by Kate Stacy
“Yeah. I’m nervous as hell, but it’s time.”
Aside from Ryan and Cannon, Presley is the only one who knows about my connection to Noah.
Our conversations lately have been getting deeper, more personal.
“Good. It’s gonna be good. Want me to come with you?”
The offer hits me straight in the chest, marking me somewhere deep. My head buzzes with the knowledge that she’s willing to put herself in what's sure to be an awkward situation for me. A well of emotion builds inside me, but now isn’t the time to work through it, to try to pick apart those feelings. Pushing them back, I do what I came here to do and press my mouth to hers.
My tongue swipes past her lips, and I wrap my arms around her to draw her even closer.
She tastes like warmth and wishes, heat and happiness.
I savor the kiss.
No rush, no urgency.
I pull away when I realize my thoughts are starting to sound like one of those romance novels she loves so much.
What is this girl doing to me?
“Gotta stop, Princess. Tasting your lips makes me want to taste other places, and I’m not about to fuck you in someone else’s bathroom.”
Her lips quirk at the corners, the small smile lighting her entire face.
“Wish me luck.”
She presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth.
“You don’t need luck.”
Without another word, I turn, leaving her alone in the small room.
I find Noah behind the bar, in the exact same place he was before. Working, though he’s supposed to have the night off. No one asked him to make drinks, it’s obvious he’s back there because he loves it. He’s in his element though, there’s no doubt about that.
I make my way over, chuckling when I realize that I’ve never seen Noah not behind a bar.
I wait in the line for my turn, which doesn’t take long.
“Hey, man. Want your usual beer?”
“I’m thinkin’ I’m gonna need something a little stronger tonight. Jack and Coke?”
He nods. “You got it.”
He works with a quickness and ease that speaks of his experience. He hands my drink to me and I can tell his mind is already working on the next one, but I put a hitch in those plans.
“Can I convince you to step out from behind the bar for a bit? Got something I need to talk to you about.”
His brows furrow and I know I’ve confused the hell out of him, but he easily agrees.
“Yeah, gimme a minute.”
I nod, moving to the side to wait.
He says something to Zane, offers what’s likely an apology to the person who was in line behind me, grabs a beer, and heads my way.
“You might need a little something stronger, too.” I warn.
“Not really a big drinker.”
“Fair enough.” I head a little further away from the nearest crowd of people, wanting to give us some semblance of privacy. “I’m just gonna cut to the chase...because I’ve spent months trying to think of the best way to do this and I’m still coming up empty. I figure it’s best to just lay it all out there. So hear me out, yeah?”
He nods.
“My dad left when I was a kid. My mom passed when I was seventeen. Wasn’t until I was getting ready to move here that I decided to clear out the storage unit that held her belongings. Long story short...the man I thought was my father isn’t. Found some documents and my original birth certificate. I was born in North Carolina, not Florida, and my father’s name is Luis Hernandez…” I let it hang there, waiting to see how he’s going to react.
He says nothing at first, only shakes his head.
He takes a long swallow from his bottle and lets out a mirthless chuckle.
“Christ,” he says. “I’m not even all that surprised. Luis always was a fucking bastard. So you’re my brother.”
It’s not a question.
“Half, technically.”
“Man, fuck technicalities.” He laughs. “A brother’s a brother.”
I study him. He seems at ease with the news, but I don’t know him well enough to judge his reaction for its sincerity.
“You’re taking this better than I expected,” I admit.
“Look, I don’t know how much you know about him, but Luis was a dick. He went through life not giving a fuck about anyone but himself. Sure, he claimed to love Ma, but that didn’t stop him from stepping out on her on the regular. Didn’t stop him from putting his hands on both of us every time he had a little too much to drink.” The inflection in his tone says it was more often than not. “He did whatever he wanted without a care about how it would affect his family. Finding out I have a brother doesn’t really come as a surprise. Hell, what would surprise me is if you’re the only one.”
“I’m not.”
“Well, just bring him around too. We’ll all be one big happy family.” It’s an angry, sarcastic response, but there’s no real fire behind it. “Sorry, man. I’m being a dick. It’s not your fault he was such a royal bastard.”
“It’s all good. I get it. I honestly expected at least some kind of anger about this shit. Lord knows I was pissed when I found out.”
“How did you find out?”
“Hired a private investigator.”
I give him the whole story, not leaving anything out. Hell, he deserves to know the truth, too.
We walk around the property as we talk, sharing bits and pieces of our lives.
He tells me how he moved back to Blackwood when our sperm donor died, leaving a broken woman behind. For all the bullshit he put her through, somehow his mom still loved Luis. I won’t pretend to understand how a woman could love such a vile man, but I don’t hold it against her.
We eventually make it back around to Ryan’s truck, so we hop up on the tailgate and kick back.
I tell him about my mom’s suicide. About Elena, her life, the drugs, and her eventual overdose.
“Damn. That’s fuckin’ terrible. It’s sad to find out I had a sister that I’ll never get the chance to know, but I’m excited to get to know Hannah. I mean, I know her, but not in the familial sense.”
“I’m sure she’ll be excited too. We haven’t told her anything yet. Wasn’t sure how you would take it, or if you would even want any kind of relationship, and she’s been through enough in her life.”
“I feel you. You’ve got nothing to worry about there. I’m a lot like Holden in the sense that family is important to me. I always wished I had more of it. Guess now I do.”
“I know what you mean, brother. Thought Hannah was the only family I had left.”
“Family isn’t always blood.”
“Know that, too. Ryan and Cannon...they’re my brothers in every way that counts.”
“Exactly how I feel about the Sterling sisters,” he says, raising a brow and nodding toward Presley. “I know I’m younger than you, but I told you before...that girl is family. I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you—”
“Man—”
He shakes his head, pinning me with a stare. “Saw you follow her inside earlier. Watched you haul her ass out of the bar on her birthday.” Everything on his face tells me not to bullshit him. “Like I said, I don’t know what’s going on. I’m not gonna ask. Don’t fuck with her, though. I love all three of them like sisters, but Presley is special. She’s more fragile than the other two. Anything happens to break her heart, and whatever is going on between the two of you is suddenly going to involve a lot of pissed off guys...myself included. You might be blood, but I’ve known her our entire lives.”
“She’s not as fragile as you think she is,” I argue.
“You’re right. But she doesn’t see herself that way. She’s got more strength than anyone I know, but she battles with herself and until she wins that battle, she needs to be handled with care.”
My eyes narrow, wondering what he’s getting at.
>
“I’m a bartender, Adam. I see people when they loosen up and let their guard down. I’ve seen what she tries to hide. What you’ve been helping her hide.”
“Fuck. Please don’t let her find out that you know. It’d kill her.”
“I’ve known for years and never said a word. I wouldn’t. It kills me, breaks my fucking heart to know that she does that to herself. I don’t know why she does it, what demons haunt her, but she’s been better...since you.
“It’s amazing what a little ink therapy can do for a person.”
His laughter surprises me. There’s nothing humorous about this situation.
“Are you really that fucking clueless, brother?”
My head jerks back, eyes wide and brows narrowed.
“It’s not the ink, Adam. It’s you.”
TWENTY-SIX
Presley
Oh. My. God.
I stare at my phone with unabashed awe as I end the call.
Tapping the screen, I open Instagram, pull up the DM and read it again. And again.
Switching to my profile, I look at my follower count, hardly believing it’s gotten so high.
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
Squealing, I jump up and down, pumping my fists into the air.
A notification sounds on my phone, interrupting my celebration.
BDE: Well? Don’t keep me in suspense!
BDE: I’m the dramatic one, my pretty. Not you.
Laughing, I call him.
“How the hell do you keep changing your name in my phone, Derrick?” I ask as soon as I hear him answer the call.
“Not now, Presley. We have more important things to discuss. I’m on the edge of my seat over here, biting my nails, which is a totally disgusting habit. You’re killing me. Literally killing me. Put me out of my misery! Is it legit?”
Grinning, I give in. “It’s legit.”
I pull the phone away from my ear at his high-pitched squeal.
“Oh my Goooodddd, girl! That’s incredible!” I can hear his rapid breath, it sounds like he’s hyperventilating. “Okay, okay. Read it to me again.”
“Fiiiiine.” I playfully roll my eyes even though he can’t see me.
“Hello, Presley. My name is Ashley. I’m an agent representing a wide variety of talent, including models. I’ve been following you for a few weeks now and I’ve watched your follower count grow by leaps and bounds in such a short time. Quite frankly, I love what I see. Your look and vibe are a perfect fit for my agency. If you’re interested in modeling in a more official capacity, I’d love to represent you. I’d like to bring you to New York, so we can get together and talk about your future. I’m sure you have questions, so feel free to call me and I’ll take care of any concerns you may have. Congratulations on your 25k milestone. Hope to hear from you soon.”
“This is big. SO big. You’re gonna be famous!”
I laugh at the squeak in his voice. “I’m not, D.”
“Wait. What?”
I sigh, slouching back onto the couch. “The contract requires me to move to New York.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“No, but she told me. She’s overnighting a copy to me to look over, but I have no intention of signing it.”
“Ugh. Hold that thought. Open your door.”
Should have known he’d come right over. I jump up and let him in.
He bustles past me, dropping bags onto my kitchen counter.
“I know it’s not our official wine night,” he says, pulling item after item out of the bags. “But we have to celebrate this tremendous occasion. So, screw the wine...we’re drinking tequila!” He pulls a bottle from the bag and holds it in the air like a prize.
“Tacos and tequila?” I ask.
“Uh, duhhh.” His eyes roll. “Is there any other way to celebrate being offered a modeling contract and twenty-five thousand followers? You’re a big fucking deal now, my pretty!”
I move to help him, pulling limes from a grocery bag. Grabbing a knife, I start slicing.
“You did hear me tell you that I’m not signing the contract, right?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waves me off. “There’s no way in hell I’m letting you move to New York, especially not without me. But the fact that you even got the offer is huge, Presley! Huge!”
What’s huge is his eyes and the excitement shining in them. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he was high.
“No worries, D. I have zero desire to move to a big city. There’s no way I’d move away and leave my family behind. I love living here.”
“I wasn’t worried,” he says, waving a hand before pushing a shot of tequila and the saltshaker in my direction. Grabbing his own, he lifts it and holds it out. “Lick, swallow, suck, my pretty. Cheers!”
“Cheers,” I say, a little less enthusiastically as I sprinkle some salt on my wrist.
Picking up my shot, I lick the salt and throw it back before biting a lime wedge to suck the juice from it.
It’s the first shot of many.
By the time we convince my brother to bring us tacos from the bar—it wasn’t that hard—we’re both well beyond tipsy.
Thirty minutes later, Holden drops off a bag of food and leaves with the expectation that I’ll call him if we need anything else.
Derrick and I waste no time digging into the tacos, devouring them like we haven’t eaten in weeks.
A few shots later, we snap a celebratory picture and post it on my account.
We’re adorably drunk.
“Gah! I wish we had a copy of the contract so I could take your picture with it! When that thing gets here tomorrow, we’re framing it and hanging it on your wall! I’m so proud of you, girl!”
He throws his arms around me and squeezes so hard it feels like I’ll pop.
Thankfully, my phone causes a distraction when my Instagram notifications start blowing up. Derrick releases me, turning his attention to the app instead.
“Aww, everyone’s congratulating you. How sweet. Look!” He practically throws my phone at me, but I manage to catch it.
Sure enough, there are dozens of comments already,
I start scrolling through them, thanking people for their kind words.
I’ve made it a habit to reply to the first round of comments that come in, but not many more after that. I try to keep an eye out for people asking questions, or comments that stand out more than others. Beyond that, I have to limit my replies, otherwise I’d spend every waking moment on Instagram replying to comments. No one has time for that.
I respond to about thirty comments, but they're still steadily rolling in.
One in particular catches my eye.
Modeling contract? I call bullshit. No one wants to see more of Cotton Candy Barbie. The shit she posts on here is bad enough.
I suck in a breath.
As much as I try to fight it, my eyes well with tears.
It’s not the only comment like that. It’s the first of many. Today.
I’ve gotten rude, nasty comments before. I’ve never given them much attention. I delete them when I see them and go on with my day. I know how petty and hateful people can be, I’ve been dealing with it since I was a teenager.
For some reason though...this comment hits me and it hurts.
Maybe it’s the alcohol.
Maybe it’s the self-doubt I haven’t felt lately sneaking back in.
Whatever it is, I can’t look away.
I scroll, and scroll, and scroll.
My screen fills with one horrible comment after another.
She looks like trash. Who would offer her a modeling contract?
She’s so trashy. Modeling? She’s more suited for low-budget porn. Princess Presley does sound like a porn star name.
Everything about her is fake. There’s nothing special about this girl at all. Just another wannabe begging to be seen.
Attention whore. You’re just a s
ad, lonely girl looking for attention by posting half-naked pictures on the Internet. I’m sure your parents are proud.
Covering my mouth, I choke out a sob.
“Presley, what’s the matter?” Derrick asks, snatching my phone from my hand.
Tears sting my eyes and blur my vision.
“What the actual fuck is wrong with people?!” Derrick shouts, dropping to his knees in front of me. “Presley, my pretty. Haters. That’s all they are. They’re jealous and spiteful and their comments have everything to do with how they feel about themselves and nothing to do with you. Do you hear me?”
I shake my head, not bothering to stem the flow of my tears.
These people are just voicing every awful thought I’ve ever had about myself.
They’re not saying anything I haven’t heard before from the bitchy little voice in my own mind.
Deep down, I know none of it’s true.
It doesn’t matter.
Words fucking hurt.
Especially when they’re aimed directly at every insecurity I’ve ever had.
“Goddamn it, Presley!” Derrick says, tone more serious than I’ve ever heard. He grabs my chin and forces me to look at him. “Do not let these assholes drag you back down. You’re better than that. Better than them. You know it.”
Sniffing as I wipe my tears, I nod.
Derrick puts my phone down on the floor next to him and takes my hands.
“You’ve come so far in just a few short months. The change I’ve seen in you…” He closes his eyes, gently shaking his head. His eyes pop open and he pins me with his stare. “I don’t have words, Presley...and I always, always have words.”
Despite my tears, a giggle slips out and Derrick smiles.
“That’s better.”
I blow out a heavy breath, rolling my eyes at myself. I hate that the stupid comments got to me. I’m frustrated with myself for letting the words bother me to the point of tears.
“Those aren’t the first comments like that, are they?” he asks.
“No. I’ve gotten some before. Not quite as bad, but…” I shrug.
“You should have said something.”
“They didn’t bother me at first. I deleted them and pretended they were never there. I’ve never paid much attention to the comments anyways, since there’s so many thirsty guys saying lewd shit about me every time I post a selfie.” I huff out a breath, my eyes rolling automatically when I think about some of the downright dirty things guys have said. “I get rude comments daily, but they’ve been getting worse, and more frequent. I’d be lying if I said they didn’t bother me.”