Unraveling Blake Earnshaw Book 1: The Rich Prick Page 11

  Earnshaw lets go of my hair and thrusts that same water bottle into my chest. “What’s that look for, Hackett?”

  “Where’s Sarah?” I set the bottle aside.

  “She’s getting your car.”

  Earnshaw dries off with a towel and steps into his jeans. How did those get here? I guess Sarah dropped them before she left. His T-shirt too. Our shoes. My dress. Sarah must have my wristlet. I flex my hand and wiggle my fingers. I’m missing something. Where did Mom’s locket go?

  An engine grumbles and headlights find us. “Ready to go?” Sarah calls from my Prius.

  “Almost,” Earnshaw replies.

  Sarah nods and falls back into a position where she can watch us from out the windshield and follow once the Roadster gets moving. My car’s engine is so loud. I wish she’d kill it. If I could jam my fingers into my ears and all the way to my brain, I would. Grinding my forehead into asphalt doesn’t sound like a bad idea either.

  Earnshaw draws his smart key from his pants pocket. He pushes a couple of buttons and the Roadster opens its doors. It’s then I notice gold glimmering between his fingers.

  I narrow my eyes. “Give me my locket.”

  “I intend to after you dry off and get dressed.”

  “Don’t like what you see?”

  “I’m not delivering you to your uncle mostly naked.”

  “Where’d that ‘bad boy’ go?”

  Earnshaw attacks me with the towel, wiping me down quickly and efficiently before discarding it on my head. I tear the thing off so I can see, but by then he’s swept me off my feet. Before I can think to protest, I’m sitting half-out of the passenger seat of his lit-up car; it’s blowing warm air too. Earnshaw pockets my locket and retrieves a white box from his trunk; it’s a first-aid kit. He returns, kneels in front of me, and probes the cut I keep forgetting about. I wince and hiss like a cat at the vet when he pours peroxide over it.

  “Shut up,” he says. “It’s a scratch. You’re fine.”

  “Then what’s with the fancy gauze and tape?”

  “It’s a decent scratch.”

  He pats my foot after he’s finished, which aggravates my wound. I grab his shoulders to dig in my nails and make him hurt too, but he doesn’t flinch or react at all. He pries my fingers off him, tosses my dress at me, and makes no move to assist me. Which is fine. That towel thing was crossing a line. By standing and leaning against his Roadster, I eventually succeed in dressing myself anyway—except for the zipper at the back.

  “Seriously?” he says when I’ve failed for the hundredth time.

  I don’t reply. This is taking all of my dodgy concentration. When I try to find my zipper again, it’s disappeared. A zwiiiip and my dress tightening around me further confuse my senses, but then a familiar round shape made of warm gold meets my fingers. The metal didn’t absorb this heat from me, though. It feels different, less like metal and more like holding someone’s hand.

  “There,” Earnshaw says and pushes me back into the passenger seat. He sets the water bottle on my lap, too. “Let’s go.”

  No. Wait. There’s another option. It should be the only option. “Sarah …” The words die on my tongue. I don’t want to ride with Sarah any more than I want to ride with Johan. It’s fucked up, but I don’t have to pretend so much with Earnshaw. Or lie. Maybe Sarah doesn’t want to be alone with me either. Plus, it’s too risky. I could spit out my plan without realizing it.

  What if I had blurted it during my speech in front of everyone? If my thoughts had been where they are now, I would have. A confession suddenly wants to burst free. I should never have gotten drunk. I can’t think straight. No one can know.

  Earnshaw buckles my seat belt and shuts the door. I watch him in the rearview mirror as he pulls out his, I assume new, smartphone and goes to my Prius to talk to Sarah. Then he returns to his Roadster, claiming the driver’s seat.

  Without a word, or a sound from his silent vehicle, he gets us rolling down the street. I’m so drunk that it doesn’t raise my heart rate. The string lights disappear, the forest becomes opaque, and darkness creeps in. It can’t close in completely because two pairs of headlights keep it at bay. It doesn’t mind, though. Darkness is nothing if not patient. But Earnshaw isn’t. He adjusts his speed while gauging Sarah’s to see how fast he can get away with driving.

  “Do you even know where I live?” I ask.

  “You live with Harvey Mace.”

  “And you know where he lives? Stalker.”

  “I asked.”

  “What?”

  “I called him. You better not ask me why I have his number, because I think it’s fairly obvious.”

  My jaw drops open, but I snap it shut because it makes my head hurt worse. What does it matter if one more thing has gone horribly wrong tonight? Harvey will forgive me, but I wish he hadn’t heard about this through Earnshaw. Damn it. The world is crumbling around me and therapy is on the horizon.

  “What’s wrong with you?!” I demand and shake my head. “Harvey’s okay with you driving me?”

  “I told him we were already on our way and Sarah seconded that. I’m being responsible.”

  I raise my hands to make air quotes and mock him, but then I press my head against my window instead. I need something for this headache.

  “Water will help,” Earnshaw says.

  I glance at the bottle in my lap.

  “You’re dehydrated.”

  And I didn’t rinse out my mouth the last time I was sick. I manage one swallow before I give up and ground the bottle to my lap as I revisit the window. The glass is cool against my cheek.

  “You’re going to wash my car as payment for this,” Earnshaw says. “Stop smudging the glass.”

  “Whatever. You should have thrown this lowly peasant in her car with Sarah,” I reply. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Clearly I’m a masochist.”

  “Is that why you wanted me to give you head after drinking ghost-pepper juice?”

  “It is.”

  “Liar.” I squint and turn my head to zero in on him. “The way you treated Eve was sadism at its finest. Everything you say is a lie.”

  “You would know.”

  He’s said that to me before. For some reason, my eyes settle on his bruised right cheek. I really got him. Its ugliness rivals my scar’s, but it’ll fade without leaving a trace, and it doesn’t change the intensity of his forest eyes or the alluring sharpness of his face.

  My seat belt is choking me. I struggle with it for several minutes before I free myself. Then Earnshaw jerks the steering wheel, making an abrupt turn that throws me into the door. “Seat-belt check.”

  I latch myself back in and moan. “Better be careful, or I might puke in your car.”

  “Better not.”

  “Or you’ll make my life hell?”

  He smirks, taps the touchscreen centered between the two of us, and selects some heavy metal song from a music list. The awful screaming that consequently blares through his HD speakers isn’t enough for him, though. He turns up the volume until I’m forced to plug my ears if I want to retain my ability to hear. It doesn’t bother him, so maybe being drunk has made me hypersensitive, but I swear my skull is about to fracture.

  I try to switch the music, but Earnshaw’s put some kind of lock on his screen and I can’t find my way around it. I’m forced to acclimate to this edgy metal band, Oil On The Spiderweb. Weird name. Guitars squeal and match the frantic rhythm of the drums. The bass drops low and does the same. Then a powerful voice breaks out above the noise with this insane vibrato.

  City lights pop up between the aspens, seeming to flicker with the music as I doze off. My eyelids become heavier each time I blink. Before long, exhaustion beats metal.

  I’m almost gone when another voice joins the music that’s become a whisper amid semi-consciousness. The singing parts have added another vocalist. No. That’s not right. This voice isn’t coming from the speakers. It must be Blake Earnshaw. I want to open my
eyes to see, but I’m too tired, and his voice is soothing with that raspy tone and impressive range. I didn’t know he could sing, but it figures since Earnshaws are good at everything. And maybe metal isn’t so bad. It’s actually relatable. The screams are rage given a voice. The singing is heart-wrenching, like mourning.

  Sonorous sorrow is an irresistible lullaby.

  CHAPTER 17

  Silence startles me awake. It’s the same heart-pounding experience as waking up to a blaring air horn. It leaves me disoriented, and I have the worst headache of my life.

  “Mace is coming out of the house to get you,” Earnshaw says. “He must have been waiting by the window this whole time. He’s like a doting father.” He turns to me, but I just blink at him. He unbuckles my seat belt and reaches over me to open my door. “Did you hear me? Get out of my car.”

  Light shines from the house and then it’s eclipsed. I turn my head, not entirely convinced my neck won’t snap. A familiar face marked with prominent laugh lines greets me. I want to hold out my arms like a kid so that he’ll pick me up, but they’re like solid lead.

  “Teagan,” Harvey says softly, “are you okay?”

  I roll my dry tongue around in my mouth before I attempt a reply. “Drunk or hungover.” My voice is raspy. “Something. Head hurts.”

  Rex pushes past Harvey to poke his big head inside Earnshaw’s Roadster and rest his chin on my lap. “Good boy,” I tell him as he whines.

  When Earnshaw gets out of his car, Rex’s floppy ears perk up and he leaves me to investigate. The lead cracks and I raise my arms. Harvey lifts me, holding me as safe and close as Earnshaw did. But he’s not as broad, tall, or strong. Why am I thinking about that? I did not enjoy a moment of being near that rich prick. I didn’t.

  Rex circles Earnshaw and sniffs him, but his tail wags the entire time. He even sits, lolls out his tongue, and lets Earnshaw pet him. Traitor.

  “I’m taking you to bed, all right?” Harvey says.

  I nod and rest my cheek on his shoulder. I’m too tired to reprimand Rex, and he’s moved on to Sarah, who just exited my Prius, anyway.

  “Blake, Sarah, stick around,” Harvey adds. “I’d like to talk to you both.”

  “Whatever you want, Mr. Mace,” Earnshaw replies.

  I swear I blink again and then Harvey’s setting me down to ready the bed. “Sit. I’m going to look at your cut.”

  I do as I’m told and Harvey tugs back the tape. “That’s a good gash.”

  “Does it need stitches?” I mumble.

  “It’s not bleeding. Don’t jostle it and we’ll let it sit for tonight. Ready to get out of that dress?”

  “Unzip me,” I say. “I can do the rest.”

  Harvey rummages through the drawers and sets out underwear, shorts, and a comfy T-shirt. “I’ll bring you some water.” Ugh, more water.

  When Harvey returns, I’m in bed, but I sit up to accept the glass. Then I spit out words as if I’ll never get a chance to speak again. “Harv, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. You were out with Jane, having fun. You weren’t supposed to worry about me. Did I ruin it all again? How was your date?” He’s still wearing the outfit I dressed him in, so he probably rushed home after Earnshaw’s damn call.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow, Teagan.” He kisses my forehead. “Get some rest.”

  Harvey treads across carpeted floors. The muddy sound continues long after it should be gone. I squint at the tiniest sliver of light creeping through the ajar door and blink. Seconds, maybe minutes, pass. I close my eyes and they resist reopening, but I’m not done. If Harvey’s going to talk to Earnshaw, I want to hear what’s said—assuming he hasn’t taken Sarah and driven off already. It could be informative.

  With a groan, I roll out of bed, quietly slide open the window, and fall out of it. I’m at the back of the house, so no one comes for me. I didn’t make this oakleaf hydrangea protest too loudly either, or Rex would be barking. Déjà vu strikes me. This isn’t one of Mom’s rosebushes, but she did plant it and several other oakleaf hydrangeas for Harvey. “They’ll look beautiful all year,” she said. “Their leaves even change color in autumn.”

  I smoosh Mom’s locket against my raging heart and place my free hand on the house to guide me forward. Skirting along the outer edges of hydrangeas is better than going straight through them. It’s made more manageable because there is some space between them and the house’s wood siding.

  I crouch down to better conceal myself when I can see around the corner to the front of the house. Earnshaw is standing near the porch, facing Harvey and Rex. Sarah isn’t there. She’s been exiled to the driveway, where she waits inside Earnshaw’s Roadster.

  “What happened?” Harvey asks.

  “Sarah told the story succinctly.” Earnshaw folds his arms when Rex nudges his hand for another pet. “I have nothing to add.”

  Harvey pets the dog instead. “Rex likes you.”

  Because he’s a big fat traitor.

  “Is that all?” Earnshaw asks. “Can I go?”

  “Are you in a hurry?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “You haven’t looked me in the eye once.”

  Earnshaw slides his gaze to Harvey’s. “No one likes a squealer, and yet Sarah came clean and told you the truth about everything. As I’ve gathered, she’s quite popular and close to Johan Radebaugh, so I wonder why she’d do that when she must have known you’d call the cops as a result.”

  “You lied to me about finding Teagan drunk on the side of the road.”

  Earnshaw replies easily, “I did.”

  “People do foolish things sometimes; however, teenagers tend to be the most harshly accused age group. Sarah realized the party went too far and that it was better to tell the truth. She cares about Teagan. Johan does, too. They’ve been good friends to her for years, and I appreciate Sarah’s honesty.” Harvey sighs. “I didn’t call the police. I called Johan’s parents. If they decide to call the police, that’s their prerogative.”

  “That’s unexpected,” Earnshaw says. “I thought you were the type who followed the law to the letter.”

  “Why? You don’t know me.”

  “I know your best friend was Raindrop’s police captain. Did your law-abiding-citizen persona die with him?”

  “Thank you, Blake.”

  Earnshaw scowls. “What?”

  “Thank you for saving Teagan’s life and for bringing her home safely.”

  “This isn’t her home.”

  “No. I suppose it’s not.”

  “So, tell me, Harvey Mace, are you so ignorant that you thought she’d react fine when she discovered I was living in her chalet, or were you that confident she wouldn’t find out?”

  “I made a mistake,” Harvey says almost too quietly for me to hear. “I thought I could help you without hurting Teagan, but I was wrong.”

  “Help me?” Earnshaw scoffs. “Why did you let me move in?”

  “Your father was quite insistent.” Harvey pauses. “He told me you’ve been struggling.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes.”

  Earnshaw waits, as inscrutable as ever. “Struggling how?”

  “You’ve been associating with a bad crowd and using hard drugs.”

  Earnshaw spits out a laugh.

  “You think that’s funny, Blake?”

  “Not at all.” He tightens the fold of his arms.

  “I’m beginning to think there’s more going on.” Harvey waits to allow Earnshaw to add to that thought. He doesn’t, so Harvey continues. “I learned something today at work. A woman has been frequenting our California branch in Los Angeles. She’s been making donations anonymously, and they’ve reached a rather hefty sum. Since she personally delivered the cash, someone was bound to recognize her eventually despite sunglasses and a wig.”

  “I’m not sure what this has to do with me.”

  “That person is Amora Earnshaw. The Rainbow Hearts Club has never received a donation from an Earnshaw before,
and apparently her husband would disapprove if he knew. Why else would she do this anonymously when every other donation made by the Earnshaws is public knowledge?”

  “That isn’t my mother.”

  “You sound certain.”

  “I am.”

  Harvey folds his arms now. “Tell me why your father really sent you to Raindrop.”

  “Because it’s the opposite of El Sol.”

  “Yes, you won’t find hard drugs here.”

  Earnshaw chuckles. “Yeah, or bad crowds.”

  “Blake, if you need anything, my door is always open.”

  “What about Teagan? I’m a mistake, remember?”

  “No one is a mistake.”

  “Your mistake. Don’t twist my words.”

  “The damage is already done, so I’m owning my decision. I’m good at being a listening ear, and I still want to help you. It’s kind of my thing.”

  “Tell yourself whatever you need to if it makes you feel better, but I’m not like you, Eleanor.”

  My whole body seizes up. How the fuck does Earnshaw know Harvey’s deadname? How dare he call him that! I claw my fingers into the dirt below as if to root myself into place. Next time we meet, I’m going to punch him in the face.

  Harvey doesn’t miss a beat. “And that makes you exempt from needing moral support?”

  “I’ve got more than enough moral support.” There’s this tic near Earnshaw’s jaw because he’s clenching it too tightly. Rex straightens up in response. He stands between the guys as if to shield Harvey from harm.

  “You’ve got a bad temper, don’t you?” Harvey says. “When you feel caged in, you fight. You prefer fists, but you’ve learned how to use sharp words.”

  “Stop psychoanalyzing me. Either call the cops or let me go. I’m done talking to you.” Earnshaw shoves his hands into his pockets, turns his back, and walks toward his Roadster.

  “That’s your last-resort coping mechanism,” Harvey says. “You run away.”

  Earnshaw’s shoulders hunch as if he’s about to explode, but he keeps walking. He jabs at his smart key and the Roadster opens its passenger door. I can’t hear what he says to Sarah, but she skitters out, almost falling. Rex catches her like a good dog assistant. Then he leads her to Harvey on the porch as Earnshaw peels out of the driveway and speeds away.