by Cora Kenborn
“You think I don’t care.”
Keeping my back to her, I let out a long breath and lock my fingers around the back of my neck. “Look, my mom and dad are going to be there. Even local TV and radio stations cover the event. Maybe you mean well, but I need the focus to be on Ellie, and if you show up, then…”
“Then I’ll turn it into a media spectacle and make everything about me,” she finishes softly.
“You can’t help you are who you are.” Dropping my hands, I glance at her over my shoulder. “You’re famous. You’re the ‘it’ girl.”
I expect a smartass Shiloh comeback, but instead I get a sad smile. “That’s not it and you know it. Maybe someday you’ll forgive me for what I did to you, Cary, but you’ll never be able to forgive me for what I did to Ellie. I knew the leukemia had come back, but there was no way for me to know she’d get pneumonia. You saw her the day before graduation, and what I did made sure it was the last time.” Her eyes glaze over as she backs away from my desk. “Don’t worry, I won’t ruin the race for your family.”
Crumpling the flyer in her hand, she runs out of my office. My first instinct is to run after her, but I stop myself. Everything she said is right. Maybe I could learn to forgive her for taking my life away, but not for denying me the last moments of Ellie’s.
I may be weakening when it comes to Shiloh, but I still remember.
As I hear the obnoxious Taylor Swift song ring in the background, memories of my mother’s tears rolling down her face as she places her hand against the partition flashes through my mind.
“She’s gone, Carrick.”
“What do you mean, she’s gone?”
“Last night. There’s nothing they could do.”
I pound the glass with my fist as the guards drag me away. “No! No, no, no, no, no!”
“No! no, no, no, no, no!” The words in my memory come out of my mouth with a rage I can’t control. As the fog finally clears, I open my hand and notice my cracked phone laying in my palm. I blow out a hard breath, realizing I’ve been slamming it against my desk after every word. The damn thing is a mess. The corners are chipped, the glass is shattered, and distorted lines are now running horizontally across the screen.
But even with all that destruction, one text still shines clear.
TARYN: Time’s up. The Castaway Sands was such a landmark. Such a shame.
“Fucking bitch!”
Taryn has me by the balls. Without putting a dent in mine and my parents’ debts, we’ll lose everything.
Unless…
Jerking my middle drawer open, I pull out Shiloh’s checkbook and toss it on my desk. Opening the leather covering, I run my finger over the crisp white check on top. My stomach is in knots as I grab a pen and start to write.
I know what I’m doing, and I know the repercussions. Being in prison taught me shit I didn’t care to know. One of the inmates liked to brag about how he embezzled hundreds of thousands of dollars from a company by transferring nine thousand dollar increments out of their account over time. Apparently, anything over ten grand flags alerts and all kinds of bells and whistles go off.
Nine thousand is a pair of shoes to her. It’s survival to my family.
The logistics of doing this isn’t difficult; it’s the ethics that’s the problem. Shiloh West was my best subject in high school. Hell, I graduated with honors in Shilohology. I can probably write her signature better than she can.
While I write in the amount and sign her name, I justify what I’m doing by convincing myself I’m some kind of modern-day Robin Hood.
This isn’t wrong. This isn’t stealing. I’m distributing money from someone who will never miss it and giving it to people who are going to lose everything without it. I’m actually a hero.
She’ll understand when I pay her back.
Twenty-Four
Shiloh
My accountant’s heartfelt text came in bright and early Saturday morning, four days after walking out of Cary’s office.
MONEY SUCKER: Transactions are done.
ME: All of them?
MONEY SUCKER: Yes. You’re a goddamn idiot.
His words aren’t as harsh as they seem. He really loves me. You just have to read between the “goddamn idiot” part to find the affection.
Afterward, I spend all morning shopping for what I consider to be the perfect outfit for the occasion. Now here I am in a pair of red lycra shorts and a fitted white t-shirt with a red and orange ribbon swirling across on the front, and I can’t help but laugh. Cary’s right. I’m riddled with guilt, but not enough of it to swing from a tree into a mud pit.
Moral support it is.
I know the race events have gone on since early this morning, so I have no idea what I’ll be walking into. However, determined to be there whether he wants me to or not, I climb into the back of Malcolm’s limo and wait for Bianca to blow up my phone.
It’s a proven fact that even the slightest disturbance in a financial force makes her Spidey Sense tingle.
She doesn’t disappoint.
Not ten minutes into the ride, my phone flashes. Her texts arrive one after another, and I listen for each ping the whole way to the park, entertained as shit to watch her unravel.
BIANCA: I saw. Call me. I will not be ignored, young lady.
BIANCA: I know you’re ignoring me. Do you think this is funny? Answer me!
BIANCA: Have you been kidnapped? If you’ve been kidnapped type yes.
Seriously? What kidnapper lets his victim check phone messages?
BIANCA: No, they’ll expect that. Type fruit fly.
The fuck kind of distress call is fruit fly?
I can’t help it. I know I’m a horrible daughter, and this will probably secure my place in hell, but honestly, the dark side calls me more than a B-list fuckboy who thinks my vagina will make him famous.
Two words are all I type back.
Fruit fly.
I hit send and turn the phone off.
Half an hour later, Malcolm’s limo sits in the crowded parking, lot taking up four horizontal parking spots. I’m mad as hell and crouched on an overgrown lawn with bugs crawling up my ass.
Why? Because convinced I’d been taken hostage by terrorists, Bianca slugged a bottle of Napa’s best and called Malcolm to inform him that she was calling the White House. Malcolm ratted me out and told her where I was and what I was doing, threatening to make me walk to work unless I turned my phone back on and answered her calls.
I toss a self-indulgent glare over my shoulder, and he just looks up from his phone through the windshield and shakes his head.
Right on cue, my phone rings, and I don’t bother to glance at the caller ID before answering. There’s no need.
“Hello, Mother,” I chirp into the mouthpiece. “Let me guess…I’m getting my own secret service agent and we’re spending next Easter rolling eggs on the South Lawn of the White House?”
“Shiloh Grace! What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway.”
She lets out an offended squeak. “Three million dollars? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“Actually, I counted on it.”
When I got arrested, Bianca created an unholy alliance with my accountant to “protect my interest.” The minute I authorized the bank checks, I had no doubt he’d notify her.
“What do you think you’re going to accomplish by doing this, Shiloh? Buy his forgiveness? You can’t bring his sister back, you know.”
“I’m not trying to do either one. Oh, by the way, I donated one hundred thousand to the American Cancer Society on my credit card. I told them I wanted it to remain anonymous.”
I can tell she’s hedging. There’s a moment of silence and then she asks the question as if she doesn’t already know the answer. “And the withdrawals?”
I stare across the lawn and down an embankment where a group of people are standing in between a beach volleyball court and a waters
lide. Cary is at the front, caked in dried mud and laughing in his Kincaid Krew t-shirt. His face looks happy. Smiling even. I hope he’s still smiling when he gets the news.
“Shiloh?”
“I preserved legacy,” I whisper.
* * *
Although it’s late afternoon when the winners are announced and the closing ceremony begins, I haven’t moved from my spot. For three hours, I’ve watched Cary. Correction. I sat on the lawn and watched Cary with Taryn, who, for some reason, has shown up at the eleventh hour and makes sure to be front and center. Her leggings are so tight they look painted on her legs, and she has them paired with a white tank top with DIVA written in cursive across the boobs.
I’m not being a hypocrite. That shit is tacky.
However, although it’s obnoxious, it’s not her outfit that holds my attention right now. After disappearing to rinse off and change clothes, Cary has come back and seems on edge. It’s obvious he doesn’t want her there and stiffens the minute Taryn walks up. When she touches him, he finds something important to do at another station. It’s fascinating to watch.
I don’t take enjoyment in their breakup.
That’s a lie. I enjoy the shit out of it.
By five o’clock, nameless people are droning on and on about money raised, and I seriously begin to question my sanity in being here. I’m about to flop onto my back and tune out, when an over-caffeinated man grabs the microphone and starts announcing the donations.
Uh-oh.
My eyes dart back to Cary. He’s paying insanely close attention, and my heart starts to pound. Although I had been adamant I wanted my donation to be anonymous and not mentioned, someone dropped the ball. When the man announces my obscene amount, Cary tilts his head back and closes his eyes like he knows.
Of course he knows. Who else would have that kind of money?
However, to his credit, he never makes any other indication that he knows where the donation has come from. He just smiles and claps like any other participant.
Well played.
And with that, I’m done. This “good will” stuff has run its course with me. Let’s be honest, I am who I am, and willingly spending all day at a charity race is a big step for me. Normally, I just sign a check and bask in the publicity of the good deed I’ve done.
That’s another lie.
I don’t even sign the check. My accountant has the power to do that for me.
At this point, I’m kind of disgusted with myself, so I stand up and wipe the grass off my ass. I power my phone on so I can inform Bianca that I’m on my way home when a sickening feeling settles deep in the pit of my stomach.
The buzz. The energy. You don’t ever forget that shit. I’ve lived for it. I’ve built a legacy around it. I’ve learned to sense them before their feet hit the ground. Except I’ve been out of the game too long, and this time, I’m too late.
I see the excitement flitter across the bored faces of the local news crews. Cameras hum to life, and field reporters smooth their hair in anticipation. They all have their quirky pre-live rituals, but every one of them are scrolling frantically through their phones.
Oh shit, this can’t be good.
I’m half considering walking down the embankment and asking one of the race participants if they know what’s going on when my phone starts blowing up.
BARRY: A newly fired junior accountant at your firm messaged your publicist, who thought it would be good for your image to send out a press release. Sorry, kid.
WILL: What the hell is going on? I’m watching the news. You promised no drama.
BIANCA: I told you something like this would happen.
As I read each text, tires screech, doors slam, and voices shout to the far left of me. Part of me already knows who they are, but I glance up anyway. Herds of equipment, big hair, and attitudes run toward the crowd like their asses are on fire.
Paparazzi.
Shit!
My self-serving and soon-to-also-be-fired publicist has screwed me in the worst possible way. That’s what the local news crews were reading on their phones. The national media already had a hold of the story of my donations and were on their way here before the walk even started. The news must have just broken online.
Please let that be all they know.
It’s hard to miss Malcolm’s limo. They know I’m here. The logical thing would be to run. Get in the car and get the hell out. But I don’t, because as I watch them make a direct line for Cary and swoop down like he’s Shiloh West roadkill, I know I can’t leave him.
The moment they shove the microphone in his face, I lose my shit.
“No!” I take off in a sprint toward the tents, not giving a shit if I’m outed. However, everyone is so mesmerized by the Hollywood reporters and blood-sucking paparazzi that no one notices me weaving my way through the crowd. I’m trying to push my way to the front just as I hear Artie, the jerkoff anchor from Hollywood Exclusive.
“Cary Kincaid, what do you have to say about Shiloh West donating two million dollars to the Elizabeth Kincaid Center in memory of your late sister?”
I curl my fists by my side and wait.
“What?” Cary’s response is as shocked as I expected. Why wouldn’t it be? I worked hard to keep it from him.
There’s a lull in Artie’s response and, looking around at the rabid crowd, I’m rethinking my rash decision to throw myself to the wolves. Before I can leave, a rather large man in the front row glances over his shoulder. Our stares connect, and his eyes narrow then widen.
He jumps up and down—impressively well for a man his size—and waves his chubby arms. “Hey, everybody, it’s her! It’s Shiloh West!” He points back at me, and the crowd parts like the Red Sea, leaving me standing naked to two very blue and angry eyes.
Cary’s sharp jawline twitches, and he steps forward, then backward, as if he can’t decide if he wants to thank me or throttle me. Eventually, he settles on standing still and crossing his arms. “Why did you do this?”
The turmoil in his eyes kills me. I did this to help him. Hearing his mom talk about losing their business, and his stress over his late bills hurt me. And even though I have a feeling he’ll refuse the donation, it seemed like a no-brainer to bail them both out when I have more money than I’ll ever spend.
Trust me, I’ve tried.
Before I can tell him this, Artie glides his hair-plugged head through the gap in the crowd and shoves his microphone in my face. “Our viewers want to know the same thing. Are you just that generous, Shiloh, or do you and Cary Kincaid have an office romance brewing?”
I blink, suddenly blinded by the flash of multiple cameras. “What?”
I guess responding the same way to his questions isn’t doing much to dispel his theory.
“We did some digging,” he continues. “You went to high school together. Mr. Kincaid used to work for your family, correct?”
“Yes.” Microphones are pressed closer, and the second the words are out of my mouth, I want to shove them back in. “No! I mean, it’s nothing like that.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
They’re going to grab onto my indecisiveness like leeches and suck any credibility I have left. What’s done is done. I need damage control now. Taking a deep breath, I push my shoulders back and smile until my cheeks hurt. As I take one step toward the tent, the bitch reappears as if conjured by my presence.
“Cary? What the hell is going on here?” Taryn sidles up behind him and drapes her hand over his shoulder.
I can’t help but notice her fire engine red nails. No, they’re more like talons. Which is appropriate, because she’s like a vulture, ready to pick apart what’s left of Cary after the media is done with him.
“Shut up, Taryn.” Cary stiffens and pulls away from her. It’s obvious he’s irritated with her. Who could blame him? I guess I could pretend it doesn’t bother me that she’s here, but I won’t.
Artie licks his lips, the smell of controversy and fresh blood hardening
what’s most likely a normally limp dick. “And who are you?”
“I’m Cary’s girlfriend.” The fuck-you look she shoots me doesn’t go unnoticed. However, I still smile because she’s in over her head. The paparazzi will eat her alive and spit out the bones.
You’re playing in my sandbox now, bitch.
He raises an eyebrow. “The plot thickens—a love triangle.” Artie’s eyes flash dollar signs, and I swear he’s about to either crap himself or come in his pants. Maybe both.
“The hell it is!” Taryn hisses. Realizing her ugly is showing, she clears her throat and breaks out into a freakishly wide smile. “He has no interest in her whatsoever.” Camera flashes light up her face, highlighting the slight quiver on the right corner of her mouth.
Cary waves his hands in front of him as he watches at least half a dozen more paparazzi swarm the field. “No, look, if you’ll just listen to me…”
Only, they won’t listen to him. They smell scandal, so they’ll wreck careers and uproot lives until they find it or create one themselves. However, I know their game better than they do. If there’s one thing I do well, it’s pull these fuckers’ strings and make them dance like puppets. Stepping forward, I do what has always comes natural.
Be the center of attention.
I don’t give myself time to reconsider as I brush my hair over the left side of my face. Thinking on my feet as fast as I can, I toss Artie a self-indulgent wink and go for it. “If I could have just a moment of everyone’s time, I’m sure I could clear all of this up for you.”
I make sure to flash them one of my red carpet-worthy smiles. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cary glaring at me, but it doesn’t matter. Sealing my fate is worth sparing him from a media shit storm.
