Survival of the Richest (The Trust Fund Duet 1)

“Go on ahead. I’m not good company tonight.” A humorless laugh bounces off the stone and water of the fountain. And abruptly falls silent.

I put my hand on his arm, feeling his muscles—so different from Sutton. Sleek where he’s bulky. Tense where Sutton is deceptively casual, reserving his strength for when he needs it. “I don’t have a red and white life preserver, but there’s a limo that will work just as well.”

He glances over. “Don’t think Sutton would appreciate that.”

“It was his idea.”

Christopher remains still, considering. I wonder what scales are in his head right now, weighing the cost of being near me and Sutton. Weighing the return on investment of a ride home.

I take a step away, hoping he’ll follow. “Remember what you said to me? Can you climb? I need you to climb right now, Christopher. One rung at a time.”

His eyes are as deep and fathomless as the bay was that night. There might have been sharks in that depth. Or it might have been my imagination, running wild. In the end he stands up and runs a hand through his hair. “We didn’t hurt you,” he says like a statement, even though it’s a question.

“I’m fine.” That’s a lie, but there are no bruises on my skin. Nothing he can see.

On the inside I’m hurt in ways I didn’t know were possible.

It’s natural for me to lie, I almost believe the words myself. From the time I was little I had to tell Daddy I was fine or risk los

ing my mom. I had to lie to Mom or watch her fall apart. Lying is how I keep the world together. It’s how I survive.

Sutton has the door open for us when we walk up. He stands a few feet to the side as we get in, both Christopher and me in the very back. Sutton slides in toward the driver, facing us. A rap on the roof, and then we’re driving through downtown Tanglewood. We start the drive in almost-silence, only the muffled sound of the tires on the road to soothe us.

“How much of that champagne did you drink?” I finally ask.

“Damon Scott has his own bartender,” Christopher says. “Who kept refilling my drink. And I kept drinking it, which is damn stupid of me. I’ve done a lot of stupid things.”

“Okay, Mr. Valedictorian. Clearly you’re a sad drunk. That’s something I didn’t know about you. And now that I know it, you aren’t allowed to have liquor.”

“He’s never held it well,” Sutton murmurs from the other seat.

“Really?” I ask, curious about this lightweight side of Christopher.

Sutton looks at me, his blue eyes dark across the limo. “It’s not something he does often. In fact this is only the second time I’ve seen him get drunk. The first time—that was the night we met.”

“Hell,” Christopher says. Only that.

“We were at the Den,” Sutton says. “He told me about this woman he knew.”

My throat goes tight, because I know which woman he’s talking about. Which means that Christopher was as messed up about me as I was about him. Part of me had suspected that, but it was easier to think of him as an unfeeling robot-monster instead of a flesh-and-blood man.

There’s no jealousy in Sutton’s blue eyes—well, maybe a little. But mostly understanding. He wasn’t clueless when he stepped between us. Definitely not clueless when he bent me over the library counter and spanked my ass with a book.

“What do we do now?” I ask, sounding lost to my own ears.

It’s Christopher who answers, his voice bleak. “What we’ve always done. We work. We fix what’s broken. We fight for every goddamn penny.”

“Your choice,” Sutton says, softer. “It’s always been your choice what you do here. Whether you go or stay. And which one of us you bring home.”

I swallow hard, because I already know what I’m going to do. For tonight, at least. Christopher has been a rock of ambition the entire time I’ve known him. Whatever the reason, tonight broke him. I’m not going to leave him alone to face this himself.

The limo pulls up to a high-rise condo. I know from the sleek glass and the stiff bellhop who lives here, even before Christopher pushes out of the seat. Where does Sutton live? Maybe not somewhere as rustic as a ranch, but I know he must be able to open a window. Must be able to feel the sun and the wind on his face.

Christopher walks away from the limo without a backward glance. He doesn’t expect me to follow. Maybe he never wants to see me again.

He didn’t shiver alone in my cabin after pulling me out of the bay.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice low in the back of the limo.