"No, no." He shakes his head. "I'm trying to convince you whatever is giving you pause, whatever's been persuading you to pass on this golden opportunity for the last three freaking years is bloody ridiculous. Nothing should prevent you from pulling the trigger on this, Weston. Not a damn thing."
He glances at me, awaiting some sort of reaction, but I dunno what the hell to say. In lieu of responding, I polish off my water and he frowns.
"You want to know the truth? The straightforward reality of all this?" Anger weaves through his words as his jaw clenches. "You're being quite selfish, mate. Throwing the offer in the bin, taking it for granted like you are. People would fucking kill to be in your position."
By "people", Liam's mostly referring to himself in that sentence. His wildest dream is my current reality—a Premier League contract in the works. It's gotta be difficult for him to sit back and attempt to make sense of the choices I've made.
Dude's not holding anything back in this discussion, and although it's annoying as fuck, it's also somewhat eye-opening.
For years, I've always pushed the notion of joining the team from my mind. It was a done deal—I wasn't going and that was that.
But now everyone's getting all analytical with me, trying to get to the root of my unprecedented decision, and I can't help but join in on the examination of the situation.
Suddenly, an abundance of possible reasons I'm skirting this chance are being thrown my way: fear of failure, a rebellious grudge, complications with my family ties...
I'm starting to seriously question if one or two or—shit—maybe all of them are true. That I'm sabotaging myself because of these underlying issues I don't wanna deal with.
I have no freaking clue.
"At least give it a shot, Paine," Liam urges. "Go over there, practice with the team. Where's the harm in that?"
Hate to admit it, but my roommate has a point.
Where is the harm in that?
The question remains at the forefront of my mind long after our conversation is over. Bothering me as I eat dinner at the Main House with Vaughn. Clouding my thoughts when I stand under the warm spray of the shower afterwards. By the time I get into bed around midnight, it's all-consuming.
And I don't get a wink of sleep the entire night.
34
The next few days pass in a blur. Before I know it, Easter's in full swing. Cam, Liam, Parker, and I are the only ones still around for the holiday, so we end up spending part of the day together.
Sunday morning consists of church and a homemade brunch courtesy of Liam's mom and dad. His parents live in a small townhouse five minutes from The Treehouse and both of them are fucking awesome, always hosting us for a nice meal right before finals.
Cameron and I stuff our faces with the full English breakfast as Mrs. Wright humors us with stories from her substitute teaching job. Parker's got a fork in one hand and a pen in the other, simultaneously gobbling down food and working on his Social Psych review. Mr. Wright, a graduate Psychology professor at Windhaven, answers Fitz' never-ending questions while Liam video chats with Ellie who's back in Georgia for the long weekend. Not sure why he even bothers, though, 'cause she can't hear a damn thing he says over her swarm of siblings wreaking havoc in the background. Seriously, those kids are noisy as shit. "What?", "Settle down!", and "Come again?" are the only sentences Ellie's uttered in the last ten minutes.
Easter at the Wright's is loud, entertaining, and chaotic as hell.
We eat every last crumb of the bomb meal, kick around a ball in the backyard for a bit, and by late afternoon, I'm back at the Redhouse. After a quick shower and shave, I hop in my car and fill up the tank on my way outta town.
A few hours later, I arrive at the Montgomery house.
Well, let's be real here—"house" is an inaccurate term for this place.
Mansion might be better suited to describe the huge-ass structure before me.
The gated neighborhood entry and the freakin' topiaries spanning the median of the drive had me expecting some lavish shit, but my brows still jut up at what I'm seeing.
Massive marble columns frame a giant home made up of white stone, mounted lanterns emit a dim glow over the arched entryway, and I'm half expecting a valet attendant to offer to park my car as I approach the end of the mile-long driveway.
Thankfully, no one in a black vest tries to take my keys, so I pull in right behind Lexie's car. I grin at our twin Jeeps; hers is shining like it's been freshly waxed while mine is in desperate need of a good wash. Cleanliness aside, our red cars stand in extreme contrast to the array of cream white, matte black, and sleek gray vehicles in the vicinity.
The doorbell chimes its consonant melody and I stuff my hands in my pockets, not entirely sure what I'm in store for tonight. Based on the handful of details I know about Lex's family, my perceptions going into this aren't exactly positive.
A few seconds later, black double doors open to reveal a tall, dark-haired woman who must be her mom.
When Lexie told me to dress to the tens for the meal, I thought she was pulling my leg. But as I laughed off the instruction and her no-nonsense expression remained put, I realized she was dead serious. I felt like a damn tool putting on this stuffy tux, but judging by the red-carpet-ready lady in front of me, it was definitely the right call.
The ritzy nature of this family dinner is so wack to me, and the formalities don't stop there.
"Good evening, Mr. Paine." She gives me a curt nod and introduces herself. "Dr. De Luca."
"Weston," I offer as I extend a hand in greeting. "Thanks for having me over."
"Of course. Our pleasure."
The surly click of her tongue as she shakes my hand challenges the sincerity of her words. Suspicious eyes linger on mine, examining me for a moment before she beckons me inside.
"Alexandra?" She twists her head towards the grand staircase. "Your guest is here."
A muffled reply that neither of us can decipher carries down the steps. Mrs. De Luca taps her nails against the iron banister impatiently.
"Alexandra!"
The word comes out like a hiss on her lips, and the reason my girlfriend doesn't go by her birth name is suddenly crystal clear to me.
Bet she got real tired of hearing that growing up.
Lexie fits her better, anyway.
"She'll be right down." Her mom forces a tight smile. "I need to check with the chef about the first course. Pardon me."
And with that, my quick interaction with Dr. De Luca is finished.
Her heels click against the floor as she leaves, the sound echoing throughout the foyer much louder and longer than it should. It's how you'd expect noise to reverberate in a completely empty home, one that nobody resides in.
There's something really uncanny about it.
The ominous feeling dissipates when Lexie appears at the top of the stairs a minute later. All of my attention is now directed toward the blonde beauty who never ceases to take my freaking breath away.
Her emerald-colored dress is classy, exposing nothing below her prominent collar bones and flowing down to mid-calf. Those piercing green eyes sparkle under the chandelier as she glides down the steps like a goddess. When she aims a sensual smile in my direction, I drag a hand over my face in an attempt to tamper down my dirty thoughts.
It doesn't work.
"Sorry," she says as I pull her into an embrace. "I wanted to be the one to greet you, but this hairstyle took me ages to get right. The girl on the Youtube tutorial said it would take five minutes tops. The bitch lied."
She gestures to the braided crown on her head with an apologetic simper.
"It's sexy," I tell her as my lips graze her temple. "You're sexy. This fucking dress..."
"You like it?"
I sneak a hand around her waist, tugging her body flush against my crotch. When she feels what she's doing to me, her cheeks heat up and I smirk. "That answer your question?"
"Absolutely." She blinks up at me beneath thick
lashes. "Never thought you'd be into the prim and proper look."
"Me neither, but it's really working for me." I grin. "Although, I'm pretty sure you could wear a damn potato sack and get me hard."
"I'm gonna test that theory someday. You wait and see," she remarks with a wink.
After I give her a squeeze, she releases her grip on me and waves a hand across the room.
"So this is my house. The place where I was born and raised. This is where I became the mature and sophisticated young woman standing before you today."
I raise a brow and bite back a laugh. "Mature and sophisticated, huh?"
"Oh, very much so, darling." Her fake posh accent doesn't help her case. "In fact, I can't think of two better words to describe me. Can you?"
Before I can answer, she frames her face with both hands, puffs out her cheeks like a blowfish, and crosses one eye.
How the fuck she even does that is still a mystery to me.
I try to keep a straight-face, but it's no use. This girl is the queen of pretty women making ugly/hilarious expressions, and she's got me cracking up in no time.
"Not sure those two descriptors even make the top fifty when it comes to you, Barbie," I say with a laugh. "And if this is you all grown up and mature, I'm really damn curious to know what you were like as a kid."
"Definitely crazy. And restless. Stubborn as shit. I was also super injury-prone, which was probably a direct result of the preceding traits." She points to a baby grand piano. "I bashed my head on that thing and split my eyebrow open when I was four." Her eyes travel towards a deep step-down into the hallway on our left. "In second grade, I broke my ankle misjudging that dip. That one hurt...bad."
"Damn." I nudge my chin towards the curved staircase she just came down. "That looks like an accident waiting to happen, too. Bet you've had some unfortunate encounters on those."
"Yep. I tripped down the bottom half of the steps and completely busted my knees up."
"Jesus, wild child. Little Lex was a freakin' klutz." An amused smile slants my mouth. "You obviously hold the 'Urgent-Care-Kid' title in your fam."
"100%, but..." Her lips curl up in a guilty grin. "The stair incident actually occurred yesterday."
Reaching down, she lifts the hem of her dress to reveal two black-and-blue kneecaps.
"Lexie, shit. Be careful, babe," I say as I shake my head.
"I'll try, but that one wasn't my fault. The steps are made of porcelain tiles and apparently they'd just been polished. Incredibly beautiful, but slippery and dangerous. Form over function is the norm around here."
She's not kidding.
"How big is this place?"
"Too big." Her answer is accompanied by an exaggerated eye roll.
"It's fancy as fuck. And really..." I pause for a sec, searching for the right term. "...clean."
Lexie laughs. "That's a polite way of putting it. I usually go with sterile or desolate."
"Your parents aren't a big fan of color, are they?"
"Not particularly." A puff of air escapes her parted lips as we both observe the neutral-toned surroundings. "Makes it feel impersonal, doesn't it? As if we're not really in a home. More like a depressing gallery or an expensive rehab facility or something. When I was in kindergarten, I told my teacher I lived in a museum because I truly thought I did. It was always eerily quiet, freezing cold, and I was forbidden from touching anything valuable—a.k.a. every damn thing in sight."
"That's enough," a stern voice commands. "And mind your language, Alexandra."
We turn towards the source of the scold. Totally thought Lexie's mom came back into the room judging from the authoritative tone, but it's one of her older sisters.
"Oops," Lexie mumbles sarcastically as she grabs my hand. "This is Weston."
Her sister's small nod of acknowledgement and scrutinizing eyes are identical to her mom's. "Hello. I'm Elizabeth." She curls a finger, summoning us forward. "Dinner's about to be served. Come along."
As we follow behind, Lexie gives me the details on her older sibling in a hushed whisper: 29 years old, on the route to making a killing in cosmetic surgery, and her mom's favorite child.
I'm introduced to the middle sister, Abigail, a few minutes later. Her fiancé is here, too—a gangly guy named Evan who's wearing a purple-and-black argyle sweater I'm sure Dr. De Luca is grinding her molars over. Not only am I relieved there's another significant other crashing the party, I'm also glad he's the one who missed the dress code memo, not me.
The couple is slightly friendlier than the other two women I've met tonight, but is that really saying much? As we engage in small talk, I notice their demeanors and personalities are stiff...mechanical, almost, and it's fucking weird.
Lexie's dad is the only member of the family who doesn't seem to have a stick permanently stuck up his ass. He's also the only one who doesn't cast a skeptical eye my way, like I'm guilty of some wrongdoing I'm unaware of. After a firm handshake paired with the first genuine welcome I've received tonight, we sit down to eat.
Dr. De Luca settles into her chair, pupils volleying between Lexie and me as she chooses her target.
"So," she begins from the head of the table. "Mr. Paine."
Guess I get the pleasure of being her first victim.
I'm up for it.
"Call me Weston," I encourage as a white-haired server pours water in my glass.
"Alright, Weston. Tell me about yourself." She unfolds her linen napkin before smoothing it across her lap. "Alexandra says you prefer athletics—" It seems to physically pain her to spit the word out. "—to academics. Is that correct?"
Half of the dinner party is probing me with perplexed glances, like they can't even process that shit in their minds.
I'm unfazed as I respond.
"Yes, ma'am, it is. I'm a lot better at soccer than I am at science. We can't all be Einsteins," I joke as I wink at Lexie.
She laughs, but her mom isn't as amused with my answer.
"I see," she says before turning her gaze on a nervous-looking Evan. "Dear, was there a fire in your apartment today?"
"Wh-what do you mean?" he stutters out. "There was no fire."
"No? Well, I have to assume something happened to your wardrobe just before you came over, destroying all your clothing and forcing you to borrow your attire from an elderly neighbor. What was it, then? A busted pipe?"
And that interaction basically sums up the remainder of the meal.
Everyone takes a turn on Dr. De Luca's roulette of judgment. She goes easy on Elizabeth, spouting off a quick critique concerning her nail beds or cuticles or some girly crap like that. Abigail is reprimanded for a B- she got in freakin' undergrad, and meek, wimpy Evan gets berated about his horrendous sweater over and over again. Dude is on the verge of tears when he eventually tucks his napkin into his shirt collar—a sad and unsuccessful attempt to cover up the offending piece.
I let the eldest daughters and future son-in-law (who may be reconsidering a lifetime commitment to a mother-in-law who makes him cry like a little bitch during the holidays) fight their own battles, but when she harps on Lexie, no way in hell do I sit back as a silent observer.
She gets the bulk of her mother's flak, from her hair to her makeup to the music she listens to, and I'm there to counter every negative comment. Lexie squeezes my thigh in thanks with each supportive remark. Her mom squeezes the stem of her wine glass in disdain. She fucking hates me already; it's written all over her face.
I'm not too fond of her, either.
Her criticisms are bitchy and uncalled for, but they aren't nearly as bad as the feigned ignorance about her daughter's career.
She talks about Lexie like she's going to medical school. Talks to her as if she's currently filling out an application. And whenever Lex pipes up with a friendly reminder that she doesn't want to be an M.D., her mom cuts her off before she can get the entire sentence out.
Lexie wasn't lying.
Her mom is the definition of cut-throat.
Mr. Montgomery lets out a warning "Alice" when the snide remarks cross the line, but he's only around for ten minutes to do so. Halfway through the appetizer course, a pager on his belt expels four loud beeps. After one final forkful of caesar salad, he rushes off to deal with an emergency at the hospital.
Might've just been seeing things, but I swear he looked thrilled to get the call.
Surgically repairing compound fractures is probably more pleasant than family dinners in this household.
The last of the china plates and crystal glasses are cleared a little while later. I'm more than ready to get the fuck outta here, as is everybody else.
When Dr. De Luca stands, I assume this is her 'end of meal' speech. She'll thank us for coming, make one final jab at the atrocious argyle, and we'll be free to make our escape. But when she speaks, I realize that's not the case.
"We will reconvene for coffee and dessert in half an hour. Please exit the dining room so our servers can prepare the table for our last course."
And then it gets worse.
"Weston." She trains her beady eyes on me. "I'd like to talk with you privately. Join me in the parlor for a chat, would you?"
Greatttt.
Lexie, her sisters, and Evan head over to the piano to hear Elizabeth play a few pieces as I obey Dr. De Luca's request. She leads me into the parlor, which those of us in the 21st century call a formal living room, and I reluctantly follow her inside.
When she shuts the heavy oak doors behind us, I get the feeling this is gonna be a serious convo.
And when she turns the lock, the cryptic click has me thinking less along the lines of conversation and more about the possibility of homicide.
She totally seems like the type to know the ins-and-outs of covering up a crime.
"Have a seat." Her long fingers wave at a small leather couch. "I'd like to show you something."
I sit on the hard cushion, watching with intrigue as she retrieves an item from a chest of drawers. The sofa dips when she settles beside me and places a worn-down shoebox in her lap.
Looks about the perfect size to stash a murder weapon.
She starts to slowly remove the lid, pausing to raise a thin brow at me.
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