GILT: All Fall Down

by Geneva Lee

  “We’ll listen,” Hugo says encouragingly.

  Dammit, Hugo Roth really is a nice guy parading around in a pariah suit.

  “Don’t worry,” he says to me as if he can read my mind, “I’m still a dick.”

  “No, you’re not.” Jonas’s voice is almost wistful and the dreamy undertone deepens as he begins his story.

  “Most of you don’t know my older sister. My parents sent her off to school in London not long after I turned ten. Hugo’s met her.” He pauses waiting for Hugo to nod, then continues, “There’s always been rumors around it. She was fourteen at the time, and well, you know my parents. They make Donald Trump look like a liberal. Most people believed she’d gotten herself in trouble.”

  Did people still think like that? Especially in Vegas? And what did that even mean in trouble? It seems to me that half the adults I know didn’t want their own kids. Why blame a girl for getting pregnant when you did it yourself?

  “She didn’t do anything. She was the perfect daughter. I was the reason she got sent away. I suppose they thought that they’d better keep their real problem child close to home.”

  “But why send your sister away?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

  “I think that the main reason was because Jessica was my only ally in the house. She understood me and more than that, she sympathized. Our parents weren’t just hard on us. They expected perfection. I was their dirty little secret. Their son that liked to play with his sister’s dolls. It was easier to send the only other person that knew away. Jessica made a lot of friends there—powerful, rich friends. She’s marrying some duke or baron or something next year. I haven’t even met him,” Jonas confesses. “I guess it was better for her to go there. Sending me away would have been a reward for what my parents saw as acting out. So, I stayed here and with Jessica and her dolls gone, they shaped me into a man, by their standards. Lacrosse, soccer. Any sport imaginable. When I hit high school, they didn’t encourage me to date. They demanded it. If there was a party, I had to be there. Drinking, sex—they could forgive all my sins as long as they were red-blooded, male sins.”

  As he spoke pieces of Jonas that had always been a puzzle to me began to click into place. When we’d dated, he hadn’t breached the second base barrier. Being with him had been warm and comfortable. Of course, I’d been smitten as a kitten. What girl wouldn’t have fallen for the second coming of Justin Bieber at that age? When he’d gotten together with Monroe, I assumed he’d wanted sex and she’d been a more willing participant. That’s how I’d wound up in his best friend’s bed trying to prove something to myself. But maybe Jonas hadn’t wanted to have sex with me…or her. But if that was the case, why had he?

  “It was fine for a while. I had a girlfriend that didn’t mind making out, and she was nice. She never pushed me for more, and I don’t think she suspected who I really was.” His eyes stray over to mine, and I can see the silent apologies in them. “And then I screwed up, and Monroe West was there to catch me as I fell.”

  “Monroe has never caught anyone,” Jameson says coolly.

  “I don’t mean that she helped me,” Jonas clarifies. “She saw my indiscretion as an opportunity. She had a secret of her own, which she revealed to me along with some pretty damning cell phone photos. It was my worst nightmare but she gave me an out. She wanted the whole school to know that she was taken. All I had to do was get drunk and screw her at a party with enough witnesses.”

  “Why?” The question I’ve wanted him to answer for years slips out, but I’m not the one asking. Hugo is.

  “It was the perfect alibi. I knew it would get back to my parents, and that in their own messed up rationale, they would think they fixed me. Do you know how fucked it is when your dad pours you a whiskey and slaps you on the back for something like that? I mean, they bought me a car. As far as they were concerned, I was normal again. All I had to do was sell my soul to Monroe.”

  “What did she have on you?” Hugo demands. Jonas is skirting the issue, and even though all the clues are there, we all need to hear him say it.

  “I was drunk. I spent a lot of my time my freshman year drunk. It was easier to cope most of the time. Emma usually came to the parties with me, but she stayed home for some reason.” He looks at me to see if I remember. I do. I’d gone out with Becca that night. Jonas had acted strangely after that night. Every day it felt as if he was going through the motions. I’d expected him to dump me, but he’d chosen a far more humiliating and hurtful way to end our relationship.

  “I remember,” I say softly, and try as I might, I can’t place any forgiveness in my words.

  “I didn’t know what I was doing when I kissed him.” Jonas barely pauses to let the truth sink in before he goes on. “He was drunk, too. More drunk than I was, but even as I did it, I knew I was lying to myself. He was straight and he probably would have kicked my ass if he knew what I did. I barely remembered it myself. I thought maybe I’d dreamed it until Monroe showed up with photographic evidence. She left it up to me. I could help her cover up her own secret and ensure that no one found out the truth or she could blast the proof all over Facebook. I didn’t know what my parents would do if they found out, but, honestly, I was more ashamed. I didn’t want to lose my friends. So, I went along with it. I am truly sorry, Emma.”

  His words work like alchemy, melting the cold, stoniness in my heart and creating acceptance. I’d held onto my grudge against him long enough, tricking myself into believing it was Mèrely unrequited love. “I forgive you.”

  “Are you saying you’re gay?” Hugo asks in a strangled voice.

  Jonas takes a deep breath as if to steady himself. “Yes, I am. I’m s—”

  “Why are you sorry?” Hugo cuts him off. “It’s not a big deal, man.”

  Another moment of acceptance and maybe Jonas can finally shake free of the fear that’s crippled him for so long, but the terror lingers in his eyes.

  “I need to tell you something.” His voice is shaky and my breath catches as realization dawns on me. Jameson grips my arm as if he senses my urge to interrupt this confession before Jonas gets hurt.

  “It was you,” Jonas admits. “Monroe caught me kissing you.”

  Hugo’s eyes widen and then he does the last thing I expect: he laughs. “I’m flattered. If I played for that team…well, you know.”

  “You’re not pissed?” The tension in Jonas’s body relaxes and he practically slumps to the floor. He’d been bracing himself for a fight.

  “Look, you’ve seen me drunk. I doubt you’re the only guy I’ve kissed.” Hugo continues to roll with it. “I get why you didn’t tell me, but I don’t understand why you had to be The Dealer.”

  I suck in a breath and wait for his response. Jonas might have less to atone for than I previously thought, but this was thing I wanted to understand.

  “It’s simple, really. The whole world was going crazy. I saw all of you there that night, and I was so tired of hiding who I was. Those pictures all tell more of a story than you think. That one of you”—he looks to Hugo— “carrying that girl? You just made sure she laid down on a bed.”

  That wasn’t the conclusion I’d drawn when I saw it. That photo might have been innocent but what about the others. What story was he trying to tell? “And the others?”

  “It’s felt like karma has been on vacation for too long in Belle Mère.”

  “So you took over her job?” I guess.

  “Someone had to. I know that whoever killed Nathaniel West was there that night. It was the perfect opportunity to hold people accountable.”

  “While still hiding,” I bite out.

  “I guess it’s what I’m good at,” he says in a flat voice.

  “So you don’t know who did it?” I ask. “Who killed Nathaniel?”

  “Not any more than you do.” He shakes his head and I feel myself deflate. So, Jonas thinks I’m innocent, but he has no way to prove it. He also has no idea who is responsible. We’re back to square on
e.

  Hugo stands up, brushing off his jeans, before he hauls Jonas to his feet. We stand awkwardly around each other, none of us certain what to say. After a minute, Jameson tugs at my hand. I step closer and he whispers in my ear, “Let’s give them some space.”

  That’s exactly what we should do. The answers aren’t here, and the healing that needs to be done has nothing to do with us. But leaving them here will give Jameson exactly what he wants: me—alone.

  A devilish grin curves across his mouth, and I know he has me right where he wants me.

  Chapter Eight

  I wait until we’re out of the school before I lower the boom. “Jameson, I have to go.”

  He steps in front of me blocking my exit. There are about twelve ways out of Belle Mère Prep and I know all of them, but somehow I don’t doubt that Jameson will beat me to each exit.

  “We need to talk, Duchess, you can’t keep hiding from me.” This time he doesn’t cover the pain in his voice. He allows it to pierce his words and I feel it as acutely as I feel my own pain. “We can work through this.”

  I doubt it, but admitting that to him, as well as myself, means facing the truth. I want to talk. I want to explain, but I hesitate, only daring to lift my eyes to his. It’s a mistake. Because what might have been an innocent gesture feels too intimate.

  If Mackey’s hunch is correct and Nathaniel West is my father, how can I feel this way about Jameson? More than ever, I want to believe what my mother told me. That whatever moment of insanity led to her conceiving Nathaniel’s daughter, and my sister, didn’t happen twice. But seeing as I’ve been a regular lightening rod this summer, I’m not sure I’ll be that lucky. I want to be Jake Southerly’s daughter. Because that obstacle—a Southerly falling for a West—feels a lot more surmountable than this.

  “I know what’s going on,” he says, interrupting my thoughts.

  “No, you don’t.” I shake my head, trying to clear it and things only grow hazier. Or is that the Jameson effect? I’m not really certain anymore.

  “I do know.” This time his tone is firm. There’s no doubt that he is Nathaniel West’s son. Unyielding, commanding, powerful—he got all those traits from his father.

  “Jameson, I—”

  But he cuts me off. “I’m not your brother.”

  You know that old cliché: time stands still? Well, it really fucking can happen. Everything around me grinds to a halt.

  Jameson takes my hand, apparently unaffected by this time warp, and snaps me out of my daze.

  “How? What? Why?” I stumble, looking for exactly the right question to ask.

  Of course, Jameson already knows the answers. “I’m not stupid, Duchess. There are a lot of people willing to be bought in law enforcement. A little information for a lot of money isn’t hard to understand when you’ve seen the pension plan.”

  “You bought someone off?” I ask in confusion. He nods, and tightens his grip on my fingers. That’s both disturbing and reassuring. There’s only one problem. “But I haven’t taken the DNA test yet.”

  Did he think it would be this easy to trip me up? My anxiety and I have been friends far too long to be so easily soothed.

  “I know that. I also know that you arranged to have your blood drawn at the Las Vegas Medical Clinic next Wednesday. That won’t be necessary, by the way.”

  Confusion shifts to annoyance. “Jameson West, I am not one of your family’s puppets that can be ordered about. There are no strings attached to me. If you think you’re going to make me dance around, you are completely mistaken.”

  “You’re wrong about that.” He takes a step closer, until our bodies are Mère inches apart. Spicy notes of citron and sandalwood tug at latent memories that I’ve been trying hard to forget. “There is a string attached to you. Only one.”

  “And you think you can pull it?” I surmise, jutting my chin to show how wrong he is. But who are we kidding? We both know he can pull it anytime he wants. That’s why I’ve been hiding out in my best friend’s bedroom for the better part of a week.

  “I’m not trying to pull your strings, Duchess. That string that I’m talking about, can’t you feel it? Running between the two of us?” His thumb traces the back of my wrist, and my pulse speeds up as if he’s willing it to race. “We’re connected. Nothing can change that. Stop being so afraid of it.”

  “I’m not afraid of it!” I explode. “I’m afraid that you’re my brother, and that’s really, really creepy.”

  “I’m not,” he insists.

  “We won’t know until next Wednesday. Actually, probably longer. I’m guessing they don’t have one-step paternity tests on hand.” Given the frequency the topic shows up on daytime talk shows, you’d think you could get a one-prick test at the supermarket that could tell you who your baby-daddy is in less than three minutes.

  “If you’d let me finish talking to you, I could explain how I know.”

  I need to break the connection sizzling between us before the lightening crackling around us becomes a full-blown storm. I pull my hand away gently, allowing the regret to show on my face. I have a tendency to hide behind my bitchiness like it’s my own feminist fortress, but Jameson hasn’t done anything to hurt me intentionally. The sins that stand between us are those of our parents, and if he can, I’ll allow him to tear them down. But while they’re still up, I need the physical and emotional barriers to remain intact.

  “I imagine I found out like you did. My lawyers and researchers were able to uncover the nature of the lawsuit that was settled between our parents when we were both much younger. When I read the details of your sister’s paternity report, I knew what was troubling you. About the same time, a leak came through in Mackey’s team, revealing that my suspicions were correct. The FBI also knew my father was your sister’s father. The source also confirmed that Mackey had been in contact with you, using this information to pressure you into getting the DNA test my lawyers had worked so hard to prevent. It was easy to see why. If my father and your mother had had an affair, who’s to say you also weren’t his daughter?” He clears his throat. It’s a small sign of discomfort, but it’s there. Good to know that the thought bothered him as much as it bothered me. “But I knew you couldn’t’t be.”

  “That makes one of us,” I mutter.

  “I knew you’d think you were,” he continues. “That’s your biggest weakness. You need to have a little faith.”

  “In whom?” I retort. I hadn’t been given a lot of opportunities to have faith in my life. My mom blowing up her marriage to my father hadn’t instilled faith and love. My father’s inability to keep the electricity on for more than six months at a time didn’t instill a lot of faith in authority. But really, watching my sister die because of one stupid decision in a car, that’s when I lost faith in the universe.

  “I know you have a lot of reasons not to believe. And I know it might take you a lifetime to heal from all the terrible things that happened to you. But I’m going to be there for that lifetime. I’m going to spend every day reminding you that good things can happen. That it’s okay to believe and to hope and to have faith in other people.”

  “What if I can’t?” I ask in a breathless voice. I don’t have a successful track record when it came to blind trust.

  “Baby steps, Duchess.” He reaches out and brushes his knuckle under my chin. “Start with me. Have some faith in me. We’ll go from there.”

  I had faith in Jameson, and it had been taken away from me. Why can’t he see that my cynicism isn’t rooted in some warped fixation on the past, but in the continued barrage of unfortunate events that had both brought us together and torn us apart?

  “I can’t just have faith,” I admit to him in a small voice. I want to, and I want to tell him that. But he’ll take my foolish desires as a sign that I’m capable of this tremendous feat he’s asking of me.

  “How about we start with something concrete?” he says softly.

  I raise one eyebrow. He’s going to need a mirac
le if he’s asking me to make this leap. Then again, I’m going to need a miracle if I plan to walk out of here alone tonight. I want him, and I want the picture he’s painting. But is it a future I can ever have?

  “Oh Duchess, I’m sorry they broke you.” The light finger on my jaw shifts and his whole palm cups the side of my face. His touch feels warm and comforting and right, so how could it ever be wrong? “But I’m going to fix you.”

  “You can’t.” The sooner he figures that out, the better off we’ll both be.

  “Look at me,” he demands, and when I open my eyes, his burn into mine. “I’m Jameson West, and I can do anything I want. So, when I say I’ll spend my life teaching you how to have faith—when I say I’m going to fix you—I will.”

  I want so badly to trust him, but in my experience, dreams don’t come true.

  “I told you that I had proof. We’ll start with one concrete reason why you should believe in us.”

  “And what is that?” I snap, as I feel the wounds in my heart begin to crack open.

  “Your DNA,” he says. “It doesn’t match my father’s. For good measure, it doesn’t match mine, either. You aren’t related to me, Emma Southerly.”

  I can’t process what he’s saying, how he knows this. He takes my silence for exactly what it is, disbelief. Sighing, he reveals the source of his findings. “You were sleeping at my house, remember? I borrowed your hairbrush, your toothbrush. Hell, there was a whole team in the guest bedroom. You could probably be cloned.”

  “What does that mean? How can they know so soon? Mackey said...”

  “Mackey’s using the resources of a government-funded laboratory. I had labs in New York, Switzerland and London test and send results. Their findings were all quite clear. We’re not related. So, as to your question, what does that mean? It means that you’re going to lock your car, and then you’re going to get into the passenger seat of mine. My jet is waiting on standby. It’s your birthday, Duchess, and I’m taking you wherever you want to go. The registered flight plan has us going to New York, but from there we can go wherever, so long as that place has a bed.”