Pagan (The Henchmen MC 8)

He wanted to invest in me.

That, that word, perhaps meant more than any "I love yous" or "I'll be with you forevers" ever could. Because it meant he believed in me and what I was capable of, what I was bound to accomplish in my life. It meant that, beyond the 'him and me,' he still valued me as an individual.

I looked down for a minute, sure the whole weight of what I just realized was in my eyes, and not wholly comfortable being quite that vulnerable yet. "I will probably never be able to pay you back."

"I wasn't asking you to."

And that, that casualness about such a huge sum of money, was what managed to make my head raise. "You're out seven-hundred thousand dollars."

"Yes and no," he said, shrugging.

"How no?"

"Technically it was my money, but it has been sitting in an account untouched for, fuck, I don't even know... ten years?"

Maybe even more confused, my brows drew together. "Okay, can I maybe have this from the beginning?"

I never asked him for details, never wanting to be that needy chick who pried information out of you. I always believed someone's actions meant a hell of a lot more than their pasts, so when he didn't automatically offer me his when I offered him mine, I just let it go.

In light of this though, yeah, I was asking.

"You want my story." It wasn't a question, just an acknowledgment of my request.

"I think it's maybe time for that, don't you?"

He took a long, deep breath, seeming more stressed than I had ever seen him before. In fact, I had never seen him stressed before. It wasn't an emotion that I thought was even in his wheelhouse.

"Alright," he said, giving me a nod. "I'll give it to you."

And right then, I was pretty sure, downright certain, that I was maybe the only person he had truly given it to before.

That, well, it meant something too.SIXTEENPaganThere was really no good way to tell a person that you grew up rich.

As in filthy.

As in, even if I lived five lifetimes of my moderate laissez-faire spending, I wouldn't really even put a dent into it.

I came into the world a hefty eight pounds and four ounces with he distinguished name of Robert Scott the Third, in a special hospital room that cost a good ten grand a night. Because heaven forbid a Scott slum it in one of the normal rooms. My mother couldn't be caught sweating in public, let alone having blood and a human coming out of her while she let out a string of unladylike curses.

I went home to an eight-thousand square foot mansion on twenty acres that served absolutely no purpose seeing as my father was never home to do shit like barbecue or play catch. You know, if he even knew how to do either of those things.

My mother was usually busy with what she referred to as her 'social calendar.' Before she married into the prestigious, old-money Scott family, she had had her own corner office, a mid-six-figure income, her own place, her independence. But Scott women, my grandmother had informed her, did not work. They did charity luncheons and connection-building brunches.

A part of me had always wondered what she had been like before they slowly stole her spirit.

You know, before she was taken out of my life, never to be seen again.

Infidelity, the rumors always were. They were vicious and frequent, but I had always wondered about the truth behind them. Or if, maybe, she just never lived up to their high standard.

By the time I was eleven, she was nothing but a memory.

As an adult, I guess I could have sought her out.

But a part of me felt nothing but resentment toward her, figuring that she was likely paid off to leave me behind. Because, otherwise, what could have possessed her to leave her only child behind? And if money was enough of a reason to wipe her hands of me, I wanted nothing to do with her.

From eleven on, there was no one around. Sure, there was a staff of housekeepers, gardeners, drivers, cooks, the works. But there was no one at that point whose job it was to expressly watch little ol' me.

At that age and with that kind of freedom, what was a boy to do but get into every kind of trouble he could?

I cut out of the very nice private school to take off into the woods and climb trees, build makeshift forts, start fires, all the kinds of things that boys of 'good breeding' weren't permitted to do. But since my father was never around to see all the cuts, bruises, and scars, I got away with it.

Then, of course, by the time I became a teenager, shit got all kinds of crazy.