Chapter 14
Axel
The black sedanthat picked me up at the airport is waved past the security gate and starts the too short drive into the exclusive neighborhood where Nolan Rakestraw and his family live. My plane landed two hours ago in Dallas. I talked the driver my father sent into stopping for a quick dinner, but I could only procrastinate for so long.
The house doesn’t so much come into view as it rises. I jokingly call it The Real Kingdom, after the name of Father’s church, because that’s what it is; that fucker built himself a castle.
Nolan Rakestraw comes from a long line of southern preachers, back to the days when they rode circuits on horseback, stopping in a new town every Sunday to minister to the desperate souls of East Texas. The call to follow in his ancestors’ footsteps was strong, and my father happily took up the mantle. He wasn’t self-taught like his father and grandfather. He went to college. Nothing like a state university. No football or women. It was a small, religiously focused, all male school, where he made the connections to take his natural born skills to the next level. College didn’t give him the gift of preaching–of connection to his flock. That was a hundred percent DNA. How do I know? Because I feel it in my blood. This way with people, this charisma, and I do every fucking thing I can to shut it down.
All of that is enough to explain why I feel like I’ve got a rock building in my gut. I’m not foolish enough to think that’s the only reason. I feel like shit about how I left things with Nadia. That is not how I wanted to end that with her and it’s exactly why I don’t let women get close.
I grew up under intense scrutiny. More than any NHL hockey player could ever imagine. People had access to me, to my family. We were on display. We were God’s chosen. And they, I learned quickly, were the key to our livelihood, which meant the people of the Kingdom owned me.
That’s the real reason that, as soon as I hit eighteen, I tried to put distance between me and my family. It doesn’t make a difference. No matter how many tattoos, piercings, or saved goals I have, no matter how much I try to establish my own identity, I’m still Nolan Rakestraw’s son.
I’m the heir to the Kingdom.
It’s been a challenge, but Wittmore is the only place I have that isn’t infected by him, so when Bridget brought up my family at Friendsgiving it was like a bomb went off in my chest. Nadia got hit by the shrapnel, which is totally not fair. She made me the most amazing kolaches. Those pastries were like an orgasm in my mouth, but more than that, I know it took time and effort.
It was maybe the nicest thing a girl has ever done for me.
No, no maybe. It was the nicest thing a girl has ever done for me. And the reaction I felt was fierce. It made me want to stake a claim in her. Let everyone else at the party know she was mine. Celebrate with her. It was only her concern about Twyler finding out that held me back. And, well, I sure as hell don’t want Reese’s foot up my ass. So when Heather started clinging hard, I felt like it was a good diversion but… I knew when she left she was upset. I tried to fix it. I went to her house after to show her my thanks, to kiss her goodbye, to express to her how fucking special she is, but then she asked about my dad and hockey and… I snapped.
Even if I can’t have her the way I want to, I don’t want to lose her as a friend. I’ve got to fix it. I just don’t know how. Unfortunately, that’s not my biggest issue at the moment.
The car coasts down the stone lined driveway, up to the imposing arched front entrance of the house. I take a deep breath and prepare myself to enter The Kingdom.
“How many more have yougotten since I last saw you?”
Shelby stands by my dresser, watching me flip through the clothes in my closet for a shirt. There are dozens hanging neatly on the rod. Crisp button-downs in pale, unassuming colors, along with neatly pressed pants that match the pair I’ve already put on. My mother’s doing.
“Has she never heard of black? Gray? Dark blue?” I mutter, finally settling on a basic white one and yank it off the hanger. Shrugging it over my shoulders I see my sister is still waiting for an answer.
“How many?” my sister repeats, eyes sweeping over my torso.
“I don’t know. Ten? Fifteen?”
She shakes her head, but I see the way she looks at the tattoos. She’s both curious and judgmental. Not of the tattoos, exactly, but of the life that allows such freedom.
“What’s the most recent one?”
It’s the ‘T’ on my hip. Every time I catch a glance at the dark ink, it feels like a punch to the gut. I hold out my forearm instead. “This sun. I got it after seeing this amazing sunrise down at the river. I didn’t want to forget it.”
“Other people take photos, Ax.”
“Well,” I start, securing the last button and shoving the hem of my shirt into my pants, “I’m not other people.”
“Maybe out there you aren’t, but here you’re still part of the flock. Hurry up or Mom’s going to send someone else up here to get you.”
Someone else: my father.
I already spent an hour with him this morning going over my part of the holiday sermon that I’ll be doing next month. It’s a family affair, a tradition that started when we were barely old enough to read. The congregation loved it though, and Father knows how to deliver. This time it’s different. There’s more pressure on me taking a bit more of a leadership role.
He hadn’t been overly impressed, not that he’d tell me if he was, but I think he was just glad I’d actually started. He assured me that we’d go over it again once the guests leave. Yay.
The doorbell rings again downstairs and Shelby huffs. “Ax, seriously. They’re waiting and unless you’re willing to shave off that ridiculous mustache, I’m not going to cover for you.”
“The ‘stashe stays,” I tell her. Still undefeated.
My eyes dart to the bottom drawer of my dresser where I’ve kept a bottle of Jack hidden for the last five years. Every other holiday party we’ve had here for the last three years I’ve taken a shot before heading down. Not so much liquid courage, but liquid sanity.
I can taste the spicy heat right now. I could send Shelby ahead, grab the bottle, and take a fast swig. Cut the edge. I don’t think it would even count as an epic fuck-up.
Shit. That just makes me think of Nadia for the millionth time since getting home. Not just when I see the tattoo, but the second before I fall asleep and the instant I wake up. Like habit, I grab my phone and check her social media one more time, seeing if she posted any other photos since her last update. It was a single image of blue skies and palm trees. I’m glad to see she made it home, but just want to see her face–determine if I can get an inkling of her state of mind. Does she hate me?
What am I asking? Of course she does.
“Oh, who’s that?” Shelby leans close. I shut off the phone and shove it in my pocket.
“No one.”
“Are you stalking someone?”
“No,” I snap, a little too quickly, and direct her out of my room. From the hallway, I can hear the loud voices echoing from the foyer. I reconsider the whiskey one more time.
“Oh gosh, you like someone.” Her eyes are wide, gleeful as she races after me to keep up. “Is it serious? What’s her name? Can I see her picture?”
“There’s no girl, Shel.” There’s not, right? “You know I don’t date.”
She gives me a disappointed look. No one is happy about the fact that I’ve never brought a serious girlfriend home. At the top of the stairs, I ask, “What about you? Anyone special?”
The hint of a smile plays on her mouth. “I’ve been talking to David Jones.”
“The music minister’s son?” I snort. “That skinny kid that’s been trying to grow a mustache since he was fourteen?”
“Yes.” Her chin lifts defiantly. “And he can grow a full beard now.”
“I bet.” I roll my eyes and add, “I’m assuming Dad set this up?”
What better way to keep Shelby under his thumb than to have her marry another minister’s kid.
“No,” she says fussing with the bracelet on her arm. “We’ve known one another for ages and we’ve been working with the youth group. He’s with the boys and I’m with the girls. It just… kind of happened.”
Yeah right. “I’m sure the Rev approves.”
“He does.”
Midway down the staircase I grab her arm and pull her to a stop. “You don’t have to do this, you know? You can go to college. Move out. Get a job.”
She pulls away from my grasp. “Please don’t.”
“Don’t what? Tell you that you have options?” I sigh. “You should come visit me. See what it’s like on campus. Reese’s girlfriend is amazing. You could stay with her and Nadia–”
“Don’t start this today,” she repeats. “I like David. He’s cute, smart, and respectful. He is in college, studying business management, and he comes home every weekend to volunteer and to see me. Just because you’re desperate to rebel against the future, doesn’t mean that I am.”
“You haven’t even kissed him, have you?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, trying to see it.
“Of course not.” She gives me a final, hard look, and continues down the stairs, the smile plastered on her face before she greets her first guest.
Fuck.I really need that drink.
Thanksgiving isn’t a family affair.Nothing about the Rakestraws is ever just ‘us.’ His argument is that the church built this home, and we should open it to members of the congregation and community to celebrate. Of course, none of these people are needy in any way. They’re the same people that follow my father everywhere, kissing his ass, tell him he’s amazing, agreeing to his every word, not to mention, funding his ideas and causes. Most of all: lining his pockets.
At some point Thanksgiving got so big that my mother started hiring help. I don’t blame her. It’s too much for one woman to do and my father sure as hell isn’t helping. There’s a valet outside, a man at the door receiving guests and taking coats, and waitstaff rushing around in all black, weaving through the guests offering appetizers and drinks. Over all this buzz, I can hear my mother commanding the army of servers in the kitchen as the scent of turkey wafts through the house.
“Sweetie, you look like you could use a drink.” This comes from a woman I assume is from my mother’s bible study.
“That would be awesome.” I’ve been hovering–fine hiding–in the alcove near the library for the last hour, hoping I didn’t overwork my wrist from the repeated handshaking I was forced into when the guests arrived.
She snatches a glass of brown liquid off one of the passing trays and presses it into my hand.
“Oh,” I give her a tight smile when I realize it’s iced tea. This house is an alcohol-free zone, even on holidays. “Thanks. It’s crowded in here.”
I don’t know if it’s unnaturally warm or not, but my skin is itchy and hot.
“Your parents are so gracious to open their home to everyone.” She grins. “It’s wonderful, but definitely a little chaotic.”
I nod and repeat. “So wonderful.”
“Slow down, Preston!” she calls when a few kids run past us, out the back door to the wide, green lawn. I watch them wistfully, wishing I could follow them. When I was their age, I loved these events. But now… I swallow a sip of the sickly sweet tea and hope it washes away the dread. “Put them in clean clothes and they turn into wild things.”
“Get some turkey in them and they’ll be ready for a long nap.”
“Maybe I can slip them a little bit before dinner starts.” She laughs and then looks at my hand, her gaze lingering on the tattoos and rings on my fingers. “I don’t think we’ve formally met, I’m Donna. We joined the Kingdom last year.”
“Axel.”
“The Reverend”s son. I’ve heard of you.”
“Cautionary tale?” I ask. “Or in reference to the prodigal son?”
“Oh no, your parents have nothing but praise for you. They’re so proud.”
I fight a snort at that, but yeah, outwardly, I’m sure they put up a good front. Inwardly, the disappointment is thick.
Donna rests her hand on my arm. “You go head in the den with the other men. We’ll call you when dinner is ready.”
It may be my imagination, but I’m pretty freaking sure she feels up my bicep and I take the offer to escape. The den is in the back of the house–my father’s other sanctuary. Dark wood paneling lines the walls and comfortable leather seating fills the space. Football is on the massive TV. The Cowboys’ game will be on later today–dinner scheduled around the event. Trays of appetizers have been set out on a buffet in the back and I head straight for it instead of joining the other men. I don’t miss that my father is talking to David–Shelby’s new beau.
I’ve got a stuffed mushroom in my mouth when I’m approached by one of the men.
“Axel, right?” he asks, stacking crackers and cheese on his paper plate.
“Yes, sir,” I say after swallowing.
“Jim Brown.” He offers his hand and I shake it. “You’re having one heck of a season up there at Wittmore.”
“Oh, you’re a hockey fan?” I nod to the others hovering around the screen. “Don’t let them hear you, or they’ll try you for treason.”
“I grew up in Michigan. We love football and hockey.” He gives me an appraising look, seeming to look past the tattoos and piercings. “You carried the team in that game against the Hounds.”
“That’s giving me a little more credit than I deserve. Our offense still got the puck in the net, but their offense was just relentless.” The defense was struggling that day and I’d been worn the fuck out by the end of it. “Even though we won, I wouldn’t be sad to see them knocked out of the playoffs.”
“I heard about your probation. Hopefully that hasn’t been too disruptive.”
“It was a stupid mistake,” I admit. “But everything should be cleared up by early next week.”
“Good, you wouldn’t want something like that to hinder you from the draft.”
I grab two more mushrooms, because Jesus, these things are like crack. “I’m not entering the draft.”
“You’re not?” He frowns. “I’ve seen the reports. You’re high on the list.”
“There are bigger things than hockey.” A heavy hand lands on my shoulder. My father is the man behind that sentiment. “Axel has plans to join the Kingdom after graduation.”
Jim nods, but I sense his disappointment. Mostly because I feel it myself. “I understand. A greater calling. Can’t ignore that.”
“No, you can’t,” Dad says. “Now, I just got the nod that it’s time for dinner. Let’s head to the dining room before it gets cold.”
On the way to the dining room, I pause and indicate for my father to do the same. “About the probation. I was going to tell you–”
“No need,” he holds up his hand. “I already know all about it.”
“You do?” I frown. “Did Coach Bryant call you?”
His jaw sets, but he doesn’t answer my question about Coach. “Just because you’re across the country doesn’t mean I don’t keep up with your activities.”
And like that, all the pieces fall into place. I’d wondered why the probation status hadn’t made the news, not even locally. My father somehow managed to control it. “The toxicology report implies some kind of dosing?”
Shit. How far is his reach? I shift uneasily. “It seems like it.”
“You know what they say: bad company corrupts good behavior.”
Leave it to my father to throw shade on my friends with a bible verse.
“Well, it’ll be done by Monday. I’ll retake the test and I can put it behind me.”
“I should hope so, Son,” his voice lowers. “I’ve allowed you a lot of freedom during these years. As much as I dislike it, I’m aware that edgy, tattooed, experienced young leaders are a draw to the modern church, but embarrassing the family publicly is where I draw the line. Our reputation is all we have.”
“Along with our faith, obviously,” I add, not hiding the sarcasm.
I can tell by his expression that he thinks I should wear this weight for eternity, but my mother waves him to the head of the long table. The feast is too big and everything is placed on sideboards for a buffet, but the massive turkey sits in front of his seat, the carving knife and fork next to the gold rimmed plate, ready for the king of the castle.
“Reverend,” a squeaky voice interrupts my father’s preparations. Everyone looks over and sees David Jones step forward, pale and swallowing nervously. “If I may…”
“David, what’s on your mind?” my dad asks and I sense a set up. My gaze darts to Shelby who is standing by my mother, eyes wide, watching her boyfriend approach our father.
He fumbles in his pocket and the church ladies barely contain their whispers as he reveals a black velvet box. “I’d like to ask for Shelby to be promised to me.”
Promised. Jesus Christ. I don’t know what’s worse. The commitment of an engagement ring or the shackles of a promise. Shelby gasps and the dread in my gut unfurls. I feel her slipping further away–further into their grasp. At least I had a chance to run free for a minute, but Shelby, she’s never had a chance.
“We’d be honored, Son,” he says, speaking for my sister. To her credit she looks thrilled, hands covering her mouth, bouncing on her toes. David turns, his grin wide and bright as the sun. The whole room vibrates with excitement, watching him push the gold ring on her left hand.
Although she’s the one making the commitment, I can’t help but feel the noose tightening around my neck.
Thank god for football.
With the game starting mid-afternoon everyone inhales their dinner, and while everyone heads to the den, I step outside.
For the first time, I realize that I miss the cold of the northeast. The Texas air is too warm, and I crave the cold slap on my face to wake me up and the sharp needles in my lungs to prove I’m alive. Or maybe I won’t breathe easily again until I make things right with Nadia.
I have to apologize.
Pulling out my phone, I see a slew of notifications from the team, all wishing Happy Thanksgiving. My roommates group chat is filled with photos: Reese and Twyler bundled up around a firepit. Jefferson on the beach with his family on some tropical island. Reid’s is nothing but him gnawing on a turkey leg. I send out my own best wishes, including a selfie.
I scroll down and another notification pops up and my thumb swipes across the screen, opening it to Nadia’s ChattySnap profile. My heart races when I see her in a bikini, standing in waist deep, clear blue, pool water. Her hair is wet and slicked back, the afternoon sun casting a glow over the curves of her sexy body.
I’m so entranced with her, that it takes me a minute to realize she’s not alone. I zoom into the figures in the background. There’s a couple–a guy and a girl–behind her. I recognize him as her brother from other photos she’s posted. But the other guy? Who the hell is that?
I skim the caption. “Thanksgiving is for real friends and family. Hope you get to spend the day with yours.” She tags a few accounts, but I already know it’s @will_holt1.
A lesser man would be crushed.
But I’ve spent my entire life fighting against odds. It may be my generation’s old Texan spirit–the need to rebel and fight for what’s mine.
I shoot off a text: Happy Thanksgiving, T. Hope you made it through the day fuck-up free. I know I barely did. My biggest fuck-up yet was leaving things the way I did the other day. I’m sorry. There’s no excuse. I only hope you’ll forgive me.
It’s not enough, but it’s a start. Nadia Beckwith may not know it yet, but that’s what she is–mine.