No note or explanation, just one friend saying to another: God, life sucks. Here is this insanely expensive bottle of rum with which to chase that shit away.
I was a senior, so I’d earned the right to one of the coveted corner single rooms with its own shower. The rooms were passed down from seniors to those deserving. My friends and I had begged, borrowed, stolen, and forged to have these rooms. But it was well worth it to not have anyone around for the shit show that was about to take place.
After the shower, I grabbed my sports drink from my fridge, tossed myself onto my bed, and prepared for hell.
Outside the window, something caught my eye, sinking my already dour mood and making my lips turn down. There she was . . . fucking Iris. The reason I’d taken to two-a-day spank sessions.
Didn’t matter how much I drank or worked out; I could still taste her. I could practically feel her under my skin. And you want more.
My situation wasn’t entirely my fault though. She’d been there in my space with her smart mouth and her fucking freckles and I’d just . . . lost it. With irritation, I glanced down and realized I was hard. Goddamn it.
What the hell was it about that girl?
You better figure it out because you’re going to be trapped with her for months.
Fucking hell.
Tomorrow, I would see if Ms. Sanderson would pair me with someone else. While my mother seemed to think the only thing I was good for was eventually filling a suit at one of Winston’s offices, I was damn good at multimedia and design. If I wanted, I could go to college and study it. Design was nothing that would make her proud though, which meant I still hadn’t made up my mind what I was going to do after I graduated. It was dumb—because I did still want to make her proud—but the idea of working for Winston . . . working for the family . . .
Ugh.
Either way, no matter what I ended up choosing, I was not going to have my opportunities tainted by some no-name girl.
I dragged my eyes away from her because all she was, was a fucking distraction. And she wasn’t even that hot.
Then why are we hard?
My dick twitched as if to argue the fact. But what the hell did he know? I deliberately pulled my blinds down so I wouldn’t be tempted to look out on the lawn at her, Serafina, and Sloane enjoying the sunny day.
Instead, I turned my attention to my phone, hit the speed dial, and waited. Sometimes I had to call twice because my mother forgot. This was not one of those days though, thankfully. But my mother still sounded confused. “Keaton?”
“Yes, Mother, you know, your son? Sadly, we have a standing date, same time every second Saturday of the month.”
She gave me an exasperated sigh. “Of course I know we have a standing call. I have just been busy, that’s all.” Each word was laced with something too well-mannered to be overt irritation, but too clipped to be true politeness. “Well, are you fine?”
“Yeah, Mom. Just fine.”
“Keaton, there is no reason for the attitude.”
I sighed. I should have been used to this. The way she spoke to me as if I was a chart of statistics. “Classes are going well. Straight As. Top of the class. No problems. Rugby is fine. We have a pre-season match against Croft Wells Academy in a few weeks, and I was hoping you could attend.”
She sighed. “I’d love to, but I’ve got too much on my plate with the gala. You know how it is.”
I swallowed the bite of irritation. I did know how it was, and I hated it. The Constantine Foundation was one of my mother’s pet projects, and every year they hosted a massive gala to raise money for whatever the charity du jour was. It took months to plan, and then all that hard work was wasted on four boozy hours in a boutique art museum.
“Well, if that’s all, I’ll just hop off the phone then.”
A tsk. “I do not understand why you have to be like this. It’s just busy here. One day you’ll be home, working for the family like Winston is, and then you’ll see.”
I waited for it. The weight of disappointment. The guilt of not being like Winston—driven and ambitious and controlled.
I didn’t feel it today though. After all these years, I’d finally become numb to it.
When I was younger and Dad was alive, Mom had spent more time with me—at least, that’s how I’d remembered it. But as I got older, she distanced herself. Not cruelly, not coldly, nothing like that. But just like I was a scotch that hadn’t finished distilling yet, a cake that hadn’t finished baking. Which was her prerogative, I guess. After all, what the fuck did I care? I’d be free in a year. I could go wherever and do whatever I wanted, and nobody would give a fuck.
I was a Constantine and the world would be mine for the taking, whether I did what my family wanted or not.
For some inexplicable reason, my gaze darted to my pulled blinds, and I tugged them open because I had to know what Iris was doing. Glutton for punishment. It had to be the call with my mother. I might as well distract myself. And Little Miss Perfect was going to have to do for now.
My mother was still talking about how busy she was and how I had to understand, when she called my name. “Keaton?”
“Mom.”
“I really do wish I could come to your game, you know.” I could hear her trying to think of the next conciliatory thing to say. “Has there been any more interest from scouts?”
“Coach says yes. But I won’t know more until the preseason games get closer.”
“Are you still thinking about . . . doing it professionally?”
It had been a fight when I’d first brought up the possibility at a memorable family dinner a couple years ago. She wanted me working for Winston, period. Married well, period.
In her eyes, none of that would happen if I was travelling the world playing a sport with common people.
But despite what everyone else assumed about a Constantine kid, I didn’t want to spend my days doing fuck-all nothing in a suit, handshaking and moving money around. I needed purpose. Something to do. A reason for existing. And if I didn’t do design, then going pro with rugby wouldn’t be the worst thing, right? Binding myself to some kind of family, artificial though it may be?
But do I really want to play rugby for the rest of my life…?
“I haven’t made any decisions yet,” I told her honestly.
“Good.” She sounded relieved. “And your cousin Cash? Have you checked in with him?”
Cash was a lanky sophomore with great hair and no sense of self-preservation, which I deduced from his immediate attraction to Sloane Lauder—who was basically a knife in the shape of a human girl.
And for better or for worse, he was also my cousin.
“Cash is fine,” I told her. “Same as last year. Not getting into any trouble.” Yet.
“Good,” Mom said. And then paused. “So . . .”
Oh god. Here it comes.
“Are things with Clara going well?”
“Fine.”
Maybe less fine ever since you shoved your tongue in Iris’s mouth.
That had been like a week ago. I hadn’t done it again, so maybe I wasn’t a shitty pseudo-cheater. “But I’ve been thinking.”
She was quiet for a breath. “What do you mean?”
“Clara’s a great girl, but it’s not like we’re getting married or anything. She’s very sweet. I care about her a lot. But I don’t really think that there’s a point in continuing to date her.”