by Cecy Robson
“Let’s go,” Mason mutters.
“Like hell,” Sean says.
He’s still itching for a fight. But Sean’s family has money like mine. He’s not in the same danger as Hale and Mason.
“We’re going,” Mason says, his promise stopping Daddy and everyone else from closing in.
“Becca,” Hale says. “Becks, come on—Get the fuck off me,” he adds, shoving someone away.
“I don’t want you here,” I say, my voice likely reflecting the dull hate overtaking me. “You don’t belong here.”
I mean what I say. Hale . . . he doesn’t belong with this shit. I only wish it didn’t sound so cruel.
I don’t know how long I stand there, trying in vain to stare my father down. It’s long enough for a truck to start and then another, their dense tires kicking back debris as they peel away and back onto the road.
With my boys gone, I’m on my own. I should be used to it. After a lifetime of being treated like I’ll never be good enough, loneliness is more friend than foe. Except I want to be good enough. My word, I need to be.
My first mistake is standing this close to my father. My second is speaking.
“He didn’t do anything I didn’t want—”
My father cracks me across the face. The force is so hard it vibrates through my skull and instantly shatters my nose. My hands and knees slide through the sand as I fall. He hasn’t hit me in years. I suppose he thought I was long overdue.
“If you wanted that shit from the likes of Hale Wilder, you’re nothing more than a whore,” Daddy says. “Just like your mother.”
He means to hurt me with his words, just as he has every time I didn’t measure up to his standards. I was eight the first time he called me a whore, all for playing with my mother’s makeup kit. I didn’t deserve it then. I don’t deserve it now.
I spit out the taste of metal coating my tongue and swallow even more. It was a powerful strike. If I’m lucky, I won’t need surgery to repair it. Not that my father cares. The damage is just one piece of the punishment.
For the next few weeks, every time I look in the mirror, I’ll be reminded how I disappointed him and let the family down.
“Get in the house,” Daddy snarls.
“No.”
“What’d you say?” Daddy asks me, kicking sand up as he stomps forward.
“She’s hurt, Uncle Lloyd,” Matthew says. His bare feet stop near me, his immense size barely enough to keep Daddy away.
“Becca, get up,” Kirk mutters.
I do, but not because Kirk tells me to. This is what’s called survival and stubborn refusal to bow down.
I’m wobbly on my feet, my face throbbing and my balance askew. Somehow, I keep my feet, but not by much.
“Get in the house,” Daddy says, his voice so eerily still it borders on psychotic.
I yank my arm away when Matthew reaches for me. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” My voice trembles with unsurpassed rage. “I don’t want anything to do with you—”
Another strike, this one causing me to spin before my body crashes onto the beach. Stars explode in my vision. I’m hurt. Jesus Christ. I’m really hurt.
Daddy’s voice comes in and out as if speaking under water. Through the hard pounding in my ears, I catch enough. “After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you treat me?” he growls. “Becca June, you’re no daughter of mine!”
I force my mouth to move. “Good.”
I don’t realize how loud I speak until Daddy’s Burberry loafers step in my line of vision. “What did you say to me?”
This is the part where he expects me to beg for his forgiveness, to say something to placate him enough so he returns to the house after one last parting insult. I rise slowly, my legs rubbery from how hard I’m shaking and the adrenaline pumping through me in merciless waves.
A small twisted sneer cuts across his face.
He’s happy I’m injured. Didn’t he show me who’s boss?
He thinks I’m afraid.
He’s never been more wrong.
“I said, ‘good’, you fucking redneck piece of shit.”
I don’t know who is more stunned. This man in front of me, who dares to call himself my daddy, or my cousins. They gasp, an air of shock and fear pelting the air. They think Daddy is going to kill me. They’re probably right. But I’ll be damned if I go down without a fight.
Daddy takes a step toward me. I step away. As much as I hate him, and truly and desperately want him to die, I won’t simply attack.
His gaze drags down my body, something he sees in me keeping him in place and deepening his sadistic features. “You’re dead to me,” he says. “You hear me? Your car. Your clothes. Everything, but what what’s on your slut back, belongs to me. Get out of here. I don’t ever want to see your face again.”
He spits at my feet and walks slowly away. One by one, my cousins leave, but not before casting me a worried glance. I don’t know what they’re so worried about. They still have Daddy. They’ve never needed me. I was just one more person to split the inheritance with.
The last of my family to reach my house is Matthew, his solid form giving him away. He pauses, looking in my direction. He may be having second thoughts, even though, like the others, he probably blames me.
Ultimately, he opens the security gate and strolls inside. I can’t fault him. Leader or not, he belongs to my father as much as the rest of them, including my mother.
The only person my father never could control was Nana June. It’s one of the reasons I loved her as much as I did.
I stumble forward. I didn’t notice anyone pick up my jacket or phone, but they’re gone. I stagger toward the road and in the direction Hale vanished. I know that he left and that I made him. But it’s only when I come to terms that he’s gone that I finally break down. It’s not a pretty cry. It’s one of those awful, ugly cries that reflect the loss of a life and the one true love.
I dab my face with the edge of my dirty T-shirt. When it only brings a fresh jab of pain I give up and start the long road alone.
It would be several years before I saw Hale again. It didn’t hurt any less when I finally did.
Hale was my friend, confidant, the young man I could laugh with and cry to. The one man in my life I could always count on.
He was never supposed to break my heart.
And I was never supposed to break his . . .
Chapter Two
Hale
Ten years later.
“You know what your problem is?” Priscilla barks into the phone.
For someone who swaggers like a peacock, fanning her feathers to make sure everyone takes notice, this bird has a lot of bite.
“I’m emotionally unavailable?” I offer. “I don’t hang around long enough to cuddle and I could do without buying you more jewelry?”
“You asshole!” she screeches.
And when I say screech, I mean, screech.
I turn down the volume on my earpiece. Wall Street titans need their hearing and, being their king, I’m no exception.
“Pris, you knew what you were getting into the first moment you came up to me at the Governor’s Ball. I told you then. I’m telling you now. I don’t do commitment. I won’t wake up in bed beside you with puppy eyes, begging you not to leave me, and I’ll never give you more than I think you deserve.”
“You don’t think I deserve a ring?”
My driver glances at me through the rearview mirror. The privacy window doesn’t stand a chance against Pris’ shrill tone. In fact, I’m going to have to ask Al to double-check it for cracks. I flip through the report the new hire put together. It’s basic and juvenile, the research so sloppy and outdated, I’m surprised he didn’t top it off with a Hello Kitty sticker and some glitter. This guy went to Stanford?
“Are you listening?” Pris demands.
I give up on the report after noting he missed a major investment
opportunity despite listing all those “facts.”
“Hale Wilder!”
She’s using my full name. Pris is real mad now.
“Pris, you really thought marriage was where we were headed?” I ask, sounding more laid back than maybe I should. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t that your half-naked body getting awfully close to that professional golfer? What’s his name? The one who cheated on his first wife, the second wife, and the third?”
“I can’t believe you!” she yells, sounding genuinely aghast, bless her heart.
“It sure looked like you,” I say. “It was in the headline of page six just the other week, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Of course it was me,” she shrieks (again).
“Good, I’m glad we established that.” I hold out a hand when the Town Car rolls to a stop.
“Traffic,” Al mouths. “Going around, Mr. Wilder.”
A loud gulp followed by several hiccups replace the screeching.
I pause in the middle of straightening my tie. “Are you crying?” I ask.
“What do expect, Hale? I fucked a golfer in really ugly pants.”
“I didn’t need a visual,” I mutter.
“I was trying to get your attention!”
Great. Back to the yelling.
“It was one last desperate attempt to see if you care,” she tells me. “Do you think I’d ever want someone like him over you?”
I pinch the bride of my nose. How is it only eight in the morning?
“I did it for you, Hale. For us. I’m practically clawing off my face just to see if you’ll notice a scratch.”
Before, I was annoyed. Now, I’m damn well pissed. “Do you hear yourself? You think I want this for me? For anyone? Hell, Pris, you shouldn’t even want this for yourself.”
“Why am I not good enough for you?” she demands.
“Pris. I told you. I don’t have it in me.”
I’m not yelling. Just being honest. Me and Pris, we’ve done our share of using throughout the years. She needed arm candy for an event, I was there. She wanted to go hard and feel desirable, I’d open the door to my penthouse and rock her world between the sheets. But I never promised her more. I’ve never promised any woman more.
Well, almost never.
“I told you this from the moment we met,” I remind her. “If you wanted Prince Charming, you needed to look elsewhere.”
“I know what you said. But . . . dammit, Hale, I’ve given you two years! Two years of my company and enough blowjobs to make my jaw collapse. Two fucking years!”
She’s screaming, hollering. I wonder briefly where exactly she is. I’d say she’s alone. The thing about Pris is, she doesn’t care who hears what when she’s pissed. She thrives on attention, puts everything she has into it and always gives it her all. If she feels like yelling in the middle of Grand Central Station—if that’s what’s going to make her feel better—she’s going to do it, hellbent on getting and doing whatever she wants, even if it means delaying the Metro out of town.
The thought of her screaming in her office—the one her father drops seven grand a month for her to do absolutely nothing in—in front of twenty staff members who do everything else, riles me.
Part of me doesn’t think she has any business yelling. The other part of me, who recognizes the princess and pain-in-the-ass she is, also recognizes she’s a woman. One I’ve clearly hurt. Regardless of what people think of me and what I’ve had to do to make the money I’ve made, I’ve never intentionally hurt anyone. I’m not a bad guy. Just a man who’s had way too much bad.
“You may have spent two years with me, but in that time you’ve spent it with plenty of others,” I remind her. “I’m not perfect, Pris. But what you gave me isn’t marriage material. It’s not genuine. It’s nothing at all when you sit down and break it apart.”
“You’re not going to marry me, are you?”
“No, ma’am, I’m not.”
“Fuck you,” she says, abruptly disconnecting.
My head drops against the headrest just as Al pulls up to my building. I wish for two things right now: a strong cup of coffee and that I could care even a little about what just happened.
“Good morning, Mr. Wilder,” the security guard says, rushing to open the door for me.
“Mornin’, Jim,” I say.
The chorus of greetings meets me as my shoes tap against black marble tile as I make my way to the elevators. I don’t smile. I nod curtly. That smile I used to flash left me long ago.
I take a glance at my phone where it buzzes.
Where are you?
I almost grin. Almost. I don’t have to glance at the name or contact information to know it’s Neesa, my Nubian goddess of an assistant.
“On my way up,” I voice-text into my phone. “My coffee better be waiting for me, woman.”
It’s too early in the day to be an asshole, Hale, Neesa writes back.
The grin bypasses me straight into a chuckle. Still, the moment the elevator doors part, that grin I mustered fades. I step into an open floor plan laid out with enough white and gold marble to blind a man.
A redhead with legs as long as mine appears, handing me a steaming cup right away.
“Good morning, Mr. Wilder,” Red says.
“Mornin’.” I take a sip of my coffee, moving fast. Just a splash of cream, exactly how I like it. “Are the reports on my desk?”
“Yes, sir,” she says. “Everything you need and more.”
I nod as I pass the rows of cubicles. The staff jolt to their feet, anxious to greet me and articulate their good mornings. My intern, Clark, rushes to my side. He snags the briefcase from my hand when I lift it. Like a horse at his first derby, he takes off in the direction of my corner office.
Humph. Neesa trained him well.
I take another sip of my coffee as my phone buzzes with another text.
Two FUCKING YEARS, is all it says.
Damn. Pris is raging.
Was it two years? I suppose it was. Considering months went by when I’d fall asleep working at my desk and Pris would fall asleep in another man’s bed, it doesn’t seem like that long. If I had to guess all the times we were actually together, I don’t think whatever we had lasted more than three solid months.
I shrug . . . and that’s about it.
I’m halfway through my coffee and only a third of the way through more crap reports when there’s a knock on my door.
The redhead steps in, shutting the door carefully behind her.
She leans against the heavy wood. “More coffee, Mr. Wilder?”
“Nope. I’m good.” I frown when I see Neesa’s name at the top of the next report. Well, I’ll be damned.
“Are you?” Red asks. “How good?”
She flashes me a smile most women offer only when they’re naked. Maybe that’s what she meant about having more than I’d need waiting in my office.
Here’s the thing about me. Insensitive bastard or not, I don’t fuck my employees.
“I already I told you. I don’t need more coffee,” I tilt my head toward the door. “You can go now. Next time, ask for permission before you step in here or leave through the elevator and don’t bother coming back.”
Her face turns almost the exact same shade as her hair. Red has probably never been rejected in her whole life. Well, welcome to the real world, hon.
I’m rude. I’ll admit it. Momma taught me better manners. But I don’t really care. The door cracks open and in steps my queen and goddess among mortals.
Neesa takes one look at Red and scowls, her brown eyes flashing with irritation. She throws open the door. “Coffee and reports,” Neesa tells Red flatly. “I told you not to expect anything more from him. Pull anything like this again, you’ll be searching for employment in Alaska, do you understand?”
I flip through Neesa’s report. She doesn’t need me. Neesa doesn’t need anyone and my conversation
with Red is long over.
The door slams tight. “You dumped Priscilla De La Terra?” Neesa demands.
I pick up a pen, crossing out a line item that reads more like bullshit than actual fact. “You did this?” I ask, motioning to the report.
Neesa squares her shoulders and tugs the jacket of her yellow suit. “I’ve learned a thing or two working here,” she replies. “And good morning to you, too, sir.”
“That’s, ‘your highness,’ to you.” I flip a page. “It’s good. Much better than the total shit I read earlier.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” she presses. “Did you or did you not break up with Pricilla?”
“Tiffany, why would I bother answering a question you already know the answer to? My time is precious, sugar cakes.” I lift the stack of reports I read through and toss them in the garbage where they belong. “Tell the Wall Street wannabees that if they don’t receive feedback, they need to redo their work if they intend to stay on with me. Oh, and kindly inform them that they didn’t get a proper enough education regardless of how much their mommies and daddies paid.”
“Tiffany? Sugar cakes? Really, Hale?”
Neesa is the only one in my firm allowed to call me by my first name, although she tends to use “asshole” more frequently than the name Momma bequeathed me. I’ll give her this, asshole is often a better fit.
“Hale?”
I look up, twirling the pen in my hand. I know Neesa. I know when her birthday is and that her favorite color is sunflower yellow. Just like I know I’d be nowhere without her. Calling her any name I want, just because I can, is sadly my only opportunity for a good chuckle given my workload and so-called life. Besides, it’s plenty fun. “My apologies, Marianne. I know you’re sensitive when it comes to your name.”
“Asshole.”
There it is.
Neesa leans at the edge of my desk, yet another thing she is allowed to do that no one else is. I know she’s only attended secretarial school or whatever the hell it’s called these days, but Neesa is razor sharp. If I died, right here where I sit, she could run this entire firm single-handedly. One day, she may even kill me for it. And if I keep up my pestering, that day may come sooner rather than later.
