The Rich Boy

by Scott, Kylie

  “So…that jet has big comfy leather seats and the fanciest bathroom I’ve ever seen,” I say. “The bedroom wasn’t bad either. So I guess the question is, how good is your fortune exactly?”

  He grabs the back of his neck and looks away. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Hmm.”

  “If you chose not to believe me, that’s not really my fault.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I’d come closer, but I’m kind of afraid you’re going to use that on me.” He nods at the Taser. “What do you think are the odds of that happening?”

  “Probably pretty low. I’m quite fond of you, actually. Deep down.”

  He cocks his head. “How deep, exactly? Just out of curiosity.”

  “I have questions.”

  “I know you do. But first, would you mind if…” Oh so carefully, he takes the Taser from my hand and passes it to Smith who happens to be walking past. The driver places it and my battered overnight bag into the back of a waiting large shiny Range Rover. Like everything related to this version of Beck, it looks new and expensive. Way out of my price range.

  “Can I touch you?” he asks.

  “I wish you would.”

  His hands cup the sides of my neck, thumbs softly sliding over my jaw. The way he looks at me is…I don’t even know. It’s like there’s this roiling mass of emotion inside of me trying to get out. The man gives me goose pimples all over. And when his lips touch mine, everything is better and worse. On one hand, it’s not enough. I want to crawl under his skin. Get inside his head and find all the answers I seek. On the other hand, it’s fucking perfect. His tongue in my mouth and my hands fisted in his nice neat shirt. He explores my mouth like he’s already claimed ownership and fair enough. Because we’re not doing this in half measures. Our mouths stay melded together in a wet and hungry kiss that goes on and on. Six whole days of crazy coalescing into this one moment. Nothing outside of this matters. We’re both breathing heavily when he stops and rests his forehead against mine. I can taste him on my lips and he is delicious. Neither of us lets go.

  “Been wanting to do that for a while,” he says, voice low and rough. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

  “Me too. I missed you.”

  He takes my hand in his and leads me toward the car. His smile is back. Maybe not as wide as normal, but it’s there. Despite being a mile higher location wise, I breathe easier being with him. He swings our joined hands between us and there’s an enthusiasm or boyishness to him that is nothing less than charming. “Hope we didn’t make Smith blush.”

  “How long has he worked for you?”

  “He’s been with the family since I was a kid.”

  “Then I’m sure he’s seen worse.”

  “Alice,” he says, nose wrinkled, “are you insinuating you weren’t my first kiss?”

  “I wouldn’t dare. How old are you, by the way?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Long time to wait for a kiss.”

  “To quote our dear friend Miss Austen: ‘The distance is nothing when one has motive.’”

  “Nice.”

  “Thank you.” From a back pocket, he takes a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses and slides them on. “Though it was a pretty great first kiss. I can see how you might get confused.”

  I just shake my head. “God, I missed you.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “I’m like wildly underdressed.”

  “You’re fine,” says Beck, opening the car door and climbing out. “You’re wearing the right color and everything.”

  I glance again at the couple of gentlemen entering the house. They’re wearing neither jeans nor T-shirts. Nope. They’re dressed like Beck.

  “What, black? Oh my God. That’s why all these cars are here?” Shit. Hurriedly, I follow him out of the vehicle. “I can’t just turn up at your dad’s funeral.”

  “Eh. You kind of already did.”

  “Maybe Smith could drop me somewhere so I can buy a decent outfit. Or I can just grab an Uber.” It’ll bite into my savings, but oh well. “You go inside. It won’t take long.”

  “Stop worrying.”

  Easy for him to say. My shoulders are creeping higher and the sweating situation isn’t good.

  We’re standing on the front steps of a sprawling gray stone chateau. And on a street crowded with impressive real estate, this one outshines them all. If the iron gates and hedge lined driveway leading to immaculate lawns and gardens didn’t spell it out already, it’s obvious we’re deep in rich people land. On the drive over, Beck distracted me, pointing out various Denver landmarks and so on. With Smith in the car, I couldn’t ask all the things I wanted to. I did tell him the story of my grand exit from the bar, but we need privacy to really talk things over. Judging by all the people around, I highly doubt we’ll be getting it anytime soon.

  “What are you, Denver royalty or something?” I ask.

  He smiles. “You’re funny.”

  While Beck is as calm as can be in the face of all this, I am distinctly less so. “This is a bad idea.”

  “Come on, it’ll be fine,” he says, leading me inside. “You’re here with me. That’s all that matters.”

  He’s right. I take a deep breath and try to squash down my feelings of inadequacy. They might all be perfectly valid, but it doesn’t make them relevant. As hard as it might be to get it through my head, Beck’s father’s funeral isn’t all about me.

  Beyond the double wood doors, people spill out of rooms on either side of a large two-story foyer. Everyone is dressed in immaculate black suits and elegant dresses. Servants in neat uniforms circulate with trays of drinks and appetizers. High overhead hangs a beyond spectacular chandelier. And already, people are looking at us. Not surprising. My sneakers squeak on the marble floor. Dammit.

  “There you are,” says a tall dude about a decade older than Beck. They actually look a little alike. Only this guy’s dark hair is cut short and there’s none of the boyishness left in his face. His dark suit is tailored to perfection. It’s like he’s the poster child for suave and serious. He gives me a brief glance before raising a brow at our joined hands. “Meeting in the library. Now.”

  “Alice, this is my half brother Ethan,” says Beck, though the dude is already walking away. “Ethan, this is my Alice.”

  I go to smile in greeting, but then I don’t. Because this is a funeral and not a smiling occasion. Not that his brother is even looking. Ethan just raises a hand in a brief wave-like gesture as he cuts through the crowd.

  “Guess we better go.” Beck moves to lead me on.

  “I don’t think he meant me.”

  “But we’re sticking together, right?” he asks, bringing his face in close to mine. “I mean, I think we should. You’re not safe among this crowd without your Taser, Alice. Someone could try to trade you in for some new Louis Vuitton or the latest Gucci or something. Fuck knows what could happen without me here to protect you.”

  “Beck…”

  The man is a force of nature. Or I just suck at telling him no. A bit of both, maybe?

  Then a woman steps out in front of him, drawing him to an abrupt halt. I half stumble into his back. All around us, everyone seems to be paying attention to this encounter, the chatter falling quiet. I have a bad feeling about this.

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” says the woman, placing a hand on his chest. The touch does not seem familial. She’s pretty and petite with dark hair and tanned skin. And in her black sheath dress, stiletto heels, and diamonds dangling from her ears, she fits in perfectly. I, on the other hand, do not. Beck’s fingers tighten around mine as if he’s worried I might try to bolt.

  “Yeah.” Beck nods, taking a step back to remove himself from her reach. His tone of voice is distinctly unhappy. Angry, even. “And I one hundred and ten percent plan to keep on doing so.”

  We’re off again, angling around the now furious woman and moving through the crowd even faster than before. I
’m basically being dragged in Beck’s wake, his grip on my hand resolute.

  “Who was that?” I ask, trying to keep up.

  “Someone who lost my good opinion.”

  “I see.” I do not see. In fact, I have no damn clue about this or anything else going on around us.

  We turn right at a grand piano and head down a hallway lined with formal family portraits, paintings of landscapes, and the occasional antique-looking side table, each topped with a vase overflowing with white roses. A dozen or so people are already gathered in the library. A large room full of books and dark polished wood. Every eye in the room looks our way. Some curious, some speculative. None of them particularly welcoming.

  “Close the doors,” says an elegant elderly woman with short white hair, sitting in a chair that’s only marginally smaller and less grand than a throne. Her gaze fixes on me and she frowns. Pale fingers tighten around the ornate silver head of the walking stick she’s holding. “Hurry up. Sit down so we can get started.”

  Beck closes the double doors as ordered before guiding me toward the only empty chair in the room, a leather wingback. I take the seat while he perches on the arm. Several people give me side-eye. I sit back as far into the seat as possible, hiding from the light of day. Or at least their piercing gazes. Mom once wrangled me an invitation to a neighbor’s party when I was eight. Neither the birthday boy nor his friends wanted me there and they were not shy about letting it be known. That’s sort of what this feels like. I worked two jobs during college. But I bet no one here has ever experienced money problems. I am so out of my depth. Also, I should have worn more deodorant because nerves.

  A man in a three-piece suit sits behind the desk. He shuffles some papers and clears his throat. “Shall I begin?”

  The elderly lady nods in a regal manner.

  “This is the last will and testament of Jack William Elliot Junior. This document revokes all wills and other testamentary dispositions that I have previously made. Mr. Rahul Nair Esquire is hereby appointed as executor—”

  “Just give us the basics, Rahul,” she interrupts. “I don’t want to be here all day.”

  Rahul’s lips tighten at the order. “All of my shares in Elliot Industries are to be divided equally between my four children, Ethan, Emma, Beck, and Henry. My youngest son’s interests will be controlled by my eldest son, Ethan, until Henry is twenty-one years of age.”

  A woman gasps. She’s around forty and wearing a formfitting black suit. I’ve never met a supermodel, but she could probably be one. “But what about me? I’m Henry’s mother, for heaven’s sake!”

  The lawyer shuffles through the paperwork for a moment before finding the relevant information. “To my wife, Giada, I leave the Bertram Street residence and twenty-million dollars. A fund to continue paying staff wages and to maintain the residence and grounds has been established. The fund will remain in force for as long as the residence remains in the family.”

  “Is that all?” Beige manicured nails dig into the shoulder of a teenage boy beside her. He winces, wriggling out from beneath her grip. “It can’t be. I can’t possibly be expected to live on just that.”

  At this, someone snorts. I don’t see who.

  “Forced to stay in that horrible museum for the rest of my life. I won’t do it!”

  “Continue please, Rahul,” says the old lady, ignoring the drama.

  “Yes, Mrs. Elliot,” he answers. “The cottage on Cape Cod goes to my ex-wife, Rachel, along with my apologies. You were right, I was an ass.”

  A stylish middle-aged blonde laughs at this, before quietly sighing. “Yes, you were.”

  “Apart from the established trust funds for the grandchildren and some smaller bequests to longtime staff members and other various donations, that’s basically it,” says the lawyer. “The rest of his belongings and properties are to go to the four children. Any unwanted items are to be sold at auction with the proceeds to be divided equally among them.”

  Through all of this, Beck sits perfectly still. He might as well be a statue. His posture is perfect, the expression on his face set. Whatever he’s thinking or feeling is buried deep.

  A different woman, who was seated beside Ethan, rises to her feet with a smile. She’s early to midthirties at a guess. “All of the years of bullshit and manipulations and he does this. Just breaks the pie into four easy pieces. Fuck me.”

  The elderly lady, Mrs. Elliot, knocks her walking stick against the floor twice. “Language, Emma.”

  “Sorry, Grandmother. But seriously…you have to see the joke in all of this.”

  “It’s no joke,” cries Giada. Tears are making tracks through her heavy makeup. Can’t help but feel that it has more to do with her bank balance than burying her husband.

  “If you honestly can’t survive on twenty-million cash and real estate worth at least twice that then I guess it’s time to go back to working for a living.” Emma shakes her head. “Or you could play to your strengths and marry another rich old man, I guess.”

  “Emma,” Mrs. Elliot growls. “Enough.”

  But Giada is already on her feet and storming from the room. How she can run in heels that high I have no idea. I’d break an ankle or fall on my ass.

  “Darling,” says the sophisticated blonde with the cottage on Cape Cod. “That was unkind. It’s also neither the time nor the place.”

  “Yes, Mom.” Emma takes the empty spot next to the teenage boy, sliding an arm around his shoulders. But he just shrugs her off. She smiles, undaunted. “Welcome to the Billionaires Club, kid.”

  “Can’t touch it for five years so what does it matter?” Henry, the teenager, takes a cell phone out of his pocket and gets busy doing something.

  “Like your trust fund doesn’t keep you in designer sneakers and sports cars and whatever other nonsense you feel you need,” says Mrs. Elliot. “That will be all, thank you, Rahul.”

  In silence, the man gathers his papers and rises to his feet. “Each of you will receive a full copy of the document today. Don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any questions. I will begin executing the relevant provisions in the very near future.”

  “The sooner the better.” Mrs. Elliot’s gaze fixes on the door through whence the angry widow just retreated.

  Rahul nods. “Of course.”

  “Thank you, Rahul,” says the Cape Cod lady.

  Ethan, the big brother, stands up and shakes his hand. There’s some murmuring, but I can’t hear what they say. Not that it’s any of my business anyway.

  And then the lawyer is gone. It’s just the family, and me. Some of the stiff formality of the occasion seems to ease with his departure.

  Beside me, Beck is now scowling at the floor. If he had laser eyes, he’d have long since burnt a hole in the parquetry. Guess he just joined the Billionaires Club too, if he wasn’t a member already. Seems like everyone around here must have had some sort of trust fund. Because, holy shit. The kind of money they’re talking about…it’s a lot. More than my brain can handle. Money like that requires a high-class girlfriend. Someone from the right social set. Not me. Yet here I am—the girl whose hand he’s holding on to like it’s a lifeline. I wish there were something more I could do for him.

  “He said I was out.” Beck’s forehead is furrowed. “That he was changing his will.”

  Ethan’s stern gaze gentles. “Dad said a lot of things.”

  “It feels weird not having him here, glaring at everyone and being disappointed in our life choices,” says Emma, ruffling Henry’s hair. He half-heartedly tries to duck away from her. “Speaking of which, who the hell are you?”

  I sit pinned beneath her gaze.

  “She’s my Alice,” answers Beck.

  “Is she?” Emma’s brows rise. “What does Selah have to say about that?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “I assume she’s staying?” asked Mrs. Elliot. “I’ll have a room made up.”

  “Thank you,” said Beck. “But that’s not neces
sary, we can—”

  “It’s necessary.”

  Henry smirks. “Cock blocked by Grandma.”

  Mrs. Elliot strikes her walking stick once hard against the ground, a pink tinge emerging beneath her white skin. “Language. All of you, go and circulate, we have guests. You will keep all mention of my son’s will from your lips. I will not have Jack’s funeral marked by petty squabbling. This family will show a united front. And Beck, make sure your mother doesn’t meditate on the front lawn half-naked again. I have no interest in explaining her odd habits to the neighbors.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” says Beck.

  “Good. Rachel, see to the girl, would you?”

  “Of course,” says the Cape Cod lady, giving me a small smile. Wait. Am I the girl? And if so, what does seeing to me entail? Then Rachel, Cape Cod lady, follows the old dame out. Guess whatever it is can wait until later.

  The moment they’re gone, Emma puts her feet up on the stone coffee table. The red heel is a stark contrast to the black patent leather. Those shoes probably cost more than I make in a month. Like her mom, she has a light tan appearance with perfect lips and pale blond hair. Only hers is straight and shoulder length.

  “So,” she says, gaze on Ethan, “you’ll be the next king of the castle, but we’ve all got equal stakes. This should be interesting.”

  Ethan just grunts.

  “Or at least it will be in five years’ time when you lose control of Henry’s vote,” she amends. “It’s funny. I always thought Dad would shut me out on account of having a uterus and all.”

  “No. You earned your place,” says Ethan.

  “And I didn’t, I suppose?” asks Beck, easing his hand from my hold.

  His brother stares back at him, face blank. “Nobody wins points for leaving when the going gets tough. You know that.”