Bombshell Read online

  “Don’t ever talk to me about my mother again,” I snarl, gathering up the hem of my dress, kicking off my heels, and running through the doors.

  There is only wait staff in the hallway, but they are stopped dead, looking at the door on the far end of the hallway. I know the look people get when my father has been truly nasty, and it’s on every face I see.

  The eyes in the hall turn away from me when I meet them, pointing instead at a door down the hall. I hold my chin as high as it will go, and march through the door, gasping at the sight of the overturned desk, its lamp casting light upward from the floor, throwing my father’s form into a strange, demented relief.

  “What did you do?” I demand.

  “I told your boyfriend what I thought of him.” My father looks at me coldly, his voice breaking in a way I’ve never quite heard before.

  I can see beads of sweat on his forehead, and that his hand shakes if he doesn’t continuously grip the arm of his chair. Whatever happened, Sterling scared my father—something I thought no one could do. But whatever satisfaction it might have given me—I’m still a MacLaine, after all—I know it will come with a cost. “You don’t know him enough to judge him.”

  “I know more than you. Do you know his record? What he came from?” Inflicting psychological pain is my father’s true joy, and some of his wicked glee seems to return as he hangs on my answer.

  “I know what happened to Sterling as a kid,” I say, hoping he doesn’t catch the quiver in my voice. “Hate to break it to you.”

  “It’s worse than I thought, then.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’ve never understood how someone so smart could also be so stupid.” His eyes dart towards the ceiling, as if he is talking to the heavens. “It means you find all his red flags charming, daughter mine. How you disappoint me. You’re as beautiful as your mother and as headstrong as me, but the second you find a stray dog, you want to bring it home, fleas and all.”

  I flinch, not surprised by how he sees Sterling or me. But a cut still hurts even if you see it coming. “And I’ve never understood how you find so much ugliness in everyone else, but not in yourself, father.”

  “He is unsuitable for you. A criminal record? A violent temper? I won’t have it. End of story.”

  “You don’t control me!” I scream the words at him and instantly regret it. It only serves as proof that I’m some hysterical, weak creature, which is exactly what he wants me to believe, so I measure out what comes next carefully. “I’m not interested in what you think. Sterling gives me what I need, which is more than you’ve ever given me.”

  “You’re confusing your wants with your needs. He treats you like you want—but I take care of your needs. Which he cannot.”

  “What do you know about my wants and needs?” My father doesn’t recognize other people’s desires unless it suits him. It always reduces to his money. He equates it with everything. He pays for things, therefore no one can complain about him.

  “I know he’s gotten you so twisted that you snuck off to screw him at your brother’s wedding. Did you need him then?”

  Heat blooms on my cheeks as I remember our perfect tryst, then a knot forms in my stomach as I realize someone must have seen us. A flicker of realization hits me. “It was Ginny, wasn’t it?”

  “She saw you hustling down the stairs, looking like you just stumbled out of a hotel room—and she knew.”

  “So, she came to you?” The betrayal stings even after my fight with her.

  “Of course not. She told her husband.” My father thinks he has me now, so he leans forward, goading me with a smug grin.

  For a second I wonder how he got to Sterling, but I push it aside because I’m not finished telling my father what he needs to be told. “If you have something to say about my choices, then take it up with me, not my boyfriend. Stop screwing around with my life. You’ve taken enough from me.”

  “Taken? What have I taken? I’ve given you everything you have.” His voice is cold rage. His chest swells, and for a second I swear he will get up out of his chair and try to strangle me.

  “You know exactly what I mean. You killed Mom.” I don’t care if he does strangle me. It’s worth it to see his goggling eyes, his suddenly fish-like mouth. “Should I go and get you a nice brandy, father? You can drink the whole bottle and then have a temper tantrum until you feel better. Or at least make everyone as miserable as you are. At least, we don’t have to worry about you getting behind the wheel anymore.”

  “You—you cannot,” he splutters, his lips curling away,“SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT!”

  I don’t wait around for his rage-filled tirade to end. I walk out the door, slamming it behind me.

  * * *

  I can’t find Sterling anywhere. I check the ball room, the halls upstairs, even ask a few of the staff—but there’s no sign of him. And every time I don’t find him, my panic grows, until I realize I’m both cold and sweaty. My earlier tipsiness has worn off entirely, leaving a vague, throbbing headache in its place. Tears smart my eyes as each second unravels me a little more.

  “There you are,” says Poppy, who bobs into the room trailing Cy behind her.

  I didn’t know how much I needed to see a friendly face. I take one look at Poppy and burst into tears, burying my head against her shoulder.

  She shushes me gently. “Hey, we’re here now. You’re okay.”

  Slowly, my body stops shaking, my anger and fear seeping out of me. I have friends here. We’ll all be able to find him. My father hasn’t won.

  “We heard your father yelling. Are you okay?”

  Half the wedding probably heard that fight.

  “My father cornered Sterling, and they argued. Now I can’t find him.”

  “Well, there are three of us. We can split up and look for him. We’re here for you, Adair.” Poppy gives me one of her patented, bright smiles.

  Before it can cheer me up, Cyrus clears his throat, kicking the carpet with the toe of his shoe. “Actually, I think he left.”

  “You’ve seen him?” I ask. Poppy looks as surprised as I do.

  “Cyrus Eaton, we’ve been trying to find Adair for ten minutes, and you didn’t mention this? I thought they might be together! If I’d known he’d left...” Poppy’s brow furrows dangerously. It’s so rare to see her angry, Cyrus doesn’t quite know what to say.

  “It’s not like I wasn’t hiding it. It’s just…” he trails off, a little anxious.

  “What?” Poppy demands.

  “He told me he needed to get away from everyone. He swiped a bottle of whiskey from the bar downstairs and left.” His eyes dart to mine, looking guilty for ratting out his friend.

  “Cyrus!” Poppy gasps. “Why didn’t you try to stop him?”

  “No—it’s not his fault, Poppy,” I interject. “He probably didn’t want to get Sterling into trouble.”

  “Exactly. I tried to talk to him,” Cyrus says. “Look, if he’s on foot, he can’t have gotten far.”

  “I have to find him. How long ago did he leave?”

  “About fifteen minutes, I think. But I haven’t really been checking the time.”

  I go to the dressing rooms, where I left my purse and keys, and Cyrus and Poppy follow after me, offering helpful suggestions about where Sterling might have gone.

  I call his phone, but it goes straight to voicemail, meaning it’s probably switched off. I call again, just in case, but the result is the same.

  “I don’t think Sterling knows much about this area,” I say, feeling increasingly anxious. The Valmont Country Club is huge, and backs up against a state park, meaning Sterling probably didn’t wander into the woods. “He’ll stick to the main access road, I think. I’ll go that way. You two can check wherever else you think he could be. As soon as anyone finds him, we call to let each other know. Alright?”

  “Yes. Now go,” says Poppy, giving me a quick hug and a look that reminds me of my mother: all empathy and love.

  Which i
s probably why I pull her into the world’s worst hug. “Thanks.”

  * * *

  The Jaguar spins its tires as soon as the security guard opens the gate, and I fishtail onto the main road. I quickly realize the car’s biggest fault: headlight power. There are no streetlights along the wide, manicured drive leading to and from the country club, and tall trees line the shoulder of the road, blocking most of the moon and starlight. The Jag’s high beams don’t seem brighter than the normal ones, and I have to force myself to slow down as I go around bends—or else drive straight into darkness.

  The main road branches off about a mile down from the gate, but I leave it for Poppy and Cy to check. If Sterling walked at a normal pace, that would leave him somewhere between here and the highway another mile farther down.

  My heart leaps when I catch sight of someone walking along ahead of me, and I slam on my brakes. It’s Sterling, holding a bottle in one hand. He holds his other between my headlights and his eyes, and when I turn them down, I see a look on his face I’ve never seen before.

  His eyes are somehow wild and frozen at the same time, and when I turn on the dash light so he can see me, too, his look doesn’t brighten. His bowtie is undone, hanging loosely around his neck. His manic eyes fade to a dull grey, and suddenly he looks tired, like he doesn’t have the energy to deal with me.

  I’ve seen that look before: in the eyes of the staff at Windfall, or my mother’s eyes even looking back from the mirror. I want to scream at him—ask him how dare he scare me like this—but that’s not what someone needs after dealing with my father. And so, I take a deep breath and do my best to put my feelings aside.

  “Hey there, sailor,” I yell, hoping he’ll find it funny.

  Sterling doesn’t reply. Instead, he starts toward the passenger seat of the car, which I lean over to unlock for him.

  He sinks into the bucket seat with a grunt, not meeting my eyes.

  “Are you okay?”

  Sterling holds the bottle of booze in his lap protectively, his face a mixture of revulsion and anger.

  “Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m not sure I want to talk about it.”

  “I won’t make you.” I’m not quite sure where to go, with the conversation, or with the car, but I turn on the engine anyway. “Where to?”

  “I don’t want to be around people,” Sterling says through gritted teeth.

  “Does people include me?” I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral, but praying he doesn’t say yes. Does he know how much it would break me for him to say yes?

  He stays silent for an unnervingly long time, and I start driving towards campus. I’ll drop him off and wait for this to blow over. I have some experience avoiding the storms my father causes. After a couple of minutes he finally responds. “It’s not your fault. I just...don’t want to be reminded of how all those rich assholes look at me. And where the fuck can I get away from that in this fucking town?”

  “I know a place,” I say absently, thinking of Little Love.

  We drive in silence for about ten minutes, and by the time the Jag’s tires begin crunching along the gravel drive leading to the Little Love parking lot, Sterling has stopped staring at the bottle. I park as far down the lot as I can, about 50 feet past the nearest car, right in front of a log barrier designed to prevent cars from sliding down the steep slope behind it.

  “This is Little Love. When I was in high school, and no one had parents out of town, this is where we had our parties. There’s a bigger version in Nashville, but this one is closer.” I pause to see if he wants to say anything, but he just looks out at the campus, dotted with its beautiful old buildings. I can’t even tell if he hears me. “Anyway, no one will bother us here. Do you want me to leave?”

  “How do you not kill him?” Sterling says, and I’m still not sure he has heard anything I said.

  “My father has a way of pulling you into his world. He owns everything, controls everything. And he uses all of it, all of the time, to get what he wants. You either let him, or you learn how to break out of his world.”

  “I don’t want to break out of his world. I want to destroy it.”

  If it had been said by someone else, or without so much sincerity, I might not take it seriously. But I’ve never seen Sterling like this. For the briefest of moments I wonder if he should get drunk, just for tonight, just to help him let go of whatever happened. But I know that’s the cheap way out, that it will just create more problems.

  “I know that feeling. Believe me.”

  He looks at the bottle in his hands and twists off the cap. My heart sinks as I wait for him to take a swig. Instead, he inhales deeply, savoring the smell.

  “You haven’t tried to stop me from drinking,” he says, somewhere between confusion and accusation.

  “Part of me wouldn’t blame you,” I murmur. “You have to remember, I’ve been dealing with Angus MacLaine my whole life. So I know the last thing you need is for me to tell you what choices to make.”

  He nods. “You’re right about that.”

  “But I also know drunk Sterling isn’t the best Sterling. And isn’t that what my father wants?”

  “He offered to buy me off. Six figures,” Sterling says, pausing to savor the whiskey’s aroma again. “I don’t even warrant a million from a multi-billionaire. Doesn’t he know that’s how it’s supposed to work?”

  I force myself to laugh, but it falls in hollow peals between us. It’s not funny to either of us.

  He screws the cap back on the bottle, setting it down on one of the posts holding up the log barrier, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “I’ll make him regret fucking with us,” Sterling says, turning to me with the same wild look he had on his face when I caught up to him on the road.

  “I’d like to see that—but it’s probably not going to happen tonight.” I put as much smile behind it as I can and reach for his hand. “Let’s go back to your dorm. Forget my father. He can’t control us if we don’t even think about him.”

  Sterling lets me take his hand, but he doesn’t grasp it, then gives me a weak smile.

  “You win, Lucky. Let’s go.”

  We get back in the car, and I back up in the silent dark, wanting to put this behind us. But as I shift into drive, the headlights glint off the full whiskey bottle reminding me that there’s a difference between wants and needs and sometimes knowing the difference between the two is as hard as walking away from the answers at the bottom of a bottle.

  4

  Sterling

  The spring air is crisp and cool as Adair drives us down the switchbacks leading away from Little Love. She shivers slightly, ducking toward the dashboard in an attempt to stay away from the air rushing overhead. A rumble of thunder sounds in the distance, and by the time we reach the bottom we’re being pelted with rain.

  Stupid, Sterling.

  I shouldn’t have left her at the wedding. Now she’s here, driving a convertible in the rain, freezing cold, and wondering if I’m going to go off the reservation and start drinking again. Am I trying to prove Angus MacLaine right?

  We’re in a full-on thunderstorm by the time we pull into the dorm parking lot. Adair screeches to a halt in the first open space, then jumps out and begins trying to get the roof of the Jag up before the rain completely soaks the interior. I pull off my jacket and hold it over her head, doing my best to keep the rain off her.

  “Thanks,” she says, and when she struggles to get the roof in place I leave the jacket over her and go around the other side of the car to help. It takes a few minutes, and by the time we’re standing inside the entrance of the dorm, we’re both soaked to the bone.

  “You really love that car, don’t you?” I say.

  “Yeah. It was my mom’s, remember?” she says, her teeth chattering.

  We take the elevator to my floor, and I can’t help wondering what would happen if her father disowned her because of me. Does she move in with me, somewhere off campus? We both work—but she can’t afford
school, of course. I can see it so clearly: the Jag breaks down, but the repair bill costs more than either of us makes in a year. She has to sell it. I have to see her heart break when she does it.

  As soon as I unlock the door to my room, Adair darts inside. “Need a warm shower,” she says, throwing her small purse and keys on the table beside my bed and going to lock the door leading from our suite-mates’ room to the bathroom before someone over there does the same to us.

  “You need help removing those wet clothes, Lucky?” I call in to her, pulling off my own wet shirt and pants. I’m not sure what kind of fabric this tuxedo is, but I’m sure it’s never supposed to be this wet.

  “I got it, thanks,” she says, her tone more guarded than I expect.

  I’ve fucked up. Bad. Some rational part of my brain reminds me this is her father’s fault as much as it’s mine. It doesn’t really help though, because that bastard is in my head. I keep hearing his words. You are trash. You are trash. You are trash. Is she starting to see it, too?

  She closes the door to my room, and I hear the shower start, the curtain slide open. Suddenly, music starts playing, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s Adair’s ringtone. I pull it out of her purse to look at the screen, but it’s gone to voicemail. Then it starts again, flashing Poppy’s face.

  “Hey, Lucky?”

  “Yeah?” she calls over the shower.

  “Poppy is calling—”

  “Shit!” Adair yelps. “I was supposed to call her when I found you!”

  “Wait, do you mean there’s a search party out looking for me?” I know it’s stupid—that she was trying to look out for me—but I fucking hate the thought of a bunch of rich kids stooping down to my level to help me out. I didn’t fucking ask them to.

  Adair did.

  “Just Poppy and Cy,” she says. “Can you answer and tell her everything is fine?”