Lavish Lies

by Charlotte Byrd

  Dehydrated and tired, I drink the whole cup and fill it up again. Then holding it in my hand, I make my way around the room.

  There are more men here than women and they are all walking models from the recent Abercrombie and Fitch catalog. As I watch them flirt and kiss and party with the contestants, I can’t help but wonder what’s really going on here.

  Where did they come from?

  And what are they doing here?

  Is this really part of the competition?

  Maybe these women shouldn’t be flirting or kissing these men. I mean, they are here to compete for the heart of a royal, right? The judges must know about this. And if they don’t, then they will soon.

  I glance down at my cup.

  It’s not unlikely that they’ve seen me replace the alcohol with water. If that makes me a bad sport, then I don’t care.

  I leave the sandwich and make my way to the entryway, the staircase leading up to my room whispers my name.

  I don’t want to be here.

  I don’t want to be at this party.

  I don’t want to flirt with some guys who, though they are quite attractive, are probably part of some elaborate mind game.

  No, all I want to do is climb into that comfortable bed and get some sleep.

  “Well, hello there, darling.” A familiar voice sends shivers down my spine.

  I stop in my tracks and try to wish him away.

  Unfortunately, without much success.

  Slowly, I turn on my heels.

  He is standing a few inches away from me. I can smell a strong scent of liquor on his breath.

  It makes me want to vomit.

  I take a big step away from him.

  “Where are you going, honey?” Abbott asks.

  His words come out a little slurred.

  He goes to grab my hand and misses on the first try.

  He is much more inebriated than I had thought.

  I glance around the room.

  There are two women and a man on the couch in the corner of the room. They are all making out together and it’s about to go further. One of the women is undoing his pants and the other one is laying him down on his back.

  I want to yell out to them to help me, but I doubt they will do a thing. And showing him my fear will only make things worse.

  Abbott comes closer to me and runs his fingers up my arm and over to my neck.

  My pulse starts to race.

  My heart feels like it’s about to jump out of my chest.

  Abbott takes notice. He places his hand over my breast.

  “It’s okay, Everly. Calm down. Calm down.”

  I push him away. “Don’t touch me,” I say sternly.

  “Wait a second! What happened to that flirt who I met at cocktail hour? Am I suddenly too much for you to handle now?”

  He’s mocking me.

  Toying with me.

  And there’s nothing I can do.

  “I’m still her,” I say.

  I need to buy some time to try to figure something out.

  But there’s really only one decision to make.

  Do I give into him? Or do I fight?

  I’ve fought him before and that didn’t end well.

  But this is different.

  Perhaps, in this competition I’m supposed to resist.

  I mean, it’s not him that I’m competing for, right?

  Before I get a chance to make up my mind, Abbott grabs me by the throat.

  His sudden attack throws my body into a state of shock.

  As I gasp for breath, he tightens his grip and less and less air gets in.

  I try to hit him with my hands, but with him at my throat I feel completely incapacitated.

  “If you think I got my revenge on you for what you did to me, you’re wrong. I’m going to make you pay, you little cunt. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  Holding me by my throat, he pulls me to the dining room table and flips me over onto my stomach.

  Then he pulls up my dress and spreads my legs open with his.

  Hot tears start to run down my cheeks as I realize what is about to happen.

  When I try to reach back behind me to grab him, he digs his hand into my hair and slams my head into the dining room table.

  Easton

  When I stop him…

  The get-together at the house for the contestants is something new.

  It’s never happened any of the previous years, but my father isn’t one to keep things the same. Change is the way of the world, he likes to say.

  The house is stocked with plenty of alcohol and even some drugs and male models are brought in to entice the contestants. “To throw them into heat,” as my father calls it.

  Contestants don’t have to be asked twice. The men come with their six packs, biceps, their charm, and with a little bit of alcohol, the get-together quickly becomes a party.

  Abbott and I are expected to participate as well. Of course, Abbott has no issues with this. He’s not a person you have to ask twice to attend a lavish event with hot girls who are into skinny dipping.

  But me? Well, I dread it.

  Even out there in the real world, I avoid gatherings of more than three or four people.

  The thundering music.

  The loud voices.

  The boring stories.

  I’d rather spend a few hours talking to someone about something, rather than a bunch of people about nothing.

  The only person I’m interested in seeing at all is the one who hates me.

  Everly March.

  She thinks I’m responsible for her kidnapping and for everything else that happened to her in that dungeon.

  The thought of this makes my heart ache.

  All I ever did was try to protect her. To give her a way out.

  I pour myself a drink. One especially drunken contestant grabs my arm and tries to pull me outside.

  “C’mon, let’s go into the hot tub. I have to see you glisten.” Her eyes light up at the end of the sentence.

  “I’ll meet you there,” I mumble and push her out of the door.

  With no intention of following her, I escape to another part of the house in search of some solitude.

  I have to be here, but that doesn’t mean I have to participate.

  Or even enjoy myself.

  Cradling my drink and trying to drown my sorrows in it, however, unsuccessfully, I walk through the living room, the dining room, the den, and into another dining room set up in the foyer.

  Then I see him.

  I can’t see his face, but I’ve been his brother my whole life. I can sense it’s Abbott.

  It takes me a moment to process what’s really going on.

  He’s holding someone down.

  Pushing her legs open with his knees.

  Her dress is over her hips.

  Her arm is pinned behind her back.

  She’s trying to fight back.

  He grabs her head and slams it into the glass table.

  The sound of the impact echoes around the room.

  “What are you doing?” I grab him by the shoulders and pull him off her.

  When he reaches for her again, I punch him in the face. Then, I punch him in the stomach and again in the face.

  Stunned, he falls to the floor.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he moans, cradling his bleeding nose.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  That’s a rhetorical question that doesn’t require an answer. I know full well what he was doing - attacking her. He was about to rape her.

  “She belongs to me,” Abbott hisses. “She owes me.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. “You don’t have a right to do this,” I whisper.

  “Yes, I do,” he moans, holding his nose.

  “Not here,” I whisper.

  I don’t think he has the right to do this at all, but this is York. The laws that govern behavior in America don’t always apply here.

 
; Out of the corner of my eye, I see the girl pull down her dress and slowly head toward the staircase.

  “Hey, hey!” I run over to her. “I’m really sorry that he did that…”

  My voice drops off as I realize who it is.

  She glances up at me with fear in her eyes.

  Her mascara is smudged.

  Her eyes are red.

  Her lipstick is smeared.

  “Everly,” I whisper her name before I get the chance to stop myself.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  Her voice is barely louder than a whisper. She walks around me and steps onto the staircase.

  I reach out for her.

  When I touch her, her whole body recoils away from me.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologizes.

  “No, I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry that he did that to you.”

  “And I’ll do a lot worse, you cunt!” Abbott yells. “Next time, my brother won’t be there to save you!”

  Everly starts to shiver. She wraps her hands around her arms.

  “Everly, wait.” I reach out to her and grab her hand. She looks at me, waiting for me to say something.

  But I don’t.

  I want to take back everything that just happened. But I can’t.

  “Please, can I go?” she asks.

  I nod and let go of her hand.

  She gives me a brief nod and disappears upstairs.

  Sitting outside of Father’s office, I feel like I’m in fifth grade again waiting in the principal’s office. Abbott was called in first. I have no idea what he’s saying to him, but I’m pretty certain it’s an elaborate story of how none of this was his fault.

  After he has been in there for close to twenty minutes, Mirabelle comes out and calls me in. I take a deep breath and follow her inside.

  Abbott is standing with his arms by his sides and his head hanging low.

  From personal experience, I know that this is the best way to take a lecture from our father. Never make eye contact and look as humble as possible.

  “Abbott told me what happened tonight,” my father says.

  He is sitting behind his desk. A large book is open before him and steam from his tea is rising. His pajamas are covered with a silk dress robe.

  “And I’m sure it was all true,” I say with a tinge of sarcasm.

  “What was that?”

  I did the right thing. I have to make him see that.

  “He attacked a girl,” I say. “He was going to rape her in front of everyone. He slammed her head against a table, sir.”

  “And you came in, pulled him off her, and punched him three times. Is that correct?”

  I nod. He waits.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sir. That’s how I’ve referred to my father ever since I could talk. He has never been anything but a sir to me.

  My father thinks that the word represents respect. But respect is the last thing I feel for him.

  A long time ago, I made a promise to myself that if I were to ever have a child of my own, he or she would never call me by that despicable word.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” he says after a moment.

  I shrug.

  “Do you not agree?”

  “No, sir.”

  Easton

  When he’s punished…

  Standing before my father, there are many things that I want to say to him about what just happened.

  No, I don’t think a woman should be raped in the middle of the dining room.

  No, I don’t think a woman should be raped at all.

  But, of course, I can’t.

  “You may be right.” My father waves his hand. “But you had no right to attack your older brother like that.”

  “He wouldn’t remove himself when I asked him to, sir.”

  “It wasn’t just some girl, Father,” Abbott interrupts. “It was Everly March. The same bitch who attacked me before. The one who was sent to the dungeon.”

  “So you were doing what exactly? Trying to exact revenge?”

  “I don’t know.” Abbott shrugs. “Maybe. Mainly trying to fuck with her.”

  “Well, Easton is right about one thing,” Father says with a sigh. “You cannot do that kind of thing in front of everyone. We don’t want them getting spooked and ruining our fun.”

  What an asshole, I say to myself. What a sociopath!

  “I wasn’t planning on that, but she just wouldn’t cooperate,” Abbott says.

  “Be that as it may, you will be punished for this.”

  “What?!” Abbott gasps. Even I take a step back.

  “You have been taking a lot of liberties with things lately, Abbott. Do not think that anything you do around here goes over my head. There are eyes and ears everywhere.”

  “But, Father—“ Abbott starts to say, but our father raises his index finger and he immediately shuts up.

  “No. I don’t want to hear it. You will go to Hamilton and spend a week there, learning your lesson.”

  Hamilton?

  Over this?

  I guess he really must’ve pissed him off.

  Hamilton is the island closest to York. It’s a secret prison which houses people who have wronged my father and people who work for him. I’ve never been there before and neither has Abbott.

  Abbott’s face twists in despair. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean anything—“ he starts to say.

  “Okay, let’s make that eight days then instead of seven,” Father says. “Do you care to make it nine?”

  Abbott is about to protest again, but he closes his mouth and hangs his head.

  “Good,” Father says, marking something in his daily journal. “Now, as for you, Easton.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “You seem to have a particular interest in this girl, number nineteen,” he says, reading from his journal. “Can you tell me why?”

  I don’t know the extent of what he knows. He may or may not know what I did at the Oakmont. The key is to not lie.

  Even though he is someone who wears so many faces to the world, there’s nothing he can’t stand more than a liar.

  “I had no idea that it was Abbott or who the woman was. All I saw was a person in trouble and I wanted to help her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t think it’s right, sir.”

  “What’s not right?”

  “To force women, or men, to do anything that they don’t want to do. Sex should be something people do consensually, sir.”

  “Yes, I would agree with that,” my father says, swirling in his chair. “But consent isn’t cut and dry like that.”

  I shake my head slightly, unsure of what he is referring to.

  “As you grow up, you will learn that most people out there will do anything and everything for you if you think you can do something for them in return and will do nothing for you if they think you are worthless to them.”

  I look down at the floor.

  “You do not agree, Easton?” he asks.

  “I don’t want to be disrespectful, sir.”

  “You are entitled to your opinion, son. And I welcome opposing viewpoints.”

  Well, that’s a lie, but okay, I think to myself.

  “The thing is that it was pretty clear back there that she did not want Abbott touching her and he was forcing himself on her anyway.”

  “Yes, of course,” my father says, waving his hand. “Abbott has terrible manners and a bad temper. But we were talking about consent, were we not?”

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say,” I say after a moment.

  “Do you not agree with me about the fact that a person, not just a woman, would consent to just about anything for the right price?”

  If he wants to hear my opinion, I will give it to him.

  “I wouldn’t call that consent, sir,” I say after a beat.

  “You would not?”

  I shake my head. “If there’s a price involved, if he, or she, is
afraid, then it’s not really a consensual act.”

  “There are things I do not think you quite understand about relationships, son,” my father says.

  I hate the way he says the word son. He holds it in his mouth for a few moments, mulls it over, enjoys it before spitting it out.

  “And I’m not just speaking about romantic relationships. It’s all relationships. There is always a trade. There’s always a power struggle. There’s always something that someone wants that you either concede or exchange for something else.”

  I nod, as if I agree.

  “You do not look like you agree.” He pushes me.

  I take a deep breath.

  I should not let him goad me.

  I should just let this go.

  “No, I don’t agree with you, sir. Exchanges, money, and power plays are not what relationships are about. Not good ones anyway. Good relationships are based on honesty and respect. Trust.”

  “You really don’t know anything about life, do you?” my father asks after a moment.

  “No, he doesn’t,” Abbott pipes in. “I told you he was an idiot.”

  I feel anger starting to rise up from the pit of my stomach, but I take a deep breath and keep it at bay.

  Why did I expose myself?

  Why did I tell him the truth?

  Why didn’t I just go along with what he said and take his imparted kernel of wisdom and shove it up my ass where it belongs?

  Easton

  When I’m punished…

  “You have an interesting way of thinking about things, Easton,” Father says, writing something in his journal. “Unfortunately, I think that you still have a lot to learn.”

  “I thought that I was entitled to my own opinion, sir?” The words escape my lips before I can stop them.

  Shut up, Easton. Shut the fuck up.

  “Well, you are. And I’ve listened. But your opinion indicates to me that you are not fully understanding the world in which we live. And, as your father, I must remedy that immediately.”

  You mean the fucked up world in which you live.

  Life isn’t really like it is here.

  This isn’t reality.

  This is hell.