by Henry, Max
And there it is; the campaign flag, the house colours.
The loyalty.
“I’m sure that was quite the shock,” I coo. “Utterly upsetting.”
Ingrid softens a little. “She didn’t want him to find out. It was never meant to be a thing anyway.”
I pinch my brow, pushing my head to one side. “Oh, no. I meant a shock for Arthur,” I clarify saccharinely sweet. “I can’t imagine how devastated he is to learn the girl he loves and devotes his time to is an opportunistic whore.”
Ingrid sucks in a sharp lungful of air, right as our teacher takes the podium.
“Good morning, class.”
I face the front, back straight and the picture of perfection while I join the room in reply. “Good morning, Mr Gough.”
I have no real desire to take the top rank in this school, but if Ingrid thinks she can hold court for Libby in her absence then, boy, do those girls have another thing coming.
You don’t fuck your boyfriend’s best friend, permanently scar an innocent girl, and lay low to let your army take all the damage while the mortars fall.
Nope. Glory belongs to those who remain on the battlefield.
COLT
“Today is the big day, huh?” Christian leans back on his chair; one elbow rested on top of the table between us. “Why aren’t you helping?”
“With what?” I scoff. “Mum paid for removalists, not that I know why. We have fuck all to shift.”
“Got to keep up appearances. Can’t be seen to be doing manual labour, can you?” He tosses his arm in the air to flag down the waiter.
The guy crosses the floor of the restaurant with ease; upper body stiff as his hips do all the work between the tables. “Sir?”
“Another.” Christian lifts his empty whiskey glass. “Anything for you?”
I shake my head, nursing the last of my boutique ale. Neither of us is of drinking age, but when Derek has an entire hard drive dedicated to the dirt he has on people in our community, finding an establishment that’ll serve Christian—in school uniform nonetheless—isn’t much of an issue.
“I didn’t see you much today,” he taunts.
I nod at his statement. “I chose to lay low.” After the tense standoff with Arthur before the first bell, I figured the less is more approach might have been best. “I’m sure nobody missed me considering Lacey wasn’t at school.”
These jerks never paid any attention to me until she became one of them.
“Your name was brought up.” Christian eyes me carefully. “It wasn’t in an agreeable manner, though.”
“Why did you ask me here?” He might want to play his little game of cat and mouse, theoretically batting me around the kitchen floor before he finally makes a meal of me, but I’m not in the mood.
I’ve had a shit day, and I get the impression they’re bound to get worse.
“I need you to talk with Lacey.” Arsehole smirks before lifting his hand to make room for the waiter to set his refill down.
“You need a favour.” Maybe I should have ordered another drink.
“I need compliance. From both of you.”
The last of the ale slides down my throat bitterly sick. “That sounds a lot like you propose to blackmail us, Christian.”
“Call it what you wish.” He leans back to swirl the whiskey in his short glass. “I’d rather see it as a mutual trade of benefits.”
Figuring out what he has to offer is a no brainer. His father has enough puppet strings attached to his fingers that all he needs do is twitch in his sleep, and our family’s legal troubles will disappear.
The question is, what does Christian want with us?
“I’m not going to like this. Am I?”
The suave prick takes a deliberate, slow sip of his drink. “Probably not.” He pauses for dramatic effect—a perfect student of his father’s tactics—before continuing. “The residents in Arcadia would never sell their prized land for high-density development. That’s obvious. But maybe they’ll sell if the land were to remain agricultural at heart.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The shady shit your father was arrested for? It was linked to a planned buy-out of Arcadia properties. Libby’s old man, my father, and Hugo Fercher from over at Portside approached R.A.M. with a proposal to steamroll the western sector with a four-lane central highway littered with boutique gated communities.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “They were pushed back by all but one property-owner.”
I frown, not wanting any part of this but also curious who.
“Kurt Brallant. He never said yes, but he also didn’t say no. The guy sat back, waiting for the dust to settle before he made a decision.”
“Brallant?” I look away and rub the back of my neck. “That’s Tuck’s old man.”
“They have a four-hundred and twenty-hectare farm that’s less than a ten-minute drive from the township. It’s a property developer’s dream.”
“You want me to get Lacey to convince Tuck’s old man to sell to your father so he can build it out with postage-stamp-sized sections?” Might as well ask me to fly to the moon while he’s at it.
Christian shakes his head. “No. I want Lacey to convince Kurt—whether that’s via Tuck or not, I don’t care—to sign a contract that says I purchase, at minimum, sixty per cent of the title.”
“You don’t have the ability to do that,” I snort. “And besides. Why on earth would Tuck willingly give up his inheritance to you?”
“Because there’s nothing to give up.” Christian leans back, one arm draped over the back of the seat. “Kurt Brallant hesitated against his gut reaction to say no because after paying for his wife’s medical bills, he’s near broke. The farm is mortgaged to the hilt, and what they return annually isn’t enough to make a profit; it floats the bills, and that’s all.”
“You know all this, how?”
He lifts one shoulder. “The documents in my father’s home office make for interesting reading when one is unable to sleep.”
“You’ll prey on a man’s desperation then, and take all he has, why? If the place doesn’t turn a profit, why would you want interest in it?”
Christian leans forward, elbows to the table while he articulates with his hands. “The land would turn a profit if he had the capital to invest. Money to fix plant machinery. Cash to invest in new bloodstock.” He tosses a thumb toward his chest. “I buy the controlling share, but he does the work.”
“Why not go in with a lower offer?” I can’t believe I entertain his madness. “Why does it have to be sixty per cent or more?”
“What kind of investor would I be if I took, say, thirty per cent and let him continue to run the property into the ground without any weight to say otherwise?”
The air that surges through my nostrils fills my lungs in a long, shuddering pull. “You’re fucking seventeen.” I fold my arms across my chest. “You’re a damn kid to these men. Perhaps your idea has merit,” I say with a one-shouldered shrug, “but who the hell would take you seriously?”
He laughs. “Kurt Brallant wouldn’t deal directly with me. How stupid do you think I am? I’d be a silent partner. Dad will draw up the documents in the family trust’s name.”
I stare at the guy, seated there in his school uniform with perfectly polished loafers and impeccable hair. He’s money through-and-through: arrogant, over-confident, and delusional enough to pull it off.
“Why wouldn’t your father see the proposal you lay out for him and then steal it for his own?”
“He has better things to do with his time than taking on a pithy five per cent annual return.”
“Where do you get the capital for it?”
“My trust.” He leans back, mirroring my position. “It matures on my birthday next year, and I gain full control of what I do with it.”
I snort. “Got a few hundred thousand squirrelled away, have you?”
“I have one million even.” He doesn’t flinch.
My fists
ball beneath my arms. I don’t want to know how dirty that money is if his father grew the security through investments on his behalf. “I can’t see you happily carting hay for the rest of your life if I’m totally honest.”
“Neither can I.”
“But you just said you want to invest in the farm as it is.”
“For a clause of five years minimum,” he drops. “Fuck visiting that place any longer than I have to and getting shit on my shoes. After the land’s value increases, I’d use the extra capital to develop it.”
I shake my head and snort. “I didn’t believe you had a warm, beating heart in there.”
He taps a finger to the side of his head. “Thinking outside the square.”
“You’re gaining the locals’ trust before you piss all over them anyway.”
His proud and equally excited grin is disgusting. “Point of difference,” he announces, “is that I wouldn’t make the sections small and cramped like my father planned to.” He screws up his face. “Why would people buy the same as what they can get here in Riverbourne, closer to amenities and such? No. I need a point of difference.”
“Acreages,” I fill in.
He nods. “Master-planned so that it retains its rural charm,” he sings like an adman from the fifties.
“And if Kurt doesn’t feel he needs your money to make his life better?”
Christian smirks. “Then I find somebody who does.”
I lean back with a sigh and turn my head to watch the traffic idle past on the road below. The balcony of this establishment provides privacy, yet supplies us with the perfect vantage point for the girls who walk by on their way home from school.
It’s why I used to come here often with the boys.
I suppose this will be my last visit.
“Why now?” I ask. “Why not when Lacey and I were in Arcadia?”
“Initially I planned to start this next year.” Christian hesitates before continuing. “But when I put two and two together about Tuck being Kurt’s son and realised that he had ties to your sister at the party, I saw an opportunity to grease the wheel. I chose to capitalise on it before somebody else figures it out.”
“I guess I should ask you what my part is,” I state, returning my focus to the arsehole across from me. “It can’t just be that you need me to discuss this with Lacey.” I narrow my gaze on him, leaning forward a little. “You would have cornered her yourself if it were that easy.”
“I need you to back off and stop causing trouble amongst the ranks.”
I snort. “You want me to roll over and let you all fuck me in the arse?”
“If that’s how you like it.” He smirks. “But creating tension between our two communities won’t help anything if we want Arcadia to bend to our will.”
“Did your dad put you up to this?” I can envisage the two jerks now, laughing over shared Scotch about it.
“He has no idea,” Christian mumbles. “Yet.” He watches me a moment before reaching for the last of his whiskey. “Our parents are so blinded by habit, Colt, that they can’t see how they run down the same roads as their parents and grandparents before them.” He pauses to swallow the drink. “They either become the landlord through brute force or manipulate the worker’s life through law and finance to make it hell enough that they opt to leave anyway.” He sets the glass down, chin high. “Don’t you want to change that? Try a new approach?”
“You mean, pretend to be their saving grace and then crucify them at the stake when they least expect it?”
“I wouldn’t have been that dramatic,” he mutters, checking the bottom of the glass for the last drop. “But if that’s how you want to phrase it, sure.”
“And what’s the trade?”
“Retaining your good name,” he taunts.
Our reputation. That’s his ace.
“What if she or I refuse?”
Christian tosses a twenty on the table. “Then both you and your sister receive sentences that will stick with you for the rest of your life.”
“Suppose Lacey and I try our best with this, but Brallant doesn’t bite?”
He sighs, rising from his seat. “Then your clean record stays a favour waiting to be called upon.” Christian lifts a hand to thank the waiter.
The guy nods from his spot indoors.
“Talk to your sister. We can readdress this tomorrow when you have her answer.”
I let a bitter laugh slide out my nose. “You know, for a delusional minute there I thought we were friends.” Or maybe that was all part of his plan too?
Christian’s dark gaze narrows. He takes a step toward where I still sit and leans a little. “And for a while, I believed you had morals.”
“It’s hard to maintain them,” I retort, “when your social network doesn’t recognise the existence of such things as honour, loyalty, or kindness.”
He smiles, huffing a breath out his nose. “Everything has a price, Colt. You know that.”
I do, and while he weaves through the tables toward the exit, the realisation makes me smile sadly at the table before me.
The most expensive trades are always the ones we never knew we entered into, to begin with.
Pending court cases aside, that arsehole already had my ticket in hand.
If only I’d known my price.
LACEY
Something’s missing. Foot tapping on the floorboards, I glance around my newly decorated room. The bed sits high on a platform Dad created from two old pallets, the manky, worn wood hidden by a beautiful gold valance we picked up while shopping on our way home yesterday afternoon. I count the cushions piled high on the thick comforter and then shift my gaze to the timber nightstand.
Clock, lamp, and notebook. Everything I planned to have on display is there. So what is it that bugs me? I looped the fairy lights across the timber headboard, and Dad hung my new artwork on the adjacent wall opposite the windows.
Ugh. Something is off.
“Lacey!”
I chew my bottom lip, resolving to figure this out later, and turn toward the hall. Dad phoned his boss and got two days off for emergency leave, but after that, it will be our new norm.
“Coming.”
He’ll go back to work day-after-tomorrow, starting before I rise in the morning, and I’ll go back to school … at Arcadia High. My stomach knots and a frown pinches my brow as I turn the corner to where Dad sits in the living room.
“I got hold of that therapist you’ve been going to. They have a free spot tomorrow, a cancellation we can fill.” He scoots forward on his seat, elbows to his knees and phone in one hand. “I need to call them back soon to secure it, but I wanted to run it past you one last time first. Are you okay with this?”
I nod, arms protectively banding across myself. “Tomorrow’s fine.” The urge to curl my knees into my chest and retreat into my over-sized T-shirt settles around me like a cold sweat.
The therapist doesn’t make me nervous—Mum does.
“Okay.” Dad nods, wriggling the phone in his palm. “I’ll make this call, and then we can throw together something for afternoon tea, huh?”
“Great.” My lips twitch into a smile, and I turn away.
Given a choice, I wouldn’t return to school at all. The weight of the past few months grows every day, the boulders shifting uncomfortably on my shoulders. I’ve always been strong, been the girl who can weather any storm, but of late I’ve discovered a shift in myself.
I crave time to myself. People drain me, especially when it feels as though I can’t talk to my family or friends without it resulting in drama.
I long for fun Friday nights as a kid watching a movie with popcorn; the girls spread out across someone’s lounge room floor in our makeshift beds for the night.
Such simplicity. Such naivety.
Dad’s voice grows distant as I step out the front door to give him privacy, seeking out the sun-baked concrete steps. A nippy wind cuts across the yard, but the late-afternoon rays provide a delicious
contrast where they touch my skin.
I still don’t have a phone and no way to contact anyone since Dad doesn’t have a computer; only his smartphone for browsing the web. I could walk to see Maggie, but she’ll be on her way home from school, and even then she might have practice. I’m not sure.
I don’t even know if Tuck realises I’m back. Guess he’ll find out Wednesday.
“We don’t have to eat if you’re not hungry.”
I tilt my head back, squinting past the bright sky to smile up at Dad. “I’m easy. I just don’t know what I want.”
He steps down from where he stands behind me and bends his knees. I scoot over to give him space, crowding onto the top step with him.
“I’m going to be honest with you, sweetie. If your mother challenges for custody, I don’t know if that’s a battle I can win.”
“Even after everything that’s happened?”
He tilts one side of his mouth. “Unfortunately.” Dad’s gaze grows stern as he stares down the driveway. “The courts favour the mother as it is, and when she’s more financially stable than I am, then—”
“How?” I turn to face him better. “How can she be better off when she has no job?”
He holds my eye a second before looking away again. “Families like your mother’s look after each other.”
“Nonna and Poppa,” I whisper, staring down at the gravel scattered over the base of the steps. “They gifted her their townhouse. Did you know that?”
Dad sighs out his nose. “Not exactly, but it doesn’t surprise me.”
“I never knew you were the reason they stopped coming to see us,” I say softly. He turns and frowns. “Mum told me.”
“It’s true.” His dry hands twist where they hang between his knees. “They told her I’d never provide the life for her they could, and I suppose they were right, weren’t they?”
I huff, watching a sparrow dart across the lawn. “What kind of a life is it though? All money and no love.”
Dad watches me in my periphery as though astounded I’d say such a thing.
