Four Months Later

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“You need to talk to the press.”

Matisse snorted, draping one suit clad arm over the back of the chair where he sat across from his father. “That’s a bad idea.”

“We’ve got it all set. You’ll have a script. You read from it. It’s done.” Dad’s earnest tone only made him roll his eyes and shake his head, but his father interrupted. “We give them something, they leave us alone. The public relations department of the company has a plan. All you have to do is what I tell you.”

Rolling his head back to bang it against the chair, he laughed. “Whatever.”

“This is going to help everyone,” Bentley assured him and smiled conspiratorially at his father.

“So I guess I should just be grateful for the billion hours of community service and being tried as a minor?” he asked.

Four months had passed since the morning Matisse’s family had been besieged by the press. Ole Miss’s orientation had come and gone, and the summer flew by while he hid. A week of being accosted by reporters no matter where he went was enough to teach him to stay at home, inside with the doors locked and curtains drawn.

“So what is the point?” he asked, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder. “I say, ‘Sorry. I was fooling around.’ And then what? Everything goes back to normal? I put on my blue jumpsuit, pick up some trash and that’s it?”

His father and Bentley exchanged another look, and it irritated Matisse that he couldn’t figure out what it meant. If he’d learned one thing through this debacle, it was he didn’t know shit about people. He thought the years he’d spent learning facial expressions and body language would help him make sense of their behavior, but nope. Right here was a prime example of his inability to decipher the code.

After clearing his throat, Dad began. “We think—the PR department thinks, if you appear before cameras, dress up, smile and generally act the way you usually do, people will forget about the business and focus instead on you.”

“Why the hell do I want them focusing on me?” He spread his arms out. “Because holed up here has been so much fun? No computer, no bike. No college? My life is fucking over, Dad. The last thing I want is the press focused more on me.” He sighed and raked his hand through his hair. Staring at the door, he willed his mother—someone—to appear. “And what do you mean? Act like me?”

Bentley, his father’s constant shadow since the spring, held up a hand, and Dad waved him ahead. “What he means, Matisse, is your attitude—devil-may-care, haughty playboy—will work in your favor. People will see you as a kid with too much money and too much time, who got in trouble, distracting them from anything nefarious.”

“Nefarious,” Matisse muttered. “And what about that guy? The one whose patent I stole? Where’s he? What’s he going to think?”

Bentley’s eyes got wide, and he stood up to exit the room without another word.

“Jesus, Matisse. Keep it down,” Dad commanded.

“Oh sorry. Like he didn’t know.”

“There’s knowing, and then there’s knowing.”

That was for damn well sure. There was knowing his father was a selfish asshole, and then there was seeing it in 3D. His future trickled down the drain so Dad could be a titan of business.

Why was he still putting up with this charade? If he lived here, he’d come undone.

Abruptly, Matisse stood and walked to the bookshelf of the study to read the titles. “I do this and I want something from you.”

“I think I’ve given you enough,” Dad mumbled.

“You’re going to make it impossible for me to stay here.” Narrowing his eyes, he stared over his shoulder. “The least you can do is set me up somewhere else.”

“Where?” Dad folded his hands, fingers linking as he considered the idea.

“Montreal. McGill. I want an apartment and an allowance, and I want to go to school, and I want everyone here to leave me the fuck alone until I say so.” Crossing his arms, he regarded Dad, waiting.

“I’ve got auditors and the state looking at my books. Cash isn’t as available as it used to be,” Dad said.

“I’m not asking for a lot. But if you want me to be the playboy”—what a fucking joke—“then I should act the part.”

Dad drummed his fingers on the desk, the hollow sound echoing through the room. “Fine,” he answered, and pushed his chair back to stand. “I’ll get you the speech, and we’ll set it up.”

Matisse smiled, but it felt more like a grimace. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

As the plane taxied down the runway, the force pushed Matisse back in his seat. The roar of the engines screamed in his head, and he let out a sigh of relief.

He was leaving everything.

Dad had stayed true to his word, and he’d stayed true to his. He smiled, bandying words with the press, generally being an ass, and they’d lapped it up. After his press conference, he’d spent a month in Mississippi, doing interviews and photoshoots.

The PR department had certainly earned their paychecks this month. Shockingly, they’d been right. Once he’d smiled crookedly at the camera, doing his best Tony Stark impression, he’d gone from nerd-hacker to anti-establishment It-boy.

There was still fallout. The community service, and the black mark on his juvenile record, not to mention his father losing some of his autonomy to the company’s board of directors. But in the end, it seemed to be worth it.

Now he was on his way to Montréal, ready to start the spring semester. Each minute that passed took him farther from Bijoux Shores and the role he’d been forced to play. Never again would he lie for someone else. He’d barely made it out without going completely nuts.

Matisse opened his phone and stared at the apartment on the screen. Dad had come through. He had a wide-open loft near McGill and a meet-up with a potential roommate later tonight, someone who’d gone to the same prep school as his for the short time he’d been Montreal after Katrina.

Opening the social media app, he called up the guy’s page. Seok Jheon. He hoped he spoke English. He peered at the photos he’d posted, mostly of furniture or lumber. His profile said he was a business major, so maybe he was really into interior design. If he was gay, Matisse didn’t really care, but that was making an assumption just because the guy liked interior design. As long as he didn’t smell and didn’t care if Matisse kept weird hours, they’d be fine.

At first, he wasn’t on board with the roommate idea, but housing in Montréal was hard to find, and this apartment was just far enough out of his price range and the advance his father had given him to make it necessary.

Easing his seat back to recline, he stared out the window. Above the clouds now, the sun shone blindingly bright, reflecting off the wing of the plane. He wasn’t nervous about the move. He was leaving anxiety behind him in Mississippi. There were the people who betrayed him, put him way down on the list of things that mattered, and taught him a hard, but probably important life lesson—he could only count on himself. If people had a chance to save their own skins, they’d take it.

It wasn’t fair to lump his mother and sister into this group, especially not Genevieve, but even Nicole had encouraged him to do interviews, to “take the heat off Dad.” No matter if it placed it squarely on him.

Sighing again, he rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck from side to side and closed his eyes. It was time to put it all out of his mind and focus on what was ahead.