Unraveling Blake Earnshaw Book 1: The Rich Prick

by Keilan Shea

  On Friday, I got stares, and so did Earnshaw. This is nothing new, or so I tell myself. The auditorium is a pool of unease, maybe even hostility, and I’m drowning in it. One gaze in particular has my skin crawling. William is seated a couple of rows in front of us. The people around him aren’t on the football team because he’s been ostracized, and they lean away from him as if he’s a corrosive acid. He has a bandage on his nose. His glare is locked over his shoulder—on me—and his eyes are black in the dim light, glinting like polished coals.

  Sarah clears her throat and whispers to me. “He blames us for what happened at the party. You, mostly, since he thinks you own me and Johan or something. He suspects we rigged the game. That and, well, Johan got rapid-fire questions about you after we left the party. I hear Will was being especially nasty, saying things like Johan has a bad temper and was abusing you because ‘just look at my nose.’ Johan blew up and told everyone what he did to me, and since Johan has a billion times more credibility than Will, Will was outcast.”

  “Good,” I say. “Maybe he learned his lesson.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve never seen him so angry.” Sarah shrinks, shoulders hunched. “I wish we hadn’t done it.”

  “Don’t say that. Everyone is on your side.”

  “We started a fight.”

  “He started the fight.”

  Sarah laces her fingers in her lap and her spine snaps up board straight. “You’ve changed, Teagan. It’s as if you want Will to suffer.”

  I bite my tongue to stop myself from retaliating. What we did to William is something I would have come up with before the accident, right? I didn’t prepare the chili juice for him, but William hurt Sarah. I would have done it. It’s not because of Blake Earnshaw. My mind oscillates, and I can’t come to a conclusion.

  Thankfully, the gloom dissipates some when Sarah says, “Remember Coach Brown wants to see you after school today.” She flashes her sunny smile. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “I won’t forget,” I reply, even though forgetting is what I want to do.

  ***

  Blake Earnshaw resumes his fake princely image. He’s gone from a nightmare to a dream, and I guess some people are stupid enough to believe it. He draws the most attention, allowing me to perfect the art of disappearing around a corner or into some utility room to escape anyone calling my name outside of class.

  Getting out of school is what I imagine being freed from prison feels like. I dive into my Prius, start the engine, and ignore my shaking hands as I grip the steering wheel to maneuver out of the parking lot. But I can’t do it. There are too many people around. I could hit anyone. Slumping back into my seat, I decide it’s better to wait until the congestion clears.

  I put my car in park, turn off the engine, and lean against the top of the steering wheel to avoid touching the horn. I want to cover my lap with Dad’s jacket and trace the shape of Corey’s slingshot, but I resist. I can’t drive with them there and I can’t wear them where all these people can see. I shouldn’t, anyway. My fingers itch for the camo, but then my phone vibrates inside my backpack. Contorting my body, I reach for the back seat to retrieve it.

  I’ve got a text from Harvey. Did you talk to Coach Brown?

  Shit. Guess I’m going to Gym C. And, of course, it’s like entering the school all over again. Only the entrance doors are open and they’re guarded by police officers who require your student ID—and your name on a roster.

  “Your name isn’t on here,” one says, checking his tablet. He’s younger. I don’t recognize him or his same-age partner, so I can’t expect them to know me.

  “Coach Brown told me to see her after school on Monday before lockdown was a thing,” I say and secretly hope there are no exceptions to these new rules.

  But luck isn’t on my side. A hand drops onto my shoulder, and it’s Coach Brown’s. Her dark hair is contained inside a slick braid; it’s so tight that it’s tugging on her face, stretching out any wrinkles in her skin. “Sorry about that,” she says. “Teagan’s name will be added after I speak with her.”

  “Understood,” the police officer replies and allows us both inside.

  Each step Coach Brown takes is snappy and charged like a drill sergeant’s as she marches into her junk-everywhere-but-actually-organized office. I barely glimpse the gym before I’m sequestered behind a shut door.

  “Have a seat,” Coach Brown says as she unzips her black track jacket and sits behind her stainless-steel desk. She folds her arms in front of her as if we’re about to have a serious conversation. She doesn’t blink, and I fidget. She became my team’s coach last year, but she hasn’t lost her intensity.

  I do as I’m told.

  “How are you, Teagan?” she asks.

  “Great.”

  “Are you? I want you on the team, but recent events—”

  “I’m not going to get drunk and make an idiot out of myself again. I learned my lesson. I promise.” Wait. What? She said that she wants me on the team. I shake my head. “I forfeited the season.”

  “If we whip you back into shape, I’m sure I can find a way to bend the rules. Our first competition is in a couple of weeks. You’re extremely talented, and I’m confident that’s enough time. This team is better with you on it. You’ve been with many of its members for years. Morale plummeted when you left. Mia is doing a fine job as captain, but that spark she and everyone else had when you were here has disappeared. We all miss you. We’re a family, too, Teagan. We stick together during rough times. At the very least, I know everyone would prefer you sweating off your problems to drinking them away. So, what do you say? Are you ready to come back?”

  “You really think I’ll be fit for the season within a couple of weeks?” I ask, flabbergasted. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I haven’t done anything all summer. I’m kind of skinnier than I should be.”

  “Let’s throw you in and see how you do. I’ll make adjustments from there, all right?”

  No. It’s not all right. Playing along in the background is one thing, but this amount of pressure is another. Hell, what’s another obstacle? I understand. I can’t get my plan on track when it didn’t begin on the rails. I’m careening down a mountain without a clue as to what I’ll crash into next. I was going to do it, too. I was going to fade out into nothing, and then Blake Earnshaw happened. Now things are bad enough that Harvey’s ordered a therapist and a psychiatrist. I’m destined to go out in a spectacular explosion, burning everyone around me when I do.

  I force a twitching smile. “Thanks, Coach Brown.”

  “Let’s share the good news.”

  I hide in her shadow like a shy little kid, surfacing only after she takes my shoulders to place me in front of her. Then she does the unspeakable. She recites what she told me, but without any of the questions. It’s fact and everyone has to accept it. Some of my old teammates do. Sarah starts the applause, hugs, and welcome-backs. About half of my team joins her willingly, while the other half lingers by Mia, whose arms are folded until Coach Brown insists on applause.

  I consider running when I’m finally allowed to change and tell Harvey the “good news.” I don’t, though. They’ve all seen my scar, so that isn’t an excuse. I present myself in the same sports bra and form-fitting shorts Sarah left in my locker before. (Why did I toss these into my backpack?) Then I grin and bear the humiliation from eyeballs that can’t get enough of the ugliness. Ironically, that isn’t the worst of it. My flexibility, stamina, and strength are shot. I did fine on that hike with Harvey, but we went slow. Practice makes me sweat out all of Bloom Lake. My heart hasn’t had to work this hard in three months, and it reminds me of that by screaming. Somehow, I endure to the end—mercifully, Coach Brown cuts practice fifteen minutes short.

  “The first day back is always the hardest,” Coach Brown tells me after dismissing us.

  I respond with a noncommittal grunt and drag myself to the girls’ locker room. I’ve figured out how to pad my cut pretty well, but it
’s sore. However, it isn’t bleeding.

  “I gotta go ASAP,” Sarah says when I’m sitting on the bench rather than changing. “Coach Brown just called my mom, because I am grounded, to tell her we got out early.” She grabs her phone when it buzzes. “I’m coming home right now. No, I’m not hanging out with friends. You want to talk to Coach Brown again?” She trudges back into the gym and I suddenly find myself surrounded by Mia, Eve, and Zoe.

  “How the mighty have fallen,” Mia says, freeing her hair from her bun to brush the silky auburn waves. “But that doesn’t matter when you’re the favorite, does it? Everyone bends over backward for you. The whole damn school has.” She turns on her heel to assess her makeup in a mirror. She caked it on again, so it didn’t come out of practice unscathed. Her face is melting.

  Eve sips her imported water and mumbles, “We’ve been working hard nonstop.”

  Zoe shakes her head. “Let’s go.”

  If even Zoe is pissed at me, the majority of the team doesn’t want me, but I’m stuck unless I’m ready to detonate.

  I don’t change. I slip out of Gym C without saying a word and without garnering any more attention. One thing is in my favor today: the back doors are only locked on the outside. I hold on to Mom’s locket during the uninterrupted walk to my Prius. Once inside, I ignore the heat and bundle up in Dad’s jacket. Corey’s slingshot presses snugly against my heart when I yank the zipper toward my chin. I sigh, drop my clammy hands onto the steering wheel, and say, “Let’s go home.”

  CHAPTER 22

  My chalet peeks through the trees, the last stop on this quiet road. Soon I’ll pull into the driveway, walk inside, and plop onto my soft bed. When I wake up, it’ll be to the smell of a tasty dinner: Mom’s creamy herb chicken. Dad and Corey will be seated at our tree-trunk dining table and Rex will already be begging for scraps. They’ll all greet me with a smile and ask, “How was your day?”

  I blink and find myself parked in the driveway behind a black SUV. That’s not right. Where’s Dad’s police truck and Mom’s—

  Screeching metal claws my eardrums. I cover my ears with my hands and fold into myself as heat creeps inside my sleeping Prius and underneath Dad’s jacket. Sweat drips between my boobs and down my stomach. Unless it’s blood. It could be blood. It accumulates, tracing a specific line on my body—where my scar is.

  A furious series of knocks and then bangs join the screeching. I tighten my fold as if that will be enough to protect me.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Miss Hackett.” A booming voice says; it has the mountainous quality of a giant.

  I clutch the steering wheel, using it to ground myself, and rise. A huge man is hunched near my window and his face is visible through the glass. His skin is naturally dark, but the shadows cast by quaking aspens, or maybe the reflections from all the surrounding lush forest greens, give it this unnatural undertone, as if he’s cosplaying one of those fantasy creatures Sarah loves. Orcs, that’s what they’re called.

  “What’s going on?”

  Those words slide my fractured thoughts into place and yank me back into reality, because they belong to Blake Earnshaw. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt, sporty shorts that are ideal for lounging, and no shoes. He’s so normal like this. Except for the dullness in his usually lustrous forest eyes and that bruise on his supple skin … It’s worse today, the bruise. It’s a deep purple that draws out the dark circles under his eyes.

  “Hackett,” Earnshaw says when he’s next to Big Bodyguard.

  I say nothing. I focus outside of my windshield, angling my face to better see the windows illuminating the second story of my chalet. Its innards aren’t clear from this angle, but there’s stark white; it’s cold instead of warm.

  Earnshaw follows my gaze and shoves his hands inside his pockets, while Big Bodyguard readies a sleek black phone. “Manuel, stop,” Earnshaw says as he moseys to the front door. “Let her be.”

  “But, sir—”

  “It’s her house. I don’t care what she does. Leave her alone.” Earnshaw slips inside my home without another word.

  Big Bodyguard’s counterpart shows up then, as a reflection inside my rearview mirror. The men in black suits exchange silent words with subtle nods and resume their, I assume, posts. Big Bodyguard sits on a stool in front of the garage. Small Bodyguard walks behind the chalet and eventually pops out on the other side, trapped in a loop circumnavigating the premises.

  I want to go inside, but Harvey will worry if I don’t text to tell him I’m on my way to his place. My phone buzzes as if to confirm that thought. You didn’t check in, but practice should be over.

  My thumb hovers above the phone’s glass face as I consider my reply. I went home. I won’t be long. Blake’s letting me see the place on friendly terms. You said not to fight with him and I’m not. I’m trying a different approach. I’ll be back for dinner.

  Other than taking my phone and key fob and stuffing them inside a couple of the pockets on Dad’s jacket, I leave my things in the car. I rub my thumb across Corey’s slingshot before placing it inside the inner pocket near my heart. Mom’s locket beats against my chest in time with my heart as I approach the front door. Holding my breath, I rest my hand on the cool brass doorknob. I twist slowly. When I meet no resistance, I twist faster. The door opens with a soft click. I enter the lit area and breathe in, expecting the scent of Mom’s favorite white-jasmine perfume. I get fresh linen.

  Rustic decor, organic shapes and smells, has been replaced by the hard and simple lines of a ritzy contemporary style. It somehow matches the chalet’s clean-cut base, but it’s wrong. It makes the wood appear fake. It’s so shiny, too, as if someone didn’t sleep until they obsessively polished the very depths of the structure.

  I kick off my shoes at the entryway and step onto the smooth floor. The wood feels the same, at least. I smoosh an imprint of my foot into a plush white rug that has that distinct new-carpet smell. There isn’t a speck of dust anywhere. I lift my head and my mouth drops open. Oh my God. Is that a grand piano in the living room? I flop onto its firm bench and rest my fingers on its ivory keys. I press one finger down softly and a pure tone whispers in response. I release the key and press down again, hard this time, and that note resonates.

  I saw Blake Earnshaw play the piano when Mom and Dad were watching TV once. The Earnshaws excel at anything they try. That was what the program’s host said. Though the Blake I know looks the same as the one on TV, he acts nothing like him.

  I’m no fangirl, but I know Blake Earnshaw is portrayed by the media as a charming prince with the fairy-tale romance, who wears his money but doesn’t flaunt it. He’s the humble, palatable, rich-as-hell oldest son of a picture-perfect family. That’s what I and everyone else have been led to believe is true, because that’s the Earnshaw name. They’re beloved celebrities without fault.

  Until you meet one in person and know things you shouldn’t.

  The hiss of water sloshing through the pipes draws my eyes to the ceiling. Blake Earnshaw is taking a shower. I shouldn’t go upstairs, but I find myself at the foot of the staircase. I rest my hand on the balustrade and climb. Morbid curiosity brings me to Corey’s bedroom first. It isn’t a bedroom anymore. It’s some sort of surveillance room. Monitors are mounted on the far wall, showing live videos from several different angles outside of the house. Where the hell are all those cameras? I didn’t see any.

  My breaths come in fast and shallow, so I smash Corey’s slingshot against my chest and slam the door shut. It helps some. The panic ceases before I become lightheaded. I should go now, but my feet betray me by dragging me to my room next. It isn’t a bedroom either. It’s a study. A large white desk and whole-ass filing cabinets line the walls. Simmering rage cuts through numbness and demands clarity. Action. I tear through the room, pulling out drawers and scattering papers, sullying this pristine space made off-limits to a commoner.

  The next drawer I toss pops out a flurry of tacks. They scatter and roll
across the floor, the sound of hail dive-bombing rooftops. Some scratch the wood or even get stuck inside of it. I tiptoe around them and gather a handful before stomping toward my parents’ room. The shower spray is louder outside their cracked-open door. I push my way in. A king-size bed sits in the center of the room, where Mom and Dad’s was. It throws me off at first, but the bedspread is different, white with a gray duvet instead of forest green. The mattress is a different height. The bed frame is painted metal instead of wood.

  I grind my teeth and drop the tacks in front of the closed bathroom door. The gap between the door and the floor is large enough that the tacks won’t be swept away when it opens. Fuck you, Blake Earnshaw. Fuck you.

  My eyes blur with tears. I intend to leave, but my knees hit my parents’ bed instead. Not my parents’ bed. I drop onto the firm and soft mattress, crawl forward until I’m in the middle and bathed in sunlight, and hug my knees to my chest. Dad’s jacket still vaguely smells like him because I haven’t washed it, but another scent mingles with it. It’s smoky and woodsy, almost like a sweet campfire. Or maybe it’s more like cinnamon.

  The water stops running. I sit up in time for the door to open with a puff of steam—and for Earnshaw to take his first step outside the bathroom; it’s punctuated by a clipped out “fuck!” He’s got several tacks in his right foot. He balances on his left and leans back against the bathroom counter to extract them, one by one.

  Now is the perfect time to make my exit—my last chance, really—but I don’t move. I’m stuck on his long-leg boxer briefs. I expected a towel, maybe complete nudity, but he’s dry and wearing underwear. It must be because he left the door ajar. Maybe he suspected I’d snoop in here, but the Blake Earnshaw I know doesn’t give a damn about propriety. He knew I was being a voyeur at the party and did nothing about it.

  “I’m tired of your shit, Hackett.”

  “Then the feeling is mutual.”

  “Why are you still here?” Earnshaw gathers the tacks and tosses them into a white trash can.