HOLDEN (Billionaire Bastards, Book Three)

by Ivy Carter

  Tears come to my eyes. “Don’t say that. Don’t compare me with him.”

  He shakes his head, laughing without humor. “Jesus, Chelsea. You really had me fooled. I can’t believe I was starting to—”

  He cuts off the sentence with a heavy huff.

  Starting to what? I want to scream. But I know better than to push, because even if the words were exactly what I wanted to hear, any chance for a relationship between us is squashed. The truth has set us free—from each other.

  “I don’t know what to say…”

  Holden stands. “There’s nothing left to say,” he says. “I’ve already told you too much. In fact, I demand that you turn over all of the tapes from our interviews. If you don’t, my team of lawyers will be on you so fast it will make your head spin. Do you understand me?”

  My voice is so small and weak that I can barely hear it myself. “Yes. Holden I’m—”

  He holds up a hand, and my apology trails off. Holden isn’t interested in I’m sorry or excuses and explanations. He isn’t interested in anything from me, ever again. My heart feels like shattered glass, splintering into a million pieces, each jagged edge cutting into my flesh. I blink back the tears, already humiliated enough.

  “I’ll bring the tapes by this afternoon.”

  His voice is like steel. “Have them couriered. I don’t want you to ever set foot in that building again.”

  I nod.

  “And if you try and speak with my partners, or reveal to anyone anything that I have told you…” His eyes bore into me with enough intensity to make my blood go cold. “I will not hesitate to destroy you. From this moment forward, I never want to speak to or see you again? Am I clear?”

  Crystal.

  And the worst part is, I deserve every bit of his hate.

  Chapter 20

  My reflection tells me everything I need to know about how I’m dealing with losing Holden. Dark circles around my eyes, raw from crying myself to sleep, give the impression I’m wearing a mask, which is ironic since my identity has finally been revealed.

  I splash cool water against my skin and lift my chin to stare at myself, searching for something behind the emptiness written all over my face. What the hell am I going to do?

  A knock on the bathroom door startles me.

  “Hey, you’re not the only one that has some place to be,” Lindsay calls out, knocking again, this time with enough force to rattle the vanity. My reflection shimmers, shaking loose another tear. Damn it. “Come on, Chelsea, I’ve gotta pee.”

  Taking a deep breath, I swing open the door.

  Lindsay takes one look at me and freezes. “Whoa.” I try to push past her, but she grabs my wrist and holds on. “Girl, you look rough. Want to talk about it?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve got class.”

  Her eyebrow lifts with skepticism. “Exams are over.”

  Everything is over, but I resist the urge to be melodramatic. I’m not sure someone who has fucked a football roster worth of men since the start of this semester can appreciate how broken I am over losing Holden. Except it’s not just that he’s gone, it’s that I didn’t do anything to prevent it. I could have. If I hadn’t been such a coward.

  “I’m meeting with my professor,” I explain.

  It’s not a lie. I plan on seeing everyone at the school to tell them who I am, why I lied about my identity, and hopefully, beg for forgiveness for my betrayal. An apology might not be what Holden wants, but I need to do something to make this right.

  It occurs to me now that Lindsay is part of that plan.

  I swallow the lump of emotion pooled at the base of my throat. “Go pee, and then I’ll talk.” Meeting with college administration can wait.

  Lindsay nods, though I can see in her eyes that she doesn’t trust I’ll stick around. My guilt intensifies. She doesn’t even realize yet that she has no reason to trust me, and her suspicions are already piqued. Fucking hell. I’m so not looking forward to this day.

  While she’s in the bathroom, I glance at my cell for what seems like the millionth time. Holden hasn’t texted or called. I’m not surprised, but a part of me—what’s left of my heart—wishes he’d give me a chance to explain. To help him understand why I had to lie.

  Who am I kidding?

  Lying isn’t justification for what I’ve done. And thinking Holden will forgive me is just extending the fantasy that got me into this mess in the first place. How could I ever believe a man like Holden Quinn could find anything worthwhile about me? The real me.

  Lindsay flops down on the sofa next to me, and covers my hand with hers. “Is it Holden?”

  The tears begin to flow. As I nod, she pulls me close, and nuzzles her head in my hair. It’s the most comforting Lindsay has ever been with me, which makes me feel worse for what I’m about to confess. I allow myself a few minutes of crying before writhing out of her embrace. I shift on the sofa so that we’re facing.

  Her expression turns to immediate sympathy, intensifying the guilt.

  “I knew he was an asshole,” she says, her voice hardening. “I thought, maybe, he might be different but…”

  “He is different.” I can’t handle the thought of her bashing him, not when this whole mess is my doing. “It’s not his fault. I wasn’t honest with him…” I lick my lips, gathering courage. “And I haven’t been honest with you.”

  Her muscles tense. She pulls her lips together into a firm line. “What do you mean.”

  “I’m not who you think I am.” At her blank stare, I continue. “My name isn’t Chelsea Faber, it’s Chelsea Moorehouse.” Calmly, I describe the school shooting, my father’s role, the reason I have been on the run for more than a decade, and why I lied to everyone—including her.

  Lindsay is quiet for so long I worry she’s secretly plotting my murder. Finally, she reaches out to touch me, cupping her palm over my hand with a tenderness that is my undoing. Fresh tears form and I blink to try and stop them from falling. There’s no point. I’m a fucking wreck.

  “Oh sweetie,” she says, and then blows out a breath. “You poor thing.”

  I don’t want her sympathy, but it feels so nice not to be on the immediate defense that I don’t stop her soothing words.

  “You’ve been through so much, and now this…” Her voice trails off. “I don’t blame you for lying.” I open my mouth, but she cuts me off. “Not even to me. I know what it’s like not to be proud of your roots. Have I told you about my mother?”

  I shake my head. It dawns on me that despite how close we may appear on the surface, Lindsay and I haven’t shared much of our childhood. We haven’t dug into each other’s lives. That’s my default, always. I can’t stomach the thought of someone judging me based on my father’s actions.

  But as Lindsay outlines her dysfunctional relationship with her mother—harkening back to a life of petty crime—I realize I’m not the only one in this room running from the past. But no more.

  With my identity out in the open with Holden and Lindsay, I plan on making a full confession, to everyone I’ve lied to, including myself. I am Roger Moorehouse’s daughter. But I am not my father. I hope that going forward, the people I tell are more like Lindsay—and don’t react like Holden.

  I exhale an emotional breath. “Thank you,” I say, and wipe a tear from my eyes with the back of my hand. “For sharing, and for not hating me. I can’t say the same for Holden, but I understand. Now, I need to go make it right with the college.”

  Lindsay nods. “You’ll feel better. Do you want me to go with you?”

  “That’s sweet.” My lips turn up in a small smile, the first in more than twelve hours. “But this is something I need to do alone.”

  Lindsay pulls me in for an awkward hug. Our arms tangle and we both burst out laughing. It’s not as forced as I imagined, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I think in time, everything might turn out okay. Maybe I won’t have Holden, but I’ll be free from the secrets and lies that have hel
d me back.

  “I’ll be here when you get back,” Lindsay says. “Unless you need me to come kick some ass. In which case, text me an address.”

  I squeeze her tight. “No fists required—but maybe you could track down some cheap wine? I have a feeling I’m going to need to liquid medicate by the time this day is done.”

  Chapter 21

  Professor Dirk Pritchard is a stern man.

  Serious.

  Composed.

  But the way my grad school mentor stares at me right now, makes me think I’m not the only one that has a couple of different personalities.

  I expected him to scold me when I came clean, remind me that honesty is a tenant of our chosen profession, and not only part of the college code of ethics, but in life itself. I anticipated disappointment.

  But that is not at all how Professor Pritchard stares at me now. His expression is a conflicting slate of intrigue and sympathy. I squirm in my chair, holding my breath while I wait for his comment, trying not to be too obviously nervous as I fidget with the hem on my skirt.

  “Chelsea, it takes incredible courage to come forward in these kinds of situations,” he says, gently.

  I flinch. Lindsay basically said the same thing, but I’m not feeling very courageous. Had I been, I would have told Holden the truth sooner, or not lied at all. It’s far too late for regrets.

  “And I can appreciate that you want to do the right thing,” Professor Pritchard goes on. He shuffles some paperwork on his desk, arranging files into neat piles, and then clasps his hands together on the just-cleared surface. “You’ve been through a traumatic ordeal and one can’t predict how they will respond to such a situation. For example, you and your mother ran…”

  My mouth opens, and then closes without comment. Professor Pritchard isn’t judging me, only relaying the facts. An important distinction.

  “It was very brave to want to interview the victims of your father’s crimes.”

  And stupid. He forgets to mention that part.

  “But perhaps, you should look at this experience as a gift, rather than another incident to drag you down.”

  “Gift?” I’m aware that my tone has turned incredulous, but either Professor Pritchard isn’t listening, or he’s not quite the mentor I thought him to be. Is anyone who they say they are anymore? “My father ruined people’s lives. And instead of respecting the victims of that crime, I betrayed them. I lied to someone I care about.”

  Someone I love.

  “How can that be a gift?”

  Professor Pritchard gives me a sad smile. “I’m not suggesting you dismiss the pain you’ve caused others, but rather, to use it—and the pain you feel yourself—as a tool to guide your future, and perhaps, a way to help others deal with their pain as well.”

  My eyes skim over the awards and commendations on Professor Pritchard’s wall. Despite my ulterior motives in speaking with Holden, I still had dreams of using my schooling for good. He’s right in that I can use this experience to aid victims of tragedy, but in this moment, I’m not even sure I can continue with school. I haven’t even turned in my final assignment.

  “Turn it into something else,” Professor Pritchard says, when I say as much. “Have you considered sharing your story in a more…” He runs his tongue across his top teeth. “…expansive way?”

  I lick my lips. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  He reaches behind his desk to a bookshelf stocked with texts and true crime fiction. I recognize many titles, though not the book he hands me. “Have you heard of Hannah Rowe?”

  I shake my head.

  “She was a reporter, a stringer for the New York Times, who covered the story of a mass murderer. Quite a grizzly tale about a man who hid the bodies of his victims in his attic.”

  My nose twitches with disgust. “I’m not sure how that’s relevant to me.”

  “While covering the story,” Professor Pritchard goes on, ignoring my interruption. I stare at the cover of the book to mask my growing confusion. “She developed a relationship with the murderer. Not a romance, per se, but more of an obsession. It began when she was interviewing him…”

  My throat goes dry. Does he know about my romantic relationship with Holden? What correlations is he trying to make?

  “…And then progressed to weekly visits to his prison cell. During the process, she lost everything. Her husband, her house, her friends… But as it turns out, Miss Rowe’s obsession with this killer wasn’t about these murders alone—she was using the story to learn some things about herself, to try and deal with the tragedy of her own past, which began with an abusive mother and then continued into adulthood, when she was raped, among some other terrible things.”

  I turn the book over and stare at Hannah Rowe’s face. She doesn’t look like a woman whose been through trauma. But isn’t that how we cope? Masking our true self with the illusion of composure? Pretending to be someone—something—we aren’t?

  “Miss Rowe took all of those experiences and turned her personal story into quite a fascinating memoir,” Professor Pritchard says. I open the book and see that the author has inscribed a personal message to him, thanking him for his guidance, and also for the numerous times he’s answered interview questions for her articles in the Times.

  “Are you suggesting I write a memoir?”

  The idea is preposterous. My mother’s likely objections aside, I’m not a writer. Even if I could cobble together my emotions, lay out the facts, and try to find some kind of theme, I doubt anyone would read it.

  “You’re a strong writer,” Professor Pritchard says. “Your assignments are always cohesive, well put together, and quite factual, without being boring. I believe your personal account of this decade-old tragedy would shed some light on the situation. It could help not only you…but the victims of your father’s crimes, as well. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “I do,” I say, with hesitation. “But, I don’t know if this is the right route. Where would I even begin.”

  Professor Pritchard stands, the universal symbol of “dismissal” and extends his hand. “Give it some thought, Chelsea. Take the book. Read it. Maybe it will help with your decision.”

  I tuck the book under my arm. “Thank you, Professor. I’m not sure where I will go from here, but I appreciate your support. I’ll think about it.”

  Chapter 22

  As it turns out, it’s all I think about.

  I spend the next two days pouring through Hannah Rowe’s memoir, taking note of how she breaks up the chapters, the kind of information she shares, but more than that, how closely our stories mirror each other in ways I don’t expect.

  I get lost in her emotion, and her words, though not truly directed at me, offer healing.

  At night, I tell Lindsay about each scene, marveling at how the author has put herself in such a vulnerable position, and also at how cleanly she has laid out the facts. Professor Pritchard is right in that the story isn’t really about the murderer and his victims—the press has already covered so much of that—but more about healing.

  It twigs something in me, and by the time I’ve finished the book, I’ve also begun jotting down notes about my own childhood. Those scribbles in my notebook become and outline, and by the weekend, I’ve carved out a first chapter that doesn’t sound like complete drivel.

  “You’re really doing this?” Lindsay says, lifting her wine glass to her lips.

  I take a sip of chardonnay, followed by a deep breath. “It kind of feels like the right thing to do, you know?” Professor Pritchard’s words keep replaying in my mind, and if nothing else, the writing is therapeutic, even if no one ever sees it. And it helps me not stare at my phone, willing Holden to make contact.

  “I can’t imagine how hard it must be to dredge up all that stuff from the past,” Lindsay says.

  “That’s just it—I’m not dredging anything up,” I say. “Because I’ve never buried it. I’ve been living with it every day since Mom and I left Maine.
Yes, we ran from the place where it all happened, but you can’t just leave the memory of it all behind. In every town we lived, it was still there, hovering over us like a black cloud. Maybe this will finally get rid of it.”

  Lindsay takes a bite of cheese, chewing thoughtfully. “Will you include your relationship with Holden?”

  My heartbeat stutters. There are gaps in my outline where Holden and I’s story should go. He’s so much a part of this—not just as my father’s victim, but of my healing—that it isn’t right to exclude him. And yet, I lost all access to him when he found out I lied.

  “I’m still making decisions,” I say. “One page at a time, I guess.”

  And that’s how I approach it, one page, one scene, one memory at a time, crafting the words and sentences to become paragraphs and chapters. I write every evening for two weeks straight. The story unfurls from me with almost no prodding.

  When I close my eyes, I can see each moment of my life through a new lens. The focus shifts from my father, to me, and I begin to understand how I missed so many clues about my father’s character. The more I share about him, the more I get how different we are, how unlike him I am.

  Holden’s description of him still hurts—regardless of what he’s done, I can’t wrap my head around “monster”—but I know I’m not my father.

  I write about running.

  About hiding.

  About the need to pretend I am someone else.

  In one scene, I compare myself to literary characters who have also run from their past, harkening back to the days I would spend buried in a book, huddled in a corner trying not to listen to my mother’s tears.

  I dedicate several chapters to my mother, digging deep into our relationship. She isn’t happy with my decision to revisit my father’s crime, but she’s been avoiding the truth her whole life too. We both missed something in Dad’s character. Something that made us look past the subtle clues of his violent tendencies.