by Erin Watt
But…if I stay, Callum Royal has promised me so much more. The bed, the room, ten grand each month until I graduate…just for going to school? For living in this mansion? For driving my own car?
I tuck the money into the secret pocket at the bottom of the bag. I’ll give it a day. There’s nothing stopping me from leaving tomorrow or next month or the month after. The minute things go bad, I can jet.
With my money secured, I dump the rest of the bag’s contents out on the bed and take stock. For clothes, there are two pairs of skinny jeans, the baggy pair I wore home from the strip joint to avoid attention, five T-shirts, five pairs of undies, one bra, the corset I danced in last night, a G-string, a pair of stripper heels, and one nice dress that was my mother’s back in the day. It’s black, short, and makes me look like I have more upstairs than what God gave me. There’s a makeup case, again mostly things my mom used, but also castaways from various strippers we met along the way. The kit is probably worth at least a grand.
I’ve also got my book of Auden poetry, which I guess is the most romantic and unnecessary part of my belongings, but I found it lying on a coffee shop table and the inscription matched the one on my watch. I couldn’t leave it there. It was kismet, even though I generally don’t believe in that stuff. Fate is for the weak—those people who don’t have enough power or will to shape life into what they need it to be. I’m not there yet. I don’t have enough power, but I will some day.
I rub my hand over the cover of the book. Maybe I can get a part-time job somewhere waiting tables. A steakhouse would be good. That’d give me some spending money so I wouldn’t have to dip into the ten grand, which I’ve now deemed untouchable.
A knock at the door startles me.
“Callum?” I call.
“No, it’s Reed. Open up.”
I glance down at my oversized T-shirt. It belonged to one of my mom’s old boyfriends and mostly covers me, but I’m not facing the accusing and angry glare of one of the Royal boys unless I’m fully armed. Which means dressed up and with a complete layer of bad girl makeup on.
“I’m not decent.”
“Like I give a shit. You’ve got five seconds and then I’m coming in.” The words are flat and forceful.
Jerk. With the guns on that guy, I have no doubt he could break down the door if he wanted to.
I stomp over and fling it open. “What do you want?”
He gives me a rude onceover, and even though my shirt hangs down far enough to cover anything racy, he makes me feel like I’m completely naked. I hate that, and the distrust that planted itself last night grows into genuine dislike.
“I want to know what your game is.” He steps forward and I know it’s meant to intimidate me. This is a guy who uses his physicality as both a weapon and a lure.
“I think you should be talking to your father. He’s the one who kidnapped me and brought me here.”
Reed takes another step until we’re so close each breath we take makes our bodies rub against each other.
He’s hot enough that my mouth dries up and tingles start dancing in places I’d like to think an asshole like him would never awaken. But another lesson I learned from my mom is that your body can like things that your head hates. Your head just has to be the one in charge. That was one of her “do as I say, not as I do” admonishments.
He’s a jerk and he wants to hurt you, I scream at my body. My nipples pucker despite my warning.
“And you fought real hard, didn’t you?” He looks down with disdain at the peaks that have formed under my thin shirt.
There’s nothing for me to do but pretend my nips are always at attention.
“Again, you should be talking to your father.” I turn away and pretend Reed Royal isn’t firing every nerve ending in my body. I stroll to the bed and pick up a pair of plain bikini panties. As if I don’t have a care in the world, I step out of my old ones and leave them lying on the cream-colored carpet.
Behind me I hear a swift intake of breath. Score one for the away team.
As nonchalantly as possible I pull on the new pair, carefully working them up my legs and under the long hem of my nightshirt. I can feel his eyes run over my body like it’s a physical touch.
“You should know whatever game you’re playing, you can’t win. Not against all of us.” His voice has deepened and roughened. My show is affecting him. Score two. I’m so glad my back is to him so he doesn’t see that I’m affected, too, by just his voice and his gaze. “If you leave now, you won’t be hurt. We’ll let you keep whatever Dad’s given you and none of us will bother you. If you stay, we’ll break you so bad that you’ll be crawling away.”
I tug my jeans on, and then, with my back still turned, start to whip off my shirt.
A harsh chuckle follows and I hear swift footsteps. His hand clamps on my shoulder, keeping my shirt intact. He twists me to face him. Then he leans in close, his lips inches from my ear.
“Newsflash, baby—you can do a striptease in front of me every day and I still wouldn’t do you, got that? You may have my dad wrapped around your underage ass, but the rest of us have your number.”
Reed’s hot breath skates down my neck and it takes every ounce of willpower not to shiver. Am I scared? Turned on? Who the hell knows. My body is so confused right now. Crap. Am I ever my mother’s daughter or what? Because liking men who treat you badly is—was, dammit—Maggie Harper’s calling card.
“Let me go,” I say coldly.
His fingers tighten on my shoulder a moment before he pushes back from me. I stumble forward, catching myself on the edge of the bed.
“We’re all watching you,” he says ominously and then stomps out.
My hands shake as I hurriedly finish dressing. Starting now, I’m always going to have clothes on in this house, even in the privacy of my bedroom. There’s no way I’m letting that jerk Reed catch me off-guard ever again.
“Ella?”
I jump in surprise and whirl around to see Callum standing at my open door.
“Callum, you scared me,” I squeak, slapping my hand across my thundering heart.
“Sorry.” He walks in holding a worn piece of notebook paper. “Your letter.”
My surprised gaze flies up to his. “I, ah, thanks.”
“Didn’t think I’d give it to you, did you?”
I make a face. “Truthfully? I wasn’t sure it existed.”
“I won’t lie to you, Ella. I’ve got a lot of flaws. My sons’ antics could probably fill a book longer than War and Peace with all of them, but I won’t lie. And I’m not going to ask you for anything more than a chance.” He presses the paper into my hand. “When you’re done, come down and have breakfast. There’s a back staircase at the end of the hall and it leads to the kitchen. Whenever you’re ready.”
“Thanks, I will.”
He smiles warmly at me. “I’m so glad you’re here. For a while there I thought I’d never find you.”
“I—I don’t know what to say.” If it was just Callum and me, I think I would be relieved to be here, maybe even grateful, but after the encounter with Reed, I’m halfway between afraid and terrified.
“That’s okay. You’ll get used to all of this. I promise.” He gives me what is supposed to be a reassuring wink and disappears.
I sink onto the bed and unfold the letter with trembling fingers.
Dear Steve,
I don’t know if you’ll ever get this letter or if you’ll even believe it when you read it. I’m sending it to the Little Creek naval base with your ID #. You dropped a piece of paper here with it, along with your watch. I kept the watch. Somehow remembered that damned number.
Anyway, straight to the point—you knocked me up in that frenzy we had the month before you shipped out to God knows where. By the time I figured out I was preggo, you were long gone. The guys at the base weren’t interested in hearing my story. I suspect you aren’t interested in it now.
But if you are, you should come. I’m sick with cance
r. It’s eating up my colon. I swear I can feel it inside me like some parasite. My baby girl’s going to be alone. She’s resilient. Tough. Tougher than me. I love her. And while I don’t fear death, I dread that she’s going to be alone.
I know we weren’t more than two warm bodies knocking uglies, but I swear to you we created the best damn thing in the world. You’ll hate yourself if you don’t at least meet her.
Ella Harper. I named her after that corny music box you won for me in Atlantic City. Thought you might appreciate that.
Anyway, hope you get this in time. She doesn’t know you exist but she has your watch and your eyes. You’ll know it the first time you lay eyes on her.
Sincerely,
Maggie Harper
I duck into my private bathroom—also bubble-gum pink—to press a washcloth against my face. Don’t cry, Ella. There’s no point in crying. I lean over the sink and splash my face, pretending that all the water dripping into the porcelain bowl is from the faucet and not my eyes.
Once I have myself under control, I yank a brush through my hair and sweep it up into a high ponytail. I slather on some BB cream to cover up my red eyes and call it a day.
Before I leave, I stuff everything into the backpack and then swing it over my shoulder. This is going with me everywhere until I find a place to hide it.
I pass four doors before I find the back staircase. The hallway outside my room is so wide I could drive one of Callum’s cars down it. Okay, this place must have been a hotel at one time, because it just seems ridiculous that a house for one family is this big.
The kitchen at the bottom of the stairs is ginormous. There are two stoves, an island with a marble countertop, and a huge bank of white cabinets. I spot a sink but no refrigerator or dishwasher. Maybe there’s another working kitchen in the bowels of the house and I’ll be sent there to scrub floors, despite what Callum said earlier. Which would actually be okay. I’d be more comfortable doing real work for the money than just going to school and being a normal kid, because who gets paid for being normal? No one.
At the far end of the kitchen, an enormous table overlooks the ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows. The Royal brothers sit at four of the sixteen seats. They’re all wearing uniforms—white dress shirts with the untucked tails resting over flat front khakis. Blue blazers hang over the backs of a few chairs. And somehow each boy manages to pull off looking gorgeous with a side of brutishness.
This place is like the Garden of Eden. Beautiful but full of danger.
“How do you like your eggs?” Callum asks. He stands at the stove with a spatula in one hand and two eggs in the other. It doesn’t look like a comfortable pose for him. A quick glance at the boys confirms my suspicions. Callum rarely cooks.
“Scrambled is good for me.” No one can screw that up.
He nods and then points the spatula at a large cabinet door close to him. “There’s fruit and yogurt in the fridge and bagels behind me.”
I walk over to the cabinet and pull it open as four sets of sullen, angry eyes track me. It’s like the first day at a new school and everyone has decided they hate the new girl—just for the hell of it. A light turns on and cold air hits my face. Hidden refrigerators. Because why would you want anyone to see that you own a refrigerator? Weird.
I pull out a container of strawberries and set it on the counter.
Reed throws down his napkin. “I’m done. Who wants a ride?”
The twins scrape back their chairs but the other one—Easton, I think—shakes his head. “I’m picking up Claire this morning.”
“Boys,” their father says warningly.
“It’s fine.” I don’t want to start a fight or be the source of tension between Callum and his sons.
“It’s fine, Dad,” Reed mocks. He turns to his brothers. “Ten minutes and we leave.”
They all follow like baby ducks. Or maybe the better analogy is soldiers.
“I’m sorry.” Callum heaves a sigh. “I don’t know why they’re so upset. I planned on driving you to school regardless. I just hoped they’d be more…welcoming.”
The smell of burning eggs has us both turning toward the stove. “Shit,” he curses. I move next to him and see a dark congealing mess. He smiles ruefully. “I never cook but I figured I couldn’t screw eggs up. Guess I was wrong.”
So he never cooks but he does for some strange girl he brought home? Not hard to see the source of resentment.
“Are you hungry? Because I’m okay with fruit and yogurt.” Fresh fruit is something I haven’t had the privilege of eating often. Fresh anything is a sign of privilege.
“Starving actually.” He gives me a pitiful look.
“I can cook some eggs”—before I can even finish, he pulls out a package of bacon—“and bacon if you have it.”
As I cook, Callum leans against the counter.
“So five boys, huh? That’s a handful.”
“Their mother died two years ago. They’ve never really recovered. None of us have. Maria was the glue that held us together.” He shoves a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t around much before she died. Atlantic Aviation was going through a rough time and I was chasing deals around the globe.” He lets out a gusty sigh. “The business, I’ve managed to turn around…the family is still a work in progress.”
Based on what I saw of his sons, I don’t think they’re even close to the bend in the road, but Callum’s parenting skills aren’t any of my business. I make a noncommittal noise at the back of my throat that Callum takes as encouragement to continue.
“Gideon’s the oldest. He’s away at college but comes home on the weekends. I think he must be seeing someone around town but I don’t know who. You should meet him tonight.”
Goodie. Not. “That’d be nice.” In the way an enema is nice.
“I’d like to take you over to the school, get you enrolled. After we get you squared away, Brooke—that’s my girlfriend—has offered to take you shopping. I figure you can start school on Monday.”
“How far behind am I?”
“Classes started two weeks ago. I’ve seen your grades, so I think you’ll be fine,” he reassures me.
“Your PIs must be pretty good if you have my school records.” I frown into the eggs.
“You’ve moved around a lot, but yes, eventually when I found out your mother’s full name, it wasn’t too hard to backtrack and obtain everything I needed.”
“Mom did the best she could with me.” I jut out my chin.
“She stripped. Did she force you to do that, too?” Callum reacts angrily.
“No, I did that all on my own.” I slap his eggs onto a plate. He can cook his own stupid bacon. No one gets to run down my mom in front of me.
Callum grabs my arm. “Look, I—”
“Am I interrupting something?” A cold voice sounds from the doorway.
I whip around and see Reed. His voice is icy but his eyes are full of fire. He doesn’t like me standing close to his dad. I know it’s a total dick move, but something drives me to step even closer to Callum, almost under his arm. Callum’s paying attention to his son, so he doesn’t realize the reason for my sudden closeness. But Reed’s narrowed eyes tell me he gets the message.
I raise my hand and place it on Callum’s shoulder. “No, I was just making your dad some breakfast.” I smile sweetly.
If possible, Reed’s expression gets even stormier. “I forgot my jacket.” He stalks over to the table and pulls it off the chair.
“See you at school, Reed,” I taunt.
He spears me with another glare before turning and leaving. My hand falls away. Callum looks down at me, bemused.
“You’re poking a tiger.”
I shrug. “He poked me first.”
Callum shakes his head. “And I thought raising five boys was an adventure. I haven’t seen anything yet, have I?”
6
Callum drives me to the school I’ll be attending for the next two years. Well, Durand drives. Callum and
I sit in the backseat, and he’s shuffling through a stack of what looks like blueprints while I stare out the window, trying not to think about what went down in my bedroom earlier with Reed.
Ten minutes pass before Callum finally looks up from his work. “I’m sorry, I’m playing catch-up. I took some time off after Steve’s death, and the board is on my ass to get on top of things.”
I’m tempted to ask him what Steve was like, if he was nice, what he did for fun, why he screwed my mom and never looked back. I keep my mouth shut instead. A part of me doesn’t want to know about my father. Because if I know about him, he becomes real. He might even become good. It’s easier to think of him as the jerk who abandoned my mom.
I gesture to the papers. “Are those plans for your airplanes?”
He nods. “We’re designing a new fighter jet. Army commissioned it.”
Jesus. He doesn’t just build planes. He builds military-grade planes. That’s big money. Then again, considering their house, I shouldn’t be surprised.
“And my fath—Steve. He designed planes, too?”
“He was more involved in the testing sector. I am, too, to some extent, but your father had a real passion for flying.”
My dad liked to fly planes. I file away that information.
As I fall silent, Callum’s voice softens. “You can ask me whatever you want about him, Ella. I knew Steve better than anyone.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to know about him yet,” I answer vaguely.
“Understood. But whenever you are ready, I’m happy to tell you about him. He was a great man.”
I bite back the retort that he couldn’t have been that great if he abandoned me, but I don’t want to get into it with Callum.
All thoughts of Steve disappear when the car reaches a set of gates that must be twenty feet high, at least. Is this how the Royals live? Driving from one gate to another? We pass through them and follow a paved road that ends in front of a massive Gothic-looking building covered in ivy. I look around when we step out of the car and note similar buildings dotting the pristine campus of Astor Park Prep Academy, along with acres of grass. I guess that’s why park is in the name of the school.
