by Lexy Timms
And after doling out Anton’s entire fortune and seeing how generous the man had been without batting an eye, I couldn’t put it past him to have done something like that.
But why? If that was the case, then why did he do it?
“What?”
My eyebrows hiked up as the gruff voice on the other end of the line answered.
“Is this Brian Christley?” I asked.
“Who’s asking?”
“Grayson MacDonald. You recruited me from a high school in Stillsville, Illinois a decade ago.”
“I did?” he asked.
“Tall. Scrawny. University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign.”
“Uh—”
“Anton Volk?” I asked.
The phone call fell silent and my gut turned to stone. He couldn’t even remember the likes of me, but I knew by his silence he remembered Anton.
“The old Russian,” Brian said.
“That’s the one.”
“That man had been very excited for me to come visit Stillsville.”
“How excited?” I asked.
“Excited enough to pay my way and front me a handsome stipend for my time,” he said.
My heart slammed against my chest as I drew in a deep breath.
“Then I’m going to come out and ask it. Did Anton grease the wheels in order to secure my spot on the college football team I chose?” I asked.
Another pause, and it left me clamoring for air.
“You a reporter looking for some kind of scoop or something?” Brian asked.
“You don’t keep up with the NFL, do you?” I asked.
“I’m well aware of your NFL career, Mr. MacDonald. What I don’t know is what you’re doing now.”
“I own a forty plus acre vineyard in Napa Valley,” I said. “No reporters. No quotes. No gimmicks. Just a man seeking the truth of his life.”
“Fuck it, I’m too old to care now anyway. Yes, Anton Volk paid me for my recommendation. Then, he paid the coach of Urbana-Champaign to take you on once you decided that was where you wanted to go.”
My entire world came crashing down around me.
“Thanks for your time,” I said.
“Uh-huh. Give my best to that old man.”
“He’s dead,” I said flatly.
I hung up the phone as the walls crumbled from around me. I was a fraud. A nothing. Anton had to bribe everyone from here to the damn state of California in order to get me out of here playing football. I sat against the kitchen counter as my eyes locked onto the floor. A mixture of anger and sadness swirled around in my blood. I closed my eyes and conjured the day I got the news.
The day I had been accepted as a college recruit to Urbana-Champaign.
I had been so proud of that scholarship. So proud of my college football team. The second that scholarship was within reach, I knew I was better than the town full of assholes I came from. I had found my way out, and I gloated the entire time I left. But all it really had been was an empty future based on nothing but the deep pockets of a rich patron who felt bad for the poor little son of a drunk.
The last of my confidence eroded as my ass hit the kitchen floor.
I pulled out a bottle of liquor Anton kept stowed away underneath the silverware in his kitchen. I screwed off the top and tossed it back, grimacing at the burn. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to feel the pain. Because that was all my life had been. Pain and destruction and lies. I’d built my entire damn reputation on a lie. I’d built my entire wealth on a talentless lie. I stood to my feet and continued to throw the amber liquid back, opening my throat to its burn. I drank until I couldn’t drink anymore. Until the house tilted and my legs wouldn’t work.
Yet somehow, I managed to find myself up in the attic.
I set the shitty scrapbook in my lap and ripped out all the pages. I crumbled them up and shredded the athletic articles until they were nothing but paper snow. I decimated it. I destroyed every shitty lie that sat on those damn pages. I tossed the entire book down into the hallway, telling myself I’d use it as kindling later.
Then I reached into the box and pulled out another photo album.
I opened it up, prepared to continue ripping out the pages. That is, until my eyes fell to a picture of a familiar face. Much younger than I remembered it looking, but that same shock of white hair and those same stoic eyes I’d never be able to mistake. My fingertips stroked the picture of Anton. He smiled broadly with people in the community I recognized. And as I flipped through the pages, he Benjamin-Buttoned in front of my eyes.
He grew younger, and younger, until he was back in Russia.
I found a shirtless photo of him and my eyes widened. His chest and back were covered in tattoos. Faded colors and thick black outlines. Each one of them, precious to him. I scanned the pictures of the man I’d come to know as my godfather, and I smiled when my eyes fell onto the angel on his chest.
The tattoo Michelle mentioned in the field that day.
It was done in heavy black ink, with that Russian lettering she spoke of. I continued to flip through the pages, watching as Anton’s life unfolded in front of my eyes. He had his arm slung around people in the old yellow photos. Smiling broadly against the harsh Russian landscape. There was more lettering on his back. Thick black letters that matched the lettering inside the tattoo on his chest. I wondered what it meant. What those letters spelled. I tossed the album to the floor and stumbled down the ladder, then picked it up before I fell over onto the floor.
Somehow, I managed to pull both myself and the album back into the kitchen. I sat down at the table and stared at the photo album as I drowned my thoughts in alcohol. I could puzzle over that shit later. I could find someone who knew Russian to tell me about those tattoos.
What I wanted in that moment was to drink until I couldn’t remember. Drink until my life rewound back to the blissful ignorance of a few months ago. Drink until Anton was alive again. Drink until my dreams no longer haunted me when I slept.
I wanted to drink until Michelle was in my arms again, smiling up at me and caressing me with her fingertips.
Chapter 8
Michelle
I stood in the kitchen with Nick, helping him batter the fish we caught that morning. Dinner already smelled so good with the parmesan-garlic fries he was cooking up. My mouth watered as I handed him bits of fish I soaked in batter. But silence hung thick between us. I felt emotionally hung over from that morning still, and the mood between my brother and I was still somber. I knew he still had a lot he wanted to ask, but I couldn’t bring myself to start the conversation.
So, I moved to the stove to get the broccoli steaming over some water.
“What else happened in Stillsville?” Nick asked.
I looked over and found him leaning against the counter, his eyes on me while the first batch of fish fried up in the pan.
“What do you mean?” I asked, as I chopped the head of broccoli.
“I know something else is bothering you.”
“And judging by the look in your eye, you already know what it is.”
“Then why are you having such a hard time telling me?” he asked.
I looked back down at my broccoli, trying to shove the moment away.
“I know when you’re hiding something, Michelle. You make the same face you always did. Ever since you let our turtle out of the terrarium when we were kids.”
I giggled at the memory as I dropped the broccoli into the double-boiler.
“Say it, Michelle,” Nick said. “Just—say it.”
I didn’t want to tell anyone about the humiliation I suffered at the hands of Gray. But I also didn’t want to keep things from my brother any longer. He was home for the first time in over two years, and I didn’t want things to be like that between us. So, I took a deep breath and steeled myself for my own spiel.
“Anton’s godson—Gray? He and I had a—thing.”
Nick’s eyes burrowed into the profile of my face as I covered the broccoli t
o steam.
“A thing,” he said.
“Yeah. A thing. Multiple times. I got caught up, and he got caught up. And I suppose I convinced myself that he might’ve been the one.”
“The one,” he said.
“Yes, Nick. The one. I fell in love with him. I fell in love with Grayson MacDonald. The NFL star turned-wine maker with billions to his name and a full life ahead of him. But I didn’t know any of that upfront. Not when it first started. He was kind and considerate. Controlling, but not in that weird sort of way. And it was easy to talk with him. To open up to him. To—be with him.”
I watched Nick nod before he reached over to turn the fish.
“It was on and off. He went back to Napa Valley and I found a job. A job I was eventually fired from because of rumors circulating around that stupid town about me sleeping with Andy behind Gray’s back.”
“Welcome to small town life,” Nick said.
“And through all of it, I fell in love with this man. With this guy who kept coming back to Stillsville. Who kept asking me to stay with him in Anton’s home. Who kept employing me to help him with things before making me feel things I’d never experienced in my entire life.”
My jaw quivered as I went to batter some more fish.
“Say it, Michelle.”
Nick’s voice was soft, but sturdy. Reassuring and confident. I looked over at him with tears in my eyes, knowing that saying what I was about to admit would make me into the woman I never wanted to become.
“I got pregnant, Nick,” I said breathlessly. “I got pregnant with Gray’s child. Then he got so angry.”
“What do you mean by ‘he got angry’?”
“He accused me of so many things. Of this child being Andy’s and I was only pawning it off on him to get to his money. He accused me of running some sort of con on him. Of being a gold digger. Of trying to hitch myself to him instead of Andy so I didn’t have to lead a dead-end life with the real father of my child.”
Sobs fell from my lips as Nick dropped what he was doing. He wrapped his arms tightly around me and drew me close. I fisted the fabric of his shirt and caved into him, my legs giving out from underneath me.
“Sh-sh-sh-sh,” he said. “I’m right here. Come on. Let’s get you sitting down.”
I felt him help me onto one of the kitchen chairs before he went back over to the fish. I wiped at my tears and watched him move with tension in his body. His jaw flexed and his hand gripped the pan a little too tightly. I knew he was getting angry. Which meant he was on my side.
And that made me feel a little better.
“This Gray sounds like a real piece of shit,” Nick said. “Guess money can’t buy manners.”
“It is bad that I feel guilty?” I asked.
Nick flickered his gaze over his shoulder before tending to the food again.
“Why would you feel that way?”
“I never meant for any of this to happen. I’m on the pill. Have been for years.”
“Both parties are responsible for this, Michelle. You didn’t make that child alone.”
“And what if he’s right? What if this is somehow Andy’s child?” I asked.
“Is that possible?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so. But I’m not sure.”
“How far along are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t been to a doctor, Mich?”
I rolled my eyes at the nickname as a breathless giggle fell from my lips.
“It’s been years since you called me that,” I said.
Nick turned around, abandoning the food to hook his gaze with mine.
“You need to get to a doctor. I’m taking you to one.”
“I’m going to get myself to one,” I said.
“But—?”
“But, part of me is scared this doctor is going to tell me I’m more than two months along. If I am, then it’s Andy’s child. No doubt.”
“How do you know that?”
“Gray and I were together for the first time two months ago. And it’s my fault. Andy and I broke up shortly before Gray and I started our—thing. I always used condoms with Andy, even though I was on birth control myself. I never really trusted him with that sort of thing, I guess.”
“But you trusted Gray with it,” Nick said.
“In the pit of my gut, I guess I did. But that was before I knew about who he was, Nick.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I know you better than that. You’re my little sister. Money has never been a thing you pursued. It’s never been your goal in life.”
“He had a reputation in the oil field, you know. Even before we started dating. So I always took precautions with him, for numerous reasons. But with Gray, I didn’t feel the need for those precautions. I was convinced that if something like this did happen, he’d be the kind of man that would step up. But instead, he’s the kind of man that told me to stick around and wait to hear from his lawyer.”
Nick gripped the edge of the counter so tightly it creaked underneath his grip.
“Do you think this child is Gray’s?” he asked.
I drew in a deep breath and closed my eyes. In my heart, I knew it was. I knew this child was Gray’s. But I didn’t know what to tell Nick. I didn’t know how to go about explaining how I felt every time I woke up and placed my hand against my stomach. I didn’t know how to go about explaining why I felt this child was Gray’s. Because I knew he wouldn’t understand.
He couldn’t.
My brother had never been in love before.
“Mich.”
I opened my eyes and watched as my brother crouched down in front of me.
“You need to make an appointment with the doctor soon. It’s the first step in taking control of your life.”
“I know,” I said breathlessly. “And I will.”
“I’ll take you to it, if that’s what you want. I’ll be there with you every step of the way. I’ll even help you find a job until you figure out what you want to do. It might not be glamorous, but it’ll get you some money coming in.”
“Thank you,” I said through my tears.
“But make yourself an appointment. Tomorrow. Let it be the first thing you do.”
I nodded my head before I reached out my arms for my brother. He scooped me up into a massive hug that picked me up from the chair and off my feet. It felt so good to feel his embrace again. To hear his voice again. But more importantly, it felt so good to talk to him again. To be able to lean on someone without them judging me so harshly.
Because I knew if my mother ever found out, she wouldn’t be as kind.
Chapter 9
Grayson
The inside of my mouth tasted like it was filled with some damn dirty cotton balls. I rose up from my bed, feeling the room spin around me as my head throbbed. Holy shit, it was the worst hangover I’d ever had. Worse than the first time I ever got drunk with Andy. Planting my feet on the floor, I drew in a deep breath, trying not to vomit from the pain coursing through my system.
But at least I didn’t dream about her last night.
I dragged myself out of bed, still clothed in the shit I had on yesterday. I didn’t bother to shower. There was no point. No one was coming by the house, Michelle wasn’t there, and I sure as hell wasn’t going into town for anything. I burped, cringing at the taste. What I did need to do was rinse my damn mouth out and brush my damn teeth.
So, I pushed on into the bathroom and rinsed my mouth out a little bit.
I splashed some water in my face before cupping some handfuls of water and chugging them down. Each time I brought the water to my face, I felt the stubble growing across my jawline. Up my cheeks. On my chin. But I didn’t have any reason to reach for my razor. What the hell was the point of giving a shit when my entire life had been a lie?
Staring at the mirror, I didn’t recognize the man who was staring back at me. Bloodshot eyes with bags underneath them so heavy
the corners of my eyes turned down. My cheeks were puffy and red. My hair, disheveled. I looked like the corpse of the man I’d turned myself into.
Well, the man Anton’s money turned me into.
Holy shit, the photo album.
I stumbled out into the hallway and made my way for the kitchen. I picked the album up from the table and went back to my room, then fumbled around with my laptop. I needed some water, but first I needed to do some research. My tongue still stuck to the roof of my mouth, despite the water I’d drank from the sink. I slowly paged through the pictures until I came to the ones of Anton. The ones from Russia when he was younger and had his shirt off.
I ran my fingers over the pictures again before taking to the internet.
Immediately, I started doing research into what those symbols meant. And once I found a spreadsheet online that enabled me to piece some of the words together, I researched their translations. And what I found shouldn’t have shocked me nearly as much as it did. Not with how big and broad and intimidating Anton could be to people sometimes. His smile was the only thing that softened his face, but without it, he looked positively maniacal.
The words and symbols across his chest were indicative of the Russian mafia.
I shook my head in disbelief as I flipped over another page of the album. The more symbols I researched, the more I found out about his former life. Judging by the harsh lettering on his back, he was pretty up there in the ranks. High placed in one of the Russian syndicates before he came over to the United States.
No wonder he’d been able to afford the properties he had underneath his belt. Especially without a visible source of income.
His entire life was tattooed onto his body. The number of people he had killed. The places he had visited. The rank he held within the mafia. All of it, tattooed in Russian symbols and lettering. His entire body told his life’s story. Insinuated some of the things he did. Peddling drugs. Running guns. Dealing in illegal, black market historical artifacts.
