Twenty - Kholton
“Where’s my son?”
Hidden Hills,
Los Angeles
I’ve been standing on the front steps of the Capshaw residence for the past ten minutes. Just staring at the door.
Over a decade has passed since I’ve seen this door. Black, custom wrought-iron, frosted glass, and a golden knocker of a roaring lion.
I don’t miss it. I’ve outgrown it. It doesn’t feel right to be here.
Why did I come? Because he summoned me? Am I still a boy—his boy—or am I my own man?
Where are your balls, Khol?
Baron Capshaw has them.
From inside my pocket, my phone buzzes. I get it out and my idiotic heart skips a beat when I see her name.
Serena: Hey. Just messaging to say “Hey”.
I’ve not seen her in over a week. More unplanned, extensive business traveling came up, which meant studies had to be placed on hold. No biggie, though, as it ended up working out perfectly for my own unplanned trip here.
I clear the text without replying. Forget texts. I like eye contact and tactility. I like scents and sounds and honest reactions. I can’t get any of that through texting, so why bother? Besides, what the hell do I even text back? It’s not like she’s my woman. She’s not even my friend.
Were she in front of me, I’d slam her up against me and kiss her until those lips are red and swollen. But she’s not and texting is bullshit.
Pocketing my phone, I continue the rest of the way up the steps and jab a finger at the doorbell, fighting the urge to turn around and get the hell out of here.
It’s quite a few minutes before the door swings open and my dumbass older brother is standing there. Caleb Capshaw.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen this clown. That was back when he wore tight jeans and backward snapback hats. Now he’s dressed as if he’s about to go on the golf course, in polo shorts and a diamond sweater, socks up to his knees. No doubt he made this pathetic transition after I was disowned to prove to our father that he’s capable. Suck up.
“You look like a douchebag,” I greet, brushing past him into the house.
His body rotates from the impact of my shoulder brush, and he just stands there, speech impeded, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
White-knuckling the door handle, he looks me up and down, blinking a few times as if to ascertain I’m real.
“What on earth did you do to your hair?”
I laugh. “Hello to you, too, big brother.” Then, because I’m a softie who loves his family no matter what, I grab him and wrap him into a hug. “Good to see you, Caleb. You look healthy.”
Pre-ostracism, we weren’t exactly close. Considering he’d been a perpetually absent street rat when I lived here, we didn’t do much brotherly bonding. But it feels good to see him.
Our hug is awkward and stiff, but I don’t care.
When I pull away with a slap on the back, he clears his throat and closes the door. “What…what are you doing here, man?”
“What do you think?”
He swallows. “Dad summoned you?”
I snort at the word ‘summoned’. “Like I’m his bitch.”
Caleb looks panicked, confused and I know why. It’s good, though. It’s good that he’s about to see what a piece-of-shit asshole his father is. If he didn’t “get it” when the man disowned his own son, then he’ll damn sure get it now. He wasted his time sucking up to that heartless man.
I glance around the grandiose foyer. Not much has changed. It’s still grandiloquent and boastful, with marble and gold and over-the-top grandeur. It makes me sick. “Are Mom and Cammie here?”
“They’re in Texas.”
“Doing what?”
“Helping out at some charity bookstore, I think. Bookworm Box or Wormbox Books or something. Not sure.”
Figures. Of course my father would call me here at a time he knew my mother and sister wouldn’t be around.
Irritated, I turn in the direction of his office.
Caleb hurries to catch up with me. “Dad didn’t tell me you were coming.”
I scoff. “Of course he didn’t.”
“He’s sick, you know,” he informs me.
“So I’ve heard. But that’s none of my business.”
“None of your business?” He laughs bitterly. “We both know why he called you here.”
“Caleb, chill.” I sigh. “I’m not here to rain on your parade. I’m not interested.”
He hisses, “Then why did you come?”
I stop and turn to face him. “Because he’s dying. And as much as I hate him, he’s still my father.”
Cursing under his breath, he flounces off ahead of me.
He reaches the office before me and rents the door open without knocking. “Guess who’s here, Dad,” his voice travels from the room with sloppily concealed indignation and accusation. “Oh, that’s right, you already know, considering you sent for him.”
I stop outside and wait for my father’s response. It takes a while to come, as if he’s waiting for me to trail in behind Caleb.
His voice is unrecognizable. Weak and rusty. “Where’s my son?”
Huh. All of a sudden, I’m his son.
Jamming my hands into my pockets, I stride into his office. At once, I’m catapulted back to the last time I was in this room. The argument we had about my future. The hurtful words he hurled at me. It smells exactly the same—cinnamon and Pine-Sol. It also looks exactly the same—high-polished wood from floor-to-ceiling, wall-high bookshelves, glass cases with signed baseballs and hockey jerseys.
The only thing that’s different is the man behind the desk. He’s not as tall and proud as the last time I was here—King of his peasants, punisher of his wayward son. This time he’s sallow, gray, sunken-in, skeletal. A shapeless patch of silver hair covers the left side of his temple, while the rest is still widow-black, as if that’s where his migraines born and die, sucking the last bit of youth out of him.
In his rich leather wingback chair, he looks like an impostor.
I’m not surprised when the first thing he says to me is, “You look like a faggot with that hair.”
I almost laugh. You can take Baron Capshaw’s body, but you can’t take his will. He is who he is. And Baron Capshaw is a racist, homophobic, narcissistic, megalomaniac tyrant.
“My boyfriend thought I looked boring with black hair,” I say, moving further into the room. “So I had to do something edgy to make him stay.”
Caleb, who’s now seated in one of the chairs in front of the desk, shoots me a reproaching look. A silent warning not to rile the beast.
Baron’s hard, steely eyes scan me up and down. “What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Sucking dicks, apparently,” I rejoin. “You wanna tell me why I’m here?”
“I thought—” He starts to say, but is interrupted by a violent cough. “I thought it was obvious.”
“That you’re dying?” I snort. “I don’t see how that’s any business of mine. I’m supposed to be dead to this family, remember? I’m not a Capshaw anymore.”
He gestures to the empty chair next to Caleb. “Sit down, Collin.”
“It’s Kholton.”
“Faggot hair, faggot name.” His voice is weak, but cutting. “Sit down.”
“No.” I clench my hands into fists in my pockets. “Say what you’ve got to say so I can get out of here.”
“It’s kidney failure,” he informs me.
“Don’t care.”
Then, he drops the bomb. “Your mother did it.”
“What?” Caleb and I exclaim in unison.
He erupts into another fit of coughs before expounding, “She’s been lacing my liquor with ethylene glycol for months. I collapsed one evening and was rushed to the hospital. Left me comatose for a few days. When I woke up, I was partially deaf in one ear, partially blind in one eye, and had a failing kidney.”
“Screw you,” I spit at him. “You’re twisted. Mom would never.”
Mom? Is he serious? She’s so meek and docile I can’t even begin to fathom her doing something so malevolent.
Caleb points out, “I don’t remember anything like this coming up on your tests, Dad.”
“Ethylene glycol usually doesn’t,” he says. “It’s a foolproof way to slowly murder someone without being suspected. She did her research.”
Caleb stands and begins pacing the room, while I stand frozen, unwilling to believe anything this man says.
“This is…” Caleb grips his hair “This is…oh my God.”
“Sit down, Caleb,” I grit out. “He’s lying. He’s trying to turn us against her.”
“Your mother was acting strange. Erratic, suspicious,” he goes on. “So I hired a PI. I have paperwork of her ethylene glycol purchases. We found traces of it in everything in my liquor cabinet. She did it.”
“So, what?” Caleb demands. “You’re going to turn her in? Is that what this is about?”
“Of course not,” he responds through another cough. “I deserve it.”
I take a step forward. “What do you mean by that?”
With all the casualness in the world, he drops another bomb. “I have two little girls outside of this family. Your mom found out. She didn’t ask for a divorce. As you can see, she had something else in mind.”
“You sonuvabitch,” I hiss through clench teeth.
I lunge for him but Caleb jumps in front me and shoves me back. “Easy, easy,” he says. “It makes no sense kicking a dead horse.” Turning to our father, he growls, “Dad, what the fuck?”
There’s no apology on his face, no remorse. He just sits there with this resigned stance, as if accepting his fate. “I’m not explaining myself to either of you,” he replies. “That’s not why you’re here.”
He reaches for the bottle of Vitamin Water on his desk and takes a long sip. “Caleb and Cammie tested negative for a match for a kidney transplant, and your mother refuses to get tested, for obvious reasons. I’m on the donor list, but fat chances with that one.”
What is this? He called me here to get tested? That’s what this is about? He wants my damn kidney?
“This meeting is to give you a preview of my will, so you can start adjusting your life accordingly,” he continues. “Your brother here has been a sycophantic lap dog since you left, but he has a gambling addiction and is currently over two million dollars in debt. I’ll die before I leave my legacy in his hands.”
Caleb jerks back as if he’s been slapped. I don’t know why he’s acting surprised. This was his biggest fear when he opened that door and saw me there.
“You don’t know it, but you’ve been running the company for the past two years,” he says with pride. “Just like you were meant to. There’s no one in the world I trust with this legacy but you. In your hands, it will bloom and grow and expand. Fight it as you might, but you were made for this, Collin.”
I’m confused. What does he mean I’ve been running the company? “What are you talking about?”
“Trular Inc. The company you’ve been advising and directing for the past three years, it doesn’t exist.” And there goes another bomb. “It’s a front name I created for Capshaw Holdings.”
Son.
Of.
A.
Bitch.
He’s been stalking me this whole time? How did I not figure this out?
Unless its KFC, no company has as many fast food branches in as many locations worldwide and is booming, except for Wings Chaudes and Red Dime Pizzas. Two multi-billion-dollar fast food chains founded by Capshaw Holdings. This “Trular” company came out of nowhere with the same stats and numbers as Capshaw Holdings and I didn’t think to look into it? I’m disappointed in myself.
“That’s right.” His smile is victorious. “You’ve been working for me for the past three years. We needed help. We needed you. And since I wasn’t dying yet, that was the only way to get it.”
“I don’t want it,” I tell him. “I’m not interested. I’ve never been interested, and I’ll never be interested.”
“Tough luck. My lawyers already have their orders. You will inherit Capshaw Holdings,” he informs me in no uncertain terms. “If you try to pass it off to your brother, your sister will lose her inheritance. If you try to sell it, your brother, sister and mother will be stripped of everything I left them, and it will all be given to my two daughters and their mother.”
“You heartless son of a bitch,” Caleb whispers with quiet disbelief. “How could you do this?”
“I am not doing anything,” Baron wheezes out. “Your mother killed me. And now all your fates are left in the hands of this ungrateful piece of shit.”
He leans forward, forearms on the desk, and takes deep breaths in and out. He’s struggling, on his last leg, and all that has done nothing to change his cruel heart.
“I don’t understand you, Collin,” he breathes out heavily. “You’re brilliant, talented, with an inherent business mind and the qualifications to match, yet you choose to let others pay you squid to help build up their businesses instead of running your own? I offered you a multi-billion-dollar company and you turned your back on it, to do what? Be someone else’s bitch dog?”
A few moments ago, I was livid, resentful, indignant. But now, as I stare down at this corpse, all I feel is pity for him, and gratitude on my part. Gratitude that I am nothing at all like him.
In a soft, calm voice, I tell him, “I hope you rot in hell.” Then turn and stride out of his office.
When I’m halfway out the door, he lets out a cough-punctuated laugh. “I’m already there!”
Once I’m in my car, I drive straight to the private medical center the Capshaw family uses and get tested.