4. Archie
Archie
W here does Piper Quinn get off showing up out of nowhere claiming this house belongs to Cynthia? And when did she grow into her eyes and gain some curves around her butt and waist? And why am I even thinking that my annoying stepsister is kinda hot?
That’s not what’s important here. I should be focused on one thing and one thing only: This beach house is mine.
That’s the fact I repeat over and over as I rush upstairs to find the proof.
Dad signed the house over to me two years ago.
My name is on the deed. More importantly, I’m the one who’s lived here, not Dad.
He only used it to hide his girlfriends from Cynthia, then he used me to hide the house from Cynthia.
Of course, my wicked stepmother already knew about the house.
My twin sister, Frankie, and I lived here with our mates, Dex and Rhys, while Dad lived with Cynthia and Piper in Beverly Hills.
We were never one big happy family. We hardly ever saw each other.
Frankie and I were too busy fake-surfing on “Surf City High” and real surfing when we weren’t filming the show, and Dad was too busy with his new family to pay much attention to Frankie and me.
Which was fine. I had no interest in being “family” with the woman who’d broken up my parents’ marriage or her daughter.
This house, though, is part of the life I’ve built in LA. I’ve lived here, off and on, since I was sixteen. Dad’s got no business giving it away.
When I get to my room, I’m so cheesed off, I trip over my open, unpacked suitcase.
With a curse and a healthy dose of paranoia, I glance over my shoulder to make sure Piper didn’t film that, too.
Relieved she’s not behind me, I check my desk drawers for the quitclaim deed Dad presented me one day with instructions to, “say you bought the house from me, if anyone asks.”
I thought that was sketchy, but I don’t ask a lot of questions when it comes to Dad’s business. I put the pieces together, though, when Cynthia filed for divorce a few months later on grounds of adultery—the only grounds that, according to their pre-nup, allow her to get anything should they split.
By that point, I’d already learned Dad had cheated on Cynthia, using the beach house whenever we were traveling.
It wasn’t hard to figure out that he was trying to hide as much of his wealth, and as many of his assets, as possible from her.
I don’t like Cynthia, but I wanted no part of Dad’s scheme.
Frankie and Rhys had already moved out, so I made the hasty decision that Dex and I should follow.
We moved into a crap apartment. I immediately regretted moving out of the beach house, but my pride—and Dex—wouldn’t let me go back.
Even though Dad didn’t know I’d moved out, I figured a silent stand against what he’d done was better than no stand at all.
And Dex didn’t want to deal with the hassle of moving again, especially since we were traveling to surf competitions most of the time, anyway.
But the beach house stayed in my name. In fact, most of my stuff stayed here.
Including, apparently, every piece of paper I don’t need.
I’d forgotten how much I’ve crammed into the desk drawers over the years—or even why.
I sort through old receipts, contracts, and fan letters, shoving each back in the drawer they came from as soon as I see it’s not the deed.
I know I’ve put it somewhere. I just can’t remember where.
The closet is the next likely place, so I open the doors and step inside. I hardly ever go in here. Everything is too neat.
Suits and dress shirts I never wear—Dad insisted I needed them—hang in color-coordinated rows.
A few jackets and parkas—in case I go somewhere cold—have their own section.
And glass paneled drawers hold ties I have no idea how to tie, but I thought looked cool with the suits my personal shopper had picked out.
And on the shelves above is the plastic file bin Frankie made me get to “organize” my stuff. It’s possible I put the deed in it because the desk drawers were too full.
Minutes later, I find the legal-sized papers shoved between file folders at the back of the box. “Yes!” I yelp before sending a mental thank you to Past Archie, who decided to try his hand at home organization.
Future Archie reckons he should give it another try, but Present Archie is only interested in sending Piper on her way, so he leaves the bin and its papers strewn across the closet floor.
Before I make it to my bedroom door, I hear Frankie’s voice coming from my mobile in the recording she set as my ringtone for Sybil. You have a call from She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Ignored.
The ringtone is eerily ominous as I consider the dozens of times I’ve ignored it over the past week.
“Hello, Sybil,” I answer.
“Hello, Archibald. What’s the issue with the beach house?”
As a kid, I wondered if Sybil was a Personal Assistant Robot prototype Dad had developed.
Like Tony Stark’s Jarvis, minus the congenial chip.
Sometimes I still wonder. For all I know, Dad’s plans for me could include building an army of Sybils for his billionaire buddies as the final piece in their plan for world domination.
“Well, Piper showed up and thinks she’s moving in today, for one.
” With Sybil, I don’t have to work as hard to keep my voice neutral like I do with Dad.
“And two, the house is in my name. Dad can’t just give it away without more warning.
Britta and Dex need time to find somewhere else to live.
I can’t kick them out while they’re on their honeymoon. ”
He moved back in last year when he married Britta. After his accident surfing Pipe a few months later, his living here turned out to be a stroke of luck. The home gym already had some of the equipment he needed for therapy, but I outfitted it with everything else he’s needed while recovering.
Dex is a good excuse, but the other reason I don’t want to move out is that Dad’s putting pressure on me to go back to Brisbane and work for him at Forsythe Tech now that Dex can’t compete. He thinks Dex is finished and won’t need me as a coach again.
Dad and I don’t see eye-to-eye on that or my moving back to Aus. It’s hard for me to admit all those feelings out loud, but the truth is, I’m not interested in leaving LA. This is home.
“I tried a number of times to reach you. You didn’t respond to my messages,” Sybil says.
“I was in Fiji. I barely had service.”
“I left a message from your father that you’d need to be out by Friday. You should have conveyed that to Mr. Dexter, who isn’t a paying tenant and has no legal claim to the house.”
“I thought you meant next Friday.” I don’t have any other argument for not telling Dex he and Britta have to move, except I thought I had more time.
Sybil is silent for a few seconds. “I’m sorry I didn’t specify, but you’ll need to leave now that Piper is there. You received the documents to sign the house back to Mr. Forsythe weeks ago. You should already have them notarized and filed. I’ll schedule a flight for tomorrow for you.”
So that’s what’s in the overnighted package that arrived a few days before I left for Fiji. “I haven’t had time to do any of that.”
Including actually opening the package.
“I’ll send a paralegal over today to assist you,” Sybil says in her robotic tone.
I clutch the deed in my fist. If Dex hadn’t been hurt, I wonder if I would have been more willing to sign over the deed. Maybe. I’m just stubborn enough to shoot myself in the foot if it proves a point, even if I’m not even clear on what the point is.
Things are different now, though. Dex needs the gym here, and I’ve got nowhere else to go.
I’ve had enough of neighbors above and below me and a limited ocean view.
Suddenly, it hits me that, with the beach house part of the settlement, Dad needs me to sign over that deed before he can finalize his divorce. Which means…
For the first time ever, I have some leverage.
“No,” I say sharply.
“Pardon,” Sybil replies just as sharply.
I swallow and clench the deed tighter. “Tell Dad to call me. We have things to discuss before I’ll sign.”
Sybil sucks in her breath. “I’ll let him know.”
The phone goes dead, but something in me comes alive. Saying no to Sybil is close to saying no to Dad, something I haven’t done before.
I think I like the feeling.
With that settled, I go back downstairs to confront Piper.
She’s in the kitchen when I get there. I hold the deed in front of her face. “Dad signed over the house to me two years ago. My name is still on record.”
Her eyes move back and forth behind her glasses as she scans the document before she raises them to me. I don’t remember her eyes being that color—shimmering, sunlit sand, soft and golden, like they could hold heat even on a cold morning.
And there’s plenty of heat in them right now.
“Right, so this is the proof that Malcolm gave you this house to hide it from Mom’s attorneys?” She pushes up her glasses with her middle finger— again. I didn’t miss it the first time.
I drop my gaze and set the deed on the counter, not only because she’s right but also because I’m uncomfortable with the thoughts I’m having about her eyes and how nice they are. In the pretty sense, not the kind way. There is zero kindness in them right now.
“Malcolm wants it back to finalize the divorce now that mom’s willing to settle, and you don’t want to give back your free house,” Piper continues, and my eyes shoot back to hers.
“I get it. But since you didn’t pay for the house and the trick to hide it didn’t work, and everyone has agreed it’s the key to resolving this ridiculous divorce settlement, it’s time to get over yourself and be a big boy. ”
My mousy little stepsister has grown a backbone. A spiky one…like an echidna. But similar to that spiny anteater, Piper only looks dangerous. She’ll curl into a ball the minute I push back.
“I own the house, Piper,” I say, stepping closer to her. “You’re trespassing and have, oh, three minutes to get out of here before I call the police. You can explain all your theories to them. You can even show them Sybil’s email, but it doesn’t mean anything if my name is still on the deed.”
Piper goes still. An uncomfortable tightness seeps into my chest. Then her shoulders fall and she backs away from me. Like I predicted she would.
I should feel as good about this as I did when Sybil backed down.
I don’t.