I haven't written a blog post in well over a year, and I felt the need to just ramble a bit. 

Last year was crazy for me, nonstop working. While this year feels like I'm treading water with nothing being accomplished. A few hazards popped up unexpectedly- I don't feel like getting into any of that -which twisted my emotions, tossing productivity and focus out the window. 

The words are stuck in my head. The stories and plot threads rich and multifaceted. It's not a matter of sitting at the keyboard and pouring the words on the page. Those words exist, they just refuse to reach my fingertips. 

My confidence has taken hit after hit. It's hard to be real with yourself, to the point you remove an entire series from sale to be rewritten, without admitting defeat. The triumph was rewriting those books the way they should have been written the first time around, but that in and of itself means I made a mistake to begin with. I admit it. I accept it. I changed it. But that doesn't mean it doesn't have an impact on my confidence. 

Hero is the redheaded stepchild who is getting the brunt of my lack of confidence. Up and down. Left and right. Sideways and straight. I'm all over the place. The plot doesn't change, only gets better as I step away. There is so much pressure, after rewriting Restraint - Integrated, simply to create a strong foundation for Hero, only to fear I'll muck it all up like I did its predecessors. 

I will never rewrite another novel again. Not a single one. What I publish from here on out, it will be its final form forever. That puts pressure on me to write the book the way it deserves. I don't mean editing and formatting, as those things can be fixed. The plot, the flow of words, the motivations of the characters. I can't put myself through republishing rewritten work again. 

This sets me up for failure. Performance anxiety.  There are many drafts, that's not what I'm trying to convey. It's the confidence that what I publish is the best it can be. 

I want to share something with y'all, using it as an example. 

Hero (which is now Heroism, but I will still call it Hero) is refusing to be written. The muse puts up a roadblock, because the closer I get to the finish line, the more confident I'll have to be in order to hit publish. That's not the example. I'll shed light on the progress of that later.

The muse is a master of creation, but she gets bored easily. A bored, unfocused muse is catastrophic. I have to feed her, and feed her often. 

I write tomes. 500 - 700 pages on average per book. But some of those books are closer to 1000 pages, a few much longer. That is a lot of pressure. To help curtail this pressure, I fed the muse Wexler.

What's Wexler? 

A short novella, featuring Auggie Kline's dad, set in the Blended universe. In case you're curious, Adam Wexler from Wicked is a dual-narrator with Patrick Kline. Good Girl - Widow was the winter and spring. Warped - Wager was the summer. Wicked was in the past. Wonder was far in the future. Wexler is the fall in the current time frame, with Wayward running alongside all the others. 

I got about halfway through a short novella, and the pressure came back, because this novella seeded the much-larger, much-anticipated Wayward. The content is deep and dark, but fast paced, with a message of hope. It matters what I write in so few pages. The muse went limp as soon as she realized this. 

It's like I had ED for writers. Not writer's block. Performance Anxiety. 

Wexler is currently half completed, shelved in a folder, awaiting the muse's attention, along with many, many other projects with a similar fate. 

Here is the example, only I'm working through it, learning about myself as a writer. 

Followill. 

Last Wednesday, I woke to a daydream/dream of sorts, with a story rapidly solidifying in my mind. So I sat with my laptop and wrote out a few chapters. That night, as I struggled to sleep, I decided to make changes. That's how the writing process works, as frustrating as it may be.

In a long-standing series, there isn't much wiggle room. You know the characters and their universe, almost as well as your own life. It's like a long hallway, with a few doors here or there, able to branch off to rooms you already recognize, but you'll still be in the same house. You can't go anywhere, except to wander around the various rooms, maybe discovering things you hadn't realized were hidden there. If you go out the front door, the series is finished. If you go out the back door, the series will head in a new direction. 

A blank slate. A new project, something from scratch that you're breathing life into from nothing, it's a puzzle without a picture. The pieces continually need to be rearranged as the picture solidifies. Sometimes the puzzle forms a picture, but that last piece refuses to fit. So you tear it apart, dump the pieces back in the box, shake it up, and try to put it together again, hoping against hope that it will eventually fit.  

30,000 words into Followill. The story changed. I have a beta-reader who points out when I tell vs show. Storytelling is a narrative where the characters aren't in the moment. Showing is based on placing the character in the thick of it. One is where the reader gets suffocated under a pile of info-dump, the other flows organically in an easily digestible treat.

I kept hearing Diane scolding me as I reread passages. There's a lot of story to tell that isn't happening on the pages, and even I as a reader hates that. I went back to the beginning, reworking the entire draft, trying to eliminate it by showing it in the now. Then I hit the same roadblock. Found myself back into telling.

Another sleepless night. Another epiphany. Another reworking from the beginning (at this rate, I'm just happy it's only 75 manuscript pages to keep reworking) I hit another roadblock. Didn't write yesterday at all. My house on Sims Mobile is looking pretty swank though.

Another sleepless night, too many in a row. 

Something shifted last night. Delusion? Sleep deprivation? I don't know. But the newest epiphany removed most of the telling. Instead of reworking those same 75 pages, because I'm sick of those pages, I'm writing this blog post. 

This is where a lack of confidence kills a book. If I closed out the document, put it in a folder, and let it go with the rest its ilk, it would never see the light of day. Unlike Wexler above, Followill and the others are not in a series, where it is dependent on them being completed to move forward. Wexler will see the light of day, when my writer's ED vanishes, because the novella is not independent of Wayward. If Wayward is to exist, Wexler must be completed. 

Under pressure. Pressure pushing down on me... Under pressure. Under pressure. Pressure. (did you just sing that? Because I know I did) 

Instead, I look at Followill as a learning experience, just as I did when I started writing Hero and discovered that 11 books, some well over 1000 pages long, had to be rewritten, or the series was dead. Dead and in a folder, never to see the light of day. 

I promised I wouldn't write anything else until Hero was finished. Not just a promise I made to my readers, but most importantly, a vow I made to myself. But the muse dies when she is not creating. She goes quiet, resentful. She is an entity of creativity, and with her death, there goes my imagination. It's the confidence in feeding her that is my malfunction. 

Lessons learned, a journey of honing my craft awaits, the muse will be fed by breaking my vow, if only for a short while. 

As soon as I'm done writing this post, I will go back to page 1 and fix those issues in Followill. Remove the telling. Slowly weave in the new changes to remove the telling. Then get back to a place where I can let the muse run with wild abandon, and start the process again. Over and over, until my confidence returns. The confidence in my abilities. The confidence in my stories. 

This is a lifelong marathon, not a sprint to the finish line, leaving me unable to race again. 

Now, onto what you really want to know...

What's up with Hero? 

Hero is approaching 300,000 words.

What does that mean? 

If you're not in the publishing industry, you might not understand why some authors/publishers use word-count instead of page-count. Page-count shifts dependent on the device vs print- it's not an absolute and up to interpretation. I'll see x-amount of pages for a specific word-count listed, and wonder how the publisher managed to bloat a 200-page book into 400. Even I get confused when a book is listed as say 400 pages, when my 400-page book has twice as many words. A writer's version of penis envy, since it fits with the overall ED theme I have going here...

I use word-count for all working drafts and ebooks because it's accurate. Page-count will only be used on books published into print, where I personally numbered the pages. Again, that is up to interpretation, as font size matters. I'm not a size queen. Again, PE, some bloat the font to make it look longer. All I care about is a full story that offers me escape. Don't care if it's 20k or 200k. But length matters to some. I only mention it when giving updates, simply because I'm notorious for being long-winded and fear y'all think I'm slacking off. 

By saying Hero is currently 300K, that is my way of justifying why it's not on the shelves. My way of offering proof that I am not twiddling my thumbs and making no headway. 

What's the industry average?

On average, a full-length novel in my genres is between 50k-120k. Many books we read, a quick little escape, are 35-60k. Authors from major publishers, who release one book per series a year, generally those books are averaged 120K. 

300k. 

Hero is 300k in 6 months. Just a little over halfway finished, maybe closer to 2/3. 

I'm not treading water. In 6 months, Hero is the length of what some authors output in 3 years. This is not me saying I'm better than anyone because my book is longer (the longer it is, the more hassle it is- trust me, this isn't a good thing). It's me weighing why the book is not for sale. I feel guilty for breaking my vow of taking a step back, but 3 years worth of work shouldn't be rushed. As that is the lesson I learned from the entire series needing to be rewritten and republished.

In the breaks I've taken during this 6-month journey, major changes have occurred. Epiphanies, like I used as an example with Followill. Hero wouldn't be the cerebral-f@ck it will become, without those steps back to let the story marinate, then evolve. 

The pressure and performance anxiety stem from allowing the book time to become what it needs to be, to allow the muse to become inspired, to ensure I will never regret what I publish. There's no takebacksies anymore. 

What's new with Hero?

Hero has a new title: Heroism. It's dual-narration, and Hero is masculine singular. Hero has a new cover for the same reason. Lips were zipped on whether or not anyone liked the cover, so I'll go by the loaded silence that like is not the emotion felt.

As its creator, do I think the cover fits the content?

Yes. Do I wish Kat's hair was more crimson? Yes. Is the cover final? Yes, unless I can somehow isolate that hair, because I am unhappy to report that her skin is the same shade as her hair, and we don't want a Kat with red skin. Snorts. I spent a good 3 days on that hair. I'll try again at another date. Maybe I'll learn a new trick or two before the book's release. 

What happens next?

When Hero finally reaches the beta-reading process, I will work on updating my website, formatting a slew of books for print, as well as promos. In the mean time, I have to do right by Hero, by the muse, and for my sanity, which means I have to work on something else. There's a reason most authors either write standalones or numerous series, as no muse would be satisfied being stifled, and it would harm the story. 

What's Followill?


Followill is both a town and a surname. 

Clearly it's still in its inception phase. Rayna Scott is a 17 year-old girl, deep in the south, interacting with a prominent family from the other side of the tracks. This coming-of-age angst fest is filled with struggles, heartbreak, triumphs, and failures. Going by the path set, it will evolve into a duology or trilogy, on the short side for me.  

Will Followill see the light of day, when the others have not?

Yes. But I'll be a headcase before, during, and after, fearing readers' reactions, because I'm writing out of my comfort zone. A young woman of color. Venturing away from LGBTQ with a girl who only has the feels for boys. Relocating from the Mid-Atlantic and Northeast to the deep south.

Writer Rule: write what you know. I'm ditching those rules.

Par for the course, I have to lob angst bombs at the girl, witnessing her struggle to avoid them, drive through them, or suffer because of them. You can take me out of my comfort zone, but you can't take away my need to emotionally torture my characters to witness how they will react. 

Will Hero ever see the light of day? 

I'm known for short writing bursts, where I bang out an upwards of 50-70,000 words in a session, anywhere from 3-10 days without a break. One of those sessions would net me the foundation of an entire novel. Two of those sessions would finish Hero. I write based on my mindset and emotions, neither are in the right place for Hero at the moment. Never fear, Kat and Caleb run in my blood. I even have the foundation and outline created for the next in the series, Thief. 


Thanks for listening to me ramble- Erica Chilson, the wicked writer isn't feeling too wicked or much of a writer at the moment. Like every novel in creation, humans are also a work-in-progress.

Over the past three years, no doubt a large portion of my fanbase has wondered why I took the M&M series off-sale and began writing it from scratch.

Don’t worry, I hear you.

One camp doesn’t want to reread, so this causes problems, because the rewrites demand a reread of the series. If not, all new books will make absolutely no sense. I’ve lost fans due to this, and I did so with the understanding that this would happen.

Another camp was eager for new books, and they didn’t want to have to wait for me to rewrite thousands of pages. They waited patiently for a long time, but have since lost interest as the rewrites are coming at a snail’s pace.

Then there is the new camp, brand-new readers who are waiting for the next installment, not realizing it’s a rewrite.

Lastly, are the countless readers who pass over my books due to ratings- rating reflecting the original copies, which were light-years different than the final editions published today.

I take full responsibility for all the above. This was a decision I didn’t make lightly, and I already foresaw the consequences before I acted.

As a writer, my sole responsibility is to my craft. My story comes first. I owe it to my characters and the world I’ve created for them to inhabit to do them justice. This translates over into giving the reader the best possible finished product.

When I first started writing, it was addictive. Fans were contacting me nonstop, wanting more. I was cranking out words as quickly as possible, yet it wasn’t fast enough. My first year writing, I sold more books than I have in the rest of my career.

During that year, the books were coming so quickly, I was too new and ‘young’ in the craft, that I was only thinking like a writer who wanted to give her fans what they wanted, and as quickly as possible in our instant gratification world.

This speed translated into proof that I wasn’t yet an editor or publisher, both of which are important aspects in the literary world.

I’d grown up, deciding three years ago it was more important to be proud of my work, to give my characters the respect they deserve, than it was to make money, doing so with the knowledge that I could lose a large portion of my fanbase in the process.

The story comes first.

In the past three years, I’ve re-released 7 M&M novels, while actively writing two other series. This has also been a point of contention with my fans, because they feel I should be concentrating on M&M, and every book I release is an insult to them, refusing to read those other stories on principle.

Rewrites are an entirely different beast than writing a book from scratch. I’m not talking about editing a book- completely overhauling it. Last night, as I tried to explain it to my mother. “It’s like a finished puzzle that no longer fits- the type that has no outside border. Someone knocks all the pieces to the ground, so you’re struggling to put it back together. Suddenly, the cat runs in, and you’re finding pieces scattered around the house for months. You’re always worried you missed a piece, but you can’t tell because it’s the type without a solid border, and this freezes you into inaction.”

You can’t just sit down and organically write, allowing the words to flow, because changes you make in book 2 affect book 3, 4, 5… 17. You have to weigh the choices, more so than if you were just writing a new book.

It’s stressful. There’s a lot of pressure put on me to perform. The muse isn’t pleased, as she wants to create new stories. Not that she doesn’t want to create more in M&M’s universe, just not spend time focusing on a rewrite.

Writing a book is about creativity. Rewriting a book is in the absence of creativity. It doesn’t feed that need, and that compounds the problem. This is how Rusty Knob was born, believe it or not. I needed to create, because I’m a writer. Rewriting is about editing and publishing, and I couldn’t sit down and rewrite 12 books in a row, completely devoid of creativity.

That’s why I will write in M&M for so long, and then you’ll see another book and another. This doesn’t mean I haven’t been ‘trying’ to rewrite the books. I have to be in a good mindset, I have to have my creativity topped off, to be able to function during a rewrite, because my brain has to be firing on all cylinders to remember what happened in book 1 to connect it to book 13, and how it affects the book I’m actively rewriting.

It’s highly complicated, and not just remembering grammar and punctuation rules.

Last night, as I started chapter two of King, I took a long bath to relax. It took me eight hours to rewrite one short chapter, when ordinarily I can do that in less than an hour when properly inspired. Now, imagine doing that for 40+ chapters each over 12 books.

There are times where I will highlight and delete several chapters in a row, and just start over fresh, as this saves me considerable time. 

Last night, I was so stressed out, I got out of the bathtub and wrote a plot outline and three chapters of a standalone title, in less than two hours.

You read that right. It took me eight hours working on turning four pages into a seven-page rewritten chapter, but only two hours to write three chapters of a brand-new book, with brand-new characters, not attached to any series of mine.

I woke to write this blog post and will be continuing onto chapter two of King when I’m done. (we have no satellite tv or internet thanks to a storm, so you won’t be seeing this for a bit after I’m done)

I will continue to use this new novel to spark creativity while I work on King and beyond. Hopefully this will relieve some of the pressure. I chose a standalone, as this will make sure I don’t get too involved in a series of mine and end up writing several books in a row. A small cast of characters, and what may become a novella.

I’m not asking for sympathy– I’m trying to explain the process, explain why it’s been like pulling teeth.

I LOVE M&M. It’s my baby. Katya and Ezra were the first characters I put on paper and brought to life that I knew would see the light of day. I’d written other stories, but I knew no one would ever read them.

After writing twelve books in the series, then going back to Restraint, the side characters were no longer side characters. They had enriched lives, major backstories, and they connected to each and every other character.

When writing new, these side characters are one-dimensional. Flat. They are created to push the main character into situations and scenarios, and I don’t want to be ‘that’ type of writer. I want my side characters to be as vividly real as the main character.

Upon the rewrite, knowing every facet of these ‘side’ characters, the motivations changed. The reasoning as to why they act/react to one another shifts.

As I rewrite, I breathe life into otherwise flat characters. I give them a voice. I alter who gets to release what information. Does that information belong to our current narrator? Who best to voice this? What is this character going through at this time that needs to be addressed and not written away in a later book? What doesn’t the narrator know, as they are not a mind-reader in this first-person perspective voice?

That’s the theme of every book I’ve ever written, why I use first-person. In our daily lives, we are all unreliable narrators in the wide scope view. We only know what we know. We only see what we see. We only bring to the table our experiences and how they shaped us. Our view will vastly differ from another, even if we share the experience together. This I’ve tried to get across. So upon the rewrite, I’ve found this a challenge, voicing motivations that weren’t present the first time around.

My re-readers will understand. The best way to show this (for new readers) is Dexter’s perception of Dalton, and then our perception of Dalton as we read his book. We do this to people every day of our lives, only seeing them from our perspective. Case in point, Katya is a heroine, until Regina and Faith’s jealous view of Katya shifts our opinions. We do this in real life, every day, unable to recognize we all take on the view of the person we are interacting with, instead of seeing someone clearly.

I have to have that in my mind at all times during a rewrite, and it’s stressful to say the least. Hundreds of characters and their motivations, as to why they ask and do specific things, to ensure there is no shock-value writing, character trait lobotomies, or characters acting out of character.

As my New Year's Resolution, I made a promise to complete the rewrites and release a brand-new M&M book during 2018. This promise wasn't to myself. This promise wasn't to my readers or fans. This promise was to my characters and the universe I created for them to dwell within. 

Below, I will show you the difference a rewrite makes. The original edition of King vs the final edition. You’ll see what I mean, and as to why it is such a struggle for me to make this happen.

I will show the differences between passages, then I will post the first chapter of the final edition. I’d like to hear your opinions about the changes.

Thank you, and I appreciate you listening to me release some of the pressure in this vent. 

Daniel Whittenhower II: aka Whitt | Pretty Boy | Regina’s Sunshine
 
The excitement is palpable and completely choking me– suffocating me with anxiety. Dalton’s fingers turn white under the onslaught of my nervous, sweaty grip.

“Shh…” Dalton whispers into my ear, fingers squeezing back, doing his damnedest to even me out. “This is the right thing to do.”

I want to scream, but right for whom?!

Reading me as only a lover could, he says in English that is heavily accented with French, “You. You’re doing the right thing for you. This isn’t just about your family. This is the event that has culminated since the very beginning of your life.”

Sucking in a fortifying breath, I close my eyes. I want to cover my ears and release the primal scream of a caged predator, the guttural sound reverberating off the walls of the bus. The excited murmurs and sharp conversation around me drill into my skull. As we sit, crammed on the bus, I question every decision I’ve ever made in life– every choice, every crossroads I’ve come to pass.

I’m only twenty-four as of this morning. Am I old enough to head a family? Do I have the ability to take on the responsibility for all these people? How will my grandfather react? What of my aunt and father? Should I let them into our family home, when it’s better if they stay where they are?

Even the guy holding my hand is brand-new to me, and I fear the truth will upset what we’re trying to build. I’ve stood by and plotted, brooded, been bitter while showing the outside world this happy-go-lucky man I am not.

Is this what I really wanted after all, or did I play into their hands somehow?

The Gates has been a ghost town since we were hit by the media frenzy, everyone I love has been trapped in hiding. Something has to change– someone has to take charge. This is my part to play, and I instinctively know we’re all puppets in the larger scheme of things.

The only person I know who can take on the responsibility of our family is Queen, with the tenacity of a marching general. As if sensing I’m thinking about her, she seeks me out, flashing me a sad half-smile. That smile and its following look of encouragement fills me with confidence that only Queen can infuse within me.

I can do this, I repeat to myself for the billionth time today.

We’re all on a bus, driving through The Gates, because it made more sense to travel in a singular vehicle, one in which the media would think beneath us, versus creating an easily divided procession. Most of us will be staying at Misery Castle indefinitely, with the others wishing me a happy birthday– most of whom are my relatives that don’t realize I know they are.

So many secrets, and I vow to myself to be the one who reveals the truth.

I can’t look away from my wife, even knowing I should, especially as I hold onto Dalton’s hand like a lifeline. I’m barely holding on to either of them. Queen is getting closer to Marcus and my sire, emotionally distancing herself for what’s to come. Life and lies have built walls between Dalton and me. I can’t truly have either as long as I hold onto both. There is no having my cake and eating it too with Queen and Dalton.

Queen’s emerald gaze captivates me– her hold over me is infinitely stronger than the delicate fingers entwined with mine. Since I met her when I was only five, my entire life narrowed down to focus on getting her. Now that I have her as my wife, there’s no way I can keep her.

Today marks the end of that dream, and I don’t want to let it go.

Queen is the ultimate mother. An unexpected surprise for those who don’t know her as well as I do. She is engulfed in the loving embrace of children– hers and those she’s adopted in the depths of her heart. Children, and adults alike, instinctively know Queen is a safe haven that harbors you from the violent nature of life’s storm.

A tiny Marcus Zane is cradled to her chest, a breathtaking woman-child is fused to her left side, while my soft baby sister is leaning on her right shoulder. My brother, his girlfriend, and my dainty cousin sit in the seat in front of Queen. Turned around, Azrael crawls from her big sister’s arms, wanting to cuddle with her twin against Queen’s chest.

I find Whitney with a scowl on her face, glaring at Ava. I nod to the small space on our seat, not wanting my blood to sit with strangers. Strangers to her, not me– Kayla is one of the nicest women I know. Whitney’s next to us in a flash, leaving a scant inch between Dalton and herself. She only cuddles with her mom, with our grandmother, and Queen. Whitney will be all over Adelaide when she sees her again. But the rest of us, she holds herself apart from.

“I just ask one thing of you, Whitt,” Whitney implores me, leaning around my boyfriend so she can look me dead-on. She reminds me of the Adelaide I knew before she went off the deep end– completely self-contained and sure.

Whitney’s light blonde hair is in a perfect ponytail. Her feminine business suit makes her look way beyond her years, not the girl who hasn’t even reached eighteen yet. Dalton’s vivid green eyes quizzically inspect the girl. Seeing the two of them so closely packed together brings a smile to my lips. My effeminate, Emo boyfriend next to my Harvard-bound cousin, it’s amusing in the extreme.
“What’s your request, doll?”

“Just hear him out, okay?” I give a slight tilt to my head in ascent. No need to ask who Whitney’s asking about. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“I’m not sure I want to know what they are, though,” I murmur in the din of the bus. My voice washes out as the occupants’ combined voices overpower mine.

“Whitt,” flows as a shrill hiss, Whitney used to always getting her way. “He’s your father,” she states, not knowing the truth of my parentage yet. “Grandfather loves us. We’re all he has left– Grandmother is staying with Mommy and Daddy on the campaign trail. Whitt, don’t do this to us. To him,” she stresses. “I agree that you should be our patriarch, but don’t take his family away along with his home and business. He needs us more than we need him, and we need him a lot!”

“Whitney, have I ever been the vindictive sort?” I think back to how nasty I’ve been to my cowardly sire, the man I miss more than anyone, and feel a pang of regret. I’ve treated my grandfather even worse, always knowing there was something else riding beneath the surface. “Don’t you realize I have reservations and doubts plaguing me?”

Resentful isn’t a strong enough word to embody how I feel about the men in my family. My grandfather lied to me for life, by saying I was his son, while treating me as lesser. My sire treated me as his baby brother, attentive and affectionate, actually giving a shit about my hopes and dreams, then he unexpectedly died and left us behind.

I spent my childhood raising my abandoned brother, while aching to be with Queen and my baby sister, putting plans in place for us to be a whole family again… only to discover that my father is alive, a cowardly rat who’s lived half a city away from me all this time.

As for my birth mother and my many siblings and their children, I drove by their houses several times per day, just as I am now, never knowing they were related to me, believing the lie that Daniel and Priscilla Whittenhower were my birth parents. My siblings looked me in the eye, took me places and spent time with me, but they never once admitted I was their brother.

I am the son of Grant Whittenhower and Gwendolyn Meyers. The biological grandson of Jackson Whittenhower, which is why the claim to everything Whittenhower is mine, because my father threw it all away. Katie and Ade are not my sisters as everyone was led to believe, but rather both my aunts and my cousins, as my grandmother had children with a pair of brothers and lied about it– Jackson and Daniel.

I am the brother to Fate Simpson, Boyd Spencer, Faith Simpson, Bianca Green, Niel Whittenhower, and Ella Whittenhower. The uncle to Torian Spencer and Zane Zeitler. The brother-in-law to Gretchen Spencer, Levi Wilson, and Dalton Fontaine. The cousin to Whitney and Priscilla Preston.
​
I am the husband to Regina Regal, adopting my biological brother and sister as my own children.
My namesake, Daniel Whittenhower is not my father, as it states on my false birth certificate. He’s not my grandfather, as it states on my sire’s false birth certificate.

Daniel Whittenhower is my great-uncle and my step-grandfather, sitting in my seat as the Whittenhower patriarch, that position is owed to me by law of primogeniture, since the death of my birth father. As long as the resurrected James Atwater doesn’t stake his claim, it’s all mine… and I don’t know if I’m ready for it.

Now I’m keeping secrets from Dalton, never naming those siblings, because of secrets that aren’t mine to keep. When he finds out how I kept him at arm’s length, didn’t trust him with the truth, as he poured out his past to me… finds out his ex-wife is my sister.

My boyfriend is my unknown ex-brother-in-law… Dalton almost broke up with me when he discovered he had sex with my wife in the dungeon at Restraint so many months ago.

Game over.

My fingers tighten around Dalton’s, terrified he’s about to disappear from my life.

“Just go easy on Grandfather,” Whitney murmurs, then sits back against the seat, effectively cutting off the conversation, using Dalton to hide from my view.

Queen catches my eye again, and I know she’s eavesdropped on our conversation. She holds no judgment on anyone– she’s a forgiver to my grudge-holder. Once a week for years, she sat with her enemies and found a common ground. If she can forgive my grandfather for the heinous acts he perpetrated against her, maybe I can forgive what he’s done to me, but I’ll never forgive what he’s done to Queen. Never.

No matter what, a point of contention in our relationship is the one I refuse to forgive, the one Queen defends even when her heart bleeds bitter blood. Grant is the one I refuse to forgive, and it makes me respect Queen less and less as she continues to defend and love that spineless rat.

We’ll see when I set foot off this bus where it comes to my sire’s false sire…

“I’ll try with Daniel,” I answer Whitney, but it’s for my wife’s ears.

Queen smiles back at me, rubbing her cheek on the fiery hair on top of Azrael’s head. She just wants us to be happy and together, and to hell with the past. But if someone disrespects Queen by betraying her second chances, she’ll be the first one to cut them from our lives.

Once we pass the first of three gates to my familial estate, the excitement ratchets up by several degrees. Everyone is excited, save me. The anxiety hits me out of nowhere. Sweat beads on my spine, bumps well up on my skin. My heartrate accelerates to the point I can feel my blood rushing through my veins. My chest rapidly rises and falls, pulling me toward hyperventilation. I rub moisture-slicked palms on my pant legs, the charcoal gray fabric darkening.

Closing my eyes tightly, I draw in a deep breath, one I don’t release until I finally open my eyes. Watching the scenery of my estate flash past me from the bus window, I’m thoroughly entranced by the vividly green, heavily wooded landscape that the three-mile drive winds through.

I’ve always felt a sense of pride overwhelm me when I gazed over the land that was always meant to be mine, and eventually that pride would transform into resentment as the lies surrounding my birth hit me.

With Daniel stating I was fourth-born, none of this was to be mine.

Jackson was the first born. Even though he had no legal children, I was always confused as to why Grant was the heir apparent, and not Daniel. Daniel is an honorable, ethical person, loving his brother so fiercely he would never begrudge Grant of his legacy.

As the first son of the first son, all of this was promised to Niel’s from his conception, because Grant never expected to become our patriarch.

I’m not the fourth-born of the second-born– I’m the first of the first, Niel is the second, and this estate is MINE!

As is the way of my kind– the elite –the land, the castle, and the businesses my great-grandfather built, passes from eldest son to eldest son.

Primogeniture.

Rich asshole entitlement aside, nothing is more infuriating than knowing a billion-dollar legacy was torn from me as surely as I was torn from the family tree, no matter how much I love the Whittenhower heir apparent.

Now I look over the landscape and know without a shadow of a doubt that this property is mine. I feel it to the core of my soul– the rightness of it. My sire took himself out of the legacy, leaving me the opportunity to lead my family as the eldest male.

One day, I will step down and pass the responsibility to my adopted son, my blooded-brother, Niel. At seventeen, he isn’t ready, but a few years from now, he might be. If he isn’t, I will break the line– I will pass it to whomever is most capable, male or female. Any children I have in the future, grandchildren, cousins, or nieces or nephews– anyone with Whittenhower blood running through their veins. It’s time to start a new generation of Whittenhowers– a new legacy built on honor and respect, not primogeniture.

The millions of dollars’ worth of property don’t fill me with the pride, but that single thought alone does. I’m about to instigate change. This is for the betterment and health of my family. I can do this. I need to do this. Not because I am the only one capable, but because I want it– I crave it.

The anxiety bleeds out of me as we crest the knoll that takes the bus through the final gate– large and looming, stone-walled with a black iron, ornate double gate opening electronically. Revealed is the foreboding Misery Castle with its flying buttresses and guard gargoyles.

A sharp gasp emanates from my companions– all who have never been here before and some who are frequent visitors. My family lights up with pride and the thrill of homecoming.

As of late, the Whittenhowers weren’t as wealthy as the Holdens and Zeitlers, our equivalent in Dominion society. But that was until my grandfather pulled Regina into our family through coercion, intimidations, and threats. Almost twenty years ago, he saw the potential of a young woman who would irrevocably change our lives.

Misery Castle was built well over a hundred and fifty years ago when the Whittenhowers were at their peak– revolutionaries, innovators who influenced the direction of our great nation. The city of Dominion, New York was founded by several families who settled in this area, using their old money and power to create the world we live in today, reaching every branch of government.

The bus follows the circular driveway, giving its passengers a slow view of the large, sprawling manse. Whittenhower Estates, known to me as Misery Castle– a moniker Queen aptly created –looms four stories overhead.

One of the largest privately-owned homes in our country. Its stone masonry and arched leaded-glass windows lend to a gothic, gloomy appearance. But not as much as the gargoyles that sinisterly hang from the eaves and line the walk to the entrance of the estate. Double doors, each nearly four feet in width and heavier than a bastard, rise almost ten feet on the front of the familial castle.

 This castle was erected as a fortification during the construction of Dominion. The three most powerful families took point. Misery Castle looms over Dominion itself. Shadow Haven Estates watches over Crestview, which we call The Gates. Serenity Lake, the Zeitler property, was the first to be erected, used during the construction of the castle, but has since burned to the ground. Dexter rebuilt a smaller facsimile at the head of The Gates.

Pride at being a large part of history– whether it was for the greater good or to our detriment remains to be seen –infuses me, lending me the confidence to pull on the mask of the entitled rich pretty boy who can do anything and everything he sets his mind to. Unlike who I am– the boy who is about to shit his pants out of pure terror.

I pause for a moment as the bus idles at the walkway to the limestone staircase, leading to the main entrance to the castle. My eyes linger on the malevolent splendor, drinking in my home.

Expectant gazes draw me from my confusion. Dalton squeezes my hand– oh, right, it’s my home now, so I’m the one in charge. I have to lead them. I have to invite them inside.

As I stand with my shoulders drawn back, pretending I’m more confident than I truly am, all sound ceases, even breath from our lungs. My boyfriend and cousin stand to allow my exit. On my way by, I kiss my cousin on her cheek, and she freezes in surprise. Whitney and I were never close growing up, closer now that Queen demands it, but we never bonded. Whitney follows me as I’d hoped.

I pause at the seat where Ella sits with Queen. Catching on, Queen hands the twins off to Ava and Spyder. Mother and daughter join Whitney and me in the aisle. Niel instinctively knows what to do, grabbing for our youngest cousin’s hand. Priscilla, delicate Prissy, who at fifteen looks like a tiny sprite or faerie.

As I step from the bus, I sense his presence just as strongly as I did that first day back at the brownstone. The man who now calls himself Jamie sits in a car behind the bus. I wonder if he’s having second thoughts, as this was meant to be his. When Grant gave up his legacy, he abandoned us too, which is unforgivable in my book.

As my family and I exit the bus, I change my mind. I refuse to storm my own home. I have no need to take by force that which is rightfully mine. I don’t know where this revelation is coming from, but intuitively I know the Whittenhowers are already mine, without ever having to fight for them.

My companions empty from the bus, all staring upward at the imposing manse. As if sensing the change in me, they all stand back– no one will enter the great doors until I offer the invitation. They won’t pass its threshold until I am the King of Misery Castle. 

​Screw it!
Queen sits around for no man, especially Whitt.
Playing pretend by living in denial, I only take the strength from my conversation with Jamie, leaving behind everything else that will completely debilitate me. Dragging in a deep breath, the force filling my lungs so quickly they burn, I let it out in a rush as I escape the Zeitler private room at Restraint.
Conversation flows down the hallway to reach my ears, so I step softly when what I truly want to do is stomp as I march into battle.
I never got a good look at the dungeon since I was blindfolded, then I was in a state of emotional shock. The shock has worn off, taking Jamie’s words to heart.
What’s done is done. What I do next is all on me.
Taking another page from– don’t go there, Regina –Jamie’s playbook, I linger at the head of the hallway, taking it all in while forming a battle plan before charging forward.
Shithole.
An emotionless wasteland of gray upon gray upon gray, no doubt Ezra’s brainchild. The narcissistic, lunatic doctor is probably paying homage to the color of his own eyes. Cold, in both feel and temperature, the dungeon lives up to its name.
Radiating warmth in the cold with his darker skin and amber gaze, Marcus is so full of life, smiling blindingly at something his cousin says, but the humor doesn’t reach his eyes– he doesn’t belong in such a lifeless environment. I don’t know Dexter well, but my impression is that he’s a warm person whose tastes run even hotter. Tan and vivacious, Cortez is always the center of attention, and he deserves a better place to shine. Whitt– my sunshine shouldn’t even be in here.
The only inhabitants fit for this desolated wasteland are Ezra and Faith, both paler than death, with Ezra’s hair and eyes just as pale. Faith’s fury runs red hot, and I have a feeling the man had a hand in turning the adorable child into the faithless Syn. There is a balance between the pair, as if they are connected and communicating even with distance and silence separating them.
I was meant to be here, to bring life into this cesspit of self-created and self-inflicted misery.
“Niel was showing off his armpit hair during our ‘how to be a megalomaniac’ training yesterday afternoon, and I thought for sure Daniel would shit a brick.” Animated, Whitt is telling Ezra a story about my son in a voice filled with pride and affectionate humor.
My gut clenches, twisting in on itself, because not only does Whitt know Niel inside and out, I have a feeling Ezra knows my son almost as well.
Soon– I’ll give Whitt anything he wants as long as I get my son back.
Gracing us with a rare smile, Ezra goes from corpse to angel. “You don’t know Daniel very well, Pretty Boy.” Ezra shakes his head, white hair tumbling to brush along his forehead. “How is that even possible? Daniel is the one who helped tutor me through med school.”
Shocked, Whitt gasps, “My Daniel?”
“Yes, your Daniel.” Chuckling, Ezra sounds so much like Cortez, all heads whip in his direction. It’s obvious to all, Ezra truly enjoys Whitt’s company, almost as a centering force. Collectively, everyone relaxes and takes a deep breath, like Ezra’s mood influence theirs. “Pay attention to the man, Whitt. He’s a font of endless information, and a very good teacher.”
“Daniel is an arctic blast in my home,” Whitt mutters, expression glazing over with hurt. “Since it was Niel disrupting our lesson on the stock exchange to count his short-hairs, Daniel indulged him.” Handsome face turning away, I can barely make out, “I would have gotten my fingers swatted with a ruler.”
“Ah, good ol’ Hillbrook punishments, alive and well in Misery Castle.” Smiling broadly, Cortez insinuates himself into their conversation. “Does the carpet match the drapes?”
Head thrown back, Whitt is a glorious sight, but the sound of his laughter nearly brings me to my knees– Grant. Nodding his head up and down while laughing, he forces out, “Yes. The carpet is even redder than the drapes, and the dang kid announces every new hair on his body.”
“Ah– he’s just rubbing it in because you couldn’t even grow a partial beard until last spring.” Cort is being his usual snarky self.
“Ass,” Whitt murmurs while wearing a fond smirk. “Niel will have a full beard in the next two years or so, mark my words.”
“And you’ll still be baby smooth,” Cort taunts while patting Whitt’s flushed cheek, causing Ezra to laugh. “I have no room to talk, and neither does he.” Cort thrusts a finger in Ezra’s direction. “Baby smooth for life.”
“Whitney bought Niel a flannel shirt for his last birthday, and Prissy got him a shaving kit.” Face a brilliant shade of red, Whitt looks so much like his father, to the point I’m thankful his voice is all his own. “They even managed to get Daniel to call Niel Lumberjack for the day.”
Ezra and Cortez clasp their fists above their hearts, looking touched, and it confuses Whitt.
Deciding I’ve seen enough, I break away from my hidey hole. “The Ezes realize how Daniel meant it in a different way– Jackson,” I announce. “Wild and crazy Jack. My son inherited his manliness from both sides of the family, even if Grant was smoother than a baby,” I mutter wryly, realizing it doesn’t hurt as badly as I thought it would. “No doubt testosterone bleeds from my son’s pores.”
“Hi!” Whitt chirps, looking beyond embarrassed, either because he was caught gossiping about the family I was excommunicated from, or because an hour ago he ordered me to fuck his friends…
“Um… this is awkward, Reg.” Cortez has the decency to be ashamed of himself for earlier. “I– I don’t know what to say, or how to say it.”
“Bad position for a word-weaver to be,” Ezra adds in, but he doesn’t look ashamed or apologetic. Just business as usual for Dr. Ezra Holden Zeitler.
I ignore the billion elephants towering over us in the dungeon. “One question– does Daniel tutor Whitney and Prissy, or just you and my son?”
A collective breath is taken, almost as if they all thought I should punish them for my horrific initiation. I should– but I won’t. As Jamie said, no one held a gun to our children’s heads. I had a choice to stay and participate or leave, and I need to honor my choices’ consequences.
I’m not allowed to play the victim or the hypocrite.
“Daniel is an asshole,” Whitt snarls, lips curling aggressively to showcase his perfect teeth. The feral expression is at odds on his handsome face. “But he teaches us one-on-one, in groups, and all together. A Whittenhower is a Whittenhower is a Whittenhower. Katie said he had done the same with Grant, her, and Ade.”
“And that makes him an asshole, why?” I coax, knowing Daniel is an asshole because he can’t help himself, but I don’t know where this animosity is coming from.
“Because Niel, Whitney, and Prissy were taught from birth, and Daniel ignored me. I wasn’t taught lessons until he needed me to keep Niel focused, that’s why.”
“Grant didn’t want this life for you, Sunshine.” I reach for Whitt, but allow my hand to fall to my side. “That’s why.”
“And why should my dead brother get a say in my upbringing?” Whitt spits, causing all of us to jerk back, giving us the emotional equivalent of whiplash.
“About that– it’s time to talk.” This time when I reach for Whitt, he doesn’t allow my indecision. His warm hand wraps around mine, then gives a reassuring clench. “Breakfast? I’m starving.”
“I could eat.” Whitt nods his head, humming to himself.
Our fellow Masters of Restraint look around at each other with unease, wondering if they are invited, or maybe they feel the discomfort wafting in the air like I do.
“Regina?” Marcus walks toward me slowly, as if waiting for me to faint like a delicate flower after the night I’ve had. “The rest… the rest of your initiation? My room? You and Whitt?”
“Nope.” I pop the P. Eyes narrowing with defiance, I glare Marc’s way. “Not happening, and I feel more than insulted that you actually thought it would.” 
“None of this was of my making,” Marcus snarls, amber fire blazing my way. “If you want to disobey, it’s not my problem.”
“Getting soft, old man?” Ezra’s words are light and humorous, but filled with barely suppressed rage. “Just because you’ve finally found a lover, doesn’t mean Regina shouldn’t be held to the same standards as the rest of us.”
“Standards? Don’t you mean warped perversions and cerebral torture?” I murmur, causing Cortez to snort.
“More like mind fucks,” my partner-in-crime adds in. “Mixed with literally fucks.”
“I didn’t say Regina was my lover, did I?” Marc’s careless words wound. “If I had, do you honestly think I would have allowed her to suck my cousin’s dick and fuck my adopted son?”
“Harsh,” Dexter breathes, sounding as pained as I feel. “Regina definitely owned it, though.”
Allowing myself a half-second pity party, I close my eyes in a slow blink and release the breath I was holding. By the time I’m drawing in a fresh breath, I pretend I’m not bothered by Marc’s dismissive attitude about the past eighteen months we’ve spent together.
“It’s true.” Marcus shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “I wouldn’t pass my lover around like a party favor.”
“Judgmental, much?” Cortez jumps to my defense. “I don’t know what game you fuckers are playing, but this dungeon is now neck-deep in bullshit. The stench is rank.”
“Marcus, Maître du Jeu placed you in charge of Restraint’s BDSM chapter, and it’s your job to make sure all rules are adhered to. If Whitt and you negotiated for Regina’s initiation, then all duties must be met.”
“Ezra!” Syn barks loudly, like she’s calling a dog to heel. “There is MdJ business, then there is family business–”
“Which is one in the same–”
“Ezra!” Syn stalks across the expanse of the dungeon to grip Ezra’s arm, nails biting in. “You made use of Regina’s body. I suggest you thank her for that and move on. She’s not fucking Whitt in your room this morning.”
“Then I’ll have Pretty Boy ink in that M on Regina’s hand, and we’ll be done with this bullshit.”
“Even you don’t have that authority,” Syn seethes, and Ezra’s skin actually blanches paler than usual. Impressive. I assume either Syn has the authority, or knows who does.
Another puzzle piece slides into place, and the elephants in the room get harder and harder to ignore.
“Fine, Master.” Ezra wrenches his arm out of Syn’s grip. “Judge, Jury, and Executioner, you have Whitt ink in Regina’s M. Then Marcus can go fuck his lover behind closed doors, just like our precious Grant always did. Let’s be realistic. Their love nest is the brownstone, so she’s probably fucking Jamie too, which means she knows who he is. Who here doesn’t know Alex is Roman Alexander? Regina’s bud from the hood? She’s probably fucking him too. What about Stanton Green? Is Regina still in contact with Stanton?”
“Cort?” Syn addresses the last person she’d ever speak to. “Is Ez off his meds again?”
Yanking his partner to his side, Cortez looks about ready to pass the hell out. In a low voice, he warns, “Shut the fuck up, Ezra, before Faith kills you.”
“Is Regina screwing Stanton too?” Ezra glares my way. “Let’s fill the brownstone so Regina can fuck her way through MdJ.”
“What?” Marcus and Dexter murmur slowly in unison, more confused than I am. If my brain wasn’t spinning its wheels, I’d be launching myself at Ezra and clawing his perfect face to shreds.
“Jesus Christ!” Whitt tries to dislodge his hand from mine, no doubt envisioning wrapping his fingers around Ezra’s throat. For a split-second, I almost allow it– I almost help. “Don’t speak of Queen like that, Ezra. I thought we were friends.”
“Daniel.” Ezra releases a resigned sigh. “We’ll be friends for life. What’s one more fuck in Regina’s long list of fucks?”
“Oh, my Lord.” I groan, with Syn growling in the background. “I’m a grown fucking woman! A mother of two, and a business owner. I’ve had sex with two people until tonight, asshole. It’s your fault I doubled that number because you can’t shit and get off the pot by screwing your own partner.”
“Way to take ownership in the state of your own vagina, Regina.” Ezra does not like me.
“Since you obviously know Roman, I’ll be sure to have him lecture you on the perils of slut-shaming, asshole. Your dick has been inside everyone in this room, or theirs inside your ass, except for Whitt. I bet given the chance, you’d bend over and beg him for it. Is that your problem? Are you jealous he’s waiting to do me first?” Lips twisted in disgust, “You can have my sloppy seconds.”
Whitt has the common decency not to comment on that, but his shudder speaks volumes.
“I’m not jealous.” I thought Cortez was the pouting champion, but Ezra… Ezra wins hands down. “Whitt deserves what Whitt wants. We’ve all had to endure and adhere to ridiculous machinations.” Ezra’s voice is as cold as ice, and just as sharp. He speaks at me, not to me. “Why should Regina be any different?”
“Because anything that happened after the M was inked on my hand had nothing to do with my initiation, and you know it, Ezra.” If he can use his asshole voice, then I can use my mom tone. “Because all of you warped motherfuckers may have thought Whitt and I were going to fuck, but Whitt and I knew it wasn’t going to happen.”
Facial expression twisted with indecision and confusion, Marcus gestures to Whitt. “You sure about that, Regina? All I’ve heard since young Daniel hit puberty was how you were going to be his first. I concealed your presence in the brownstone because I feared he’d cut my dick off for touching you first. He’s under the impression you’re Whittenhower property, but has since said I was okay since I was Grant’s best friend.”
A grumbling rolls through the dungeon, everyone in agreement, including the idiot holding my hand.
“Whitt was trying to humiliate me tonight, not get into my pants,” I admit the painful truth.
“What?” Marcus is taken aback. “Regina, I’ve been going insane with fear and worry for the past two months. This was not about humiliation.”
“Yeah, it was.” Whitt has the balls to admit it. “I know Queen will eventually give in, but I knew it wouldn’t be tonight, and I can’t believe you all thought it would be. You don’t know Regina very well if you thought differently.”
“Why?” Ezra and Marcus say in unison, with Cortez looking sad, Syn confused, and Dexter enthralled with the drama.
“Just as Whitt seems to be the only person in this dungeon who truly knows me, I’m the only one who truly gets him. Whitt wanted to humiliate me because I’m a goddamn liar and a hypocrite of the highest order. Which is why I want to speak to Whitt in private, to put it all on the table once and for all, and then to apologize.”
Whitt squeezes my hand, while every muscle in his body relaxes at once.
“All I know is if this is how this organization is run, by temper-tantrum-throwing children playacting adults, then it’s no wonder this place is a shithole.” I tug Whitt’s arm, pulling him toward the nearest door. “I’ll be back later tonight to get Restraint in working order, membership included.” 

​Walking hand-in-hand with Whitt is surreal. Neither of us speaks but it feels like the years melt away, like there was never a moment’s separation. What is hard to wrap my mind around is how the man walking next to me is nearly the same age Grant was when we were together, looking like a perfect clone to his father. But instead of serenity and solace as we walk in silence, anticipation and veiled aggression flavor the air.
Whitt and Grant are not the same beast, and I’m unsure how to go forth, so I take Jamie’s sage advice. The watcher knows us all best.
“Um… Obviously we have no car.” I stumble over my words. “Unless you want to jack Ezra’s ridiculously expensive SUV.”
As we walk out the side door to Restraint and into the damp morning air, the rising sun casts an orange glow on the parking lot. Whitt turns to look at me with his eyebrow raised wryly. “I could call Albert, but…”
Whitt makes me feel uncomfortable, more so than when I was around Jackson and Daniel at the same time. I feel like a lost child again, one who knew nothing of the world, and I’ll never learn the knowledge the man at my side possesses. It’s the same feeling Marcus elicited in me when we first met. I hope this tension between Whitt and me dissolves quickly, before it gives him the advantage to bulldoze right over me.
“So… we can walk, or do you want to leave everyone stranded?
“Walk it is.” Whitt’s voice sounds like he holds all of my secrets and finds me cute. “Syn is a detail-oriented person, so I highly doubt she left Ezra’s keys in the car. Unless you learned to hotwire in the hood.”
“Ha-ha!”
This is so fucking bizarre on so many levels. Jesus Fuck, uncomfortable is an understatement. After fantasizing about our reunion for more than a decade, this is not how I envisioned it.
Feeling many eyes on me, I wonder who is hiding in the shadows. Ezra’s Aaron and Roarke? Who watches Faith’s back? I have no doubt Ezra and Faith are at the very top of Maître du Jeu’s food chain– founders’ council, not its BDSM front. Does Jamie have Roman and Kristal haunting our every step? Whitt is with me, so where is Albert, or even Martha? Is that how this enforcer business works?
Add paranoia to my discomfort.
“We could catch a cab and go home.” Hope lingers in Whitt’s voice, but I’m not ready.
“I can’t, Sunshine.” My stomach clenches as my feet take me to the sidewalk, with Whitt following at my side. “Daniel… I can’t go back there, not after how I left things.”
“Hey,” Whitt breathes softly. “We need to talk, and I could eat, remember? So let’s do breakfast and see where our conversation takes us. Plus, I long ago learned not to speak in public or private with so many listening ears, and I’ve often wondered when my private words were used against me in conversation when I uttered them when I was alone.”
“Yeah, the first time I was in Cort’s car, Marcus was listening to our every word, and I didn’t know until afterward.”
Marcus is one of the most intelligent creatures I’ve ever met, so I was a bit surprised at how shocked he appeared to be when I explained how easy it was to hijack his surveillance and use it against all of us.
Even our ears have ears, so maybe I’m not being paranoid after all. 
“Fucking lovely,” Whitt hisses, hand clenching around mine. “There is some bizarre shit going down, even Niel has noticed. We’ve tried to talk to Daniel about it, but he brings Diane in, and the pair of them tell us to leave it alone.”
Testing the waters– always testing the waters… “Are they terrified or resigned when this happens?”
Whitt thinks about this for a block or two, and I have no idea where he’s leading me. “Terrified is not an emotion Daniel ever exhibits. But I guess frazzled would be the best way to describe it, which is major for that man.”
I mull that terrifying information over. “I doubt Daniel and Diane know exactly what’s going on then, just that they know shit is going down like we do.”
“I know more than most,” Whitt admits, causing my steps to falter.
“You hate me,” I blurt out. “I can tell you know the truth.”
Pace slowing, Whitt whispers, “Do you ever feel like everyone in your life is betraying you by omission?”
I can barely swallow around the ball of guilt threatening to suffocate me. “Yeah, I do, and that answered my question, didn’t it?”
Voice emotionless, “Yeah, it did,” Whitt replies without hesitation.  
Whispering softly, because to speak louder would make me choke on the words. “I believe you’re the only person I know who has never betrayed me, Sunshine. Yet I betrayed you by omission, even if I didn’t want to.”
Swinging around, suddenly furious, Whitt drops my hand and faces me. I bite back laughter at how the Denny’s sign illuminates his blond hair like an angelic halo. Eyes narrowed, muscles taut and coiled for attack, fists clenched, Whitt asks the question I’ve been asking myself.
“Why did you?”
Body slumping in defeat, “I don’t know,” flows from my lips like a coward. “Because I’m a mother, and the thought of someone going against my wishes with my children kills me, and I know this firsthand. For that reason alone, I kept Grant’s wishes.”
“My father’s wishes?” Whitt challenges me.
“Yes, your father’s wishes.” Jamie’s words ring in my head. Own it. “I won’t apologize for not telling you when you were little. I was building a life with your father, trying to hold onto my own son with my fingertips, all the while trying to survive. I agreed with Grant’s reasons, and I still do, even seeing the formidable young man you’ve grown to be.”
“Why?” Whitt breathes, sounding just as defeated as I feel. “Why didn’t he think I deserved my legacy? Why don’t you think I deserve it?”
“No,” I cry, reaching for Whitt. Tugging him roughly into my arms, I hold him, rocking back and forth while I tell the truth. “Your father wanted you to have the life he wasn’t allowed to lead. A life of his own choosing.”
“Was it because I’m gay?” Whitt sniffles against my neck, rubbing his cheek along my jawline.
“Partially,” I admit, and Whitt jerks as if struck. “But not for the reasons you believe. His marriage to Cora, your conception, along with Niel’s, it was all forced on Grant, and he didn’t want you to live like that. Being gay, it would have made it even more of a nightmare, to be forced to marry, bed, and make children with a woman.”
“I could do it.” Pulling away, Whitt acts, sounds, and looks like the boy I’d grown to know and love. “I’m stronger than they think.”
“I know, but you shouldn’t have to do it.” Hand moving on its own accord to cup his cheek, for a moment, I’m confused by touching and looking at a man who is Grant’s doppelganger. It takes me ten seconds of blinking back tears to see Whitt instead of the man I lost.
“What your dad wanted for you, what your grandfathers wanted for you, your grandmother and your aunts and uncle, and what I wanted for you, is for you to grow into your own man, with your own passions, to find a man who will love this person we all love so dearly. That is why.”
Whitt looks away from me, hiding the tears staining his cheeks, and my hand falls back to my side. “Okay, that makes sense in regard to why Daniel didn’t shove his lessons down my throat before Niel and the girls were ready, but I guess it also explains why no one told me Grant was my dad.”
Eyes scrunched in confusion, I try to get Whitt to explain. “What are you reasoning out?”
“Over breakfast– c’mon.” Whitt grabs for my hand to tug me into Denny’s of all places. “I feel eyes on me. There’s a man over there by the bench watching us.”
As Whitt pulls me into the diner, I check out the guy acting disinterested in us. Blank. Nondescript. Closely cropped brown hair, jeans and a leather jacket, and a cellphone in hand as if he doesn’t even notice us. But I’ve seen him before– often.
“Have you seen Stanton Green recently?” I ask Whitt when we come to stop before the hostess station.
“No, why?” Whitt looks at me crosswise. “That’s twice Dominion’s lord of the underworld has been brought up, when I hadn’t heard his name in ages. The last I remember of him was having forced playdates with Toddler.”
“Toddler?” I snort at Whitt’s insulting nickname for Binks. “Well, people age, but they tend to still look similar. That guy out there, I’ve seen him before. I don’t know his name, but he was friends with Caleb Green before Stanton’s little brother was shipped away to military school.”
“That’s disturbing. If you’re one to keep tabs on people, you should know Caleb joined the Marines and is stationed somewhere playing GI Joe,” Whitt murmurs, then turns on the charm for the hostess. “Hello, darling.” The dimples pop and the crystalline blue eyes shine, and the fifty-something woman is about to swoon. “Could we have a booth with a front window, but away from the door? Please and thanks.”
As Whitt’s passenger, I trail behind him and the hostess, who has perfected the art of walking slowly, in case we get lost in the twenty feet from here to there. “Thank you.” Whitt’s charm is still turned up to swoon, but if he adds flirting to the mix, I’m out of here.
Eyeing the man who utterly terrifies me, yet makes me want to pull him into my arms and never let him go, I slide into the booth. Flipping the well-used coffee mug over to signal I want some, I wait the hostess out as she lingers and bats her eyelashes at Whitt.
“Dear God,” I groan. “There should be a warning label on your forehead.” Laughing to myself, I shake my head back and forth. “So, if you haven’t seen Stanton, then I guess you haven’t seen Binks, either.”
“Toddler?” Whitt visibly shudders. “Fuck no.”
So much for that segue. Uncomfortable in the extreme, I pretend to look at the menu. “Um… so I should probably tell you­–”
“That she’s my sister?” Whitt fills in the blanks for me. Voice dry enough to catch fire, “I figured that out when I was six– thanks.”
Hands stilling, I drop the menu to the tabletop with a loud clank to my coffee cup. “Why did you wait to confront me?”
“I thought you’d tell me when you were ready, I guess.” Whitt’s finger goes line-by-line on the menu. “I figured out Grant was my dad because my sisters didn’t seem to take as much of an interest in me as he did. As my mother, Priscilla always deferred to Grant. If he wasn’t my dad, then why would she?”
“PedoBear– holy fuck!” Covering my mouth with the back of my hand, my conversation with Kristal rears its ugly head. Laughing, I decide Kristal is a cunt of the highest order, but one with a warped sense of humor.
“What?” Whitt’s eyebrows scrunch together in confusion, but his lips are twisted with amusement. “Grant was not like that. I mean, I always thought Jackson’s kissing on the mouth was a bit much, but I think that was to get a rise out of Daniel.”
“Nail. Head.” We’re interrupted by a gobsmacked waitress who can’t stop drooling over the young man seated across from me. Whitt, wearing expensive clothing like a second-skin, is a sight to behold in a diner of all places. “All-American Slam with white toast and coffee, please.”
“Fit Slam and grapefruit juice,” Pretty Boy requests, earning a sigh of pleasure from our waitress.
“For serious?” I volley across the table at the kid as soon as the girl shuffles away. “Fit Slam? Meanwhile, the middle-aged woman is eating enough to feed a horse.”
“Middle-aged?” Whitt has the good sense to roll his eyes. “You’re only thirty-one, right? Almost thirty-two? You seem to have forgotten that I’ve seen you naked, and even with being gay, I enjoyed the view.” Noticing the flaming blush on my cheeks, he changes the subject before my attitude turns dicey. “As for the caloric mindfulness, Daniel has me on a double course load.”
“So much for living your passions,” I mumble underneath my breath. “Grant would be pissed.” –I refuse to use present tense.
 “Well, up until I reached the age of majority, Daniel was my governing authority.” Animosity replaced by a softening of his features, Whitt’s voice shifts to affectionate. “Double course load: business and art. Half for him, half for me.”
Angry at myself, I voice my private thoughts. “I want to hate him, but I can’t.” Thankfully the waitress passing out our beverages saves me from explaining.
“I spend my days at the university. When I return to Misery Castle, Daniel forces me to sit at his desk with him– the old bastard pretends it’s not for my company. Like I’m still in elementary school, he goes over my homework, while trying to override my professors. If the TA teaches one of my classes, Daniel calls up the Dean, saying he’s going to pull Whittenhower funding.”
“Good times?” I lift my coffee mug and clink Whitt’s juice glass in a toast. “Same Daniel, different decade.” Voice fond, but still holding a wealth of sadness, “At least you don’t have Jackson going livid crazy on your professors with Grant trying to play interference.”
“Daniel would embarrass you, too?” Whitt’s laughter is a sucker-punch to the throat. All is not lost forever. “I have no life. School. Daniel. Waiting for the kids to get home from school so Daniel can get his rocks off on teaching us whatever for the night. I sit on my ass, so that’s why I avoid fatty foods.”
“Jeesh. You’re nineteen, Whitt– live a little.” I wait a moment in the silence, then coax him to continue. “But don’t stop talking. Gimme more.”
All the charm Whitt had bestowed on the wait staff was pale in comparison to the high-wattage smile he flashes my way. Mouth drying up, breath hitching, all I can do is stare across the table as he indents his dimples.
“No one but the youngsters give a shit about what I’m doing unless I’m not doing as I was told.” The sadness makes a reappearance by lurking in the depths of his eyes. “My favorite part of the week is when Prissy’s trainer visits. Gymnastics. God, that guy is hotter than Hades. Straight. My gaydar is faulty, and I mistook his impressive bulge for a ‘happy to see me’ showing.”
Grinning, I chuckle underneath my breath at the crestfallen expression on our waitress’s face as she delivers our breakfast platters. She doesn’t even respond to Whitt’s, “Thank you, darling.”
“So much for Cinderella finding her Prince Charming at Denny’s,” I tease, doing my damnedest to hold back the laughter trying to escape.
“Prince?” Scoffing, Whitt looks more than mildly insulted. “Try KING, Queen.”
“King Whittenhower.” I try for teasing again, but it sounds like reality to me, which is terrifying. “So nothing fun besides ogling Prissy’s trainer? How are your art classes? Do you tattoo often? How did you end up at Restraint?”
“Teddy– the trainer’s name is Teddy. He is the highlight of my week for spank-bank material. Art class is still class, and I’m sick as fuck of formal education because I’ve been doing it since I was two, which is why I ended up tattooing in the first place. Not as often as I’d like, but Kristal and Syn humor me when I have a new design. Restraint–” Whitt’s wicked grin is so wide I fear his lips will split in the center.
“There’s a story behind that, I take it.” Amazed, I can’t look away from Whitt. Just sitting here, listening to him speak, is the highlight of my decade. I’m not even hungry, and I don’t care that my food is getting cold.
“Daniel is boring, as you know.” Whitt winks at me, the pisspot. “By the time I hit sixteen, I was getting angrier and angrier with every passing day. Daniel is also a weirdo, like he wasn’t put off on my being gay. He would hand me books on things I’d rather experience than read.” Voice warping until it’s a facsimile of his grandfather’s, “You have to be safe, Daniel, and don’t have sex with a woman unless you plan on procreating. Condoms are not infallible.”
In between chuckling, I nosh on a piece of bacon. “That is the Daniel I remember.”
“Yeah, well… it sucked having him quiz me on how I was feeling and why I was feeling it. Since I’ve never stopped chasing Ezra around–”
“Obviously,” I mutter dramatically for effect.
“Ha-ha! On a whim, I told Daniel I wanted to train with Ezra, and he actually said yes. I was flooooored,” Whitt draws out. “I ended up with Marcus, but Daniel was still proud of me, saying I was like Jackson.” Whitt leans across the table and whispers conspiratorially, “What does that even mean? Jack wasn’t gay, was he?”
“I would get so frustrated with Daniel and Jackson, where I’d war with myself over hating and loving them, to the point Grant would feed me juicy bits and pieces to keep me from killing the men. So unless you truly want to know, don’t ask.”
“Don’t be a bitch, Queen.” Smiling, Whitt points across the table at me. “I’m trying my damnedest not to be pissed at you, so if you’ve got the goods, you better produce ‘em.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I make Whitt suffer while I make a sandwich out of bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast. After a few bites, where the poor guy is practically vibrating with anticipation, I put him out of his misery.
“Jackson was a hellraiser in his time. Naughty, bisexual, and without morals, the man’s worst nightmare was his heart meds, because they took away the use of his cock.”
Empathizing, Whitt grunts in pain.
“Before I go on, I need to know if you know who Grant’s father is.”
“Jackson? Daniel?” Whitt doesn’t even bat an eyelash at my question. “I was the little kid hiding in the draperies. If you don’t think I saw Jackson and Priscilla making out, or Jackson hugging Daniel, and Daniel looking confused, like he was being boiled alive… I’ve asked Daniel more than a hundred times, and I even went to the source– Priscilla. But I always get a different answer each time.”
“Really?” My wheels begin spinning again, giving me a migraine. “Grant always assumed it was Jackson. Anyway, since he couldn’t get it up, Jackson found more cerebral pursuits.”
“BDSM?”
“Yes, and I’m pretty sure Daniel’s boiled alive expression was due to the fact that if he had let him, Jackson would have been more than happy to live a life of incest because it was the most perverse thing the dying man could do. As I said, Jackson was a hellraiser, living every moment on the edge, and that’s about as far off the edge as one can get. Grant was always thankful Jack’s cock didn’t work, because he feared him manipulating Daniel in the bedroom.”
“Manipulating Daniel?” Whitt sounds incredulous as all get out. “Pfft… yeah, right.”
“Daniel is… a complicated man. A scholar thirsting for knowledge to make up for his lack in sex drive, which is why he asked the who/what/where/why/when/how about you being gay. Daniel is incapable of feeling arousal. While he loves Priscilla romantically, it’s not sexual. So he’s all mixed up in the head, finding affection to be a form of sexuality, which is how Jackson could have abused and manipulated him.”
“What?” Whitt’s jaw drops. “Come again?” 
“Daniel is asexual.”
“Dammit!” Whitt’s fist hits the edge of the tabletop, never looking or sounding more like Jackson and Daniel. “Now it will be impossible to hate that man.”
“I warned you,” I remind Whitt, not even bothering to hide my smile at his befuddled reaction. “Grant told me via Jackson how a very bad man got a hold of Daniel when he was a boy, and it fucked him up. He had no sexual urges at all, and can’t distinguish between affection and sex, so he doesn’t do affection except with Priscilla because she’s his wife and that’s par for the course.”
“Daniel doesn’t like sex?” Poor kid looks faintly ill. “At all? I mean, that is life’s greatest gift.”
“No sex drive. No urge. No looking at a woman or man and getting hard. Daniel sees masturbation as another body function to be performed daily, and sex a duty you do with your wife. But Grant assured me that Daniel enjoys the act itself, just doesn’t have an on-switch to tell him to engage in it.”
“The only time Daniel has ever touched me was the one time he slapped me.” Whitt’s revelation hurts my heart. “But like clockwork, about ten minutes before Niel gets out of school, Daniel is practically vibrating with need. He greets Whitney and Prissy, and looks genuinely happy to see them, but he acts like I have the plague. Niel– I’ve never wanted to be jealous of the most important person in my life, but when Daniel takes Niel into a huge hug and kisses his forehead, I die a little bit on the inside each time.”
“Jesus,” I whisper, eyes slipping shut from the pain etched across Whitt’s Grant-like features, then realization strikes. “I don’t even need to see my son to know he’s growing up to look similar to Jackson. So while I find looking at you to be a comfort, I can’t imagine how Daniel feels to look at you, or to look in the mirror and see what he’s lost.”
“Regina,” Whitt cries out, and he hardly ever calls me by name. “That makes me feel worse. You suck in the comfort department.”
“I wasn’t finished.” I reach for his hand, both of us forgetting the pretense of eating breakfast. “Jackson was Daniel’s safe haven. But more so, the day Jackson died, Daniel and I had a conversation about good versus bad touch, and I taught him how to touch Niel. I had him hold Niel, using it to abate his grief. I gave Daniel permission to touch my son, and he took me at my word, and pushed all of the loneliness he must feel over Jackson and Grant into Niel.”
“How am I to continue hating him?” Whitt hangs his head, looking sadder by the second. “The injustice kept me going.”
“Hate Daniel on his actions, not for his inaction. As for you looking like Grant, it wasn’t until Grant turned twenty-one that Daniel began touching him, realizing he was old enough and big enough to tell him no. Daniel’s terrified he’ll inadvertently violate one of you. You’re not there yet, Whitt. So if you want Daniel’s affection, then you have to stop looking at him like he’s the Antichrist and just give him a hug.”
“I don’t… I don’t think my balls are big enough yet.” Whitt looks down at his hands. “Every day since you left, I’ve hated Daniel for making you leave. I was hiding in the draperies when Marcus told Daniel, and I was still in the study when you were told.”
“That’s–” sob lodged in my throat, I nearly suffocate until I choke it out. “That’s how you found out your dad died?”
“Yeah, but see…” Whitt closes his eyes, unable to look at me. “You lost Grant that day, and had to give up Niel, but I lost my dad… and you. Daniel broke after Adelaide dragged you out. We all lost you both, and he couldn’t handle it. He even begged Ade to bring you back, and had Albert looking all over Dominion for you. But you never came back, so I can’t forgive Daniel, no matter how fucked up in the head he may be.”
“Ade never– Fuck!” I suck in a large amount of air, filling my lungs to bursting, and then let the agony out with my exhalation. “I was in a bad place myself, truly believing Daniel was right about ‘a son for a son’, to the point I doubt I would have come back if Ade had asked. Some days, I still think I’m punishing myself. Other days, I feel like I was never enough. For a few seconds a day, I feel like I lost the life I was meant to lead, and I’m just wandering aimlessly.”
Whitt’s laughter has my eyelids popping open. Quickly drying the tears on my cheeks, I begin to wonder over his sanity.
“I was raised in a motherfucking castle as the throwaway son, watching my little brother be treated like a pampered prince. Overlooked, my birthright was torn from me, and I’m so enraged I can barely breathe most days. Whittenhower Estates and all its holdings should have been mine. Jackson to Grant. With Grant’s death, Daniel would have been a placeholder until I reached the age of majority. But with all these secrets and lies, my legacy is gone. Take that for aimless wandering.”
Breathing through the pain, I slide the plates in front of me out of the way and to the side, then I slump forward with my forearms on the tabletop. “Did you want it in the first place?”
“Yes, goddamnit!” Whitt states with great passion. “We always want what we’ve been denied, especially when it was ours in the first place. So what if I’m gay? I don’t need to make a kid when I can use the Whittenhower prince and princesses as my heirs. Jumping over me wasn’t a way to avoid the inevitable, but a slap to the fucking face. Just as it was Jackson’s decision to give the reigns to Daniel, it’s mine for when Niel gets control.”
“You need to ask yourself if you truly want the burden, if you’re capable of shouldering it, or if you’re just being spiteful because you were denied.”
“My roots were torn out of the family tree, Regina. Do you get that? Imagine Curtis and Ella Regal without your name beneath theirs.”
“Whitt, I understand that more than you could ever know.” Resting my head on my forearms, I speak to the tabletop. “My own son isn’t even in my family tree.”
“Bullshit,” Whitt spits. “I’m not going to do the ‘who has it worse game’ with you, but I can assure you Niel’s real birth certificate is in the safe in the study, and it has yours and Grant’s names on it. When I was snooping for it, I found my own birth records instead. So I’m not going to debate whether I want or deserve what’s mine, because it’s rightfully mine, and that’s all there is to say about it.”
“Agreed,” I mutter in defeat, unable to process all Whitt just said.
“As I said before, Niel is my favorite person on the planet, but it doesn’t lessen the hurt that I was somehow deemed unfit at the age of five for my own legacy, while the very thought of a baby yet to be conceived was. It negates all the good I remember from Jackson and Grant, and highlights the cold relationship I have with the man who is legally my father. I just–”
After several long moments, I ask, “What?” assuming Whitt is waiting for me to coax him to continue.
“It’s not about greed or power– I just want to prove I’m worthy. Then, when I’m ready, I’ll pass the torch to a Whittenhower who is ready and willing, and it doesn’t mean it has to be Niel, or my kid if I ever choose to have one. Hell, it could be Ella even. I don’t believe in the way our family has been run so far, and that is what I want the most.”
“The power to change our lives for the better?” I perk up, feeling the first stirrings of positivity in my belly, the addictive surge of power.
“Yes.” Whitt’s eyes glint as if succumbing to the same high I’m experiencing. “There is shit going on around us that I don’t understand. There are more skeletons in Misery Castle than we have closets. Everything in my world is built on secrets and lies, and I want to tear it down to the very foundation and rebuild it again. But I need help– your help, Queen.”
“What’s your game plan on the Whittenhower front? Because I can help with some of the secrets and lies and the shit going on around us we don’t understand.”
“Thank you!” Not only is relief etched across Whitt’s features, it’s prominent in his voice. “I’ve been going through life alone, Queen. Other. I see Niel, Whitney, Prissy, and Ella as a group together, and the rest of my family in neat little boxes. But then there is just me. All alone.”
Reaching across the table for Whitt’s hand, I assuage his fears. “You’re not alone anymore, Sunshine, and you never were. I promise.”
“The heir to the Whittenhower throne matures at the age of twenty-four. Daniel believes he has another decade to rule from his brother’s seat, not realizing I know who I am and where I came from. So that means I have a little over four years to take my legacy back, and I need your help.”
“How?”
“I am the unknown heir apparent, and I need to become the guardian of the heir presumptive to ensure the welfare of every Whittenhower, those who are employed by us, and those who rely on us. I can’t sit back and allow Daniel to take control, or my baby brother who is not ready by any stretch of the imagination. So I need you to help me become the guardian to my own heirs.”
“What?” I slur. “I haven’t been schooled in the finer points of primogeniture since I was in utero.”
“You said Jackson, Daniel, and Grant bypassed me for your son because they wanted me to have a different sort of life. But what about what Prissy wants? Daniel is already looking at who to betroth to Whitney and Niel, and they’ve yet to reach fourteen. What about their lives and wants? What if Niel wants to sit in a dark room all day and write anime? Whitney is so serious, she could probably make a better politician than the asshat Daniel and Kent would try to marry her off to. She shouldn’t be the first lady of anything, but the lady.”
“I get that, and I’m on board with helping you so that every one of our family members can be who they should organically evolve into, not who they are predestined to become.”
“Good, then I hope you won’t tear my head off when you hear the solution.” 
“Out with it,” I demand.
“By law of primogeniture, Jackson had three heirs: Me. Niel. Ella. If anything were to happen to us, the line moves to Daniel as Jackson’s only brother. With no sons, the line would fall to Katie, leaving Whitney and Prissy to be the heirs. But that’s neither here nor there since I still breathe, and I will fight to my last breath to make sure my brother and sister are healthy.”
“Whitt,” I warn. “Stop with the foreplay, and spit it out.”
“I need to be the guardian of my own heirs, Regina.” Eyes darting away, Whitt refuses to look at me. “If they were my children instead of my siblings… I found Niel’s birth certificate, and I have it on my person to give back to you, to give you your son back. You are in possession of Ella. Technically Daniel has no hold over Niel, except for the fact that he is his grandfather, and would probably die without him.”
“Daniel!” I use Whitt’s given name to get him to get to the point.
“There’s method to my madness as to why I said you needed to have sex with me– why I kept guaranteeing you would.” Taking a deep breath, Whitt finally drops the bombshell. “Because you’ll have to consummate our marriage to make it legal. After we marry, after you allow me to adopt my brother and sister– my heirs –we will be King and Queen of the Whittenhowers, and no one will ever be forced to marry, or make children, or go into a profession that isn’t their passion. We need to do this for the greater good of our family.”
Heart beating out of my chest, a cold sweat beads along my spine. “Now I understand why Marcus was petrified of you.” Slumping forward, I cover my face with my palms. “I… I’m at a loss for words, Whitt.”
Leaning over the table, Whitt whispers so softly I have to struggle to hear. “I know Grant loved you, and I know you’ve been beside yourself with grief and loss. But Grant was far from perfect. He never treated you how you deserved.”
“Whitt,” I mutter weakly, heart breaking for a billion and one reasons, but mostly for the lie I’ve told myself for the past eighteen months, only because it hurts less to lie to myself than to accept the truth.
“My father was a coward. If I had been in his position, with you loving me as a man does a woman, I would have married you before God Himself, and every person I’ve ever come into contact with.”
“Grant’s not you,” I try to remind him.
“I know– thank God. But I am not a coward, and I know you will never marry me as a woman does a man. But it doesn’t matter, because I wouldn’t be as proud to call you my wife as much as I would be to call myself your husband.” 

Checkmate (M&M #7): soon-to-be re-released in both ebook & paperback. Also available in the Queen Omnibus edition. 

“You’re doing great, Mrs. Hoffman,” I encourage as I steady the woman, placing my hand firmly on her back to remind her not to slouch while performing squats. “One more rep– you can do it.”
“If you say so.” With an exerting grunt, the forty-something woman tries to finish a set for the first time. “My God, Brennan, how you push me.”
Chuckling sardonically, I help the woman to her feet, then hand her a towel to wipe away the sweat beading along her neck and enhanced décolletage. I do what any red-blooded man would do, pretend I’m the cloth as it wicks away the moisture.
“Thank you, Brennan.” Mrs. Hoffman blushes a beautiful shade of pink while I flatter her with my appreciative gaze. Breasts swelling more as her breathing deepens, her nipples bud against her sports bra.
“Hard work should always be admired.” Voice light, I can’t help the flirty tone from sneaking in. “You’ve improved since I’ve taken you under my tender loving care.”
“Tender?” Mrs. Hoffman’s lips slide into a smirk. “It’s a good thing my husband is willing to give me a massage after our workouts.” Swatting me with the damp towel playfully, she calls me a beast.
“Mr. Hoffman appreciates the results.” I waggle my eyebrows exaggeratedly and preen a bit when she pats my torso.
“Charmer,” is her parting comment as she sashays her firm ass to the locker room, where Mr. Hoffman is waiting to ravish his wife.
“Playing cupid again, are we?” Tony hops on the Stairmaster, a taunt and a challenge in his actions. My coworker is equally jealous and covetous of me. “That old man is gonna have a heart attack one of these days after you get his wife’s motor running.”
Gazing heavenward, I grab a clean cloth to wipe down the equipment in my area. “You know nothing of marriage, bud.” With a swift kick, I eject him from my machine, ignoring how amazing his calves look. “Most people cheat because they are missing something inside of themselves, not within their marriage. Mrs. Hoffman is crazy over her husband. She just needed her confidence built back up so she felt what Mr. Hoffman was already trying to tell her.”
 “Then what’s wrong with your marriage, bud?” To add insult to injury, Tony whips off his shirt, showing off years and years of hard work turned into muscular perfection. Professionally, Tony is a work of art, but he doesn’t even get a twitch out of my dick, which is why he’s perpetually pissed at me.
Working in a gym is a blessing and a curse. As the resident bisexual, it’s my job to make sure everyone feels good about themselves. Surprisingly, even the straight guys ask if they’re looking good enough to date.
Morgantown, West Virginia is like an oxymoron. As a college town, we’re not as backward as Rusty Knob. Most of the clientele of Sweat it Out are students or those employed with a degree. They’re a bit more open-minded than the folks in my hometown, but not by much. The fact that I’m a man’s man who still loves pussy puts their minds at ease. They simply ignore the other half of my persuasion until they ask for advice on what to wear– how the fuck should I know?
I’m the only one who knows Tony wears women’s underwear underneath those tiny shorts and craves sucking dick. His cowardice outweighs his physical strength.
I won’t deny it; the fit women have my tongue dragging on the ground. Roundness: tits swaying in sports bras as they jog on the treadmill and bubble butts jiggling in yoga pants as they tackle the Stairmaster. Don’t even get me started on the visceral reaction I get from camel toe– gross to everyone who doesn’t want to get in those pants.
On the flip side, I have a thing for the geeky guys who look like I used to. Awkward, unsure, a bit insecure, and it makes me feel like the man when they come to me for guidance. But in the end, their hard work makes me proud yet sad when my geeky clients evolve, especially those who turn into muscle-heads. The bodybuilders don’t do a thing for me– it’s not what flips my switch. Even I wish I had backed off a while back. Now when I look in the mirror, I feel like my excess size is trying to compensate for my lack of height.
When I was soft, my wife didn’t want me. Now that I’m hard, she doesn’t want me either.
No shit, right?
Perils of falling in love and marrying a lesbian. I’m pretty sure if I grew a vagina, Jesse still wouldn’t have me. Every time my dad looks me in the eye, he’s biting back, “Son, I told you so.”
I haven’t been laid since we found out our daughter was conceived, since I’ll forever pretend that I didn’t cheat on Jesse the night before we got married. It would take a heinous motherfucker to do such a deplorable thing.
Never happened.
Ever.
It was a goodbye.
For now.
I never talk about Jesse– our relationship is sacred. “My marriage is what it is.” I shrug one shoulder, counting the minutes until the end of my shift. I love my job, just not the cock-measuring politics. “I don’t wear the ring because I have to create an illusion, just like servers–”
“And strippers and whores.” Tony raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to deny it.
No can do.
“For the Mrs. Hoffmans of the world, I’ll gladly put up with being solicited day in and day out.” Tilting my head to the side, I size up Tony. “I’ve never been unfaithful to my wife. I can look my fill and make my clients feel desired and wanted, but I never act on it.”
“More’s the pity.” Tony’s checking me out at the same time, tiny shorts failing to disguise the reaction he has to me –nothing on my end.
Raising an eyebrow like a villain, “Challenge?”
“Fuck, yes!” Tony shouts, startling nearby patrons. “You’re such a fucking cock-tease, Bren.” He snaps my ass with a towel. “If you hadn’t bulked up, you would have found yourself on the wrong end of a bad situation.”
“Laps?” I lope off toward the exit with Tony following me like a faithful puppy. “Is there a right end of a bad situation?”
“Yeah,” Tony answers both of my questions. “Being the assailant.”
“Jesus,” I hiss, feet padding quickly down the stairs. “You’re a sick fuck, bro. A real sick fuck.”
With a wink, Tony brushes by me, making sure too much of his body comes in direct contact with mine. “I’m always up for who can do the most laps, because even if I lose, it’s still a win for me.”
“How so?”
Walking backward, wearing the most devious grin I’ve ever witnessed, Tony terrifies me sometimes. “You. Soaking wet. In nothing but a Speedo.” Laughing evilly, he hammers the final nail in the creepy coffin. “I let you win just so I can watch those powerful thighs and arms move you through the water, and how your round girly ass sticks up like a shark fin.”
“Bro, I’ma drown you.” I warn with a lunge.
 
-*-
 
It took half a semester before I realized higher education wasn’t for me. I’m more of a guy who likes to work with my hands– use my body as a machine. After this personal trainer gig is up, I’ll be apprenticing at Kennedy Construction. Sitting in lecture halls, discussing things that I’ll never apply in real life, it felt like I had fire ants crawling on my flesh.
I am a married father, a homeowner, with a fulltime job I adore– I don’t need a degree to prove my worth, and I sure as shit don’t need a degree to be happy.
I’m not Kade– Mr. I’m Going to Stay in College Until I have a billion PhDs. My brother is more worried about appearances than just accepting who he is and being happy. Kade was qualified for whatever job he wanted two years ago, yet he won’t go home and stay home.
For the past four years, I’ve been working as a personal trainer and stay-at-home dad. Right after high school graduation, I’d bought a house for Jesse, me, and the baby, with a room for Kade to sleep. It took even less time for Kade to vacate our place, which he was only using three times a week while he worked on his graduate degree, than it did for me to turn college-dropout. By the third awkward night, Kade had found an apartment to call his own. It didn’t take long before Wynn and Jack decided dorm life was too claustrophobic, after having all of Rusty Knob as their domain, before they invaded Kade’s efficiency apartment and made it their own.
Poor Kade– it’s Wynn and Jack’s apartment now, but Kade pays for it, which means I’m actually paying for it.
If it wasn’t for those idiots, I would have moved back to Rusty Knob, forcing Jesse and our daughter to follow me. I’m just biding my time until Wynn graduates next month, then I’m moving home, with or without them.
But not without my daughter.
“You’re late,” is my wife’s barked greeting as I walk in the front door after a ten-hour shift at the gym. “I missed my art class earlier because Becca was sick and couldn’t babysit. Answer your phone next time– it could have been an emergency.”
Sighing deeply, I think to myself how this is exactly what a man wants to walk into when he comes home. But then I remember this was my choice, and I pushed Jesse into it. After how I was raised, I dreamed of a nuclear family.
My mom died, taking my baby sister with her, and then our lives turned to hell when the Probsts set their sights on us. Using extortion to gain control of our family’s wrongful death settlement, the last hope of me ever having a mom, dad, and siblings went out the window. Now my family tree is exactly the stereotypical bullshit people use against West Virginian natives.
Since I didn’t have it as a kid, I wanted it as an adult– a wife being the only person I’d ever touched sexually or loved, with a gaggle of kids who were happy to see me when I came home from work.
I wanted it, yet I failed to give that to myself or my daughter.
‘Treat the wife as if she’s always right, even when she’s wrong’ is not my usual style. If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. A happy wife is a happy life. I don’t subscribe to any of that unbalanced thinking, because it breeds bad behavior I don’t want my daughter to witness. Jesse is my best friend more so than my wife, and we don’t do that enabling bullshit. But, tonight, I’m too tired to argue.
“You’re right, Jesse.” I step into our living room, shutting the front door behind me, then allow my gym bag to drop to the floor with a harsh sound of finality. “A class you attend at the YMCA is more important than the job that’s paying our bills.”
My petty, passive-aggressive bullshit causes fury to radiate from my wife’s cold, blue eyes– I know I’ve overstepped our boundaries. Jesse contributes financially, and her art does matter. I just don’t have the time to deal with her tonight.
“It’s not like–”
“Don’t!” I warn, raising a single fingertip, instinctively knowing my wife will bring up how none of us need to work.
Blood money.
Goddamn blood money I’d give back in a heartbeat if it meant I could bring my mom, unborn baby sister, and granddaddy back to life. They died, and the money we received brought nothing but terror into our lives. At first, everyone had their hand out, saying they were Kennedys so they deserved their cut.
My dad was a shell of a man– a walking zombie –and Uncle Donny was no better. To lose one person, you grieve. To lose the heart, the future, and the patriarch of your family, that is debilitating. I was a small child who grew up way too quickly, because I had a job to do– someone had to take care of my dad and uncle by showing them life was still worth living. Then we had the bright idea to do good with our unwelcome wealth, and we began revitalizing Rusty Knob and educating its natives.
Probsts.
Every time Jesse brings up how neither one of us has to work, I see red– the crimson wash of blood staining my hands. It was only a blink really– a two-second view of an object tearing my dad apart. Dad was larger than life to me until that very moment. A superhero brought down by the villain I thought was an ally. With the scent of terror and piss filling the air, that blink in time will last a lifetime. Blood ran down Dad’s body to pool on the floor around his knees, with Sean’s sated cock laying against Dad’s thigh– that destructive piece of flesh painted with my father’s blood and shit.
Sean, the guy who wanted me to call him Uncle Sean– the guy who would laugh and play with me– he had committed the most heinous crime one human could do to another, with the added torture of doing so in front of the man’s brother, woman, son, and best friend.
Blink.
It only takes a blink to change the trajectory of your life.
A car exploding into a fiery ball on a freeway, with blood money to erase the loss, as if human life has a monetary value.
Blink.
The terror of a ‘not a boy, yet not a man’ having to make the decision to leave his father to protect the twins, then run into the night, using the Kennedy blood running in his veins to direct him across their land and through the woods to Gillette Holler.
Blink.
A sight that can never be unseen, removing all traces of innocence and altering how sex is viewed as a weapon, violence– an act of dominance instead of an act of love.
Blink.
Every time anyone brings up how much money I have, I remember the metallic flash of a gun butted against the nape of Dad’s neck, and the sheer terror on Uncle Donny and Willa’s stunned faces. White as a sheet is just a saying– one we visualize. But one can’t truly know the horrific impact of seeing a loved one’s complexion turned to a shade of death unless they witness it firsthand.
Blink.
The loud crack of gunfire next to my ear, where it took seconds in the ringing silence to realize Dad was still a live, and it was just Corbin meting out justice.
For nearly a decade, I’ve hidden the nightmares spawned by the red-wash as the front of Sean’s head exploded outward, painting the sofa, spraying across the floor, and blowing all the way to the kitchen cabinets, with his brain matter splattering Dad’s back and Uncle Donny and Willa’s faces.
Blink– I had to blink dozens of times until my mind brought reality into focus, because at first I couldn’t compute the macabre scene.
Why?
The lust and greed of green.
If the Probsts would’ve brought Octavia forward, telling Dad and Uncle Donny how Granddaddy had been naughty by getting another man’s wife knocked up, none of that would have happened.
Kennedys are an honorable people, and Octavia would’ve been given a third of Granddaddy’s money without hesitation. But the Probsts were greedy, violent people, and they didn’t want their own half-sister to have her cut– they wanted it all.
Money is the root of all evil, and even the attempt by my wife to bring it up almost drops me to my knees.
On the verge of throwing up, I issue weakly, “Just go.”
Without a backward glance, Jesse leaves our home, with her blonde ponytail the last thing I see. Slumping down onto the sofa, I stare at the door she just exited.
Passing ships in the night.
I work days at the gym while Jesse stays home with our daughter. Our next door neighbor’s home-schooled foster kid pops in once a day when Jesse wants to run errands or help out during art classes at the YMCA. As soon as I come home from work, I’m a stay-at-home dad. Jesse bolts like lightning, not coming back until the wee hours of the morning just before I head out to work.
Jesse works until last-call at an artist bar. She sets up her easel, along with a few other artists, and they paint while being observed. The patrons drink and eat to make the house a profit. The finished pieces are sold, and the artists are tipped– combined, the tips and the sale of their paintings are the wages. Some of Jesse’s pieces have sold for a pretty penny.
Jesse is damned good, and I’m proud of her, but I miss her more. 
I was home late tonight because I don’t have the luxury of a babysitter doing my duty for hours on end during the day. I took an hour for myself to challenge Tony to let off some steam, then he and I just sat in the sauna and stared at the insides of our eyelids to de-stress.
For eighteen years of my life, Jesse was my best friend. Just Jesse, Franny, and me. Jackson and Wynn hovered on the outside, never truly wanting in, with a few of our basketball buddies breaching the surface from time to time.
We lost Francis to California, where he’s finishing his design degree and will never look back. Jesse was just as artistic, but her medium was oils instead of fabric.
I’m not sure what I added to our friendship besides being the one who posed in Frantastic Designs while Jesse memorialized the moment. The weakling is now the brawn, without an ounce of artistic ability, and the only common denominator between us is my purple stripe on the rainbow.
Small town. Small circles. No common threads needed besides proximity. With the distance of time separating us, highlighting how truly different we are, we’ve slowly drifted apart.
It didn’t used to be like this. When we were first married, Jesse and I shared a bed but not sex, many laughs, and a life– a future.
We were closer than close, able to tell the other anything, no matter how damaging it may have been. I’m only faithful in our marriage because of my beliefs, which have nothing to do with Jesse. Never once did I ask her to remain celibate, and this was without judgment or explanation.
I’m Jesse’s husband.
I used to be her life-long best friend and sometimes lover.
I am not her father.
 But in the past few months, Jesse has turned into a nag who expects me to be a mind-reader. To read a mind Jesse doesn’t even understand herself.
 Just as I told Tony, a cheater cheats because of something within them. When Mrs. Hoffman began training with me, she refused to voice her issues. She felt undesirable, completely blinding herself to the actions of her adoring husband. While training, she would express how he wasn’t attentive enough, but it was her inability to see outside of her insecurity to notice what Mr. Hoffman was actually providing. He could have doted on her hand and foot and she would have been dismissive and oblivious. It took me flirting with her to light a spark, when neither of us truly wanted the other. With the spark lit, Mr. Hoffman’s fire engulfed the insecurities until it was too hot to dismiss.
I’m not blind, nor deaf, nor dumb. Jesse’s the one pulling that bullshit now. I never judged, nor will I ever. Jesse’s resentment, her assumptions of how I feel without asking me or hearing me, that is on her.
My wife is one of the reasons I celebrate my bisexuality, because I can’t stand head-games with people who don’t even realize they’re playing them. Just like Mrs. Hoffman, why should their partner have to solve them like a broken Rubik’s Cube? Most men are exactly what they seem. The ones who aren’t, I don’t plan on fucking anyway. As for the emotionally stunted women, no fucking way. Never again. I won’t allow my daughter to grow up to be like that.
Most fathers worry about having a daughter who is promiscuous, while I’m worried she’ll be a manipulative head-case. I don’t care who my daughter has sex with as long as she doesn’t jerk him around on a leash, mess with his head, and make him feel like a moron.
My dad was my mom’s ‘yes man’, and I will never go down that road. Willa and Dad seem to draw strength off of each other, and that’s what I want out of my partner.
The wife is always right, no matter what, and we’re all to tee-hee and blush and feel guilty, even when she’s dead wrong, because God forbid the wife got upset. Meanwhile, I’m not exactly sure how my wife, who is three months younger than me, who has grown up in the same town, went to the same schools, and has had the same life experience as I have, suddenly became wise beyond her years while I remained an idiot the instant we were married.
I will not raise my daughter to mother her misfortunate husband, unlike how Jesse was raised to treat me. Immediately after we married, I was no longer the friend, but the bumbling husband without a brain in his head, and my friend was suddenly a genius wife who is always right.
I may not have a mother, but I refuse to allow my wife to treat me like her son. It’s been a struggle I’ve refused to relent on, because my self-respect is involved.
Our marriage was supposed to be built on friendship and our mutual adoration for our daughter. Regardless of the bizarre balance Jesse thinks we should have, our marriage won’t crumble because of our sexual orientations, or from one of us finding someone we want to be with instead. It will crumble because one of us refuses to communicate with the other.
To admit my depression is to admit defeat. The end of my marriage won’t be the failure; the dissolution of our friendship will be.
That’s all on Jesse, because Lord knows I’ve tried.
A light thud has me on my feet in an instant. Without hesitation, I find myself down the short hallway, standing outside of my daughter’s bedroom door. Resting my ear to the wooden panel, I listen to her chat animatedly with her doll babies.
All stress dissolves with the sweet cadence of Honor’s voice.

As a Holiday gift to my readers and as a thank you for being patient, as well as a way of showing what I've been up to, below is the first three chapters of Jaded (M&M #5) approximately 14,000 words. 

*Not edited & subject to change
*feedback not only welcome but appreciated. 
*As you can see, as a way of showing this isn't about simply editing and formatting the M&M books for republishing into print and ebook. I've been adding description, developing the characterization, removing plot holes, adding foreshadowing, solidifying the plot, and maintaining that each book is a solid foundation for the next. 

This is not an easy task. In a way, it's more difficult that writing from scratch, as I have many threads from 12 books to keep straight to maintain the integrity of the series as a whole. I'm proud to place my name on the finished project.

“Do you want to study tonight? We could go to my house and it would give you a break from your mom.” Voice beyond hope-filled, my best friend– Fate Simpson– leans across the cafeteria table with a wide smile on her flawless face.

“I can’t,” I mutter, glad that I have an excuse. I love Fate and her little sister, Faith, but their mom makes it uncomfortable to visit. But my excuse is an even worse fate. “I have to go to Ade’s house tonight for the first time. She’s been pestering me, and I finally gave in.”

Fate gives me the usual pinched look of disdain, and then rolls her blue eyes. She doesn’t understand how I could be friends with someone who acts like Ade does. My best friends aren’t friends at all– more like enemies of the highest order. As Dominion’s original founders, the Whittenhower and Simpson families share bad blood, and their daughters perpetuate the cycle. It makes it rather uncomfortable to be me, because I have to split my time between the two girls, with both of them pissed at me for loving the other.

As the only scholarship student, having two friends at Hillbrook Preparatory School is for survival, needing the queens of the elite to watch my back from deliberate attacks. Dirt poor, where I come from makes me the enemy amongst the budding world leaders. Rich mommies and daddies get their panties in a wad when a girl from the slums is smarter than their genetically engineered kiddies who were showered with expensive tutors from birth.

“Ade’s a snooty bitch. I don’t know how you can stand her.” Fate slouches in her chair, bony arms resting on the tabletop. She pulls a grumpy look and pouts– too adorable for words.

Adelaide Whittenhower is an entitled monster who loves me because I accept her for who she is. Fate Simpson is a sweet, naïve, sheltered girl who will be consumed by the sharks in life, and I’ve made it my life’s mission to protect her from the Ade Whittenhowers of the world. It’s best if the duel sides of my life never collide.

“We’re studying for the Latin final.” What I say next isn’t a dig, since Fate is a mathematical mastermind, but dumb as a rock with foreign languages, which Ade excels in. My best friends are complete and total opposites. “You didn’t have to take it, so that’s the only reason I’m studying with Ade instead of you. Ya know you could always study with us. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

Flashing perfectly straight, predatory teeth, “Oh,” Fate draws out, smile warping into an evil smirk. “But I would mind.” She pulls her long, dirty blonde hair into a ponytail, and then wraps the hair tie around it three times. She gives it a tight yank and I wince. I’m surprised she has any hair left at all after the amount of times she adjusts her hair in a day.

“What kind of freak graduates at sixteen? Worse is that you hang out with someone two years younger than you. It’s sad really.” Eyelashes fluttering, Fate allows haughty pretentiousness to infuse her voice.

​Wincing, I love my education and my two friends, but I can only take so much of the ‘I am better than everyone else on the planet’ mentality. I deal with these people in short bursts, and then get back to my side of the city where the drug dealers and prostitutes dwell.

I live across the street from Dominion’s crime boss. Stanton Green just usurped his own father, and he’s only a few years older than I am. The elite think they hold the world by their wallets. But through ingenuity, we hold them by the balls. They may think we’re trash, but we live in reality. While they live in their own universe and are ignorant to anything that doesn’t outright affect them.

“Fate, lay off Ade,” I warn. “We’ve been through this for the past four years. We’re two weeks from graduating, so I think it’s a bit late to change anything.”

Eyes downcast, Fate turns sheepish. “It’s always worth a try.” Uncomfortable, Fate wringing her fingers together on the tabletop draws my attention. “I just want you to like me more than her, ya know? You loving someone so… nasty, it makes me wonder if I’m a good person or not.”

​“Fate,” I sigh deeply, lowing almost into a snarl. I grip her fingers before she cuts off their circulation with her constant fretting. Softening my voice, “I need to study for finals tonight. You know I’ll lose my scholarship if I slip with my grades. We all can’t have our daddies buy off admissions and pay our way.”

Fate’s blue eyes tear up, and I’m instantly regretful for hurting her. It doesn’t make the insult any less true, so I won’t apologize. She’s never had to worry about grades, or scholarships, or even financial aid she can’t afford to pay back. Thomas Simpson bought his precious daughter her admission to the university of her choice and is paying her entire way.

Whereas, I’m not even sure I can use the scholarship I was awarded– the one I’ve earned by working my ass off for the past four years while suffering through these insufferable fuckfaces. I work and work, and study and study, but all I end up doing is treading water. Nothing will keep my dying mother alive– the only thing that would have saved my future was if her fight ended before my eighteenth birthday.

I turned eighteen last week.

I’m in an impossible situation, praying for every moment with my mother, but knowing the longer she lives, the more weight will be put on my shoulders. At the beginning of my future, I’ll have creditors garnishing my wages and putting liens on everything I own to recoup my mother’s mountain of medical bills.  

What an awful daughter I am to have wanted a future versus a few more days with my dying mother.
Brushing those fears away, I know I’ll be stuck with Fate for life, so I best assuage her fears instead. “Fate, you know I love you. But I can love both of you, and it doesn’t change either of our friendships.” Arms spread wide, I display all six feet of my gargantuan body while wearing a smile on my face. “There’s more than enough of me to go around.”

“Of course there is,” A syrupy voice flows above my head, breath fluttering my hair. “You have a large capacity for love, Regina.”

Fate’s eyes narrow and fill with bitter hatred. “I just lost my appetite. I’ll see you in A.P. Calc. Later.” She abruptly leaves her seat to walk to another table filled with taunting elitists.

A sheep, always following the herd, Fate begins to laugh with them and glances our way over her shoulder. No doubt I’m the brunt of some brutal joke, but it doesn’t bother me anymore.

Individual.
Unique.
Strong.
A survivor.
A loner.
A leader.

Fingertips curling into my palms, my nails bite into my skin. My present may suck, but these assfucks are going to lick my boots in the future.

If it weren’t for the fact that we have to wear uniforms, I’d be bullied more. My clothing comes from secondhand stores, not the pricy shops where you buy a pair of jeans worth no more than twenty bucks for a thousand dollars. The wealthy are the most wasteful people on the planet.

Without the aid of a salon or stylist, don’t get me started on my frizzy strawberry blonde hair.
The irony is the fact that no matter what I do, I won’t fit in anywhere, not when I’m bridging the gap between two cultures. Wearing my school uniform in the slums has slurs slung into my face on a daily basis, as would wearing my regular clothing around the Hillbrook elite.

Ade sighs above my head, no doubt glaring at Fate for her antics. After a reassuring clench to my shoulder, Ade takes a seat beside me.

With a wane smile, I look to the young girl everyone is utterly terrified of. Willowy, Ade looks like a runway model with her pale, flawless skin, natural blonde hair and big blue eyes– all Whittenhower genetic standards. With a mind rivaling mine, she may be controlling and demanding, but she does understand how I feel.

Ade speaks while looking down at her tray filled with a chopped salad and grapefruit segments, neither of which she’ll eat. “The fresh-fish-freshman are doing their orientation today. They should be here any second. Father said there are nine new students.”

With a minuscule student body, Hillbrook Preparatory School is preschool through graduation, but we’re segregated by age group. The rectory across the back lawn was converted for the little kids, with the preteens housed in an outbuilding. With the main cathedral turned into classrooms, seventh and eighth grade are all clustered into a segment away from the influence of the older kids. There are few open slots for grades beneath ninth. Your parents can either afford for you to start at preschool, or apply for high school. It takes a legacy to be smashed into the student body. Freshman orientation is an event that the proud mommies and daddies celebrate like a graduation, where legacies meet the kids who were rich enough to buy their way in, guaranteeing admission to any top university of their choosing.

Then there is me, the worst kind of interloper. Poor scholarship kid. The only scholarship student to ever grace Hillbrook’s marble hallways. The parents raised a major stink, saying I was tainting their reputation. Proving myself, I outscored their children, which only made them angrier. Every semester they petitioned to remove me from their roster because I was knocking their precious babies down the ranks. Two weeks until graduation, I’m still here, never knowing who my benefactor was.

Nodding that I heard it trickling down the gossip vine, I snag Ade’s multigrain roll slathered with layer of honey butter. Only the best for the children of the one-percenters. Commuting to a school with a different zip code, wearing a uniform, having Catholicism shoved down my throat when I’m a Protestant, and dealing with shiny bastards wasn’t as bizarre as the lack of sloppy joes, pizza, tatter tots, canned corn, and instant potatoes on my lunch tray. In fact, we don’t get a lunch tray with compartments. Plates. Real porcelain plates and stainless cutlery sit atop a silver tray. Hillbrook served high-quality, gourmet meals that are lost on my dirt poor palate.

I spear a fork into Ade’s salad, knowing she won’t eat it, and what I was offered wasn’t enough to fuel my masculine-sized body. Another advantage of having two dieting skinny, white chicks for best friends– I eat their lunches, because my cupboards are bare at home.

Cheeks stained pink, Ade shocks me with what she says next. “I’ve had my eye on one of the incoming freshman for a while.” Shock because I chat boys with Fate, never Ade. Ade is my partner in academia and culture, whereas Fate is a gossip monger and pop culture expert.

Blush deepening, “It’s too bad that I was so accelerated. I would’ve loved to stay here a year or two with him.” Ade licks her thin lips salaciously, and I giggle out of discomfort. She’s all talk and no bite. Worried about grades and our futures, neither of us have been kissed.   

“Here they come,” I say of the thirty or so new students that will grace the halls of Hillbrook next school year. Twenty of them have been here since they were three years old, but the rest have never entered our hallowed halls.

Arrogant, the legacies have ate in this cafeteria for over a decade, but the newbies show no chinks in their armor. They don’t enter as I did and still do on occasion– heads down and shoulders curled, shrinking into themselves.

Swallowing hard, a ball forms in my stomach, knowing a child in preschool, someone in my graduating class, or one of these freshmen could possibly be a future president of the United States, or go on to cure cancer, or create a revolutionary idea to change the way we live our everyday lives.
I’m witnessing history being made. A mark on a journey of a great man or woman. I’m an outside observer, never in a million years believing I’d be sitting here. I’ll forever be Reggie from the block, earning my way but never believing I deserve to be here. I have the brains and guts to grab for it, but those positions of power are only handed to a legacy, never to the daughter of a second-generation Irish-American bus driver.

With great respect, I meet the eyes of every child who walks into the cafeteria. The students walk with their shoulders back and their heads held high. Sure of themselves, filled with pride and confidence, they are the future of our nation. They never get intimidated, even by the ninety kids in the cafeteria who are older and smarter. That isn’t the currency they go by– it’s green. Money is power. They aren’t intimidated because most of the newbies’ families have more money and power than the ones who are seated.

Stunned silent, I watch as a few students rise up and pull the new freshmen from their ranks to sit with them.

Fate runs up to her little sister, Faith, and hugs her proudly. Bony arms locked around one another, blonde hair flutters as the sisters rock each other back and forth while giggling and making happy sounds. Broad smile on her pixie-like face, the small girl waves at me, and I wave back.

Faith is a good girl. Born in Dominion but raised in West Virginia with her aunt. She hasn’t developed the attitude of the Simpson family, yet to fall into the trap that the rest of these kids are already ensnared in. They’re too blind to see that their fate has been sealed. It’s too late for them to make their own way. Yes, they have money, but at what cost? Freedom. It’s the cost of their true selves and their happiness.

Snapping me away from the scene playing out before me, “Hi,” a cute boy with tan skin, huge gray eyes, and black hair greets me.

An odd smile tugs at my lips as I glance up at the newcomer. Covered in baby fat, the mixed kid looks like he should be hanging outside of my building with Stanton Green’s teenage enforcer, Julio Ramirez. Not to sound racist, but even I’m not white enough for Hillbrook, and I burn in the sun after five minutes.

Eyes twinkling with mischievousness, grin charming, I can’t help but feel a pull toward the jailbait kid. He’s another outsider in this pure, six-finger environment.

“Hi,” I mutter back firmly, refusing to show any vulnerability. I’ve learned over the past four years that meekness is a weakness to these predators. No matter how much they think they’re better than me, it doesn’t mean they are.

Making himself known, “Stop leering at the lady,” another boy chastises with a soft, punishing cuff to the back of the other boy’s head. “That’s rude.” The charmer shrinks back, rejection flashing across his chubby face.

Baby fat already burnt off by puberty, the bossy kid looks similar enough to the charmer to be brothers, except their skin and hair color are at opposites: nearly albino white, meaning he’s probably Dominion royalty, while the other kid is dark enough that one of his parents has to be of Mexican descent. The differences stop at skin-deep, because their smoky gray eyes and the form of bodies are identical.

Bastard brothers? Maybe Daddy stepped out on Mommy like Fate and Faith’s dad did.
Tall and graceful, the pale one gestures to himself and then his pouting companion. “Hello, I’m Ezra Holden-Zeitler, and this rude bastard is Cortez Hunter.”

Not brothers, then.

That hyphenated last name means both sides of his family are Dominion founders. Ezra’s top of the food chain, which explains why over a hundred pairs of eyes are watching us with curiosity. You could hear a pin drop in the cafeteria– all the better to hear the dulcet tones of Ezra’s smooth voice.
Ezra extends his perfectly manicured hand for me to shake. I do so, and I’m shocked at how soft his skin is. Softer than mine was when I was a baby. He’s never seen an honest day’s work in his life. But then again, he’s still a kid.

“She’s Regina Regal,” Ade says for me, pushing her way into the conversation, clearly already acquainted with these gentlemen. I don’t mind. I’m not lusting after these cute boys. Not only because they’re babies compared to me, but because I’ve never lusted after anyone.
“It’s always a pleasure, Adelaide,” the smooth voice rolls over us, eliciting a shiver. Not faked or acted, amazing genetics on display.

​Cort rolls his eyes at me as Ezra speaks. Either he’s making fun of the voice or Ade– I don’t know which. I smother my smile by taking a sip of my water, eyeing the pair over the edge of my glass.
Slumping against her chair, completely unladylike, Ade melts into a puddle because Ezra acknowledged her. The guy must be the one she has her eye on. Good choice, girlfriend. When he grows up, he’ll be devastating. I’m positive the sidekick charmer will be, too.

I have a few rules I abide by: I don’t do the rich and no one is worth it in my neighborhood. I’m biding my time for college to find someone in the middle ground to date.

Ezra doesn’t shake Ade’s hand or touch her in any other way to avoid encouraging her. With a kind smile flirting along his lips, he humors her as she rambles on embarrassingly. She has a tendency to do that when she’s nervous. However, Ezra does rest a possessive hand on Cort’s back. The boy leans into the touch, face going from murderous intent to satisfied, and my eyes widen in shock.

No freaking way!

The brightness in my best friend’s eyes informs me she has a massive crush on Ezra, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that she isn’t his type. Where I come from, you’re either observant, or you get mugged, knifed, or raped. Here in the land of opportunity, you don’t notice anything you don’t want to see. I’m sure deep down, Adelaide must realize Ezra is gay, but she’s in denial. Probably the rich are forced to marry anyway– maybe that’s what she’s hoping for. We’re too young to worry about that kind of thing, but many of my classmates are already betrothed to keep the wealth in their families.
It’s not a love match; it’s a business merger.

“We should mingle some.” With practiced ease of many dinner parties and public functions, Ezra orders Cortez as he squeezes the boy’s shoulder affectionately. “We can’t stand here with these graduates. Sadly, these lovely ladies won’t be here with us next year and we must build reliable connections early on.”

Both boys blaze brilliant smiles at me, flashing their pearly, bright teeth. The smile Ezra gives Ade is fond, whereas Cortez’s is a feral bearing of teeth. I bet he doesn’t like her looking at his guy with marital intent.  

Adelaide’s thin lips stretch across her face in a huge grin. She tosses her shoulder-length blonde hair, trying to bring attention to it, and it doesn’t have an impact.

I watch as the boys approach the table where Fate and Faith are sitting. Both girls give them a cursory half-second look to see who it is, and then go back to chatting with their friends. They aren’t impressed, but most of these kids have grown up together since birth. It’s too much like siblings to get excited over one another.

“I’m going to be Mrs. Ezra Zeitler someday,” Adelaide declares with a great wealth of pride. “My father has been negotiating with Diane Holden for the past few months.” Her eyes glaze over with an insane level of want. I don’t know if Ade wants Ezra as a person, or just wants to know she can acquire him.
“Doesn’t the kid get a choice?” I scoff, appalled. “He’s a child.” I have more freedom as poor white trash than these rich children have.

I’d rather be poor than owned.

“No, Ezra doesn’t,” Adelaide states firmly. “We marry who our parents tell us to marry. Katherine was lucky because she fell in love with Kent here at Hillbrook, so that made the betrothal easy-peasy.”
“Easy-peasy?” I bite back a few choice words, but I am happy for Ade’s older sister. Katie is a pleasant girl to be around, and I wouldn’t wish an arranged marriage on my worst enemy. She had the bad luck of her husband becoming a Junior Senator.

Politicians are smarmy maggots.

“It’s human trafficking of one’s children, is what it is. The gang occupying my neighborhood has more ethics than that.”

“Oh, Reg.” Ade washes the air away with an outstretched palm. “I was smarter than my brother– Grant waited too long, dragging his feet, and didn’t get to pick. So Father did instead, and Grant is downright miserable with Cora. I picked who I wanted, and Father was pleased it was his closest friend’s son.”
Ade responds like this is normal and perfectly acceptable behavior. The world doesn’t operate like this, and she is ignorant to that fact. You don’t just order up a spouse like you’re catalog shopping.

Hello? Yes, I’d like to order a pale as paper one-percenter. I’d prefer if he had light eyes and hair to complement my own, and a bank account with so many zeros I lose count. Do you have one with political ties from a Dominion founder line? Please and thank you. Easy-peasy!

My eyebrow hitches high. “What if you pick someone and your parents say no?”

The fact that I’m making fun of her goes straight over Adelaide’s head. “You have to trust that your parents know better than you do. If Father says no, then it wasn’t a good match. Father said it was a perfect match for Ezra and me, and Ezra’s mother, Diane, is excited as well. But she hasn’t told him yet. We have to wait for him to grow up some.” She preens like a bird under the parental praise.

My eyes cut to the table where Ezra and Cortez are squeezed in next to Divina Hastings. She’s a pretty brunette who was this year’s freshman. Divina must be a relative of Ezra’s or Cortez’s, judging by the ease of how she touches them. Not possessively so, like you’d razz a bratty little brother. Everyone is chatting animatedly around them, while the boys seem to be lost in their own world, holding a preternatural, silent conversation.

Any woman who steps between Ezra and Cortez is staring down disaster.

“What about Cortez, though?” The looks the kid keeps tossing Ade’s way scream that he’s planning her demise and enjoying the thought.

“Cort’s a nobody– his mom just died,” Ade offers flippantly, and my heart beats double-time.
Gazing at Cortez, I recognize the same pain I’m holding deep inside, and it bothers me that Adelaide can talk so freely about the death of the most important person in your life, especially when my mother is dying. I curl my fists, barely restraining myself from punching the smug off my friend’s face.
“Celeste Hunter was Diane’s companion– Ezra’s mom. They fed from her hand and now she has taken in the orphan. It’s disgusting that Cort’s family was looking for a handout, but it was very sweet that Diane would be so charitable. She’s an incredible woman. I would be proud to call her my mother-in-law.” The haughty tone in Ade’s voice deepens as she speaks. I do love her, but she’s the most pretentious person on the planet.

“No, not marry Cortez. What about Cortez if you try to marry Ezra? They look like a package deal.” I say about the obvious couple. Neither is hiding their mutual affections for the other. Right now they’re holding hands. On top of the table.  

“It’s just a phase,” Ade says with surety, and I do a double-take. Hands still holding, pretty much screaming they’re a couple to every person in this cafeteria. “The rich are never gay. They marry and have a family. I don’t care what my husband does in private as long as it stays private. That’s the rules.”
Ade looks at me like I’m being slow, and I look right back at her incredulously. Private? The boys keep caressing each other. In public. In a Catholic church. There’s no re-stabling that horse.

What a fucking way to live. I cringe.

“I gotta get to my next class– I’ll see ya around.” I stand and toss Fate’s discarded lunch on top of my tray. It’s gross that they never pick up after themselves. I glare at the back of Fate’s head, drilling my disappointment into her brain.

Knowing I’m pissed at her, “Do you still want to study tonight?” Ade’s big blue eyes look hopeful. She can’t stand to be alone for a second, while I revel in it.

“Yeah. Sure– come over after dinner tonight.” I say quickly, hoping she falls for it and misses the fact that I asked her to my apartment, not wanting to set foot onto her estate. I grab her garbage, knowing she would just leave it for the staff to pick up.

“You’re coming to my house.” Ade’s command is laced with the sickly sweet tone she uses to cover her true voice. I don’t like the calculating gleam in her eye.

“Why?” I ask in suspicion. “Why do you keep forcing the issue? Every time you ask it’s more demanding than the last. You sound desperate.”

“I… I…” Ade hesitates, and I can see she is struggling to find something that will assuage me. A small V forms between her eyes.

“Just tell me the truth, Ade.” I huff. “I need to get to class.”

Pain flashes over her perfect features, then she blurts a truth that hurts, but one I also feel to the core of my soul. “I don’t like seeing your mother. Okay? It freaks me out.” She says of my cancer-riddled mother, causing my heart to break. Her words make her look like an unsympathetic asshole, but I can see Adelaide’s point.

I’m my mother’s caregiver, and it pains me every time I look her way, hear her labored breath or the faltering of her heart.

Adelaide isn’t used to seeing anything that isn’t perfect. Also, I don’t doubt that she hates visiting my beaten-down apartment in my shitty neighborhood, too. Some people don’t like having harsh realities shoved into their faces, showing them how much they have to lose should they fall from on high.
“Fine, I’ll come to you.” I stare down at the tray, biting back how I truly feel. “Your father doesn’t like me, remember? He was carrying the preverbal torch at the last school board meeting, trying to get my scholarship revoked.”

“That was not what was going down,” Ade stresses, and the terror in her eyes clues me in that she’s telling the truth. “My mother is your biggest supporter, and Father will never go to battle with her.”
Shuddering, I mutter to the trays in my hand, “Maybe we should go to the library instead.” I’ve never been to Whittenhower Estates, and I don’t think I want to, either.

“I’ll send my driver to pick you up at five. You can eat dinner with us.” She looks excited and I don’t want to let her down.

“No on dinner. I have to cook for my mom, you know that.”

“So make Ella something to eat, but don’t eat with her. I’m not trying to be insensitive, but you need some space, Regina. Every moment with her is precious, I get that. But I can see the shadows beneath your eyes.” Ade’s face goes as soft as her voice. “You’re my best friend, and I want my family to meet you. It’s been four years– I think it’s time, don’t you?” The command is back in her voice, and I want to disobey it instantly.

“I’ll meet Albert out front of my building at five sharp,” I say over my shoulder as I scowl at my best friend. I dump the trash in the garbage, stack the plates and bowls, stow the flatware, and then rinse off the trays with the sprayer. The kitchen staff looks at me with kindness while simultaneously glaring at the rest of the student body in the cafeteria.

“Hillbrook– educating the next generation of pompous assholes.”
 
 

 
Chapter Two
 
I’ll be ecstatic when I’m finally finished with Hillbrook. The Cathedral is at the very edge of Dominion’s business district, placing it closer to Crestview gated community. Like Mount Olympus, Crestview overlooks Dominion, where the legacies are tucked safely behind wrought iron and stone in their founders’ mansions. I’ve never been farther than Fate’s mansion, only seeing pictures of the hidden, sprawling estates in our history books and museums.
 
Whittenhower Estates, Adelaide’s home, is the largest residential property in the tristate area, if not the country, dwarfing most of our institutions, and I’ll be visiting it tonight.

With a foot in two different cultures, it takes a lot of effort to bridge the gap. A twenty-minute subway ride and walking ten blocks to my apartment in a Catholic schoolgirl uniform is pure torture. Daily I deal with constant leers and propositions because I look like a grown woman on her way to work at the strip joint, or the plaything to a deviant with a school girl fetish. A few construction workers mistook me for a guy in drag– I flashed them my nut-free panties to get them to shut up. One guy told me I was an expert ‘tucker’ and my huge tits looked natural.

The farther from Hillbrook and the closer I get to home, the worse the abuse I suffer. My people don’t like anyone who tries to rise above their station, and I’ve been verbally and physically attacked for trying to better myself. The only weapons at my disposal are my bitch glare and my strong body screaming Back Off.

In times like these, I’m no longer envious that my body isn’t petite like Fate’s since I need to be able to protect myself. I’m towering over six-feet and curvy. Big boned. Wide hips. Birthing stock. Huge tits perfect for a wet nurse.

I’m not tiny and pretty, which is what a man needs from a woman. They love helpless, fragile, stupid and giggly creatures who feed their male egos. I can never be any of those things, but the thought of coupling with a weak man who needs me to take care of him leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
I loosen my blonde hair from its bun, releasing the mass that refuses to curl or lie flat. I’m a sight with my wild hair, green eyes, and girly, virginal uniform. Mid-freshman year, just before my last growth spurt, I was repeatedly groped on the subway and nearly raped on my walk home. A group of homeboys dragged me into an alley and assaulted me.

Experience has changed me.
Hardened me.
No one bothers me anymore.

Reaching my block, my eyes cast over the dealers hanging out of the corners, the crackheads’ zigzag strides, and the whores’ dead eyes. I wave to the big, handsome sweetheart guarding the building across the street, and Julio waves back while flashing me a grin.
“Keeping the hood safe, buddy boy?” I call across, projecting my voice over the sound of traffic. I like teasing the burly guy, because I know he has a hand in the fact that I’ve been untouchable for the past few years.

“Reggie!” Julio brightens because I acknowledged him. No way is he much older than I am. Hell, he might be younger than me for all I know. The streets have a way of aging you before your time. “I visited Ella earlier, brought little Bianca with me.”

“Ah…” I press a hand to my chest, eyes watering. I’ve never spoken to our crime boss, but as his enforcer, when I speak to Julio, I speak to Stanton Green himself. Stanton’s a single father, and since I have a way with kids, I’ve watched Stanton’s toddler daughter a few times when Julio was busy.
Employers trust the scholarship kid, and my on-and-off babysitting gig has kept me safe thanks to Stanton putting the word out to all of his employees. If only the elite knew I moonlight for a crime boss…

“So sweet– I bet it brightened my mom’s day. Tell Binks I said hi.” With a wave, I cut into my building, ignoring the piss-stank smell, used syringes, and broken bottles. Security is real tight here in the hood– there’s no front door anymore. I wished Mr. Green owned this side of the street, because he takes care of his property and people.

A baby begins to wail– alarmed, dogs bark from several apartments. Once one kid starts to sob, it’s like a siren call to the others. Infants and toddlers join en masse.

Televised, rapid gunfire is paused. “Shut that goddamned kid the fuck up!” shouts an enraged dad who should be working instead of playing on his brand-new Nintendo 64.

“Feed, change, or hold your own fucking kid, asshole!” With the side of my fist, I pound on the lazy idiot’s door since it was his baby who alerted the entire building. The kid continues to cry, but the game is restarted. “Jesus, you assholes need to be castrated.”

Trudging up the three flights of stairs to my apartment, a litany of bitching plays out in my head. With me going to school, Mom unable to work due to cancer but not eligible for any assistance because I’m eighteen and able-bodied without kids, and Dad’s pittance from social security ran out last week when I reached the age of majority, we can’t afford the rent in a building with an elevator. It’s been really difficult for my mother to make the trek. After Mom’s last doctor’s appointment, I had to carry her up the stairs like a small child. She can’t weigh more than seventy pounds at this point, but it was still a struggle.

I refuse to think about how that was most likely my mother’s last time to go outside of our apartment for the rest of her too short life.

But that able-bodied asshole in 1B can live off the system while playing the latest video games.
Taunting, waving at me in the light breeze from the broken window, the red eviction notice is a mirage in my sight. Growing larger and larger, becoming reality, it’s all I can see as I walk closer. I yank the offending piece of paper off my door, crumple it up in my fingertips, and then pitch it down the hallway, aiming for the manager’s door. I’m not angry with him or the building owner.

I’m furious at my circumstance.

My mother is too ill to work and the medical bills keep piling up. Every time we’ve filed for assistance, the response was that Dad’s SSI should cover us. No medical card, no food stamps– not a dime from the very system my father paid taxes into from the time he was fifteen years old. I barely make enough money to afford food for us to eat by working on the weekends by helping the manager do odds and ends around the building, or by picking up some babysitting money from Stanton or one of the mothers on the block. Those baby mommas are broke, trying to make ends meet while their baby daddies are sitting on their asses, sucking everyone dry like a bloodsucking leech, so sometimes I’m paid in handful of food stamps.

Girlfriends need to get some self-respect and kick the bums to the curb, put the food in their children’s mouths instead of a grown-ass man, and never fall victim to the same bullshit, or else they’ll end up with another kid on their hands and a second deadbeat daddy.

But I have larger worries than the economic devolution of my neighborhood.

Mom’s debt is daunting– a quarter of a million dollars in medical expenses that will fall onto me when she passes away. They’ve cut us off at the pharmacy, half-assed sent Hospice our way, will no longer schedule my mother for any doctor’s appointments, and have written my mother off as already being dead and not caring about her comfort and pain-level.

Our life used to be very different. We lived in a nicer neighborhood with the rest of the working class. I grew up in a row house with our neighbors being families with both mommies and daddies. There was a gaggle of kids I used to roam with, all of us going to school together and playing in the park afterward. No gunfire. No drug dealers. No women selling their bodies to pay for their habit. No filthy, health-hazard cesspool of an apartment that is speeding up my mother’s demise.

There was money from the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny dropped off a candy-filled basket as he hopped by, and we had a fireplace Santa would slide down on Christmas Eve to fill the stockings and place presents under the tree.

There was family game night, movie night, Taco Tuesdays and Pizza Fridays. Dad’s green eyes would light up and his freckled face would pink when he looked Mom’s way, then he’d ask her to dance while I played the piano in the front room.

We took vacations to Upstate New York and camped in the Finger Lakes every summer. Dad was waiting on his fifteen-year salary increase from the Transit Authority, promising a better future filled with a home to call our own in the middle class neighborhood, a puppy for me, and a used car for Mom to drive to her job at the supermarket.

Dad earned his raise, and we celebrated by going to the A.S.P.C.A and looking at throwaway puppies, pointing out sporty cars we’d pass on the street, and by sitting around in the evenings looking at the real-estate section of Dominion’s Insider.

Dad was no dreamer, a hard-working man with a family as his incentive, and he was determined to make it a reality. Then tragedy struck, destroying a future that would never become reality.
A drunk asshole ran a red light, plowing into the side of Dad’s bus, right where he was sitting. Since no one else was critically injured, there was no fuss made– no restitutions paid.

Curtis Regal was just a bus driver, and his wife and daughter were worthless when it came to the City’s list of priorities.  

Dad’s pension would’ve kicked in at the twenty-year mark, our insurance was cut off the day Dad died, and we were left to fend on our own with a monthly pittance from SSI.  

Life can change in the blink of an eye, and I’m only eighteen. How many more times will I have to deal with the shift in my lifetime?

At least once more, I remind myself when my mind wanders back to my loving mother. I think she tried to hold out long enough for me to become legal, ensuring I wouldn’t be placed with Child Protective Services.

A mother’s will to survive is only strengthened by her children, and I appreciate how much she loves me. There is only one issue with Mom’s line of thinking– as with any inheritance, I’m legally obligated to pay her mountain of debt.

Long ago, I came to terms that her death was looming– nothing will stop it. But it would have been better for my future if she had let go last month when I was still seventeen. I feel awful for thinking it, like the evilest of human beings. Every day she is with me is a blessing, but my future is now shit before it has even begun.

I try to be quiet as I enter our apartment, knowing Mom sleeps more than she’s awake and I don’t wish to disturb her. The door squeaks on its rusted hinges and I startle, as if freezing will erase the sound.

If we had any furniture, at least it would act as sound absorbers.

“Is that you, Regina?” Straining, my mother’s raspy voice echoes from the only bedroom in the apartment. 

“Yeah, it’s me, Ma!” I yell back. “I’ll be with you in a minute. I have a few chores to do on my way.”

Leaning with my back against the door, eyes slipping shut as my heart breaks wide open, I try to fortify my nerves. Seeing our dilapidated apartment, with all of the precious treasures my father worked so hard to provide long gone, isn’t as difficult as facing my mother. With a deep breath, I shove away from the door.

If there is a chore to complete, I do it because it makes me feel like I’m accomplishing something– anything. I hate feeling helpless, and there is nothing worse than the powerless feeling of impending death.

I clean up the stray clothes, water bottles, and plates that my mother and her visitors left around the living-space. Rich or poor, cleanliness is an issue for both. I see someone spilled tea on my blanket, and unadulterated fury slams into me out of nowhere, and I immediately regret my resentment. It’s not Mom’s fault that her mobility is shit– but it’s not my blanket’s fault, either.

I can’t blame her, but that doesn’t take away that it did happen. Frustration and guilt are the root to most of my mood swings. I pull my blanket and pillows off my bed– the couch– and tuck them safely behind it.

Our apartment has three rooms: a small bedroom that barely holds the single bed. There are no nightstands, or dressers, or even a closet. We pawned all of our old furniture when we moved into this apartment, with my childhood bed taking up residence in the only bedroom. The bathroom is big enough for me to sit on the toilet taking a shit while simultaneously washing my hands in the sink while soaking my feet in the shallow tub. The living-room-kitchen-combo has a couch, no T.V., a two-seater table, and a dinky kitchenette with rundown appliances.

The rent on this hellhole is ridiculous, as is everything else in Dominion. The cost-of-living is exponentially higher in the slums because we’re unable to afford moving to a nicer neighborhood because there are no jobs that would support it.

We’re born here, and unless you claw your way out, we’re stuck here. I’ve been clawing my ass out since birth, while my neighbors have been grabbing at my ankles, trying to pull me back down to their level.

Even though I’m eighteen, at least Dad’s Social Security benefits won’t run out until I graduate. As it is, I have barely enough to cover the rent and utilities. I missed this month’s rent a few days ago because it was either that or no pain medication for Mom. In less than two weeks, with no more SSI flowing in, I’ll have no way to pay the rent. We have sixty days before they gather up our stuff, where they’ll place it on the curb like garbage, and then lock us out. I have no clue what to do.

Mom’s dying. I’m still in high school, and about to be homeless until I start college in the fall. I shouldn’t have to worry about this shit at my age.

With a deep fortifying breath, I peek around the doorframe. “Ma, how are you feeling today?”
Ella Regal is a shallow shell of her previous self. Her blonde hair is no longer silky and long. Now wispy puffs of pure white hair no thicker than a spider’s web freckle her scalp. The rounded cheeks and button nose of youth are now gaunt and sunken in. Her once voluptuous body is now a skeleton of skin-covered bones with a network of protruding blue veins.

I try not to look at Mom and have it affect me. I’ve had to distance myself emotionally, or I would’ve gone insane. There is no way I could ever be my mother’s caregiver and allow myself the chance to breakdown. I don’t have the luxury of feeling grief and pain when the most important person in my life is wasting away, her body cannibalizing itself, with every nerve in her body signaling pain to her brain.

If things had been different, if we could have afforded hospitalization and caregivers, the bond between mother and daughter could have been preserved. I try to give her warmth, but it’s difficult when I have to remain cold in order to be clinical when it comes to washing her body, helping her to the bathroom, and feeding and clothing her. I need someone to hold me and take the pain away, and the only person who can do that needs it from me instead. My needs do not matter, so I have to distance myself in order to survive. I’ve been in a constant state of grief for years on end.

Dad passed away two years ago in the accident. At the same time, my mother was at the hospital being diagnosed with late-stage breast cancer. I had to take care of funeral arrangements while helping my mother cope with the loss of my father and her inevitable demise, all the while grieving in private without a shoulder to cry on.

I’ve never spoken the words aloud that I can’t wait until this battle is finally over, with both of my parents at peace and hopefully together. But I can’t help thinking it on a daily basis. Does that make me a horrible person? Probably, but don’t judge until you’ve watched a person decay before your eyes, both mentally and physically. It’s a form of hell reserved only for the living.

I paste a blurry image of my once healthy with vitality mother over her present decaying version.
“I’m doing better today than yesterday,” Mom lies, voice weak and thready, like she needs a drink but no amount of water will ever change it. Noting every change in her body, I can see a pronounced difference from last week. Especially in her eyes, her green gaze is glazed over in intense pain.
“Ma, did you take your pills?” Voice soft, I approach the bed. I know she didn’t when I see her white knuckling the flannel blanket, a shiver working a way through her body. June, it’s eighty degrees outside and a good ninety in the stifling environment of our apartment, and my mother has three blankets covering her and she’s still shivering.

“Yes, Regina,” she lies poorly– forever the mother provider, even if it lessens her comfort. “I took my medicine just a few minutes ago. Let it run its course.” Struggling to shift on the small bed, she sits up partially to distract me from the obvious. “How was school today?”

Mom’s pain pills cost more than a month’s worth of groceries, or the price of one designer, silk sock worn by a Hillbrook legacy. She’s been skipping doses because we can’t afford the refills. This is her last time on earth, and it should be pain-free– luxury or not.

Ignoring Mom’s attempts at connecting with me, I go into caregiver-mode. “Did you run out again?” I ask over my shoulder as I walk into the bathroom to check the medicine cabinet. Fingers clutching the amber bottle, I give a shake and hear no rattle– empty.
Jesus Christ.

“I’ll be back in time to fix your dinner.” I say as I hurry from the apartment before I change my mind. There aren’t many way to gain some quick cash, but I’d do anything for my mother.

My feet slide along three flights of steps on autopilot, taking me to my destination even if my mind and heart are warring. Exactly where I knew he’d be, I find Roman Alexander holding up the side of my building in the alleyway.

One in Stanton Green’s criminal army, Roman isn’t much older than I am. But around here, by the time you’re my age, you’re on your own. Thank God, he isn’t bad to look at if you’re into the sexy bad boy– I’m not… or so I lie to myself. Jawline sharp enough to cut glass, his Native American ancestry created an exotic creature with a fall of black hair brushing his broad shoulders. His intelligent blue-green eyes take in everything within 180 degrees of him.

“Miss Regal regales me with her presence.” Widened eyes shine, traveling over my body from head to toe, then his lips curl into a naughty smirk.

Groaning with mortification– I forgot to change out of my school uniform.

Roman’s has been after me since before I grew boobs, but not in the predatory way others have been. Kindred spirits. It’s a miracle if you keep your virginity until you’re twelve around here. I’m an anomaly at the ripe old age of eighteen.

“Roman, I need a favor.” I ignore my voice when it breaks. However, Roman misses nothing. “Mom’s out of pain pills, and if I were to take a guess, this will be her last refill.” Eyes held wide to stop the flow of tears, I look at Roman, silently admitting that Mom won’t last until the bottle is empty.

I don’t want to admit it out loud. I feel relief thinking that it would be easier when she’s gone, but I dread it too. I wouldn’t change a thing, as long as she stayed with me, but she’s in immense pain and her suffering needs to end.

I’m not that selfish.

Face softening, stance sagging against the building, Roman projects sympathy but no pity. “I don’t traffic that kind of thing, sweetheart. You know that. I’m sure your mom has a prescription for them.” His voice is a soothing wash over my throbbing emotions, and I know he’s merely placating me. “It would take Stan a couple days to track down a supplier, and I assume you need them immediately.”
“I know,” I admit while scrubbing a hand over my face. “It’s not that– we have a few refills left, but I don’t have any money and she’s in horrific pain right now.”

Frustrated, on the edge of either murdering something or holding up a convenience store, I stomp my Mary-Jane on the pavement. Roman’s sharp bark of laughter turns into a grin. He thinks I’m being cute and it pisses me off. This is life or death– I’m not asking him for a date.

“Are you saying you want to work for it?” He arches a perfect, black eyebrow at me in surprise.
Shaking my head left and right, I plead with him. “I’m willing to do anything I need to do to take her pain away.”

“You know I can’t put you on the streets to sell even if you changed your clothes.” Roman tugs at my skirt. “We all know the smartass Regina Regal goes to Hillbrook and has a fancy scholarship. No fucking way would they buy anything from you, sweetheart.” He leans against the building and folds his arms over his chest, bulging the muscles. It’s impressive, but I’m not impressed.

Losing the pleading tone, I get down to business. “I need two hundred and thirty bucks for a refill, and I’ll do anything you want to get it.”

Roman’s eyebrow hitches sinisterly high with interest. “Anything?” He drawls, curling the word around his tongue, and I nod my head yes in reply. “Then follow me…” He pushes from the wall and swaggers away.

Shoulders back, head held high, eyes looking straight forward, refusing to show defeat, I follow Roman behind our building to a metal door. He leads me down the cement steps and into the small basement apartment he rents. It’s the same size as mine, but the windows are at ceiling-level and he has more furniture. Dealing pays better– he even has a television.

“This will be the most expensive blowjob I’ve ever had and probably the worst.” Roman’s blunt about it our transaction, and his businesslike attitude comforts me some. “But deflowering your mouth will be worth it– everyone already thinks we’ve been fucking for years. It’s time I had those ripe lips wrapped around my cock.” Salacious, words taking on a filthy cadence, Roman is trying to scare me away.

I flinch as Roman mentions his cock. I’ve never even kissed a guy, let along handled a dick. I’m thankful, though, because I thought he’d demand sex. I know how much the girls ask for on the street, and it’s nothing in comparison to what I’m getting for a simple blowjob, which will probably suck in a bad way for Roman.

I don’t want to do it. At all. But I will. I waited to do this with my first real boyfriend, but it could be worse. Roman, although a lecherous dealer, has been my friend for a long time.

I will do anything to make my mother’s last moments on earth peaceful and pain-free.

Anything.

In the middle of Roman’s kitchen, I drop to my knees in front of him as he stands impassively by. I try to ignore how cold the linoleum is against my bare knees. A slash in the flooring is digging into my skin, leaving an impression that will fade quickly but the moment will forever be branded into my soul.

Childhood lost– no longer a daddy’s girl. I transform into a survivor.

Staring at the bulging crotch in a pair of secondhand jeans, I experience another shift in reality as my world tilts on its axis. Two hours ago I was sitting in Advanced Placement Calculus, going over the questions on our upcoming final. I earned half a college credit from the course before ever stepping foot out of high school. All eight of my senior classes were A.P, so I’m starting college with a head start. Now I’m kneeling before a drug dealer, prepared to give him head.

Chest rapidly rising and falling, nearly gasping for air, my teeth begin to chatter. With shaking fingertips, I fumble with the zipper at Roman’s fly. All of the sudden, my fingers feel swollen with fear as they try for the tiny bit of metal holding back the demanding bulge in his pants.

My eyes roll up to his just as I find purchase with the zipper. I slowly drag it down as my emotions turn from dread to anticipation. Incredible, a rush surges in my veins. Right now, I want to do this for some reason, and I want to do it to Roman. I don’t want this to be the most expensive, worst blowjob he’s ever had. I want to do a good job like I do on everything else. I want to suck Roman better than anyone else has ever sucked him before.

Moving in my periphery, his hand draws my attention away from the glimpse of navy boxers peeking at me through his fly. He whips out a roll of cash from his pocket and peels off three bills. Around here, that’s rent money. But where I spend my days, it’s a daily allowance.

“Keep the change,” Roman murmurs as he hands me three hundred bucks. I take the money with shaky fingertips, and then shove it deep into the cup of my bra.

My fingers resume their fumbling at the button on his jeans, oddly eager and curious. Stopping me, Roman’s grip surrounds my wrist, so softly I barely feel any pressure. With a smooth jerk, he pulls me to my feet, my knees sticking to the dirty linoleum– a popping noise sounds as they break free from the sticky floor. 

More so than confused, I feel disappointed for some reason as I stand before Roman.

“Regina,” Roman breathes my name, hand rising to brush a strand of my hair off my cheek. “That’s because you’re my friend.”

“I-I-I… I don’t understand,” I stammer, cheeks blooming with a crimson kiss of embarrassment, humiliation, and rejection.

“Don’t ever whore yourself out to anyone, do you understand me?” Roman’s voice breaks on the demand. “After your mom passes, I want you to reach for your dreams. You’re too good for this Godforsaken life.” His turquoise eyes are filled with tears, and I can’t stop mine from leaking out the corner of my eyes to fall down my cheeks.

What have I become?

I wanted to suck Roman off, and it hadn’t even crossed my mind that I was whoring myself out for money.

What is wrong with me?

Roman reaches up and wipes my tears of shame away with his rough fingertips. “Remember me someday when you’re a big-time computer whiz.” He kisses my forehead, leads me out of his apartment and up the stairs, and then pushes me outside. “Better run along– the pharmacy on 68th and Carmichael closes at five.” His kind smile is the last thing I see as he disappears back into the depths of his apartment.

In a haze of confusion, I rush to the pharmacy and back as quickly as possible. I have to meet Ade’s driver at five outside of my building. I bought some groceries with the leftover cash Roman gave me after I paid for the pills. Using chores to blank my mind, to erase the consequences of my almost-actions, I quickly prepare Mom’s supper. She can barely hold anything down anymore. I warm up some beef broth and fix her a grilled cheese sandwich. I place it on a tray along with a cup of tea laced with honey and lemon, and bakery shortbread cookies.

“Here ya go, Mom.” I place the tray on her lap, and then hand her two pain pills with a full glass of water. One pill will no longer numb her pain away, and I worry two may not be enough anymore, either.

“What did you do to get this money?” A strong accusation heavily laces her thready voice. I don’t answer her– it’s none of her damn business what I have to do to make her comfortable. In the past two years as she was slowly declining, I know Mom did many things she’s ashamed to admit.

It’s called survival, and there is no shame in that.

Gingerly resting my hip on the edge of the bed so I won’t upset her tray, I turn from caregiver to the daughter Mom is starving for more so than food. “School was eventful today– freshman orientation. Hillbrook was bloated by nine non-legacy students, readying to take the Ivy League by storm.”
“You fail miserably at keeping the bitter edge out of your tone,” Mom admonishes me as she dips her spoon into the broth, but her tone is wicked sarcastic.

Sharing a rare smile with my mom, a laugh flutters from my chest. “I’ll never deny that I’ve had the best education in the country. If I knew who my benefactor was, I’d give them a big hug. But that doesn’t take away from the fact that the kids at Hillbrook are more lost than the crackheads zigzagging down our streets.”

“No one asks to be born.” The dull crunch of Mom’s teeth cracking through the toasted sandwich is a pleasure to my ears. Anything that gives Mom strength is a godsend. “No one should be judged or envied on their station in life. It’s their behavior that dictates whether they are a good human being.”

Smirking, “Is that your way of saying I’m being nasty to my fellow students because they’re asshats?”

“Their parents are asshats,” Mom mimics me, smirking back. “Your peers are asshats-in-training, just as your peers in the neighborhood are users-in-training: drug using, using their bodies with disregard of self-respect, and using the system to the point there is no money for those who truly need it. We’re all victims of our stations in life– it’s up to the individual to drag their own asses out of it.”

“Ah! You definitely saw Julio today. That boy has some odd notions about community revitalization.”

“Stanton,” Mom floors me.

“What?” I gasp, voice tight like I’m speaking through a straw.

Making me earn the information, Mom continues to dunk her sandwich into the broth, then chews thoughtfully. “Stanton came with Julian and Bianca. He’s always liked to visit with me because my personality mirrors that of his mother.”

“You mean from not around here, don’t you?” Cocking my head to the side, I really look at my mother, trying to see beneath the disease. Two years ago, my mother was a stunning woman to the point that if she was in the room, Dad couldn’t take his eyes off her. At thirty-five, she now looks like a body long buried in the ground.

“Stanton Green is oddly moral for a criminal,” my mother muses. “His family lives in Upstate New York on a farm. His stepfather was described as looking like your father. Burly, red-haired and green-eyed, with a strong work ethic. A Marine. Since we’ve moved into the neighborhood, Stanton’s enjoyed my company when he needs a burst of reality, because I don’t thrive on… destructive behavior.”

​“Whoa…” I whisper, mind blown. Roman exhibits some of the very traits of his employer. It’s a good thing he does, because I was wandering down the inescapable path of destructive behavior. The soup my mother is eating was nearly bought and paid for by the rhythmic suction of my lips wrapped around an eager cock.

Shuddering, I change the subject. “Did you have any other visitors today?”

“A few neighborhood ladies.” With a clank, the spoon falls into the soup bowl. “Their constant hovering and gossiping exhausts me so. I’m unable to rest when I need it.”

“I’m sorry, Mom.” I reach over to fish her spoon out of the broth bowl. After wiping it dry with a napkin, I press it back into her hand. “After graduation, I’ll be able to monitor your visitors so they don’t overtax you.”

“All mothers should have a daughter like you, Regina.” Mom sounds wistful as she dips her spoon back into her broth, coming away with barely a sip. “Your father and I were truly blessed when we had you.”

“Dad didn’t think that when he was swatting my ass for being a brat.” I try to use humor to shift the conversation.

“You’ll make an incredible wife and mother someday– your children will lack for nothing that’s important. I wish things would have been different, where I could’ve gotten you ready for prom, been at your graduation from Hillbrook and University… your wedding day. The excitement of finding out you’re pregnant for the first time. Holding my grandchildren in my arms and seeing your father reflected in their eyes.”

“Mom,” I gasp out on a gut-wrenching sob, spine bowing from the force to keep it silent. “Please don’t. Please.”

Caregiver is lightyears easier than daughter.

Ignoring my protests, “Even if I’m not here in body, I’ll be here in spirit. If you ever miss me or your dad, just look to your children.”

Unable to take this for a moment longer, I turn to the side to mask the horror etched across my face. In theory, I can’t wait for this to be over. In practice, I haven’t even grasped the concept of Mom’s death. When it finally hits me, I’ll feel like I’m the one who died.

I finally understand what Ade meant earlier, about how I needed to get away and be me. Every second is an added blessing with my mother, but constantly staring down the Grim Reaper is killing me as surely as he is killing my mother.

“I’m going to Ade’s house for dinner tonight, and we’re studying for our finals after. Albert– her driver is picking me up and taking me home, so you don’t have to worry if I’m late.”

I rub Mom’s bony thigh as I speak. It feels like massaging a dried up twig through a cheap, threadbare blanket, but I can tell the contact makes her feel better– loved. I try to ignore the tactile sensation that leaves me queasy.

I sit with Mom while she slowly eats her meal, and we chat about everything that’s going on at school and random bits of gossip around the neighborhood. This is our routine. We used to do it at our kitchen table, now we do it while she rests in bed.  

I clean up after supper and tell my mother goodnight. Then I charge down the three flights of stairs, knowing I’m late. With an eek! of surprise, I burst out the front door, one that didn’t exist an hour ago. Slamming it against the outside wall, I avoid the rebound, but just barely.

What greets me is a black Town Car idling at the curb with Roman interrogating the driver. Julio polices one side of the street, with Roman on this side. If you’re not from these parts, don’t expect a warm reception.

“Miss Regal,” Albert greets me, looking relieved. The Whittenhower’s driver is a kind, patient man in his late thirties. I’ve ridden around with him for the past four years. I’ve never met the Whittenhower family besides Ade and Katie, but I know their driver well.

“Hello, Albert. Sorry to make you drive all the way over here just to pick me up. Adelaide always gets what she wants– you know that better than anyone.” We share a conspiratorial smile.

“Here,” I say to Roman as I hand him four sandwiches and a few shortbreads. He stares at me in amazement.

I can tell Roman thought I would be angry with him for what he did to me in his apartment. I know he was trying to teach me a valuable lesson on how easily we can stoop to get what we need. How asking a friend for a hand-up is not a handout. I understand why he sells drugs to survive. I don’t judge, and I never will. I always thought myself above it all, though. I was wrong, because even I’m willing to whore myself out to survive.

Using humiliation as a learning tool, Roman knocked me off my self-created pedestal and showed me the error of my ways with kindness. How the hell could I be angry at him for that?

“I seem to have extra this evening after my good fortune. Thanks, Roman. Mom is sleeping peacefully because of you. I will never forget your act of kindness.”

Leaning forward, I kiss Roman on the cheek in thanks, and he jolts as if I’ve electrocuted him. He flashes me a goofy grin that I haven’t seen grace his face since I first arrived in the neighborhood. I kiss him on the other cheek for the simple pleasure of seeing the real Roman filter through his tough guy image. I allow myself a brief touch of his shiny hair, after always wanting to know what it would feel like to sink my fingers deep into the silky strands. His hair has always fascinated me because it’s so unlike my wiry mass. It’s even softer than I imagined.

Stepping away from me while wearing a sad, little grin, “This is your future, sweetheart.” Roman gestures with the sweep of his hand toward the expensive car idling at the curb. “Don’t let anyone take it from you– anyone. Ever.”

I flash Roman a shy smile in reply as Albert helps me into the car. The door cuts off my view of his face, and by the time the driver moves, Roman is already walking away. But I can tell by his jerky movements that he’s eating my sandwiches. I smile to myself and enjoy the smooth ride.
 

 
Chapter Three
 
After a few minutes of idle chitchat about my school performance, Albert sinks into his duty with practiced ease, leaving me to my private thoughts. Leaning on the armrest, cheek pressed against the cool glass of the window, I mull over Roman’s words.

Is this my future? Riding in an expensive car with a driver behind the wheel? While the luxury of it is beyond decadent, it feels more like a trap. The absence of freedom. Merely being the passenger in your life while someone else drives.

If I stay on the academic track I’m on, I’m positive I could afford this at some point, but I’d never buy it. Everything happens for a reason, and as I watch street after street of the slums roll by, I know I was meant to be where I am today to keep myself humble in the future.

Instead of buying an expensive car, I could buy four reliable cars to pass out to those who need a way to get to work. It’s the difference between rewarding the bum sitting on his couch and actually helping the mother trying to feed her family. The indulgence and waste is disgusting. While I don’t advocate the redistribution of wealth because it teaching no one anything, the hoarding of money when it could better lives is sickening.

While my classmates passed notes and mooned over each other, I truly paid attention in economics class. But I paid greater attention to the world surrounding me. Money has greater value to the starving than it does to those who hoard it.

Idling at a stoplight, at the intersection where the lower income section meets the business district, I watch the suit-clad business people eye the service workers as if they’re going to be mugged– the very people who scrub their toilets and serve them their seven dollar coffees. Not tipping their server could be the difference between making rent and living on the street. When desperate, crime happens.

As the Town Car rolls down the street, the buildings get taller, grander– steel and glass. Chrome emblems on the hoods of expensive cars shine bright in sunlight– the elites’ form of a cock-measuring-contest. On the sidewalks stride women wearing stilettos and pencil skirts, receiving wolf-like hungry gazes from men wearing three-piece business suits.

These people are just playacting at being rich. There is having money, and then there is being money. Owning the suit, having the degree, and working at a corporation means nothing in Dominion unless your name is on the building.

The Green Building is up ahead– Stanton Green prefers to live in the slums across the street from me because it’s safer to live with honest criminals instead of sociopathic philanthropists. Humble. Not fucking audacious ridiculousness. 
​
Like a gorgeous eyesore, ominous black-tinted glass surges from the ground with a sense of contained violence, The Edge Building rises three stories higher than any other building in Dominion.
In the heart of Dominion’s business district, the founders play global domination– my classmates’ parents and families. Closing my eyes to the excess, I agree with Stanton Green. I’d rather be back in the hood.

Reality.                                                             

Albert accelerates, causing my eyes to pop wide open. He meets my gaze in the rearview mirror with a tiny smile of reassurance. This isn’t the first time I’ve ridden down this particular highway, and not because my father used to take us on family day-trips and vacations. This road is not the road out of Dominion– it’s the only way to Mount Olympus.

Crestview gated community is a few miles out in the middle of nowhere, resting higher than the low-lying business district and residential neighborhoods. The land Dominion’s founding fathers first settled looks down upon the city like a disapproving parent.

We slow to a stop for the first of a series of wrought iron gates, surrounded by miles and miles of impenetrable fencing. Just like how having a driver forces you to be a passenger in life, the fence and gate keep more people in than out.
 
Albert rolls down his window to speak to the guard. “Pleasant day, isn’t it, Robert?” He gestures to the backseat. “I have Miss Regal joining me.”

“Very well, then.” The bearded face of the security guard comes closer as he leans into Albert’s window. At first I fear he’s making sure I’m who I say I am, but then I see his lips move. “I’m sure I’ll see you again when one of the darlings forces you to run an errand for their entitled skinny asses.”
Albert’s abrupt laugh is immediately smothered, warping into a repressed snort-like sound. “Oh, no doubt I’ll see you at least four more times on your shift. Off at midnight, are you?”

“And your shift never ends.” The guard leans back until he’s upright, then walks away with a wave, disappearing into his shack.

Albert continues to chuckle underneath his breath as we traverse the wide, straight as an arrow street. Identical mansions dot the street at even intervals, offset, so their gates don’t faceoff with one another.
From what I’ve gathered from Fate on my few visits, the closer you are to the gate, the less power you have in Dominion. Even inside their cage, the founders fight for power.

The Simpson home is the first mansion to greet you upon entering Crestview, meaning Fate and Faith’s family has the least power. The street bisecting the community feels like it runs for miles, but that doesn’t mean there are a lot of residents. The spacing between mansions is thousands of feet wide. Their neighbors share the street, but they are most certainly not their next-door neighbors.
I’ve never been past the first house, so it’s a bizarre experience to pass opulent lawns behind the security of wrought iron fences and intimidating gates. Rolling slowly, I have a sneaking suspicion Albert is setting a pace for me to absorb it all. With my face twisted with disgust, Albert seems to be warming to me by the second, no doubt thinking it all sickening as well.

Abruptly the street just ends, forking three ways. On the left and right, there is another set of gates with guard shacks like at the entrance to Crestview. But in the center is a gothic gate draped in a black, death shroud.

“What happened?” I gasp, heart beating uncontrollably, mind venturing a city away, in a neighborhood the complete and total opposite of this. My mother’s gaunt face flashes before my eyes. “Did someone die?”

Albert draws the car to a stop, shifting into park. “Behind these three gates, and miles and miles of woods, are the original founding fathers, with those they brought here filling the houses behind us.”
Mind reacting to Albert’s verbal cue, my head whips around to stare at the mansions towering behind us.

“The center is Zeitler– the shroud is almost two years old, replaced monthly in homage to Rebekah Zeitler. Way before Dominion was anything but woodland, the Zeitlers were the ones who took charge, getting their hands dirty with the others to build the first home erected in the area. Sanctuary housed everyone while the village was built.”

Nodding, because that’s exactly the history I learned, I watch as pain crosses Albert’s features.

“Sanctuary was razed to the ground almost two years ago. It was a sad time, as not only did we lose an important part of our history, we lost the woman who kept them all… human.”
Throat tightening, eyes tearing up, all I can do is stare in horror at the black shroud’s wind-whipped tattered edges.

Shifting back into gear, Albert pulls to the right. “The left is Holden’s Shadow Haven Estates. Marcus Zeitler married into the family, but he’s still a man without a home.”

“Ezra Holden-Zeitler rolls off my tongue as I gaze out the window, trying to see the new freshman’s home, but there is nothing but the gate and the woods lining the hills behind it.

On the right, the gate opens before us, allowing Albert to drive past the guard shack with only a tilt of his chin in greeting. We’re immediately swallowed by trees. Gazing out the back window, I watch as the gate shuts. The resounding clank locks us in more so than intruders out.

“The founding fathers are a vicious lot,” Albert warns as the car takes the switchbacks cutting the wooded mountainside at a fast clip. Dizziness overcomes me, trees whip by, and the road disappears behind us as we drive higher and higher above Dominion. Fighting off vertigo, my ears pop.

An ominous feeling descends, forcing me to swallow my fear. On some level, I instinctively realize I won’t leave Whittenhower Estates as the same person I was when I entered.

Albert continues to speak as I struggle to keep my equilibrium. “Miss Simpson and young Miss Simpson are good girls, but their father is a worse criminal than our Mr. Green. In the two hundred years of Dominion history, Thomas Simpson is the first to be allowed into our community by anything other than marriage, blood, or bloodshed.”

“Bloodshed?” My heart patters out of control, and I finally realize it’s not the change in altitude. I’m on the cusp of a panic attack.

“Our founding fathers had roles to play in the creation of Dominion. The Green role was organized crime, no different than any other business erected. It was for our protection to police all levels of society, to ensure our reign was never overthrown. All business is criminal in nature, and our Mr. Green is revered with the same level of respect as the Whittenhowers are for their contribution to civilized society.”

“I’m a good student, but I don’t want to admit I understand what you’re saying. Nor do I want to contemplate why you’re warning me in the first place.”

“Good girl, Miss Regal,” Albert murmurs as we crest the mountain.

“Jesus Christ!” I nearly shout, aghast. “I think I’m going to be sick.” Slumping forward, I rest my head between my knees with my hands over my eyes, but nothing will erase the split-second view from my memory.

Owning an entire high-rise in Dominion is the very definition of power. Whittenhower Estates? I thought it was a goddamn joke when they’d toss out the word castle.

It’s no wonder I felt the trees were swallowing me. It’s like I’m being transported more than two hundred years in the past as the tortured heroine in a gothic novel.

Dumbfounded, unbidden, my head jerks up to take it all in. The nausea abates if I ignore the castle and gaze out at the miles and miles of Dominion sprawled beneath.

“The front of the estate welcomes you, the rear overlooks her people. It’s a sight on a clear evening from the back lawns,” Albert whispers in a soothing tone. “Lights as far as the eye can see. The Holden’s Edge Building winks off and on, as if it’s calling out to its master, knowing he can’t see her.”

“What?” I gasp, still ignoring the castle in favor of squinting my eyes to see if the slums darken Whittenhower Estate’s back lawn.

“Each of the three large estates have an advantage. Holden looks directly onto Crestview. Zeitler has its own lake, a natural fortification the originators used for a natural resource and protection. But Whittenhower Estates has the uninterrupted view of Dominion on the whole.”

“This isn’t feudal England,” I snarl, thoroughly disgusted.

“And where do you think the founders came from?” Albert smirks at me in the rearview mirror, enjoying my discomfort. “Well, the Whittenhowers are descendants of highborn.”

“Clearly the Greens weren’t,” I mutter sarcastically.

“Clearly. It’s quite possible they were indentured servants to the Whittenhowers and Holdens, but were smart enough to break their chains. As punishment, they were reduced to lifetimes of crime.” Albert has a wicked streak. “Are you going to look at the castle now?”

“No,” I mutter begrudgingly like a child. “I don’t want to– it makes me sick.”

“It’s impressive in the way a car accident or a compound fracture is,” Albert teases me. “But I’ve learned to look at it as the architectural wonder that is Whittenhower Estates. On the flip side, realize generations of more than two hundred souls would not have employment without this monstrosity existing. Realize, that without the founding families, life would be far worse for all those who live in Dominion.”

“Fine!” With defiance, my stomach flips over as I take in the house where Ade lives. Ade is inside a gigantic fucking castle.

We’re parked at the arc of a circular driveway leading up to a building so large I’d have to exit the vehicle and walk backward, and then farther backward to take it all in. I’d have to walk into the woods to have an impeded viewpoint.

Gray stone as far as the eye can see, with buttresses supporting the structure. The innumerable leaded glass windows have high arches. Menacing gargoyles gaze down at me from the roofline.

“What could the Whittenhowers have possibly done to deserve this?”

“Luck? Being born into a legacy. The three Is. Intelligence. Ingenuity. Industry. They shaped our great nation, isn’t that deserving enough?”

“No.” With clinical eyes, I see the history, not the excessive display of wealth.

The Castle is definitely a ‘her’, because she is watching over her people’s safety beneath. The outbuildings are fortifications meant not only to protect but to defend its master. It’s the law of nature that someone has to be in charge, has the responsibility for the safety and welfare of those they protect, feed, and educate. It’s a continuing cycle, every part having an equally important function. Where it goes off the wheels is the fact that no one should live inside a fucking castle, unless it’s packed to the seams with the very people it’s protecting.

Gothic, dark and depressive, a malevolent force settles over me as I look at the façade of Whittenhower Estates, as if it hides pain deep within its mortar and devastating secrets behind its walls.

​“Misery Castle,” I whisper beneath my breath as Albert opens my car door and releases me into a world I could never envision.

©2015 Erica Chilson 
Jaded, part one of the Queen Omnibus.