Enemy Dearest

No dots or bubbles color the screen.

Instead of some smart-mouthed response, he’s given me silence.

Interesting …

I hit the shower and wash the events of the past twenty-four hours out of my hair—but the thoughts remain.

Two in particular.

Who is August Monreaux? I mean, who is he really?

And what does he want with me?

Chapter Seven

August

* * *

The pool area practically sparkles Saturday morning. Trent and his crew did their thing. Can’t even tell there was a single stoned soul here last night. Not a wrinkled Solo cup. Not a smashed beer bottle. Not a single silk bra hanging off the back of a lounge chair.

Spotless.

Like it never happened.

Like it was all a dream.

Only it wasn’t. Despite my drunken state, last night’s memories come through with crystal clarity, from the second Sheridan Rose moseyed onto the premises, arm in arm with her spitfire best friend, to the moment she dashed out of my house like fucking Cinderella at the stroke of twelve.

I flick my shades down over my eyes and recline as the mid-morning sun beats down. Dad and his newest girlfriend du jour are out on yet another weekend adventure in the most expensive parts of BFE.

The image of my father in his midlife-crisis-red Ferrari with his twenty-two year old girlfriend on his arm makes the bile churn in my stomach. Vincent Monreaux, arguably one of the most powerful businessmen in Missouri and its surrounding states, is a walking, talking cliché.

I’ve never been one for daydreaming, but at times I’ve caught myself wondering what our family would’ve been like had my mom and sister survived. Would we be one of those wholesome kinds who actually eat dinner around a table and play Scrabble and have inside jokes and family portraits on the wall?

Or would my mother shop away her boredom every day while my dad drowns his in a fifth of imported liquor.

It’s easy to idealize what might have been, what could have been.

Maybe we wouldn’t have been happy or perfect, but we would’ve been something more than this dysfunctional excuse for a dynasty. All the money a man could need and then some—and all the misery that comes with it.

If people around here aren’t afraid of us, they’re cursing our name. My father quit donating millions to charities years ago because it was never enough to stop the rumors. Nothing he could do painted us in a different light, so he stopped giving a fuck.

My phone buzzes on the table beside me. I don’t make a habit out of scrambling over a text, but today I’m making an exception.

I let out a sigh.

Not who I hoped it’d be.

SOREN—Got you those tix. How you been? Haven’t heard from you in a while …

My oldest brother—the shining perfect beacon of the family and my father’s pride and joy—is a bona fide celebrity in the music world. I lost track years ago of how many platinum albums and number one singles he’d accumulated.

When the rest of the world looks at him, they see a rock God.

Me? I see the only older brother I can stand.

For a Monreaux, he’s not that bad.

ME—Busy. The usual. Dad’s got me “interning” again this summer.

For tax purposes, our father calls it an internship. But if the IRS ever knew I sat around in a spare corner office, watched cam girl porn, and fucked around all day, I don’t think they’d be thrilled.

SOREN—You can always “intern” with the band …

ME—Road life’s not for me.

Not to mention I’ve never needed to score ass by riding his coattails, and I’m not about to start. Plus groupies are notoriously STD-ridden and someone always winds up fucking pregnant with a mystery baby daddy.

Not my scene.

SOREN—Glad you’re finally coming to a show. Who you bringing?

ME—Not sure.

It’ll be Sheridan. One hundred fucking percent. She’s going even if she doesn’t know it yet.

SOREN—Cool, cool. I’ll have my manager shoot you the barcode for the tix. Will be good to see you, man.

I was in my middle school heyday when Soren got signed by some top tier label out of LA. He was in college, playing his guitar at open mic nights and coffee shops for nothing more than whatever a few broke college kids could toss into his tip jar. But the thing about Soren is, he was never looking for fame. And God knows he didn’t need the fortune.

He was just pure fucking raw talent.

It’s a shame he couldn’t keep his name. Some middle-aged, balding big-wig at the head of the table came up with the phonetic MUNRO. All caps, to stand out even more because it would appeal to the Gen Z demographic. And that’s all it took for Soren to sign on the dotted line.

I’m happy for him.

Even if he’s half a stranger to me these days.

We’re not close, then again, I’m not close to anyone.