Rebel Soul Final, page 1
Table of Contents
Other Titles By LK Farlow
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
Check Out These Great Authors
Excerpt of Rebel Heart
Excerpt of Best Laid Plans
Acknowledgments
About the Author
© 2020 by LK Farlow
All rights reserved.
Cover Design & Interior Formatting: Jersey Girl Design | Juliana Cabrera
Cover Photograph: Lindee Robinson Photography
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referred to in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
www.authorlkfarlow.com
Other Titles By LK Farlow
*All can be read as standalones and are available through Kindle Unlimited.
Rebel Heart
Best Laid Plans
Best of Intentions
Best of Me
Coming Up Roses
An Uphill Battle
Weather the Storm
To my Phoobs.
Thank you for loving both me and my rebel soul.
Chapter One
West
“This…there’s no way…” I pause my pacing to look over the page before me. I must’ve read it wrong, because Jesus-fucking-Christ, this is some bullshit, and I’m well-versed in bullshit. Anyone in my position—broker by day, virtual porn app developer by night—has to be. From the boardroom to the bedroom, it’s practically my second language.
…provided he produces an heir by the age of twenty-five. Failure to do so will result in forfeiture of the trust, henceforth relinquishing any right to the estate…
My eyes snag on that particular line again and again. Hell, the words may as well be circled, highlighted, and in bold, with little arrows pointing at them. My grandpa was a hateful old jackass who loved fucking with anyone and everyone. He was the puppet master and everyone in his life nothing more than marionettes. And now, here he is, tugging on my strings from six feet under. I wonder if my cousin Brock is in a similar boat—and by boat, I mean up shit creek without a fucking paddle.
“This is for real?” I arch a brow at Colton—my lawyer—waiting for him to tell me I’m being punked. He’s only a few years older than me, but he’s smart as a fucking whip and in a sea of sharks, he’s a moray eel: lean, unassuming, but fucking vicious when provoked.
“Unfortunately, yes. Ironclad, too.” Colton delivers the news, his voice even and bland, as if we’re two strangers discussing the weather and not longtime friends.
My hands tremble as I read over my grandfather’s will for the fourth time in as many minutes. My family has been known to do some fucked-up shit over the years, but this…yeah, it takes the cake. “How ironclad?”
“Battleship,” is his only reply. The fact that he’s being so frank tells me just how serious this is. Usually Colton goes all lawyer-y on me, refusing to make hard statements. But he’s talking to me as more than my lawyer right now—he’s speaking as one of my most trusted friends.
The walls of my corner office feel like they’re closing in on me as I resume my pacing, wearing a trail in the plush sheepskin rug that takes up most of the floor space in front of my desk. Unwilling to accept defeat, I stalk over to the bookcase on the far wall. My eyes flit over the spines, searching for the title I have in mind. “This can’t be legal.” Right? I mean, in my line of work, legalities are huge, and this just seems fucking fishy.
Colton crosses the room and stops me with a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Yes and no.”
I spin on him. “Explain.”
He rubs a hand over his five o’clock shadow. “Things that in the real world would be considered batshit crazy are easily upheld in wills and trusts—they’re interesting like that.”
“Interesting isn’t the word that comes to mind,” I mutter, tugging at my collar before heading over to the bar cart in the corner. I pour myself a healthy measure of scotch, swallowing it in one gulp, relishing the burn as it goes down.
“You realize you just downed that single-malt Glenlivet like a frat boy on a mission to get blackout drunk?”
I lift a brow. “Your point?”
Colton scoffs. “My point is that bottle costs more than said frat boy’s entire college education. Respect it.”
My eyes roll of their own accord. “You’re insufferable.” Even still, I pour myself two fingers, not wanting to rile him up—asshole’s passionate about his scotch, and one of us needs to remain level-headed.
“You fucking love me,” he challenges, collapsing onto the navy blue plush velvet couch situated in the center of the room. “Pour one for me and take a seat.”
I do as he says before recapping the bottle and joining him. We sit in silence, my mind racing like a Formula 1 car. A whole gamut of emotions rocks my system—shock, anger, frustration, despair, anger, incredulity, sadness, fear, anger…did I mention the fucking anger?
“You’re acting like you’ve been sentenced to death.”
A groan slips past my lips as my eyes close and my head drops to the back of the couch. A vision of a nagging wife with a crying baby on her hip flashes through my mind, the very picture of domesticated misery. “I may as well have been. I’m twenty-four. I’m in my fucking prime. I don’t want a wife or—”
Colton makes a dismissive noise, stopping me. “Who said anything about a wife?”
My head snaps up, and my eyes fly open. “What?”
He shrugs, a calculating glint in his blue eyes. “An heir is required, not a wife.”
I lean forward. “Wait, wait, wait. You mean to tell me they’re all but legally requiring me to have an illegitimate child?”
Colton arches a brow. “Didn’t think a contractually binding sex clause would ruffle your feathers so much.”
“Normally I’m not the one signing on the dotted line to fuck,” I grumble under my breath before polishing off my drink.
Swear to God, if this was happening to any-fucking-one-else, I’d find it hilarious. But it’s not. It’s me. My eyes flit to my desk where the damning paper sits, the words already burned into my brain. A baby with no marriage? Talk about shortsighted. However, if I want the Cottonwood Estate—the place where every good childhood memory I have lives—an heir is the price I’m required to pay.
“So, okay, one more time. The papers over there on my desk state that I have to knock someone—anyone—up before my next birthday but in no way require me to marry her?”
Colton’s lips tip up into a calculating grin. “Precisely.”
I hear what he’s saying, but my brain…my brain simply cannot process it. One of my dad’s brothers—whom I’ve never met, if that tells you anything—had a baby out of wedlock and refused to marry the girl, and he was disowned, disinherited, and said to have disgraced the Larson name. Which is a load of shit, given that my dad’s other brother used to beat his own son and verbally abuse his wife. Even so, my grandpa all but sawed his branch off of the family tree in an effort to erase the so-called dark mark he left on our legacy. And yet, here we are…with legal papers drawn all but telling me to have a bastard. The fuck…
“I need a drink.”
Colton’s gaze drops to the tumbler in my hand, eyeing it skeptically. “You had a drink. Two, in fact.”
The urge to roll my eyes at his blasé attitude is overwhelming, but I manage to stifle the urge. “Let me rephrase. I want to go out and drink. At a bar. Surrounded by scantily clad coeds with tight pussies and loose morals. You never know…” I grin sardonically. “I might even find my baby mama.”
I stand up and head toward the door. “And as my friend?”
He stands and follows, retrieving his keys from his pocket. “As your friend…let’s go get you wasted, motherfucker. I’ll even be your DD.”
We bump fists as he walks past me and out the door. “Hell yeah! My lawyer can go fuck himself.”
Two hours later, I’m three sheets to the wind and surrounded by an eclectic mix of women with sober-as-a-judge Colton at my side. There’s a Botoxed blonde grinding on my lap to the low bass-y beat thrumming through the speakers, a knockout redhead plastered to my side whispering dirty promises in my ear, and a tantalizing ebony-skinned temptress dancing in front of me, her luscious curves on full display for my hungry gaze. I could easily take one of these women home with me—hell, I could probably take all three.
But I won’t.
Maybe it’s the knowledge that I actually have to impregnate someone—something I’ve been actively avoiding since the onset of puberty—but even in this den of iniquity, with a cement mixer load of lust and alcohol swirling through the room, my libido seems to have taken the night off. Not to mention, Colton would shut that shit down faster than I could blink.
Or maybe it’s the fact that whoever I end up knocking up is someone I’ll have to deal with for the next…forever. That, in and of itself, is a stellar reason for a little discretion. Which means my dick won’t be getting wet for the foreseeable future—at least, not until I find a suitable baby mama.
Fuck. That thought’s depressing as hell. Not to mention, sobering. So much so that I dislodge the pretty blonde grinding on my lap. “Let’s roll,” I bark, and she smiles eagerly, licking her blood-red lips as she takes me in. “No, not you. Colton.”
Her face crumples, and a thread of guilt stitches its way into my heart. That is, until I see her set her sights on the next schmuck in an expensive suit, her two friends in tow.
“On it.” He pays our—my—tab and guides me out to his car. “I was starting to worry you were considering taking Barbie and her playmates back there home with you.”
I shrug; the movement disrupts my equilibrium, causing me to stumble. “Fuck. Nah. She was hot, but not have-my-baby-hot.” Colton guides me into the passenger seat of his BMW M8 Coupe. Drunk as a skunk, reality sets in. “Colt, man, what am I gonna do?”
He closes the door without a reply and rounds to the driver’s side, where he slides behind the wheel. “Tonight? There’s nothing you can do. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll hit the ground running.”
I nod, agreeing without really hearing him. My ears are ringing, and my vision swims as the events of today rain down on me—and I don’t mean a little sun shower. This is a fucking Category Five hurricane.
Chapter Two
West
The sound of my father’s ringtone—because, yes, a call from him requires extra warning—wakes me from my slumber. The blaring trill combined with the harsh rays of sunlight filtering in through my open curtains has me groaning.
Slowly, I attempt to sit up; the small movement sends a riot of pain through my skull. Fuck. Accepting defeat, I collapse back into my pillow and fumble around my nightstand for my phone, wondering when in the hell I even put the phone on the charging dock. Finally, after a few misses, I palm the sleek device and lay it on my face. “Yes, Father,” I croak, my voice hoarse and groggy from my night of heavy drinking.
“Weston,” my dad barks into the phone, his voice as pleasant as stepping on a Lego. From what I’m told, that shit doesn’t feel very nice. But if I want to gain access to my grandfather’s estate—and I really fucking do—I guess it’s something I’ll know for myself soon enough. Shit…at what age do kids even play with Legos?
“Yes, Father?” I reply, barely suppressing my sigh.
“Your mother asked me to invite you to join us at the house this evening.” He pauses before adding, “Dinner will be served promptly at five—dress appropriately, and for God’s sake, be on time.” And by on time, he means early.
“Yes, Father.” The silence on the other end lets me know he disconnected. Crazy how an entire conversation can pass with me only saying the same two words the entire time.
The rest of the day passes much too quickly, in a blur of electrolyte-enhanced beverages, carbs, and headache meds. Then again, I slept until noon, so that may have something to do with it, too. Regardless, it all boils down to the same thing: not enough time between my unwanted wake-up call and my summoning—I mean, family dinner.
At half-past three, I snag my phone and keys off of the bar, thumbing through my notifications as I walk out to my car. Just as I’m about to pocket my phone, it buzzes with an incoming text.
Colton: You survive?
Me: Ha, funny.
Colton: Hey, can’t fault me for checking.
Me: I’m good. Thanks for last night.
Colton: Always, man. Let’s set up a meet time for Monday to discuss yesterday’s bomb and the impending fallout a little more?
Me: Just tell me when and where.
Colton: AKA tell Margaret.
Me: Yup, you know it.
I know he’ll text me at least a few more times, but I need to hit the road if I want to avoid getting my ass chewed out for being late.
The drive from my place to my parents’ is an easy one, but the minute their ostentatious brick wall and iron gates come into view, my heart starts racing in my chest and sweat beads my hairline. At twenty-four, I fucking hate the fact that the mere sight of this house can elicit such a visceral response from me—probably because I’m acutely aware of the terrors housed within its walls. Sure, my parents never raised a hand to me, but they didn’t raise me either. I was more like a prop to them, no more important than a piece of art or a vase. If it weren’t for the house staff taking care of me, I’d have probably starved to death before I turned two.
I steel my nerves as I turn onto the curving paver-stone drive, pausing long enough for the gate to swing inward to allow me entry. On the outside looking in, nothing seems amiss. Tasteful landscaping, pristine brick, spotless windows, and a welcoming front entry—but it’s all a lie. The inside of this house is as cold as a goddamn crypt.
After a small pep talk, I leave the safety of my Mercedes and head to the door. I knock twice and wait, my spine straight, shoulders back, and head high, projecting an air of confidence I don’t actually feel.
A few seconds pass before the crypt-keeper herself answers the door. Reining in my shock at seeing Prissy Larson doing something she deems beneath her station, I lean in and hover my cheek next to hers. “Mother.” I draw back and step inside. This house was custom designed, foundation to roof, no expense spared, but the one they really nailed was the wall color—a deep charcoal, fitting to match the hearts and souls of its owners. “Did you give Eliza the day off?” I ask, wondering where the house manager is.
Mother clucks her tongue. “Her granddaughter is sick. Though, I hardly see how that’s an excuse not to be here.”
My fists clench at my sides. “Her granddaughter lives with her,” I remind her. How she doesn’t know this is beyond me—Eliza has been raising the kid since her first birthday, when her mother passed away, and that was ten years ago.
“Oh, yes, right.” She brushes her hands down her skirt. “We’re dining on the patio today since the weather’s so nice.”
“Sounds great,” I reply, even though she’s already walking away.
I follow behind her through the immaculate house and out to the backyard. Everything out here, from the travertine tile patio to the oversized pool complete with a waterfall, is a show of status. Hell, I can’t even remember the last time someone dared dip a toe in the crystal blue, perfectly heated water.
Noticing my presence, my father makes a big show, eyeing me and then his watch. “West, how good of you to join us.”
He and my mother both are dressed to the nines, looking more fit to attend a derby than a backyard dinner, and like a good puppet, I’m decked out in my Sunday best as well, bowtie and all. Then again, even a backyard meal is a five-star affair for Roland and Prissy Larson.
