The Wright Boss by K.A. Linde
One
Landon
Fuck, my wife was ruining my life.
In fact, Miranda had been ruining my life since the day we met. I hadn’t known it at the time. I wouldn’t find out until much later. But, now, the fact was undeniable. Miranda was a cancerous cell eating away at my body. If I didn’t get away, she would destroy me.
My phone buzzed and I glanced down to find Miranda’s name on the screen.
For the hundredth fucking time.
“Fuck,” I groaned, ending the call.
She had been calling me nonstop since I walked out the door without her. But I had just landed in Lubbock on the last plane of the day, and frankly, I didn’t want to talk to her. Not after what she’d done. Not after what she had been doing to me for years.
Of course, I didn’t blame her for freaking out when I was on my way to my ten-year high school reunion without her.
I cringed at the thought. I’d wanted to come back for the reunion at the top of my game. I’d spent six years working as a professional golfer out of Tampa with a few PGA Tour victories under my belt, but I’d wanted to come home having won the Masters with my sexy wife on my arm, living the dream. I’d wanted to make my name as someone other than a Wright.
As proud as I was of my family and Wright Construction, the largest construction company in the nation, I wanted my own life. Now, I was returning at twenty-eight years old without my wife and with my golf dreams in ashes.
I shrugged off those depressing thoughts and exited the plane. The Lubbock Airport was compact, to say the least. I’d only brought a carry-on, so I bypassed baggage claim and exited the sliding glass doors out to my hot and dusty home. After Florida summers, where you drink the air, Lubbock felt more like breathing sandpaper.
A shiny red Alfa Romeo zoomed up to the spot in front of me, and my brother Austin rolled down the window. He honked the horn and flipped me the bird. He was two years older than me but frequently acted as if he were the younger brother.
“Hey, get in!” Austin yelled. He popped the button for the trunk.
“Nice to see you, too,” I said sarcastically.
“Where’s your other half?” Austin asked.
“Couldn’t make it.”
Sure, Miranda couldn’t make it. That was the lie I was going with for a woman who didn’t work, spent my money like it actually grew on trees, and was practically attached to my hip.
“Cool,” Austin said with a shrug.
I knew he was the only one of my four siblings who would buy that explanation.
I slid my suitcase into the trunk and slammed it shut.
“This car is so fucking tiny,” I said after I sank into the passenger seat. “The trunk barely has enough room for my suitcase.”
Austin zoomed away from the airport. “Keep complaining, and I’ll make you stay with Jensen.”
I sat back and stared out the window. “Yeah, I’d rather not have to hear him banging my ex-girlfriend.”
“I’m sure he could put your ass on the other side of the house. Then, you’d only have to imagine him with Emery.”
“Thanks. You’re really helping.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Austin said with a grin.
Even though my oldest brother, Jensen, had started dating my ex-girlfriend Emery eight months ago, it was a little weird for me. Not because I had feelings for her. But I couldn’t erase the two years we’d dated in high school. The whole thing had added to my irritation with Miranda. How could Jensen be so happy when I was stuck in a miserable, loveless marriage?
God, everything came back to Miranda. My phone even buzzed, as if she had known I was thinking about her.
I checked the message.
Babe, answer your phone. We need to talk about this. I cannot believe you left without me. What am I supposed to do?
Fuck that noise. I turned my phone off.
“God, can we get fucked up before this thing tonight?” I asked in desperation. Alcohol would numb the pain for a night.
“Now, that I can help with,” Austin said with a grin.
I probably shouldn’t be contributing to my brother’s alcoholism, but fuck, I needed a drink. Austin had been drinking heavily ever since our dad died ten years ago from an overdose. Golf had always helped me manage my vices and the characteristic Wright addictive personality. Without it, I didn’t know if I’d have ended up just like my old man.
Twenty minutes later, we showed up at Austin’s house in Tech Terrace. He’d had it gutted and redesigned after he closed on it. So, even though the construction was built in the sixties, the house was brand-new. It had the advantage of being located within walking distance of the best bars, which I thought was the reason he’d bought it. But this also meant I could walk my drunk ass to and from the reunion down the street.
Austin parked in the garage, and we entered the house. After depositing my suitcase in his guest bedroom on the first floor, I came back out to find Austin already at the wet bar. It was fully stocked with as much alcohol as the nearest liquor store. It even had some top-shelf whiskey that wasn’t available in stores but had to be purchased straight from the distributor. He took drinking very seriously. It was maybe the only thing he took that seriously.
Austin poured me a glass of whiskey, and I sank into the sofa. He crashed back into a chair and turned on the big screen to SportsCenter. It was at that exact moment when golf stats were on for the British Open, a tournament I should have been at.
I downed my entire glass in one gulp. “I’ll take another.”
Austin gave me a strange look, as if he knew something was wrong, but he didn’t say anything. He just changed the channel. “Help yourself.”
That was the best thing about Austin. He didn’t pry.
We sat around for a couple of hours, watching some baseball game neither of us cared about while drinking ourselves stupid. When it was almost time for me to go to Flips for the reunion, Austin finally turned to look directly at me.
“Bro, you should probably come up with a story to tell Jensen,” Austin said.
“About what?” I played dumb.
“Whatever the fuck you’re dealing with. You know he’s going to ask, and you’re a shit liar.”
“I’m not dealing with anything.”
“Like I said,” Austin said, refilling my glass one last time, “shit liar.”
I laughed and raised my glass to him. “Maybe I’ll tell him the truth.”
“Nah, you won’t. That’s not the Wright way.”
Now, that was a true statement. We were a family of five, ranging from thirty-three to twenty-one, and we hid the truth from each other like we had been made for it. We’d learned that from our long-ago dead parents. Our mother had never told us about her cancer, and our father had lied about the alcohol, even on his dying breath. Maybe it was the Wright way.