14. Wentworth
FOURTEEN
Wentworth
After watching Kaitlyn ride away on a black and white paint, I spend the rest of the morning on the front porch, in the chair I fell asleep in, enjoying the quiet and the rest of my coffee with my sketchbook, roughing out things that catch my eye. The lake and dock across the loose gravel drive. The sharp peaks of the ridgeline behind it, reflected on the water. What I’m pretty sure is a dog watching me from the opposite shore.
More than one rough sketch of Kaitlyn. The way she looked yesterday, determined and more than a little apprehensive, standing on the porch when Damien and I pulled into the drive. The way she looked when I opened my eyes this morning to find her looking down at me—curious and aroused. The way she looked when I came downstairs after my shower, sitting at the kitchen counter, surrounded by books. Focused and intent .
I draw her over and over. Again and again while I sit here alone, in a quiet so deafening I’m almost able to convince myself that I’m the last man on earth, which is new for me because I’m almost never alone.
Back home in Boston, I’m surrounded by people, almost 24/7. The noise is unbearable. It’s one of the reasons I left. My dumb ass thought that moving to the other side of the country for college would solve the problem. It took me about thirty seconds to realize that I am who I am wherever I go.
Except here.
Here, I’m James Bravebird, Damien’s asshole little brother. No one wants anything from me. Expects me to be someone I don’t know how to be. Wouldn’t want to be, even if I did.
I don’t know why you insist on wasting your talent on such a tasteless medium, Wentworth.
That’s what my mother said to me when I came home last year for my summer tattoo apprenticeship. We met for our annual dinner at my father’s restaurant at her insistence. I made the mistake of telling her that after graduation, I planned on returning to Boston and putting my business degree to use by opening my own tattoo shop. She laughed like I told her the funniest joke she ever heard until she realized I was actually serious .
“What about Hawthorne International?” She looks at me like I just told her I have a very terminal and very contagious disease.
“I can do both,” I tell her with a shrug. “The company is practically on auto-pilot. Aside from monthly meetings with the board of directors, there’s not much for me to do there, day-to-day. I need something to keep me busy.”
“You’re a Hawthorne and the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar hotel empire. You want busy? Buy a yacht.” She says it like I need a reminder. Like I might be too slow and stupid to understand the circumstances of my birth.
“I’m aware of who I am,” I tell her, suddenly weary of the whole conversation. “As such, I fail to see how I choose to spend my time is any of your concern.”
Now she looks at me like I just spit on her. “I’ll never understand what I did to you and your sister to deserve such embarrassment. She’s little more than a juvenile delinquent with a bottomless credit card, while you settle on tattooing people for a living, of all things. You’re a Hawthorne, for Christ’s sake. I don’t know why you insist on wasting your talent on such a tasteless medium, Wentworth.”
That was the last time I talked to her.
I understood, even while Delilah was telling me about our mother’s reaction to my current situation, that it wasn’t about protecting me. It was and always will be about protecting the Hawthorne name. The billions of dollars that rests beneath it .
If I’m found guilty of what Lexi’s accusing me of, even if it’s just in the court of public opinion, it will spell disaster for Hawthorne International which could put an end to the life of privilege and leisure she’s lived since the day she was born. Our mother may not love her children but she loves the money our grandparents left us in control of. As far as Astrid is concerned, it’s practically the same thing.
Sketchbook full and coffee cup empty, I head back inside. Tossing my portfolio on the counter, I rinse my cup and put it in the dishwasher. Checking the fridge without much hope, I’m surprised to find it almost completely stocked with everything from a basic variety of fruits and veggies. Bread and lunchmeat. Eggs and milk. There’s even bacon and a package of what looks like really nice ribeyes. Checking the cabinets, I find more basics. Peanut butter and coffee. Saltines and a few cans of soup.
Which explains why Kaitlyn was here last night. She brought me groceries like she promised. Feeling like an asshole for the way I’ve been acting, I slather a piece of bread with peanut butter and wrap it around a hastily peeled banana. Jamming it in my mouth, I wash it down with milk straight from the carton.
Breakfast of champions.
At noon, I turn my phone back on and check my messages. As soon as it powers on, I see a long string of missed calls and texts. The majority of them are from Lexi.
Lexi: We need to talk.
Translation: We need to get our stories straight.
Lexi: I still love you. We can figure this out together. You just need to come back to LA.
Translation: I need you to come back to LA so I don’t have to field the press and tabloids by myself.
Lexi: I’m serious, Went. You need to tell the police what really happened Saturday night.
Translation: I’m hoping I can manipulate you into taking the heat for something I did.
Lexi: Who the hell is Conner Gilroy and why is he setting up a press conference at your LA hotel?
Tapping out a quick reply, I hit send.
Me: Conner Gilroy is my lawyer. Anything you have to say to me needs to go through him.
After I hit send, I contemplate blocking her but decide against it. Lexi is impulsive. There’s a chance she might admit that she was the one driving if I keep the lines of communication open. Settling for muting her messages instead, I text Conner.
Me: Any word on Brian Maxwell?
Con: He’s still in ICU. Still in a coma. Critical but stable. His medical bills are going to be astronomical.
I don’t even have to think about it.
Me: Pay them.
Con: As your attorney, I should advise you that paying Brian Maxwell’s hospital bills looks a lot like you’re taking responsibility for what happened.
Shit. He’s right. But then again, Conner is pretty much always right.
Me: I trust you to figure out a way to get it done without it linking back to me.
Con: Figured that’s what you’d say. Already taken care of. How’s Montana?
Me: Quiet. How was the press conference?
Con: Loud. You need to rein in your mother. Her army of suits are out here, fucking shit up.
Shit.
Doing everything I can to avoid calling Astrid, I text Delilah instead.
Me: When I asked you to tell Mother to back off, I was serious.
Even though it’s edging toward noon in New York, I don’t expect her to text back but she does, almost immediately.
Lilah: I did. She ignored me. As usual.
Goddamnit.
Leaving Delilah on read, I text Conner back because I’m sure he’s five seconds away from either killing Astrid’s chief counsel or just walking away from the entire mess altogether.
Me: I’ll take care of it.
Con: You better or I will.
Pulling up my mother’s number, I mutter swear words under my breath while she lets it ring. Like Delilah, her phone is practically welded to her hand so I know she knows I’m calling. Finally, after several rings, she decides to answer, probably so she can tell me what a disappointment I am. I don’t even give her the chance to start.
“Back off, Mother,” I tell her quietly, doing my best to be as respectful as I can because my grandfather would expect me to. “I have the situation handled.”
“Handled?” Astrid says, wrapping the word around a condescending laugh. “By who? That tattooed deadbeat you insist on—”
“Conner Gilroy graduated first in his class at Harvard Law and passed the bar when he was seventeen, Mother,” I tell her, the effort to keep my tone level making my jaw ache. “He’s also licensed to practice law in fifteen states, so he might be tattooed but he’s hardly a deadbeat. I promise you, he’ll lawyer circles around whatever Park Avenue, eight hundred dollar an hour asshole you have on retainer.” He’s also loyal—I can count on him to do the right thing for me . He doesn’t care what my last name is and he gives fuck all about the money it represents, or my mother’s bottom line. Whatever happens, I can count on Conner to have my back. I don’t have many people in my life I can say that about.
“I’m your mother, Wentworth,” she reminds me, her tone edged with condescension.
“Only when it suits you, Astrid ,” Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly. “Tell whoever it is to back off. I have it handled,” I say, repeating myself carefully, the or else clearly implied.
“We have to get ahead of this,” she says like I never said a word. “The press is already circling that vagrant you nearly killed—I can only imagine what will happen if he actually wakes up.”
It hits me harder than it should—the realization that my mother actually believes Lexi’s version of events. That it was me, drunk and high, behind the wheel of that car. Delilah didn’t even have to ask. She just knew. Trusted and believed without question that what’s being said about me in the press is nothing but lies.
“His name is Brian Maxwell,” I tell her, suddenly through playing nice. “He’s not a vagrant, he’s a fucking human being—unlike you.” When I say it, she gasps like I slapped her in the face. “I’m going to say it one more time—tell your worthless, piece of shit lawyers to back the fuck off and let Conner handle the situation or I’m going to cancel your credit cards and call every hotel manager we have across the globe and have you blacklisted. By the time I’m done, you won’t be allowed to so much as sleep on a cot in a housekeeping closet—is that clear enough for you, Mother?”
The silence stretches between us for a few long seconds before she finally concedes. “You’re my son, Wentworth. I was only trying to help.”
“Like I said,” I tell her, black bitterness coating the back of my throat. “Only when it suits you.”
I hang up and turn off my phone before I can disappoint my grandfather any more than I already have.