“Not here. Get your pretty little ass in the car so we can go home.” His eyes cut to mine, though it feels like they look right through me. “You too. Now.”
I stand there for a few extra beats, trying to understand what exactly is going on. Clearly, something has the two of them on edge, and immediately I’m flooded with apprehension, as irrational thoughts and fears resurface in my mind.
With a shaky hand, I pull open the back car door and climb inside, hunkering down low while Boyd shifts gears and takes off.
We speed through King’s Trace at a speed that feels illegal, though no one would ever dare give my brother a ticket. Even if he didn’t have more money than most of the residents here, the police are bankrolled by the Italian Mafia, the boss of which is a client at Ivers International, Boyd’s security firm.
Well, technically, the firm belongs to Fiona’s family, but still. Boyd’s pretty much the lifeblood of that place.
All of which I know only because I interned for him over the summer, familiarizing myself with the ins and outs of cybersecurity—and the personnel files, when he wasn’t looking.
Pine trees whiz by the windows as we weave through traffic, passing downtown as quickly as we enter it. King’s Trace really isn’t much—a dirty little conglomerate of poverty, with a couple of groceries and a host of different small businesses, all centered around the unnavigable Lake Koselomal.
It’d be quaint, if it wasn’t plagued by secrets, crime, and death.
When we pull up to the white bungalow we call home, my nerves stretch thin. Somehow, in the time I’ve been gone, I’ve been able to put off the bad memories associated with this place.
But my mother’s ghost hangs around like a woman scorned, looking for souls to blacken with her talons. She’s behind me as I slip from the back seat, fitting an invisible noose around my neck, cinching until I can scarcely breathe.
And then I’m reminded about last night. What it felt like to indulge in a man’s attention, let him want me for a few minutes while I pretended not to hate myself.
But I do. Always have, and if my mother’s presence is any indication, I probably always will.
Boyd opens the front door, and we head inside to the place where time seems to stand still; the walls are the same bland shade of beige, the brown afghan draped over the arm of the sofa just so—arranged by Fiona, whose obsessive-compulsive disorder keeps things particular.
Not clean, as the dirty dishes in the sink suggest, but in order.
I head for the stairs, gripping the rail in one hand, when Boyd stops me.
“Riley. We need to talk.”
My chest hollows out, air suddenly impossible to retrieve. Spinning around slowly, I see him and Fiona sitting at the oak dining room table. His hands sit in front of him, fingers interlocked, while she has a hand on his wrist, rubbing her thumb in small circles.
The gesture is inherently soothing, and it sends a spike of sourness through me. Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I abandon my suitcase and meander over to them, gripping the back of a chair.
“What’s up?”
“You tell me,” Boyd grinds out. “Want to explain what the hell you did last night?”
My eyes widen, flickering to Fiona. Resentment burns in my throat as she shifts, her eyes moving down to study the table.
Swallowing, my tongue darts out, tapping the edge of the scar on my mouth. Grounding myself in the present, rather than allowing the sudden pulsing coming from the ink on my thigh to distract me.
“That’s it, pretty girl.”
Delight hums through my veins at the memory, Aiden James’s praise forever seared on parts of my soul I hadn’t known existed.
But that doesn’t change the fact that it never should’ve happened in the first place.
Blowing out a breath, I squeeze the chair and lean into it. “Look, if this is about the tattoo, I—”
“The tattoo?” Boyd scowls, his mouth forming a harsh frown. “No, Riley, for fuck’s sake. This is about the fact that I woke up this morning to my sister’s face plastered all over the goddamn Internet, attached to claims of sexual assault by some celebrity I didn’t even know she knew. Fuck a tattoo.”
He pauses, tilting his head. “Actually, no, we’ll come back to that.”
“What?” My jaw drops, disbelief and confusion knotting inside my stomach. Reaching for my phone in the back pocket of my jeans, I quickly unlock it, opening up the first social media app my fingers find.
It’s the number one trending story.
Throat tight, I pull up the most popular article beneath the #AidenJamesIsOverParty hashtag, scanning the page.
A picture of my profile, as I stand at the East River while Aiden looks on, greets me at the top, and my insides wring together until I feel like I might explode.
“Early this morning, news outlets first reported the allegations of sexual assault and misconduct initiated by musician Aiden James, who is currently on tour promoting his most recent album, Rhapsodic Dreams, which hit number one on the best sellers chart in the US at its debut.”
Vomit teases the back of my throat, and my hands shake violently as I read the next paragraph.
“Though no charges have been made, authorities are looking into these allegations, which stemmed from an anonymous source stating that Mr. James disappeared from a charity banquet last night in order to engage in nefarious activities with a fan. Reportedly, the fan was not receptive to Mr. James’s advances, though we’ve not heard directly from the victim, who has yet to be named. More on this story as it develops.”
My heart pounds between my ears, and the phone falls from my hands to the floor. The clatter of glass hitting wood and shattering on impact almost drowns out the chaos forming in my head.
Like angry waves of deceit, reality crashes over me, and I sit stunned for several minutes, unsure of how to even proceed. My mind feels like a broken record, skipping on the portion of the article stating that I had a hand in this.