Bombshell (The Rivals Book 3)

by Geneva Lee

  “A lie. You’ve had your eye on the jewel of my fortune,” he seethes, and I start to protest, but he cuts me off, “You want my daughter.”

  For a moment, I’m taken aback, enough to blurt out,“Adair is not your property.”

  It sounds naive, even to me.

  “She IS mine, you stupid boy.” His chest is a bellows, pumping air to fuel his hatred, and he takes a moment to right himself, out of breath from his own theatrics. “I know you. Had some of my people look into you. Orphan. Bounced around the foster system. A sealed juvenile record. What exactly did you do, boy?”

  Of course, he looked into my past. I’d convinced myself that his indifference to Adair extended to me. But she came home with me for Christmas. She ran to me on Thanksgiving. He might not give a shit about her emotionally, but he’s paying attention to every move she makes. Why else would he put cameras up all over his grounds? Adair is just another possession to be guarded, in his eyes. He can keep her in a case and bring her out for special occasions. “I don’t owe you any answers,” I say, my self-control nearly depleted. If he thinks I won’t hit him because he’s in a wheelchair, he’s sorely mistaken. The only reason I haven’t done it yet is Adair. Now, I’m beginning to think she’s the reason I should punch him.

  “I already know what’s in those records, of course,” he continues, and as soon as it’s out of his mouth, I know things are going from bad to ugly. “You stabbed your own father—”

  “After he beat my mother to death,” I add in a deadly soft voice, “or was that not in your summary?”

  His snake eyes blink, black and beady. There’s not even a shred of sympathy in them. They’re as cold as he is. “One does not bite the hand that feeds, no matter the reason.”

  “Lucky for you, huh?” I say with meaning. I’m not the only one hiding sins.

  “Luck has nothing to do with it. Money. Connections. Adair doesn’t bite, because she’s been trained. She’s purebred, unlike you.”

  The only thing more powerful than the hatred I feel towards this man is the disgust he provokes at every turn. Apparently, Angus MacLaine has never been in the same room as shame.

  “I’ve had enough.” He raises a bent finger. His body is obviously as warped as his mind. “You have no idea what this life takes, the sacrifices our family has to make to stay on top. You are unsuitable for such a position. Therefore, you will stop seeing my daughter. At once.” He says it like a bored judge reading the same jury instructions aloud for the thousandth time.

  “No.”

  He doesn’t look surprised. Instead, he heaves a weary sigh and reaches into his breast pocket to withdraw a checkbook and pen. “How much? A hundred thousand?”

  I stare at the checkbook in his hand and process what he’s offering. It takes me longer than it should. “Think what you want about me, but I have more self-respect than that.”

  “Two hundred,” he counters, writing my name across the remit to line.

  I lean over the desk and look down at the great Angus MacLaine, my white knuckles popping against the wood. “Adair can make her own choices.”

  He swallows hard, and the smallest whiff of panic flashes in the corners of his eyes before being quickly tamed. He sniffs again, his lower lip drooping to reveal a gobbet of spit. “You can’t give her the life I can. You may not want to hear it. But you know it’s true. You’re on scholarship, which means you might have a better future ahead of you, but we both know what you are.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you—”

  He waves me away, continuing, “Let me be plain, since you seem to be confusing your self-ideals with reality. YOU. ARE. TRASH. A mutt. A mongrel. You’re nothing to her but a sad, unwanted dog. You might get an education, maybe even a decent job, but you can’t change the blood pumping through your veins.”

  Suddenly, I’m back in my old apartment, my hand pulling at the sheet covering my mom’s lifeless body. I see my father, his mustard-stained undershirt, drenched in pit sweat and stale beer, yelling in from the kitchen. I see my sister, her toes poking through holes in the fronts of her shoes, her hair dirty and matted—exactly like animals in some forgotten zoo.

  I see Angus MacLaine in front of me, too, but he is telescoped away from me, as if we’re both watching my young self from opposite ends of a hallway. I feel violated. And sick. And then a bottomless rage takes hold of me.

  My anger boils, pouring out of me like sweat. I want to wrap my hands around the crepe-like skin of his neck and squeeze.

  “I may be a dog,” I say, and, without breaking eye contact, I grab the right edge of the desk and heave as hard as I can. The desk flips over on its end, and the look of sudden, abject terror on Angus MacLaine’s face is balm for my fury. “But that’s still better than a blue-blooded monster who abuses his family. Fuck you, fuck your money, fuck the sad, small cage you pretend is your kingdom.”

  He starts to say something in reply, but his voice catches. He clears his throat like a broken trumpet, trying to find something to turn our encounter back in his favor. After another steadying breath, his composure returns, as if he has already forgotten what just happened. Angus drums his fingers on the lacquered arm of his wheelchair, a smug, spiteful grin lighting the shambles of his face. I see myself reflected in his black eyes, and I know why he’s smiling. “Enjoy the rest of the wedding, Sterling Ford.”

  I stumble into the hallway, feeling like I’m in a nightmare I can’t wake up from, because I’m exactly what he said I was. The mixed breed dog no one wants because he never learns, he just forgets and attacks. He wasn’t provoking me to wreck my chances with Adair. He did it to prove he doesn’t have to interfere. I’ll fuck things up all by myself. I’m not sure where to go, but I need to put distance between myself and everyone else, or I’ll only do more damage.

  A line of faces wait in the hall, the country club staff standing stock still. I guess disagreements over golf don’t usually get so heated.

  “Christ, Sterling. Are you alright?”

  I realize one of the faces is Cyrus, who’s coming out of the restroom.

  “Sterling?”

  I realize I want to punch him, too. I’ve got to get control of myself. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, but it makes little difference.

  “I know this look,” he says. “Follow me.”

  I let him guide me down a flight of stairs and a hallway, and we arrive at a pair of double doors with a large sign hanging over them: The Nineteenth Hole. Inside, the room is dark, only the outlines of high tables and chairs silhouetted by the lights outside.

  “He’s lucky I didn’t kill him,” I say, taking one of the stools at the bar, which is right next to the doors. I realize my hands are clenched into fists and force them to loosen. “I should go back up there. Let him know exactly—”

  “Whoa, man. That’s not a good idea.” He stoops behind the bar and begins rummaging around. “I’m not saying he doesn’t have it coming. I think everyone has fantasized about killing Angus MacLaine at some point. It’s a Valmont rite of passage.”

  “Did it ever occur to you he got this way because no one ever has kicked his ass?” They’re cowards. All of them. That’s why he wheels around like a king on his throne. Because no one ever challenges his authority.

  “Did it seriously occur to me to attack the most powerful man in Valmont with the kind of resources that could ruin me and my family? No.”

  “Nobody’s brave enough, huh?”

  “Nobody’s that stupid,” he corrects me.

  That’s what he doesn’t understand. The line between bravery and stupidity comes down to success. Fail to take the crown, and you’re stupid. Conquer a kingdom, and you’re brave. Maybe it’s a lot easier to see more than one outcome when you have nothing more to lose.

  “Normally, this wouldn’t be the best thing for you,” he says, thumping down a bottle of whiskey, along with a crystal rocks glass, “but it’s got to be better than killing your girlfriend’s father.”


  For a moment I try looking anywhere but at the bottle. Cyrus’s face is cast in just a few shades of grey, his expression a mixture of concern and, I think, condescension. Part of me knows that he’s trying to help, that my anger just wants an outlet, but I can’t stand the way these people look at me, like I’m a misbehaving puppy that has to grow out of this phase.

  “Thanks,” I say, getting up from my stool and swiping the bottle of whiskey. “I need to get out of here.”

  I expect him to object, but he surprises me by giving a small nod. Then again, I did just threaten to murder the father of the groom. “I’ll let Adair know you left.”

  I don’t know where I’m headed, but it doesn’t really matter as long as it’s somewhere I can be alone with my bottle.

  3

  Adair

  My heart skips a beat, and I rush towards the ornate french doors along the opposite wall of the room. The biting snarl of my father grows closer with each step I take.

  “Wasn’t it wonderful?” a dreamy voice asks as a clammy hand lands on my forearm.

  I turn to discover Ginny with one hand on me and the other holding the ivory silk of her dress while beaming like a spotlight from some combination of romance and champagne.

  “It was, but my dad” I begin to tell her that I don’t have time to listen to her moon over my brother, who doesn’t actually deserve the admiration, while my father attacks my boyfriend. But it’s not Ginny’s fault that my family can’t behave themselves for one night. Why should I be the one to ruin it for her? She’ll discover the truth soon enough. She knows what it’s like in my house—how could she not? But she doesn’t know what it's like to live that way week after week, year after year. She hasn’t developed radar for my father’s fits of rage. She is happy. At her wedding. I don’t need to take that from her. Someone else will. So I take a second, as if I’m trying to find just the right description of my brother’s show, before continuing, “It was really special. You know, I don’t think my brother ever planned anything before. Definitely not a symphonic flash mob. Did you like it?”

  “Not at first. I mean, I was wondering why a piano was suddenly playing, you know? I mean, I didn’t approve a pianist. But when I saw his face, I knew. It was…” she falters, unable to find the right words, before continuing, “beyond anything I ever dreamed.”

  That’s one way to put it. “I have to hand it to him. I don’t think anyone will forget your wedding now.”

  “It could still be this way for you,” she says idly, but there’s an anxious edge to her voice, like she’s saying something she hadn’t dared say before. “If you make the right choices.”

  “What does that mean??” I ask slowly, afraid I already know exactly what it means.

  “The perfect wedding. The perfect life.” She gestures behind her, at the champagne fountain, the manicured vista, the ample evidence that everyone here has conquered life. Suddenly, I’m reminded of Jay Gatsby and his parties—and I know exactly how that turned out.

  “Not for me, thanks.” I hope she leaves it there, but I know she won’t. She’s a member of my family now, so why shouldn’t she tell me how best to live my life? Goes with the territory.

  “Why not? You have everything you could ever need. Security. Prestige. Luxury. People would kill for your life. You just can’t throw it away on bad choices.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Ginny. Let’s not do this now.” My self-control is slipping, and it’s the only thing keeping my temper from flaring.

  Her mouth clamps shut, and for a split second, I think I’ve convinced her to save it for another time. She opens her mouth, and if it’s to placate me, I will never know, because I hear my father’s voice again and one word: trash. Ginny hears it, too, and when I try to move through the door she steps in front of me.

  I go rigid, fighting a surge of adrenaline. Every part of me wants to push my way past her. If she doesn’t get out of my way, things are going to get ugly.

  “Let me go before this gets worse,” I warn her.

  “This is my wedding, Adair,” she hisses, trying to keep as many of the people around us out of our conversation as she can. Propriety must be observed, especially at weddings. She’s a better MacLaine than me already. “How can you be such a narcissist?”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I say, no longer checking my volume.

  She leans in close to me, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper as she jabs an accusatory finger at me. “Jesus, look at you! About to go make a scene by screaming at your father at my wedding. Does anybody get to have a nice moment? Or do you ruin them all?”

  “I was minding my own business, Ginny,” I say, grasping at the last bit of understanding inside me and feeling it fray. “Unlike—”

  “Like hell you were. Nothing I say can stop you, will it? Because—despite having everything—you still have to be a wrecking ball, don’t you?”

  I open my mouth to protest, but the words aren’t there. I take a second to find my voice, and when it comes out I am surprised how calm it sounds. “I’m not the one who has to control everything.”

  “No. You’re the one who has to destroy everything. Nothing can exist if it doesn’t perfectly please you, right? Not Thanksgiving dinner with our families. Not even a conversation with your brother or father.”

  Does she think her shiny, new wedding ring gives her the right to order me around? Has she always seen behind the curtains to the ugliness we keep hidden until now? I’d always thought she was naive—maybe willfully so. I thought she was too focused on the perfect wedding and blind to the harsh reality. Now? I wonder how much she’s willing to ignore in search of her perfect life.

  “I understand you don’t like your family, Adair. And I know your father is…very difficult—”

  “—that doesn’t begin to cover it—”

  “—but it still doesn’t excuse your behavior. You’ve never had to do chores. Never had to work for anything. You may be able to treat everyone else like that, but not your family.” Her words suck the air out of my lungs. She is just like them. I can’t believe I never saw it before. “You’re just a brat,” she finishes with an exasperated sigh.

  My arm spasms toward her, and my whole body jerks from the effort of stopping my hand from slapping her.

  She flinches, sending a gasp throughout the crowd that has gathered around us. I can tell at once that she is going to behave like I actually hit her, making me wonder why I didn’t just go ahead and do it. Somehow, through the red haze fogging my vision, I realize hitting her would prove her point.

  She flinches again as I throw my hand around her shoulder and pretend to hug her, while dropping my mouth to her ear.

  “You know nothing, Ginny,” I whisper coldly. “You have girlish dreams of what life in my house is like. But your dad didn’t scream at you every day of your life. You didn’t have to watch yours get drunk, wondering how long it would be before he went after your every flaw, real or imagined. And you didn’t have to sit in a hospital, waiting for them to come out and tell you that your drunk father killed your mother.”

  She pulls back. I expect her to be cowed, to look sheepish, but she doesn’t. It’s the sorrow in her eyes that catches me off guard, making me feel the size of a pea. “I’m sorry that happened to you. And I’m sorry you’re so angry—”

  “But I’m ruining your perfect wedding, right?”

  “What would your mother say right now?”

  The weight of a boulder lands on my chest. What am I supposed to say to that? I hate her. That’s what I want to say. How dare she use my mother against me? She barely knew her, never got to see all the pain my father caused her. She thinks a few wedding planning sessions gave her deep insight? It barely gave her a glimpse. A few hours into being a MacLaine, and she’s already an expert. And that’s just it. I don’t know why I worried about Ginny joining the family. She fits in better than I ever will.

  “She’d tell you to ma
ke the best of your life. To take your advantage of wealth, your family connections, and make a good life from it. She wouldn’t want you to be so full of rage. Because she would see what I see—that the anger is hurting you most of all.”

  Her words are sharp and pointed, delivering a precise prick that deflates me like a carefully popped balloon. She’s right, isn’t she? I can say she didn’t know my mother well enough, but that’s exactly the kind of thing my mother was always telling me.

  Maybe I’m so accustomed to expecting the worst that I’m seeing it now. I’m ready to forgive Ginny—admit that I’m wrong—until she adds, “Instead, you’re going to burn it all down. Fight with everyone, every chance you get. You’re just like your father, actually. No compromises. No consideration. You don’t even realize you’re lashing out. I mean, for Christ’s sake, Adair, you’re dating some piece of trash orphan who’s only out for our money!”

  Her words sting, and I recoil, stepping back from her.

  That’s what this is about. It was coordinated. She is a MacLaine. Even today, my family can’t relax and celebrate. They have to plot and manipulate and control. She planned this with my father. How else could she know about Sterling’s past? My father is having the opposite version of this conversation with Sterling, right now. I know it. Did they plan it, or is Ginny so perfect for my family that she didn’t have to be told? Is this a role she has chosen, or the one she was born to play?

  I don’t even realize my palm is swinging toward her face until my eyes lock with her panicked ones. It’s too late to stop it. I might as well enjoy it. She deserves it. She made her wedding a battle zone. She deserves a little friendly fire.

  “Kindly do not hit my wife,” Malcolm says, catching my arm an inch from her perfectly made up face.

  Ginny collapses into him, blubbering and teary, a jumbled mixture of what I said and a lot that I didn’t spilling out of her mouth. I see her eyes peek up at him through wet lashes, trying to gauge his reaction so she can calibrate her performance. So he will remember me as a monster who tried to take her perfect day from her, instead of what really happened. Somewhere in her babbling I hear her mention my mother again.