The Perfects, page 4
I flinch. “We were just kissing.”
He turns around so fast that I take a step back. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“No, sir.”
“Clearly, you do!” He pounds his fists onto the desk, papers go flying, and then he shoves more off before sitting in his chair and holding his head in his hands. “Son, I created an empire, for you, for our family. The press is all over this situation with Mary-Belle. What’s going to happen when your friends say something? Or when you get caught like you just did? I know you’re not related, but it’s not right. You need to be focused on you, on our family, on sports, on taking over the dynasty one day—“
“—What if I don’t want that?” I press my palms onto his desk, onto all the other papers that make me feel sick to my stomach. “Whoever asked me if I wanted this perfect fucking legacy? You? Mom?”
He glares. “Don’t for one second think you’re untouchable because you’re rich!” His voice shouts louder, making me take a step back. “I did this for you, and you do nothing but mouth off, nothing but make mistake after mistake, nothing but do the exact opposite of what I ask!”
I smirk at him, angry that he’s making sense but also angry that he doesn’t see me or care about my feelings or wants. “Maybe you should have told me to screw her first, then I probably wouldn’t have.”
He comes barreling around the corner of his desk, hand flying across my right cheek before I can move.
I’m so pissed he slapped me that I don’t even know what to do or what to say. Eyes watering, I shake my head and press a hand to my cheek. “Really? That’s what it’s come to?”
Dad grabs the hand touching my cheek. Dark circles frame his blue eyes. What the hell has him so stressed out?
Everything’s always perfect.
So why isn’t he right now?
“Why do you even care?” I ask. “You’re never home. And we live a fucking lie. Everything is perfect and has to be, or you lose your shit. Who cares if I’m kissing the girl you took in all because you wanted people to look at you like some sort of savior!” I’m raising my voice and can’t help it. “Look, just leave me alone. I’ll be the perfect son, even when I’m home, but I’m not touching your legacy. Because you never really did it for us. You did it for yourself. Everything is for you, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of pretending. Do you even realize the only time you played catch with me was when the cameras stopped by for a photo op?”
Dad pales. “You never asked.
“I asked all the time!” I shout. “I begged you to give me five minutes, and you told me that your five minutes cost at least five grand, so I finally stopped asking!”
Dad stumbles back. “I was trying to take care of you the only way I knew how!”
“Wow.” I toss up my hands. “Good job. When all your son wanted was time. Not money. Fantastic job. I hope you enjoy your expensive whiskey and lonely office.” I sneer. “I’m done here.”
For once, he doesn’t yell at me to stay or demand I apologize.
So I walk off and stomp my way up the stairs directly into Mary-Belle’s room. She’s sitting in her bed, staring down at her hands, breathing slowly like she’s trying to calm herself. Hands shaking, she slowly looks up, tears streaming down her face.
I rush to her, jump onto her bed, and then pull her into my arms. She rests her cheek against my chest. “You should go.”
“Not going anywhere, sorry.” I rasp back.
“No, really.” She looks up at me. “Your dad was right.”
“He was wrong.” She shivers next to me. “Besides, what’s the worst that can happen at this point? He finds us cuddling. You know he slapped me? I’m so pissed at him, so fucking pissed—“
“—go find him, talk it out. You at least have a dad, Ambrose. I don’t condone hitting your kid, obviously, but he loves you.”
I roll my eyes. “Perfect, now you too?”
“I’m serious.” She grips me by the shoulders. “Go back downstairs and make it right.”
“You know I came in here to comfort you, and now you want me to leave?”
“Ambrose, I just think—“
“—you’re all the same! All of you! Everyone trying to think for me, decide for me, tell me what to do. I’m so over it!” I jump out of the bed, knowing I probably messed up again but so pissed and exhausted that I grab one of my team sweatshirts, run down the stairs, grab my tennis shoes, and go for a nearly four am run.
I blame them.
Both of them.
Why can’t I just live my life?
Why does everything have to be so complicated?
I’d left my phone in my room, so I don’t go far. About twenty minutes later, after laps around the neighborhood a mile over. I run back.
Only to find an ambulance and cop cars at the house.
What the hell?
Panic washes over me as I run up, all sweaty. “What’s going on?”
“Sir, this is a private matter we’re going to—“ It’s like the cop suddenly realizes who I am. “I think it’s best to talk with your mom.”
“Is she okay?” Oh God, what if my mom fell? Got in an accident? She hasn’t been feeling well lately.
I run my hands through my hair just as Mary-Belle comes out of the house covered in a blanket, her eyes haunted.
“Mary-Belle!” I yell her name, but it’s like she doesn’t see me as she stumbles to the ground and sits. “Mary-Belle.”
“I tried,” she whispers. “I tried to fix it.”
“Fix what?” I’m wrapping the blanket tighter around her when my mom walks up to me, tears streaming down her face. “Fix what?”
“You!” Mom screams at Mary-Belle.
“Mom!” I yell. “Stop it! Can’t you see she’s scared?”
“Scared? Scared?” Mom’s voice raises. “She killed him!”
“I was trying to fix it,” Mary-Belle whispers again and again. “Fix it to make Ambrose and his dad happy. When I walked in, he was already on the ground, so I tried to fix it, to save him.”
“You.” Mom shoves Mary-Belle back against the cold grass. “You didn’t fix it. You killed him!”
Chapter Nine
Mary-Belle
“Sir?” I yell and run toward him. “Sir?” He’s on the floor, his salt and pepper hair—normally slicked back—off to the side. His mouth is open, his eyes too. I rush over to him, put him on his back, and start CPR right away.
I can barely remember how to do compressions but know it’s important. He looks up at me, and his mouth moves.
I’m haunted by it.
I stare as I continue compressions, then scramble for the new phone he gave me that I’ve somehow dropped next to him.
When did I drop it?
I shakily dial nine one one, put it on speaker, and continue compressions as he stares up at the ceiling like he knows.
He knows.
“Stay with me!” I scream.
Another scream sounds—it’s Ambrose’s mom.
“You whore!” she yells. “So this was the big secret, huh? She’s sleeping with you?”
I’m so confused and disoriented that all I can do is keep pushing down on his chest and hope that it does something like keep his heart beating while she’s continuing to break it over and over again with her words.
Tears stream down my face as she yells, my arms burn, my palms, my fingers—while I don’t know Ambrose super well, I know this will devastate him.
It’s his father.
And as much as he didn’t want the dynasty—he wants the father.
She starts shouting, then grabs a glass sniffer of whiskey and throws it onto the ground. I think she’s drunk, but I have no time to even ask as I continue pressing into his chest.
He sucks in a breath, his eyes roll back, and I pray this isn’t the end as Ambrose’s mom continues throwing things around the room like he isn’t just dying in front of us.
“Stay with me,” I whisper.
“Oh, you’d like that, bitch!” she yells.
Hot tears stream down my cheeks, falling onto his limp body as he stares up at me; his blue eyes don’t look away, almost like he needs to tell me something. It’s a pensive yet holy moment. His wife stomps away in her expensive sweats and equally expensive tennis shoes.
“…Yes! Hurry the hell up! He’s not responsive!” she yells into the phone. I didn’t even realize she still had it in her hand. Finally, she falls into a chair. “They’re on their way!”
Good. Good.
I continue to press into his chest like my life depends on it while she sits and watches. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her flinch when he moans, and I wonder if she actually wants him to die, to punch him.
I look back toward him.
A tear slides down his left cheek and lands on the expensive carpet.
And then, just like the tear, in all its effort to escape his eye—he’s gone, the life removed from him as his eyes go dead.
I don’t even realize he’s gripping my wrist until it’s too late.
Until the police arrive minutes later and have to pry his fingers from me.
Until his wife screams that I killed him.
Until I realize that even though I’m innocent—I’m guilty.
I’m just a foster kid taken in by the perfect family.
The Perfects.
I sit in the middle of the floor while I’m questioned and realize I will never be a part of Ambrose’s life or love again.
All because I tried to right a wrong.
“What did you do!” Ambrose shouts, bringing me back to the present. “Mary-Belle, what did you do!”
I killed him.
I somehow killed him.
I stare down at my shaking hands, then back up at him; his mom is bent over sobbing.
How does a dream shatter so quickly?
How does a life just suddenly—disappear?
“M’am…” An officer walks up to me and slowly crouches down. He has a black mustache and is wearing a bulletproof vest. He’s almost blurry because of my tears. “We’re going to need to ask you a few questions, but because you’re a minor, we’ll need your guardian present.”
Ambrose’s mom cries harder.
I can’t swallow.
My tongue feels thick in my mouth.
And as he asks a few questions and writes them down on his little notepad, I turn and look at Ambrose, my eyes searching for the nice boy that told me I was his.
But when he locks eyes with me.
All I see is hatred.
And all I feel is pain.
Part Two
Spring Semester
Chapter Ten
Ambrose
Six Months Later
I hate being rich.
I hate school.
I even hate lacrosse now because it reminds me of that night, not that I even have a break from that since she lives in my stupid house, eats my food, and drinks my fucking water.
Lives in my fucking world.
That was a lot of fucks—but it hurts.
Burns from the inside out, like someone took a hot coal and shoved it down my throat, then told me that every time I swallowed, I would both think of her and feel that same burning, raging pain.
It’s been six months.
We have thirty days left until school’s out. She’s eighteen but has to get her diploma, but my mom’s promised me that she’ll be gone after that, on the streets. Who the hell cares?
She keeps to herself.
Eats at her own table in the cafeteria.
Her hair’s longer now, a bit darker, more natural.
She’s still beautiful, but beauty can be deceiving. After all, she did kill my dad, even if the experts say he had a heart attack… she was the one with him, the one who stressed him out, could have saved him, and now we have nothing.
Now we’re in two lawsuits.
Now things are brought to light.
All because she was there.
I can’t stand her. I can’t.
It takes everything in me to look away from her so I don’t rush up to her and do something that can’t be forgiven. Do I sometimes dream of her lips? Of the way she tastes?
Yes.
And it pisses me off even more.
Because everything was perfect.
Until it wasn’t.
Until I was standing there staring at a body bag.
At my mom bawling her eyes out.
At Mary-Belle saying it was her fault, on her grass-stained knees, a day after I was inside her, thinking this was it, she was mine, I was hers, and this was forever.
I slam my locker door twice before it finally closes and grab my bag, tightening it on my shoulder, my grip so strong my fingers turn numb.
I wish the rest of me would be numb instead of all these feelings. I wish so many things. I wish I would have listened more to my dad and that I would have been more of a man than the punk kid I was.
But now, I’m forced into a world I never wanted to be a part of.
And again, it’s her fault.
The foster girl with her black trash bag and hole-filled shoes.
I turn.
She’s there, right in front of me, with the fancy bag my mom gave her, it’s a Prada backpack, black, she has whatever else my family gave her in it, like her shiny new cell phone and credit cards since my mom felt guilty she had nothing.
And she’s holding a book.
History.
Ironic, isn’t it?
Her hair’s cut to her shoulders, dirty blonde, and her eyes lock on mine. Her uniform is pristine like she’s just ironed it up. Her black thigh highs dip into red combat boots, and her lips have a shiny gloss that would entice any guy, gay or straight.
Her brown eyes search mine for something I’m not willing to give, so I look away. I can’t take it.
It’s hard enough living with her.
Even worse, going to school with her.
Even worse than that? The fact that the entire school, regardless of what she does, seems to think she’s suddenly the second coming.
She volunteers for everything.
She’s a straight-A student.
She’s just nice to everyone no matter how they treat her, which is irritating in and of itself—and she’s done all of this in the span of a semester. Sometimes I think she does it on purpose just to make up for her sins.
I wish, for once in my fucking life, that she would be cruel the way I know her to be cruel to destroy something so perfect.
Instead, she continues her Mother Teresa act like its normal when I know she’s a killer.
Am I being extreme? Yes. Emotional? Yes. But get back at me when your dad dies at the hand of someone you trusted who refuses to tell the cops what actually happened.
That’s the kicker.
She said it was an accident, but no details were given, no matter what, and since she’s a minor, they let it go, since my mom probably paid them off, they let it go, so it was ruled as a freak heart attack.
The autopsy proved it, but what the hell caused it? He was fine, he seemed fine, and a little meeting with her is enough to set him off?
Besides, she was the only one there.
The. Only. One.
Did she kill him? Maybe. But why?
And how did he really die from a small foster girl walking into his office?
I shake my head in disgust.
My mom thinks we keep our enemies closer, but is it so horrible to want to push them off a cliff, no matter how pretty and enticing?
“Ambrose,” MB, which is what I call her now because I can’t use the energy to use her full name as it makes me want to commit homicide, says. “Do you have a minute?”
“Ten seconds.” I turn around. “One, two, three—“
“—-if you count, I’ll panic. I just wanted to let you know—“
“—Four, five…” I roll my eyes. “…six, seven—“
“—That—“
“—Eight—“
“—I’m sorry, okay. I can’t… I just can’t. You don’t trust me, but you need to. One day… One day it’s going to make sense. I care about you—“
“Nine.” I lean in, voice hoarse. “Ten. Wow, new princess, times up; if that’s all you had to say, it’s pathetic. Try harder next time. Lie better.” I smirk. “You’re a horrible excuse for a human being. Maybe I’ll meet you in Hell one day. Oh, look…” I laugh. “…we’re already there!” I pat her on the shoulder. “Have you gained weight?”
She jerks away from me as tears fill her eyes. Good. “Why? Why are you so cruel? You know me, you were… with me.”
“I was inside you. I knew your body, not your dark heart. Know the difference, princess. You’re not mine. You don’t even belong to yourself. I mean, how could a liar even know themselves? They can’t. Go to class. Leave me alone.”
I shove past her and wish I could feel better.
Instead, my heart hurts.
My body aches.
And I wonder if things will ever be the same again.
I used to hate being rich.
Now I just want a reset.
Where things were perfect.
Where I hated it.
Anything would be better than this nightmare.
“Miss you,” I whisper. “Dad.”
I should have told him.
I should have listened.
And now, I’m the legacy.
I sit in calculus as people try not to make eye contact with me, and I wish I had the tears to cry.
Instead, I open my textbook and focus.
All our dynasty has left is me.
And I intend to make sure it lasts.
Chapter Eleven
Mary-Belle
I’m numb.
Not in a good way.
I smile, get good grades, and try to cook for the family that took me in as much as possible, even though they bring in a chef every weekend.
And I’m miserable.
I miss his kisses, I miss his kindness, I miss his laugh, all he sees when he looks at me is blood, and I don’t blame him, but I can’t go back. How does he not see that? How does he not see my own trauma and how I can’t go back?
