Page 100 of Filthy Elites

The door closes with a quiet snick at his back and I release a breath, reaching up and scrubbing a hand down my face. Rushing over here only to be left waiting—that’s so fucking like him. The butler disappears and I’m left alone in the foyer with the file in my hand.

“What’d you think?” a soft voice intrudes on my solitude and I look up to see Dean descending the staircase, a gym bag thrown over his shoulder.

I arch a brow up at him. “About what, kid?” I ask.

“His new toy,” he says, finishing his descent. Fuck, this kid’s gonna be a big guy. Only sixteen and already he’s almost my fucking height. I can damn near look him in the eyes when most grown men are beneath me.

“You think he’s fucking her?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.

Dean shrugs, hefting his bag up further along his arm. “Probably yeah. She’s over here all the time.”

I press my lips together. Though I know it may seem like Nicholas is fucking Ms. Bairns to his son—who knows nothing of the woman’s actual job—I know the truth. I quietly debate on telling him. On one hand, relieving Nicholas’ son’s worries that his father might be cheating on his mother isn’t any of my fucking business and definitely not in my job description. Yet, on the other, I know Dean is a good kid. Even if he doesn’t have the greatest relationship with either parent—no kid wants to grow up thinking he was born out of anything but care and love.

I release a sigh and shake my head, reaching up to rub over the top of his head. “Don’t worry about it too much,” I say. “He’s not fucking her.”

Dean ducks away from my hand, his brow creasing with irritation. “Yeah? How the hell would you know?” he demands.

I chuckle. “I know a lot more than you, kiddo.”

“I fucking bet you do,” he grumbles, turning towards the front door.

Oh, hell no. In the next second, I’m on him like a leech, wrapping one muscled arm around the boy’s neck and latching him into a headlock. “What was that?” I ask, holding him tight even as I reach out and slap my file down on the nearby foyer table.

Dean drops his bag onto the floor and shoves up against my arm, trying to break free, but all I do is tighten my hold. “Oh? Is that all you got?” I taunt. “Little brat like you thinks you can be all angsty teen on me?”

“Fuck, man!” Dean curses and then surprises me when he stops fighting and drops his weight, nearly slipping out of my hold. I barely manage to keep him locked into my side as he wraps his own arms around my middle and drags me sideways.

“You got something else on your mind, kid?” I persist. “Maybe you wanna tell Big Bro about it?”

“You’re not my big brother, dickwad! We’re not even related!”

I laugh. “You know as well as I that loyalty don’t got nothing to do with blood, boy,” I reply.

That shuts him up and after a few more failed attempts at escaping, he finally releases a harsh breath and slaps my arm twice. “Alright, I concede,” he huffs. “I was being an ass. I’m fucking sorry, okay?”

I release him without a second thought. “As long as you know it,” I say, straightening my shirt as he scrambles away from me—red-faced and panting. Even with the irritated look he shoots my way, though, at least now the darkness in his eyes has receded.For the time being anyway.

My chest tightens at that thought. No matter how much I try and fight for this kid, he’ll always have that darkness in him. He’s a Carter. More than that, he’s an Eastpoint heir. Loyalty may not always have anything to do with blood, but love does. Love and loyalty is something that Nicholas doesn’t have between his generation of heirs, but Dean is different.

I’ve seen him with Abel and Braxton. What they have is far different than what their fathers did or do. If anyone can escape this cycle of damage their families are locked into, it’ll be them. God, I hope it will be them.

“What’s the attitude about anyway?” I prompt, reaching for the file I set aside. I fold it up and then quietly stick it into the inner pocket of my jacket as Dean retrieves his fallen gym bag. “It can’t just be about your old man. Got girl troubles or something?” He scoffs and I know I’ve hit the mark right on the money. “Want to talk about it?” I offer.

Dean’s quiet for a moment, his head tilting towards the front door as if he wants to run away from this conversation. I never push him, though. I just stand there and wait—letting the silence stretch between us. For some people, silence is uncomfortable, but between us, it never is. It’s an opening. An invitation. If he wants to talk, I’ve got ears and I’ll listen.

“I’m just fucking tired,” he finally confesses.

“Yeah?” I watch him carefully. From the tightness in his shoulders to the way he grips the strap of his bag until his knuckles grow white. “‘Bout what?”

“They fawn over me,” he says.

I snort. “Never heard a teenage boy talk about how hard it is to be liked by members of the opposite sex before,” I say with a small chuckle. “You might be the first one, and from what I hear Abel has it twice as bad as you.”

Dean doesn’t immediately respond, but when he does, it’s with a forced tone that mimics boredom—which, for him, can only mean the opposite. “Yeah,” he admits, “he does. But it’s not about being liked,” he continues. “It’s the fact that I know they only like me because I’m a Carter.”

“Ahhh,” I nod slowly. “I see.”

Dean’s head jerks up and he looks at me almost hopefully—as if all of his problems could be solved by whatever comes out of my mouth next. Unfortunately for him, though, I don’t have a quick fix for this. Hell, I don’t even have a long-term fix. The fact is—he’s right. I’m not surprised that he’s recognized it already. People will want him, not because of who he is, but because of what he is.

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