10 Years Ago
Tyler
I HAD A new vice.
And her name was Paris Fairchild.
It was New Year’s Eve. My birthday. And also the one-year anniversary of my old man’s death.
Fucking Corky.
I hated him.
I’d dodged every single call, even the ones from Paris, opting to spend the day alone in my grandfather’s wine cellar.
My step-grandmother had no idea I’d stolen my father’s key before he kicked it. It was in the office I found the stash of whiskey she’d hidden away.
So yeah, I’d gotten stupid drunk and thought about what a waste my old man had been. How he never even bothered to show up for a single sporting event of mine. Hell, he’d never even tossed me a fucking ball, just handed me a bottle.
The truth was Corky hated me for as long as I could remember. Never said the words, but it was there in the way he looked at me.
Corky.
What a joke.
It was a name he’d gotten as a small child because he was always stealing wine corks from the winery. I took to calling him that when I turned thirteen and found him passed out on our front lawn the morning after my birthday party.
Corky and I lived in the guest house up until that day, or I had, really, because he was never around.
Anyway, all the guys had slept over and we were headed out to play some ball and there he laid, sprawled out like the drunk he was.
I’d kicked his leg. “Get up.”
Nothing.
Kicked it again. “Get the hell up.”
Nothing.
The next time I did, he grabbed my leg and threw me to the ground, beating the shit out of me and yelling, “You need to learn how to fight like a man, son.”
Son.
I spit the word in blood.
If I was his son, I was the devil’s spawn because he was the devil. Eyes black and vacant.
Drinking to forget. What, who the hell knew?
Kicking the shit out of me whenever grandpa was out of town. Why, did he really need a reason?
I was used to this and I’d taken to fighting back, but he was bigger than me, and just laughed.
Laughed, evil hatred.
Once the guys, who’d tried to stop him but couldn’t, had gone and found my grandfather, that shit-kicking session was over.
All of them, actually.
My grandfather was a big man with strong hands and a temper like a beast. He took my father by the shirt collar and brought him right up to his face. “You’re supposed to love your son.”
My father turned beet-red but laughed none-the-less. “Love,” he smirked. “What the hell is that?”
He was right, what the hell was it?
Nothing but pain.
It was a dig at the dynamics they shared, but my grandfather didn’t bite. Dynamics I never could understand. Then again, father/son shit wasn’t for me.
“You ever touch that boy like that again, I’ll not only beat the ever-living shit out of you, I’ll send you packing for good,” my grandfather said.
Of all the things my grandfather was, violent wasn’t one of them, so he was dead serious. My old man knew this, and the only thing he did was the only thing he could, nod. Because really, where the hell was he going to go?
Worthless.
He was worthless.
Spineless.
Deplorable.
After that day, I never thought of that worthless piece of shit as anything other than a man who took up space in the house I lived in.
Corky.
The drunk.
That’s who he was to me.
I lit up a blunt and blew it out. Happy birthday to me. Did it again. And one more time. The woman who’d given birth to me couldn’t even stand the man who’d impregnated her. She up and left before I even turned one.
Yeah, so birthdays weren’t exactly a roaring good time for me, especially now that my grandfather was gone and it was just Wilhelmina and me.
I stumbled to my feet, bottle in hand.
Midnight was approaching and I knew just where I wanted to spend the stroke of midnight—buried inside of Paris’s tight little pussy.
I laughed when I rode my old bike to her house. Her goody-two-shoes ways were rubbing off on me because I knew I shouldn’t drive in the condition I was in, and I didn’t.
In my condition though, I made more noise than I should have when I rode over something and fell off, but I eventually got up and kept going.
The key was right where she always left it and I weaved my way up the back steps as quietly as I could. When I got to the top of the hallway, I could hear shouting.
Old man Malcolm was on her again. I swore I wanted to kill the fucker for the way he verbally abused her. Always on her shit about something or other.
Like a creeper, I slowed my roll and listened to what he had to say that he felt was so damn important he had to preach to her at near fucking midnight.
His tone was gruff. “You will not see that boy, anymore, do you hear me? I mean it.”
Her voice was strong, resilient, maybe resigned. “I’ll be eighteen soon and I can do what I want.”
“Not under my roof,” he yelled.
“Oh, Daddy, I don’t plan on being anywhere under your roof for much longer.” This time her voice was scornful. A tone I’d never heard before.
He laughed a nasty, harsh laugh. “And just how do you plan on doing that?”
“I’m going to marry Tyler Holiday, that’s how.”
My eyes tore open.
She was what?
He grunted. “You’ll do no such thing.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“I’ll ruin him first. Mark my words, I’ll ruin him first. And I know just how.”
Ruin me?
What the fuck?
“You’re too old to make threats you can’t keep, Daddy.”
“You really are a cunning slut,” he hissed, venom in his tone.
“That’s right Daddy, I am. I planned the whole thing from the minute I moved back here. Meeting him, coming on to him. Even the screwing him part. And you know what else, I really liked it.”
The walls started to close in on me. Confusion clouded my being and I found myself stumbling into her room.
“Tyler,” she yelled in surprise.
Old man Malcolm took a step toward me and growled. “Get the hell out of here, boy, or I’ll get my shotgun and blast your head off.”
“What did you just say to him?” I looked at Paris, searching for a reality I didn’t understand.
She was sitting on her bed as if he’d woken just her up. And that’s when I knew he must have seen me riding my bike onto their property. “You heard me,” she said. “So do you want to get hitched or not?”
Mocking laughter fell from my lungs and again, I blinked. The booze must have been playing tricks on me, I wanted to believe it. I really did. This was not real. It couldn’t be.
Her eyes pleaded for my answer.
And it came, cold and harsh. “No, I don’t want to marry you. Not now. Are you crazy?”
She got to her feet, storming past her father and over to me. “Then leave. Leave right now and I never want to see you again. Ever. We’re through.”
Pain sliced through me. Agony and I getting reacquainted. Regret. Dejection. Sorrow. Feelings that spun and spun and spun.
Had she been using me to get back at her old man all this time?
It was all too much. White-hot agony pouring like blood through my veins, I pounded down the hall. Once I made it outside I struggled to breathe. The past and present mixing in the strangest way. Getting used seemed to be the story of my life. It was a cocktail of misery I couldn’t get out of my head.
Hopping on that damn bike, I pedaled all the way to Grayson’s house. I needed another drink and thank fuck, he was having a balls-out party that was in full swing.
Just what I needed.
Like nothing happened, I greeted everyone, took their birthday salutations, and proceeded to get completely wrecked.
Sophie Barton was there, and like always, she was coming on to me. I was sitting in the rec room with the music blasting, taking a hit from Christian’s bong, when she crawled on to my lap.
By that time, I was annihilated and thought a little entertainment was in order. I wasn’t going to fuck her or anything, but I wanted a distraction. Something fun.
“What do you want?” I drawled.
“You,” she giggled, her tits bouncing as she did. She was easy, and we all knew it.
“Make it worth my while and I’ll consider it.” I blew another stream of smoke in her direction.
She breathed it in and purred, “How can I do that, birthday boy? You want me to unwrap myself for you night now?”
My eyes were heavy as I shook my head no. “Not me,” I slurred.
She tilted her head in confusion.
With a bottle of whiskey in my hand, I pointed to another girl from her school. “I want you to unwrap her.”
Sophie stared at me. “Really? You want girl-on-girl action?”
Amused that she was considering it, I raised a suggestive brow. “Yeah, I do. Now, go on.”
Unmoving, she leaned forward, close enough to kiss me, but I leaned back with a shake of my head. “I said her, not me.”
“I can’t believe you!”
I jerked my lazy head upward.
It was Paris, and she was standing beside me. Me with Sophie Barton practically dry humping my dick.
Slowly, I turned my head in her direction. “Get lost. You’re old news. You’ve been replaced.”
Tears began streaming down her face and she was visibly shaking. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why?’ I scuffed. “You know why.”
She was shaking her head. “That was just to make my father mad. It wasn’t real. I thought you’d know that.”
Her words seemed too close to the truth to deny, and I couldn’t tell which was the actual lie anymore. “Seemed pretty convincing to me.”
“I love you, Tyler. You have to know that.”
I sneered the word, “Love,” and laughed at it.
Her arms crossed over her chest in a protective way. “I swear I only told my father those lies for you. To save you. He was going to do something to ruin your life and I couldn’t have that. I had to make him believe I didn’t care about you so he wouldn’t. How could you not see that?”
The word love tore at my heart, but I couldn’t deal with that. She’d betrayed me and my fucking heart in a way I never wanted to feel again.
Back at her house, I’d felt like I was thirteen all over again, only her words were beating me instead of my father’s fists. I glared at her. “Oh, Paris, my savior. Please, save it for someone who cares.”
I heard her intake of breath as she whirled around. “You know what Tyler, you really are your own worst enemy. Stay out of St. Helena and I’ll stay away from Calistoga.”
I felt the blood rushing from my face and hurt replacing it. “Line drawn, baby, line drawn.”
Sophie was still on my lap, laughing. “I can make it all better,” she purred, running her hands through my hair.
Fucking hated when people touched my hair . . . everyone but Paris.
Feeling dizzy and lost, I got to my feet and Sophie went tumbling to the ground.
“Hey!” Sophie cried out. “Where are you going?”
“Somewhere that isn’t here,” I hissed.
I needed to be alone.
The next day I found my grandfather’s dog tags on my front porch, with one word scribbled across a piece of paper stuck to them, “Coward.”
If I could have rewound time, I would have. I heard through the grapevine Paris’s father had shipped her off to some girl’s school God knew where.
I tried to find out the name, but no one knew. I probably could have tried harder but the word love had scared the shit out of me and not because it came out of her mouth.
It was because that was how I felt about her.
And in the end, I guess she was right.
I was a coward.