Page 44 of The Hardest Hit
“That’s what I’m saying. He never loans out anything. But she starts talking about luggage and he just volunteers it. And he emailed me the name of that wine I wanted. Like he remembered and went out of his way to do it. I have lived too long with abusive drugged-up Evan and I finally get decent Evan back and I’m damn well not having J.P. Granger fucking this shit up for me.”
Jackson eyed his happy-go-lucky cousin thoughtfully. “I’ll look into it,” he said. “Granger’s under indictment for six different felony charges. You’d think he’d be too busy to take swings at us.”
“You would think,” agreed Aiden, angrily pulling out into traffic.
“But if it is him… Well, I’ll figure out something.”
“Good,” said Aiden vehemently. “Meanwhile, can you also do something about Grandma? She’s working my last nerve.”
“What do you mean?”
“She keeps being mean to Evan! He is really fucking trying, and she just keeps poking at him like he’s a bear in a cage.”
“I think that’s the point,” said Jackson. “She wants him to snap.”
“What the actual fuck?”
“Your grandfather—”
“Yours too,” Aiden reminded him, sharply.
“Our grandfather was, well, he was a twisted son of a bitch.”
“I have gathered that,” said Aiden. “From Randall and Owen if nothing else. They used to raise hell in his honor on the anniversary of his death. I always thought we were lucky that all Evan does is disappear and refuse to go to the cemetery on plane crash day.”
“Yes, well, I believe that she sees too much of Henry in Evan,” said Jackson. “I don’t think she believes he can change.”
Aiden was silent for a moment. “This isn’t the change,” he said finally. “This is the change back. This is how Evan was when we were kids. This is the Evan I remember.”
Jackson felt a stab of jealousy for all the memories that his cousins shared. “I’ll keep working on it,” he said.
17
Evan – Klan Rally
Evan settled his bag onto the second seat in the handicap area of the train and spread out as far as possible to discourage anyone from asking about the seat. He knew the looks he was getting. He didn’t let it bother him.
He flipped open the paper and tried to concentrate. It didn’t go very well. Olivia kept getting in the way. There had been a lot of that lately. The weekend’s shopping trip had been a success. Claude, the Deveraux personal shopper with the discretion of a priest, had made sure that Olivia saw none of the price tags. Which meant that he’d been able to get her dresses, lingerie, shoes, and, miracle of miracles, three more shirts. Which also meant that she’d come home happy, picked out her favorite shoes, and fucked him stupid in her new heels. And that was well worth the twenty grand he’d just spent. He knew he probably ought to tell her that his net worth was somewhere around sixty million on a bad day, but he thought it would make her freak out. She already freaked out enough that he worked in “finance” and made “lots” of money.
At the second stop, someone walked on his toe on purpose, but Evan refused to pull his feet back.
The problem with Olivia was that while she was incredibly smart, she had the nerd myopia that left her unaware of significant chunks of life. Specifically, the chunk of society life that he occupied. Which was adorable. She liked him because he was Evan who made her food and Evan who made her come and Evan who had a better movie collection than she did. But sooner or later, someone was going to point out to her that he was Evan Deveraux, the possessor of a lot of fucking money, who only worked because his grandmother insisted that jobs were important to staying humble. And also, Evan was fairly certain, because his grandmother didn’t want strangers handling her money.
At the third stop, someone muttered “asshole” and jostled him as they exited. He flipped to the sports section.
He wasn’t sure if he should tell Olivia himself or wait for someone else to do it. If he told her, it felt like bragging. If he waited, then it felt like he’d been lying. Which he hadn’t. He hadn’t come into his full inheritance until he was twenty-five and by then he’d become used to living where he lived and doing what he did. Probably that was also because, at twenty-five, he’d been monumentally depressed and partially suicidal, but that didn’t change the fact that he still didn’t want to move, even though his grandmother had been hinting about it.
At the fourth stop, he waited until the doors were almost closing. Timing was everything.
“Hold the door, please,” gasped Tired Mom.
Evan got up, gathered his things, and went to stand at the back of the train. Tired Mom, was a young Latina woman who always had two kids and a stroller in tow, and Monday morning was grocery shopping day. Most Mondays she never even knew he’d been in the seat.
He settled against the pole and flipped his paper open.
“Must be Monday,” said a deep voice and he found himself looking up into the beefy face of Black Guy with Dreads. Black Guy with Dreads did day-trading from his phone while working construction. With a sigh, Evan handed over the financial section of the paper that he’d already marked. BGD had a habit of pointing out Evan’s maneuvers with big booming false cheer if he didn’t.
“We have to do this every Monday?” asked Evan and BGD grinned. Evan wondered if he was Skinny White Guy in Suit to BGD.
