Fallen Heir

by Erin Watt

  Poor girl is so tired. I grab a blanket draped over the back of the sofa. “I already told you I’m tone deaf,” I remind her as I drape the blanket over her legs. “But what song do you propose?”

  She draws the cover up to her chin. “I was kidding.”

  “I’m up for any challenge.”

  “I’m learning that.”

  “If songs and handshakes are out, we’re down to a secret knock.”

  She doesn’t respond. I watch as her chest rises and falls in a slow and steady pace. I slide off the sofa and pull her legs up onto the cushion I abandoned. She doesn’t wake up even after I stick the pillow under her head and cover her with a pretty quilt I find carefully folded on the floor next to the sofa.

  As much as I want to stay, I know that Hartley would prefer to wake up by herself. So I let myself out.

  I don’t know why I latched onto the idea of being friends, but it sits right with my gut. I want Hartley in my life and if being friends is the way that happens, then friendship is what we’ll have.

  It’s different, but maybe that’s not a bad thing.

  Chapter 10

  Me: Where u at, BFF?

  Her: We’re not best friends

  Me: U agreed!

  Her: To FRIEND. Not BEST

  I grin at my phone as I walk down the hall of the arts building that’s tucked away on the east side of campus. I’ve never actually had any classes here. I’m not too creative.

  NEway, I text back, where u at?

  None of your beeswax, Hartley replies, punctuating the message with a smiley face.

  “It’s a good thing I know your schedule,” I say aloud. “Morning, sunshine.”

  Hartley jumps in surprise as I approach her from behind. She was about to walk into one of the music rooms, but now she spins around.

  “What the hell!” She makes the cutest little growling sound. “No way, Easton. I only get three solo practice hours a week and I’m not letting you spoil it! Go away.”

  I mock pout. “But I was so excited to hear you play the…” I slant my head. “What do you play again?”

  “Violin,” she says grudgingly.

  “Fancy.” I reach around her and open the door. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re really going to listen while I practice?”

  “Why not?” I give her a little nudge. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

  She hesitates but then enters the room. While she pulls her instrument out of its small black case, I take stock of the tiny practice space. It’s not much wider than the piano shoved up against the wall. Other than the bench under the piano, which Hartley pulls out, and a black metal stand to hold her music, the place is empty.

  “Will you kill me if I sit on the piano?”

  “Yes,” she says without looking up from the violin.

  “Thought so.” I drop to the floor. “I prefer rubbing my ass against the dirty tile, anyway. Builds up my immune system and all.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I don’t sense much sympathy over in your corner of the room.”

  “Isn’t helping you be healthy something that a best friend would do?” she says as she arranges a few sheets of paper on the music stand.

  “Ah ha! You admit we’re besties.” I close my eyes, lean back against the wall and cross my arms over my chest. I wait for some retort, but instead I hear the mournful wail of music.

  The notes are thin at first, just a few slow reverbs hanging in the air followed by a few more, but she builds the sound in layers, until the chords are played almost on top of each other and the music is so full that I can’t believe it’s only one instrument.

  I open my eyes and find that Hartley has closed hers. She’s not even looking at her instructional sheets. And she’s not playing the violin with just her fingers—her whole body is into it. That’s why it sounds like there’s a full orchestra in the room.

  The music fills me up, quieting all the extra noises in my life, making my heart swell larger and larger until there’s nothing left of me but ears and a soul.

  And that scares me half to death.

  I pop up to my feet. “I’m going to wait outside,” I mumble.

  Hartley barely acknowledges me as I leave.

  Outside the practice room, I rub my hands over my bare arms. I actually have goose bumps. Now that my lungs aren’t filled with her melody, I can breathe again.

  I slide down the wall until my ass hits the floor. The sounds she creates with her violin seep out the cracks of the door I can’t quite bring myself to close entirely.

  It’s as if with every pass of the bow across the strings, she’s trying to flay me open and expose me. I’m not deep. I’m not affected by music. I’m Easton Royal, superficial and only interested in how to have a good time.

  I don’t want to look deep into my being and see the bottomless, black, boring pool of nothingness. I want to live in blissful denial.

  I should leave right now. Get up and go find someone to fight or to—actually, if I want to do the latter, I have Hartley.

  I don’t need to go anywhere. I just need to convince her that this friendship thing would be so much better if we were naked during our alone time.

  And I have just the way to get that done.

  I slip back into the cramped room, steeling myself against Hartley and her magic violin. Luckily, I’m able to make it through the rest of the practice without a breakdown.

  I’m not affected by the way her fingers fly over the strings. I don’t notice the light sheen of sweat that breaks across her forehead. I don’t care that all the features I previously marked as plain make her look like some sort of goddess when she’s in this musical trance.

  None of that bothers me. Not one bit.

  “Done already?” I ask when she sets the violin on her lap.

  She points her bow at a light above the door. “Time’s up.” The light is flashing red at her. “We’re only allowed an hour.”

  An hour passed already? It barely felt like ten minutes. “I can’t believe it’s already been an hour,” I remark, frowning.

  “You didn’t have to come in or stay.”

  The frown deepens as I watch her pack away her instrument, an unruffled expression on her face. She truly doesn’t care whether I was here or not.

  The itchy feel between my shoulder blades is because it’s only going to be that much harder to get in her pants, not because I’m disappointed that she doesn’t seek my approval or praise.

  I take the case from her and drape her book bag over one shoulder.

  “So why the violin?” I ask as we leave the room. I nod to a couple of my classmates, who give me a wide-eyed look of surprise as I meander down the hall next to Hartley.

  She, of course, ignores them.

  “Music was a requirement in my house. My older sister took piano, my younger sister plays the flute, and I picked the violin. It seemed like a cool idea when I was five.” She hesitates, just for a second, and maybe somebody who wasn’t playing as close attention as I was would’ve missed it. “My dad played it. I thought it was amazing.”

  A curiously sad smile plays around her lips. I wonder what it means.

  “I can see that. I wanted to fly planes after my—” It’s my turn to break off. “A guy I knew took me up as a kid.”

  Hartley doesn’t miss my hesitation, either. “A guy you knew?”

  I scratch the back of my neck. “You know much about my family?” The Royal drama was all over the papers last spring, but she wasn’t here then. Gossip has died down a little.

  “Like the legal stuff?”

  I give a brief nod.

  “I read some stuff online, but I figure a lot of it isn’t true.”

  “If the story you read said that my dad’s business partner killed my dad’s girlfriend and tried to pin it on my brother, then it’s pretty accurate.”

  “And the guy you knew is that business partner?”

  “Yup.”

  “So now
you’re trying not to love flying and planes anymore because you’re afraid that it makes you too much like him?”

  Her summation hits way too close to home. “I’m not anything like that asshole,” I say tightly.

  Except…I am.

  I’m way more like Steve than like my dad. The rest of the Royals take after Callum, but I’m reckless and thoughtless and those are classic Steve O’Halloran traits.

  “You can be passionate about the same things as someone you don’t like,” Hartley says softly. “Like, just because I play the violin doesn’t mean I’m going to drink myself to death like other famous musicians. Flying planes doesn’t mean you’re going to steal your best friend’s girl.”

  “He didn’t steal his friend’s girlfriend. He killed someone,” I say through gritted teeth. My words come out louder than I intend, catching the attention of a couple students passing by.

  Hartley shrugs off the mention of Steve’s actions. “There are lots of things I think you’re capable of, Easton, but killing someone isn’t one of them. Not even if you fly a plane.”

  “I thought that about Steve, too,” I mutter under my breath.

  Hartley doesn’t say another word until we reach her locker. “Thanks for coming to practice with me, even if you didn’t enjoy it.” She tugs the backpack off my shoulder.

  I lean against the locker next to hers and watch as she stows her instrument away and pulls out her books for the next period. “Who said I didn’t enjoy it?”

  “You left after the first passage.”

  “You noticed?” She hadn’t moved a muscle when I left the room or when I came back in.

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I liked it.” Way too much. “I liked it so much I might take some lessons.” I reach over her head and grab the case out of the locker, then tuck the entire case under my chin. “What do you think? Good look for me?”

  I strike a pose. When she doesn’t respond, I shove the case back in her locker.

  “Whatever,” I say carelessly. “Violin’s kind of boring. I think I’ll go for the guitar. Easier to pick up chicks that way.”

  “You’re being an ass right now.”

  Again, there’s an itch between my shoulders. The feeling that I need her approval, and how much I hate it when I don’t get it. It makes me lash out. “Does that mean we’re no longer friends?” I mock.

  She tilts her head. “I almost like it better when you’re this way. At least I know there’s some genuine emotion behind your scorn. It’s better than your fake good humor.”

  The itch turns into heat. “Fake good humor? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the fact that you’re full of it most of the time and that you’re more interesting when you’re angry, like now. Or when you’re being genuine, like when you were talking about being scared of flying because it makes you worried you’ll be too much like the guy you used to admire but who turned out to be a terrible human being. I know exactly how that feels.”

  I open my mouth to unleash a torrent of insults, beginning with how she couldn’t possibly know how I feel because she’s a nobody and I’m Easton Royal, but I’m saved from my own stupidity by Pash, who slaps me on the back as he runs to his next class.

  “What day is it, son?” he yells.

  “Game day!” Dominic yells back.

  Hartley twists around to watch the two players race by. “You have a game today?”

  I pluck my jersey away from my chest. “You think I wear this for the hell of it?”

  “What do I know? I went to an all-girls school for the last three years.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Hmmm what?” she asks suspiciously. “Ugh. Are you thinking something dirty?”

  “Nope, I was thinking how that’s the most information you’ve ever willingly shared about yourself.”

  “I let you listen while I practiced,” she protests.

  Time to put my plan into motion. I really want her to come to a game so that she can see I’m good at something like she is. That there’s more to me than my smart-ass comments and my looks. Besides, even though I promised not to hit on her, I think if she sees me in my football gear she’ll be like every other female on the planet who loves a man in uniform.

  I’m playing the odds here. There’s no such thing as platonic friendship between guys and girls. Eventually the clothes are gonna come off. So, really, I’ve just got to be patient.

  “Well, since I listened to you practice,” I say, “that means you have to come to the game tonight. You owe me.”

  I brace myself for a bunch of excuses, but she surprises me.

  “If we’re doing quid pro quo then I should come to a practice, not an actual game.”

  “Look at you with the fancy Latin. Sure then, come and watch me lift. I get it—you want to see me without my shirt on. You know what? Let me give you a sneak peek. It’s awesome, by the way. You might want to close one eye to reduce the effect.”

  With a wide grin, I pull up my jersey to expose my abs.

  “Royal! Pull your shirt down,” barks Headmaster Beringer, who chooses that moment to walk past us.

  I sheepishly tug my shirt down.

  Hartley’s cheeks are pink, but she plays it cool as she says the words I want to hear. “Fine. One game.”

  * * *

  I arrange for Hartley to sit with Val and Ella so it’s easy to spot her when I run out of the tunnel. I don’t want to brag, but I play awesome. So does the rest of the team. Bran, in particular, shines. He’s a real asset, and I have no problem telling him that in the locker room after the game.

  “You played great, man.” I slap him on the back as we head for the showers.

  “Thanks. The defense made it easy for me.” He grins. “I don’t think I had to drive farther than sixty yards to get a touchdown tonight.”

  Everyone else is jubilant, too. There’s a lot of towel snapping and ass slapping as we shower and ready ourselves for some postgame fun.

  “After-party’s at Dom’s house tonight,” Pash yells.

  A loud cheer fills the locker room.

  “You going?” Connor Babbage asks as we shuffle out of the steam-filled shower area.

  “Probably. Gotta check in with my peeps, though.” I plop my towel-clad butt on the bench and grab my phone.

  U still here? I text Hartley.

  Yeah

  Good. Meet me in the parking lot?

  OK

  The parking lot is packed with students. With so many headlights on, it’s nearly as bright as day.

  Bran falls in step with me as I walk toward the girls. “Going to Dom’s?”

  “Maybe.” To be honest, the last thing I want to do is go to another high school party where I see all the same people and do the same thing I’ve done for years. It’s nothing more than music, mixed drinks, and making out with girls I don’t really like.

  “That sounds like an enthusiastic yes.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m going. Seems like it’ll be a good place to get to know my classmates.”

  “Why? They’re all assholes,” I say sourly.

  Bran cocks his head. “Including you?”

  “I’m the worst of them all.” I don’t know why I’m in such a foul mood. We won, for chrissake. I let out a short breath. “Sorry. I don’t think I got enough hits in during the game. You spent too much time on the field.”

  “Get used to it,” he says cheerfully, unfazed by my bad attitude. “I plan to spend a lot of time out there.”

  “Good game!” Ella cheers as we get close, saving me from responding.

  I look to Hartley, who echoes the praise with a single thumbs-up. Would it kill her to show a little more admiration? Two thumbs maybe? Jeez.

  “Hi,” Ella greets Bran. “I’m Ella.”

  “Bran.” He sticks out his hand. “I think we have Spanish together.”

  Ella nods enthusiastically. “Yeah. You sit in the front row.”

  “The front row? Nerd,
” Val teases, waggling her eyebrows at Bran.

  “This is Val,” I tell him, gesturing to Ella’s best friend. “And Hartley.” I jerk my head at the girl who thinks one thumbs-up sums up how amazing I played tonight.

  “Confession time.” Bran makes a little gesture with his finger and all three girls lean in. Even Hartley. “I actually don’t mind school.”

  Hartley mock gasps. “Well, since we’re baring our souls and all… Me neither.”

  The two exchange a grin that makes me want to gag.

  “School is how those in power train young, malleable minds into enforcing the status quo,” I bite out.

  Everyone wears varying looks of surprise. Bran wrinkles his forehead. Val’s and Ella’s brows crash together. Hartley looks utterly dumbfounded.

  “Um, okay,” she says.

  Ella pats me on the back. “Don’t mind him. He’s mad because he only got to sack the quarterback once.”

  Bran nods. “That’s what he was saying before. Sorry, bro. Next time I’ll make sure to score quicker so you can have more opportunities on defense.”

  “Bran!” someone shouts. “You coming?”

  Our celebrated quarterback raises a hand. “On my way. See you at the party, folks.”

  The girls wave at him as he jogs toward a souped-up Nissan GT-R. Those are Dom’s wheels. Bran’s having no problem fitting in, apparently. I should be overjoyed by that, but the prospect of going to the party and watching him and Hartley—who barely gives me the time of day—flirt with each other makes me want to punch something.

  “What’s wrong?” Hartley asks warily.

  I shove my hands in my pockets to hide my fists. From the corner of my eye I see that Ella is also watching me, but rather than suspicious, her expression is resigned. She knows me well enough to figure out what’s going on.

  “Easton?” Hartley presses.

  I shrug a few times, because my shoulders feel like moving. “I don’t know, I just get like this sometimes. Like there’s all this energy rushing through my blood.” I shrug about five more times. “It’s fine. I’ll settle down.”

  “How?”

  “I just need to expend some energy.”

  Ella frowns.

  “What?” I say defensively. “She asked.”