Page 101 of Small Town Firsts

On the drive from the course, dread sits heavy in my gut. The feeling only intensifies when the house comes into view. It looms on the horizon, big and imposing, a stucco mansion with oversized columns and a grand staircase. I roll to a stop at the iron security gate, waiting for it to pick up on my sensor so I can pass.

I creep up the steps, slightly nauseated, and knock on the front door. Promptly Marta—our house manager—swings it open and greets me. “Mr. Larson. Your parents are waiting for you in the family room.”

I almost snort at her use of the term family room, becausefuck, you could hardly call us a family. All the same, I tip my chin to her and set off to meet whatever bullshit Dad has thought up for me now.

“Brock!” my father booms when I enter the room. “Just like you to keep us waiting. Sit. Let’s talk.” I clench my fists and jaw to keep from rolling my eyes as I walk over to the couch.

“Where’s Mom?” I ask, but I already know the answer.

“She’s resting,” he says brusquely, leaving it at that. Except I knowrestingis code for avoiding his arrogant ass.

He stalks over to the beverage cart and pours two fingers of whiskey into his glass before raising the glass, looking at it from this way and that before sniffing. He’s so fucking pretentious, going through this entire charade, like his whiskey isn’t the bestof the best—like he has to inspect it every damn time. Surprise, surprise, he finds it to his liking. He makes a big show of adding a few drops of water to it, but not once does he offer me a drink.

He positions himself in the wingback chair directly across from where I’m seated and rests his left ankle on his right knee, his posture ramrod straight. He keeps his eyes locked on mine as he takes a drink.

Finally, I get fed up with him and snap. “Want to tell me why I’m here any time soon? I have somewhere I need to be.”

“You’ll leave when I dismiss you, son, and not a second before.” He speaks with conviction, like what he’s saying is normal and acceptable.

“Dad. Why am I here? To talk about my grades? Golf? What?”

He shakes his head as if I’m amusing him. “Brock. I already know your grades and how you’re performing on the field. I have eyes and ears everywhere.”

I draw my head back and look at him.Eyes and ears everywhere…what kind of crazy bullshit is he spouting now.

“I’ve heard you’ve been…spending time with Charles and Elenore’s wayward daughter.”

I huff out a laugh. Funny how things change. From birth, our parents arranged play dates for us; yet now, in the eyes of Everett Larson, Abby Jane no longer measures up. Our families consider her a blemish on their reputations. How fucking archaic is that? A woman having her own style, thoughts, and opinions being frowned upon in this day and age—but, in the upper-crust-old-money-our-shit-doesn’t-stink-posse, it’s just a way of life.

“Yeah, she’s my tutor,” I say slowly.

Dad grits his teeth, but nods. “One: it’s ‘yes sir’ not ‘yeah.’ And two: in order to make sure you’re making wise decisions, I’ve arranged for Amanda to join us for dinner toni?—”

I leap from the where I’m seated on the couch. “Ijustsaid I had somewhere I needed to be! Do you ever listen?”

With sharp precision, he reaches out and strikes his open palm across my cheek. “Do. Not. Interrupt. Me!” he yells, spittle flying from his lips.

I stagger back from him, shocked that he physically laid his hands on me. All my life, he’s wielded words as his weapon of choice, but I guess there truly is a first time for everything. Or, hell, maybe this was a long time coming. As long as he’s hitting me and not Mom. My cheek stings, but I refuse to show any outward appearance of pain.

“Now, as I was saying, I’ve invited Amanda to join us for dinner tonight. Youwilljoin us. Youwillhave a good attitude. And youwillenjoy her company. She’s charming and has a remarkable pedigree.”

Charming is the last word I’d ever use to describe Amanda Burkett. Instead, words like psycho and stage five clinger come to mind. I’m not even going to touch on the pedigree thing; because while it makes her sound like a dog—which is offensive as fuck—she’s also a massive bitch.If the shoe fits…

I twist my neck from side-to-side, finding satisfaction in the cracking sound it makes as some of the tension leaves my body. “Great. Let me just step out and make a quick phone call.”

Without waiting for a reply, I stalk through the house and out the front door. Only, instead of crossing the threshold to freedom, I come face-to-face with the devil herself.

“Brocky!” Amanda shrieks in that whiny voice she uses when she wants to sound seductive. I cringe at the shrill timbre and take her in. She’s dressed in a pressed white blouse with a modest, square neckline that’s tucked into the wide band of her pastel patterned skirt that flares around her slim calves. Her feet are clad in some ropey wedge sandals, and pearls adorn her ears and neck. She looks like Susie-freaking-Homemaker. A perfect,demure debutante—a wolf in sheep’s clothing if I’ve ever seen one.

She links her arm with mine and drags me back into the house, walking through it like she owns it. Then again, I’d bet my left nut she’s actively planning on owning it one day—as my wife.Fat fucking chance.

“Amanda,” I say her name sternly, halting our progress. “I was headed outside to make a call.”

She parts her pale pink slicked lips to reply, but my father speaks over her. “My darling girl.” He leans down and air kisses her cheek. “So glad you could join us this evening. Your company is always an honor.”

She giggles and blushes. “Oh, Mr. Larson, you sure have a way with words.”Yeah, the fuck he does—his smooth words keep everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. And apparently when his words fail, his fucking palm seals the deal.

“Are you kids ready to eat? The chef has prepared a proper feast.”

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