15. Wilder
Today really snuck up on me. I’m not sure if it’s because I have been busy with the season, or my mind purposely blocked it out.
All I know is one second I was fine, and the next it was my brother’s birthday.
Jason would have been nineteen today, and there is something strange about experiencing someone’s birthday when you know they are dead.
Do you still celebrate? Do you acknowledge them getting older?
Or are they just destined to be frozen at that age forever?
I tried to distract myself all day, because I knew the moment I got the phone call I had been avoiding all week, that it would be game over.
So the second the incoming FaceTime call lights up on my iPad, I take a deep breath, before I answer, ignoring the mounting pressure on my chest. Plastering a fake smile on my face, I answer my mom’s call and sign hello.
My mom has been deaf since she was teenager, she got into an accident that left her permanently hearing impaired, which means all of us are fluent in ASL.
There’s my favorite racer, she signs, and I roll my eyes, but smile.
My mom has always been one of my favorite people in the world, but I can no longer look her in the eye without feeling sick. Not when I know the worst secret imaginable, one that would crush her completely.
I thought Dad was your favorite racer? I respond, and she shrugs.
What he doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.
If only she knew I live those same words for her every day.
We sign back and forth a little as she asks me about my races, even though she has watched them all, and then I give her updates on the guys. She even compliments whoever is behind my social media, because apparently it looks great, but that only makes me grind my jaw.
Once there are no more pleasantries to exchange, I know what needs to come next, the real reason for her phone call. I can tell how she is by just looking at her, and the pain in her eyes almost kills me, but still I ask, Are you okay?
At my question, tears shine in her stare, threatening to shatter my already crumbling heart, as she nods. I just really thought he would call me today, she signs, and the guilt almost consumes me.
I may have lost my brother, but she lost a son, and she doesn’t even know it yet.
There are many emotions I feel about what Caden did, anger, confusion, heartbreak, but most of all I feel overwhelmed.
Because despite whether Jason deserved to die or not, it doesn’t matter, he’s still dead, and I am the one dealing with the fallout.
I am the one who has to lie to everyone, I am the one fielding questions about his whereabouts, and I am the one who has to see the heartbreak in my parents’ eyes and pretend like everything is okay.
The blank mask I have learned to perfect over the past six months comes easier than I would like.
You know Jason, he’s probably surrounded by girls having the time of his life somewhere.
Even as I sign the words, I know she doesn’t buy them, and what’s worse, I don’t want her to.
I fucking hate lying to her, but how could I ever tell her the truth?
How could I betray my own blood when it wouldn’t change what he did?
Maybe we should hire a private investigator? Her suggestion has my heart hammering inside my chest. Just to check on him and make sure he’s okay.
Panic swirls inside of me as I try to think of what to say, of what precautions Caden took after he dumped Jason’s body.
I know he drove out of state and got rid of his phone, but what else?
Did he cover his tracks? Did he ensure no one would find him?
If my mom pulls on this thread, will it unravel?
Mom, he’s a nineteen year old with a trust fund, of course he’s okay. I try to remain as calm as possible as I sign. But I can reach out to some of his friends and try to find his location for you?
I don’t know why I sign that, why I add to the lie when it’s already ripping me apart internally, but I can’t take the look on her face.
I can’t take knowing that it doesn’t matter how much she hopes, he is never coming home.
Why do I have to carry the burden of knowing what Caden did?
Why do I have to wake up every day and force a smile to my face, when I feel like I died right alongside him?
I’m sick of smiling and pretending everything is okay, but the way her face lights up has me forcing a smile. You’re always my good boy, Wild, she signs, and I have to swallow the bile at the back of my throat.
By the time we say goodbye, I feel more like throwing myself off the side of the yacht and landing on some rocks than going out drinking, but I don’t really have a choice.
So I go through the motions of taking a shower and getting ready, deciding that maybe dulling my senses might make me feel better.
Matteo has planned this whole night meticulously, so I head up to the top deck and signal the bartender to pour me a drink.
He has whipped up some sort of cocktail, and I knock it back without even asking what it is, before signaling for him to pour me another.
He raises his brow at me with a smirk, but does it anyway, and I pull a hundred out of my pocket and slide it across the bar toward him.
“Happy to be of service, sir,” he replies, his British accent surprising me, but I don’t miss the intent of his words, given he is looking at me like he would service me in any way I like.
He’s the kind of guy I’d usually fuck. Hot, willing, and most definitely discreet, but instead of flirting back, I give him a nod and turn my back on him.
I’ve already got one pretty posh boy making me crazy, I don’t need another.
Not when I am used to being the one in control, and Prescott Reed Lamont has me feeling anything but.
Knox and Beckett are the first to find me, offering me their fists to bump, and both looking more than ready for a night on the town.
From the pitiful look in their eyes, I know they remember what today is, and it only serves in pissing me off.
Neither of them are privy to what happened to Jason, but they are close enough to Caden to suspect him, and honestly I would respect them more if they just had the balls to ask.
I’m sure Casper is the reason why they don’t, putting more faith in his twin than he ever would anyone else, and it fills me with envy.
Why couldn’t Jason and I have had that?
Why did I never find the same bond with him, as I did with them?
Sensing them assessing my mood, I force an easy smile to my face and change the subject before they can even broach it. “You guys look dressed to kill,” I grunt, sipping the cocktail in my hand as I appraise their smart attire, and Knox finally smirks.
“Careful, Miles, I might mistake that as interest,” he purrs, and I pin him with a stare, as if to say be so for real, but I know what he is trying to do, and I appreciate him for it.
Sure they are both attractive, but far from my type.
“I wouldn’t fuck either of you if you were the last racers in the whole league,” I tell them firmly, and if possible, Knox looks offended.
“Well we all know you’re not talking about me,” Matteo cuts in, stalking across the deck looking like he just stepped off an Amarni catwalk, and I internally groan.
“Just as full of yourself as always I see,” I greet him, taking another sip of my drink as he squeezes himself in beside me, signaling for his own drink from the bartender.
“I’d rather be full of you, mi amor,” he teases, flirting as heavily as he always does, and any other time it would probably work on me, but not today.
I offer a non-committal nod, not really interested in the slightest, and I can’t explain why.
Matteo and I have hooked up more times than I can count over the last three years, and he’s what I consider the perfect fuck buddy.
Attractive, good in bed, and not in the market for anything more than fucking.
You can’t really ask for better than that, so why isn’t there a flicker of interest inside of me?
A part of me knows why, it’s known it for the last four days since I was on top of that fucking castle, and I can try to deny it all I want, but the second he appears on the deck, my entire body reacts.
Prescott walks toward us, and my eyes start at the floor and trail up, taking in the sleek, black leather pants I saw earlier, paired with the partially see-through black top.
It shows a teasing look at his abs, that is almost as delectable as the night on that damn balcony, and my cock jumps in anticipation.
The blond hair I have gotten used to is now dyed back to that baby blue color, and he has also used the nail polish I left on his bed.
I don’t know why I bought it, I know I can’t have him, but apparently my dick isn’t getting the memo.
It causes me physical pain to see how good he looks right now, and even more that it’s not all because of me.
It’s why I left the boutique earlier, because the second he stepped out of the changing room, all I wanted to do was push him back inside so no one else could see him.
I would have paid every cent I had to have stripped him out of the clothes then and there, and truly taken my time with him.
Except my problem is I’m not the only one looking at him right now.
Matteo is appraising him too, with a look in his eyes that I have seen a thousand times.
Need. “Are you trying to make me come in my pants, mi pequeno artista?” he calls out to him, and for the first time since I have met him, his existence pisses me off.
“You look good enough to eat,” he adds in Spanish, flicking his stare to me, and if looks could kill, he would be bleeding out on this deck.
“What do you think, Wild? Nice choker right?” He switches back to English, and my hand flexes with the need to cause him physical harm.