by Aubrey Irons
Except I’m painfully aware of how wrong I’ve been, about everything.
Back before, I hated her for being the harbinger of the changes that brought the darkness to my life. I knew how stupid that was, but hating her - or at least telling myself I did - was therapy. Time went on though. We got older, and I hated her because hating her was easier than admitting to myself that I loved her.
I could find her. Shit, finding Ana and inserting myself into her life is something I’ve done for years. But it’s different this time, and I know it. This time, she’s cut the strings somehow. I’m no longer the puppet master, I’m the wooden fucking toy with the big nose, lying on the ground wishing he was real.
There’s the briefest knock on my door before it swings open. I whip my head around to glare at Brent as he just comes waltzing in. I want to cut him down to size, and remind him of his damn place, and remind him that he’s not my friend, but I bite my tongue. The truth is, the rest of them are gone, and Brent’s still here.
I still scowl at him though.
“What are you doing in here?”
He beams, all fucking sunshine and happiness when the whole fucking world is crumbling around me.
“We have business.”
“In the study,” I growl, glancing at my watch as I pull myself off the floor. “And in an hour.”
He shrugs like he barely heard me as he strides to the round table mostly covered in crap in the middle of my quarters. He pushes a bunch of the stuff to the side, most of it cascading off and crashing to the floor in a heap.
“Hey!” I growl, snarling at him. “The fuck is your problem?”
Brent raises a brow. “Was that organized?”
“No,” I scowl.
“Have a seat, Crown.” He pushes one of my high-backed chairs towards the table and then makes his way to my mini-bar.
Begrudgingly, I sit.
“You a Manhattan fan, buddy?”
I frown. “The cocktail?”
“Yeah.”
I frown as I shake my head. “I’m trying to lay off.”
He turns and smirks at me over his shoulder as he reaches for a bottle. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously,” I mutter. Brent might be the only one still here, but this new casual “buddy” thing of his is getting on my nerves.
“Well, we’ve got some serious strategizing to do concerning your former friends.” He shrugs. “It’s going to get ugly, man.”
Fuck it.
“Fine. Manhattan it is. Make it strong.”
“You bet, bud.”
I hear the tinkle of a metal spoon against glass and ice, and then Brent’s waltzing back to the table looking pleased with himself as he slides me the drink.
“Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing the - even by my standards - giant-sized cocktail and taking a big slug.
“All right, let’s get down to business.”
Brent sits opposite me, pulling out legal folders full of papers. He sighs heavily, shaking his head as he glances over some of them.
“So what’s first.”
I take another big slug of the drink, feeling better already. I feel good, actually. Relaxed, way less tense than I was earlier.
Shit, maybe I did need a drink.
“I don’t even know where to start, buddy,” Brent murmurs, shooting me a quick glance before turning back to his papers.
“At the beginning.”
I snort the second I say it, like I’ve just cracked a hilarious joke. I blink, grinning as I reach for my drink and take another pull.
Brent looks up, smiling at me.
“We go way back, don’t we Sebastian?”
“Sure,” I slur, staring at my drink as I nod.
My tongue feels heavy.
“High school was fun, huh?”
“Yeah, absolutely,” I mumble, suddenly wondering why the hell I’m so tired. I slowly drag my eyes to the drink in my hand, frowning slightly.
“You ever been in love, Bastian.”
Brent’s words are like a million miles away, but I nod slowly in response.
“I mean for real love, not parents or that shit.”
I nod again.
“Yeah, I have,” I say quietly, my words coming from somewhere outside of myself.
“Anastasia.”
I jerk my head up, focusing on Brent.
“Maybe,” I wave a hand lazily. “I don’t know.”
Brent smiles again.
“I was in love once.”
“Cool, man.” I nod seriously, suddenly and maybe a little strangely wondering why the hell Brent and I haven’t had this talk years ago. My head droops to the side, easing against one of the wings of the high-backed chair.
I think about sitting up straight, but it’s so damn comfortable slumped over like this. I reach for my drink, but give up when my hand feels too heavy to move.
Brent chuckles, shaking his head wistfully.
“Yeah, buddy, I was in love once.”
He suddenly looks up at me, his eyes locking on mine.
“Remember Maisy Karl?”
I frown. “I—”
“I’ll refresh your memory.”
Brent’s voice is tight, his smile quickly fading.
“Blonde, beautiful, funny, smart. She was on the tennis team - amazing backhand.”
Brent’s face goes tight, and suddenly, through the haze slowly pulling me under, the memory comes through clearly.
Oh shit.
The party. The night I missed seeing Ana play over in Greenport. The night I—
“You fucked her, Bastian.” Brent’s hands tighten to fists on the table in front of him.
“You—” he swears as he stands abruptly, turning and clenching his fists before he whirls back to me. “You had your pick of any fucking girl in the world, and you fucked Maisy goddamn Karl, in my house” He slams his fists against the tabletop as he leans over it right in my face.
“In my bed, you fucking prick!” he roars. He screams at me, but I can’t move. I literally can’t move.
“Brent, that was a long time—”
“We’ve gotta strategize, Bastian!” His voice is manic now as he whirls, yanking his briefcase open and pulling something else. Suddenly, there’s a piece of paper covered in words on the table in front of me. I squint, picking out bits like “relinquishing claim” and “transfer of account stewardship.”
There’s a pen in my hand, Brent’s fingers pushing mine around is and moving it towards the page.
“The fuck are you doing.”
“Right here, buddy,” he spits. “Right here on the dotted line. There we go.”
He’s moving my hand across the page, and I want to fight it, or lunge out of the chair and choke him with the pen, but I just let it happen. I’m fading fast, and it’s just so much easier.
The pen falls from my hand.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble through puffy lips, across a tongue that feels too thick, and uttered from a throat that feels like a hand is closing around it.
I’m not saying sorry to Brent, I think I’m just saying it to life in general.
Maybe to her.
“Apology not accepted, douchebag.”
Brent snatches the paper from under my fingers, slipping it into his briefcase and snapping it shut.
“It’s been so good working with you, Bastian, but I think the time has come for us to part ways.”
I shake my head, words no longer coming as Brent picks the briefcase with whatever the fuck I just signed inside of it and raps his knuckles on the table.
Somehow, I find the strength to move. Somehow I manage to shift my weight and grip the arms of the chair as if trying to stand.
Brent just laughs as he shoves me back into it. My head droops to the side as I try and muster the strength to stand again.
“Nice knowing you, Sebastian,” he mutters, standing over me and pushing me by the neck back into the chair.
The last of my strength evaporates.
The world goes black, and I slip away.
“Hey, did you hear about this?”
I look up from the cold-call email I’ve been drafting to a management company and glance over at the other end of the couch. Andi’s got her laptop open on the coffee table in front of her, her eyes glued to the screen.
“Aren’t you from there?”
I frown as I scooch over and let my eyes trace over the headline at the top of the article. My heart jumps into my throat.
Hamptons Rocked By Massive Fraud Scheme.
Holy shit.
Andi turns the laptop my way as I skim through the article, my mouth open.
Apparently, Dylan Forbes wasn’t wrong about Brent.
My eyes fly over the words as I try and process what I’m reading: Scam, forged signatures, hidden bank accounts, fake tax returns, padded expenses - all of it. The Times article is calling Brent “the Bernie Madoff of private Hamptons’ wealth.”
Except Bernie Madoff got caught. Brent, along with all of the money he stole, is already out of the country.
I might not know all the people mentioned as victims in the article, but I recognize the names, seeing as I went to school with most of them or their kids. The DiVollos, the Brannigans, the Parsons, both of Stephanie Seyfried’s divorced parents. My brow goes up at Tyler Van Der Haus’s mother’s name, but it’s not until I skip to the next paragraph that my hand flies to my mouth, a small gasp on my lips as the words leap from the screen:
“Attempted murder.”
“Near overdose.”
“Crown Estate.”
I push the laptop back into Andi’s hands in a daze, standing and reaching for my phone.
She frowns with worry. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I—”
No, it’s not.
Because somehow, despite everything he did to me, reading about Bastian almost dying in a news article sends something icy through my heart. It makes me hate myself a little, but it’s something I can’t ignore as I reach for my phone.
“Heck, I was just thinking about calling you—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
My dad – still in Austin – goes quiet on the other end of the line.
“He’s okay, honey.”
“Well, I know that from reading it in the news article someone had to show me before I found out about it.”
Dad sighs. “Wasn’t sure you wanted to know much about that boy.”
“I don’t, I just…” I close my eyes, pushing my fingers through my hair. “Just tell me what happened, okay?”
“He got screwed, is what happened. I’ve talked to Carl and Emily a few times since I heard myself,” he whistles. “Sebastian had a close call. That Carmichael kid drugged him with something, so they’re saying. Had Sebastian sign over the whole damn trust to him.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “All to his uncle?”
Dad makes a tsking sound. “See, that’s the damnedest part. The uncle apparently had nothing to do with this. Heck, the man owns a vineyard in Tuscany and keeps to himself. Hasn’t seen Sebastian since the funeral, and didn’t even know there was a trust. This was all Brent Carmichael.” My dad makes a hissing sound. “Little bastard cleaned half the damn town out.”
“So I read.”
I grab my own laptop and open it, easily pulling up fifty more pieces of news about what happened. Shell companies, forged documents - Brent was thorough in his screwing of the town he grew up in.
“So where’s Brent? Do they even know?”
“Thailand or something, I guess.”
I nod, mulling over my next question - almost afraid to even ask it out loud, as if asking it might mean I care.
“He’s okay, if you’re wondering,” Dad says quietly, answering it for me before I have to ask.
“Sebastian I mean. He could have died, but he’s okay. Whatever Brent gave him was a strong damn dose and it didn’t mix with liquor much. If Emily hadn’t almost broken his door down, he might not have made it.”
Those words haunt me long after I say my goodbyes and hang up. They linger over my shoulder all night, and they hound my steps and my thoughts all the next day.
And I hate that I care, but I do.
I really, really care that he didn’t die.
I call Mrs. Tottingham, who gives me a much more vivid account of breaking down the door to Bastian’s quarters and finding him a shade of blue and barely breathing. And I think about calling him too - only for a second, but it’s there. I know I can’t, but it’s one more thing that lingers longer than it should.
I don’t call.
A few days later, miracle-of-miracles, Jack emails.
So, here’s the deal. I’m going to be in LA in three days, and we’re meeting. Or at least, I hope we are. If not, that’s fine, but it also means maybe you’re right. Maybe this thing we have has gone it’s course. Either way, I’ve had a great time not being in your band, and I hope by this point, you can see why it is Cyndi Lauper is awful.
Let’s meet, and we can laugh at all the things we lied to each other about over the years.
Take a leap of faith, Jill.
Say yes.
-Jack.
I do note the absence of “love” at the end, but I push that stupid thought away. I re-read the email about ten times, analyzing every stupid line, and every damn punctuation until it’s been a full day since I got it.
It’s then that I sit down, take a deep breath, and hit “reply.”
Time to take a leap of faith.
Three days. 10 pm, The Knot, on Wilshire. There’s something you should see.
Xoxo,
Jill.
“You done?”
Ty’s face is still simmering red, his shoulders still heaving from the string of shit-talk he’s just unleashed on me from across the room.
“Am I done?”
“Acting like a whiny bitch, I mean.”
Tyler - predictably - lunges toward me as Ash hauls him back and swears at me.
“Are you done?” Dylan, on my side of the room, shoves me back, glaring at me.
“It depends,” I growl.
This is what happens when two enormous egos with chips on their shoulders come crashing together. It’s like Clash of The Titans or a goddamn Godzilla movie, only instead of Tokyo, it’s my fucking study that’s getting shit all over. I make a mental note to bill the asshole for the resurfacing work my desk it going to need after he’s just stabbed it with a gold-plated letter opener Patrick-Bateman-style.
Dylan sighs. “Depends on what, man.”
“On whether or not he’s ready to fess up to backstabbing a friend like a little drama-happy high school girl.”
“Hey, pal, don’t put you being a fucking psychopath on me. You cock-blocked yourself on that—”
This time, I’m the one who lunges, and Dylan barely yanks me back - completely off my feet, actually - before I can get my hands around Tyler’s neck.
“Enough!” he roars, shoving me back down as I try and scramble for my feet.
“You,” he jabs a finger down at me, “sit the fuck down and shut up.”
“Swallow my balls.”
Dylan rolls his eyes as he whirls on Tyler.
“And you,” he shakes his head. “That was a dick move, Ty. Telling Ana.”
Tyler mutters something, and I get to my feet.
“Something you want to tell the class, Van Der Haus?” I hiss.
Dylan, still playing negotiator, whips his head back around to me.
“Dude, you can at least admit that given the circumstances, he had reason to be fucking pissed.”
“I’ll admit that when he admits he’s a fucking imbecile for ever believing that shit.”
In case you’re completely lost, I should mention that the crux of this whole blowout is that Brent managed to convince Tyler - with an admittedly pretty decently forged paper trail - that I’ve been fucking his mom.
Spoiler: I haven’t.
To be fair, René Van Der Haus is a fox by basically anyone’s metric. Sultry chestnut hair, emerald green eyes, and a body most twentysomethings would actually kill for. It doesn’t hurt that she was literally a glamor model before Kip Van Der Haus had the smarts to wife that as fast as humanly possible. It also doesn’t hurt that she’s all of seventeen years older than Tyler.
That all said, even in this fucked up crew of morally questionable pricks with ego issues who more often than not think with their dicks, I think it goes without saying that moms are off-fucking-limits.
Christ, at least I hope it goes without saying.
Brent, however, is one insidiously convincing motherfucker - that I think we can all agree on. That afternoon - the day she left - Brent went to Tyler as “a concerned friend” and fed him all sorts of horse-shit about me and René. The guy even had grainy, poorly shot “photo evidence” - completely photoshopped of course - of her and I embracing outside a motel, or making out standing in the waves at Littleton Beach.
I mean that should have been the dead giveaway. Me, in the fucking ocean?
Please.
“Fine,” Tyler mutters, yanking away from a wary-looking Ash.
“Fine, my judgment was clouded, okay? It was shitty of me to bring all that up to her. But fuck, man, how’d you feel if you found out I was hounding after Mrs. Tottingham?”
“Worried.”
“See?”
“For you.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Okay, well what about that cute trainer of yours, Katrina. What’d you do if I was after her?”
“Assuming I’m correct in thinking you do actually have a vagina, I’d wish you two all the best.”
“Suck a dick.”
“I can promise you, Katrina won’t.”
“Fuck,” Ash mutters from the corner. “Listening to you two is literally making me dumber. Can we please just kiss and make the fuck up?”
Tyler eyes me. “Fine, but I’m not apologizing for shit until you admit that you’re a fucking psychopath.”
I shrug. “Easy. Done. I’m a psychopath.”
Tyler scowls.
“And an asshole.”
“Is that even up for debate?”