Fragile Things (Folkestone Sins Book 1) Page 8

  Unable to hold it in anymore, my laughter explodes like buckshot, and her oh so innocent façade cracks just a bit. Moving between Raff and Heller, I step to within an inch of her to make sure she gets the point.

  “You’re a fucking liar, Torsten. You know it, I know it, everybody in this room knows it.” The façade falls away even more, and the flush of anger starts to stain her neck and cheeks a mottled red. “They’re just all too chickenshit to stand up to you, and you’re pissed that Bradleigh isn’t.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Really, I don’t.” She laughs, flipping her hair in a ridiculous attempt at nonchalance.

  “There you go again. I think you’ve gotten so used to lying and manipulating everybody and everything around you that you don’t even know what’s real anymore. You actually believe your own bullshit, don’t you?” Leaning in a little closer, I lower my voice further. “You and I will never be anything. Don’t you get it yet?”

  “Your mother might have something to say about that.” She snarls back at me.

  “Fuck what my mother wants. She’s not the Heir. I am.” Leaving her seething behind me, I turn and head for the doors, my friends following close behind. Frustration and anger are warring for dominance in me, and something snaps. Silencing the voice in the back of my mind telling me what a colossally bad idea this is, I switch direction mid-stride and cross the hall to the girls’ restroom. Raff and Heller take up sentry points on either side of the door, and Payne just stands back, shaking his head and grinning. Shoving the door open, I find some perverse satisfaction in watching the four girls inside jump.

  I push myself harder, feeling my arms and shoulders scream in protest at the extra chin-ups. Counting out the last seven, I let go and drop to the mat below. One of the perks of my family having more money than they knew what to do with was this ridiculously huge house with this insane workout space. I swear, my father’s home gym is better equipped than most commercial ones, and he’s never here to use it. Lying here, my back and chest damp with rivulets of sweat after an hour and a half of push-ups, sit-ups, and chin-ups, I wonder what she would look like laying here with me, covered in an entirely different kind of sweat.

  Dammit. I knew toying with her this afternoon was a bad fucking idea.

  Groaning loudly, I shift as my dick reacts to the thought of her damp, naked skin.

  My thoughts are interrupted by doors slamming and glass smashing in the kitchen. Steeling myself for what I know is to come, I haul myself up and pad barefoot down the hall. I arrive just in time to hear my mother ripping into Marisol, our cook, for some imagined slight and rummaging through the walk-in pantry like she knows what she’s doing. Leaning against the counter and crossing my arms, I give the frightened cook a wink.

  “Mother, what exactly is the problem this time?” I ask. She leaves the pantry at the sound of my voice and pats her hair to make sure it hasn’t gotten mussed during her tantrum.

  “You would not believe the incompetence that’s running rampant in this house.” She turns on the cook cowering against the island. “You. Are you trying to poison me? How dare you try to serve this garbage?” She gestures to the pot simmering on the stove that’s filling the air with a delicious smell.

  “Ma-a-a-a-m,” the small woman stammers, “You asked f—” Her sentence abruptly ends when Eunice Halliday’s hand snakes out and slaps her hard across the face, the crack echoing in the cavernous kitchen.

  “Mother! Enough!” I step in between the two women, tucking the now crying cook behind me. Staring down the woman who gave birth to me, I can see her weighing the option of smacking me too, just for getting in the way. Drawing in a long-suffering breath, she instead flicks us away with her blood-red claws and stalks out of the room, sulking because her tirade got interrupted.

  “Thank you, Poe,” Marisol wipes her eyes quickly, embarrassed at crying in front of me. “Your mother is very angry today.” Offering a commiserating half-smile, I pat her on the shoulder on my way out of the room.

  “When is she not angry? Let me go shower and change, and I’ll be down for dinner, okay?” She nods gratefully and starts cleaning up the mess my mother made.

  I climb the winding stairs to my room in the east wing, each hollow footstep reminding me of how empty this house truly is. Oh sure, there are people here: Marisol, Javier, my mother’s saint of a driver, Hendrick, my father’s valet when he’s home and the house butler when he’s not, and a brigade of maids and gardeners. But there is no love here, no joy. My mother makes sure to drown it all in Glenlivet or Grey Goose, and my father uses business as an excuse to stay as far away from her as possible.

  When I was younger, I used to wonder why my parents were together since, even then, I could tell they didn’t like each other. Now I understand it’s more of a business deal, and just the way the founding families do things, but there is an undercurrent between them that carries something darker. An air of sadness lives in my father that he tries to keep hidden, and my mother is just a vicious, drunk socialite who likes to throw the Halliday name and money around.

  Slamming my bedroom door shut behind me, I strip my gray joggers and boxers off as I walk, and kick them in the direction of the closet. My phone connects automatically to the wireless Sonos system, and I step into the oversized glass shower to Bring Me the Horizon’s ‘MANTRA’ streaming through the speakers.

  With the hot spray pounding against my neck and back, my thoughts turn to a pair of stunningly violet-blue eyes, luscious tits, and a perfect pussy covered by lacy white panties.

  Poe Halliday, you are one stupid fucker. One tiny taste, and now you’re hooked. Fuck it. Fuck that. Maybe a release is all I need to get her out of my head.

  Leaning forward slightly, I plant the palm of one hand flat against the shower wall, while the other reaches down and firmly grasps the full wood I’m now sporting. Remembering how her soft curves felt molded to my hard planes at the airport, my hand starts to move. Remembering her damp panties clinging to her slit gets my hand moving faster until the thought of her warm, wet mouth wrapped around my dick has me throwing my head back, and I come hard, shooting all over the tiles in front of me.

  Breathing heavily, I close my eyes and duck my head entirely under the running water, enjoying the feel of it against my skin, but knowing it’s a poor substitute for her hands tracing lazy paths down my chest. A burst of agonized laughter escapes me.

  Well, that didn’t work. She’s still all I think about. This girl is going to drive me insane.

  Thoroughly irritated now, I shut off the water, make a half-assed attempt to dry off, pull on some jeans and a hoodie, and head downstairs for dinner.

  My mother has apparently decided to forego solid food this evening, likely in favor of her preferred liquid diet. Marisol offers to set a place for me in the elegant formal dining room, but I quickly put a kibosh on that, choosing instead to eat in the brightly lit kitchen while she chatters to me about her kids.

  Out of nowhere, a shriek of fury penetrates the bubble of pleasant calm I had been enjoying. Marisol’s eyes go wide with fear, so I get up and go meet Satan herself as she barrels down the hall clutching her drink, giving the kindly cook time to escape.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” The blistering rage in my mother’s eyes is something to behold, primarily because it has to be some kind of scientific marvel that they don’t explode in their sockets from the sheer force of her anger.

  “Find out what, Mother?” I sigh.

  “Don’t play stupid with me, boy. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She stops for a few mouthfuls of her dirty martini. “There is a Bradleigh Heir in Folkestone again.”

  I knew she was going to flip out.

  “Oh? There is? I hadn’t noticed,” I try to pretend I have no idea what she’s talking about, the dread starting to seep into me. “Anyway, so what if there is? What does it matter?” Jamming my hands in the front pocket of my hoodie, I brace myself for her answer.


  “You’re just like your father. A spineless, sniveling waste of skin, sniffing around a Bradleigh skirt.” Her tone is barbed and laced with loathing, and she actually spits when she speaks. She’s so mad and so drunk. “You should have been the one to tell me, so we could devise a plan to drive her out, just like her whore of a mother.” I flinch internally but keep my stare blank and my spine steel. “Instead, I had to hear it from Callum Torsten. At least he and his daughter understand what loyalty means.” She drains the last of her drink and stumbles only slightly on her way for a refill.

  “And what exactly does loyalty mean, Mother?” I ask her retreating back, regretting my words the second they leave my mouth.

  Fuck. You know better than that. Don’t engage the piss-drunk shrew.

  She stops and turns to face me slowly, her expression blank, and for a minute, I think I might get out of this unscathed.

  But only for a minute.

  “You dare to question me?” Raging again, her face pinches and twists, and her steps pick up speed and purpose as she strides toward me. I hold my ground, refusing to give an inch to this vile, hateful woman. “You will follow the plan. You will respect me as the only person in this family with the ability to do what’s needed. And you will keep your dick out of the Bradleigh trash. I will see to that.”

  With her bloodshot eyes narrowed in hate and her teeth bared in a terrifying mockery of a smile, she slams her empty glass down on the small table beside us, shattering it into glittering pieces. One slices directly into the palm of her hand, and she gives no indication that she even knows it’s there. Snarling her disgust at me one last time, she turns away, swaying toward her wing of the house and leaving tiny droplets of blood in her wake.

  She will see to that? What the fuck does that mean, and why does it make my skin crawl?

  My car took the brunt of last night’s shitty sleep on the drive to school this morning. Slamming through the gears and disobeying pretty much every traffic signal, stop sign, and speed limit, I’m surprised I didn’t end up wrapped around a tree.

  “Damn, bro, what happened to you? You look like shit.” Payne falls into step beside me as I walk through the main doors.

  “Don’t even get me started,” I growl, shooting him a dark glare.

  “That look must mean Eunice was in rare form when you got home,” he says knowingly. Out of all the guys, Payne is the one most familiar with the toxic flame-thrower that is my mother. He’s also the only one who has any idea she exists primarily on hate, plastic surgery, and booze.

  Grunting my agreement, I catch sight of glossy raven-dark hair alongside angelic silvery blonde moving in our direction through the crowd of students. Turning to my locker, head down, I hear Sunday’s chatter and Stella’s answering laugh as they pass behind me. My hand fumbles with the combination lock as the warmth of just hearing her voice floods through my veins.

  Fuck fuck fuck! When did I turn into such a needy asshole? I feel like a twelve-year-old with his first hard-on every time she’s anywhere near me, and half the time when she’s not.

  Pounding the side of my fist against the metal door hard enough to leave a slight dent, I close my eyes and force myself to calm down.

  “So. You going to tell me what that’s all about?” Payne leans his head back against the locker right next to mine, staring at the ceiling as he waits for me to answer.

  “Can I be honest?” My oldest friend doesn’t shift his position at all, just gives me a quick side-eye like I’m asking a ridiculous question I already know the answer to. It makes me grin a little. “What do you know about the history between the Halliday and Bradleigh families?” I ask, careful to keep my voice low. Adjusting his position to allow us to speak a little more privately, he answers in equally low tones.

  “Probably the same things you do. Up until our parents’ generation, the Bradleighs were the top dogs, and the Hallidays were their closest friends and allies. Isaac and Annah Bradleigh had two daughters, Catherine and Cecily, with Catherine chosen as the Heir. Some bad shit went down, and she disappeared, leaving her parents heartbroken and her family in tatters. I’ve heard my parents speculate that she never actually left. That she died in some gruesome way, and Isaac covered it up. Nobody seems to know the real story, though with New Girl showing up, it looks like the disappearance angle is more likely.” He shrugs.

  “Totally agree with you on that. Catherine left here alive.” I bite my lower lip, something about the whole thing bugging me.

  “All the founding families live by the same rule: once you’re designated the Heir, you wear that title until it passes down to your child on their eighteenth birthday. Not knowing what happened to Catherine, Cecily couldn’t and probably wouldn't take over the role when her sister disappeared. Without an Heir, the Bradleigh rule ended, and the Hallidays became the top of the food chain.” Payne finishes and waits for me to spit out the thought I’m chewing over.

  “There’s more to it. I’m positive. My mother has always made it crystal clear how the Bradleighs deserved to be destroyed. She practically foams at the mouth just hearing their name. Then, about three years ago, she started pushing hard for an alliance between our family and the Torstens.” I run my fingers through my hair, leaving unruly spikes, and Payne whistles softly through his teeth.

  “Jesus, Poe. You and Hali? That’s a horrifying fucking thought.” He shudders visibly at the idea.

  “No shit. I have nightmares about being shackled to the venomous bitch. One night when Mommy Dearest was drunker than I ever remember seeing her, I asked her why she was so hell-bent on me marrying Hali. She started mumbling about loyalty and an old debt before she passed out.” My hand curls into a fist, and vomit crawls up my throat in disgust at the thought of fucking Hali to produce the next Heir.

  “Last night, Eunice found out about Stella being in Folkestone, and legit lost it, right?” Payne rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully. “That tells me she knows Stella is for sure Catherine’s daughter and will take on the role of the Bradleigh Heir as soon as she turns eighteen.”

  “And my bitch of a mother is determined to drive her out of town before that can happen.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Thankfully, the remainder of the school week is mostly uneventful. The four of us girls eat lunch together both days, and the guys join us as well.

  Sunday, Roxy, and Aylie have all gone out of their way to make me feel as comfortable as possible in this alterna-verse I’ve walked into, and I’m more grateful to them than I could ever explain. Without them, I likely would have cut and run after my first day.

  The guys seem to have welcomed me into their circle too, with the glaring exception of Poe. He has gone out of his way, but only to avoid me since the little Bingham incident in the hallway on Wednesday afternoon. Every time I see him, I alternate between wanting to jump on him and sink into that sinful mouth of his, or throat punch him for being such a prick to me. He sits with us at lunch, but at the opposite end of the table, as far away from me as possible. Every once in a while, though, I catch him watching me when he thinks I can’t see him, and my pulse stutters at the mixture of hunger and anger swirling in his eyes.

  I’ve come to the conclusion that Poe Halliday is impossible and more fucked up than even I am, and I should just get used to him hating me and move on. Of course, that’s my logical brain talking, and neither my heart nor the rest of my body gives a shit about what I should do. Plus, I still owe him for that little oral stunt he pulled in the restroom the other day.

  By the time Friday afternoon rolls around, I’m tired and fidgety and so ready for this week to be over. Luckily, word of my spitting incident in the cafeteria hasn’t made it back to Cecily yet, and I’m proud of myself for not taking it further and knocking Hali flat on her ass.

  Exercising that kind of restraint deserves some weekend party fun, right?

  Sunday drops me off after school, only letting me leave the car after I renew my promise to go shopping with
her the next morning. I don’t have the cash to spend on new clothes, but I can window-shop and keep her company.

  Taking the stairs to my room two at a time, I huck my bag into the cavernous closet, wincing at the thought of the pile of homework I have stowed in it and telling myself that I’ll get to it later. I dig a pair of denim cut-offs and my only bikini top out, and after changing and tying my thick dark hair up into a messy bun, I head downstairs in search of my aunt. The kitchen is empty, but the giant sliding glass doors are open to the pool deck and the grounds, so I wander outside and find Cecily on a lounge chair at the poolside. She looks up from her magazine as I approach and tosses it on the small table beside her, giving me a big grin.

  “Ah yes, returned from the trenches, I see. How goes the battle?” she asks, tongue firmly in cheek. Dropping into the lounge chair beside her, I loudly puff out a lung-full of air through my pursed lips.

  “It’s going to take me forever to get caught up in my classes. I’m really trying, and I think my teachers recognize that, but there is a lot of work, especially if I want to go to college after I graduate. If I graduate.” I add a little dejectedly. Reaching over between the chairs, Cecily pats my arm reassuringly.

  “You’ll graduate. You’re a smart girl. Of that, I have no doubt.”

  The Pacific Coast sunshine warms my pale New York skin as I lie back in my chair. With October only a week away, back home, the persistent humidity of the summer will be gone, and the chilly nights will be settling in.

  I wonder if I’ll miss that. Fall in New York is beautiful.

  We sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to the lazy hum of a faraway lawnmower and the chuckle of the waterfall as it spills into the pool.

  “Cecily?”

  “Mmmmmm?”

  “Do you know the Hallidays?” I feel my aunt tense. She’s quiet for a few beats, and I’m not sure she’s going to answer me. When she finally does speak, her careful words are in a purposely neutral tone that I’ve not heard from her before.