“Nah, we’re almost there.” The ice is coming down harder now, the tiny pellets bouncing off Jasmine’s windshield. I’m as confident as anyone can get about driving, but I’m still tense and anxious. Maybe it’s the fact I’m carrying precious cargo that makes my hands clench, white-knuckled around the steering wheel. After we pass two accidents, I’m ready to get off this fucking hellscape of a road.
It feels like it takes forever for the stone pillars marking the entry of my driveway to finally come into view. I turn in, following the long path toward the house, and can’t help but sneak a quick peek at Sugar, trying to anticipate her reaction. Sugar knows enough about me and my family’s financial status to expect a nice house. But exactly how nice is relative.
Even I’m aware that our house isn’t only big. It could almost be qualified as a fucking compound. We could house a cult in here and no one would be the wiser. Any other girl would be impressed as hell, would probably want to jump straight on my dick when they realize just how loaded I am, but Sugar? She may decide we should go back and stay in that shitty motel off route 64 instead of accepting the reality of my family’s wealth.
I’m already anticipating some pushback about the Mustang. Probably a lot of pushback. Maybe even more of like a shoveback. I’d planned for it to be done by now, and it mostly is. Mechanically, it’s completely solid, all rebuilt. I even took a chance and replaced the sound system, all by myself—new wiring and all. I sent the dash façade off to a guy in Nebraska, the best of the best for restoring those things, and paid someone from out in Thistle Cove to re-do all the flooring. But this cold weather has made painting the exterior impossible. I just need a few warmer days and I’ll have that Mustang looking shiny and new again. I’ve been excited about it for days now, having gotten the seats back from the upholsterer yesterday. My grand plan is that it’ll look so perfect, so fucking amazing, that maybe my girl will only be a little bit pissed when she finally finds out I’m the one who restored it.
Hey, a guy can dream, can't he?
I pass the old course greens and the little entry gate, seeing her look out at the various buildings we pass. Most of them are guest quarters. My dad likes to entertain here on a regular basis. There’s a cottage tucked against the tree line behind the house he just refurbished and expanded last year. For all that my dad is gone most of the time, he fucking loves this place, dolls it up whenever he gets the chance, like the biggest jewel in his crown.
I feel her go very still next to me when the main house comes into view. I risk taking her hand to squeeze it, wanting to remind her that she’s here with me—and that one simple fact means she belongs.
I pull the car around the looping drive and stop right in front of the house. I peer up at it through the window. “Home sweet home.”
“This is your house.” Her hand clutches the handle on the top of the crate. “Not one of the ones back there?” She looks over her shoulder, back at the buildings we passed on the way up. When she meets my gaze again, seeing the look on my face, she pales. “No. You’re kidding me.”
I sigh. “There are eight buildings on the property—although I suspect my dad is planning to build again. Some people buy a car when they get a mid-life crisis, but my dad calls a contractor.”
She gapes back at me. “I thought you lived in a gated community with a country club or something. I didn’t realize the country club is the house.”
“Used to be, anyway.” I lean over and capture her lips in what I hope is a reassuring kiss. She still looks gobsmacked when I pull back. “Fair warning; it comes with all the trappings. Gourmet kitchens, a theater, three pools, luxurious bathrooms with double-headed showers, my troubled mother, and a cranky German head of staff who keeps the whole place afloat.”
She looks at the house again, then back at me. “What about your dad?”
I wave a hand dismissively. “Nah, it’s a weekday, which means he’s up in New York, slaying dragons and stealing gold on Wallstreet or whatever the fuck he does up there. He only really stays here on the weekend.” I don’t mention that Heston is back at school, and thank fucking god, because if he weren’t, we would be staying at that shitty motel on the highway. She still looks at the house and me uneasily, like the second we step inside, everything changes. I reach out to give her dog tags a gentle tug, showing her that we’re still us. “It’s just a house, Sugar. It may be all pretty and intimidating on the outside, but the inside is nothing to be afraid of. Just like me.” I wink and she pulls a face.
“Gross. You never stop, do you?”
“Nope. Never.”
I hop out of the car, slip-sliding on the icy driveway, running around to open the door and take the crate from her. While ice spits on our face, I carry the crate in one hand and take Sugar’s hand in the other, carefully guiding her up the front steps, already sprinkled with salt.
Liesel has the door open before I can reach for the knob, her thick accent calling out, “Sebastian! Oh, goodness! You’re soaked.” Her eyes dart to Sugar, down to our clasped hands, over to the howling crate, and then back to Sugar again. A million questions cross her face, but she straightens her shoulders and says, “Come inside and get out of the ice.”
We step inside and Liesel fusses over our wet shoes, sternly directing us to take them off. I shuck off my coat, take Sugar’s from her, and see Liesel staring into the crate.
“That mama cat is close.”
“I know,” I say, “that’s why we brought her here. Where should we put her?”
“There’s space in the garage,” she says.
“I’ll take her to my bathroom,” I declare, shutting down that train of thought now. “So she can be close to us.”
She gives me a scandalized look. “Your bathroom! But the towels!” Liesel has the biggest fucking hard-on for perfectly white towels, but I’m not sitting in the garage all night, and neither is Abby. Liesel must see the determination in my expression, because she admits a swift defeat. “I’ve got some old linens in the laundry room that you can use.”
“Thank you,” I say, noticing again that her eyes dart to Sugar. She’s gone silent next to me while her eyes bug out, taking in the tall, ridiculously grand foyer. “Er, Liesel, this is Sugar, a friend from school.”
“Oh, a friend.” Her eyebrow raises skeptically. Before she can grill me more, Abby lets out the low, deep howl of a frightened animal in pain. “Go on, then. Take her upstairs. I’ll bring up the supplies.”
The three of us cut through the house, Sugar quiet at my side even when Liesel breaks off from us at the corridor to the laundry rooms. My fingers are still linked with Sugar’s, keeping her close. There’s a small part of me that’s terrified she may bolt at any moment, and a lot of it has to do with that constantly startled look in her eyes. It’s not like there’s anywhere to go, but rationality has never been a strong character trait for Sugar when she’s panicked.
“My room is up here,” I say, climbing the stairs off the kitchen. I’m propelled by her silence to continue talking, filling the gap. “My mom’s suite is on the other side of the house, so Abby shouldn’t bother her. Not like my mom would care. I just…” I don’t finish that train of thought. I’m not sure what shape my mom is in tonight, or if we should bother her, or what kind of reaction she would have to me bringing Sugar home. Liesel barely kept her mouth shut, obviously dying to find out more. “I think the best idea is to get her settled in the bathroom. Maybe in the tub? Or is that weird? The floors are heated and it stays pretty warm in there, and look, don’t worry about Liesel and the towels. I swear she sleeps with a bottle of Clorox or something. It’s like her magic elixir.”
I continue talking as we walk down the long hall, passing the ominous, closed door to Heston’s rooms, before turning into my own. It’s been a long time since I’ve brought anyone in here, and even then, it’d never been a girl. The first room we enter isn’t technically the ‘bed’ part of the ‘bedroom’. It’s a sitting room, with a door leading to the proper bedroom just inside. When we enter, it’s immaculate, thanks to Liesel’s staff and the fact I live in the dorm ninety percent of the year. It’s always just been my bedroom, but I’m not stupid. Most people don’t have a living area in their bedroom, or a bathroom the size of a small post office, or a balcony that could comfortably entertain most of my lacrosse team.
The walls are painted slate gray, matching both the décor and bedding on the enormous king-sized bed. My mom—or really, her decorator—picked it all out. On the shelf against the far wall, there are a few items that make a halfhearted attempt at defining me. Lacrosse trophies and awards. A picture of our family from years ago, on a trip to Europe. Classic novels from all my past literature classes are stacked underneath. Over the desk is a huge Atlanta United flag. I point out the hidden flatscreen that pops out of the floor, because even I think it’s cool. If Liesel didn’t clean in here every week, everything would be covered in a thick coat of dust. For the first time, I realize with startling clarity that I’m not attached to much in here. Preston has become my home more than anywhere else. Aside from my mom, that’s where the people I consider my real family are.