Fallen Heir

  Thing is, I can’t even be angry at Mom for cheating. Dad was hardly ever around. He was too focused on Atlantic Aviation, the family business, and while he was away for long periods of time, Steve poisoned Mom’s mind with ideas that Dad was cheating on her.

  But I am angry at her for dying, for taking those pills. Reed says there’s no way it could’ve been the same pills I was stashing in my room, but he doesn’t know for sure. I was hooked on Adderall and oxy back then. My prescription was completely legal at first, but when I needed more, there was a ready supply at school. My Adderall supplier suggested I take some oxy as a way to escape. He was right. It helped a lot, but the high didn’t last.

  When Mom found my stash and threatened to send me to rehab if I didn’t straighten out, I promised to right my ship. And I didn’t question what she did with the pills. I handed over the bottles because I was a fifteen-year-old who would’ve cut off his arm if she’d asked. That’s how much I adored her.

  Chances are, I killed my mother. Reed claims I didn’t, but of course he’s gonna say that. He’d never tell me straight out that I killed her. Or rather, my addiction did. Is it any wonder that I’m a self-destructive screw-up?

  I’m off the pills now. Mom’s OD scared the shit out of me and I promised my older brothers I wouldn’t touch that junk anymore. But the addictions don’t go away. It means I have to feed the thirst in other, safer ways—booze, sex, and blood. Tonight, I think I’ll choose blood.

  “Easton.” I find a worried Ella studying my face.

  “What?” I ask, reaching for my water glass. The subject of conversation has shifted away from the trial, thank God. Dad and the twins are now engaged in an animated conversation about soccer, of all things. We’ve never been a soccer family. Sometimes, I wonder if the twins are even Royals. They play lacrosse, watch soccer, aren’t fans of fighting, and have zero interest in flying. That said, they have Mom’s features and the Royal blue eyes.

  “You’re smiling,” Ella accuses.

  “So? Smiling is bad?”

  “It’s one of your bloodthirsty smiles.” She sneaks a peek across the table to make sure Dad isn’t paying attention to us. Then she hisses, “You’re fighting tonight, aren’t you?”

  I drag my tongue across my bottom lip. “Oh yeah.”

  “Oh, East. Please don’t. It’s too dangerous.” She presses her lips together in concern, and I know she’s remembering the time Reed got stabbed at one of those fights.

  But that was a total fluke that had nothing to do with the actual fight. Daniel Delacorte, an old enemy, hired someone to take Reed out.

  “That won’t happen again,” I assure her.

  “You don’t know that.” Determination gleams in her blue eyes. “I’m coming with you.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.” I raise my voice, and Dad’s sharp gaze swings toward us.

  “What are we arguing about?” he asks suspiciously.

  Ella smirks, waiting for me to field that one. Dammit. If I keep arguing with her, she’ll tell him I’m going to the docks, and we both know Dad’s not too keen on that idea anymore, not since Reed was knifed down there.

  “Ella and I can’t decide what movie to watch before bed,” I lie. “She wants a rom com. I obviously want anything but.”

  The twins roll their eyes. They know bullshit when they hear it. But Dad buys in. His deep chuckle washes over the patio. “Give it up, son. You know the woman always gets her way in the end.”

  Ella beams at me. “Yeah, Easton. I always get my way.” When I get up to fill my glass, she follows me. “I’m going to stick to your side like glue. And when you go to the fight, I’m going to make the biggest scene ever. You’ll never be able to show your face there again.”

  “Can’t you go pick on the twins?” I complain.

  “Nope. You have my sole and undivided attention.”

  “Reed’s probably throwing a party because he’s not under your thumb.” I hear her breath hitch, and I look up to see her cheeks turn from pink to white. Oh, crap. “I didn’t mean that. You know he can’t stand to be away from you.”

  She sniffs.

  “Seriously. He was on the phone with me before dinner crying about how much he missed you.” Silence. “I’m sorry,” I say, and I am, truly sorry. “My mouth runs ahead of my brain. You know that.”

  Ella raises one eyebrow. “You should stay in to make it up to me.”

  Check. Mate.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Meekly, I follow her back to the table.

  “Giving in without a fight?” Sawyer murmurs when we take our seats.

  “She was going to start crying.”

  “Damn.”

  After dessert, I nudge Ella with my foot and nod toward the twins. She nods back and then turns to my dad.

  “Easton and I have calculus homework, Callum. Do you mind if we go?”

  “No, of course not.” He waves us off.

  Ella and I escape inside, leaving the twins to clear the table. We used to have staff to do that for us, but Dad fired everyone after Mom died. Except for Sandra, who cooks for us, and his driver, Durand. There are maids who come in a couple times a week, but those aren’t live-in positions.

  As Ella and I desert them, Sawyer and Seb grumble about how they’re going to be late to see Lauren, the girl they’re dating. I feel no sympathy. At least they have plans tonight, instead of staying home.

  Upstairs, I get comfortable on my king-sized bed and flick the TV on. The football season hasn’t started yet, so there’s no Monday night game. ESPN is playing highlights from pre-season, but I’m not paying attention. I’m too busy scrolling through my phone contacts. I find who I’m looking for and press Call.

  “’Sup, Royal,” comes Larry’s deep baritone.

  “’Sup, nerd,” I say cheerfully. Lawrence “Larry” Watson is a two-hundred-and-eighty-pound offensive linesman, a good buddy, and the biggest computer geek I know. “I need a favor.”

  “Hit me.” Larry’s the most easygoing guy in the world. He’s always down to help out a friend, especially if he gets to use his hacking skills in the process.

  “Can you still hack into the mainframe at Astor Park? I’ve got a pair of Tokyo twenty-threes chilling in their box.”

  “The Air Jordan fives that were only released in Japan?” He sounds like he’s about to cry. Larry’s a huge sneakerhead and he’s always wanted this pair that my dad picked up during a business trip to Tokyo.

  “The same.”

  “What do you want? Grades aren’t out yet.”

  “Just some student information. Full name, address, phone number, that kind of stuff.”

  “Dude, that’s just basic contact info. You ever heard of Google?”

  “I don’t even know her last name, asshole.”

  “Her, eh?” He laughs in my ear. “Shocker. Easton Royal’s looking to score.”

  “Can you help me or what?”

  “What’s her first name? Maybe I know her.”

  “It’s Hartley. She’s a senior. She’s about five foot nothing. Long black hair. Gray eyes.”

  “Oh sure,” Larry says instantly. “I know her. She’s in my AP Gov class.”

  I perk up. “Yeah? You know her last name?”

  “Wright.”

  I roll my eyes at the phone. “Right as in you know it, or riiiiight, as in why would you ever know it?”

  “Wright.”

  Impatience jolts through me. “Right what?”

  A loud boom of laughter thunders over the line. “Wright,” Larry wheezes out between chortles. “W-R-I-G-H-T. Her name is Hartley Wright. Damn, son, you dumb.”

  Oh. Okay, I’m dumb. “Sorry, man. Got it. Hartley Wright. Do you know anything else about her? You got her number?”

  “Why would I have her number, bruh? I’m with Alisha.” Larry once again uses his Are you from Planet Stupid? tone. “Give me five minutes. I’ll get back to you.”

  He hangs up. I kill time by
watching sports highlights. It’s closer to ten minutes, not five, when my phone beeps in my hand. I check the screen, grin widely, and shoot Larry a quick text.

  You da man

  I kno, he texts back.

  I’ll bring sneaks tmrw

  I waste no time sifting through the intel Larry sent me. It includes a phone number, an address, and a link to an article from the Bayview Post. I click the URL and discover that Hartley’s father, John Wright, made a run for mayor a few years back, but he lost the race. Also according to the article, Mr. Wright is the assistant district attorney of Bayview County.

  I scan my brain, thinking of the last time I was in a courtroom. It was when Reed’s murder charges were dropped followed by Steve’s arraignment. Had the prosecutor’s name been “Wright”? No. It was…Dixon or something. And I’m pretty sure he was the DA and not an assistant.

  I scroll through the article until I reach a picture of the Wright family. Posing in front of a huge plantation-style mansion, John Wright is wearing a gray suit and has his arm around a hot MILF who the caption says is his wife, Joanie. The couple’s three daughters are next to their mother—they all inherited her raven hair and gray eyes. Hartley seems to be the middle daughter. She looks about fourteen in the picture, and I grin at the very prominent zit on her forehead.

  I’m digging through my backpack before I even realize I’m doing it. I pull out the notebook that contains all my calculus notes. Hartley’s missed a week’s worth of classes, so that makes her a week behind. When she shows up to class tomorrow, she’s going to be totally lost…unless someone is nice enough to tell her everything she’s missed. I mean, that’s the least someone could do, right?

  I tug on a loose T-shirt and duck into the upstairs office that I share with my brothers and Ella, well aware that I’m acting like a desperate loser. It’s not like I have to make photocopies. This isn’t the olden days. I can just take pics of the calc notes using the scanner app on my phone and message them directly to Hartley. I have her number now, after all.

  But nope. I make actual copies, which I staple together and shove in a file folder I find in one of the desk drawers.

  “Where are you going?”

  Ella intercepts me as I’m leaving the office. Her blue eyes are narrowed, her tone thick with suspicion.

  “I’m dropping off some homework for a friend.” I hold up the folder, then flip it open so that my nosy stepsister can see there’s real schoolwork in there.

  “At eight o’clock at night?”

  I mock gasp. “Eight o’clock?! Holy fuck! It’s so late! We should turn in!”

  “Stop yelling at me,” Ella mutters, but she looks like she’s fighting back laughter. Eventually, it comes out as a snorted giggle. “Okay, I’m being ridiculous.”

  “Yup.”

  She squeezes my arm. “Just don’t go to the docks afterward, all right? Promise me that.”

  “I promise,” I say dutifully, and then I dart off before she can keep bugging me about it.

  The drive to Hartley’s house doesn’t take long at all; Bayview isn’t that big. The Wrights live inland, in that plantation mansion from the article picture. It’s a nice house. Not as big as mine, but then again, the Wrights aren’t the Royals.

  I’m about a hundred yards away from the Wright joint when a familiar black Rover careens around a sharp curve. I swerve onto the shoulder and lay on the horn. Sawyer waves merrily at me from the driver’s seat, while Sebastian holds up his fingers in the shape of devil horns.

  Those two assholes. In the backseat is Lauren, who I guess lives around here.

  I park on the curb in front of Hartley’s home. My palms are weirdly clammy as I hop out of my truck, so I wipe them on the front of my ripped jeans. Then I wonder if maybe I should’ve changed my clothes before coming here. Showing up in a threadbare T-shirt and jeans with holes in them doesn’t exactly make a good impression, especially since I might run into Hartley’s folks.

  On the other hand, what do I care about impressing Hartley or her family? I want to bone down with the girl, not ask her to marry me.

  It’s Hartley’s mom who opens the front door after I ring the bell. I recognize her from the picture. “Hello,” she greets me, her voice slightly chilly. “How can I help you?”

  “Hi. Uh…” I shift the file folder from one sweaty hand to the other. “I’m here to, uh…” Dammit. This was a stupid idea. I should’ve just texted her a pic of my abs or something. What kind of idiot shows up on someone’s doorstep unannounced—

  No. Screw all this self-doubting. I’m Easton fucking Royal. What do I have to be insecure about?

  So I clear my throat and speak again, this time clear and confident. “I’m here to see Hartley.”

  Joanie Wright’s eyes widen. “Oh,” she squeaks, then nervously glances over her shoulder.

  I can’t see who she’s looking at—is it Hartley? Is she standing out of sight mouthing for her mom to get rid of me?

  Mrs. Wright turns back to me. “I’m sorry,” she says, and her tone has turned to ice again. “Hartley isn’t here. Who are you?”

  “Easton Royal.” I hold up the folder. “I’ve got some math notes for her. Should I leave them with you?”

  “No.”

  “No?” I wrinkle my forehead. “Then what should I do with—”

  I don’t get to finish that sentence.

  Hartley’s mother slams the door in my face.

  Chapter 4

  Since I went to bed early and my body is ache-free because I didn’t fight, I actually wake up on time the next morning. For once, I’m able to drink a coffee and scarf down a bagel for breakfast. At school, I stop by Larry’s locker and slam my hand next to the lock. When it pops open, I shove the box of sneakers inside. Then I head for the locker room. I’m even uncharacteristically not late for our six a.m. practice. My teammates note this rare occasion by breaking out in applause when I stride in.

  “Holy shit,” Larry exclaims. “It’s ten to six and Royal is here.”

  Someone snickers. “Guess hell has frozen over.”

  “Maybe he lost a bet,” someone else offers.

  I roll my eyes and head for my locker. I spot Coach Lewis standing near the equipment room door, talking to a tall guy with a buzz cut.

  Even though I’m ten minutes early, I’m still the last one to show. Coach claps his hands when he sees me and says, “Good. We’re all here.”

  I glance over at Connor Babbage, who’s leaning against his locker, and give a discreet nod toward Coach’s new friend. Connor shrugs as if to say no idea who that is.

  Coach steps forward. “Men, this is Brandon Mathis—he just transferred to Astor from Bellfield Prep. He’s our new quarterback.”

  Everyone in the room—myself, included—exhales in relief. Nobody even spares a consolatory look at the two sophomore backups. They’d already proven to be absolutely useless, and they look equally relieved by the news.

  “Mathis,” Coach barks. “You got anything to say to your team?”

  The new guy smiles at everyone. Tall, decent looking, and friendly? I can already hear the Astor girls’ panties dropping to the floor. “Just that I’m looking forward to getting to know y’all and taking home that trophy.”

  Several players nod their approval. Me, I’m still sizing Mathis up.

  Coach’s gaze shifts in my direction. “What about you, Royal? You good with this change-up?”

  Now that Reed has graduated, I’m the unspoken leader of the defense. If I welcome Mathis, the other guys will follow my lead. Coach knows this.

  “Aw, Coach, look at you, taking my lil ol’ feelings into consideration.” I wipe away a nonexistent tear. “I’m touched.”

  “I don’t give a flying hoot about your feelings, kid. I just know how difficult you Royals can be.” He arches his bushy eyebrows. “But you’re not going to be difficult today, are you, Royal? You’re going to welcome your new quarterback with open arms, isn’t that right?”


  I pretend to think it over.

  “Royal,” he warns.

  A grin breaks free. “Nah, I’m not gonna be difficult.” I spread my arms wide and beam at Mathis. “Come in here for a hug, big guy.”

  A few of my teammates snicker.

  Mathis looks startled. “Um. Yeah. I’m not much of a hugger.”

  My arms drop to my sides. “Dammit, Coach, I welcomed him with open arms—literally—and he rejected me.”

  Babbage busts out with laughter.

  Coach sighs. “It’s a figure of speech, kid. Just shake his damn hand.”

  Laughing, I step forward and slap my hand against Mathis’s. “Good to have you on board,” I tell him. And I mean it. We desperately need a QB that can throw the damned ball.

  “Good to be here,” he replies.

  Coach claps his hands again. “All right, boys, get changed and hit the weights.”

  I strip out of my Astor Park uniform. Dominic Warren is beside me, putting on a pair of basketball shorts.

  “Yo, Mathis,” Dom calls across the room. “What’s the tail situation over at Bellfield?”

  “Tail situation?” our new QB echoes.

  “Yeah, tail. You know. Chicks.” Dom flops down on the bench and bends over to lace up his sneakers. “I’m thinking of finding myself a Bellfield girl—I’m tired of these Astor chicks.”

  Mathis grins. “Hey, from what I’ve seen so far, Astor Park girls are smokin’.”

  “Yeah, they’re easy on the eyes,” Dom agrees. “But they’ve got sticks up their asses. Their daddies are billionaires, you know? Most of them act like they’re doing you a favor just by talking to you.”

  “They don’t all have sticks up their asses,” I disagree, thinking of Ella and Val, the two coolest chicks I know.

  I’d add Hartley to that list, too, except I don’t know her well enough yet. Her mom, however, definitely had a stick or two up her ass last night. What the hell was up with that woman? I’ve met a lot of prissy, snooty rich bitches, but even the snootiest of them have a default code of manners. We’re southerners, for chrissake. You’re invited inside and insulted over a glass of sweet tea and a slice of cake. Doors are not slammed in your face.