“Somehow, I don’t believe her,” I grumble, sliding toward the door. Looking over my shoulder at the mayhem behind the gates, I shake my head. “I wish she would stop with her theatrics. She’s always trying to make a point.”
The point being that I hide too much—that people are interested. Of course they are. Me surfacing means more money in the pocket of those vultures calling out to me right now. They want the scoop. The scandal that’ll buy them a new house, Lambo, and wife. As far as I’m concerned, they can go fuck themselves.
Gordy chuckles lightheartedly. “She wouldn’t be Mia without her theatrics.” He would know. He’s been my friend since we were in our early teens. We went to the same prep school and had the same classes, except we come from very different families. His may be rich, but they are the biggest assholes on the planet and treat him like trash for no reason other than they can. His father is some investment banker, his mother comes from old money involving a shoe line, and Gordon is their only child after spending years struggling to have any at all. You’d think they’d see him as royalty then, spoil him rotten, but some people just aren’t meant to be parents, and they’re at the top of that list.
He knows what my sister can be like, aka a pain in the ass when she’s determined, or how my mother is when she gets into her wine after a “long day” which is always on days that end in “y”, and what a dickhead my father is. All in all, Gordy knows my secrets. But unlike most people, I trust him with them.
Opening the back door, I slide out with my head down and instantly hear people shouting my name. I know Gordy is right behind me, ushering me toward the front doors like he can protect me from the paparazzi even though he’s five-eleven to my six-three and a solid fifty pounds lighter thanks to my incessant need to work out and weight train.
Almost as soon as my body surfaces, the loud inquiries start from behind me.
“Kyler! How does it feel to be home?”
“Kyler, why did you decide to come back?”
“Who’s the girl inside, Kyler?”
The girl inside?
I almost turn but hold myself back, not having much time to think about the question before the front door opens and my sister greets me with her arms stretched wide. “You made it, little brother! My god, you must really be eating your vegetables over there.”
I roll my eyes and give her a one-armed hug. It isn’t like she doesn’t stalk my Instagram whenever she can. I’ve seen her comments, which are usually annoying albeit hilarious roasts on some of my pictures. I make sure to post so I don’t become a “Where Are They Now” special down the road like she and my agent fear. There isn’t anything exciting on my feed. Some selfies, a few candid shots of my workout routine at the gym, and a couple of some dates I’ve been on that never went anywhere but the bedroom. I have no qualms with admitting my one-and-done way of “dating” since half the people I go out with only want one thing from me anyway. To say they bagged Kyler Bishop. So, whatever. It’s equally beneficial. We both get off, and they go home.
“Can you let me inside now?” I ask, unwinding my arms from her slim body. She doesn’t look pregnant, but who knows. Mia has always been obsessed with staying a size zero, dieting to new fads, modeling couture fashion that looks like it belongs on prostitutes, and wearing a face full of makeup that ages her. She got used to the lavish lifestyle early on when her first single went to the Billboard Top 100 and her agent insisted that she wear makeup to make herself look older than the fifteen years she was when she hit instant stardom. Clearly, she’s still living in the fantasy world where she isn’t in her late twenties. Not that I would remind her. I like having my balls attached to my body.
“Of course.” She walks in, all but dragging me along with a strength I forgot she has. My sister always asks me if I’m the one doing ‘roids, but her freakish grip makes me wonder if she slips something extra into those weird ass shakes she loves. “Mom is out back with Dylan and the boys, and we’ll join her in a few minutes.”
We stop in the foyer and I look around to see nothing much has changed. There are new pictures hanging along the walls of her and her husband Dylan and their two dogs, or “the boys” as she always refers to them. My mom is in one of them and she looks thinner than I remember, but healthier than the years she was tied down by Harry. Happier. Off to the side is a massive white marble staircase that leads to the second and third floors, carpeted by a hideous white that never made sense to me considering everything here is monotone. Too bright. Too boring. Too fucking clinical. It makes me miss my place on the east coast. It was nothing special, a lot of wood and stone, but nothing like this museum where I could talk and hear my voice echo.
“Before we go any further, I have a surprise. I’m sure Gordy—” She pins my friend with her eyes until he shrinks back. “—already told you because he can’t keep his mouth shut, which is why I wouldn’t tell him what it is. But you’re going to love it.”
I eye her doubtfully until I hear light footsteps coming from behind me, then a soft voice call out a hesitant, “Ky?”
Spinning around so quickly my vision blurs for a second, I’m met with a heart-shaped face wrapped in a tan complexion from the brutal west coast sun, big hazel eyes that I know from the past lean more toward gray than the other colors they’re mixed with, and that button nose she said people used to pick on her for because it made her look “too young” despite her being just that. Young. Real fucking young.
“Jesus Christ.” I don’t even think before I’m in front of her, arms wrapping her up in the tightest damn hug I’ve ever given anybody. Her head lands just under my chin, which means she’s gotten taller over the last couple of years.
“Hey, Lele.” The nickname feels foreign on my tongue as it passes my lips. I squeeze her tighter like I don’t believe she’s really in my arms before stepping back, giving her a quick once over to see what time has done to the girl I once believed was family.
“I wish you’d stop calling me that.” Her cheeks blossom with pink as she kicks the carpet with a sandaled foot. Yep. Still loves those ridiculous strappy things that leave ugly ass tan lines on her feet.
I grin. “Never.”
Leighton Grier. Lele to me, but we all mostly call her Lenny. She must be close to five-eight at least. Tall. Long legs, short torso. Lean. Grown up. Her ebony hair falls well past her shoulders in tight curls I know she hates, and the strands have lighter highlights now to make the dark color less intense. I know for a fact she loathes keeping her hair down, so it wouldn’t surprise me if, by the time I leave today, it’s in one of those braided over-the-shoulder ‘dos Mia always helped her with.
“You’ve grown up, kid.” I whistle and smile when she rolls her eyes at me. I’m not used to seeing her wear makeup, but her eyes are rimmed with black and her lashes look abnormally long, like Mia’s been helping her style her face even though she doesn’t need it. At least it’s not caked on like her mother’s used to be. The woman who gave birth to the purest fucking girl in front of me looked so fake it pissed me off every time I had to see her.
The thing about Leighton is that she could be passed as a Bishop. When she and her mother showed up on Harry’s doorstep with paperwork saying Lenny was his, it wasn’t hard to imagine. Same hair color, though Harry’s has since turned gray over the years, and same wide eyes favoring gray like Mia and our father. Except, Leighton’s tends to change colors depending on the day, her mood, or what she wears. The color is almost always melted lead, but sometimes it turns blue-gray, and on rarer occasions, the orbs will be a light brown. None of our eyes do that. But the papers, which were checked over carefully, on top of our classy sperm donor’s admission that he had had an affair with Leighton’s mother Katherine on more than one occasion, made it certain. Leighton Grier was our sister. Except, the tale became far more complicated than that as time went on.