2. Mac
MAC
Good Charlotte is blasting from the old stereo I hooked up in the garage last year. It’s a piece of shit, and I have to keep tinkering with the wires connecting the speakers, but it’s kind of perfect when I’m playing old-school music so loud that my eardrums are vibrating.
Out of all of Dad’s wives, I like her the least. It doesn’t help that she’s only ten years older than me, which means she’s young enough to be Dad’s daughter.
Sick fuck.
I shake my head as I bend over the engine I’m working on.
The socket wrench clicks as it twists back and forth.
I found this old car parked in someone’s front yard.
It’s a 1969 Dodge Charger. A fucking legendary piece of machinery, and this idiot had it parked out front, growing grass around the tires.
After seeing it each time I had to come home for a visit, I couldn’t take it anymore and knocked on the guy’s door.
“How much for your car?”
“I’m not selling my car.” The dumbass blinked at me.
“The one out front that hasn’t moved in over a year. What do you want for it?”
“Oh. That old thing? It doesn’t even work.”
I snickered and looked back over my shoulder at it. “If I can start the engine, will you let me buy it?”
“Man, if you can start that thing, you can have it for free. My wife will love me forever if you get rid of that thing.”
I shot out my hand and smirked at the guy. “Done.”
He thought I was crazy and no doubt told his whole family about the idiot who was wasting his time out in the front yard. “Let’s crowd around the window and laugh at him.”
Yeah, well, I was the one laughing. He handed me the keys and the paperwork, and less than ten minutes later, the engine roared to life, and I was driving away with a car that I could spend the next year restoring.
And that’s what I’ve done.
Sure, I’ve had to replace what feels like every part of this car, but it’s been a great project.
And it keeps me out of the house, which is exactly what I need when I have to come home.
I mean, I guess I don’t have to come home each summer break, but what the hell else am I gonna do with my time?
Thankfully, we’re in the Hamptons right now. When I go back to visit and Dad’s staying in the city, I feel like I’m suffocating. It doesn’t matter that he owns a four-bedroom penthouse overlooking Central Park. I just can’t breathe in that place.
Last time I had to stay there, I think I clocked up a hundred miles of running time, just circuiting the park until my legs gave out.
This year, Chanel wanted to do a Hamptons summer, and so I’ve popped back here for a couple of weeks before having to head back to Nolan for summer training.
I could do a road trip or something, but I really want to get this car done, and I’m so close.
I’m not sure what I’ll do with it yet. Maybe sell it? Not sure.
I already have my Nissan GT-R. That’s my baby, and I wouldn’t drive anything else back and forth from Nolan, but maybe I could give this old girl a ride before I sell her to some American muscle car lover.
The song changes on my punk rock mix and I bob my head to the beat.
“Don’t want to be an American idiot…,” Billie Joe Armstrong sings, and I murmur along to the lyrics while I continue my adjustments.
A static buzz starts humming, and I can almost feel the speaker wires about to fail me yet again when my phone starts ringing.
Yes, I have it set on an old-fashioned ringtone, so it sounds just like a phone from some ’80s sitcom or something. Not sure why, but I like it.
I check the screen, my eyebrows dipping when I notice the call is from Darian Gomez. Why the fuck is he calling me?
Sure, we play basketball together, but he never calls me. For anything.
The speaker gives out just as I hover my thumb over the screen. I leave it, ignoring the static and walking outside. Standing in the backyard, I stare across the swimming pool and up at the white palatial mansion my dad calls home.
With a scoff, I turn my back on it and answer the call. “What’s up?”
“Hey, Mac. How it’s going, man?”
“Yeah, good. You?” I scratch the side of my nose, no doubt getting grease all over my face, but I don’t give a shit. It’s not like I’m out to impress anybody.
“Yeah, yeah, great.”
He pauses for a second, and I jump in with a quick “What do you want?”
“Just wondering if your lake house is free for a weekend. Thought it’d be cool to get the team together for something other than training. You know, just hanging out, bonding over cards, beers, and water skiing or something.”
I smirk, instantly loving the idea. Anything to get me away from this place for a few days.
I didn’t realize Gomez knew my family owned a lake house, but I guess word spreads.
The curse of being the richest guy on the team, I suppose.
People like to talk about you when your family owns more than one house.
They like to whisper behind your back when they find out your mom’s a famous actress and your dad’s a billionaire.
Shit like that gets around, and I usually hate it.
But a party at the lake house in Aspen sounds pretty cool, so I bite back a snide comment and sniff instead.
“Would you… do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Yeah.” I nod, tucking my hand under my armpit. “Pretty sure it’ll be free. Need to check with the old man, but I’ll text you some dates.”
“Awesome. It’d be cool to fit it in before we have to head back to Nolan, but I know that’s short notice. Think we can swing something, though?”
“Maybe. I’ll give it a shot.”
“Cool.” Darian’s voice picks up, and I can imagine his face.
He’s like a fucking labrador puppy. Energetic and happy all the time.
It’s a little annoying, but he’s good people, so I tolerate it without saying anything.
“As soon as I hear back from you, I’ll post in the team chat and let the guys know.
Figure we should invite the whole team. My sister wants to come too, and she’ll no doubt invite her friend.
Would that be okay? How many people can the lake house handle? ”
“It comfortably sleeps twelve, but we can probably squish in fifteen to twenty at a push. There are spare mattresses in the basement that we can throw on the floor.”
“Excellent!”
“If we’re gonna do this, we should definitely have a party on the Saturday night. Get some honeys over. Get a little hectic.”
Darian laughs. “Sounds good to me, man. This is going to be awesome.” He sings the last word, and my upper lip curls, but I don’t say anything.
This guy is a little too much, but he’s giving me an excuse to party it up in Aspen. Nothing wrong with that.
“I’ll go talk to the old guy now. Text you soon.”
“Thanks, bro. You’re the best.”
I snicker and hang up before he says any other stupid shit.
Slipping my phone into the back pocket of my ripped-up jeans, I suck in a breath and turn back to face the house.
It’s impossible not to feel that sense of ominous dread every time I have to walk into the place, but it’s for a good cause.
Partying with my team.
That’s a fucking good cause.
Clomping up the back steps, I walk across the deck and into the house.
“Hola, Alba. Cómo estás?” I acknowledge the maid as I slip off my shoes.
She’s probably just cleaned the floors, and I don’t want to dirty them up for her.
She grins at me. “Estoy bien.” She points at my feet. “Gracias. Eres un buen chico.”
I snicker and shake my head. A good boy? She’s about the only person on the planet who calls me that.
To most, I’m a complete fuckup. I’ve been called everything from a loser to a reckless idiot. And those are just the nice insults.
People usually take one look at me and make fast conclusions.
Pale skin, messy jet-black hair, piercings, tattoos… they think they’ve got me pegged, and that suits me just fine.
I’m happy to be a reckless fuckup.
Beats being a toffee-nosed asshole.
I pad through the entertainment kitchen—yeah, we’ve got two fucking kitchens.
Twice as much work for Alba and Emil, who look after this place.
But apparently it’s not okay for guests to see your everyday kitchen, so you have to have two.
One for catering the lavish parties that happen on the deck and around the pool, then one for the more intimate dinners.
Which we never fucking have because my family is shit at talking to one another.
Family?
I don’t have a fucking family.
My mother lives in LA, who the fuck knows where. I haven’t spoken to her since I was fourteen. I could easily find out, but I don’t want to. And there’s no way in hell I can stomach calling Chanel family.
She’s only been on the scene about five years, which means her expiration date is coming up.
The longest relationship I’m aware of is my Dad’s romance with my nanny.
She stuck around from when I was one until I was ten.
I’m pretty sure they were hooking up when I was like four, about six months after my mom left, which means they were probably hooking up before Mom took off.
Anyway, they ended up getting married when I was six, but then Dad broke her heart, and she left two days after my tenth birthday.
It fucking sucked.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I veer left into the drawing room, where Dad’s hunched over a paper.
The guy refuses to read his news off the internet and is convinced a physical paper is the only trustworthy news.
What a putz. Doesn’t he know that it’s all bullshit?
We never find out the real stories. We find out what the news agencies want us to find out. What they’re getting paid to tell us.
“Dad.” My voice is gruff and soft.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t look up from his paper, and I throw a quick look at Chanel, who’s gazing at me with those vacant brown eyes of hers.
I clench my jaw and ignore her.
“I want to go to the lake house with some of my teammates. Is it available?”
“You wanna go to the lake house?” Chanel’s voice is a high squeak, which irritates the shit out of me. Plus, she asks stupid questions. Didn’t I just say that I wanted to go?