CHAPTER ONE
Ford
Wind whips through the trees, and the sky flashes bright as the lightning strikes in the distance beyond. For the briefest of moments, I get a glimpse of the angry ocean beyond the wall of windows before me.
And then darkness hits again.
The drive here did little to abate my rage.
The half-drunk glass of whiskey in my hand even less so.
I was certain that with every mile I put between myself and my brothers, their placating tones, and bullshit explanations, the fury would dispel . . . but I was wrong.
The time has only served for my thoughts to run wilder, and the gut punch of hurt to intensify.
I can still see it. The newly printed hardcover on the table. The words on its pages edited for consumer resale. For the public with its voracious appetite for one of three things: scandalous backstories, a how-to guide to make billions out of nothing, or tidbits to tarnish a reputation.
Shock and awe have always sold well.
Who knew the benign biography of Maxton Sharpe, my father, would leave me feeling this way?
What was in the book shouldn’t have bugged me. Or rather, what wasn’t in the book. It shouldn’t still bug me.
But it does.
I take another sip, welcoming the burn and warmth of the alcohol, and mutter, “Just Ford.”
Fuck that.
Noises filter into my thoughts. The low hum of chatter from the bar patrons who are stuck here like I am. The howl of the wind outside. The vibration of my cell on the bar top beside me alerting text after fucking text. My brothers. Little too late on their part.
Dramatic.
Sensitive.
Ridiculous.
Aren’t those the words they used to describe me? To invalidate everything?
It’s only what the people you love say that matters.
My mom’s words echo in my head.
My phone vibrates with another text. What? Has the jet landed back in New York, and they’re suddenly worried about me driving into this storm? Where was their concern earlier?
Like I said, fuck that.
I’ll sulk through this drink.
And the next one.
And the one after that.
It’s not like I can go anywhere else right now.
I glance around the small bar. I’m more than certain the crowd in here isn’t usual, and they’re not here because of the ambiance. We’re just the only dumbasses who chose to drive through a tropical depression, waiting for an uprooted tree to be cleared off the road a mile or so from here.
The bar is attached to a rather nondescript, non-spectacular, non-everything inn nestled on a strip of beach just outside of the Hamptons.
A town halfway between here and nowhere.
A middle ground that the well-to-do ignore on the way to their Hamptons playground and the lower middle class notice, wishing they could afford to stay at one day.
This place . . . hell, I don’t even remember the name of it—it’s that plain and unexciting its name escapes me—is dated and generic. Burgundy leather and dark wood seem to be the theme. Cheap fixtures and generic, mass-replicated pictures are the décor that no place ever needs.
It has potential.
But it seems that whoever owns this place doesn’t choose to invest the money in it to allow it to reach it.
Not that I fucking care.
There might not be any vacancies for the night, but it’s dry, and for now, seems secure against the raging storm outside. Oh, and it has alcohol. That’s a definite plus.
Something thumps rather loudly on the floor to the right of me, followed by a woman’s frustrated sigh. “They closed the roads. Fucking closed ’em. Can you believe that?”
If I can’t be at the Sag Harbor house—where I was heading—I should be able to drink in peace.
And a Chatty Cathy choosing to sit next to me is not exactly peaceful.
Nor what I’m in the mood for.
“Nice mouth,” the man on the other side of me mutters.
“Hello? Did you hear me?” she repeats, drawing a heavy sigh from me. “Closed. We’re stuck.”
She didn’t get the hint from my silence—or his comment—that I really don’t fucking care.
“Brilliant observation,” I say into my drink. “There’s a reason we’re all sitting in here, and it’s not because of the ambiance.”
“I don’t believe I was speaking to you.”
“Good. Great.” Thrilled to not have to speak with anyone, I lift my finger for another drink to the bartender when something she said soundly hits my ears. “Wait. They closed the roads?”