Tiller

by Shey Stahl

  I remember telling Cullen when we drew up the will, if it can’t be me, then I’m so grateful it’s her.

  I know I’ve already asked so much of you, but I have one more request.

  I want River to know her father. . . .

  Please don’t freak out, but. . . I guess in order for that to happen you would have to know who her father is. And please understand this is something I had to keep from you. Not because I didn’t trust you, but because I didn’t want you to ever look at me and judge the choices I made. God knows I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time of her conception.

  Let me start from the beginning.

  About a year after Cullen and I got married, we were excited to start a family. And after two years and that not happening, we found out that Cullen couldn’t have kids. It hit us both really hard, but I think I took it way harder than Cullen. I couldn’t live with the fact that I would never have my own baby to hold. He felt such guilt at never being able to give me something he knew I wanted more than anything and I resented him for the same reason. It almost broke us. We fought constantly.

  One night I went out. With you. Do you remember it? I called, and you jumped at the chance. I needed some time to be away from Cullen and our life, or I was afraid it was the end of us. I wanted to escape the disappointment and feeling of resentment. That night led to River.

  It was that night in Mammoth. The Warped Warriors tour. Do you remember it now? We were at that after-party, and everyone was just having such a great time and I had all those lemon drops? It was so freeing to be able to just let loose and be in your presence. I envied you. I did, I still do. No one lives life like you do.

  If you remember that night at all, we really let loose, and I ended up at the Sawyer Mansion. When I woke up the next morning, I was naked in bed with him. The one person I never thought I would end up with. Tiller.

  But. . . there’s more. I never meant to betray Cullen like that or stray from our marriage. Thinking it was over as soon as I told him, I came clean because I could never live with a lie that huge. You have to believe I didn’t go out that night looking to sleep with a Sawyer brother, especially not Tiller. I was ashamed and heartbroken. I couldn’t believe what I’d done.

  It was four weeks later when I found out I was pregnant. I told Cullen immediately. . . my feelings, that night, all of it. It was his idea to keep the baby. He even called it a blessing in surprise because now we had the chance to experience parenthood from the very beginning. Just like I had always dreamed. So we kept the baby and no one knew she wasn’t Cullen’s biological child.

  Tiller never knew. I never told him. He saw her once, and I think he might have had an idea, but he said nothing to me. Cullen and I agreed it was for the best that I not say anything to Tiller as you and I both know what his reaction, or lack of one would have been. It’s not like he ever gave the impression he ever wanted a relationship, let alone a kid, so we felt it was a good choice for everyone.

  Well now that Cullen and I are gone, River is going to need her father. I know it won’t be easy. Believe me when I say I know Tiller is a real son of a bitch when he wants to be, but I also believe that when he meets River, and he realizes this little girl is a piece of him, he’ll come around. And I know you’re the person to make that happen. If anyone can get through to him, it’s you.

  So please, Amberly, give me this one last thing. She needs to know him.

  I love you.

  Ava

  Is your heart pounding like mine? Are you mad at her? I don’t know if I can be mad at her because she’s dead and she can’t defend herself, but as I look at River, peanut butter covering her lips and cheeks, I am mad. Not because of her, but because Ava slept with Tiller. My Tiller.

  Dropping the letter on the table, the corners of my eyes water and I look up at the ceiling. Swallowing, I beg Ava to tell me what she had been thinking sleeping with Tiller. Why him? Of all people, why him? She knew how I felt about him. Everyone knows.

  I never saw this coming. Tiller Sawyer is her biological father? Seriously though. . . my Tiller? And to think I thought I knew my sister so well. Alexandra’s warning rings in my head, a warning. She knew. She had to. “Don’t go to Tiller.”

  My eyes dart to my phone on the table in front of me. My fingers itching to pick it up and call him. Should I? Should I demand he tell me why he slept with my sister? I don’t though, because I think I might know the answer. He’ll blow the question off, deflect and redirect the way he always does when he’s avoiding.

  My heart pounds in my chest and I can’t believe how much it aches. Straining against the pressure of my next inhale, my chest burns with beats of jealousy that she had him in a way I’ve never experienced. . . with anyone. My thoughts return to how could Tiller have slept with my sister? He knows how I feel about him. . . or does he? Truth is, he probably doesn’t.

  Rubbing my eyes to catch the stupid helpless tears occupying my jealous thoughts, I think of Tiller. What can I say about him besides that in the world of motocross where he’s a legend for the tricks he’s created and mastered. Unwilling to conform to the industry standards and labeled the bad boy of the sport, they call him Wild Cat.

  I knew him before he was the sinfully gorgeous FMX freestyle rider with infinite hate in his blood. I knew him back when he was a shy little boy hoping a girl would love him back.

  That guy, the one who gave me a flower and then ate it when I told him I didn’t want it, he’s nowhere to be found inside the devil known as Tiller Sawyer. Between jealousy, secrets, and habits, the truth is, I don’t know who he really is... the crazy, sadistic, angry introvert who uses drugs and alcohol as a way to mask his own demons.

  Revoltingly blind when it comes to him, I know what I wanted to know, and it was pretty far from who he really is.

  Camden, the neighbor’s boy, sits next to me, slurping his milk from the bowl of cereal in his cupped hand. He spends most Saturday mornings at our house. It’s like he just found us one day and never left.

  You’re probably wondering why his parents let him hang out with a bunch of delusional motherfuckers like us, right? His dad, Jerad Rivera, he’s a big-time criminal lawyer who has a half-his-age mail-order bride for a wife. I’ve seen that bleached-out blonde naked before too, and guaranteed, her other “side-piece” I’m sure she has is a plastic surgeon. Nothing looks natural on her. Even her ass. Still doesn’t mean I wouldn’t fuck her given the chance, because I would, but still. Fake as fuck.

  Camden’s mom died when he was seven, and this new mommy treats him like a slave, so he says. At our house, he doesn’t do anything but play video games and get corrupted. Perfect for a ten-year-old. Oh, whoops, he’s eleven now.

  “Hey, Tiller.” He stares at me, bumping my elbow with his. “Where’d the chick go?”

  I reach for my lighter on the counter, but not my pack of cigarettes. Instead, I flip the lighter around in my palm. “What chick?”

  He looks over his shoulder, eyeing the people around us, most of which I don’t know. “There was some girl puking in the sink and asking if she could have another shot of whiskey.”

  I look over at the sink, then Camden, unsure if I’m disgusted or just annoyed someone puked in the sink again. “No idea. Probably outside to puke in the pool.”

  He raises an eyebrow. His face still has that childlike innocence about him. Though you can tell he’s starting the process of puberty, he’s still very much a child. “Didn’t you just drain it a few days ago?”

  “Precisely. Motherfuckers have no respect for the drought.”

  Shifting on the stool, I slouch, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt. I’m uncomfortable. My body aches, my ass burns, and my head’s pounding to the beat of Eminem blaring in the background. It’s the second round of After Dark tonight, and I’m being watched like a hawk. They’ll probably handcuff me to my bike and make me go tonight. It’s in the streets of Los Angeles, near the Staples Center, and though I enjoy the street-style events
, it’s the mere idea of doing something out of obligation rather than free will that has me thinking of ways to get out of it.

  I bet if I broke my arm or foot, they’d let me out of it. I suppose that wouldn’t be too horrible? Broken bones get you pain pills. I craved getting injured so I could get a shot of Demerol and the hydrocodone that came with it.

  Ricky is always the one to say, “Careful,” in his fatherlike tone he’d have from time to time. “You’re gonna get hooked, boy.”

  Unbeknownst to him, I’ve been addicted to that shit since I was a kid. Or maybe he does and doesn’t want to say anything.

  Beside me, Shade sits at the kitchen bar with his phone in hand, shirtless. I haven’t told you too much about Shade, but he’s an Olympic gold medalist, and I can honestly say, he’s earned the title. Sure, I think he’s a sellout, but he’s fucking earned what he’s been given. If anyone has ever had a God-given natural ability when it comes to slinging freestyle tricks, it’s that dude.

  I can’t do what he does, and it fucking pisses me off because he doesn’t even have to try. Little shit.

  Like me, he’s covered from head to toe in ink. Everyone’s curious about the tattoos on the Sawyer brothers. We all have them. Body art is addictive, and I crave the pain that comes with them. It’s my life splattered in stories across every inch of my body. Some are hidden, places no one sees, while others are gnarly and reflect things I despise. They’re snapshots, reminders of acts despicable and heroic, and some just plain stupid.

  I have the word “hate” tattooed on the inside of my lip, and most would come to the conclusion I have a lot of hate inside of me. Or stupidity. There’s really no explanation. I can’t hide the truth, nor do I want to.

  There’s a woman in the house, one I barely recognize. She’s in the kitchen beside Roan, doing the dishes. While it’s normal for me to see people I don’t know in the house, this one’s dressed in a maid’s uniform. My dick twitches as the thought of her bent over the counter while I fuck her. It’s been a few nights since I’ve gotten any, so naturally, my mind goes there. I’m twenty-three. My mind always goes there.

  “Who is that chick?”

  “The maid. She’s been our maid for like two years,” Shade tells me. “How do you not remember? You took her virginity a week after she was hired.”

  Not surprising. I’m labeled as the “cherry picker” among my friends, if you can call these leeches friends. They’re only here because we have this house and an endless supply of drugs and alcohol. “I thought Scarlet was the maid.”

  “No, she’s Willa’s assistant.” It’s also not surprising I never remember what Scarlet does around here, other than tease me with her wild mess of blonde curls. “And she’s my girlfriend,” Shade points out, knowing what I’m thinking.

  “She’ll get bored with you soon.”

  “The fuck she will.” Shade glares, bringing his cup of coffee to his lips, watching me with a marked warning. “Don’t touch her.”

  Scarlet, unaware of who’s in the room, slams her phone on the counter and glares at Shade. “Dude, you have to commit to sexting once you start. You can’t just quit right after I send you a picture of my asshole.” Her eyes narrow on his. “Seriously, come on. I feel like there’s a picture of my ass on Instagram right now.”

  Wanting to see that picture for myself, I attempt to take Shade’s phone from him, laughing.

  He slaps my hand away. “Mind ya biness.”

  I wave my hand at him and pour myself a bowl of cereal. “Her pussy’s been stretched out. I’m no longer interested.”

  Scarlet sneers at me. “Everything that comes out of your mouth makes me want to hit you in the sac.”

  Shade and Scarlet leave, probably to investigate the asshole picture, or whatever, I don’t really care.

  Camden grins at me. “Why would she show him her asshole?”

  I certainly never said Camden hanging out here was a good idea. “Go ask her. I bet she’ll tell you.”

  Look at the poor kid. He’s tempted.

  I nudge his shoulder. “Where’s your mom at today?”

  “Stepmom,” he clarifies. “And she’s probably shopping. I don’t know. I hate her.”

  It’s true. He has no love for her. Probably because she’s what, like ten years older than him? Might as well be his stepsister at that age difference.

  He hops down from the stool, probably off to find Scarlet, or play video games.

  The maid, remember her? She moves from the kitchen to the living room that opens up to the outdoor kitchen and bar. Hopefully to clean up the puke outside on the pool deck. Most Saturday mornings are spent doing that around here.

  This leaves me in a room with Roan, who leans into the counter, setting a plate of bacon on the counter in front of us. He cooks when he’s home. And if he’s not cooking, Ricky does. We may have maids, but we’ve never hired anyone to cook for us.

  I haven’t said much about my older brother, but I don’t like Roan. Sure, he’s my brother, but I barely tolerate his presence in my life. Or maybe it’s him who barely tolerates me? Probably the latter, but I’m not going to delve into why that is. You’ll find out someday. . . or never.

  Okay, I’ll tell you. I fucked Roan’s girl. Not like I meant to. It just happened. Which, one could argue, said a lot about my level of likability among my brothers.

  One could also argue, she wasn’t his girl at the time. They weren’t even dating. Was it my fault she turned to me when he fucked up?

  Don’t answer that.

  I take a piece of bacon after I finish a bowl of Captain Crunch. “When did you get back?”

  He chews his own piece, a cup of coffee in his other. “Last night.”

  I nod, and that’s about the extent of our conversation. It’s not like we sit and talk about our lives, and certainly not Ophelia, his so-called girlfriend whose virginity I apparently took. I’d like to point out, before you judge me, for one, I didn’t know she was a virgin when I fucked her. Ophelia has been hanging around here since she was a kid. She’s actually the daughter of the head of our security, Carl. That led to a lot of nights where she hung out with us, and her and Roan had a thing. He’s like five years older than her and kind of kept her waiting until she was old enough. Fucked up, huh? Or not. Maybe that was the gentlemen thing to do. I’m not a gentleman so don’t go listening to me.

  Anyway, shortly after her eighteenth birthday, she got drunk at one of our parties. I. . . probably was drunk too, and we were in the hot tub together. Next thing I knew she was on my lap, kissing me, and it went from there.

  After we had sex, which, I might add didn’t happen on my bed. It happened in the hallway and then ended in my room on the floor. I was smoking near the window afterward, and she threw her hands over her face and said, “Oh my God, Tiller Sawyer took my virginity.”

  I should probably note here that there wasn’t a lot of excitement in her tone. It was more like disappointment.

  You don’t know how many times I’ve heard that exact phrase. You’d think by now it’d hurt my ego because they never seem very happy about that, but it’s not because they didn’t have a good time. I assure you they did. It’s because they know it’s not going anywhere from there. Rarely do I fuck a girl twice.

  Twisting my cell phone around in my hand, I notice a text from Ledger that must have come through sometime this morning.

  Ledger: She left me. Can I stay at your place for a few nights?

  And by a few nights, he means months. That’s how long it took the last time he fucked up when we were in LA for the X-Games, and he fucked that chick from Fox Sports two weeks before he married this other chick. If you ask me, and again, no one will, he shouldn’t have gotten married.

  Me: Whatever.

  “What’s wrong with you two?” a girl asks as she gestures to Roan and me. I’d like to add, I don’t know who this chick is. Again, not unusual in this house.

  I look up but don’t say anything, spinning my cel
l phone around on the granite countertop. It hits the plate of bacon, then stops with a thud.

  “Tiller knows why,” Roan grinds out, giving me that “I hate your fucking guts” stare he uses so often.

  “Actually, I don’t,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “Please elaborate.”

  “You fucked my girl.”

  Here we go again. I can see his time in Europe hasn’t made him forget, has it? “You need to stop this bullshit. Your girl chose me to pop her cherry. Big fuckin’ deal.”

  “She was drunk. She didn’t choose you. You’re not special. You were just there,” he huffs, looking about as furious as I am, maybe even more so.

  “Which is more than I can say for you.” I pause, tapping my chin. “What was that chick’s name? You remember, the one you fucked and the reason why O got drunk that night with me?”

  “Oh spare me the fucking bullshit excuses as to what could possibly make it okay for you to fuck my girl. You led her upstairs when she passed out to your room. Who does that?”

  “A decent human being?” I blink, feigning innocence. Not an easy task for me. “And she wasn’t passed out, yet. Her eyes were still open.”

  “She needed someone to take care of her that night and you took advantage of her.”

  I slide off the kitchen stool, the energy coursing through me too much to remain seated. “Oh fuck off. I’m so tired of this shit.”

  “You didn’t even like her!” Roan pushes me, and I push back. What the fuck did liking her have to do with anything? I fucked her. No liking involved. Although I beg to differ, I do actually like Ophelia. She’s sweet, in the kind of kid sister way, which if we’re honest about it, makes me taking her virginity feel like a creep, but whatever.

  “She wanted it.” My taunting smile makes an appearance. “Her pussy was tight.”

  Ricky jumps between us, as if on cue. “All right. That’s enough. Knock it off.”

  “Let them fight,” Shade groans, returning to the kitchen. “Maybe then they’ll stop bringing this up every time they see each other.”