by Ivy Fox
What a weird freaking kid.
“Is this your idea of a good time? Coming to the park and strolling around like a toddler?” I taunt, wanting him to see that just because he fed me a few dogs doesn’t necessarily mean we’re friends.
“I like being in nature.”
“Yeah, well, where I come from, we’ve got our own definition of a jungle.”
“Do you live with Mags?”
“No. I live with my mom in East Harlem. Why the fuck would I be living with my aunt? I’ve got parents, asswipe.”
“It was just a question. Don’t need to get so defensive.”
“I get that way when some fucker is trying to be all up in my business,” I snap at him, but I almost chuckle when I see that his big green eyes go wide every time I curse.
It’s fucking priceless how sheltered and naive this kid is.
He shuts up after that, but every so often, I feel his curious stare on me, and I give him my best dark smirk, showing him how indiscreet he’s being. I’m about to give him more grief just to mess with him when his whole body suddenly changes. It goes from being curious and attentive to downright animated and relieved.
When we both hear a giggle around the corner, a wide smile mars his face, lighting the kid from the inside out. He no longer keeps his slow pace behind his mom and my aunt but instead takes off with a mad sprint.
“The fuck?” I growl out, not understanding what’s taken over the kid.
The girly giggles intensify, and when we turn the corner, I see a little girl being swung in his arms. Her smile is just as bright as Boy Scout’s, but where his emerald green eyes look like fine jewels in a treasure chest, hers are umber. Almost demon-like.
Chad places the little she-devil back on her feet and kisses the top of her hair so gently it’s as if he’s worried he’s going to break her if he’s too rough. At first glance, the care he shows is so delicate that I’d think the little brat must be his sister or something. But after closer inspection, I see that there are no similarities between them whatsoever. And thank God for that, because by the way the little brat tilts her head back in adoration, it’s obvious she has a crush on Boy Scout. If he were her actual brother, that would be way too fucked-up for my head to wrap around, which is saying something since I’ve seen plenty of fucked-up shit in my lifetime.
Once they’ve recovered from their little intimate reunion, Chad steps back from her, his cheeks pink and flushed as he rubs the nape of his neck, remembering my presence. His smile is still stitched on his lips as if he’s unable to control it, but the little girl at his side isn’t as delighted to see my ass. The huge smile she had when Chad was hugging her before is now wiped clean off her face as her eyes scan me up and down. I do the same to the brat, looking unimpressed with her ‘perfect princess of Park Avenue’ get-up. All that’s missing is a fucking tiara.
“Who is this?” she asks disdainfully, her scrutiny of me never wavering.
Boy Scout might not have been able to hide his curiosity where I’m concerned, but she makes no such effort to conceal her distaste toward me.
“Elle, this is Santiago, Mags’ nephew. Santiago, this is my best friend, Elle,” Chad introduces politely.
“You have got to be shitting me.” I laugh out.
I’m still chuckling away when the little princess Barbie doll steps over to me and gets all in my face—or at least tries to since she’s tiny as fuck.
“What’s so funny, Santiago?” she asks, her pursed lips looking like my name is too sour and acrid for her to even utter.
“It’s Saint, actually.” I look down at the pipsqueak, who barely comes up to my chest.
“I don’t care,” she retorts with a deep scowl. “I asked you what’s so goddamn funny?”
“He called you his best friend. That’s what’s so funny, princess.”
“I don’t see what’s so hilarious about that.”
“First you’re a girl, and second… How old are you? Two?” I tease, ruffling her hair to prove my point.
She slaps my hand away and grinds her teeth at me like the cute, little pitbull she is.
“I’m ten, you jerk!”
“That doesn’t make it any better, squirt,” I howl, putting my fist into my mouth so I can keep my laughter somewhat subdued.
But instead of her backing off and just taking the joke, she pokes me in the chest with her tiny, delicate finger.
“You know what’s funny? Your face, you big jerk!”
“Aw, is that what they teach you on the playground?” I continue to provoke, unable to stop messing with the little shortstop. She’s even more entertaining to make fun of than Boy Scout is.
“Elle, don’t pay him any mind. He’s just playing around,” Chad interjects lightly, pulling on her shoulders, but she just shrugs him away, her eyes burning into mine.
“I don’t like you,” she blurts out, pointing her finger at me, almost hitting my nose.
“I don’t care,” I rebuke, using her own words against her and then pretend to take a big bite out of her digit.
She pulls away, her cheeks now just as red as her BFF’s were a minute ago.
“Don’t test me, little girl. I don’t care how small or cute you are. I don’t play nice.”
“And you’re the last person I’d play with at all,” she snarls, her nostrils flaring before she turns her back on me.
With her temper tantrum in high diva mode, she walks over to what I assume is her mother, calling an end to this play date before it even started.
Chad might not be the entitled prick that I thought he was, but his so-called best friend sure as hell is. No skin off my back if she hates my guts. I doubt I’ll ever see the stuck-up princess again. And if I do, I guess I’ll just have to teach her some fucking manners.
Won’t that be fun?
Chapter 4
Elle
I shiver in my winter coat, leaning against Rome in search of some body heat as he stares at his phone for the millionth time tonight. I’m cold, hungry, and tired, and if I’m honest, a little frightened, too. Washington Heights after dark isn’t necessarily the safest place to be once the sun goes down, but I don’t say anything to my brothers. I don’t want them to think I’m scared. In true Grayson fashion, neither Rome nor the twins look bothered by being out so late in this part of the city, so I can’t either. They do, however, look restless and concerned—especially Rome.
I watch his phone light up with yet another incoming call from Henrietta, which he continues to ignore, swiping with his thumb. He’s done the same thing with every call our father makes to him, too.
“That’s the twentieth time she’s called in the last hour,” Ollie states pensively beside me, his eyes focused on Rome’s phone.
“I know,” Rome mumbles, hugging me tighter to him, but it does little to warm my cold bones or relieve the tension building up on my shoulders.
Ash stops his frantic pacing, throwing his arms out in frustration.
“Enough of this. We have to go home, Rome. This is no place for Elle to be,” he warns, looking over at me worriedly.
“I know,” Rome repeats, squeezing me even tighter. As hard as I tried not to let on that I’m scared, my big brothers caught on to it anyhow, and I hate it. “Okay. Let’s go then.”
“But what about Mom? You said she’d come,” I whisper, tugging at Rome’s arm to keep him seated in place.
His amber-colored eyes—so similar to my own—soften as he leans in to kiss my temple in the hope of being enough to soothe my worry. Unfortunately, it’s not. Not by a long shot.
“I’m sure she’s back at the manor waiting for us. I must have gotten it wrong.”
“Got what wrong?” I ask curiously.
“Nothing. You shouldn’t worry your pretty little head about it, rugrat. Let’s go home and salvage what’s left of Thanksgiving. I’m sure avó has a banquet waiting for us.”
“Dad is going to be
pissed,” Ollie interjects somberly. “You know that, right?”
“I’ll take the heat. I’ll tell him that I lost track of time or something. The blame won’t fall on either of you. I promise, okay?”
“That’s not what Ollie meant, Rome. We can deal with the asshole, too,” Ash retorts, straightening his twelve-year-old spine and cussing like he’s a grown-up all of a sudden.
“I know you can. I’m just telling you that you don’t need to. What kind of a big brother would I be if I couldn’t look out for all of you?” Rome winks with a small smile. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
We pick up our book bags and do as he says, none of us saying a word the whole subway ride over to the manor. We’re all deep in thought, knowing that something just isn’t adding up. Rome said Mom would meet up with us this afternoon, and it’s unlike her to break a promise to us. By the somber look on my brothers’ faces, it’s clear they are thinking the same thing.
A chill that has nothing to do with the cold November wind runs down my spine when we finally reach the manor. I don’t know why, but when Lawrence opens the door, his ashen expression makes me pause. Lawrence has never been one to show emotion of any kind. In fact, I’m positive it’s a big no-no in the butler’s etiquette guide that he lives by. My apprehension multiplies when Henrietta rushes in and pulls Rome to the side to talk to him, doing everything in her power not to let us overhear their hushed conversation.
I turn away for just a second to take off my coat, and when I turn back around, Rome is no longer anywhere in sight. Henrietta pulls my attention away from searching for him by ushering the twins and me hurriedly into the kitchen. Once we get there, she begins to take the Thanksgiving plates she made for us out of the oven to heat them up, all the while going to great pains not to look us in the eye.
Ash and I take our respective seats around the kitchen table, staring confused at each other, as Ollie walks over to her, gently rubbing her back when we hear her sniffle.
“Henry, are you crying?” Ollie asks.
My heart tightens in my chest when she turns around to face us, her tears falling freely down her face, answering my brother’s question. I’m about to insist she tell us what’s wrong when Rome enters the kitchen, looking just as crestfallen as our beloved Henry, his eyes red with unshed tears. He looks as if the world just ended, and deep inside me, a terrified voice whispers how our lives will never be the same after today. I watch Rome open his mouth, but before he has a chance to say a word, I cover my ears and close my eyes, humming violently just so I can’t hear him.
If I can’t hear him, then I’m safe.
If I can’t see his anguish, then I won’t feel it either.
I just need to stay like this.
Just like this.
Strong hands cover mine as they gently pull them away from my ears. My heart beats a million miles a minute, my own eyes prickling with hot tears ready to make an appearance.
“Don’t say it,” I croak, begging him not to utter the words I see swimming in his golden pain-filled eyes. “Please, Rome. Don’t.” I shake my head, grabbing onto his shirt to keep myself from falling off my chair.
“I’m sorry, Elle,” he chokes on a whisper.
“Rome, no! Please don’t say it!” I yell, punching his chest with my small fists.
He lets me hurt him as I cry hysterically. With each hard punch I lay on him, more tears fall, and this time they’re not just mine. My head falls to his chest, Rome’s tears falling down on me as he holds me tight. I hear Ollie and Ash begin to wail just as hard, and before our big brother has even said one word, we already know what he’s about to say.
Mom’s gone, and she’s never coming back.
The cold of the marble floor seeps through my bare feet as I slowly take one step at a time, closer to the foreboding casket. My favorite flower pajamas, the ones Mom picked out for me on our last shopping trip, do very little to keep me warm. The lightweight cotton is no match for the freezing temperature. It’s almost as if somehow, I’ve found myself stuck inside an industrial refrigerator. I take a long look around me to make out where I am, but I’ve never seen this room before in my life. The marble floor is pale white, while the walls are a dark, gloomy gray. The only real color present is the ugly brown of the coffin inches away from me.
I don’t want to be here.
I want to run away as fast as I can, but my feet don’t hear my loud screams and insist on moving forward. My eyes search my surroundings, desperately seeking help, but there is none to be had. I’m utterly and completely alone. None of my brothers are here to help me. There is no Rome to keep me safe. No Ollie to lean on. No Ash to make me smile. But worst of all, there is no sign of my best friend, Chad, to hold my hand or whisper to me that everything will be okay.
There is no one.
Just me and the brown pine box in the middle of the room mocking me.
Even though my throat is starting to hurt, I just keep shouting, begging anyone to come to find me and get me out of this horrid place.
But no one comes.
My tears and cries are my only companions as my feet continue to eat up the distance between me and death. I might have never been here, but my heart knows exactly where I am. I’m inside a cold, unfeeling tomb, seconds away from seeing my mother’s corpse.
I take the last two steps, swallowing hard, afraid of what I’m about to witness when a different kind of shiver suddenly runs throughout my whole body—one I know by heart.
I’m no longer alone, but when I tilt my head up to confirm who is next to me, I really wish I was. My father stands proudly at my side with his eyes fixed on mine. I shudder at how disturbing it is to see my reflection in his amber eyes. As much as I hate them, I know mine are his exact replica. Molten gold liquid spun beautifully to hide his monstrous soul.
As they burn, glowering at me, I wish the cold would wrap itself around my body, protecting me from his relentless scorching gaze. The heat of his stare has me sweating bullets, my pajamas now sticking to my feverish skin. A sinister smile crests his lips, satisfied with my body’s reaction to him. It isn’t surprising to see the malicious grin tug at his lips since my father has always had a twisted, insatiable hunger for imposing fear on those he deems weak. He feeds off of it. Craves it even, just like he took a sick pleasure in tormenting the woman lying dead in front of us.
I gasp in shock when he latches his hand on my shoulder, pulling me closer to him, and then grips my chin so that I have no choice but to face my mother’s corpse. I close my eyes because I would rather take the pain of my father’s unyielding grip than the pain of seeing my mother dead.
“Open your eyes, Eleanor,” he orders.
“No.” I whimper.
“Open them!”
“No!”
His hand moves from my chin to my little throat, and I scrape at his fingers with my nails so he’ll let me go. I’m on the balls of my feet as he pulls me up, his nails cutting into the side of my neck, causing all air to be sucked from my lungs. I can still feel his hand crushing my windpipe when, to my dismay, my lids fly open of their own accord.
My eyes go wide in confusion and horror when I see that my father is no longer standing right next to me, but instead, he’s on the other side of the coffin strangling my poor mother—my very alive and terrified mother.
“Stop! Stop! Please stop!” I yell, but he doesn’t hear my pleas, so focused on the last gasps my mother takes.
I’m crying madly as I watch him steal the life away from her, unable to stop him. My feet are glued to the floor, and my arms are bound to my sides, unable to slap his hands away from her. My heart is being torn apart with every last breath of air she’s unable to obtain.
“Please stop! Please!” I cry out, now holding onto the wooden coffin, wishing he was taking my life rather than hers.
“Mom!” I wail. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
I can’t save her. She’s going to die because
I can’t save her.
I’m still begging for mercy and forgiveness when my mother’s gorgeous hazel eyes turn to me, sadness deforming their beauty. My father tightens his grip, his face impassively emotionless as he watches my mother’s light begin to extinguish before our very eyes.
‘Elle’ is the last word that comes out of her bluish lips before the devil steals her life away from both of us.
Once he’s made sure she is no longer breathing, a deep-rooted scowl overpowers his whole face.
“Stupid bitch,” he utters menacingly, then turns his gaze onto me, freezing me further in place.
“Don’t end up like your mother, Eleanor. Be smarter. Be ruthless. Be me.”
“Never,” I reply through clenched teeth.
“Aw, sweet girl, but you already are.”
“Elle, it’s okay. I’m here. I’m here,” Rome whispers, hugging me tightly as I cry into his chest. “It was just a dream, Elle. It was just a bad dream.”
“But it wasn’t, Rome. She’s dead. She’s dead,” I sob, the affirmation piercing and splitting my heart in two.
“I know, Elle. I know,” he rasps, kissing the top of my hair, trying to ease my pain.
“How could she do this to us? Leave us alone with him like this? She said she loved us, Rome. So why did she do this?” I continue to ramble, wetting my brother’s T-shirt with my anger and hurt.
Rome pulls away just a smidge and hands me the glass of water on my nightstand. I’ve cried so much these last two days that my dehydration caused me to faint yesterday. Father was so upset he had to call the doctor to come to our house because I couldn’t keep my tears in check. But his disapproval was the last thing on my mind.
“Drink, rugrat.”
“I don’t want to,” I sniffle.
“I know you don’t, but you heard what the doctor said. You need to keep your strength up,” he coos, placing the rim of the glass to my lips.
I take two small gulps and then push the water away. Thankfully Rome doesn’t insist and places the glass back onto the bedside table.
