by L V Chase
We're in the courtyard of a cathedral near the coast. A piece of the cornerstone from the original Notre Dame is part of the foundation, supposedly.
I know where everything's from because of the Australian actor with a million-dollar smile that's today's emcee and presiding priest. He's made it a point to say where everything's from, which means old Kline, the reason we're all here, wants everyone to know.
Funny, Kline doesn't tell anyone where he dug her up. My eyes stray to the skinny blonde bride who's busy making out with the fat seventy-year-old. He has to be three times her age, at least. Probably three times her weight, too. Her wedding dress is supposedly the work of some hotshot New York designer, but all I see is pure trash. She's wearing layers of a see-though lace, but that thin avant-garde shit's not keeping little Johnny two rows behind me from giggling. If no one else will say it, I will.
"She's fucking naked," I mutter.
Around me is a sea of pot bellies and plastic faces. They stand, hollering and cheering. I don't bother to clap.
“Grayson."
Aurora slips into my left arm to lean closer to me. My sister's wearing that lavender perfume Mom used to wear. My mother, not hers. I told her once to stop fucking wearing it, which was stupid. Now she just rubs it in every chance she can get.
Aurora tiptoes and tucks her chin onto my shoulder. Her head's tilted far back, giving me a good shot of the lavender scent.
"You're supposed to clap," she whispers.
I'd love to pick Aurora up and hurl her into the obnoxious lady in front who's been whispering into her phone the entire time. But we Vosses have to keep up our appearances. I settle for pulling my shoulder sharply out from under her.
"Hey!" Aurora pouts.
I ignore her and turn left. A new scent, a skunky one, reaches me. My buddy Eric's grinning at me with a joint in his hand, the end glowing orange. The bastard's lit up in the middle of a wedding. I grin right back.
"Stoned or drunk," Eric says as he offers me a drag. "The only way I can stand this shit."
I turn him down with a shake of my head. Dad's one of the groomsmen standing up front, the only one of the four that's not balding. He's glaring at me. He hates this stuffy shit as much as the rest of us, but Kline's big business, so here we are. Dad will raise holy hell if I don't at least pretend to behave. This is work, and I promised I wouldn't embarrass him during work.
I never promised anything about Eric, though. Eric's my middle finger, my brother from another mother. I dragged him here so I wouldn't die of boredom.
"Bet she likes being tied up." Eric blows out a puff of white smoke while nodding towards the couple. "I can tell."
I jab him in the ribs with my elbow. "You say that whenever you want to fuck someone."
I eye the bride again. She's got the typical body. Hot enough but forgettable. She's a one-and-done deal, which is why I don't understand why Kline is going to the trouble of marrying her. The lucky bitch's probably got him eating of her hand. I try not to frown at the sight of them still making out. Eric's got it wrong. The fat fuck's the one that enjoys being tied up.
Pathetic.
Dad and I don't see eye-to-eye about a lot of things, but he's been right about the dangers of women. They're predators, not the proud kind, but jackals and hyenas lurking on the fringes, always present, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. Kline up there is exhibit A of what happens when you let your guard down.
They can sniff money from a mile away like the scavengers they are. It's not just about the dollars, though. We're a different breed, Dad says. Not kings but kingmakers. That's the empire Dad's built and that I'll inherit. Hell, everyone kneels before us. It's no surprise that the flies come circling after.
"Yo, Eric, remember that lawyer's wife?" I ask. "The one you wouldn't touch?"
Eric makes a disgusted face. "She looked diseased. I'm still not hitting that, no matter what you say."
I laugh. "Nah, I got some of the other boys on that." I point with my chin towards the new bride in her sheer wedding dress. White for purity? What a joke. "You like that? A grand says she's got nothing for you."
"A grand?" Eric tilts his head and looks at the bride again. "Fuck that. I'm not some broke pool boy." He drops the joint onto the stone cobbles beneath us and grinds it under his heel. He licks his lips. "She's mine, because I want to."
He sweeps his dark hair back with his hand. His blue eyes grow cold and tight. This isn't about finding pussy. This is about pride, proving who we are. We sure as hell aren't jackals. We're fucking lions.
Eric smooths the cuffs of his black tux, then tugs on the edges of his bowtie. Ever since he did a stint as a fashion model, he's been obsessing over his looks. I shake my head slightly. No way I'd ever give anyone with a camera the time of day. Another of Dad's lessons. The man behind the cameras got all of the control, and I'm not giving up control to anyone else.
"You primping or pimping?" I nod backwards. "Because you left your lipstick in the car."
"Fuck you, too, Gray." Eric cracks his neck from side to side. "I'm going to break her open. Before the dance."
"Before the dance?" I check my watch. It's almost four-thirty. The dance will be after dinner later this evening. That gives him three hours or so to screw the bride in the middle of her own damn wedding. Eric's one crazy motherfucker, but I'm not sure that even he can pull this off.
"Mm-hmm. I'm catching my own private dance with her before he does."
"Not a chance."
Eric grins. "I want a real bet. If I get this, you owe me."
I shrug, curious what he would want. It's not like either of us needs anything. "Sure. You name it."
Eric lowers his voice and looks past me to my right. "Dibs on your sis."
I scowl, my fist tightening. That's a boundary he's not allowed to cross, and he should damn well know it. Aurora may be a bitch and only a half-sister, but she's still a Voss. There's no way I'm letting Eric near her, even if she does nothing but piss me off.
Eric slaps me hard on the back as he chuckles. "Got you."
I stare at him. The fucker's still smirking.
He holds a hand up. "Calm down, killer. I'm playing."
I rest one hand on his shoulder and squeeze, hard. "I'm not. Touch her, and I'll fuck your mom so hard she turns inside out."
Eric rolls his eye. "Got it, Gray." His mouth is tight as he holds in a grimace.
I let go of him. Eric's never serious about anything. But give him an inch, and he'll take a mile. One day that's going to bite him in the ass.
"So, what's the game plan?" I say, letting him know that's I'm not actually mad.
"Uh-uh. I can't be teaching you all my tricks. Got to go now." Eric shuffles past me, then Aurora, her mother Trisha, and the rest of the row. The bastard winks at Aurora at he slides past.
I glance up. The ceremony's over, and Kline's coming over to the crowd to mingle and receive his congratulations. The bride's heading back into the cathedral. She didn't even stick around for photos with the guests. Maybe she's not completely dumb and wants to get out of that dress as soon as possible. I catch sight of Eric's tall figure heading towards the cathedral as well. I can't help but smile.
"Are you causing trouble?" Aurora tries to see what I'm smiling at, but she's too short to see over everyone's heads.
"Causing trouble? I am trouble." I move to get away before I'm pinned down, but I'm a step too slow.
"Oh, you're Lawrence's boy!"
The first voice is the prelude to a chorus of hungry, droning, cries.
"Grayson Voss?"
"Grayson!"
I could feel the eyes on me throughout the whole ceremony. Young, old. Mostly women, a few men. It's the price we pay for being who we are, and it's still disgusting as fuck. I force my face into a neutral expression before I turn around.
A tall blonde in neon pink lipstick and a tight yellow dress with a plunging neckline reaches out to grab my upper arm. If I had been drunk, I might have mistaken
her for someone in her twenties, but I can see the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes, the dead desperation weighing in them, and the unnatural tightness to her complexion.
She squeezes my bicep, or at least she tries to. Her hand doesn't even circle half of my arm.
"God, you're so thick," she gushes. She steps back and eyes me from head to toe. "Tall, dark, and handsome, just like they say."
"Mom!" A brunette on her left in a beige dress pulls the intruder back, then stumbles forward as she trips over her own six-inch spikes.
Who the fuck wears six-inch spikes to a wedding? I'm about to sidestep so that she doesn’t fall into my arms. That would count as embarrassing Dad, though, so I change my mind at the last moment and hold my ground. She stumbles into my chest and winds up with both arms around my neck. Her soft, warm body presses into mine, one thigh pushed up against my crotch.
"I'm Natalie," she says in a breathy tone. She leans forward to whisper so that only I can hear her. "And I can swallow anything and everything you give me. The staff parking lot. Black SUV. Plate starts with an S."
"Grayson!" Aurora slaps me on the side of my arm. "Stop manhandling her you brute!" She plucks Natalie off me. Her brown eyes are seething with...jealousy, the fuck?
"I'm such a klutz." Natalie giggles.
"Stop hogging all the attention!" A redhead pushes forward.
My eyes are glazing over. I mutter some pleasantries. Aurora makes snide comments that go over their heads. I catch sight of Dad. The same's happening to him, except in his case, instead of a bunch of needy women, he's got a bunch of business types. Same fake smiles. Same offers of blowjobs, or whatever passes for one among them. Dad looks over at me for a moment.
I hate this shit. Sometimes I wish I could be like Eric. He's the fourth son out of four. He doesn't have to care, or pretend to. Me? I have Dad's damn expectations. Do the family proud and all that.
Fuck it. I drop all pretense of listening to the growing circle of have-beens and wannabes pawing for my attention. I walk away in the middle of someone else's sentence.
There's a hill nearby with a switchback. Devil's Tail, they call it. Top to bottom is a good two miles. Last time I was pushing ninety on the straight middle stretch. If I hurry, I can get a couple of rounds in before the sun sets. Nothing like flirting with death to get your blood pumping and forget all this crap.
I look back to see Natalie's sad brown eyes. If I still need something else afterwards, they'd be waiting for me here anyways. They always are.
I make my way through the crowd, giving a few polite nods but brushing past anyone who tries to chat me up. Another girl, a leggy blonde, tries the same stumbling trick, but this time, I neatly dodge her. Something crashes to the ground behind me, but I don't slow or look backward.
I break free of the crowd and spot what looks has to be the valet station, a group of young men, hardly older than me, looking uncomfortable in their matching purple suits. I'm walking towards them when an iron grip latches onto my left wrist.
"Grayson."
Dad's voice is quiet. He's a media guy. Loud, commanding. He only gets quiet when he's really mad.
I spin around and wrench my arm free. "What?"
Dad pretends that he was brushing something off my sleeve for the benefit of anyone watching. "Where do you think you're going?" he hisses.
"You know how they are around us. That shit makes me gag. I'm getting some fresh air."
"Why?" His whispers are light but crisp. "You soft? You can't handle a few women?"
"I can handle whoever the fuck I want, and you know it. I'm out of here." I'm about to step away, but Dad moves in close so that he's practically butting heads with me. He doesn't smell like lavenders. He smells like rage.
"You really think so? What about Lonnie's wife? You handle that yet, or did you pussy out like you're doing now?"
If Eric's crazy, Dad's a sociopath. Yeah, there's a difference. Eric's screwing the bride during her wedding for shits and giggles. Dad wants me to seduce and fuck a lawyer's wife on video. Lonnie Richter's been sticking his nose in Dad's business, and I'm supposed to hit him where it hurts. It's a personal touch, sending his own son to do the dirty work. Except I have to agree with Eric. His wife is a nasty old prune. There's no way I'm putting any piece of me inside her.
"I'm your son, not your fuck boy. What's his wife to you, anyways?"
"His wife is his weakness, like all women. It's why you need to keep them in their place, not be running from them like a pussy-whipped little boy."
Dad jerks his head back towards the milling crowd. I don't have to look to know that they're watching us. My skin's crawling from their gazes.
I lower my voice to match his. "Who's the whipped one? You're the one that married Trisha, god knows why, and brought her bitch of a daughter into our family."
Dad's face contorts with fury for a split-second, then the mask is back in place. "Shut your fucking mouth. This is about you and your failures. I gave you a simple job. Take care of one damn woman, and you couldn't even manage that." His nostrils flare. "Useless. Utterly useless."
I hiss between clenched teeth. "Fuck you, too. I've taken care of it. You're welcome."
His left eyebrow rises, barely. "Oh? Spit it out, then. What'd you do?"
"Me, nothing?" I pausing long enough for a flash of annoyance to cross his face again. "I told you, I'm your son, not a goddamn fuck boy. I got three of my crew to take care of it. They should be tag-teaming her on camera right about now." I stare into Dad's eyes. "I don't fuck. I destroy."
Dad holds my gaze for several seconds. Then, the corners of his lips curl into the barest hint of a smile. He nods. "Good, very good. It's smart of you to delegate."
"Are we done here?"
Dad's really smiling now, which makes me cautious. He only smiles when shit is going down.
"No, we're not done. We're only getting started. I've got another lesson, another project for you."
I frown. His ideas of lessons are typically bullshit, like with Richter's wife. I know what he's trying to do--make me more like him, prepare me for his world. He thinks I'm too soft.
He's wrong. I just don't care enough to prove him otherwise. I know who I am. I don't need his approval.
Dad chuckles. "I admit that the last task might have been...not so easy on the eyes. I think you'll like this next one better. It's about your school."
"School?" Why the fuck would he care about my school?
"More specifically, the girls at your school. The scholarship girls." He smiles, baring his teeth. His steel gray eyes glow.
It's a familiar expression. Others might mistake it for ambition, anger, or even lust, but not me. That's the face of a cold, cruel master about to make someone's world burn. Nothing more, nothing less. I should know. After all, I am my father's son.
3
Cin
The heat at the end of August is always an endless wave of sweaty skin and irritability. It’s ten times worse when I’m trapped with my mother in a cramped apartment. That’s just pure fucking torture.
“You can’t ignore the bills and hope they go away.” I snap, throwing the first two pieces of mail in front of my mother.
She’s sitting at the kitchen table, smoking. She barely flinches.
“They’re not like your one-night stands,” I add.
My mother rolls her eyes. “You love looking down on me, don’t you? You know how many worse mothers there are? I don’t beat you. I don’t force you to turn tricks. I kept you even though everyone told me to get rid of you. I did things you couldn’t ever imagine just to keep us off the street. It wouldn’t kill you to help out once in a while.”
“I have been,” I say. “But you still need to pay the electricity and the rent. What happened to the money in the loot can? I tried to get into it for groceries, but there’s nothing left.”
She taps the ash off of her cigarette. “Richard got into some trouble. I needed to bail him out.”
I clen
ch my hands. “Dick is a piece of shit. Why would you help him?”
“Don’t be cruel, Cin. A man needed help. I helped him. It’s called being a decent human.”
My hands are shaking. I clutch onto the rest of the mail and storm into my room. I slam the door shut hard enough that my handmade easel wobbles. I collapse on the bed, letting the mail fall on my pillow. I check the remaining two pieces. A magazine and an advertisement for a plumbing service. The magazine is for art supplies. At this point, I’m an expert at fantasizing about what I can never have.
I flip open the magazine. A small manila envelope somersaults out of it. I snatch it before it slides off my bed.
TO: CINNAMON REEVES
1422 Cavern Street
New York, NY 10455
The return address is from Roman Academy.
I sit up straight. I glance back and forth at my address and the name of the school. I take a deep breath. It’s a small envelope. Small envelopes are for rejection letters, the ones that start with “We’re sorry to inform you…” They’ll praise me for my potential, but decide that my potential isn’t worth investing in.
I rip open the corner of the envelope. I poke open the hole before tearing it wider. I unfold the letter, which has a gold seal embossed at the top.
Dear Miss Reeves,
Congratulations! With great pleasure, we offer you admission into Roman Academy.
My heart’s beating too fast to continue reading. I rest the letter in front of me, rereading those two lines over and over. It takes me several minutes before I can read the rest, telling me they’re willing to offer the creativity scholarship for my skill in visual art.
Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit!
I jump to my feet. Their scholarships cover everything. Roman Academy even has dormitories for its students. I won’t be living here any longer.
I’ll need to pack. I’ll need to get supplies for living on my own. I’ll need to accept the offer.