by Aly Stiles
“What’s wrong?” a small voice asks.
We snap our attention to Braydon who’s staring at us with wide, scared eyes. Shit.
“Hey, bud. It’s nothing. Can you do me a huge favor and go look for my blue duffle bag in the closet? It’s probably buried so you’ll have to look really hard.” It’s not buried; it’s already in my truck, so he’ll be busy for a while.
He blinks in confusion, and I offer an encouraging nod. When he turns hesitantly and leaves the room, I spin back to Mom.
“Tell me what the hell is going on,” I say, shoving the notice at her. My stomach feels sick when I see two others peeking out from the pile.
“Like I said, it’s nothing,” she repeats, waving her hand.
“It’s an eviction notice!” I hiss.
She shrugs, and I could punch my hand through a wall right now.
“When were you going to tell me about this?”
“You don’t live here anymore. It’s none of your business.”
I wince and step back. “Really? You’re really saying that to me right now?”
Forcing in a deep breath, I swallow my hurt and anger. Bray needs me to stay calm. I drop the eviction notices on the counter and start sifting through the other bills and letters. My stomach rolls with each one, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. Mom looks on with a sullen expression, offering no resistance this time. Despite her earlier barb, she knows who runs this household and holds this family together.
When I get to a credit card bill in my name, my lungs seize in my chest.
“Mom…” My voice comes out cracked and scarred.
She doesn’t acknowledge me when I finally look up. “How…? I mean… What the fuck, Mom?!”
“Don’t curse in my house,” she quips, glaring at me in belated engagement.
“Oh, it’s your house? Not according to these,” I spit out, slamming the pile back on the counter. “In fact, nothing we have belongs to us, does it? When’s the last time you’ve actually paid a bill? It wasn’t enough that you trashed your own credit? You had to ruin mine too? Fuck!”
I run my hand through my hair as I pace the entrance to the kitchen. I can’t breathe with reality crashing down in a suffocating cloud.
“It’s fine, Ash. It’ll be fine. I’m figuring it out. Just go back to school and—”
“Don’t,” I fire back, turning on her. “Don’t you dare act like you’re giving me a choice.”
She looks down.
I close my eyes.
For ten seconds nothing exists in the silent darkness. No success. No failure. No dreams that can be crushed in an instant. No, it’s just a gnawing wave of panic that when I open my eyes it will be to watch my entire future collapsing around me.
“I’m sorry, Ashton,” she whispers, breaking my truce with the darkness.
CHAPTER ONE
Eight months later.
ASHTON
“Hey, Ashton, you have guests at table twelve,” Leah calls out as I move past, balancing the drinks for table ten.
“Great, thanks.” I toss her a smile that widens when she discreetly rubs her fingers together in a clear “money” gesture. Man, I hope so. I could use a decent tip tonight. To say it’s been slow for a Friday is an understatement.
After delivering the drinks and entering the orders for table ten, I plaster a warm smile on my face and head over to my new table.
“Good evening, ladies.”
A quick scan tells me Leah might be right. These twenty-somethings ooze money with their expensive clothing and manicured everything. Still, it’s the air of entitlement that gives me hope I might actually finish making rent tonight. Then again, I’ve also learned having money isn’t correlated with sharing money. Some of my best tips have come from customers who seemed even worse off than I am.
“Hello… Ashton,” one of them says, leaning forward to inspect my name badge.
I grin and pinch the plastic pin on my black uniform t-shirt.
“Hi, yes. I’m Ashton, and I’ll be serving you tonight. Would you—”
“Oh, we’re counting on that, cutie,” another interrupts with a flirtatious glint.
Stunned, I swallow my discomfort and try for a quick smile. “Okay, so would you like to start off with a drink? Our cocktail tonight is the Shelton Barn and Table Signature Margarita with—”
“Just a bottle of nineteen-eighty-five Deluca pinot noir, if you have it,” the first says with a snicker. They laugh at that, and I force a tight smile.
“We don’t, but you’ll find the full wine list on—”
“I’m kidding, Ashton. Of course you wouldn’t have vintage wines in a place like this.” She waves her hand around the restaurant with an air of disdain. “Lighten up, sweetie.”
Shit. So much for an easy tip.
I clench my fist behind my back, hoping my lips are still turned up in a pleasant arc. If this place is so beneath them, why are they here?
“We’ll all have the margaritas. That okay?” she asks her friends who nod in agreement.
“Great. I’ll get that in for you. Would you like—”
“Actually, I take that back.”
I pull in a long breath through my nose.
“Maybe I’ll have an appletini instead.”
“Okay.” I glance around the table to see if anyone else is changing their orders. No one moves. “Great, so—”
“Wait. Me too!” the third one says, exchanging a look with her friends before bursting into laughter. “Oh my god, you should see your face. You seriously need to relax. You’re too hot to look all old-man cranky.”
“Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Oh, I’m so there for that.”
“Ivy! Vi! Seriously?” the fourth one hisses, entering the fray for the first time. “I’m so sorry,” she says to me, meeting my gaze. Her eyes search mine, broadcasting the rest of the message she can’t say in front of her friends. They’re being horrible. It’s not you.
“Oh my god, relax, Iris. We’re just teasing him. You can take a joke, right Ashton?”
My nails press into my palm as I force another smile. “I’ll grab your drinks.”
I turn and start my escape.
“Oh, hey, we were joking about the drinks too,” someone calls out. I can’t tell which one with my back turned, but what does it matter at this point?
I clench my eyes shut to pull myself together. I’d talk to Leah about switching tables, but I can’t live with the guilt of forcing these people on someone else. I command my body to face them again.
“We’re all just going to have waters,” the woman says with a coy look. Her gaze digs into me, as if daring me to react as she snaps the drink menu closed and flips it toward me.
I stare hard at them, straining against the urge to tell them to go fuck themselves. But I need this job. My entire family needs this job.
Drawing in a breath, I lean forward and take the menu from her. This time I can’t muster a comment as I back away from the table. The brunette in the front is staring me down again, and I let my gaze stall on her. Another message waits for me, but I don’t like this one as much. Pity. No fucking way any of them get to pity me.
I feel her stare in my back as I stalk away.
Nothing improves after the drink orders are delivered. They insist their appetizer is wrong, even though I know for a fact it’s what they ordered. The entrée is too cold, even as the steam wafts from the plate into the toxic air around them.
I know they’re messing with me. Some sadistic game to flirt maybe. I’ve seen enough friends’ nights transform into teens’ nights to know adults can regress several years when they’re out having “fun.”
Most of the time it’s easy to brush off, but when each of tonight’s complaints is followed by more laughs and innuendo, it gets harder and harder to keep my cool. One of them even asks point-blank if I’m single. I pretend not to hear it, and if I didn’t have a brother and mother at home relying on me to keep them o
ff the street, I’d be throwing my apron on the table with their check.
But every time I get struck with another burn, deep blue eyes wait to soothe it. Iris they called her. It’s a good name for her. Iris with the vibrant blue eyes that almost look violet in this light. She’s the prettiest of the group, then again, I might be biased since she’s also the only one I don’t want to punt through the neighboring wall of glass right now.
There’s zero surprise when they leave me with more suggestive looks than tip money. Ten percent? Ten fucking percent? I’m about to toss it across the room when I spot a piece of paper folded under Iris’ plate. Surprised, I pull it out, my heart stopping when I open it.
Two crisp one hundred dollar bills rest inside. Their entire check was only one-fifty. After the shock wears off, I let my gaze drop to the handwritten note.
I’m so sorry you had to endure that. No one deserves to be treated that way. I’m sorry for not speaking up more. You were a saint tonight. x Iris
There’s a phone number printed neatly beneath her name.
I’m mentally and physically exhausted by the time my shift ends at eleven. When I let myself into the apartment around midnight, everyone’s already in bed as usual. I sigh when I remember tomorrow is Saturday, which means the longest day at my landscaping job. Lane lets us off at four on the weekdays, but Saturdays are seven to dark. In mid-July that’s at least a twelve-hour day.
Still, Lane pays decent and also does snow removal, so he’s got work for us year-round. In addition, he’s a fair boss—one of the few who doesn’t mind if I call off on the rare occasion Mom works and I need to stay with Braydon.
Mom.
She’s never been good at holding jobs. Or working them when she actually has one. We’ve been fighting about that fact non-stop since I dropped out of school to move home and sort through the mess she made. Fifty thousand dollars she owes. Fifty thousand racked up in bad loans and credit card debt. Twenty of it is in my name.
Eight months and two jobs later, I’ve finally managed to get us back on a sustainable trajectory, but it’s been a brutal climb. Still, rent is being paid, the lights and water are on, and food makes it to the table every night. I’ve even started chipping away at the principal of that massive abyss. If she could manage to hold a job for more than a week, maybe we’d actually get somewhere. But that’s not Gianna Morgan’s M.O. At least she hasn’t brought one of those loser boyfriends around in a while. The last one was five years older than I am. Since she was sixteen when she had me, the math isn’t as bad as it sounds.
After a quick shower and cleanup, I collapse onto the pull-out couch, grateful Mom remembered to set it up for once. I’ll be gone tomorrow before they wake up anyway.
Six AM comes way too early, but I roll off the lumpy mattress and shuffle to Braydon’s room for a change of clothes. I try not to wake him as I pull out my Lane’s Landscaping t-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts. Today’s project is some VIP patio job at one of the giant mansions up in The Hills. With my granola bar, lunch, and to-go cup of coffee, I jump in my truck at just after six-thirty.
It’s only a twenty-minute drive to the posh upscale haven of Suncrest Valley’s uber-wealthy, but it might as well be another planet. My entire apartment building could fit in some of these homes. Of course Lane’s directions dump me in front of the biggest of them all. They can’t be loving the fact that there are a bunch of muddy vehicles lining the quiet drive outside the gate. It’s currently open, probably in light of the work being done today.
I parallel park between Jack’s ratty pickup that was made before I was born and Kurt’s beat-up sedan. Seriously, how did that car even make it up the winding stretch of road?
“Nice shack, huh?” Kurt says, smacking my chest as I approach the gate.
“How is this necessary for one family?” I ask, squinting through some old growth trees at the enormous monument to opulence. I can’t even see the entrance from here. We’d have to walk at least another two hundred yards up a paver stone drive to get close enough to see anything.
“Lane told us to wait by the gate. Doesn’t want us screwing this up for him, I guess. Extra rules this time.”
I shrug, not surprised. If I had scored a client like this, I wouldn’t mess around either.
“Where’s Jack? Saw his truck,” I say.
“Lane took him to scout the site and talk to his contact.”
I stretch and squint up into the clear sky. Seven in the morning and it’s already a sauna.
“Today is going to suck,” I mutter, fanning my shirt.
Kurt huffs a dry laugh. “Maybe they’ll let us use whatever resort pool they’ve got back there.”
I smirk and tuck my hands in the back pockets of my shorts. “Yeah. Pretty sure Lane wouldn’t be on board with that even if hell froze over and they offered.”
Kurt grunts and stares back through gate. “Damn, I hope they let us bring the truck up and we don’t have to carry everything from the road.”
Shit, that’s a good point.
I follow his concerned gaze to the uphill path that seemed long before. It looks damn near impossible at the thought of lugging rocks and materials up and down all day.
“Like I said, today is going to suck,” I draw out, earning a corroborative nod from Kurt.
Lane approaches with Jack in tow, and we straighten to meet the boss.
“’Sup, guys,” he says.
He doesn’t wait for a response before launching into the plan for the day. Of all the information he shares, my favorite part is when he tells Jack to have the delivery dropped at the top of the massive driveway. Thank the heavens above. We also bring our Lane’s Landscaping trailer up from the street to park as close to the site as possible. Not all clients let us do this, and I’ll be honest, most of the ones who insist we keep our dirty vehicles and supplies at a distance live in homes like this one. At least these people aren’t monsters.
Two hours into the day, I’m already sweating small streams. The only reason I haven’t drained my water cooler is because we won’t have access to a toilet until lunch when we find some restaurant or convenience store to take refuge in for a few minutes. God knows I could finish it all in one slug, though. Man, I’m thirsty. My entire mouth is dry, and I feel the sun’s rays driving into my skin as it fights its way into the sky. I’m tan enough at this point in the summer that I’m not worried about sunburn, but still, it’s like shoveling rocks in a convection oven.
I straighten after a brutal hour of filling the bed I was assigned and wipe the sweat from my face with the edge of my shirt. Not that it does much good when your shirt is just as soaked. I even allow myself a few swallows of water as a reward.
“Yo, Morgan.”
I glance toward Lane who wears a confused, maybe nervous, look.
“’Sup, boss?” I say, crossing over to him.
“You tell me,” he says, eyes narrowing.
I have no idea what he’s talking about and stare back. He widens his eyes in an irritated encouragement to fess up. I still have no clue what’s happening.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Am I doing the fill wrong? You said to start with river rocks at the foundation and—”
“Not the rocks,” he clips out. He glances back at the house before leaning in. “Want to explain why one of the residents is asking about you?”
I let out a laugh. Ah, he’s messing with me.
“Right,” I say, turning to head back to work.
He grabs my arm and pulls me around.
“I’m serious. One of the daughters wants to know, and I quote, ‘if that cute guy with the light brown hair is named Ashton.’ She definitely ain’t talking about Jack or Kurt.”
“What?” I ask, confused.
He shrugs in an exaggerated gesture. “How the hell are you on the radar of the fucking Alexanders?”
“The who?”
He waves an exasperated hand behind him. “The hedge fund royalty who own this castle!”
I shake my head, numb. “I swear, Lane, I have no idea. I don’t…” What exactly is he telling me to do?
“Are you going to just stand there?” he barks.
“What… right. Yeah, sorry.” I turn and start back toward the rocks.
“Not the rocks, Morgan.” He nods to the house. “Go find out what the client wants with you.”
I stare at him in disbelief, now certain he’s joking. Maybe this whole thing is an elaborate game. I scan the others but they look as dumbstruck as I am.
“Well? Why are you still standing here?”
“I can’t just…” I glance down at my dusty, sweat-soaked clothing. Forget my boots that are completely caked in mud and who knows what else.
Lane follows my gaze and blows out a breath. “Shit. Yeah. Hang on.” He starts toward the house, then turns back to point at me. “You better not fuck this up for me.”
I hold up my hands in surrender, and he smiles before kicking off his boots and continuing through the back entrance of the house.
I don’t move the entire time he’s gone. The other guys stare at me like I’m a museum exhibit, and I can’t blame them. I don’t feel like myself as I watch the door, wondering what the hell is going on in there.
Alexander. The name doesn’t ring a bell, not surprising since my insane schedule doesn’t allow me to get out much. If I’m not working, I’m sleeping, watching Bray, or sorting through the travesty that is our finances. I was a semester away from an engineering degree and I still can’t seem to solve the financial puzzle my mom buried us in.
Lane emerges through the glass door looking even more confused. He waves me over as he slides his feet back into his boots.
“Got me, kid,” he says, looking up from his crouched position. He finishes tying his shoes and straightens. “It’s confirmed. When I said you’re Ashton, she wanted to talk to you.”
“Who? Who wants to talk to me? And why?”
He shrugs. “The daughter, I don’t know. I don’t get a family tree when I book these jobs. I know Spencer, the household manager. That’s it.”