Page 11 of Fatal Collision
“Hell-to-the-fuck-yes.” Cash grabs his own phone beside the drinks on the side table and fires off a few messages. Noah notes my confused expression. “Some Falls loser challenged him to a race this evening.”
Maverick snorts before he stands up and heads for the pool. “Some people enjoy humiliation.”
He dives in, and Noah sits down on his lounger with his elbows on his thighs and jerks his chin to Cash. “Nice shorts.”
Cash beams. “Thank you. Finally, someone withtaste.” He leans across and shoves me. “You should learn to appreciate the finer things in life.”
“Uh-huh.” I poke my tongue into my cheek.
Noah scratches his stubble and chuckles, but then he overhears the girls talking and stands up. “Absolutely not. You’re not allowed at the race tonight.”
His sister, Robyn, closes the distance between them with her arms crossed, oozing attitude. The others shuffle behind her like they don’t really want to face Noah’s hostile expression.
“We’re adults, Noah. We can go wherever the hell we want.”
Noah towers over her. “Try it, sis. Show up at the race later and I’ll escort you home myself. You could be in a retirement home, for all I fucking care! I don’t want you around that crowd.”
They bicker back and forth, and I pause as Hazel sneaks a glance at Cash then averts her gaze just as fast.
The hell? My oblivious brother hums along to an imaginary tune in his head as he scrolls through his phone. She looks again then notices the brow I raise and turns a deep shade of red.
Hazel has barely spoken five words to any of us over the years. She’s the shyest of the girls. And a virgin. I’d bet my trust fund on it. That little crush she’s got? It needs to end. My brother would run right through her like a train.
The right thing to do here is to inform Noah about his sister’s innocent crush, but Mom would be upset ifNoah killed Cash. And he would. However, judging by how clueless my brother is, we don’t need to worry. He hasn’t noticed because he’s so used to women throwing themselves at him that he’s blind to furtive glances and blushing cheeks.
I get up and head inside. Mom is in the sunroom, where she’s working on one of her paintings, another landscape motif. The floorboards creak beneath me, and she glances over her shoulder, smearing a streak of blue paint on her cheek as she shifts a loose strand of hair away from her eyes. “Hi, sweetie.”
I cross to her and kiss her temple, and she hugs my waist, ruining my shirt. “That’s beautiful.”
“You think?”
“Mom, everything you paint is beautiful.” I pull back, and she turns away from me, but not before I notice the bandage on her wrist. She’s self-harmed again.
And here we were, thinking she was improving, that she was finally learning to live with the grief, but maybe she’s hiding her pain better.
“Mom…” I take hold of her wrist and inch her sleeve up to reveal the bandage, brushing my thumb over the space where blood has seeped through. “Does Dr. Hartley know?”
She shakes her head, the action barely noticeable as her bottom lip trembles. She’s struggling to look me in the eye now, and I swallow down the hurt I feel at seeing her sad. Mom was never meant for this world,and sometimes I think maybe that’s why my father is so obsessed with her, because he likes to possess rare items. He saw her, he wanted her, and he took her. He’s a cold-blooded monster who destroys everything he touches, including my mother, but he won’t let her go.
“You need to talk to him. Can you promise me that?” I palm her cheeks and kiss the top of her head before looking her in the eyes. “Promise me you will talk to him about your feelings.”
Dr. Hartley is the therapist Father hired the last time Mom self-harmed. And he’s a good one. The best money can buy.
Under his care, Mom began to smile again. But the grief is never far away from the surface, and some days are darker than others.
“Kane. A word in my office.”
I stiffen at the sound of my father’s voice, and so does Mom, which makes me feel all kinds of murderous. I give her shoulder an affectionate squeeze and follow my father to his office.
When I enter, he throws down a folder on his desk, then heads over to the mini bar in the corner to pour a glass of whiskey, the liquid sloshing against the sides before he caps the bottle again.
“Read it.”
It’s a folder filled with photographs of Kennie, a drug mule at our university, and I slowly sift through the incriminating evidence while my father sips his expensive alcohol.
He loosens his tie. “I trust you to take care of it. You and your brother.”
I don’t reply, and he sits down in his office chair, patting his breast pocket for his cigar.
