Nothing But Wild (Malibu University 2)

“In a minute…” I glance around. The house is too quiet, all twenty-thousand square feet of it. “Where’s Harry?”

Brenda’s current boyfriend. The only reason we get along is because he doesn’t pretend to like me so I don’t need to pretend to tolerate him.

“We broke up.”

“Again?”

She looks off. “For good, I think...He took his stuff with him.”

I’m not celebrating yet. They’ve broken up a million times in the last three years.

“The bike too?” Dude loves his Harley.

“Yep.”

“Too bad. I would’ve taken it out and wrapped it around a tree.”

She makes a sound. “Baby…”

My first genuine smile of the day. “And Grandpa?” I mean, what’s Thanksgiving without family, right? That’s sarcasm FYI.

“He’s in Mustique with Brandy.”

I chuckle darkly. My grandfather––the honorable patriarch of this great family––is, for lack of a better term, a fucking horn dog. He’s seventy-seven and dates twenty-year-olds.

“Brandy?”

“New one. He met her at Morton’s.” My mother smirks around another sip of vino. “An aspiring actress.”

“So…porn?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

The coffee table is littered with take-out boxes, bags with The Bench logo, and an empty bottle of Chateau Margaux. She’s working on her second one. Nothing out of the ordinary here.

The super chilled-out expression, however––that’s cause for concern. Brenda’s usually bouncing around with excess energy. “You seem like you’re in a good mood.” The unspoken accusation hangs in the air.

“New medication,” she explains, giving me a sly smile.

Figures. Then, placing her glass on the table, she lays down with her head on my lap; something she used to do all the time when I was still living at home.

My mother is what the rich call “eccentric” and what the rest of the civilized world––including the medical community––call “bipolar.” Which means I learned at a very early age to watch people closely and search for signs of change in their demeanor. Not for nothing but I’m kind of a stud at it.

Had she gotten a proper diagnosis and medication twenty years ago I have no doubt she wouldn’t be nearly as fucked up today.

“Love this new shrink. I’m even thinking of moving to L.A. to be closer to her. Did you like her, by the way?”

No. She’s another total phony and I don’t intend on seeing her again. “Yeah, she’s great.”

“I knew you guys would hit it off.”

A heavy silence falls between us and the pressure under my skin builds. It’s almost too much to bear.

“Beth died…” It comes out before I can stop it. Like an infection purged by the body.

My mother’s eyes blink open. Pupils dilated, her brows perfectly still thanks to her dermatologist. “Beth Bradley? Your old tutor?” She sits up and turns to face me. I nod and watch something unreadable cross her face.

I met Beth the summer I turned sixteen. My parents had been separated since I was two so it should’ve been a simple divorce. It wasn’t. Nothing that involves my family ever is. It turned into a bloodbath. Basically an excuse to get back at each other. Including accusations of orgies, drug use around a minor, and physical abuse.

With all the bullshit that was going on––the two of them fighting for custody when in truth neither of them really wanted me around––my grades took a nosedive. They hired a tutor to get me up to speed for the new boarding school they were looking to ship me off to––the second one in three years. Beth was getting her PhD in Women and Gender Studies at Stanford and needed a job with flexible hours.

The attraction was immediate.

At least, for me it was. I wasn’t a virgin, but being shuttled from school to school didn’t exactly make it easy for me to keep a steady girlfriend. Beth was sexy and confident. She was easy to talk to. And most of all, she listened. Except for the part that she was twenty-seven and I was underage, it felt like fate.

It didn’t happen right away. I mean, it took me a while to wear her down. There’s not much I want, but when I do I go after it with relentless patience and determination. Once I finally got her to admit that she was attracted to me too, it happened naturally. I convinced my parents to let me finish my junior and senior year in the Bay Area––she helped with that––and we carried on. It was the first time in my life I can recall being happy.

Shortly before the end of my senior year she told me she couldn’t see me anymore. That if it ever got out, she could go to jail, be branded a pedophile. Her name would go on the registry, and she would never be able to teach again. Her life would be destroyed. And although all those things were true, they had been true from the start. And yet she’d chosen to love me despite the risk.