Looking at myself in the mirror, I grimace at the sight before me. My cheek is swollen and there is bruising just underneath my eye. I still can’t believe that Graham hit me. He has always seemed indifferent; patient, but not angry or forceful by any means. We’ve been seeing each other for months, and he’s never tried to push me further than a goodnight kiss, until last night.
As soon as he saw Sloane standing across the room, he changed. He started groping at me a little more than usual, holding me closer to him, and his grip was firmer than ever. Then he hit me when I tried to end things. The anger that came pouring out of him was more emotion than I have ever witnessed in the years I’ve known him.
I feel out of sorts and frazzled—not just my face, but the rest of my appearance, too. I throw on a loose tank, tucking the front of it into my tight, dark wash jeans. I slip my feet into a pair of sandals and slide a big pair of sunglasses on my face to cover my bruise.
I promised that I would go to my future-ex-mother-in-law’s house today. While she probably won’t remember, I always make good on any promise I give. Plus, I want to see Kip again, find out if he knows anything else about Sloane.
Calling ahead to the place I know Kalli loves brunch from, I order for take-out. It’s not something they would normally do, but I’m a Huntington. I don’t have to even go inside. They send someone out to deliver the bags of food to me. My credit card is on file, so I don’t even have to pay for it right then. I hand the delivery girl a twenty, and then I’m off and heading toward the Huntington Manor.
The mansion is quiet, nothing like the hustle and bustle of the party last night, and I know that Kalli has requested that cleanup not start until after noon so that she can nurse her hangover. Looking down at my watch, I shake my head. It’s eleven, so she shouldn’t be too angry that I’m here.
Ringing the bell, I shift the bag of food to another hand and let out a breath as the door opens. I expect to see a staff member, but instead, I’m met with Kipling. I smile and he shakes his head slightly as he opens the door to let me inside.
“You left with Graham,” he points out. I nod as I walk into the kitchen, Kip on my heels.
“I also broke up with him,” I say, reaching for a few plates. “You want some brunch?”
“Nah, I ate,” he shrugs.
I don’t remove my glasses as I move around their kitchen. I’m all too familiar with the Huntington home. I spent my entire teenage years rooting through this kitchen with Sloane. I try not to let the happy memories flood my mind as I look for all of the things I need.
“You and Sloane, you’re going to work all this out, aren’t you?” he asks, sounding far too hopeful.
“Probably not. There’re just too many bad years between us,” I whisper, the heavy weight of that knowledge settling in my chest.
“Genny,” he rumbles, sounding so much like Sloane it makes me ache.
“When do you leave for Hah-vahd?” I jokingly ask, trying to lighten the mood.
“Couple of weeks.”
“Kipling, sweetheart, why are you still here? Don’t you have Rugby at the club?” Kalli asks as she floats into the room, wearing a floor-length nightgown and robe, looking as though she belongs in a soap opera.
“Yeah,” he grunts before he turns and runs off without another word.
“He’s a good boy,” she murmurs. I nod my agreement.
Her gaze swings to me and I watch as her eyes are scrutinizing as she looks at me, “Why are you wearing glasses? Take them off,” she demands. I take them off but keep my head down. “Let me see.”
Lifting my head, I let my gaze crash with hers. She doesn’t gasp in horror like I expect. Rather, she grabs ahold of my chin with her hand and assesses my face.
“Bring those plates upstairs and I’ll fix your face,” she announces as she turns and floats away. I stand for a moment in shock, then do as she’s ordered.
I’ve been with Sloane for years, and yet I’ve never stepped foot inside of Kalli and Sloane II’s master suite. It’s lovely. A little cold for my taste, but very lovely. I know that she’s had it styled by an interior decorator and probably changes it every couple of years, as my mother does with her entire house. Except for my childhood bedroom, something she hasn’t touched since I left home for whatever reason.
“Come in here and sit,” she orders from her bathroom.
I walk in and notice she’s standing at a makeup vanity. I set the plates down before I sit in the chair as I watch her arrange her makeup.
“Sloaney’s father has been known to have a heavy hand from time to time. Let me fix this so that nobody notices,” she says. My eyes widen in surprise.
“Sloane didn’t do this,” I inform her. She nods.
“Oh, I know my boy didn’t do this. Why do you think he hates coming here so much? Why do you think he’s always rebelled? His father hasn’t hit me in years. Kipling doesn’t know he ever has; but when we were younger, Sloaney saw much more than a child should have,” she says, sounding sad as she dabs makeup on my face.
“He never told me,” I whisper, feeling sad, so fucking sad.
“I know he didn’t. He wouldn’t. Sloaney is like me. He keeps everything inside. Probably why I drink and he does the many things he does,” she says, giving me a knowing look. “Those things being the reason you left him, I’m sure.”
I bite my bottom lip and worry it with my teeth as she works on my face. I feel sad and guilty. How did I not know this part of my husband’s life? All these years together and I didn’t know he’d been raised in an abusive household.
I know that in society we don’t speak of such things. They run rampant and everybody just turns a blind eye and gossips behind each other’s backs. A husband’s hand that’s a little heavy, a wife asking too many questions and getting put in her place, it’s common, but nobody mentions it.
Yet, how did I not know that Sloane had witnessed it first hand? How did he not trust me enough to tell me any of it? The thought makes my stomach ache. I don’t really know my husband at all.
“There. Flawless,” she whispers. I turn around to look in the mirror. I am, indeed, flawless. “Are you staying with Graham?” she asks as she picks up her plate. She leans against her vanity before she begins to nibble on her food.
“No,” I shake my head. “I broke up with him last night.”
“Good. He’s an asshole, just like his father,” she says, scrunching up her nose. I can’t help but giggle.
Spending the afternoon with Kalli turns out to be extremely pleasant. Maybe it’s the fact that I suffered at Graham’s hand and she opened up to me about herself and about Sloane, but something has shifted between us. Not that we ever didn’t get along, but now, it feels like a friendship has formed.
“Don’t let Sloaney walk all over you, but don’t give up on him completely either,” she whispers as she gives me a hug later that afternoon.
“I’m so tired,” I admit.
“I know you are, but you’re good for him,” she says as we separate from our embrace.
I purse my lips together, “What if he’s not good for me, though?”
“If you didn’t love him, you would have left a long time ago. Trust me,” she nods. “And if he didn’t love you, he would have let you.”
After our time together, I now see her in a completely different light. She’s not just some sloppy drunk, she’s nursing some deep hurts inside of her. I don’t necessarily agree, because her drinking has always made her a neglectful parent; but I now have a compassion for her that I never did before. You truly don’t know how someone else’s life is behind closed doors.
On my drive home, I think about her words. She’s stayed with Sloane’s father, not out of duty or standing, but out of love, no matter how much he didn’t deserve it.
In our world, love isn’t necessarily a factor in relationships; it’s about breeding, money, and power. It’s very aristocratic, and in a sense, we’re the American version of royalty.
Women are urged to marry men their fathers approve of, and men are urged to marry women whose families can help their careers or tie businesses together through marriage.
Sloane and I both rebelled, not only with being together, but for leaving society as well.
“Hello,” I say into my phone as I disarm my alarm, walking inside of my home.
“Graham called me this morning. You need to come down to my office,” my father announces.
I feel fear and panic prickle over my skin at the mere mention of Graham’s name. I’ve held it together so far since he hit me, but I can’t deny that I’m waiting for him to do more, to hurt me again. I’m terrified of what will happen if he gets me alone. I feel as though a rock has settled in my stomach, and I wheeze at his words.
My father doesn’t hit. He never has. Lifting a hand to do anything would be beneath him. No, my father mentally abuses and tortures. Before I had control of my own trust, he would try to control me monetarily.
I still don’t have complete and total access to my money, so he could very well still try that—but I have more than enough to live the rest of my life comfortably, so he can honestly keep the rest for all I care.
“I can’t today,” I lie.
“Of course not today. I don’t have an available appointment time for you today. Tomorrow. Lunch. Eleven-thirty. Meet me at Boulevard,” he announces before he ends the call.
I let out a heavy sigh and re-set my burglar alarm before I make my way upstairs. I’m completely and totally drained. I didn’t sleep much last night, and although it’s not even six in the evening, all I want is a hot bath and my warm bed.
Opening my eyes, I wait for that pounding pressure that usually follows, except it doesn’t. My head is completely clear. I’m completely sober, for the first time since being out. I had a few bourbons last night at my brother’s party, but I didn’t get tanked, knowing I had to drive home and having no desire to stay in the city for longer than I had to.
My phone rings and my brow furrows at who is on the other end.
“Mother?” I ask in confusion.
My mother never calls me. She’s usually too lost in her bottle to concern herself with anyone else.
“Are you going to let her get away?” she asks, not bothering to even greet me.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I grunt, though its none of her fucking business.
“Good. Whatever you do, you need to do it quickly.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Graham and her father are plotting something,” she states.
“I know. The fucking idiot told me everything himself,” I chuckle.
“You need to see your wife in the next day or two,” she says before ending the call.
I look at the phone in my hand, confused by her words and her insistence. My mother usually calls me for one reason and one reason only, to appear with her for whatever functions where we’re required to look like a happy family. Nothing else.
I get dressed and head down to the clubhouse on my bike. Shit is not sitting well with me. The things Graham said, the things my mother’s said—none of it. I’m not about to walk into a situation blindly. First, I need some information.
“Soar,” Camo greets as I walk into the clubhouse.
His woman, Ivy, is perched on his thigh, and I’m surprised to see that she’s pregnant.
“Hey, brother, congrats,” I say, lifting my chin to Ivy.
“Thanks,” he grins, placing his hand on her swollen belly.
“We just found out it’s a girl,” Ivy squeals. I can’t help but smile.
“Get your guns out, brother,” I murmur as I walk past them to MadDog’s office.
He should get his guns out, too. If his daughter is half as pretty as Ivy, he’s in deep fucking shit.
“C’mon in,” MadDog’s gravelly voice calls out.
Walking inside, I’m surprised to see he’s got a toddler in his arms. I can’t tell which daughter it is. I don’t know either of them, and it’s then that I realize exactly how long I’ve been away. MadDog has two toddlers and another baby on the way. My whole life stopped while everyone else’s kept moving right along.
“You still in contact with Russian’s tech guy, Oliver?” I ask, my eyes unable to move away from the little dark-haired girl in his lap. It hits me out of nowhere, I could have a whole brood of my own, if I wasn’t such a colossal fuckup.
“What’s wrong?” he barks. My eyes lift to his.
“My mom called me to talk about Genny. Normally my mom doesn’t care much what I do, but she sounded funny. Last night I confronted Genny and her new man, who I’ve known my whole life,” I explain. MadDog’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “He’s talked her father into releasing her entire trust fund to him to manage. He already told me he was going to transfer it to his off-shore accounts and leave her penniless,” I explain, leaving the part about giving her a couple of his kids out.
He doesn’t say anything for a beat, but I can see the cogs working behind his eyes, “I’ve never asked you details about your life, Soar. I know you come from some money. Especially based off of your car and Genny’s. But I think it’s about time you come completely clean with me about how much money we’re talking about here.”
“Genny and I both come from old money. I’m a Huntington,” I say. MadDog’s mouth gapes slightly.
“Fuck,” he rasps.
“Genny’s family has just as much as mine, if not more. We were raised in society, private schools, vacations to Europe, the whole bit,” I shrug.
“This guy wants her money, that it?”
“He’s from old money, too. Graham Bayard. He’s hated me and has competed with me since we were kids. Genny is just another competition to him, but he’d break her. He’d not only leave her broke but break her mind and body too,” I explain.
“Unlike the way you’ve treated her?” he asks, arching his brow.
“Never said I was a saint, prez; but what he would do, I can’t let that happen. I need more info. I don’t even know where she’s living right now. I need everything on her, her father, and Graham.”
“I do this for you, what are you going to do with it? Aside from deal with the situation. What are you going to do about Genny?”
I want to tell him to mind his own fucking business, but I don’t. I need him. I take him in. He looks a little older than he did three years ago, but he looks a fuck of a lot happier than he did before he married Mary-Anne. He doesn’t fuck whores that I know of, and he’s got a third baby on the way, in four years. Instead of looking miserable, he looks more content than I’ve ever seen him.
I wonder if I’ll ever be content. If I’ll be able to be that kind of man, now that I’m forced into sobriety. I wonder if I can do it, if I can really do it. Or if it will all come crashing down around me like a goddamn avalanche of shit.
“Getting her back and bringing her home,” I mumble, ignoring the churning in my gut.
“Going back to the way it used to be?”
I let out a breath and slide my palms against my jeans before I tap my fingers on my knees. “Can’t get fucked up, so no,” I bark. He stays stony faced and waits for my real answer. “Genny’s mine. Has been since she was fifteen years old. I haven’t been good to her, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love her. I do. I can’t let her go to some douche that I know is intent on causing her harm.”
“What you didn’t tell me in any of that is that you want to change or that you want your relationship to change. Don’t string her along for another twenty years and make her completely miserable, or yourself,” he says, cocking his head to the side.
“I’ll get you the info. Leave me their names. I’m doing this because I see past the bitch-shield Genny’s had up for years. I remember the pretty, sweet, young thing she was when you brought her here. I watched her change because of whateverthefuck you guys have going on between you. I’ll do this for Genny and because you’re a Devil—but I’m warning you, get your shit straight with her. Don’t waste anymore of hers or your own time.”
I leave his office. Without a glance at anybody else, I leave the clubhouse. I have to meet with my probation officer, but my mind is consumed with MadDog’s words. He remembers the young eighteen-year-old Genny, and it’s not lost on me that he attributes her bitch façade as being my doing. He’s not wrong, that’s the fucker of it all.
I did all this shit.
Me.
Sloane McKinley Huntington, III. A giant fuck up, just like my father. A name that hurts women one way or another for no reason other than they are supreme assholes. A name that I’ve never been proud of, not since I was a kid—not since I discovered just how fucked up my father is.
Not since I walked in on him fucking his secretary in the ass, her dead eyes aimed at the door. He didn’t stop, either. He finished, put his dick away and threw an envelope of cash at her head before he told her to get her whore ass out of his office.
Degradation, my father’s favorite fucking pastime. I was ten years old. He never once apologized. He told me when you have money you can do whatever you want, to whoever you want, and nobody can say a goddamn thing.
You fuck, you steal, you lie, you cheat, and you beat the shit out of your family—no consequences. Those were my life lessons as a kid. Those are the reasons I’m fucked in the head. Those are the reasons I rebelled and found dope, found a way to forget it all; and yet, it didn’t help me one fucking bit. Here I am, still a complete fuck up.