Fold : Book 1 of the Complicated Parts Series

by Ashley Jade

  Even though I'm almost positive his accident isn't raising any red flags with the authorities, it doesn't mean his financial attorneys won't comb through things and report anything deemed suspicious.

  Like a large installment of money being transferred mere hours before his death.

  My stomach lurches, and I know I'm being paranoid about this...but the man wasn't exactly a recluse or a Joe-Schmo. He was a filthy rich sports team owner.

  And when a rich person dies before their time, regardless of the circumstances, foul play is always presumed.

  At least, that's what all the crime shows on T.V. lead us to believe.

  I rest my elbows on the desk and press the heels of my palms to my eyes. I'm completely stumped as to what my next move should be.

  I'm starting to feel like I'm in the middle of a fucked-up poker game.

  Do I log in and check...this way I can see what the flop will bring? Or do I cover my ass and fold before the flop...because my cards aren't all that great to begin with?

  Then again, any decent poker player knows it's less about the cards and more about how you play the hand you've been dealt.

  If you play with a good strategy, you can still win with a shitty hand.

  I crack my knuckles and pull out my phone. My best course of action is to go right to the source.

  My father never made a move without consulting Bob, his financial attorney and close friend. And lucky for me, I know him fairly well. He even pulled some strings and got me an internship with a stockbroker firm last summer.

  I don't know why I didn't think of calling him before.

  Bob, like most attorneys, burns the midnight oil, so I'm not surprised when he picks up on the first ring. “Hey, Preston. I'm still getting caught up with everything on my end. I'm so sorry.”

  “Yeah.” My voice conveys just the right amount of sadness. “Thanks, Bob. It's been—” I pause for dramatic effect. “It's been a really hard day.”

  “I bet. I tried to tell him appointing a healthcare proxy without explicit instructions regarding life-sustaining measures wasn't ideal, but he didn't listen.” He sighs heavily. “Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't call you earlier, kiddo. I've been a bit tied up with paperwork. In addition to handling all of your mother's phone calls of course.”

  I hear him strike a match in the background. “I reminded her what she agreed to in the event of his death when she signed that God-awful prenup, but needless to say, she's still pissed.”

  At that, my ears perk up...until he says, “Not to be rude or anything, but is your brother around by any chance?”

  His question throws me. “No, he's spending the night with his girlfriend.” I sit up straight. “I can tell him to call you, though. Is it an emergency? Something important that you need to tell the both of us?”

  “Not exactly, but it is urgent.” He takes a long drag off his cigarette. “Given how irate your mother is, I think it's best I sit and talk with him before she comes home and things get ugly. She's already threatening to put him in another facility and contest the will.”

  A strange feeling skitters up my spine. It's not that what he's saying doesn't make sense. In fact, it makes perfect sense. The man's body isn't even cold yet and already she wants to raise hell.

  What doesn't make sense, however, is why Bob's asking to speak to Asher when I'm the primary beneficiary.

  Nerves bunch in my stomach and I undo the first few buttons of my shirt, hoping it will get rid of this constricting feeling.

  When that doesn't work, I walk over and pour myself a glass of the most expensive whiskey on the bar. Macallan 25.

  I take a refreshing sip and come to the obvious conclusion that my father must have stuck Asher back in the will after all.

  I'm not upset, seeing as I was planning to cut him a check anyway.

  I raise my glass to my lips, mulling over his words from before. “Yeah, it's probably a good idea for the three of us to get together and formulate a plan on how to deal with her.”

  He's silent for a moment too long before he says, “Sure. Your brother's going to need all the support he can get when she comes home, given she's going to fight him tooth and nail.” He swallows thickly. “And you know I'm always happy to sit down and give you advice about your classes at Yale.”

  Suddenly the stupid transfer is the least of my worries and the sick feeling in my stomach is back with a vengeance.

  What in the actual fuck is going on?

  “I appreciate that, Bob. I'll be sure to take you up on that soon. However, I really want to talk about my father's will...seeing as he informed me a few months ago that I was his primary beneficiary.”

  My knuckles rap against the desk. Check.

  Come on, Bobbie. Let's see that flop.

  “You know, on second thought. I think we're getting a bit ahead of ourselves here. It's probably best that we wait and see what the next few days will bring before discussing this any further.”

  He's circumventing, there's no doubt about it, but I remain calm and raise him downright confrontation.

  “According to the doctors, he's not coming back from this. Therefore, I don't really see the point in drawing this out and waiting for the inevitable. And up until a moment ago, you didn't either, given you were so quick to want to talk to my brother about it.”

  He clears his throat. “It's my professional opinion that you should wait and see if you receive a copy of the will before jumping to any conclusions.”

  Oh, now he's going to get all professional on me. Fuck that.

  Sweat drips down my back and my hands clench at my sides. Most poker players would say I'm experiencing tilt right now. Which is a nice way of saying your emotions are getting the best of you and you need to fold because you can't think clearly.

  The worst thing to do when this happens is to keep playing. And you most definitely never want to raise or go all in.

  Because you'll lose everything.

  “Funny, because I don't recall asking for your professional opinion. But, hey, since we're exchanging advice, here's some...I'm not deaf and I'm certainly not dumb, I know what he told me.”

  “Listen, I know you're on edge, but I'm just the messenger here,” he says. “And I hate to be the one to say this, especially now, but sometimes what our loved ones tell us doesn't match what's expressed in their will.”

  “You don't have to explain things to me like I'm a toddler, Bob. Tell me who his primary beneficiary is.”

  “Your brother Asher.”

  He says it so matter-of-factly it makes me want to put my fist through the phone.

  “How much is he getting?”

  “According to your father's wishes, all of it.”

  But it's not Asher's money. It's mine.

  In one fell swoop, I send every bottle of whiskey crashing to the floor.

  “You're still a teenager, Preston,” Bob says frantically. “Your father most likely wanted you to graduate college first before putting this responsibility on you. Asher's older. He's more mature. He's—”

  The golden child. The Prodigy.

  The son he didn't choose to make his victim.

  I disconnect the call just as Ms. Panfile comes barging into the room.

  She tries to look at my hand that's bleeding, but I direct her to the door. “Get the fuck out.”

  When she doesn't listen, I grab her arm and show her the way out.

  And then I lose my shit entirely.

  Things go flying off shelves, wood splinters and cracks, glass is shattered. Everything in my path is destroyed until I can no longer stand from the exertion.

  But it's not good enough...it will never be good enough.

  Even in death...he still won.

  Because the house always wins.

  The air around me becomes stifling and the room starts to sway. I need to find a way to get rid of this feeling slithering under my skin.

  On instinct, I dial Buster's number.

  When he doesn't pick up
after the sixth ring, I curse his existence. Blizzard or not, being a bookie is a twenty-four-hour operation. Which means it's time for me to find a new one.

  Unfortunately, it won't be happening tonight, seeing as I'm stuck until the snow lets up and they plow the roads.

  I need to escape.

  Claustrophobia has the ugly feeling rising again, only this time, it threatens to engulf me entirely.

  Grunting, I slump against the wall and bury my face in my hands. My head is pounding so hard it feels like an anvil, and I absently trace the scar that's throbbing.

  Kit.

  Just the thought of seeing her tomorrow releases some of the pressure, makes it easier to breathe again.

  Especially since there's no longer a dark cloud named Becca looming over us, preventing us from being friends.

  And God knows I could really use one of those right now.

  Even though it's my fault I don't have any in the first place. Not only do I push people away when they get too close, but I'm not exactly what you would call approachable.

  In fact, most would say I'm unfathomable.

  But when I talk to Kit it's...I don't know.

  Maybe that's just it. I don't know what I want from her, because with her there's no agenda.

  All I know is that I want to tell her things. Important things. Non-important things. Things I've never admitted to anyone else.

  I want to hear her important things, too, because they matter to her. And for some reason I can't pinpoint, that matters to me.

  She matters to me.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull up her number and press the call button.

  I told her I wouldn't call her again last night, but I made that promise under different circumstances.

  Circumstances that no longer exist.

  Disappointment fills my chest when it goes straight to voicemail.

  I make the split-second decision to leave one, mostly because I know I don't have a snowball's chance in hell of her calling me back unless I give her a good reason to.

  “I'm going to cut to the chase. I think you're interesting, genuine, and a little strange like me if I'm being honest.” I continue without stopping for air. “Whenever I talk to you, I walk away feeling like a better person. Not because you're particularly inspirational or anything. No offense. But because I feel a little more human. A little less alone.”

  I wince. “Fuck, that was cheesy. So cheesy I should take my balls back, delete it, and start again.” I inhale a breath. “But I won't...because it was real.” A ghost of a smile touches my lips as I think back to our conversation on the bridge. “And you, Kit Bishop, deserve the real fucking deal.”

  I hang up and exhale heavily as the reality of the situation settles over me.

  Somewhere between all of Becca's lies and my monumental fuck-ups...I ended up catching some peculiar feelings for a girl who made it clear she wants nothing to do with me.

  The sound of the door opening snags my attention and when I see Ms. Panfile standing there with a first aid kit and a worried look on her face, I can't help but feel a twinge of remorse.

  She must sense it's safe now because she kneels beside me and starts tending to my hand.

  “My life went to complete shit over the last twenty-four hours,” I grind out, because explanations and apologies are one and the same for me.

  I hold up my phone. “To top it off, my bookie isn't picking up.”

  Her brows knit together in confusion...and then she smiles and pulls a joint out of her apron.

  She's clearly mistaken bookies with drug dealers, but I know there's no point in explaining the difference to her because she won't understand.

  Instead, I accept the joint and light it. Unfortunately, all it does is make me wish I was partaking in my own favorite pastime.

  And just like that, the urge is crawling under my skin again, even stronger than before.

  She makes to stand, but I reach for her hand and shoot her a grin that has her blushing. “Ever play poker, Ms. Panfile?”

  VIII

  "If love isn't complicated. Then clearly I'm just really bad at it." —Kit Bishop

  “Are you close?”

  The fact that she even has to ask should tell her I'm not.

  Then again, most of our sexual relationship consisted of me pleasuring her all the time and rarely vice versa, so I guess it's really no surprise.

  “I can't do this.”

  I spring up before I do something stupid that will further add to my horrible lapse in judgment, like apologize for not having an orgasm.

  She stands up slowly, incredulously. Like she's baffled that just the mere thought of her going down on me wasn't enough to get the job done.

  And while I'll admit that in the past it might have, that was before.

  Before she cheated. Before she got pregnant. Before she played the living shit out of me.

  Her lips purse. “Last time I checked, you weren't the one doing anything.”

  I glare at her. “I don't mean sex.” I tug my pants on faster than the speed of light. “I mean us.”

  Her expression softens. “Come on, Kit. Don't be like that.”

  She tries to reach for me but I back away. “You were wearing red lingerie.”

  It comes out before I can stop myself.

  She quirks an eyebrow. “Huh?”

  “Yesterday,” I whisper, the memory tearing through me all over again. The very same one that's been ricocheting like a ping pong through my mind since the moment Becca parked her face between my thighs.

  Why is it that hindsight only happens after you make bad decisions?

  “You told me you never loved him and it was over, but you wore sexy lingerie for him yesterday.”

  A shirtless Preston standing in a doorway flashes before my eyes and my teeth clack.

  She blanches. “You know I like to wear pretty things. It doesn't mean anything, baby doll. I swear.”

  I don't know what makes me queasier. Becca lying right to my face again, or her using her old nickname for me while she does it.

  “I think you should leave.”

  Her lower lip trembles and I hate the way my heart clenches. I wish the stupid organ was a machine that was immune to emotions, instead of worn on my sleeve like some fashion accessory. One that makes people treat it like it's nothing more than a passing trend.

  People like Becca.

  Her hand skims my cheek. “I know I hurt you.”

  “You did.” You still do.

  She ruffles the ends of my hair. “But don't make any final decisions about us right now, okay? Not without giving me a chance to fix this so we can go back to the way we were.”

  “That's just it.” I turn away from her touch. “I don't want to go back to the way we were. Because the way we were ends with my heart getting broken.”

  I force back the tears that are a heartbeat away from escaping. I don't want to cry in front of her anymore. I don't want to give her all my power so she can wield it to suit her own needs like she always seems to do.

  “I'm going to shower. Be gone by the time I'm out.”

  She starts to object, but I don't let her because I know that every vowel, every single syllable out of her mouth is meant to throw me off the wagon I just got back on.

  “I need time to think and I can't do that with you here.”

  After I safely lock the bathroom door behind me, the first tear falls.

  And they don't stop falling.

  Not until I scrub her off my skin, step out of the shower, and walk back to my room to find her gone.

  When my alarm goes off at the buttcrack of dawn, I vaguely recall I told Breslin I'd cover her early morning shift at the coffee house.

  With a grunt, I slip my hand out of the covers and grab my phone to tell Larry—whose name I only bothered to learn after working for him for the better part of two years—that I'm running five minutes late.

  After a solid minute of playing some version of Whac
-A-Mole with my nightstand and finding no sign of my phone, I get out of bed.

  Only to nearly trip over it a second later—which is strange, because I'm positive I put it on my nightstand to charge at some point last night.

  Of course the thing is nearly dead when I pick it up, but I hope for the best as I connect it to the charger and get dressed; even though the five minutes it's plugged in won't last me five seconds into my shift.

  Then again, it's not like I have anyone to talk to anymore.

  Not since my relationship with Becca ended. Or since Breslin's been involved in her not-so-secret relationship with both Asher and Landon.

  Or should I say just Landon...because she refuses to date, much less acknowledge her feelings for her ex-boyfriend, Asher.

  Even though Asher and Landon are dating each other. I think.

  I rub my temples and make a mental note to ask her what the deal with that is at lunch today. Last I heard, Asher and Landon got into a huge argument before Landon left to perform with an indie rock band in England during the winter break. And according to Breslin, he's barely talked to either of them since then because he's still mad at them.

  I look up at the ceiling and give my head a shake. It all sounds like one heaping bowl of drama soup.

  Even more so now because Breslin dropped everything to go back to her hometown with Asher yesterday.

  Freaking Holdens. They have a way of complicating everything.

  I try not to think about a certain Holden as I twine a braid in my hair and check my phone for any missed calls or texts.

  When the only text that shows up is from some guy that I'm supposed to be going on a date with later this week, thanks to my incorrigible grandmother, I grab my purse and keys and jet out the door.

  I'm halfway across the poorly plowed dorm parking lot when I slip and bust my ass on a sheet of ice.

  “Nice to see our tuition dollars hard at work,” I shout to the maintenance man who watched my fall from his snow plow while enjoying his bagel.

  Muttering a curse, I get back up, convinced the only upside to this dismal morning is that it's the first day of my last semester before I graduate college.