“Hey.” Lexington’s fingers rest under my chin. He tips my head up until I have no choice but to look at him. “I mean it. I’m going to regret this forever.”
Commotion behind him has him straightening quickly. I get a glimpse of him fastening his belt as he closes the car door and then he’s moving toward the hotel as the door bursts open. Armstrong storms out, yelling my name. I don’t know what he could possibly want to say to me. He’s done all the damage he can. His plea for me to come back is cut off when Lex’s fist connects with his face.
I watch what was supposed to be my future fall to his knees, hands cupping his face, and I wonder if his physical pain can in any way match my emotional agony. I don’t think it’s possible.
Four: Fuck You, Motherfucker
Lexington
The first hit sends a shock of pain through my fist and up my arm. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a fight. It feels unbelievably good to make Armstrong suffer in some way, even if it’s only temporary. When he drops to his knees, cupping his face, I make a grab for his lapels to haul him back up.
“You stupid fuck.” Before I can plant another fist in his face, one that will inevitably result in the necessity for some serious plastic surgery, I’m yanked back.
“Get a handle on yourself,” my brother Bane barks.
Armstrong is carried back into the hotel through the door he just came out of by a couple of his douche friends, screaming his stupid head off while I fight my brother’s hold. It’s pointless. He might be two years younger than I am, but he played professional rugby for seven years and he’s massive. Once the witnesses are gone he spins me around and shoves me, setting me off balance. I land on my ass on the asphalt and then he’s on top of me, his knee pressing into my chest.
“What the—”
He shifts his weight, his knee perilously close to my throat, significantly decreasing my air supply. “You wanna tell me what the hell you were doing?”
“What? I—” I have no clue what he saw, but I’m assuming it doesn’t look good from his point of view.
“Don’t bullshit me. I saw you, Lex. I fucking saw you. You were on her.”
“Get off and let me explain.” I punch him in the side of the leg. I could go for his knee, the one he’s had surgery on, but I don’t want to actually hurt him. I just want his weight off my chest.
He pushes to his feet, then holds out a hand as if he’s going to help me up. I slap it away and roll to the side. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings. I’m still pretty drunk and now I’m winded.
Gripping the back of his neck, he paces the lot. “You better not’ve had a hand in what when down tonight.”
I glare at him. “Seriously?”
“Do you have any idea how bad this looks, Lex? Your date blows the groom. You end up in the bridal suite, on top of the mostly naked, crying bride. Look at you.” He gestures to my attire.
My belt is still half-undone, my shirt untucked, my tie hanging askew. I can see his point. “I wouldn’t try to sabotage a goddamn wedding to get back at Armstrong for being a cocksucker, Bane.”
“You sure about that? You and Armstrong have a long history of fucking with each other.”
“I would never do something like that.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Really? ’Cause as long as I’ve known you, it’s been exactly like that.”
He has a point. Armstrong and I have spent a lot of time screwing each other over since we were teens. When we were kids he was my best friend. He was like another brother—my mother called us Mischief and Malice. I was Mischief, and I didn’t really understand the negative connotations of Malice until I was older. Where I was the kid who lit the firecrackers in a backyard that wasn’t mine, Armstrong was the one who would aim them toward the house instead of away from it. When we got into trouble my mom would gently remind me that I knew better. So my role had been to channel that side into harmless competitions, practical jokes that didn’t damage property or other people.
I seemed to be able to manage him until we got older and that malicious side of Armstrong began to appear more often. Practical jokes gone wrong turned into the occasional fistfight. But then, that’s just how we dealt with things. He’d push buttons and I’d push back.
We were fourteen when things changed. Suddenly my best friend became my worst enemy. The harmless competition became vicious. After that I saw a side of Armstrong that I hadn’t realized existed, and for a while I was convinced I was the one who brought that horrible part of him to the surface.
Our competitive ball-busting turned into an epic, almost lethal clusterfuck after a dare went too far.
I came away with scars and he came out with a bruised ego. Blame was thrown around by my aunt, and after that the healthy competitive edge we had had turned into malicious backbiting.
For a while I tried to smooth things over. But it was clear that it wasn’t going to work. It became his mission to screw with me. If I was involved in a sport or a club or anything, so was he. Whatever I was good at, he wanted to be better and if he couldn’t be, he’d find a way to sabotage me. The competition between us seeped into every single part of our lives, from sports to school to girls.
Sometimes I just took it, but when he’d take it too far I’d retaliate in kind. He’d come back at me and do something worse. I could deal with it when it didn’t involve other people, but Armstrong’s vindictiveness wasn’t containable, and he’d hurt people in his mission to sabotage me. I’d feel guilt over whoever was caught up in the crossfire, because I made him into this. I pushed a button back when we were kids and fucked him up. So I’d given up years ago on making amends.
Except last year it wasn’t just Armstrong being a dick. It was more than that. I saw Amalie first at that party. He couldn’t have cared less who she was until he overheard me asking about her. I tried to remedy it by introducing myself and offering to get her a drink when I noticed hers was empty. Before I could make a move, in he swooped with his bullshit lines and his pearly white smile. I figured it wouldn’t last long. His relationships never did.
Neither did mine, usually thanks to him, but that wasn’t the point.
Getting back at him wasn’t worth it, not if it put someone else’s emotions at risk.
I blow out a breath, aware our history and tonight’s setup make this look exactly like I was trying to mess with him. “Whatever you think happened, it didn’t.”
Bane remains skeptical. “Enlighten me, then.”
“I told Brittany I was going to the bathroom. You know what she’s like, that chick just talks nonstop about nothing. I couldn’t take it. I sure as hell wasn’t drunk enough to manage listening to her for the rest of the night, so I took a breather.”
“In the bridal suite?”
“Yeah, man. Best hiding spot in the damn place. The bride shouldn’t have been in there at all. I was just going to use the bathroom and take a twenty-minute timeout before I headed back. That way I could miss most of the speeches, but when I came out of the bathroom there was Amalie, hacking her dress apart, freaking the fuck out.”
“That still doesn’t explain how you ended up on top of her on the floor.”
“Like I said. She was freaking out. She came at me with a pair of gardening shears. I wasn’t sure if she’d lost her mind or what. Then she told me she was going to fuck me, like revenge on Armstrong for my date blowing him or whatever, and she pulled some ninja move and we ended up on the floor. I said no. She’s feisty though. And strong.”
Bane’s glare tells me he’s unimpressed. “That’s your story?”
“It’s not a story, it’s the damn truth. I’m not an idiot, Bane. I wouldn’t screw a jilted bride. I don’t want to hurt anyone, especially not someone who’s already been hurt.” It doesn’t mean I didn’t want to have sex with her. Amalie in that lingerie, all pissed off and desperate? I was serious when I told her I would regret saying no forever.
I try not to let the way she
felt under me become more than a whisper of thought. I look at my brother, whose faith in me as a person is sometimes questionable thanks largely to Armstrong and his constant games. “I’m not that much of an asshole. I’m not Armstrong. I wouldn’t manipulate someone that way. He has to be the stupidest man alive to screw around on Amalie. I don’t get it. She’s damn well perfect. He had it all and he just threw it away. She’s devastated. He gutted her. She cut herself out of her goddamn dress with gardening shears, Bane.” I run a hand down my face and meet his shocked gaze. “He ruined her for a fucking blow job. Who even does that?”
“Our cousin, that’s who. I’m sorry I thought you had something to do with it. Logically I know that’s not how you work, just the whole thing is a fucking mess.” Bane rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “I don’t know what he was thinking, but the fallout from this going to be bad, and you’re right in the middle of it.”
* * *
I should’ve expected that this shit storm wasn’t going to end with punching Armstrong in the face. Half an hour later my cousin has been taken to the hospital to set his broken nose and I’m sitting in one of the penthouse suites. Across from me, my very distraught mother is tucked into my very angry father’s side. He keeps asking if she needs anything, tissues, water, wine, a blanket.
Bane has gone in search of Ruby and the runaway bride. My other brother, Griffin, is tending to his distressed fiancée, who can’t believe that something like this could actually happen. This whole debacle has upset the entire status quo in this community. And apparently I’m in the center of it all because it was my date who “ruined” the wedding. Not Armstrong, who put his dick in someone else’s mouth, but the girl who opened her mouth and me, because I brought her along.
Of course my mother feels directly responsible, because she’s the one who pushed me to take Brittany. It doesn’t matter how many times my father and I assure her she couldn’t have known, and that Armstrong is responsible for his own actions, she’s still going to feel culpable. Just like she did when things with Armstrong became so unstable when we were teenagers.
My mother is a good woman with a great heart, and right now hers is broken because of what’s happened, and her perceived involvement in the demise of this marriage. Never mind that even if Armstrong hadn’t messed up tonight, there’s a good chance he would’ve done it eventually.
I worry about the impact this is going to have on my mother and her health. The stress isn’t good for her. She battled cancer and won a couple of years ago. During that time, she was the most gracious, selfless sick person I’ve ever encountered. The kind of woman who refused to allow her illness to interfere with her charity work or her family dinners.
When she had her cancer scare I was the one she told first, even before my father. It took her months to tell him. At the time, Bancroft was traveling with his team and Griffin was my dad’s right hand, so I took on the role of caretaker and confidant—it’s pulled us closer, although we were already close to begin with.
For that reason, I was the one who witnessed how difficult it was for her. I kept the secret until it was too much for just the two of us, respecting her desire to protect everyone from her pain.
I made it my responsibility to ensure every event she was in charge of still happened, and that she took the time she required to heal. It meant I slacked a lot more with my job working with my father at the Mills hotel empire. It caused some friction, and reinforced the assumption that I wasn’t taking my job seriously, but I took the heat because mothers aren’t replaceable and mine devoted her entire existence to making sure she raised three respectful boys. I’d rather have people think I’m a screwup than take away my mother’s pride and purpose.
The gossip over this is going to be disgusting and Gwendolyn, my mother’s sister and Armstrong’s mother, is bound to cause trouble. Making up excuses for how this couldn’t possibly be her precious son’s fault.
My father is currently ranting about how this generation places no value on the sanctity of marriage. I have to agree as far as Armstrong’s values are concerned. I’m glad I wasn’t raised in a home where marriage is just a word. My parents are devoted to each other and it shows.
“I think it would be best if we got you out of town until the worst of this blows over.”
“Harrison!” my mother chastises.
“I’m sorry, Meredith.” He covers her hand with his and gives it a squeeze. “Poor choice of words. It’s actually a good opportunity. There are some properties that need attention on the Polynesian Islands that you could visit. You’ll need to book a flight as soon as you can and we can get all the files ready before you go. I think it might be best for you to work from home until then, though, just to avoid all the gossip because we know how much your aunt and your cousin like to talk.”
He has a valid point. If my being out of the country will help slow the gossip roll, or take my family out of the line of fire, I’m willing to do what my father asks. I worry how this is going to go down for Amalie, but there’s nothing I can do about that. “Okay. If you think it’s going to make things easier.”
My father taps on the arm of his chair; he’s moved from angry lecture to full-on business mode. Despite my still being under the influence of a substantial amount of alcohol, so am I.
I make notes on my phone while he talks. I pull up the most frequented review sites and check out some of the resorts in the Polynesian Islands. “It looks like I should focus my attention on Bora Bora based on what I’m seeing here.”
“Good. Book yourself a flight, but give yourself enough time to prepare.”
“Should I book a return ticket or leave it open-ended?”
“Open-ended is probably better in case there are other properties that also need attention.”
“That works.” It’s hard to believe that not long ago Amalie was wearing lingerie, begging me to fuck her and now I’m being sent out of the country to avoid the backlash of this bullshit.
“I’ll have your assistant forward along any pertinent information we don’t manage to secure before you leave.”
“I could stop at the office on the way home and grab what I can?” I offer.
“That’s a good idea.” He taps the arm of the chair. “I know this isn’t ideal, Lexington, but these could and should be some of our most exclusive and best performing hotels, so I’m trusting you to stay focused while you’re there and try not to worry about what’s going on here.”
“I fully understand and I’ll do my best.”
“I expect you will. I know you’re capable of great work when your head is in it.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I’ve been working my ass off for the last six months, trying to redeem myself for my fuck-up in London last spring. And I did fuck up. That trip came on the heels of Armstrong and Amalie’s engagement party. I thought I could deal with the whole wedding thing, but it was Armstrong’s need to rub it in my face that pushed me over the edge at the engagement party. All the little digs, the snide comments he dropped, the ostentatious engagement ring, and the constant bragging about taming a wild one were more than I could handle. I spent a good part of the trip alone and shitfaced, micromanaging Bane and generally driving him insane.
I admitted to having dropped the ball, and I had wanted to be the one to rectify the error, but my father had taken me off the project and put my brother on it. Since then I’ve been trying to earn back the trust I lost. Having my younger brother come in and take over was another punch in the balls. It’s not his fault he’s inherently good at everything he does, but sometimes his golden-boy status pisses me off, especially on top of my already shitty shit sundae.
My father takes his glasses off and folds the arms while my mother yawns. “I think we’re all tired here, so it might be best to call it a night and we can discuss any questions in the morning.”
“Sounds good.” I push up out of the chair and my mother rises. She’s still in her heels, but even with them on she barely reaches my c
hin. Her smile is pained as she steps up and straightens my tie, as is her habit. She purses her lips and adjusts my collar, then rubs at a spot on my neck.
Fuck. I know exactly what that is.
“Is that a—”
I put a hand over hers, hoping my expression conveys the silent message not to finish the question.
Pursing her lips, she moves her palm to my cheek. “That girl has no self-respect at all. I’m so sorry, Lexington. I promise not to play matchmaker with you anymore, obviously my choices lack class.”
I clasp her hand in mine. She’s shaky. “It’s not your fault, Mom. Please don’t blame yourself.” I’m certainly not going to tell her the hickey isn’t from Brittany. Since Brittany is already a villain, it doesn’t hurt to throw some extra fuel on the villainous fire.
She gives me a sad smile. “Thank you.”
I don’t think she’s referring solely to my comment, but also possibly my lack of fight over being sent out of the country for something that essentially isn’t my fault. “Just for you, though.” I hug her, hoping this whole thing doesn’t cause another rift between my mother and my aunt. Just as Armstrong is an ass, Gwendolyn can be a bitch.
I wait until the elevator is heading to the hotel lobby before I pull up flight info for Bora Bora. The elevator doors slide open and I step into the lobby, thankful it’s virtually empty. I should’ve asked my driver to meet me at a side entrance. I walk briskly, keeping my gaze locked on my phone to appear engaged and to avoid making eye contact with anyone who might still be here.
“Lexy!” The shrill, unwelcome voice almost trips me up.
I accelerate and pretend I don’t hear her, but the clip of approaching heels warns me escape is not possible. She reaches me just as I push through the doors and step into the blustery New York night.
“Hey!” Brittany grabs my arm.
“Don’t.” I yank free of her grasp and she stumbles back a step, wide eyes sad and glassy.
The Shacking Up Series Page 34