Page 132 of Wicked Deceit
I snort. "Dad had so many women in and out of the house at so many fucking times in our lives, I don't remember shit," I groan, running my fingers over my brow. "I'm just glad she's the last one. This has been such a fucking stressful year." I shake my head and check my phone again.
"He kicked River and her mom Stella out because she talked to a repair guy over the phone. He thought she was cheating on him and didn't give her a chance to explain herself. I vaguely remember them leaving with the clothes on their back and nothing else. A week later, Dad was with someone else," Zepp mutters, and when I peek up from my phone, he runs a hand down his face, displaying his frustrations.
My brows furrow when I think that far back. Fuck. River was maybe two when that happened, and we were seven. I vaguely remember Stella begging for my dad to change his mind, and that she just wanted the damn dishwasher fixed to make life easier. Closing my eyes, I think back to her loving words, the last words she ever spoke to us. She was one of the good moms who had come through.
Fuck. My phone beeps again, and my heart races. I know exactly who's texting me, and I can't help the smile on my face. My poor wife has been stuck home with Chase, three boys, and a pregnant belly for the last week. Carter's been working his ass off finalizing contracts and doing other Veritas bullshit.
Angel: I know you're checking in, but I'm fine.
Angel: Well maybe not fine….. I think the boys need….less sugar.
Me: Snort. Are they running up the walls?
Angel: Axel and Dash ate the dog food, and Rome is….refusing to wear clothes again…
Me: And my little angel? She okay? No contractions? We'll be home right after this!
Angel: Kicking like a kickboxer…
Me: that’s my fucking girl.
Angel: She's definitely taking after you **kissy face**.
I beam at the prospect of finally holding my baby girl in my arms. My own little angel in the making. With each kid, we've DNA tested for health concerns, and so it's on their records as they grow up. And with each kid, it wasn't mine biologically. Sure, I fucking love Roman, our oldest, Axel and Dash, our fraternal twins, who by the way, have two separate fathers. But—
"Come on, man. One last sister to deliver money to," Zepp says, knocking me out of my thoughts. "Then we can go back home. We have so much work to do," he says through an overwhelmed sigh.
Me: Love ya,Angel!See you after a while.
"That's an understatement," I mumble, shaking my head.
Zepp's been the head of our dad's record company empire since our senior year of college. He ran himself ragged trying to balance school, the company, and our family. Soon after we graduated and moved back to East Point, I stepped up and became his partner with the company. And now, we run it together. West Records was once our father’s, and now, it's ours. We've kept the same shit going on, but we've improved the label with new bands. Battle of the Bands at our newest club, The KC Club. Where we can display all our new favorite bands and showcase their talents to the population.
"Let's fucking do this," I grumble, marching toward the front door of the record store, and waltz inside.
A little bell rings above my head, followed by another when Zepp finally steps through. It's a quaint little store, filled to the brim with new and old records.
"Welcome to Dead Records, if you need anything my name is River. Just let me know." I stiffen at her worn out voice, turning to get a glimpse of the little sister who was ripped away from us in the blink of an eye.
Every time I come face to face with them, it's like looking at myself in the mirror. No matter the hair color or the shape of the face, or the color of their skin, the eyes are always the same. It seems to be what our father handed down to each and every one of us—moss-green eyes.
She sits behind a large L-shape counter with a glass front and wooden top. Old, valuable records sit in the protected case on stands. Magazines, old cassette tapes, and CDs line the countertop in tip-top shape. Jesus. This is like a fucking perfectly kept monument to what music used to be.
Her long brown hair, much like the color of ours, is pulled up into a messy bun on the top of her head. One earbud sits in her right ear with an open laptop resting beside her as someone's face, much like a professor’s, appears on the screen.
"You're River Blue West?" Zepp asks in a fucking clinical way, making her eyes snap up to us.
River frowns and scrunches her nose in disgust, taking out her earbud.
"Whoever you are," she says, cocking her to the side and examining us with a calculating eye. "I'm not interested. You assholes keep coming to me thinking I can get you whatever it is you think, but that's not how it works. I am a West. As in, one of over a dozen, and I’m not the West that can get you fucking famous." She shakes her head, going to put her earbud back in, but stalls when Zepp opens his big fucking mouth.
"I'm Zeppelin, and this is Seger, we're —"
"My fucking brother. Yup! I've heard that one before" She says, narrowing her eyes and scoffs, waving a hand. "It’s funny, last I checked my billionaire brothers were living it up in California and signing douchebags like Whispered Words, to their label. Not coming to bumbfuck nowhere, Illinois. It's almost laughable. You scammers will do anything to get a buck. But newsflash, dickweeds—I'm as broke as an unfunny joke." She scrunches her nose again, and I can't fucking help myself.
I break out in a deep laugh, putting my hands on my knees, and wheezing. "You're definitely a fucking West. Shit."
"You done?" She asks, looking at me like I'm the weirdest person she's ever met. "There's a clinic down the street if you need it. It shouldn't be too crowded right now."
