by Keilan Shea
Unraveling Blake Earnshaw
Book 1: The Rich Prick
Keilan Shea
Copyright
Copyright © 2020 Keilan Shea
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Any unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.
This is a work of fiction.
keilanshea.com
Summary
Have you ever done something unforgivable? Something so evil that it replays in your nightmares and leaks into your daydreams?
I have.
When people die, they don't come back. There is no do-over. It was a car crash, and I was behind the wheel. Though a drunk driver took the blame, my mom, dad, and brother still died.
Everyone says it wasn't my fault. I know it was. If it wasn't for my uncle, I wouldn't be here anymore.
I never planned to return home, but the first day of my last year in high school has my stomach in knots. I need something to be the same. Nothing is.
There's a hot celebrity in my house, and his name is Blake Earnshaw.
His father is one of the richest men in the world and the perfect gentleman. Everyone thought Blake was the same, but he isn't. He's a prick.
My life was already hell, and now Blake Earnshaw is about to turn up the heat.
Unraveling Blake Earnshaw is an ongoing contemporary romance series that plays on the darker and more suspenseful side of the genre. Each book will end on a cliffhanger until the series reaches its hard-earned HEA. This story contains dark content some people might find triggering and is recommended for readers 17+.
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Bonus Chapter
Keilan's Books
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
My senior year starts at a high school in Boulder, Colorado. That’s where I should be, but I can’t remember which high school I’m supposed to be attending. Not that it matters. I find myself driving home.
This wasn’t premeditated.
True, I left much earlier than necessary, but it’s as if my Prius has a mind of its own, or as if I’m a sailboat on the water without an anchor and at the mercy of a relentless gale.
For the first time since this hellish summer began, I’m going back to Raindrop, the most beautiful city in the world with the most insignificant name. There is a reason for the name, though. The inhabited area is a raindrop-shaped valley nestled inside the Rockies. The founder must’ve thought he was being clever when he discovered it from his helicopter.
The entrance to the city, the tunnel dug into one of the mountains, looms ahead. It’s lit by the dim lights embedded into it, but they’re impossible to see against the harsh morning sunrays. When I’m swallowed up, it’s like I’ve entered a vacuum. My senses are muted outside of the sensation of gripping my steering wheel. I remember to turn on my headlights as my heartbeat makes itself known, pounding against my rib cage. Finally, my eyes adjust.
“I’m in control of the car,” I say.
My Prius yanks right, taking me too close to the concrete wall.
“I am in control.”
I jerk left to compensate.
Right, left, right, left. My car keeps fighting.
If a police officer were around, they’d pull me over and try to give me a DUI, but I’m not drunk.
When I spot oncoming headlights, I gather my bearings. The car passes by me without incident, and I release a pent-up breath. I have one rule: never let them see me choke. If I pretend that I’m fine, everyone will pretend with me. If I slowly disappear, everyone will forget about me.
I’m failing at following my rule today. I have to make it through my senior year, then I can vanish. So, I make a deal with myself. I can go home, do whatever I think I need to do there, and then I’ll figure out what school I’m supposed to attend and go. I’ll tell Harvey I got lost when he asks about my reported tardiness.
Raindrop isn’t too far from Boulder, but it’s still a forty-five-minute drive. Harvey’s not going to buy my “I got lost” story if I continue, because I didn’t leave that early.
But I’m ten minutes from home.
“Turn back,” I mumble. “You can fix all of this if you turn back. What are you going to do when you get home anyway?”
Dad’s camouflage hunting jacket holds me tighter. The sleeves slip down to my fingers, covering them; it makes me look and feel like a child. I turn the air colder, blast it harder, because the fleece lining is sweltering. My sweaty hands are glued to the steering wheel, but I pry one off to grab Mom’s round locket hanging from my neck. The smooth, lukewarm gold meets my fingers. Check. That’s two items accounted for. My hand slides from the locket to my belt, where I’ve managed to stuff Corey’s slingshot. Check. I’m three for three.
I convinced Harvey, and my ex-therapist, that I’m not carrying these around anymore. I put everything away except for Mom’s locket, the one acceptable-to-wear item—until this morning.
The tunnel ends and the darkness recedes. Sunlight brings more heat, but soon enough I’m embraced by the shade provided by numerous quaking aspens. They’re the most prominent trees in Raindrop, tall and skinny with their white trunks. They’re always rattling that distinct song the wind plays on their leaves. I never appreciated them before, but my little brother loved them. My home is located on the outskirts of the valley, so the forest is accessible from the backyard. Corey would run through the aspens in his camouflage jacket or coat and melt against their trunks. Raindrop’s forest was his playground, the place he went to be alone with his dog, Rex. For hours. Sometimes, I thought he’d get lost forever or that he’d get killed by a black bear—though he always told me the odds of that were astronomically low.
I look through the aspens now, balancing the need to watch the road with the need to see Corey running, but he isn’t there anymore and Rex is at Harvey’s.
He’ll never be there again.
I’m half convinced I’ll find him if I look hard enough, though. I did spread his and our parents’ ashes in this forest. They were cremated and I didn’t want to bury them in the cemetery even though my parents had already bought plots for themselves in preparation for a far-off future. I think Corey preferred what I did. I know I did. I spread their ashes alone.
The memory of squealing tires echoes in my head. I shiver and roll down my window because suddenly the air inside my Prius is smothering, searing, as if it’s transformed into noxious smoke or gas. Screeching metal. Compacting, crushing, and cutting. Blood. So much blood.
“Breathe,” I say, and press my arm to my throbbing stomach and chest. “You’re okay.”
Houses peek through the trees on the outskirts, most commonly luxury chalets, but I’m safe from seeing any familiar faces. Corey would tell me that th
e aspens are protecting me. They’re concealing me from the people I used to know, the people who saw my breakdown at the memorial service. “It’s normal,” they said when it happened, but they don’t know the half of it. They don’t understand, not even my boyfriend or best friend, and make everything hurt more. I haven’t returned any of Johan’s or Sarah’s calls or texts all summer. They were persistent, the names I saw nonstop, but I’m immovable. Two weeks ago, names stopped popping up on my phone, if I even bothered to check it.
My fingers dig into the steering wheel, white-knuckled and aching as the joints lock up. I’ve embraced numbness and don’t know how to deal with this rush of emotions.
Why am I doing this to myself? I have a plan. Stick to the plan, Teagan. Go to school. Don’t come back here until you’ve graduated high school to appease Harvey. Feed him some story so he’ll keep Rex, pretend to move far away, talk less and less until he forgets you too. Then you can stay in your house and rot alone and die without causing anyone trouble. Don’t subject anyone to the pain you’ve been living.
I glimpse my house, the final destination on this road. It’s one of the luxury chalets with that outdoorsy stone-and-wood base. Harvey’s house has small windows. I forgot how small. My house has expansive windows, especially the ones that overlook the balcony that faces nothing but forest. It’s exactly how I remember it. The inside will be cozy but open with everything in its proper place, the way it was before leaving on our vacation to California. Corey was so excited about Disneyland, but we never made it.
I pull into the driveway and mentally prepare myself to enter my home. There will probably be a layer of gray everywhere since no one’s been here all summer, but it’ll smell like Mom’s favorite white-jasmine perfume. Or maybe that will have faded under the dust, too.
Ignoring my lightheadedness, I unbuckle my seat belt, open my door, and practically fall out of my Prius. A jacket pocket catches on the handle, yanking me back so that the concrete can’t bite me; it gently kisses my bare knees and hands. I blink a few times, orienting myself. Then I find my feet and slide the pocket from the door handle. I don’t lock up. I almost don’t remember to shut the door or grab my smartphone.
It’s cooler up here than it is in Boulder, and the aspens cast consistent dappled shadows, but sweat pours down my face. I avoid the front door and circle my house for the back, chin lifted. I envision Mom on the balcony when it comes into view, sitting on her favorite fir-wood rocking chair. Mom and Dad always tried to give Corey his freedom and space, but she’d sit out here, even in the winter, whenever Corey and Rex ran into the forest. She’d wait there until they returned, or she’d send me and/or Dad out to retrieve them.
I don’t see her chair. Harvey must have taken it inside.
I tap Corey’s slingshot against the trunk of our sugar maple. He made this slingshot by himself out of one of its branches. He was so proud, even pilfered Dad’s tools to do it. The memory coaxes a wobbly smile.
Mom made sure we all knew that our backyard is a backyard even though we have no fence separating it from the forest. That’s why we have this sugar maple, among other imported plants. Mom was dedicated to removing weeds and wild grass from our lawn, and she adored trimming the rosebushes lining the patio while sipping tea. We often spent evenings sitting around our fire pit, where Corey would have roasted marshmallows every night if our parents had let him.
The place should be overgrown, the forest moving in to claim the land, but it’s as though Mom never left. I wonder if Harvey’s hired someone to maintain it for me. Except something isn’t right.
This patio furniture isn’t ours.
CHAPTER 2
At the front door, I fumble with my cool key ring. The forest-green paint highlighting the door is vibrant, the brass doorknob shiny. I insert my key into the lock, twist, but it doesn’t fit. I check the key because maybe I picked the wrong one from my key ring, but I didn’t. This is definitely my house key. I try again and nothing. If this didn’t feel so real, I’d consider this a nightmare, but I’m not asleep. I’m sure of it. Pinching my skin yields a pulsing red mark on my forearm. It’s ugly, in a place anyone can see it. What if it scars?
I shake my head and drift to the nearest window. I press my face against the clear glass, though Mom would be displeased to see me do it. “Someone just washed those windows, Teagan,” she would say.
At first, I can’t process what I’m seeing inside. I blink repeatedly as if that’ll change things, but it doesn’t. None of the furniture is covered by sheets to keep off the dust. There isn’t a speck of dust either, but that’s because none of the things inside are mine. It’s all new, white, and arranged differently.
My fingers smash into the glass. My nails scratch against it, letting out little shrieks like the one bubbling inside my throat. This is my house. I own it. Mostly. My parents entrusted important decisions with my money and the house, everything I’ve inherited, to Harvey until I turn eighteen in April. He’d never betray me by selling my house. He’s not some wicked uncle like the stepmother in fucking Cinderella. This can’t be real.
“Wake up,” I say and pinch myself a second time. The next red welt to appear on my arm sends my stomach plummeting. Scars that never go away. A scene that won’t bend because this is reality. My fingers claw into my golden hair, ripping apart the tight ponytail I placed it in this morning.
Maybe Harvey knew I would come here all along. Maybe I haven’t been fooling him, but he isn’t making me go to therapy anymore because I convinced my therapist that I’m fine. I’m hyperventilating for no reason. There’s an easy way to resolve this: ask Harvey what the hell is going on.
Right. I can do that. It contradicts my rule and plan, the theme of the day, but I have to know.
I stagger away from the window and slip, landing ass-first onto a rosebush. Thorns jab my thighs and cling to Dad’s jacket and my hair. I repay the plant by disfiguring it and wearing its red petals like blood as I break free. I ruined one of Mom’s rosebushes, but I don’t care because she isn’t the one lovingly toiling over it anymore.
Tires grinding against asphalt and the low hum of an engine draw my eyes to the road. Someone’s coming here. They wouldn’t be this close if they weren’t. There’s nowhere else they can go because they didn’t take the turn a mile back. I scramble to the nearest, densest patch of aspens. I squeeze my body against one of the trunks, cover my head and part of my face with the jacket hood but don’t do anything more. I won’t be able to see and hear who’s coming if I retreat farther. I’ve got a decent view of the front of the house and the backyard.
Two cars roll into the driveway. The first is a nearly silent red Tesla Roadster. A new one. I thought those weren’t even in production yet. The other is a loud black SUV. They go around my Prius for the opening garage door. The hell? Who are these people?
The Roadster stops short of the garage. As the driver emerges, I see shined brogues, slim-fit trousers, and a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up just below his elbows. I’m as big of a sucker for this classy sexy look as any hot-blooded straight girl would be. He’s even left the top two buttons of his shirt undone. Those muscles are refined. His skin has that flawless uniform tan that makes me question if it’s a tan at all. Also, he’s wearing a Breguet watch. Pretty sure this guy is loaded and wants everyone to know it.
I rest my gaze on his face. It’s smooth and free of facial hair as if he shaved this morning, so the strong cut of his chin is evident. High cheekbones, straight nose … He’s been chiseled out of stone by a master’s hand. His dark hair is short, swept back in an almost lazy fashion, but everything about him is intentional. Except for his eyes, since he was born with those. Their blue-green color matches the forest. He seems familiar, but I can’t explain why. Maybe it’s because he’s the celebrity type.
This is the first time I’ve looked at a guy, really looked at one, all summer. I think he’s even my age. For a minute, I almost feel like myself again—you know, s
usceptible to eye candy—but then I remember my compromised house. This prick is a part of it. He closes his car door, and the Roadster drives inside the garage to park itself.
Two men wearing black suits exit the SUV, likely bodyguards. They’ve got the vibe—most notably that telltale bulge of concealed guns. Dad would be so proud of me for noticing. “That’s my girl,” he’d say.
“Who does this shitty car belong to?” Rich Prick asks, voice low, as he holds his hand out to indicate my Prius. My car is not shitty.
“Not sure, sir,” one of the bodyguards replies. He’s like a mountain, huge and bulky. His counterpart is short, almost laughably so, but he must make up for it somehow.
Rich Prick walks a slow circle around my car and Big Bodyguard continues talking. “You’ll be late for school if you don’t leave. Louis and I will take care of this.”
“No,” Rich Prick says. “Whoever it belongs to is here somewhere, and I want to know why. Don’t follow me. We’ll cover more ground if we split up.”
“But—”
“My father isn’t here, Manuel. That means I’m in charge. Or are you going to disobey me? Restrain me?”
“No, sir.” The bodyguard says something else too, but he whispers it and I’m too far away to hear.
“I know. Move.”
Rich Prick checks the front door, finds it locked, and loops around the side of the house for the backyard. His bodyguards hover a moment before dispersing.
Alone, Rich Prick checks the back door, which is also locked. He glances at the windows and then walks to the edge of the fire pit, where he stops. “I thought crime was nonexistent in this city. You haven’t broken in, though.” His hands stiffen, and then he starts cracking his knuckles. “A paparazzo, then?” He raises his voice. “Why don’t you show yourself so that we can have a chat?”
Crime? Broken in? A paparazzo? My blood boils. I’m not the one committing a crime and I’m definitely not taking candid photos. He’s trespassing, and I have my rights.
I draw Corey’s slingshot and grope around at my feet until I find a small rock that fits snugly inside its pouch. I pull it back, stretching the elastics as far as they’ll go, and release it with a snap. The rock shoots through the air and drills into Rich Prick’s right cheek all within the blink of an eye. His head jerks with the force and his hand rises to his face, gingerly touching the wound. He spits out a globule of blood, cursing. That’s going to leave a mark.
