Make You Beg

I’m not.

At this point, I’m numb. My mind’s still trying to process the events that have led us to this moment.

Pulling up to the gate of our home, we find reporters standing outside with their camera crews. Their hands hit the glass as they shove each other to get as close as possible. I start to duck my head but then remember they can’t see me through the limo tint. My father’s guards push them back, allowing us entry.

I turn around to watch the gate close, giving myself a sense of peace that no one got onto the property.

The driver rounds the entrance, pulling up to the front of our fifteen-thousand-square-foot mansion, and I get out. I’m on autopilot. It’s kinda like when you’re driving, and your mind isn’t paying attention, but somehow, you still arrive at your destination. That’s how my body is right now.

We enter the house, and the staff flocks to us. My father speaks to them, but I tune them all out. I was born into money. Our town is built on billionaires and fucking crooked bastards. Westbrook, Texas, has a population of two hundred and fifty thousand. It is full of the one percent, but not all of them live here full-time. Most of them own vacation homes here on Lake Miles, a manmade lake covering over nine hundred acres. The elite take their yachts out on sunny days before returning to their penthouse apartments overlooking Central Park in New York and mansions tucked back in the California hills. I once asked a man why he kept his yacht here instead of in the ocean. He said it was too rough for such a treasure.

The founders of Westbrook go back generations, to the eighteen hundreds. They consist of four families—the Monroes, Laws, Relliks, and, you guessed it, the Scouts. Like I said, my four best friends own this town. They are known as the Grim Reapers—they will fight you to the death on and off the field. I should have known that Dax’s father would never let him go down for raping and murdering an innocent girl.

“We’ve got three hours.” My father turns to me as we stand in the foyer.

My mouth feels like I swallowed sandpaper, and my chest feels like it’s being squeezed by a vise. I’m not even sure how much longer my shaky knees are going to keep my heavy body standing.

“For what?” my brother asks.

“Before the jet leaves. It’s being fueled as we speak.”

He’s talking in riddles. Nonsense. The verdict has left him just as confused. That’s what hurts the most. The fact that I pulled my family into this. They told my father to ship me off to boarding school to finish my high school education, and my brother—well, thankfully, he’s never here. It’s not their fault, but I know if they had seen what I did, they would have done the same thing. We were raised to do what’s right. My father taught my brother to respect the word no. And I was taught to help those who need it. Having money does not mean you can’t have morals.

“What do you mean?” my brother growls. “Where are we going?”

“I spoke to your mother yesterday, and we decided this is what’s best for your sister,” my father answers, still typing away on his phone.

“What are you talking about?” Clearly, my brother is as confused as I am.

Our parents never speak to one another. They had a very bad divorce when we were younger. My mother was having an affair and chose to take the settlement my father offered her, leaving the three of us behind.

My father places his phone in his pocket and turns to face me with an apologetic look in his soft blue eyes. “You can’t stay here. Not after that verdict.” He lets out a long breath.

“Where is she going?” my brother demands, stepping between our father and me. “Dad …” He lowers his voice. “Dad, you can’t ship her away to boarding school.”

I pull on the blazer once more. It feels so constricting. I just want to get out of these clothes, take a shower, and go to bed. I want to wash this horrible day away.

“To stay with your mother.” Dad answers.

RYAN SCOUT

“Cheers, motherfucker!” Law hollers, lifting the shot glass and clinking it against ours. We throw them back and slam the now empty glasses on the marble countertop in his mother’s kitchen. “I told you that you had nothing to worry about.” He slaps Monroe’s back.

Monroe nods a few times and lets out a long breath, undoing his black silk tie. The stress of the past month has been wearing on him. Even when there was no evidence to prove he did anything to Brenda Nash, it still cost his father a small fortune for him to stay innocent. The system saw an opportunity, and they will always take it. Money talks louder than any girl screaming rape. “Yeah.” He grabs the bottle and pours another round.