The Rivals

by Allen , Dylan

  I push my daughter behind me and bare my teeth. “I dare you to try.”

  He claps twice and just like that; the battle of my life begins.

  18 years AGO

  RIVERS WILDE

  HOUSTON, TX

  Chapter 1

  No Right or Wrong

  REGAN

  “Haven’t you learned anything from me?” My mother's question isn’t rhetorical, and she's more interested in obedience than truth. But this is one of the rare times that I can actually give her both.

  “Everything.” Even the things she didn’t mean to teach me. She’s the reason I floss like it’s my side hustle, run like it’s my religion, and will never get married or have children.

  “Why did you go to your grandfather when I already said no?”

  I roll my eyes the way I only dare to when she can’t see me. “You told me to ask him.”

  “He was supposed to say no, too. He forgets that you are my daughter,” she seethes.

  “How could he? when you remind him so often?” I quip.

  “Don’t get smart, child.” Her voice cracks like an ice-cold whip. My reckless good humor fizzles. I know how far to push my mother and I just danced up to the line.

  “I was just joking. I’m sorry,” I say, filling my voice with contrition.

  “Apology accepted,” she says with the condescension of a queen granting a pardon. Her ruffled feathers smoothed; she returns to the original conversation. “Now, tell me what agreement you two made about this job.”

  “I’ll be home by midnight, I’ll go straight to bed. I don’t have to leave for school until 7:45. All my homework is done, I took a nap, worked out, ate dinner and still had time to beat Pops at a round of checkers,” I rattle off my itinerary, knowing that this is the key to her approval. Do everything that’s expected, and she’ll leave me alone.

  “That’s all fine, Regan. But you don’t get kudos for the basics.”

  As if I want or need her kudos. I grit my teeth to stop myself from scoffing. My spirit may be rebelling, but for my body to get in on the action, I need to make sure she doesn’t suspect anything. “I know. I just wanted you to know that I have a plan to stay on track.”

  “Your grandfather and I have great expectations for you. Don’t let that wild heart of yours lead you astray. Your greatest asset is your brain. Use it.”

  She hangs up without another word.

  I put the bulky cell phone, otherwise known as my electronic leash, into my purse. The only reason I didn’t “forget it” at home tonight is so I can text Weston and let him know the coast is clear before he heads over to meet me.

  The son of a local drug dealer, Weston Silk isn’t the all-American boy or the tall, dark and handsome scholarly type my mother kept trying to set me up with.

  He has hair the color of flame and eyes the color of the sky - a palette of heaven and hell that drew sighs from every girl he passed. Including me.

  But I didn’t return his sly, slow smiles. I pretended not to notice the way he watched me. I had my eyes on a different prize. Wellesley College - the all-women’s liberal arts college all the way in Massachusetts was my dream school.

  My family groomed my brothers, Remington and Tyson, to take over the family business. They groomed me to marry well.

  I’d first seen Desiree Rogers in an interview just after she’d become the CEO of Johnson Publishing and it changed my whole world. She credited her time at Wellesley for giving her the confidence to pursue career opportunities in spaces that had traditionally been the domain of men.

  Seeing her, someone who looked like me, say what my heart had always felt, changed my entire life horizon.

  Highly competitive, Wellesley only accepted 5 % of applicants. So, I kept my head down and busted my ass. And I have a perfect GPA and near perfect SAT score to show for it.

  When my admission letter from Wellesley arrived, I went to my mother expecting to be congratulated.

  Instead, she handed me an envelope with my name scrawled on the back in her strident, slashing handwriting. Inside was an acceptance letter and the offer of a full ride from Southern Methodist University. A small yellow sticky note clung to the first page. On it, she’d written, “I know better.”

  My grandfather, who usually took my side, wouldn’t intervene. The year before he exhausted any credit he had with my mother when he helped my twin brother, Remington, in his bid to attend a college she didn’t approve of.

  They’d had the element of surprise on their side, then. Remi applied without telling a soul and got our grandfather’s buy in before they told my mother.

  After losing that showdown, she’d been ready for me. The roots of her opposition ran deep and were fed by a constant supply of pride and resentment.

  I was on my own.

  I applied for a scholarship. But a school like Wellesley, that only takes the best and brightest, didn’t offer incoming freshman academic scholarships. All awards were based on financial need. And with a family fortune in the billions behind me, there was no chance of that. With my dream crushed under the heel of my mother’s will, I vowed to never ask for permission again.

  If they wouldn’t give me my due, I’d just take it. I mailed in my acceptance form to SMU that very day.

  Then, I pulled out my old yearbook and found the phone number Weston scribbled over his senior picture and called him.

  I drove out to his house the next day after school and let him take my virginity.

  Brief and not as painful as my mother swore it would be, the thrill of knowing that I was breaking one of my mother’s cardinal rules made it feel delicious.

  I’m aware of what a cliché I am - the poor little rich girl dating the bad boy to stick it to her mother. But after a lifetime of glass towers and short leashes, the afternoons with him left me high on the rush of rebellion.

  When my mother became suspicious about my disappearances after school, she started inventing errands for me to run that ate into all of my free time during the day.

  After two weeks of that, I saw a sign in our bakery window for a kitchen prep position that went from 8pm to midnight.

  I went to my grandfather and offered to take this position and let him sample the ginger lemon scones I wanted to bake exclusively for our bakery.

  He was ecstatic and made a call to the division that oversaw our stores and in a matter of minutes the job was mine. I love to bake, am a night owl by nature, and this gave me the perfect cover to see Weston. He’s set to come at 10 which will give me plenty of time to do my work.

  I unlock the bakery and catch the glow of a light on in the back. Curious, more than worried, I head for the kitchen.

  “Hello? Is someone here?” I call and push open the double doors that lead to the back rooms. There’s no response, but the snick of a door closing, is all the answer I need.

  My heart skips a beat. Marlene, the bakery manager, told me that the lock on the back door was broken but no one was worried about break-ins in Rivers Wilde.

  Nevertheless, I pull out my keys and fumble for the small bottle of mace on it. I hold it in front of me and hold my breath as I yank the door open and step into the cavernous room where we store our dry supplies.

  The room is completely empty. I scan the space and notice one of the huge cabinets that line the walls is slightly ajar. The sound of sharp, shallow breathing as I get closer confirms my fear.

  Whoever is in there can’t be a big person. But danger comes in all shapes and sizes. At this time of night, nothing good could be lurking here.

  “I know you’re there, so you might as well come out.” I nudge the door with my foot again and hold my breath.

  Nothing happens.

  “I’m gonna count to three and then I’m opening this door… I’ve got a gun.” I add that lie in hopes that they’ll come out slowly enough to give me a chance to bolt if I need to.

  “One…two…” The cabinet door swings open and a small, pale hand reaches out from the dark rece
ss of the industrial sized cabinet. I stop counting. The hand is joined by a skinny, freckled arm. A head, topped by a thick, unruly, wavy mop of sandy brown hair appears next and I come face to face with my trespasser.

  He’s just a boy, doesn’t appear to be any older than seven or eight, dressed in a school uniform I recognize.

  A few months ago, when I was still keeping up appearances, I dated a boy who attends the prestigious all boys boarding school, Blackwell Academy. I remember him mentioning a ten-year boy enrolling in ninth grade at the start of this school year. This kid looks younger than that, but this has to be him.

  His face is pointed at the floor, his shoulders hunched in on himself. His little body is rigid, the hands he shoves into the pockets of his navy-blue uniform pants, ball into fists.

  “What are you doing here?” I make my voice as calm as possible.

  “Hiding,” comes his disgruntled, sarcastic reply.

  “I got that part,” I return with the same snark.

  “Then, why’d you ask?” The defiance in his voice belies his posture.

  But I recognize little boy bravado when I see it. He’s hiding from someone, or something, or both.

  Unfortunately, he can’t do it here. Not with Weston coming and not when putting a foot wrong could jeopardize this last vestige of freedom I’ve managed to carve out for myself.

  “Okay, how about I don’t ask you anything else? How about I just call the police and let them ask you all the questions they want?” I ask, bluffing in hopes that he’ll scurry away.

  “Wait,” he cries. His head snaps up, revealing a tear streaked, freckled face, red rimmed dark eyes magnified behind thick, black plastic framed glasses. They magnify the dark smudges under his eye. I scan the rest of his face and gasp at the fresh split in his lower lip and a smear of blood on the tip of his nose.

  His eyes narrow as he takes me in, too. “You don’t have a gun.”

  I raise my eyebrows at his indignant, accusing glare. “And you have no business being here.”

  His swollen mouth tightens, and he winces, his tongue prods his raw lower lip and my annoyance transfers from him to whoever hurt and scared him.

  “What happened to your face?” I ask him

  “I got punched, Captain Obvious,” he says with a roll of his big eyes.

  I smother the urge to chuckle at his precociousness and frown instead. “I can’t imagine why. You’re so polite.”

  “I thought you were calling the police.”

  “Thanks for the reminder.” I pull out my phone and dial the number Remi set up as a prank and pray it's still in service.

  He smirks and leans against the cabinet and crosses his legs at the ankle. He watches me with an ennui that’s so convincing I almost believe that he doesn’t care.

  “It’s ringing.” I lift my eyebrows in exaggerated excitement and give my brothers a mental high five.

  “Yeah right, you’re probably calling your bestie or something,” he says with a churlish little laugh.

  I hit the speaker button just as the call connects, “911, do you need police, medical or fire?”

  His eyes nearly bug out of his head at the recorded voice. “Stop,” he bellows and then springs off the cabinet and races to me, hands straining ahead of him, his eyes trained on my phone.

  I hightail it out of the storage room and out into the kitchen, racing to put the huge marble top prep surface between us.

  I hold the phone up over my head. “Don’t come any closer, and I’ll hang up.”

  He screeches to a stop across from me. His dark, tear damp eyes are blazing, his flushed nostrils flare. He’s so small, but if he was the same size as his anger, he’d fill this entire room.

  “Why couldn’t you just pretend you didn’t see me?” he seethes through clenched teeth. His eyes shimmer with unshed tears.

  Guilt and compassion replace my annoyance. He’s just a scared kid and I don’t want to add to that already overflowing bucket. “I didn’t really call, okay?” I put the phone down and lift my empty hands so he can see I’m as defenseless as he is. “Now, tell me who you’re hiding from.”

  His eyes widen just enough for me to know I hit that nail on its head before he narrows them angrily. “No one,” he insists.

  “You can trust me,” I coax softly. Instead of the reassurance I hoped to inspire, his bottom lip trembles and his throat moves convulsively. I reach across the counter, my palm open in invitation.

  He stares at my hand with wide, wary eyes before he lifts his gaze to my face. The bleak, haunted look in his eyes makes my breath hitch.

  “I won’t let them hurt you again.”

  “You can’t do anything,” he snarls then turns to make a run for the door.

  I sprint to get ahead of him, stop short, and pivot with my arms open to catch him. He may be small, but he packs the punch of a freight train and his momentum sends us crashing to the floor.

  I roll over and wrap him in a bear hug. The press of his too-prominent rib cage against my arms and the thud of his sprinting heart and against my torso firms my resolve to find out what happened to him.

  “Let me go,” he screeches and bucks against me. His head flails between my breasts and I crane my neck to move my face out of harm’s way.

  My wildly beating heart is lodged in my throat and my arms ache but I hold on tight.

  He’s scared and so alone that he’s managed to find his way here on a school night without triggering an Amber Alert.

  “You’re safe with me.” I whisper.

  “Please, please let me go.” His voice is still colored by anger, but it breaks at the end of his sentence and he starts to cry. His hot tears dampen the front of my shirt.

  I rest my cheek atop his head. The touch seems to startle him and instantly, but for his heaving chest, he goes completely still. After a few seconds of this, I risk loosening my hold and move my hand to caress circles in the center of his back. He stiffens and then our embrace changes.

  His fisted hands were trapped between us. Now, they slide around my ribcage, his small hands press into my back. He holds me so tightly it’s uncomfortable and cries like his entire heart is broken.

  I recognize the grief that’s pouring out of him. It’s the keening, festering kind that comes knowing that with losing something you’ll never get back. Whoever said you can’t miss what you’ve never had was selling a pipe dream.

  My father died before I was old enough to have a single memory of him. But I’ve felt his absence so keenly at times, I was sure my grief would swallow me whole.

  What always saved me from those emotional hurricanes was having a safe place – usually my grandfather’s arms – to see the storm through. He didn’t insult me with platitudes and promises he couldn’t keep. He’d let me get it out, chuck me under the chin, and send me on my way.

  “Whatever you’ve lost, is gone. But you’re still here, and you deserve to be happy.” I repeat one of my favorite meditations in a soothing cadence. He’s just a kid, but so was I the first time I heard it.

  His sobs soften. But his hold on me, doesn’t. Pity squeezes my heart. My family isn’t perfect, but I’ve never not had a place to go when I was this low.

  We lay there silent, the buzz and hum of the appliances and overhead lights mingling with our breaths and heartbeats.

  After a few minutes, his arms slacken and a half sigh, half snore confirms that he’s fallen asleep.

  I press a kiss to the top of his head and close my eyes as the familiar scent of Johnson’s baby shampoo assails me. Oh God, he’s so young.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket and I remember Weston.

  Shit. I stifle a groan and chew the inside of my lip while I consider the child asleep in my arms. I need to figure out who he is and how to get him back to school.

  The time I’d set aside to get some of my work done ahead of Weston’s arrival is gone. I may be brazen enough to sneak him in here, but I’m not crazy. This work has to get done and on time, too.<
br />
  I reach for my phone, moving gingerly to not wake him and read Weston’s text.

  “OMW”

  I make a snap decision and type back a response.

  “Not alone. Can’t meet. Sorry! Call you 2morrow.”

  His reply comes right away, “Cool. L8r”.

  It stings my pride that he didn’t even pretend to care. The scowl forming on my face softens when I look down at the sleeping, bruised face pressed to my chest. Weston can wait a few days, but I’m not sure that he can.

  I manage to lift and carry him into the bakery’s restaurant. I lay him on one of the plush sofas, rush back to the workroom, and grab the pashmina in my bag to drape over him. It covers him completely and makes him look impossibly vulnerable. I need to know who hurt him. When he wakes up, I’ll coax it out of him with some milk and scones.

  Then, I’m going to make sure the person who did this and the adults who let it happen make things right for him.

  I engage the deadbolt so he can’t leave through the front door. Then, I get back to work.

  The butter I’d taken out has softened too much to be used in my scone recipe, so I pop it into the freezer. I set a timer for twenty minutes, pop in my Love Jones soundtrack CD and get to work zesting lemons and ginger. I’m only on the second lemon when the sound of shattering glass from the restaurant splinters my focus.

  I drop everything, grab the chef’s knife off the wall, and run. Images of him bleeding, or in the clutches of whatever villain broke that glass make me dizzy with fear.

  With my arm raised to strike, I take a fortifying breath and burst through the swinging doors with a primal scream that nearly chokes me when I take in the scene.

  He’s gone. An entire pane of glass is missing from the store front window. And one of the small silver footstools my mother handpicked lays sprawled on the sidewalk in a sea of fractured glass.

  What an idiot I am. I bet he wasn’t even really asleep.

  I run to the window, stick my head out of the gaping hole he made and look each way down the deserted street. He could have gone anywhere, and I don’t have time to go looking for him now.