Whatever that meant.
I parked in the roundabout by the fountain, not bothering to pull towards the line of six garage doors and the resident chauffeur slash mechanic who’d been with Grandmother Birdie for decades. Had his own little apartment above the cars. Very ‘Sabrina’ like. Most people wouldn’t get the comparison—not unless they were big Bogart and Hepburn fans.
It was little moments like this, trapped in my own brain, that I had to face the reality that I really wasn’t the popular, fast car, money tossing rich boy I made out to be. I mean, hell, I was, but that was a product of birth. Take away the fancy trappings of wealth, and I’d be...
I laughed, a startled sound that made my gaze widen in surprise.
Because I’d be Tarryn. That’s how people would see me. Her male counterpart—all books and classic movies and classic music and classic cars.
I'd have to be thinking about the future, about what I wanted to do with my life. Instead, I was just sitting back. I was Johnny Rebel, waiting for my trust fund to kick in, waiting for my turn at bat running Castleton Industries. I didn’t need to dream about a different job, didn’t need to care about college—though my dad was sure as hell making me go to an Ivy League and get my slip of paper.
For some reason, my brain landed on Aiden as I got out of the car and shoved the keys into my pocket. They jangled against the slinky material of the suit pants. I’d stopped at home to change. There’d be hell to pay if I showed up here wearing clothes smelling like sex and lake water.
Working multiple jobs, saving for college, taking care of his brother and helping his mom. He was the kind of person that should inherit the earth. But he wasn’t going to. He’d have to work harder than anyone else to really make it. If he was up for a job against a white guy with the same qualifications, or even with a worse resume, Aiden probably wouldn’t land the position. Because we still lived in a damn world where what we look like matters.
My father was rich. I was rich. I’d get into Yale because he got into Yale and my grandfather got into Yale. Tuition wouldn’t be a problem. I’d be a frat legacy. Fuck, my parents would probably find me the ‘right girl’ before I graduated.
Aiden versus me.
For the first time, I felt lesser than him.
The door to the house opened before I mounted the first riser. Nell’s thick face with its wideset eyes and chipmunk cheeks smiled out at me.
“Welcome, Master Drake.”
“Nell,” I nodded, giving her a warm smile.
“You’ve not come to see your grandmother in a long time.”
I walked past her, and she closed the door soundlessly.
“Well, you know how it is Nell. Me and Grandmother Birdie aren’t exactly compadres.” I paused in the middle of the foyer, glancing up at the giant chandelier with its soft yellow glowing. The tiny crystals hanging from each sconce winked down at me.
“Master Drake, your grandmother loves you.” Nell spoke kindly.
She didn’t talk like this with Grandmother. With Grandmother, good help should be seen and not heard, always ready to help, but never forcing help. I'd seen her hiring notes when her personal chef had moved to California. They were the size of a novel.
“Could have fooled me,” I muttered. I started heading towards the main living room when Nell stopped me.
“Your grandmother would like to see you before joining your father for dinner.”
I turned around, quirking an eyebrow. “She wants to speak with me... alone?”
“Yes, Master Drake.” She stepped around me and led the way towards Grandmother’s private sitting room.
Fuck, what’s the old crow have planned for me?
The sitting room was dimly lit, a flames smoldering in the fireplace.
“Master Drake has arrived, Mrs. Birdie.”
“Wonderful, Nell. Bring him over.” Grandmother Birdie, usually so sharp-tongued, sounded too kind tonight. I could only imagine the nice act hid a new house of horrors. Castletons weren’t soft towards one another. Since I was a kid, all I could remember was bitterness and fighting.
I walked into her sightlines, the dying fire painting me with orange hues.
Grandmother Birdie sighed and her face seemed as soft as her voice. “You really do look like my Hiram, Drake. Have I ever told you that?”
I shook my head, feeling awkward.
“Use your words, boy.” She clicked her tongue and set down the teacup she was holding.
“You’ve never told me that.”
“You’ve seen pictures though, haven’t you?”
Again, I shook my head. But then I stopped and nodded. “The painting downtown.”
“Oh, that’s a terrible likeness.” She looked past me and lifted a finger. Moments later, she held a leather-bounded photo album. “Come here and look.”
Grandmother Birdie turned pages slowly until she came to a larger black and white picture of a man. He had windswept pale hair, bright eyes, and he wore a wide sincere smile. “Same eyes, same smile. You’re quite like him too, you know. He never listened to anyone except himself, never took no for an answer. His father wanted him to be a farmer like he was, but my Hiram wasn’t having that.”
“I wish I’d known him.”
She closed the album and sighed. “After he died, it was like the family died with him. We weren’t the best parents, we fought about your father quite often. My Hiram spoiled that boy. Gave him everything he could ever want and it got to the point where he appreciated nothing.”
I stepped back from her, waiting for the anvil to drop.
“You’re becoming like that, Drake. No, you are like that already. Running around with every girl who’ll have you, and every girl who won’t. Having an affair with a teacher, for heaven’s sake. I have paid so much money on damage control. You and your father have no idea. This cycle has to stop.” She looked at me, beady eyes glassed-over with tears. “It has to stop, or everything your grandfather worked for will be ruined.”
Running a hand through my hair, I moved over to the other matching wingback chair. “I don’t know why you’re telling me this. Hell, you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, Drake. You’re my grandson. You’re my flesh and blood. You look like my Hiram. How could I hate you? Don’t be silly, boy.” She shook her head, and then gazed at the fire for a while before speaking again. “I hate that I’m old. I hate that I’m supposed to leave Hiram’s company and our fortune to a child who has done very little to earn it.”
“And I’m barely passing high school and could care less.” I shrugged, the interaction with my usually-stoic and disapproving grandmother leaving me confused and uneasy.
“You have a chance, Drake. You can still decide to turn yourself around and earn the Castleton name.” Again, she lifted a finger and moments later Nell handed her a brown envelope. “Your father hasn’t seen my will. No doubt he believes he deserves to be left everything.”
My heart started pounding in my chest. I’d heard my father rage about Grandmother’s will, how it was ridiculous that she’d never shown it to him, how she wouldn’t sign the Power of Attorney and was a demented old mental patient.
“I am leaving it all to you, Drake.”
She paused, maybe for effect.
And it worked.
I could hear my pulse in my ears; the whole world was drowned out by the throbbing. It was almost painful.
“But... but why?” I said the words, I was sure of it, but I couldn’t hear the question over the other noises that were wrecking my senses.
“Because you still have a chance, Drake. You won’t get it right away. You’ll have to go to college and graduate. You’ll have to find your passion. I don’t care what it is.” She left the brown envelope in her lap and she threw her hands in the air—a wild, yet also very controlled gesture. “But you have to do it for yourself. And you must succeed. I’ll pay your tuition and basic living expenses, but anything beyond that will be your responsibility. You want to dat
e? You’ll need a job to pay for dinner. You want to Spring Break somewhere sunny, you’ll need to save. The minute you graduate, your first inheritance will kick in. One million. To set up a home, to set up a business. If you can double that money in a year, your next inheritance kicks in. And so forth. Castleton Industries will be held in trust, run by your father, until you’ve proven yourself and earned your way. Then it will be yours, to do whatever you wish with it.”
My jaw dropped.
“I don’t understand.” But I did. My grandmother was handing me the keys to the castle.
She was passing over my father.
And he was going to be royally pissed.
“You do understand,” Grandmother smiled at me, and this time there was less warmth. She was more her usual self. “I’m not just doing this for you, Drake. I’m doing it for Hiram. I’m doing it for the Castleton name and River Valley. I will not die and leave my empire to a self-indulgent man fucking his secretary.”
Again, my jaw dropped. “You know about Nina?”
“Of course. And I know about that teacher too, my boy. If that weren’t behind you, we’d be having a very different conversation.” She tutted, and then quirked an eyebrow slightly. “And one last word to the wise, Drake. You can’t keep screwing every pretty girl you see. One of these days, you’ll get someone else pregnant. And that baby might not die.”
Short-lived rage burned through me, head to toe fire, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. I knew in my heart I hadn’t been ready for a kid, even if Lane hadn’t lost ours. Fuck, I might not ever be ready for a kid. Keeping it in my damn pants wasn’t a terrible idea. Maybe it was time to cut back.
But something was bothering me.
I swallowed. Tabitha and her recording assaulted my brain, bits of shrapnel seeding into my cortex.
“About that situation,” I started, but to hell with it. If anyone could get that recording and shut Tabitha up, it would be Birdie fucking Castleton. “I need your help.”
Grandmother’s eyes narrowed and her lips pursed.
“Tell me.”
#
“Yes, Randall. Tabitha Lordes. I want that recording, every copy of it, destroyed. Offer what you need to. I’m sure the parents would be more than happy to take a pay-off given their circumstances.”
Pause.
Yes. That’s fine. Threaten them if necessary.”
Grandmother placed the black and gold phone down against the cradle.
“There, that will be sorted soon.”
“Thank you,” I stood, swiping hands down my pants. The few wrinkles fell out easily, the sign of an expensive material.
“Drake, no more messes.” She held my eyes, unflinching, and I took a step back. I wasn’t scared of anyone or anything. But if I was, Grandmother Birdie might top the list. “The Castleton reputation needs to be returned to its glory days. Don’t be known for fighting at school dances and fucking in library closets.”
She really knew everything.
“I understand.” Was all I could say.
Because reputation was important to me, but not in the way she meant. After Lane broke me, I swore I’d never be broken again. And that was my reputation. I did the breaking. I did the hurting. I picked a girl and I made her mine, until I was done with her.
But this was the bigger picture.
My entire damn life.
And reputation meant more than protecting my heart and keeping my skin tough and being King of a goddamn high school.
“Now, let’s go see that disappointment of a son. I’m sure the quail’s barely edible now.”
We walked out of the sitting room, Nell in the lead, and towards the living area. When we entered the room, I saw my father bent over his phone, typing furiously. Several fingers of scotch in a glass were forgotten on the arm of the chair, the crystal threatening to tip and fall towards the hardwoods.
I wondered if he was texting his secretary.
You’re not going to get any of this, Dad. Your reign’s ended before it even started.
Not just king of the high school. I was going to be king of the goddamn world.
My phone vibrated as I sat down. I ignored it until a text announcement shooke my cell a second time.
Tarryn: Everything going okay at your grandmother’s?
Tarryn: Hanging out with Sasha.
I shoved my phone back into my pocket without replying.
The Castleton reputation needed to be returned to its glory days. No more fights. No more fucking just so I’d feel something.
But with Tarryn, you don’t have to fuck to feel.
With her, you feel something just by talking to her, just by standing next to her, just by holding her hand.
I was going to ruin her; I knew that.
Even if I managed to keep my dick from dictating my actions, I’d hurt her in the end. Wouldn’t I?
12.
T A R R Y N
Girl talk.
I felt unmoored after Drake left. Like I was listing on the ocean, no land in sight, and all I wanted to do was pull into a port and find something stable to walk on to process my feelings.
I tried hanging out with Mom and Dad, reading some random book that I didn’t even check the title of or read its blurb. I always studied a book before deciding to try it. I assessed the title and cover art and description. I wanted to be sure it was worth trying. Sometimes, I even skipped to the very end to see if it was happy or not. It depended on my mood—whether I wanted uplifting or heartbreaking. But I just couldn’t focus.
Padding upstairs, I grabbed my cell phone and texted the only person I thought I could talk to, without hiding things.
Me: Please tell me that you’re bored out of your mind.
It took her a while to write back, and I wanted to scream into my pillow thinking that I was going to be stuck inside the rest of the day with no one except my parents. Every time I looked at them, I kept worrying that my lake time with Drake was written all over my face. It was late afternoon, kissing early evening. Almost a Saturday night... She probably had plans. But I needed to tell someone what had happened, and I prayed for her to respond.
Sasha: Okay... I’m bored out of my mind.
Me: And desperately need something to do?
Sasha: And desperately need something to do.
Me: Thank. God.
Sasha: Something happen?
Me: Drake happened.
Sasha: Ohhhhhhhhhhh. Sleepover? Middle school giggles... but with beer?
Me: You’re a lifesaver! But maybe no beer. Haha. **cringe emoticon**
Sasha: Buzz kill. **winky emoticon** Be over in an hour or so.
I felt better instantly, knowing Sasha was coming and that I could spill my guts to her. If I didn’t tell someone soon, and figure out exactly how I felt about almost-sex with Drake, then I was going to explode, scream what had happened, and then I’d have to tell my parents that their little girl wasn’t so little anymore. Mom might be happy I was acting like a ‘normal’ teen. Dad... not so much.
“Mom! Dad!” I shouted as I took the stairs two at a time. “Mind if Sasha stays over tonight?”
Dad was holding a hammer, hanging a new painting Mom had picked up somewhere. By the looks of it, the thing had come from someone’s dusty basement. It was worn, the paint crackled, but it did have something about it... some quality that made it endearing. Maybe the farmhouse or the quaint landscape. Maybe the cow with her crown of daisies.
“What honey?” Mom glanced at me and then back at the painting. “A smidge down on the left side.”
Dad complied, eeking down the painting and then waiting for instructions.
“Hmmm,” Mom cupped her chin, elbow resting on the palm of her other hand. “No,” she sighed, “that still doesn’t look straight.”
“Honey, I love you more than life itself, but I’m about to take this painting and toss it in the backyard.” Dad stood awkwardly, obviously tired from standing and holding the hammer and moving th
e new artwork. “So many years of marriage, and you’re still that girl at the drive-in movie who can’t decide if she wants butter on her popcorn.”
“I was nervous!” Mom protested. “Especially after meeting your mother. If she’d had her way, we’d never have made it to the movie. She didn’t even want to let me in your house.”
“My mother wasn’t that bad.”
“You still think she’s a saint, even after she insisted on calling Tarryn Tina for the first year of her life, because Tarryn wasn’t a normal name.”
I hesitated to speak again, worrying they were about to fall into one of their patented arguments. They hadn’t had one in a while. I guess it was due time.
“You know what, you’re right.”
I froze, listening to Dad admit that grandmother wasn’t the most perfect person on the planet. At this second, right now, hell was growing ice cold.
“What did you say?” Mom’s mouth was agape, as surprised by his omission as I was.
“You heard me just fine.” Dad messed with the painting position a little more. “Now, is this painting straight or what?”
“Oh, fine. I guess that’ll do.” She huffed, but then moved closer to dad and pinched his butt before wrapping her arms around his waist.
Dad shook his butt a little, wriggling against Mom’s body.
“Guys, innocent eyes!” I covered my face and made a loud ‘ewww’ sound in protest.
“Saved by the Tarryn.” Dad stepped away from the wall and Mom released her hold on him. Dad winked at me. “We’ll have to raincheck post-decorating foreplay, my dear.” He pecked mom on the cheek before waggling his eyebrows.
“Dad, come on!” I groaned, dropping my hands and turning away from them. “Sasha’s coming over. Please behave yourselves.”
“Was that a request for a friend to come over?” Dad questioned teasingly.
“Nope. I’m just informing you. After exposing me to flirtations and butt pinching and icky parent shenanigans, I feel I’m owed reparations.”
Brawl: A Bully Romance (King of Castleton Book 3) Page 7
