear of the kitchen. Along the walls were framed magazine covers featuring his family home. There were six in all, and none captured the feel of the house. He figured no amount of rocking chairs would change that.
In the kitchen, the green digital lights from the numerous appliances cluttering the countertop cast an eerie glow. There were an array of cookers and coffeemakers his father had given his mother with the hope she’d take an interest in something other than drinking and shopping.
He yanked open the door of the onyx built-in refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of apple juice. He perused the containers of freshly prepared meals arranged neatly on the shelves by Leah—the only person in the house who seemed to care what he ate. Turned off by the selection, he closed the door and opted for a bowl of microwavable mac and cheese.
Study material in hand, he repositioned his book bag over his shoulder and took the short cut to the staircase through the cypress-paneled dining room, wanting to avoid his father’s study door.
The dining room had numerous painted portraits of former Devereaux men. Arranged according to the years they lived in the home, the portraits started at the entrance off the main hall with the builder of the plantation, Gerard Frellson. The most recent addition, his father’s painting, hung toward the back entrance by the kitchen. Beau felt the likeness exactly like Gage Devereaux—cold, ruthless, and lifeless. An empty spot sat on the wall for his portrait.
Yeah, that’s another tradition I’m getting rid of.
He walked across the room and swore the eyes of each family member followed him, criticizing his choices. For years, he’d refused to go to the kitchen at night by himself, no matter how hungry he was, for fear the pictures would come to life. Now they meant nothing, but he was thankful for the discipline his fear had taught him.
Self-control is everything.
He passed through the peach-painted parlor, turning up his nose at the pastel sofa and matching wingback chairs. Heavy curtains with peach accents pooled on the hardwood floor in front of the windows, a nod to the “Southern tradition” of excess material in curtains representing wealth and not taste. The furniture was oak and dainty matching the feminine feel of the room. His mother preferred the parlor, but tonight she wasn’t in her favorite wingback chair with her whiskey. Beau figured she’d moved her drinking to her bedroom—the one she slept in down the hall from his father’s room.
That other parents shared a bedroom had been a shock at the tender age of six. He thought all parents slept apart and rarely spoke. Sleeping over at friends’ houses had shown him his family wasn’t the norm; they were the exception.
He was about to step into the central hallway, close to the curved staircase, when a shadow of movement came from his father’s study.
Beau tiptoed across the floorboards, keeping to the red and gold runner down the center, hoping it would mask his steps. He was just about to pass a gold and marble french side table when the damned floor gave him away. The groan echoed throughout the hall and he cringed, sure his father heard it.
“Beau, come in here.”
Convinced he was in trouble for something—usually not living up to Gage Devereaux’s excessive standards—he stiffened and gripped his meal to his chest, prepared to get it over with so he could get to his homework.
He pushed the heavy cypress door open, and the warm light from the room engulfed him.
With burgundy leather furniture, ash paneling, and an Oriental rug covering the old hardwood, the room was distinctively male. Even down to the wide walnut desk his father sat behind, the space reeked of authority.
“Where have you been?”
Relaxed in his red leather office chair, a thick folder opened on his desk, Gage frowned as his son approached.
Here comes another lecture.
With Gage Devereaux, it was always about talking, never about being heard.
“I had to stay late for a student council meeting after practice.”
Gage pushed a small pile of papers off to the side. “And what about schoolwork?”
“I’ve got it covered.”
The scowl on his father’s lips summed up a lifetime of memories. Never a smile, never a kind word, only work harder, do more.
“You only think you do. That’s your problem. You don’t study hard enough.”
Beau’s stomach rumbled.
“You need to do more if you want to get into Tulane. Your ACT scores weren’t exactly impressive. Neither are your grades.”
Beau took a step forward, feeling brave. “I’ve got other skills the admission committee will look at.”
“Are we talking football?” Gage sat back, clasping his hands. “That’s not enough.”
Beau gave an upbeat grin. “But it will help. Colleges look at sports stars before regular students.”
“Being good at football isn’t going to help you run this business. A degree is. You’re also going to have to set more of an example in this town. I’ve been hearing some talk about you, your friends, and the river.” Gage stood and came around to the leather chairs in front of his desk. “Is there anything I should worry about?”
“No. Nothing.” Beau nervously shuffled his feet.
Gage sat on the edge of his desk, eyeing his son. “You’re going to be running the family business one day. What this community thinks of you now will influence how you do business in the future. I’ve had to fight to uphold our family name. It’s why I’ve pushed you so hard to not make my mistakes and earn the respect you will need to carry on the business.”
“But people do respect me.” His voice notched upward, reflecting his frustration. “I work my ass off. I attend all the benefits put on by the brewery. I’m captain of the football team, president of the student council, and I do the volunteer work at the local family clinic. What more do you want me to do?”
“And what about the anger? Your mother told me what you did with the computer. Are we going to have issues again?”
His father’s hard tone directed his gaze to the rug. “No. I got it under control, sir.”
“I don’t think you do. There are those in this town who’ll be watching your every move because they know eventually, I’ll be passing the reins of everything I own—the brewery, the town, the businesses, and the investments to you. Remember that. The image your project, the deeds you do, that’s what you’re known for. Don’t let them see who you really are.”
“I know.” Beau raised his head, giving him a confident smile. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Gage crinkled his brow and then glanced back to the pile of papers on his desk. “Go eat your dinner and leave me to my monthly invoices.”
Anxious to get out from under his father’s scrutiny, Beau hustled for the door. His father’s voice rambled around in his head, giving him a headache.
He stood before the curved oak staircase at the end of the hall, unable to understand why his old man was so mistrusting of him. Beau never screwed up, and if he did, he covered his tracks.
At the top of the stairs, he peered down the long burgundy carpet running along the second floor. He saw a light shining beneath his mother’s bedroom door. Gingerly, he walked across the carpet, praying he could get to the safety of his bedroom without encountering Elizabeth. He hated dealing with her late in the evening.
“Beau, is that you?”
He cursed under his breath.
A lock clicked open and then light from her open door beamed into the hallway.
Sighing, he answered, “Yes, it’s me, Mom.”
Elizabeth came into the hallway, wearing her yellow robe.
She examined the apple juice and container of mac and cheese in his hand. “Is that all your eating? Is everything okay?”
“Fine. I was just going to get started on my homework and grab a bite.” He made a move to head down the hall.
“What is it? You don’t want to give your mother a minute of your time?”
He halted, curtailing his desire to tell her what he was thinking. Approaching the open door, he noted its shiny new lock.
“You changed the lock again.” He smirked. “Was that before or after I threw the computer across the kitchen?”
She went to touch him and he backed away. Elizabeth curled her hand into her chest.
“I got scared. The last time you got angry at me, I ended up with twenty-two stiches. I don’t want to go through that again.”
He shook his head, wondering how the cold bitch could even think of calling herself a mother. “I was seven when that happened. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was an accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident, Beau.” She rolled up the right sleeve on her robe. “You attacked me.”
The shiny thin scar on her forearm brought back memories he had tried day after day to suppress.
The ferocity of his rage at the time came back to him. It had been there all his life, like boiling water beneath the surface of a still lake. His muscles twitched as he pictured taking the butcher knife out of the block in the kitchen and going in search of his mother. She had taken away his favorite toy because he’d bitten a boy at school. He was going to show her.
He had climbed the stairs and crept down the hall to her bedroom door. Beau had turned the handle, being very quiet like in his favorite ninja movies. Her back had been to him as she sat on her big bed, talking on the phone.
The first blow had glanced off her arm, but the second ripped through her flesh, and the blood. He’d loved the metallic smell of it mixing with her floral perfume.
“I’m not that kid anymore.”
Elizabeth rolled down her sleeve. “I hope not. I don’t want to—”
“I said I’m okay!”
His shout echoed throughout the hallway. He hoped his father hadn’t heard. Having his mother on his ass was enough.
She took a step backward. “Go eat your dinner and get to bed early. You know how you get when you don’t sleep.”
He tilted his head in the open door. She had turned down the comforter on her mahogany four-poster bed, but on the nightstand was an empty glass and bottle of whiskey. In the background, the blare of the television mounted on the wall filled an uncomfortable silence.
“How many have you had tonight?”
Elizabeth pulled at the lapels of her robe. “It’s just a nightcap, sweetie, so I can sleep.”
He hated the saccharine voice she used after a couple of drinks. Beau faced his mother, not hiding his tight grimace.
“Is that your excuse for the past ten years?”
The caring glint in Elizabeth’s gray eyes faded. “I don’t like your tone.”
“And I don’t like seeing you drunk, Mom.” He let his anger seep into his voice. “Are you ever going to do something about it?”
“Don’t lecture me.” She shook her head, leaning against the doorframe. “We get enough of that from your father.”
He motioned to the bottle on the nightstand. “Is that his fault or mine?”
Elizabeth pushed off from the doorway. “You already know the answer, Beau.”
He stepped closer, the hate bubbling under his skin. “You bitch.”
She backed into her room, the hall lights accentuating the pallor of her cheeks.
I can smell your fear.
Elizabeth slammed the door in his face and the click of the lock put an end to their conversation.
Satisfied, he strutted down the hall. Nothing like terrorizing his mother to make him feel better.
He clenched the brass handle of his door as he thought of her pouring yet another drink. His anger eased, knowing she would retreat to her bottle to dull her pain. Ever since that night, she had found refuge in her whiskey.
The knot in his chest coiling tighter, Beau shoved his door open. Only a few more months and he would be free. He could put St. Benedict behind him and never come back.
Chapter Fourteen
The warm Louisiana sun crested the towering trees alongside the high school parking lot, chasing away the dewdrops on the blacktop. Beau eased his car into his shady spot next to the big oak and searched for Leslie’s car.
Good. He’d beaten Dawn to school.
He’d dressed in khakis and a freshly starched shirt, wanting to look his best for her. It was time to put any rumors about their relationship to rest. He couldn’t let a girl walk away from him. When the time was right, and Leslie was his, Beau would end it.
Across the parking lot, Sara appeared, wearing a flowery and fitted dress, showing off her boobs. She was with Dawn’s irritating friend, Zoe. The two girls had their heads bowed as if deep in conversation. A cold sweat broke out under Beau’s shirt.
What are these two up to?
He set out across the lot and charged up to the girls. “Hey, there.”
Zoe frowned while Sara flourished a radiant smile.
Beau ignored Zoe. “So, Sara, did you get that last problem in chemistry? I could use your help.”
Zoe sniffed and shook her head. “I’ll see you at lunch, Sara.”
Beau waited until Zoe was out of earshot before he said, “I just wanted to say, I had a great time on the river the other night. You’re a good listener. I’m sorry if I bored you.”
Sara flipped her long hair around her shoulder. “Not at all. I liked talking to you. Perhaps we could do it again sometime.”
The invitation irritated him. The last thing he needed was Dawn finding out about his time with Sara.
“I’d love that.” Then I can shut you down for good. “We could sneak away this weekend at the river during the party. I know a special place where we could talk in private.”
A faint blush warmed her cheeks. “Sure. I’ll be there.”
He nodded after Zoe. “What were you two talking about? Didn’t know you were tight with her.”
“We’re not. She was just asking me if I wanted to try out for the cheerleading squad. Taylor Haskins quit.”
Taylor. A rush of adrenaline seized him. He had to make sure she didn’t become a problem.
Sara waited in front of him, her tedious smile wearing on his nerves.
“Well, I gotta go.”
She pouted, obviously not happy. “What’s your hurry?”
He scrutinized the odd twist of her lips. “After what happened last time at the river, I don’t think we should be seen together. Best to play it safe.”
She spun away without saying another word.
Seconds later, the Moore girls’ car entered the lot.
Perfect timing.
He set off across the green grass at a brisk pace.
Leslie eased into her usual spot close to the quad. He slowed down, not wanting to appear too anxious, wiped his hand across his damp brow and put on the amiable smile he knew would win her over.
Dawn climbed from the front passenger seat, her hair hanging free, her blue eyes clogged with mascara and her lips stained with thick red lipstick. His heart sank. She looked like a whore.
Ignoring his revulsion, he went up to h
er, determined to make a very public display.
“I’ve missed you, baby.” He kissed her cheek.
Over Dawn’s shoulder, he saw Taylor on the school steps, glowering at him. Her ill-fitting clothes and pale skin made him wonder what the hell he had ever found attractive in her.
Dawn slinked out of his arms. “What was that for?”
“I wanted to start things off right between us.”
Leslie stood from the car. His fingers dug into Dawn’s arms when he eyed her saucy smirk.
“So, you’re back.” Leslie peered over the top of the car. “You’re like bubonic plague, Beau Devereaux. You can never be eradicated.”
I know just what I’m gonna put in that smart mouth of yours.
“Ignore her.” Dawn handed him her book bag. “Walk me to class?”
His fists clenched the straps. “Absolutely, baby.”
Dawn clung to his arm, smiling like a beauty queen wearing her newly won crown, eager to make sure everyone got a good look at their reunion.
Beau wasn’t interested in the whispers and quick glances directed their way. He kept his focus locked on Taylor.
She remained hidden in the shadows along the side of the stone steps to the school, the tormented look of a captured animal in her eyes. The meticulously secured buttons of her shirt climbed all the way to her throat, reminding him of a nun. Gone was the nymphet wanting to “play hard.”
He tuned out Dawn’s chatter about plans for after school, nodding only when necessary. It was the terrified Taylor who piqued his interest. Hugging the side of the steps as he approached, she never turned away. The laughter of other students rose around them, a gentle breeze caressed the wisps of Taylor’s hair fallen from her ponytail, and a faint whiff of clover from the quad wafted by. The smell reminded him of Leslie. Taylor backed to the side of the steps, cowering in the shadows.
He imagined his Leslie acting just as compliant, just as afraid.
I can’t wait.
* * *
The bell rang and students crammed the halls. Beau weaved in and out as he rushed to the hallway right down from Taylor’s locker. He settled into a corner, dumping his bag on the floor. Leaning against the cool metal lockers, he kept watching for Taylor. He knew she had no class for the next hour, having craftily coaxed her schedule out of Mrs. Bankston in the school office. He’d pleaded he needed to speak with Taylor about a community service project. Beau planned to skip trig to give them time together.
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