by Lee, Nadia
“Get that dog away from him, and out of my home! I don’t want to see it ever again,” she screamed like a wounded animal, tears streaming down her pale face, while Father held her tightly. If he hadn’t, she might’ve strangled Bolt, a puppy she’d selected herself for my eleventh birthday and lavished with care and love, calling him clever and beautiful.
Numb and cold, I watched the entire scene unfold. It felt like something out of a psychedelic movie, not something that was actually happening. I couldn’t muster an ounce of emotion, although I shivered continuously. It was too cold in the house, and I couldn’t warm myself up.
Her hand on my shoulder, the cook’s assistant said some compassionate words, although I barely registered them, my entire focus on my mother. But the tone of her voice was low, soothing…
“How dare you! You’re fired! Get out!” Mother screamed, pointing at the door.
“Margot,” Father said. “Don’t do this.”
“She doesn’t get to make living off us if she’s going to side with Tony.”
“Mom, please,” Edgar said. “None of this is Tony’s fault, and—”
He never got to finish. She slapped him so hard, his head swiveled.
“Get out, you heartless bastard,” she railed, while Father held her to make sure she didn’t strike Edgar again. “Go to your room and stay there!”
I’d never seen her act so crazed, lashing out at people with such violence. But grief has the power to twist and change people. And Father did everything Mother wanted, and more, in a desperate attempt to calm her.
I hoped she’d bring Bolt and the cook’s assistant back after I left. But her anger and pain must’ve run too deep, and I feel the possibility of forgiveness slipping further from my grasp.
A couple of quick knocks and Harry sticks his head in.
I put on an empty smile. I wouldn’t want him to notice anything’s wrong or try to run interference between me and Mother. That wouldn’t end well.
“Hey, Tony. Caleb’s having a party. His parents are out of town.” He grins. “Lot of hot girls are gonna be there. Booze, too.”
I give him a look. “Booze is not a plus.”
He groans. “Yeah, yeah. Mister Continental Attitude.” He’s seen how blasé Europeans are about alcohol, instead of looking at it as a source of never-ending fun like people do in the South.
“I think I’ll wait for Mother to get back. I want to say hello,” I say, doing my best to ignore the roiling in my gut. Just the idea of facing her makes my mouth go dry.
“Oh, she’s here. I saw her go into her room.”
“Really?” My gut shifts into overdrive. “Okay, thanks.”
“If you change your mind, lemme know. I’ll text you the directions. Sayonara!”
I almost laugh at his horrible singsong pronunciation. He’s determined to spend at least a semester in Tokyo while in college, and he’s been studying Japanese for the last three years. Harry being Harry, he hasn’t made much progress.
I inhale deeply and stand up. I have to see her…know if there’s any chance of earning her forgiveness. Delaying will only make me sicker to my stomach.
Just think of it as pulling off a Band-Aid.
I check my appearance in the mirror, finger-combing my hair and adjusting my clothes, picking off near-invisible flecks of dust, until I’m satisfied I look perfect.
A perfect son to earn precious forgiveness.
I walk slowly down the hall, mentally reciting all the things I want to say. I’ve written them out in notebooks over the years, and have them memorized.
I knock softly on the door to the master bedroom.
“Come in.”
Mother’s voice. I straighten my spine and walk inside. The room’s airy and sumptuously decorated with a thick Persian rug, a plush armchair and a loveseat. There’s a bench at the foot of the California king bed, the bed itself covered in pearlescent gray sheets that look almost silvery under the chandelier. The furniture, ornately carved out of cherry, is elegant and old-world. A few nicks and scars mar the hardwood gleam of the floor. Mother is in the armchair, and I recognize a long scratch by her feet. I made it when I fell with a pair of scissors, while running around the house with my brothers and sister.
Mother pulled me up, checking for injuries, then hugged me tightly. “Don’t ever do that again. You could’ve hurt yourself!” she said against the crown of my head, punctuating the words with kisses.
The memory suddenly gives me courage. Surely that kind of love can’t just die, can it?
“Tony,” Mother says, her expression stony.
“I’m home.” I swallow. “Mom.”
Her chin lifts half an inch higher and she slowly shakes her head. “You don’t get to mom me.”
If my hopes were lit candles, her cool words just doused all but a couple.
She continues, “I heard you met Ivy.”
“Yes.”
Mother looks away for a moment, then swings her gaze back. “She reminds me of Katherine…my baby…the daughter you stole from me.” Her voice is thick with unshed tears and old wounds. “Are you going to do the same with her?”
“No!” Is this some kind of test to see if I’m worthy of her forgiveness? “I’ll keep her safe. I swear.”
“I trusted you back then, but you betrayed me. I’m not giving you another chance.”
“Mother—”
“I wanted to take her to New Orleans, but I can’t. She doesn’t want to leave town, and your father’s reputation is important. We don’t want anybody to see our…dirty linen.” Her bitter words dig into me like daggers.
The pain is staggering, so much more than I ever imagined.
“You stay away from her. I can’t lose her, too.”
I see it now: Ivy is what’s been holding her together. She’ll never recover if anything happens to Ivy.
And I realize Mother is looking at me like a monster who lures children away from their homes and devours them. My heart is so heavy I can barely move. The hollowness in my gut spreads until I feel like a husk—joyless, grotesque and pathetic.
“I’m tired,” Mother says finally, her voice thin. “If you don’t have anything else to say, you can go.” Placing her forehead in one palm, she waves me away with her free hand.
So I leave, my legs like lead. Mindlessly, I go down the winding staircase and out of the house, away from all the painful memories and unhealed wounds.
I breathe roughly, bent over with my hands on my knees. The heat and humidity out here, as afternoon edges into evening, feel so much better than the cool, sterile air inside. Once I regain a modicum of control, I lean against one of the columns at the edge of the veranda and look out over the grounds.
I didn’t get to make any of my speeches. I didn’t get to tell her how much I miss her, how hard I’ve worked to make her proud. While my best friend was plowing through all the eligible women in Europe, I stayed the course, making sure I became as accomplished as possible—to be the kind of man people could admire.
A car engine’s roar interrupts my dark thoughts. I glare as an obnoxious roadster emerges from the live oaks and pulls up in front of the house. The driver is a young girl—probably still in high school—although she’s dressed like she’s looking to pick up a john for the evening. If she bends ten degrees forward, her tits are going to spill out of that ridiculous top, and the silly girl isn’t even wearing a bra. It’s a pathetic attempt to gain male attention.
I start to turn away, but the house door opens and Ivy rushes out. Her eyes on the girl in the car, she doesn’t notice me.
Ivy’s hair is twisted up into a messy bun, and she’s wearing a black and white dress that fits like a glove and emphasizes the high, lush curves of her breasts.
Where the hell is she going dressed like that?
Before I can say anything, Ivy hops into the car, and it takes off.
Damn it.
I glare at the roadster, feeling conflicted. I really shouldn’t give
a shit. Mother specifically told me to stay away from Ivy. The girl in the car didn’t get that warning.
But it’s a better than even bet that she doesn’t plan on taking Ivy somewhere safe and wholesome. Nobody dresses like that for a study date.
I can’t lose her, too.
My jaw tightens. Mother wants me to keep my distance, but…
I go to the garage. My family keeps the car keys neatly organized over the light switches. I grab the closest fob and climb inside a silver Mercedes.
By the time I catch up to the roadster, my temper’s simmering. I know I’m being a hypocrite. Normally I don’t give a damn what a girl is wearing. So why do I care if the dress Ivy’s wearing shows off her breasts a bit too well, or if other guys are going to ogle and drool over them?
Because Ivy’s different. She’s…
Well. She’s my cousin.
Not by blood.
Shut up, shut up!
The roadster stops in front of a huge house I recognize. It belongs to the Wentworths. Joel Wentworth is a good friend of Father’s and has been Tempérane’s sheriff since before I was shipped off to Europe. But I doubt he’s at home just now. This must be the party Harry told me about, the one his son Caleb, who’s two years older than me, is throwing. The street is littered with cars.
I shut off the engine and stare at the crowd that’s spilled out onto the front lawn. Things will probably be fine. After all, Harry’s coming to this party, too.
But my hands clench around the steering wheel at the way the boys leer at Ivy as she walks inside with her friend. I remember the scent of tiger lilies clinging to her, the cherry and caramel on her breath.
I should go. Mother will burst a vein if she finds out I’m here. Where Ivy is.
But instead of driving away, I tap my thumb against the steering wheel, my shoulders tight. The clock on the dash tells me I’ve been sitting in the car, debating, for over ten minutes already.
I’m blowing everything out of proportion, I tell myself. I’ve never, ever responded like this to another girl in a similar situation. It’s none of my business what anyone decides to wear, who she decides to hang out with, what party she decides to attend.
I’m probably projecting what I would’ve felt if Katherine were still alive and boys were staring at her like that.
Except…what I feel for Ivy isn’t entirely brotherly.
But only because she isn’t my sister. She’s my cousin.
For fuck’s sake. I’m being stupid. There are only two options—go inside or go home. I reach for the ignition, then stop. I should go inside. Just to check on Ivy, make sure she’s all right. Let the guys there know they’ll answer to me if anything happens to her, then leave ASAP. I tell myself it’s the least I can do to prove I’m not beyond redemption, and it has nothing to do with my concern for Ivy herself.
My mind made up, I climb out of the car and walk toward the house.
Chapter Four
Anthony
Music comes thumping out of the house. Even the lawn under my shoes seems to vibrate. Caleb is lucky his neighbors aren’t pulling guns on him for the noise. The good people of Tempérane believe in firm and clear communication.
A rotund idiot with a huge zit on his nose blocks my way at the door. “You got an invite?” His words come out loud and slurred, his breath stinking of cheap beer.
I cock an eyebrow. “Do I need one?”
He sways back and forth. “Everyone does.”
“Not Anthony Blackwood,” I say coldly.
“What?” He blinks, then peers at me. “No way. Tony?”
“Don’t be presumptuous. Only my family and friends can call me Tony.”
He flushes. “Right. Anthony.” He shoves a hand in my direction. “I’m Bobby. Bobby Darton. We went to Southdowns Elementary together.”
His name isn’t familiar, but I recognize his family. His father works for mine. I don’t take his hand.
Clearing his throat, he drops it. “I thought you were in Europe. Or up at Princeton.”
“You thought wrong.” I slide by him and walk inside.
The party is already ripe with one too many drunks. People who can’t hold their liquor really shouldn’t indulge. Disgusted, I scan the crowd.
Some girls stumble toward me with loopy grins. They’re uniformly tall, leggy, with big tits and bottle-blond hair. They flutter mascara-caked eyelashes, drawing my attention to their alcohol-hazed eyes, then lean forward to show me cleavages encased in dresses that are too tight.
“Hey, handsome,” one says, her voice too loud and brassy. “Wanna join us? We’re gonna have fu-unnn.” They lift their drinks and grin.
One of them hops a bit, making her tits bounce. “What do you say?”
Attractive, if you like plastic and no depth. I turn away, uninterested.
“Oh, come on!” another one says, slurring her words. “Don’t be lame!”
Morons.
I march forward. Too many people are barely standing upright. More than half are underage, and most likely treating this as a God-given opportunity to overindulge. It’s the last place someone like Ivy should be with that scantily dressed girl. Drunk boys do stupid shit.
I move around purposefully, looking for her. When people don’t get out of my way fast enough, I just shove through. But I don’t see her.
Damn it. Ivy isn’t anywhere on the first floor or the yard or the pool. Did she go upstairs?
Fuck.
“Hey, Tony! You decided to come,” Harry calls out to me, raising two plastic cups. “I was getting this for Danny, but you can have it instead.”
He pushes one of the cups at me, and I take it out of reflex.
“Can’t party sober,” he says, like he’s telling me the greatest secret of the universe.
I stare at the dark liquid dubiously. “What’s in it?”
“Cranberry and vodka. It’s fantastic.”
I take a sip, then make a face. “I can’t believe you drink this.” The vodka tastes cheap—no smoothness at all.
“Caleb can’t buy the best liquor.” Harry gestures at the crowd. “Look at all these people.”
“Have you seen Ivy?” I ask.
“No. Why? Is she here?” He cranes his neck.
“She came here with a girl. Terrible dresser. Fire-engine red lipstick. Curly brown hair.”
“That’d be Sue Ellen. They’re best friends.”
That makes me feel marginally better. Best friends watch out for each other in places like this.
“Come on. Let me introduce you around.” Harry puts a hand on my shoulder and pulls me toward a small group of guys by the pool.
I start to follow, then stop. I’m not here to socialize or have fun. I’m here to find Ivy and make sure she’s okay.
“Let me check upstairs first, then I’ll join you,” I say.
“Caleb’s not letting anybody go upstairs. Said his dad’s going to whip his ass if he lets anybody up there.”
“Still…” There are so many people the house feels like a sardine can. Caleb can’t monitor all of them. “Just let me check.” I start to hand the drink back to Harry until I remember I took a sip. I place it on a table awash with cups, paper plates and junk food wrappers. “I’ll catch up in a few minutes.”
“Okay.” Taking a quick swallow from his cup, Harry ambles toward his friends.
I do another quick sweep of the first floor, checking every room, including the bathrooms. Then I hurry upstairs, a nasty knot forming in my gut as nobody comes out to stop me.
Upstairs means bedrooms. The idea that Ivy might be getting naked with one of these cretins puts a red film over my vision.
The Wentworths’ home doesn’t have as many rooms as my family’s, but there are still a lot of doors on the second floor. I barge into them one by one—guest bedrooms, bathrooms, a home office, some boy’s room with posters of pinup girls—but don’t see Ivy.
Only one room left.
I twist the knob, but it doe
sn’t turn. I shove my ear against the door and listen. There’s definitely some sound coming from inside. I knock. Nothing.
Fuck it. There’s more than one way to get inside. I kick the door in. It opens with a deafening crash.
The first person I see is the girl who drove the roadster. She’s standing close to the door, looking at whatever’s going on in the room with a loose fist over her chest, her eyes wide and bright. I walk past her and see five guys, all of them sizeable, in a loose semicircle around Ivy. Her back is pressed against a wall.
One of them has her wrist and is pulling her forward. “Don’t be shy, babe. If you don’t want to play the strip drinking game, we can do something else.”
“Let go, Caleb,” she says, trying to jerk her wrist out of his grip, but she’s no match for the big bastard’s football player body.
He grabs the back of her neck and forces a kiss, while his asshole buddies go “whoop, whoop, whoop” and pump their fists in the air. His other hand pulls the fabric on her shoulder and rips it, then moves down to grab at her breast.
Feral rage burns through me. “Let her go, shitface.”
All four of the friends turn to face me. “Hey, what the fuck?” Caleb says over his shoulder, his mud-brown eyes squinting.
“Who let this asshole in?” One of the bigger boys turns to the roadster girl. Sue Ellen. “We told you to watch the door.”
What the hell? Is she part of this? What the fuck kind of a best friend is she? If she weren’t a girl, I’d knock her teeth out.
“Get rid of him,” Caleb says, holding on to Ivy.
The four of them approach. They’re depending on size and numbers to intimidate me. What they don’t know is that I’ve spent years training in kickboxing in my quest to be the perfect son. My vision suddenly hyper-clear, I duck, punch, kick and circle, making it impossible for more than one of them to come at me at a time. In the confines of the room they get in each other’s way, then meet a kick to the head, an elbow in the solar plexus or a knee slamming into the gut.
In moments, two of them are out cold, and the other two are doubled over, wheezing and groaning. Pathetic. I kick them until they collapse in unconscious heaps.
