The bed is impeccably made, covered with a quilt, pale yellow and bordered with bluebirds, a gift from me for her birthday a couple of years ago. I lie down right on top of it, breathing in lavender-scented laundry detergent and a vague hint of Jules’s floral perfume as my cheek finds her soft pillow.
“Put your seatbelt on, Gretch.”
“Gretchen, you’re going to be an aunt!”
“I love you, little sister.”
I can only whisper back at the memories.
“I love you too, Jules.”
Then I turn my face toward the pillow to prevent the sound of my sobs from carrying down the hall.
4
Trent
Covering up the scars with tattoos would probably stop the questions that inevitably come whenever I take my shirt off.
But I haven’t done that yet and I don’t plan to.
About two years ago I was briefly involved with a med school student who aspired to be a plastic surgeon. She was especially fascinated by the web of cuts on my back and the healed burns on my chest, all faded but still noticeable. She would flick her tongue over them and sadly mutter about what a shame it was to blur such a perfect body. She wanted to fix me, or at least fix my scars. Every time she started talking like that, I would roll her over and fuck the thought right out of her silly head.
Because I’m no one’s fucking project.
And although I’m unwilling to curl up in a woman’s arms and sob over my past trauma, I don’t want to erase it either. I’m not going to forget.
I’m not going to forget that I was taken from my home and from my father on the basis of a heinous lie. I don’t want to forget that there’s a piece of hell in the northwestern corner of Colorado that used to be called The Tavington School.
This is where I learned at the age of sixteen that survival isn’t inevitable and there’s really no such thing as friendship. Loyalty kind of falls by the wayside when the choice is between getting the shit kicked out of you or kicking the shit out of someone else. Fifty miles from any hint of civilization, Tavington wasn’t cheap and it was designed to break the spirits of delinquents who were in the habit of causing embarrassment for their wealthy families.
I would have been better off in prison. At least in prison there is some oversight.
No electronics were allowed, and no contact with the outside world. Visits were infrequent and closely monitored, not that it mattered. I had no visitors. The only one who might have tried to visit was Danny but he was just a kid himself so it’s not like he could hop on a plane to Colorado and demand to be let in. There was no way out and trying to escape only made things worse.
I should know. I literally have the scars to prove that.
My father had been in the ground for six months by the time I was told of his death. I was never given a chance to say goodbye. There was no opportunity to attend the funeral. Liam managed to get the will changed, leaving me out entirely.
My father bore no responsibility for any of this. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s shortly before my dumpster fire of an older brother saw his golden chance to swoop in and seize control of the family business.
Liam, fifteen years older and always a major asshole, was someone I hardly ever saw while growing up. He hated my mother, hated me more, and would only remind us he existed when the time came to beg for money.
My dad was hurt by this but would make excuses, saying Liam was just messed up because his mother had always been a spiteful bitch. He blamed his ex-wife for twisting his firstborn son’s mind against him. He gave Liam too much credit.
When my dad’s mental state really started to go downhill, he was thrilled when Liam wanted to move in and manage the brewery.
I was less thrilled but figured as long as Liam kept his nose out of my ass then we’d learn to tolerate each other. We’d have to. Because the plan had always been that someday we’d be running Cassini Brewery together.
That, however, was not Liam’s plan.
Liam had already decided he didn’t want to share the crown with the snotty teenage half brother he didn’t care to acknowledge. And if he could add to my suffering along the way, then so much the better.
I should be grateful that I’m still breathing. If I’d been a casualty of Tavington, no one would have done much about it. I’d already been thrown away, a supposedly violent kid with no redeeming qualities.
Not a day passes that I don’t wonder about my father’s final months. I wonder if he really did die in his sleep. I wonder if there were moments when he remembered me after I was hauled away in handcuffs.
Liam’s not about to answer those questions so I’m not here to ask them.
I’m here to take the only fucking thing he actually cares about.
Maybe reclaiming my birthright and handing out a dose of revenge is the key to cracking the iron shell I’ve become. The years keep passing with no color, no flavor, and something has got to change.
I make money, lots of money, and I’m good at it.
Sometimes I fuck around. Not extensively, but enough. No one keeps my interest for long.
I have no family.
I love no one and no one loves me.
Now and then the uncomfortable thought creeps in that these facts should feel disturbing. The thought is especially strong when I remember my mother. She had the gentlest heart of anyone on earth. If I don’t shift gears somehow then I’ll be alone and detached until I die.
Whatever you call the ability to form meaningful personal connections with people is a quality I don’t have. Or a quality I lost when I was exiled to Tavington. That’s one more reason to hate Liam. And I do fucking hate him. The name of the company I started is Payback Properties.
The sound of my phone vibrating on the bathroom sink ends this spell of brooding in front of the mirror. I cover my chest and my scars with a black hoodie and press a button to answer the call on speaker.
“Heads up,” says Darren Graves. “He called this morning. You’ve been spotted in town.”
Darren was once my dad’s attorney and now he’s Liam’s. I’m sure he’s breaking a ton of ethical rules by playing double agent but he gets paid handsomely for his risk. I’m also aware that Darren thinks Liam is one fucked up set of baggage and won’t mind seeing him fall. Darren’s given me a lot of ammunition to help make that happen.
“What story did you give him?” I ask.
“The one we discussed. I said you called recently for a friendly chat and mentioned being homesick for Lake Stuart. He knows you’ve made a killing in southern real estate and his books are in such sorry shape that he’s desperate enough to try to get a piece of that. I expect he’ll be paying you a visit real soon.”
I’d rather not see that bastard knocking on the door to my house. My mother’s house. I’m more apt to lose my temper if he catches me off guard.
“I’ll get to him first,” I tell Darren. “Keep me updated.”
“You know I will.”
I end the call without saying goodbye, knowing Darren won’t be bothered.
Then I check the time and consider my options. This is midmorning on a Wednesday. I’ve been informed that Liam still likes to make a show out of occupying our dad’s old office during the week under the pretense that he’s doing something useful. Since I’ve landed back in Lake Stuart I’ve diligently avoided that eastern corner of town at the base of Rosebriar Hill. Today I’ll stop avoiding it. Today I’m going to walk into Cassini Brewery for the first time in eight years.