Sweet as Pie (Spring Hills Book 1)

by Brisa Starr

  But she can’t help herself anymore, and she blurts out, “Robert committed!”

  Of course she couldn’t hold out. She used to give me my Christmas gifts early, one each day leading up till Christmas because she was itching to give them and couldn’t wait.

  Those two words: Robert committed. I nearly wet myself.

  My body just about levitates out of the booth, and I open my mouth to say something, but no sound comes out, so it shudders shut, and my eyes wet like rain instead. I sit back down and grab my glass of water, guzzling it down. Gulp! Gulp! Gulp!

  Then my words come to me. “No fucking way! Really?!”

  “Swear jar!” she yells and points to it, hopping in her seat. “Yes. Really.” A genuine smile lights her face, and her own eyes mist.

  “Oh… my god.” My hand covers my mouth, my own eyes wide this time. I whisper, “Mom, we’re really gonna do it.”

  2

  Ryker

  I crash through the door to the restaurant as I exit, and it bangs the bells at the top. A startling, stupid, high-pitched jingle. I flinch. Maybe it’s less offensive when a raging gorilla isn’t bursting out.

  My lunch sours in my stomach, and I take off my jacket, throwing it into the back of my black Bentley Continental GT convertible. I slide into the plush driver’s seat and exhale loudly. I wish the beauty of my new car eased my colossal angst. But no way. I lean my head against the headrest. I can’t believe it’s her. Aspen. That fucking girl. Though, she’s not a girl any longer. I chuckle darkly. She’s not at all what I remember from high school. Her hair wasn’t that blond. Her tits weren’t that filled-out either. One look in her glittering brown eyes and I almost forgot how much I hate her. Almost.

  Glad for the warm summer weather, I push the button to lower the convertible top on the car. Maybe my ride to the gym, with the top down, will blow some anger out of me. I crack my knuckles, and then my neck. I try taking a deep breath. Fuck. All I notice is my body doing stupid—and weird—things. It’s like there’s ice in my chest and lava in my legs.

  What the fuck?

  If I could punch myself, I would.

  She was gorgeous.

  Big fucking deal.

  Aspen. Her long, bright, pearly blond hair was sexy as hell, and I don’t even go for blondes, but she drew me in, and her big brown eyes, like melted chocolate. I wanted to grab a raft and float in them. And those lips! Holy hell. Her plump, juicy, red-painted lips were like fresh summer cherries. I hate her, and I wanted to fucking kiss her. Yeah, I understand what the lower half of my body is screaming.

  Too bad.

  She’s poison. A witch.

  I’m about to pull out of the parking lot, and my phone buzzes. Eager for the distraction, I’m glad to see my assistant, Patrick, sent me a message. I’d call him a friend, because I don’t have many, but he’s an employee, and I know better.

  I’ve been waiting for this information all morning, so I delay driving and open up the message.

  Patrick: The owners of the Kauai house accepted your offer.

  Me: I should think so, I offered the asking price. Get the contractors there to start the remodel. I want to be in there by January.

  Patrick: Yes, sir. And did you decide about St. Kitts?

  Me: I’m putting that project on hold. I’m undecided on dual citizenship.

  Patrick: Sounds good.

  Patrick: Did you decide on how much you want to commit this year to Plant Trees, Save the World?

  Me: Twenty million.

  Patrick: I’ll take care of it.

  Me: Thx

  Patrick: How’s Michigan?

  Me: The weather is great, but I haven’t seen my family yet. I’m headed to the gym. Please don’t interrupt me unless it’s an emergency.

  Patrick: No problem.

  I close the messaging app on my phone and set it in the center console. I was pleased by the distraction of my new house in Hawaii, but I look up, and I’m still in the parking lot of the diner where she works. My shoulders tighten, and I shake my head.

  What a joke. I hated her then for what she did in high school, and I hate her now for how fucking hot she is, and I hate myself for how I felt a pull to stay in that diner. It took a concentrated effort to walk away.

  I had no idea she worked there. But when the most amazing laugh I’d ever heard echoed through me, I looked across the restaurant to find its source. When I laid eyes on her, there was something faintly familiar about her, but I didn’t know what. Then I heard the lady from the kitchen call her name. Aspen.

  And it clicked. There was only one Aspen in school back in the day. The name isn’t common, and this town isn’t big. And, sure enough, that full-throated, unabashed laughter came from that beautiful woman, who is the same girl I’ve hated since high school.

  Well, to be fair, I only hated her junior and senior years of high school, but she was gone senior year and not there to endure my hatred spewed at her. It didn’t matter. When she tore my family apart, I had nightmares wishing she was dead.

  By the time I went to college though, my life settled down, and my hatred subsided. Life went on. My parents remarried. I never thought about her again over the years. I made a billion dollars. The end.

  Now, though. Here she is. And while the repercussions of her actions aren’t an issue anymore, I’m a miserable son of a bitch, and bored enough to obsess again, stewing in my hatred. But, damn, she was beautiful. My toes clench.

  I pull out of the parking lot and crank Marilyn Manson’s Great Big White World and let it settle my soul as I drive to the gym, which is in another town, twenty minutes away. The best way to burn Aspen out of my mind is through a hard workout.

  I pull into the parking lot of my gym, The Rock. I like this gym, and I work out here every summer when I’m in Michigan. The place is in a shoddy part of town and even has bars on the windows. Last summer, the owner, Buck, was in dire straits and needed cash to stay afloat. I didn’t think twice about lending it to him. The Rock is my favorite gym anywhere. It’s dark with a grunge interior, duct-taped cushions on the equipment, and loud music. Buck’s not afraid if it pisses off customers. Best of all, The Rock has the hours I need. Twenty-four. Those times I can’t sleep—which is often—I work out in the middle of the night.

  Today is different. It’s Aspen’s fault I’m here, midday for once. I head into the gym, and the pungent stench of sweat assaults my nostrils, and the clank of machine plates competes with the ‘90s rap music blasting through speakers, hanging crooked up in the corners near the ceiling, wires dangling and all.

  This place is a dump.

  I love it.

  I pass the front desk and see Buck, his muscles shredded and busting out from under his faded hot-pink, baggy tank top.

  He looks up from his computer, “Ryker. Man! Good to see you in town again.” He stands up and we shake hands. Buck’s in his late 40s, with inky-black hair and eyes. He’ll drop anything to help you out, a friendly guy, which is why I didn’t hesitate to help him out last year.

  “Good to see you, too, Buck. How are things?”

  “Can’t complain. I lined up the back wall with more of the body-building team’s trophies. Business is excellent, and my wife is ready to pop out our fourth baby. With all the girls, I’m surrounded by estrogen, so I’m over-the-moon about a boy joining the gang!”

  “Glad to hear! Congratulations.”

  “You still doing Spartan races?”

  “Yeah, love ’em. Gearing up for another one in a few weeks. Expect to see me around here quite a bit.”

  “Sounds good, bro.”

  I head into the weight room and focus my mind on anything that isn’t Aspen as I work my way around the gym.

  I recently ran a Spartan race—an endurance race in which contestants run, crawl, jump, and swim through a brutal, 8-mile obstacle course. It was in Denver, just two weeks ago, and I’m already eager for another. This time, I plan on competing at Beast level, 12-14 miles over rugged te
rrain. They say this is the race to come face-to-face with your demons. I know I have some, and I’m ready to play ball.

  They say that, if you conquer the Beast, you conquer yourself. Well, I like to conquer, so I signed up. The Spartan races also scratch any itch I might get to be social, and it’s always just enough to make me realize I enjoy my own company just fine.

  After my workout, I head to the mall to run a few errands to make myself feel busy. It doesn’t work. After wandering aimlessly through retail purgatory for an hour, I walk up to the ticket booth at the multiplex and buy a ticket for whatever’s starting next. I couldn’t even tell you the movie’s name. But it allows me to escape my life for a couple hours.

  It’s dusk when I pull into the private drive to my house on the lake. The house is dark inside, no lights, except for the LED pathway lights along the sidewalk, and the stars overhead. I like the welcoming peace out here. I own a few acres, so even though the lake has a reputation for parties, I can escape here and get away from people.

  I also bought this property because of all the trees, mostly oak and maple, with a few scattered pines, too. I have a thing for trees, always have since I was a kid. Apart from the privacy they afford from nosy neighbors, I like the grandeur that calms me when I’m surrounded by them. And the sound of the wind in the leaves… I feel like they have stories to tell, and for some reason, I don’t feel as alone. That’s why I have houses in Vermont, Colorado, and a villa in the Italian Alps. And now, Hawaii. Palm trees count.

  I turn off the engine and carry my gym bag inside. I should be used to the darkness that awaits me when I come home most nights, wherever my home happens to be at the time, but sometimes the darkness stares at me. But then I remind myself that I like not answering to anybody.

  After my parents split during my senior year of high school, my usual social self spiraled into the isolation and comfort of the lone wolf. No people? No let downs. I knew what divorce could do to a kid’s reputation at my cliquish school, so I struck preemptively and huddled in our basement most of senior year, doing my own thing.

  My parents had recently remodeled the basement, complete with a full bathroom and mini-fridge, and then my mom scored the house from the divorce settlement. She let me move in down there, and it became my bedroom, gaming room, and all-around sanctuary.

  And it was spending so much time alone, down in the basement, where I dove into all sorts of esoteric things on the Internet.

  My dad moved into an apartment a few miles away, and I was always welcome to stay there. He worried about me spending so much time on the computer and tried to involve me in things like golf and social events, but Mom didn’t think twice about it. She didn’t care, so long as I kept my grades up and stayed out of trouble, which I did. So I spent most of my time at “her” house. She went about her life, and so did I. All alone, in my private, little underground man cave.

  And that’s where I discovered cryptocurrency. Over summer break in 2009, I read Satoshi Nakamoto’s white paper, and downloaded some mining software onto an old gaming computer I wasn’t using. Just for the hell of it really… I never expected anything to come of it. It just sat there in the corner, crunching away. This was about eight years before Bitcoin became a household name. Later on, I set up a few more computers, and I mined just over a hundred thousand Bitcoin in total.

  My self-imposed isolation in high school would end up being good training for my life now. By necessity, a billionaire’s life is one of solitude. Even if you’re surrounded by people, they’re not your friends. Even the ones who act like friends. Not unless they’re billionaires, too.

  I turn on the lights in the kitchen. It’s huge, as is the entire house. I have a thing for sizable houses. Even if it’s just me living there, 4000 square feet isn’t too much. I don’t fill them with a lot of things; I just like the space. The room to breathe.

  The house is a custom-built brick home with a separate three-car, heated garage. The doors are painted a dark, pine green. The real estate agent said the owners billed the house as perfect for modern-living and entertaining. I don’t entertain. I don’t socialize. It’s bullshit. It would only give the leeches a chance to try to suck from me. No, thank you.

  The back of the house has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake, which is my favorite part. I love the natural light and the views of the lake, especially at night. Stillness like black onyx. I like ocean-front property, too, but the constant motion of the waves sometimes unsettles me. When I’m at my lake house, and it’s nighttime, with no boats to disrupt the water, the surface is still and reflects the sky. Calm and smooth, it draws me in. I can spend hours out on the deck, staring at the silence. Between the lake and the property full of trees, I’m surprised I don’t spend more than the summer here. But after two or three months, I get the itch to move on. If I don’t keep moving, I’m reminded too often of the things lacking in my life.

  My phone rings, and I pull it out of my pocket. My neck tenses. It’s Jackie, my mom. She’s FaceTiming me. A sense of dread washes over my gut when I accept the call and her face appears. Her deception years ago swims fresh in my veins. And all because I saw Aspen today. Otherwise, I don’t think I’d have batted an eye at her call. I can’t hide my annoyance, however, and I bark my hello when I answer.

  “Hey, handsome. What’s wrong with you?” she asks.

  I’m not getting into this with her. “Hey, Jackie. Nothing. I just couldn’t find the bottle opener. How are you?”

  “I’d be better if you didn’t call me by my first name,” she says, with a pointed look. “Anyway, I’m excited you’re back in town. Was your flight nice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course it was. That’s how first class is,” she confirms haughtily. “Though I have no idea why you insist on flying commercial, when you have more than enough to buy your own Gulfstream.”

  “That would be silly,” I say.

  “Anyway, I wanted to let you know the family will be at Spring Hills on Thursday, and no doubt some of your friends. So we’ll see you there, right?”

  My family has belonged to the Spring Hills Country Club since I was born. Filled with the same boring, rich assholes, generation after generation. I suppose I fit right in—I might be a rich asshole… though I don’t consider myself boring. I sigh. I’m such a recluse these days, I expect others share a different opinion of me. They don’t know anything about me.

  “Yeah, I’ll see you there. Sax already told me he’ll be there.” Sax is my best friend from high school. He’s the only real friend I have, and half the reason I come back to hang out in Michigan every summer.

  “I’m glad to hear that, honey. You boys will have fun.”

  Eager to finish the call, but not wanting to appear rude, I keep the conversation going a bit longer. “How’s Mark?”

  “He’s fine,” she replies, clipped. I’m not surprised by her tone.

  Even though my parents divorced, they both remarried—Mom, twice, now—and because this town is small, it only has one good country club, and they both had to maintain their memberships to keep up appearances. Though, Dad gets a pass. He’s a lawyer, and he drums up business on the golf course. Mom, though? Just for appearances.

  “Hm,” I reply. It’s all I can manage. Mark is a fine man, but he’s number three and on his way out soon. That is, if the rumors Sax told me last week are true.

  “OK, well, I’ll talk to you later. Ciao, sweetheart.” She blows me a kiss.

  I end the call, and I rub my brows as if I have a headache, which I don’t. I’m just pissed all over again. I want a beer. I go to the refrigerator and see Patrick found someone to stock the house with food. I grab a Belgian-style Witbier from the fridge and three chicken breasts for the grill. I’m on my own for dinner tonight, but starting tomorrow, I’ll have a housekeeper here to clean and make meals. Not that I have anything else to do.

  After searching three drawers, I find the bottle opener I wasn’t looking for when Mom ca
lled. Karma?

  Or maybe if I stayed anywhere longer than a season, I’d know where things are.

  I step out onto the patio and enjoy the warm Michigan summer night as I heat the grill. I stand there for a moment and focus on the darkness beyond, looking, waiting… and then I see one! Fireflies. I love those. Nature’s glowing oddity, they’re one of my favorite summer attractions.

  Satisfied, I go back inside and season the chicken breasts with black sea salt and a sprinkling of cayenne pepper. While I wait for the chicken to warm to room temperature, I open my laptop and scroll through email at the kitchen counter. Nothing exciting, just new people eager to be my friend.

  My money isn’t news with everyone I know yet, but slowly, people are finding out. They’re easy to spot. I get emails and phone calls from strangers, or some random “friend” from fourth grade, kissing my ass, wanting to “grab a beer.” And then there are all the “idea” people playing nice to me, or new entrepreneurs wanting to do me favors with my money—“Ryker, I’ll double your investment!”

  I polish off half of my beer with one long swig.

  Termites, I call them. Since I made my killing in crypto a few years ago, they’ve been coming out of the woodwork, and they just keep coming.

  I take the chicken outside and lay the breasts on the hot grill. The rewarding sizzle lets me know the grill’s temperature is just right. I slap a mosquito on my arm, and it reminds me of that company I saw on Shark Tank with the bat houses. I should get some of those and put them on the trees around here. Or heck, maybe I can build a few myself. That’d help with the mosquitos. And give me something to do.