Crown and Anchor Series: Book 1-4

by Kerri Ann

  “Come on. Let’s go, Cas!” Doll’s squeaky little girl voice peels over the den of the room, gathering the attention of those close. It always has, it always will. Doll has a way of engaging the masses to her every command. My little sister has a way with people, where they feel obligated to love, listen, and above all, cherish her. She obviously has me and Dad at her beck and call. Whiskey, not so much. Mom sees through her sweetness.

  “Cas, you coming? I really want to try it out. I want you there for the first time.”

  “Yeah, Doll.” There she is, standing by the open doors of the living room with an outfit on that if Mother could see it right now, it would send her into a coma. She’s very busy with this event, thank fuck. At this point, she hasn’t noticed her, yet.

  Doll’s long legs are encased in black riding pants. Wearing a bright pink, full armour jacket, she saunters across the steps, holding her demonic painted helmet. It dangles helplessly from her petite fingers that are better suited to piano keys than holding a throttle. But who am I to judge?

  Mother has tried time and again to get her to complete her lessons, finish her latest concerto, or prepare for her next ballet recital. Good luck. Unfortunately, Mother, all your children take after their father, and less after the ballet princesses and chess matchmakers of the world than you can mentally handle. There’s no holding Doll back when she decides she’s doing something, and if Mom can’t handle it, she’s just going to have to get over it with a blindfold and Percocet’s.

  Strutting across the expansive room, the way I always do, it’s what my mom calls a swagger. “Yeah, I’m here, Doll,” I mutter, “Like I’d rather be inside?” I say to myself as I look back at the full house. I’d do anything to avoid the soiree.

  Taking off for the track, slinging her long chocolate hair behind her, Doll flings the helmet on. She looks ready to take on the world. The sinister designs on her helmet virtually moves as she bounds across the yard.

  Picking up the pace to match her fast walk, I catch up. Doll will go off on her own without a thought to safety on her brand-new ride. She won’t care what it looks like with a party full of investors and sponsors if she crashes, or if she takes a turn too wildly. A spill could kill her chances of ever becoming a sponsored pro. I know it’s what fuels her, and I know it’s useless to stop her. Hell, it was useless to stop me.

  As I almost catch my sister, I hear my name shouted across the porch. “Wyatt.”

  Fuck.

  Stopping dead in my tracks and look up. Her stature looks poised, yet deadly as she leans on the stone railing. I walk back over.

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “Darling,” she says sugar sweet through tight lips. “Please keep your sister off the track while I entertain.” Raising her skimpy index finger, she wiggles it for me to follow. Smiling tightly, that sarcastic ‘I’m holding my shit together, Wyatt’ look crests her features. She’s pissed. Not that it’s hard to tell. The stiff walk, the hard step, and the air of ‘fuck off’ is thick.

  With a haughty huff escaping her, she crosses her arms, pointing to Doll.

  “This, Wyatt,” she points to Doll, “is utterly embarrassing. These parties are for you, your sister—”

  “And Whiskey,” I interject.

  Ignoring my outburst, hardly showing any reaction, other than a tightening of her gaze, she continues. “And, of course, this is for your father. We want your racing to be successful. Please keep her off the track. I expressly expect you to have this under control, quickly.”

  “When did I become her—”

  “Yes, Wyatt,” she snaps. “You are her jailer today, yesterday, and every day.” She walks away, knowing the conversation is complete in her mind. “Control her,” she states harshly over her shoulder, returning to her guests. Her decision is made. Either I’ll look after Doll, or she’ll make my life a living nightmare.

  Fuck.

  My mother has a way that riles me up. We fight, someone ends up sedated, and normally, I fall into a fog of drugs. Today, I don’t need to be put down, therefore I guess I gained the position of sitter for hire. Passing out the door, away from the festivities, I walk as fast I can to catch up again. Taking the steps two at a time, I race down. Neither of us need the bullshit later.

  “Doll, wait up, will ya!” I yell ahead, hoping she’ll stop. Miraculously, she does.

  With her hands on her hips, arms indignantly stiff, her head sags forward in that motion that tells me she’s pissed. Great, both of them annoyed at me. This is the last thing I need today.

  Knowing how to turn every last wheel in my head, making me feel bad for arresting her fun, Doll pipes up angrily. “What, Cas? You gonna tell me that it’s not a good time?” Peering at me through the visor with those crystal green eyes, they pierce into your soul and make you pliable, and giving. Every. Single. Time.

  Smiling, I cock my head to the side, giving her the same look back. We both have a way of making people do our bidding, she just has a better grasp on how to twist her brother into knots.

  “I was just going to say it’s—”

  “No, I’m not backing down, Casper. I want to try the track. My bike is fine, the day is fine, the outfit is perfectly formed. Mom’s inside, hosting a slew of indignant pompous a-holes, and I want to enjoy the day.” She crosses her arms across her chest, trying to scowl. Letting out that haughty preteen huff once more, she knows I’m the one person she can’t win with if I decide it’s best for both of us.

  “Look. Later, I’ll grab mine and we’ll go out.” I level a look on her that brokers no room for argument. “But it will be on my terms, Doll. Now stop being a spoiled rich kid and go hang with the others.” It’s not like I’m lying. I had every intention to go on the track after the party anyway.

  “Give me your helmet.” Dragging the helmet over her head, shaking out her hair, she hands it to me. I smirk.

  “You better be willing to get your ass kicked in a few hours, because that’s all I’m giving you.”

  “Good luck, Doll. Big brother’s gonna kick your ass again.” I call after her, grinning like the crazy fool I am. Falling directly into her snare, hook, line, and sinker, she won. Flipping me the bird over her shoulder, she hops up the back stairs.

  What I wouldn’t have done to avoid the bullshit inside, just like her? Hitting the track with her is more pleasurable than any crap going on in the house.

  Walking the remainder of the way across the yard to the drive shed, I punch in the code and step inside. Flicking a switch, the room lights up, showcasing all of its glory. It houses two of my dad’s cars, three extra bays for working on new acquisitions, and enough space for both our bikes. And when I say bikes, I mean the scraps leftover from numerous errors on turns. It’s a fucking graveyard in here.

  Passing by the latest victim of family road kisses, Dad’s car looks like it took on a Mack truck and lost. Truth isn’t far off the mark. The walls are unforgiving bastards, and even less sympathetic are the drivers that pass you by. Oh, of course they feel bad you’re out, or hurt. Though once the bling is on their finger and the cup’s in their hands, all bets are off. That is, until the next lap or race day.

  Remorse and regret are horrible companions on the track.

  Stepping around the heap of metal, clambering over shards of a fairing, a quarter fender, and a discombobulated hood scoop, I place her helmet lovingly on the rack beside mine. The bright overhead lights lay shadows across the tanks of our bikes, showing every small blemish and scratch from bad practice runs or scuff-ups with another rider. The love I have for this sport means I can’t see myself ever leaving it. The passion and exhilaration go hand in hand. Without it, I think I’d curl up in a ball and never feel the touch of greatness again. That’s the danger of living in my head, shit is wrapped up in remorse, regrets, dangerous comments of “you’re not good enough,” or the sad conviction of being the disappointment to my dear Mother.

  Clearing the depression from my thoughts, I pat the top of my helmet lo
vingly. It’s my third arm if you will. My helmet is the part that I can’t be without. It’s plain, no distinguishing marks, no bright colors, and no designs. Just a plain flat black. Doll’s, on the other hand, is a tapestry in comparison. The brilliant pink leaves, the surreal skulls and purple roses on her helmet look haunting and ethereal. Like I said, it totally marks who she is. She’s a dangerous China Doll, one that can cut your heart out with a spoon if given a chance. The girl inside that helmet is not a natural being. She is fearless, and nasty. Even though she looks like a princess, she’d rather take your head off with a scythe if you even dare try to cut her off on the track. Nastiest twelve-year-old on the track for sure.

  Leaving and walking back out to the bright light of day, resigning myself to the fact that there’s no way out of it, I lock up the garage. I head back to the house, and the party that I don’t intend on participating in further. Again, my name is called.

  “Wyatt?”

  Fuck.

  “What’s wrong, Mother?”

  She glares at me, that same look. “Don’t be sardonic with me. If you didn’t have that track, both of you—”

  “Yeah,” I cut her off. “We’d be inside shaking hands, smiling, and drumming up sponsors for the Crown team.”

  She squints at me and I swear, if she was a cartoon character, I’d see flames erupting out of her eyes. She’s trying her best to fry me in my expensive Armani loafers, as I’m doing my best to keep my cool.

  “I’m truly disappointed in you. Please keep yourself inside, smiling and sweet for the remainder of the day. I fully expected more of you.” Without an opportunity to answer her, she turns on her heels and heads back into the foray of big wallets wanting to say they’re a part of Crown Racing’s winning ride. Dad will be in there somewhere, doing his part. As his adoring children, Mother expects the same of us. We are expected to be doting, entertaining, and the perfect hosts.

  What bullshit.

  With a few fake smiles to a few of the bigger sponsors, I head to my room. There I can be alone. I can be with others if need be, and I can avoid an all-out war with Marca Crown.

  Passing Whiskey’s room, the music is blaring, something dark and emo as usual. Knowing him, he’s regretting the summer break at home with family. We don’t see him much anymore with his race team, his sponsorship runs, and the overall schmooze fests in ski country. Knocking, I wait for his reply. We’re only five years apart in age, but we might as well be complete strangers for how much we know of each other.

  Opening the door, his gargantuan form blocks the doorway. Built like Dad, and a temper like a raging bull, we haven’t really spoke since he got home.

  “Hey. What’s up?” His brisk demeanour is actually almost sweet.

  “Just figured if you weren’t doing anything, we could go to the gym and spar for a bit. I need to toss off some tension. Thought maybe you could do with it too.”

  “Yeah, sounds good.” Nodding, he turns off his stereo and snatches up a pair of runners. We bound gleefully down to the first floor to work off family tension.

  CHINA

  Before Dad’s death, I never understood loss. Not real loss.

  Not this.

  This is epic shit.

  Weeks have passed—fucking years if you asked me—and the last thing I want to be doing is sitting here, waiting in the chapel of the hospital. I’m the first to arrive before Whiskey, the chaplain, and our parents’ lawyers. They said they’d control all the needs that had to do with Mom, Wyatt, Circe’s care, the ‘razzi’ and all the bullshit that a young woman shouldn’t have to handle. If I really wanted to deal with these things, I’d rail at them to stop treating me like a fucking ten-year-old. As it is, I want to be left alone to deal on my own, to handle the grief. To wait for Wyatt.

  My emotions are jacked and I’m holding my shit together by a thin wire as best I can. My heart can’t take much more, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to put myself back together if Wyatt...I can’t even find myself saying it internally.

  I won’t.

  I can’t imagine my brother gone from my life. He’s my confidante, my shoulder to punch, my race partner, the guy who keeps the bad blood at bay when I’m treated as a nuisance in my own home, and the one who’s kept me laughing through it all, even when all he wanted to do was cry and curl up in a ball himself. Honestly, I think part of the reason he’s taking so long to wake from the coma is that his head knows it needs time to process everything that’s happened. Over the years, he’s dealt with being a bipolar manic depressive. It’s had an iron grip on his soul. It was the one thing bringing him down, hardening him to human connection. I knew that. I knew that it was always hard for him to deal with others. And how he hid it so well, for so long? I knew the track was his main release, outside of women. Only his closest friends are privileged enough to know what he contends with. They’d seen how Mother could send him into a rage, into a depressive state, and how she created it all. For sure, I’m glad that I don’t deal with the same demons they do, or did. My only demon is my bike and how I ride it.

  “Doll?”

  Turning, I see Whiskey standing in the half-lit entrance. Looking at him, his stature, his frame, his mannerisms and poise, all I see is Dad. He knows how much he looks like him, and even though we haven’t lived together since I was little, I can see the heartache as it creeps across his stern features.

  Fuck, I miss Dad.

  “Hey,” I say, rising from the pew, waiting for him to come to me.

  We’ve never had a relationship. With too many years between us, and a country that’s divided us, it’s never been feasible. He left when he was sixteen to live out west with Auntie Janie. I was only six. The little brat that would chase him around the house pestering him, cramping his teenage lifestyle. That was me.

  It’s funny, really, in the past two months with Dad, this with Mom, Wyatt, and Circe, I’ve seen him more now than I ever did back then. It hasn’t made our relationship better, just more current.

  “Hey. Any news?” he asks. His raspy voice is deep, scratchy, and not unlike Wyatt’s. It makes me wistful. Shaking the feeling of sadness, grounding myself in the knowledge that he’s still here, he’s still with me, but sleeping like a lazy fucker, I smile weakly.

  “No, not yet.” Whiskey had a championship to attend just before coming here. He was in the middle of his races and not expected until the next day originally, but when he heard about the crash, a few flights later, he was here. That was over a month ago.

  “What were you doing? I thought you were just heading to the house for a bit?”

  “Crown Industries booked a meeting with the press. I was commanded to be there by Merconda,” he states, sauntering up the aisle toward me. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “No.” I motion to the wooden bench. As he sits, I take another seat.

  It’s hard when you have nothing to talk about, except for morbid conversation. What do you talk about? We’re not engaging each other for the sake of talking. We don’t want to break the silence with a stupid comment. Instead, we’re taking in each other’s melancholic presence. We haven’t really talked talked either. Yeah, I called him, gave him the rundown about the crash, and he’s been here off and on. But we’re disconnected. He’s ran around for me, grabbing things and dealing with shit. It hasn’t been easy on either of us. We’ve argued a few times, but nothing important was talked about. Both of us are avoiding the elephant in the room. Honestly, it all sucks fucking balls.

  “Sorry,” he says with sincerity. Taking my hand in his, I look into his face. I see the same care and love reflected back. He’s a mirror image of Dad. It’s crushing.

  “James, this is great, really. Thank you for being here.” I’ve done everything I can to hold it in. Keeping my shit together in public and around the staff, but the weight of it is crushing me. I just can’t hold it back anymore.

  As the floodgates open, I fall apart. Tears stream down my face in a torrent of rain. Everything ar
ound me falls into despair as I lay my head in the crook of his arm. Gasping between coughing breaths, I feel his hand on my head, stroking me, making the feeling of loneliness even more apparent. He’s been gone for so long that we’re like cousins. We aren’t sister, brother, mother and father to him, and they made this happen, creating less family along the way.

  “Let it go, China. It’ll be okay...somehow.” I hear him choking back a tear or two of his own, but the sound is drowned out by my total heartbreak. It annihilates me, taking over. I’ve held it in for so long that I’m not sure how I’ll put myself back together after letting it go. He may be here to take part of the burden away, but it still feels so shattering.

  In my despair, I don’t notice the door of the chapel as it opens, nor do I hear the chaplain as I collapse into hopelessness.

  “It’s okay. Hang on, China. I’ve got you.” Hearing Jamieson’s voice so closely resembling Dad’s and Wyatt’s, I feel a renewed wave of tears tumble down. I’m sobbing uncontrollably.

  Vaguely, I adjust as the lights of the chapel brighten. Hearing the scratching of shoes across the floor and the words of Whiskey as he tries to calm me down, I try not to pass out.

  CIRCE

  “I miss him so much, Mom.” I’m sobbing uncontrollably and it hurts every fiber in my body. It’s been weeks with no word.

  She pets my back, soothing me, calming me as I shake. “It’ll be okay, Circe. It’ll be okay.”

  I’ve completely and utterly had enough of these consistent weeks of no info on his status. No one is telling me if he lived or died. Do I need to deal with his death? No. It’s not real. I won’t believe it. My mind still reels, thinking it’s a possibility.

  It’s unbearable, this heartache. The pain is excruciating and I can’t continue this way for much longer. I’m curling in on myself, turning in like Wyatt has in the past. I know how it is to see it, feel it, and be a part of it. Now I’m living it.

  “Circe, honey. It’s going to be fine. Just breathe for me, sweetheart.” I hear my Mom say, just as Sali arrives. Shuffling around, pulling on the IV tube that’s connected to my hand, she plunges something in.