by Ashley Kay
DENIM BLUES
MONTANA HEIRS
ASHLEY KAY
First Edition
Copyright © 2021 by Ashley Kay
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is exclusive to Amazon.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Editing by Jasmin Jordan
Cover Design by Ashley Santoro Designs
Content information made available on www.ashleykaywriter.com
For mature audiences only.
Created with Vellum
To my Mom who instilled in me the love of reading and Kaitlyn, my book bestie, who pushed me to write. Thank you!
CONTENTS
Preface
1. Preston
2. Savannah
3. Preston
4. Preston
5. Savannah
6. Preston
7. Preston
8. Savannah
9. Preston
10. Savannah
11. Preston
12. Savannah
13. Preston
14. Preston
15. Preston
16. Savannah
17. Preston
18. Savannah
19. Preston
20. Savannah
21. Preston
22. Preston
23. Savannah
24. Preston
25. Savannah
26. Preston
27. Savannah
28. Preston
29. Savannah
30. Preston
31. Savannah
32. Preston
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Also by Ashley Kay
“Love isn’t a state of perfect caring. It is an active noun like struggle. To love someone is to strive to accept that person exactly the way he or she is, right here and now.”
-Mr. Rogers
1
PRESTON
Every single vibrating molecule in my body freezes, suspended in time, remembering everything but unable to do a damn thing about it. My breath begs to escape—my throat ceasing to function as the singular focus on the one person I vowed never to see again—is all my brain can process. He moves slowly, as if walking on a cloud. He has to be an illusion, an image my consciousness conjured up to torture me.
The icy rain pelts my exposed skin, stunning me back to reality and shivers run violently up my spine.
“I didn’t think he’d show,” I rasp, clenching the handle to the umbrella, knuckles white. The rain slashes at us sideways, as unforgiving as my mood.
“You thought he wouldn’t come to the funeral?” Nico hitches his coat collar up higher, shooting me an incredulous look over his fogged-up glasses.
I simmer, nostrils flaring as my eyes follow him along with two individuals I don’t know, as they join my mother on the other side of my father’s casket. “Wishful thinking,” I grumble.
An elbow jabs into my ribs, sending my rage into overdrive. Glowering, I step away from my best friend before I use him as my personal punching bag.
“Preston, you need to relax, man. Is this how your dad would want you to act today?”
“My dad would still be here if it wasn’t for him.”
Nico sighs, but doesn’t reply. The murmurs from the guests quiet down as the pastor takes to the podium to deliver a speech. The tic, tic, tic, of freezing rain hammers the top of the casket reminding us why we’re here.
Pastor Greene drones on, an annoying buzz in my ear, distracting me from staring daggers into the chest of my brother. I need him to look at me. To face what he did to me.
A tiny shard of twin intuition left intact forces Greyson to raise his head. We lock eyes and fear flashes across his features, accentuated by the visible straightening of his spine. Our mother examines the two of us, silencing the invisible exchange with just a tilt of her cleft chin and the steely look in her eyes.
Not wanting to upset my mother, especially on the day she buries her husband, I command my lungs to take a deep breath and curiously glance at who’s standing next to Greyson. A woman and small child. The little boy, familiar-looking, shifts from foot to foot, antsy, tugging incessantly on my brother’s arm. I squint through the steadily falling beads of ice. A kid cousin, perhaps? I don’t remember anyone having a kid in the last few years, but again, I don’t care. I don’t care about much anymore.
Then, there’s the woman. She’s beautiful. Golden skin and long, chestnut-colored hair, plaited in a braid, slung over her shoulder, adding an air of innocence about her. Dark glowing orbs for eyes are a welcoming beacon in the night. Her lips, plush as pillows, beg to be kissed. Or bit … My brief fantasy over a total stranger is interrupted by a timid voice.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Lee.” A pair of small feet slides into view under my umbrella. Spiked high heels sink into the soggy grass, practically joining the bones below us.
Another face I don’t recognize.
She angles her head, fluttering her eyes against the onslaught of sleet flowing freely down from the heavens. Is there some written rule that it has to rain at a funeral?
“Thanks. How did you know my father?”
“I work in interior design; he’d stop by to our department often to get home décor ideas to take home to his wife.” A small smile paints her red lips. Scarlett Red. I narrow my eyes into slits. Why is she talking to me? Then it clicks. Why would most people at the funeral of a real estate mogul pony up to the son other than to snag a slice of the inheritance pie?
Silently, I nod and stalk away, annoyed at the unwanted interruption. Scanning the other guests, I hope my do not disturb sign is on full display. There’s no doubt I loved my father, we were close, and his absence would inevitably catch up to me. But not today.
The crowd disperses, one by one filing by to shake hands and offer condolences to a man who left this world way too soon. Fifty-six. Barely lived a life.
My gaze travels back to the woman with Greyson. Who is she? Did she know my father? She lifts her head up, holding my eyes captive. For a split second, everything else falls away. Until she flits her attention to my brother, casually reaching over and grabbing onto his arm. Leaning in and up, she says something in his ear, his lips curling up slightly, eyes crinkling as he holds her hand gently.
Ahh.
My lips flatten. Of course. He would be the one to bring a date to his own father’s funeral. Way to go, dear brother, but did she really know you? If she did, she’d be second in line to shove you into that open grave.
A movement out of the corner of my eye, a flash of black fabric, and the brush of a warm hand on my forearm diverts my scrutiny of them. “You ok, mom?”
She clutches a tissue in her hand tightly, her veins vivid blue under alabaster skin. “I’m … I’ll be fine, sweetheart. It’s overwhelming … I can’t believe he’s gone.” She murmurs and closes her eyes, tears leaking out the corners, catching in her deep crows’ feet. The stirrings of empathy and pain try to claw their way out from the deepest corners of my soul where I keep them locked up. Taking a deep breath, I pull her close for a hug and kiss her damp temple, a rare glimpse of vulnerability seeping out of me.
“How are you?” Her insinuation clear.
Well, mother, I’m a loose cannon, ready to aim fire at
my brother.
“I’ll get through it.”
She sees through the bullshit—she always did. A wariness sets in her face and she sighs. Patting me on the cheek, she floats away with a swish of her dress to accept condolences from family friends.
The hour blurs by as friends, families, and strangers leave to go back to their everyday lives, while my life changed in an instant. Nico has to rush out for an appointment and then it’s just me and dad.
Lines of headstones, in perfect little rows next to his, take the assaulting rain, like they have any other choice. I wonder how Edgar and Etta Thomas feel having a new forever neighbor. The first chuckle of the day escapes my lips in puffs as my imagination runs wild with thoughts of my father discussing real estate with the deceased in the afterlife. If such a place even exists.
Next to his grave, I pause, the dirt inching its way toward the gaping hole he’s lowered into, the silver steel lid coated with a thin layer of ice. Placing a shaky hand on his cold headstone, a moment of grief seizes my heart that too is encased in frost. My dad had been ruthless and cunning in his career and knew loyalty to a fault. But as a father and husband, he was loving. Never did I feel like I didn’t matter to him. I forever branded the last conversation we had in my mind. It was before he was killed in that fucking plane crash coming home from Montana. I don’t consider myself an overly religious person, maybe a spiritualist, but I’m questioning the validity of a higher power today.
“Preston, I wish you and Greyson could put away your differences. This family is suffering because of it.”
My dad was sitting in his well-worn chair in the parlor room, smoking a cigar, pungent smoke wafting delicately in my direction. My nose wrinkled as I waved away the smoke.
“Dad, Greyson did this all by himself. I have no differences to put away except him, and I’ve already done that.”
He gave me a pointed look and then held out two fingers, still balancing a cigar, shaking them at me.
“You could always forgive him; he’s been going through some stuff and could use his brother right now. Don’t you think it’s time to let go of grudges against him from when you were kids?”
“Kids? Try adults. He’s done nothing but make my life miserable. I don’t know him anymore. Any mess he’s in, he needs to deal with himself. And, speaking of that, why are you going to Montana again? Is he running his business under and needs daddy’s help and money? Seems fitting for him.”
I arched my eyebrow as disdain dripped from my mouth. My dad sighed—his face resigned. I sat back, crossing my leg over the other at the ankle, thinking he was finally going to let it go.
“You know, son, one day I won’t be here, neither will your mother. You’ll eventually have to face your demons, even if that means facing your brother. Our skeletons don’t remain in the closet, not in this family. They barge out and invite themselves to dinner. Best to accept them and offer them a drink.”
The ache in my chest doesn’t go away no matter how raw I make myself rubbing it with my thumb. Death stole my father and left a jagged hole in its place.
Footfalls crunch behind me, dragging me back to the present. I don’t have to see his face to know who it is.
“Now is not the time, Greyson.” I clench my hands to my side to resist the urge to maim him.
“It’s never a good time for you, Preston. We need to talk,” he pleads to my back, his voice pathetic.
“There’s nothing left to say. We haven’t spoken in seven years, and that’s fine by me. You need to accept it too. We’re no longer brothers.” I can’t bring myself to look at him. A vein pulses in my neck and with one wrong move it’ll burst.
Moments pass and the rain finally lets up, but my anger doesn’t dissipate. I toss aside the umbrella, watching it bend before turning to face him.
The shock of seeing him up close—my mirror image—after so long almost makes me stumble in the wet grass. Aside from his rumpled suit and scuffed shoes, Grey and I are identical. Dimples on opposite cheeks—ones our mother liked to pinch regularly—and the same angular features that drove girls crazy growing up. The only difference is the scar by his eye that he got from the time we were wrestling over the last slice of pizza and his face met the corner of the coffee table.
“Just go, Greyson,” I spit out. “I’m sure you’ll get some money from dad to help with whatever problems you have that brought him out to Montana. If he hadn’t answered your pleas, he never would have been on that plane. Also, if you want to talk about that night, forget it.”
I get in his face, storm clouds raging in my blue eyes. “How does it feel being the one that killed our father?” Shaking my head, the tips of my damp hair slide over my cheeks.
He remains silent as hurt flickers across his familiar features, but then quickly replaces it with the classic, stoic Lee mask.
My hair slaps against my face as I spin around to snag up my umbrella. “I’m leaving. I’ll see you at the reading of the will in a week. There’s time-sensitive information in it, and it can’t even wait for the grass to grow over dad’s grave. Don’t be late. And don’t bring your date. It’s a family affair, not a fucking barbecue.” Stalking away, I leave him staring forlornly into a quiet grave.
The town car drops me off outside my childhood home, the tires crunching through a layer of snow. Unlike most houses in Cove Neck, it’s modest for this side of town, especially considering the income our businesses generate. My parents didn’t feel the need to throw money around like confetti. Despite their sentiments, it’s still grand. Two stories high, the large porch is capped by tall columns, ones I used to swing around before tearing down the steep steps as a kid. Bay windows on either side allow the morning sun to seep in and creep across the burnt brown of the bricks encompassing the entire structure.
Home.
The wind dances around my coat, chilling me despite the warm comfort I should feel by being here.
The house is quiet. It’s always quiet, but this is different. No scent of cigars mingling with the sweet jasmine perfume my mother always wears. The warmth has been sucked out of the air and replaced with the cold sterility akin to a morgue.
The long runner down the main hallway cushions my feet as I make my way to the office, stopping by the restroom first.
Before opening the door, I glance at the family pictures lining the walls. Most of them are old tributes to when Grey and I were young boys oblivious to what the future would hold. One in particular catches my eye. It’s of the boy at the funeral. I’m not sure how I missed this picture, but he’s posed next to my Aunt Melissa. I must have been right about him being a second cousin. I move past them before I’m pulled further down memory lane and into the nostalgia of past lives.
Gripping the sides of the porcelain sink, I grimace at my image in the mirror. I’m barely recognizable. Last night, I drowned my grief and irritation in the most expensive bottle of bourbon the bar owned. I also dove balls deep into a pair of green eyes with curves for days. Don’t remember her name, I wasn’t there for conversation.
My eyes, once a brilliant blue, are rimmed in red and too shrewd from living a calculated life. My mouth sets in a permanent scowl, and sporadic tinsels of gray at my temples denote my old age of thirty. Trying to smooth out my forehead wrinkles, I groan and scrub a palm down my stubble. Running my hands through my hair, I attempt to tame the unruly strands into some sort of order before I leave.
Life has done a number on you. Or maybe you did it to yourself…
Bracing for the next eternal hour, I edge out of the bathroom and continue to the office, straightening to my full six-foot-three height and smoothing down the front of my black suit.
Greyson, mom, and Jasper, the family lawyer, sit around the large table in the center of the room. I, for obvious reasons, choose a chair furthest away from my brother. Dad had insisted on comfortable chairs, and I relish the feel of the plush leather as it contours to my body, my long fingers curling around the arms.
D
ark wood accents against pale cream walls are comforting and as timeless as the various relics my dad collected over the years, sitting pristine on the top of the shelves. An old smoking pipe, a coin collection dating back centuries, and a glass case protecting a first edition of the Outdoor Pastimes of the American Hunter by Theodore Roosevelt. My father never hunted but had an admiration for the former president and wilderness enthusiast. I wonder who will receive these or whether they’ll remain here until mom passes.
The air crackles with tension, and I hazard a glance at Greyson. He doesn’t look any better than me with his hair mussed up and red-lined lids like bad eyeliner at a sleazy strip club. His flannel shirt is rumpled, and the terribly loose jeans he wears sports one too many stains.
Our mother wisely sits in between us as a buffer. I can’t get angry around her. She’s been through enough. Even in grief, she’s the picture of grace with her silvery blonde hair coifed just right and her pearls shiny in the mellow lighting.
Jasper sifts through the stack of papers and forms separating them into piles on the table, licking his pointer finger before picking up the next page. “Are you all ready?” He looks up over his tortoiseshell glasses, eyes pinging between the three of us.
“Yes, please proceed, Jasper.” My mom steels herself, spine ramrod straight. I clutch the edge of the chair arm like it was going to save me. Physically sensing the anxiety rolling off of Greyson, I try to ignore it. That’s the thing about twins, we can always tell when the other is feeling off or needs something.
