Rebel Soul

Chapter Two

West

The sound of my father’s ringtone—because, yes, a call from him requires extra warning—wakes me from my slumber. The blaring trill combined with the harsh rays of sunlight filtering in through my open curtains has me groaning.

Slowly, I attempt to sit up; the small movement sends a riot of pain through my skull. Fuck. Accepting defeat, I collapse back into my pillow and fumble around my nightstand for my phone, wondering when in the hell I even put the phone on the charging dock. Finally, after a few misses, I palm the sleek device and lay it on my face. “Yes, Father,” I croak, my voice hoarse and groggy from my night of heavy drinking.

“Weston,” my dad barks into the phone, his voice as pleasant as stepping on a Lego. From what I’m told, that shit doesn’t feel very nice. But if I want to gain access to my grandfather’s estate—and I really fucking do—I guess it’s something I’ll know for myself soon enough. Shit…at what age do kids even play with Legos?

“Yes, Father?” I reply, barely suppressing my sigh.

“Your mother asked me to invite you to join us at the house this evening.” He pauses before adding, “Dinner will be served promptly at five—dress appropriately, and for God’s sake, be on time.” And by on time, he means early.

“Yes, Father.” The silence on the other end lets me know he disconnected. Crazy how an entire conversation can pass with me only saying the same two words the entire time.

The rest of the day passes much too quickly, in a blur of electrolyte-enhanced beverages, carbs, and headache meds. Then again, I slept until noon, so that may have something to do with it, too. Regardless, it all boils down to the same thing: not enough time between my unwanted wake-up call and my summoning—I mean, family dinner.

At half-past three, I snag my phone and keys off of the bar, thumbing through my notifications as I walk out to my car. Just as I’m about to pocket my phone, it buzzes with an incoming text.

Colton: You survive?

Me: Ha, funny.

Colton: Hey, can’t fault me for checking.

Me: I’m good. Thanks for last night.

Colton: Always, man. Let’s set up a meet time for Monday to discuss yesterday’s bomb and the impending fallout a little more?

Me: Just tell me when and where.

Colton: AKA tell Margaret.

Me: Yup, you know it.

I know he’ll text me at least a few more times, but I need to hit the road if I want to avoid getting my ass chewed out for being late.

The drive from my place to my parents’ is an easy one, but the minute their ostentatious brick wall and iron gates come into view, my heart starts racing in my chest and sweat beads my hairline. At twenty-four, I fucking hate the fact that the mere sight of this house can elicit such a visceral response from me—probably because I’m acutely aware of the terrors housed within its walls. Sure, my parents never raised a hand to me, but they didn’t raise me either. I was more like a prop to them, no more important than a piece of art or a vase. If it weren’t for the house staff taking care of me, I’d have probably starved to death before I turned two.

I steel my nerves as I turn onto the curving paver-stone drive, pausing long enough for the gate to swing inward to allow me entry. On the outside looking in, nothing seems amiss. Tasteful landscaping, pristine brick, spotless windows, and a welcoming front entry—but it’s all a lie. The inside of this house is as cold as a goddamn crypt.

After a small pep talk, I leave the safety of my Mercedes and head to the door. I knock twice and wait, my spine straight, shoulders back, and head high, projecting an air of confidence I don’t actually feel.

A few seconds pass before the crypt-keeper herself answers the door. Reining in my shock at seeing Prissy Larson doing something she deems beneath her station, I lean in and hover my cheek next to hers. “Mother.” I draw back and step inside. This house was custom designed, foundation to roof, no expense spared, but the one they really nailed was the wall color—a deep charcoal, fitting to match the hearts and souls of its owners. “Did you give Eliza the day off?” I ask, wondering where the house manager is.

Mother clucks her tongue. “Her granddaughter is sick. Though, I hardly see how that’s an excuse not to be here.”

My fists clench at my sides. “Her granddaughter lives with her,” I remind her. How she doesn’t know this is beyond me—Eliza has been raising the kid since her first birthday, when her mother passed away, and that was ten years ago.

“Oh, yes, right.” She brushes her hands down her skirt. “We’re dining on the patio today since the weather’s so nice.”