Chapter Twenty-Nine Damion
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“When the fall breeze whips itself into a bluster, pull down your hat, because a fuckin’ storm is coming.”
—Remington
Damion
I nearly ran over her brother when I walked out the front door.
“Hey, man,” he said, leaning against the building with his arms crossed, like he’d been waiting for me.
“Hey,” I replied, hunching my shoulders against the brisk wind as crunchy leaves blew across the sidewalk between us.
I did my best to avoid Julia’s brother, because I didn’t like the way he’d looked at me.
Like he thought I was up to something.
So when he said, “You and Julia. Going to the season? Together?”
Yeah, I could hear the accusations in his voice.
Dammit.
“Is this a rhetorical question?” I said, not wanting to admit to anything more than that.
“Yeah, I guess I don’t get it,” he said, his eyes a little narrowed like he didn’t trust me or was suspicious of my motives. “As far as I can tell, you don’t really seem to be into my sister, and aside from the tutoring, you two don’t hang out. So why do you suddenly want to take her?”
Good question, bro.
I opened my mouth to speak, but then he said, “Or does this have to do with the bullshit rumors about Beckett’s party? Is that your game, you want to start some shit about the thing that didn’t happen but everyone seems to think did happen?”
Well, hell.
Liam wasn’t holding anything back, was he?
“Listen, Liam—”
“No, you listen, Rutledge,” he snapped, straightening and stepping slightly closer. “To be honest, I think you’re a prick for not shutting down the gossip, but that’s just me. I’m a decent guy.”
A decent guy who I want to hit, I thought, a little in shock that he was coming at me like that.
No one came at me like that.
“But what I want to know—and I’m asking you straight, so don’t give me that rebel-without-a-cause attitude—is what your endgame is. Everyone at Gardenwood is an asshole to my sister, so if you’re doing this as some sort of grand asshole gesture, you’re not gonna like what happens afterward.”
What the hell?
“Are you threatening me?” I asked in disbelief.
“I’m not usually that douchey, but I’m also not going to let somebody treat her like shit for entertainment.”
“I know we don’t know each other, but do I seem like that big of a dick to—”
“Yeah, kind of,” he interrupted. “The fact that Beckett likes you is the only reason I’m even considering giving you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Well, then, praise God for Beckett Schwab’s friendship,” I muttered under my breath.
“What was that, Damion?” Liam stepped even closer, in my fucking face, raising his voice like he had the right.
Oh, hell no.
Not. Happening.
“Listen, why don’t you calm down, Lowell,” I said, pushing him out of my space with both hands because who the hell did he think he was? I was doing my best to stay calm, but I wasn’t about to let his protective-brother energy suffocate me either. “I’m leaving, all right?”
Jesus. I’d never wanted to kick someone’s ass and also proudly pat his back at the same time. The way he was looking out for his sister was admirable. Impressive, even.
Because, yes, she needed looking out for.
Especially from me.
But, like, was this sort of sibling dynamic normal? The way the Lowells treated each other, like they liked each other and worried about each other’s happiness—was that how other families behaved?
I knew my parents loved me, but my emotional well-being wasn’t a high priority for either of them.
Uncle Remi had given me a taste of that when he was around, but it was tough to imagine it on a daily basis.
Fuck, was I jealous of the Lowells?
Yes. The answer, I realized as I got home later that day, was yes, I absolutely was.
“Tell me it isn’t true, Damion,” my mother said as I walked into the den. “Tell me you didn’t ask that girl to the season.”
That girl.
She was sitting on the couch with a glass of wine in her hand and a washcloth folded on her forehead, which meant she had a tension headache. My dad was seated beside her with a generous pour of brandy in his snifter and a red face, which was how he dealt with her tension headaches.
“It’s not true, it can’t be,” he said definitively, dismissing the notion. “Our son isn’t a fool.”
“It actually is true,” I said, my stomach suddenly dropping to the floor, because the flare of his nostrils and the hawklike stare he was pinning on me meant this was going to be a much bigger deal than the big deal I’d been worried it was going to be.
“You wanted me to do the season, so I found a date.”
“Oh, come on, Damion!” my dad snapped, his eyes flashing. “Don’t give us that shit. Of all the people you could take, you chose her? This is bullshit rebellion and I’m not having it!”
“The Lowells are the ones who stole your house, who bilked Uncle Rem out of his estate,” my mom said, her voice rising in pitch and volume. “How could you do this to us? To him?”
Ouch, I thought, my gut clenching.
“You’re not taking her,” my father said. “Period. That’s it and that’s final. I don’t care who you have to replace her with, this is not—”
“I can’t dump her now,” I interrupted, knowing how bad that would be for Julia. “Are you serious? Do you know what everyone would say—”
“I don’t care!” my dad yelled. “I don’t care what everyone would say about her getting dumped.
We are hosting the ball this year, so the optics, for our family, are a very big deal.
You will not use this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to parade around the daughter of our enemy!
Honestly, with how close you were to Rem, I can’t believe you’d even consider this. ”
He looked at me like I was a traitor, and even though I knew he was working an angle, it made me feel like a traitor for every time I’d been with Julia.
“He’s probably rolling over in his grave at this slap in the face, at your disloyalty after the way he always took care of you. Here I am, working my ass off to find a way to get rid of those vultures—”
“So am I!” I said, hating him for making me feel shittier than I already did about Remi. “Do you honestly think I’m not also actively trying to get the house back?”
“What?” My dad held up a hand, cutting me off as his shrewd blue eyes narrowed and searched my face. He tilted his head. “Hold up. What does that mean?”
Shit.
It meant nothing.
I might’ve been trying to find something at the beginning, some piece of evidence that’d prove the Lowells were grifters, but I didn’t have jack.
I rubbed the back of my neck, agitated as hell, trying to think of words that would defuse this situation.
“Just that, uh…”
“So that’s why you’ve been spending time with that girl,” my mother said, her pinched expression morphing into an understanding smile. “You’re trying to get information.”
“Is that it?” my dad asked, eyebrows raised.
“Would it matter?” I said with a sigh.
I’d let them think that if it calmed their asses about the ball.
“It would.” He sat back and swirled the liquid in his glass, staring at the amber liquor as if it held answers. His voice was low when he asked, in an approving tone, “Having any luck?”
I hated this feeling.
I hated myself for feeling this feeling.
The feeling I got when my dad gave me an ounce of attention, of credit, of a smile or a goddamn “attaboy.” It was so rare, his approval, that the dopamine spiked hard every time.
The pathetic little boy trying to impress his dad never disappeared, no matter how much of an asshole his dad was.
“Maybe. Time will tell,” I said vaguely, shrugging. I felt sick.
“Well, then I’m going to trust you on this,” he said quietly, watching me like he wanted me to squirm. Like he wanted to make sure I understood everything he wasn’t saying.
“You and I might be different, Damion, but I have faith in your loyalty to this family. And I trust that this disturbing plot twist is going to result in the same net positive for the Rutledges.”
My gut clenched as he spoke of our “family” like we really were some sort of crime syndicate.
I wondered if Clint Lowell had ever used the term “net positive” in regard to his children.