Seventy-five. Eighty. Eighty-five. Ninety.
As the numbers on the speedometer climbed higher, something loosened inside Wyatt Edgeworth’s chest. He just wanted it over. The steamy temperature outside warred with the frigid AC pumping through the car’s vents, causing the windows to fog, but he couldn’t cool off. He’d lost his shirt ten minutes after he’d climbed behind the wheel, but he was still on fire.
Sweat and tears pricked his eyes until the numbers swam into a glowing red blob. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision. When that didn’t work, he took both hands off the wheel, digging the heels of his palms against his eyes until sparks danced behind his lids.
Without his guidance, the car veered into the next lane. It didn’t matter, the road was dead. He hadn’t seen another car in miles. Only degenerates and truckers were on the highway at four in the morning. At least that’s what his mother had told him in her most withering tone just before she’d reminded him that his behavior was inappropriate, advising him to pull over at once and wait for someone to come get him. That’s when Wyatt had tossed his phone out the window. He shifted his weight, his skin sticking to the back of the butter-soft leather of his Porsche Cayenne.
Why was it so fucking hot?
The tires whirred as they connected with the white reflective warning strips on the shoulder of the road. He yanked the wheel to the left, only clipping the front quarter panel against the aluminum railing before once more finding the asphalt. He tried to concentrate on staying between the white lines, but there were so many of them.
Wyatt’s head pounded, his tongue Velcroed against the roof of his mouth. His world blinked in and out of focus. He wiped at his brow and pounded on the button for the air conditioning, trying to find a lower temperature, but it was already on the lowest setting. Water. He needed water. He picked up the plastic bottle on the passenger seat, grunting his frustration when it was empty. He crunched the plastic with a scream before rolling down the window and sending it flying too. The car fishtailed, but he caught it before he lost control.
Jesus, I can’t believe you’re the one who lived.
He swiped at the tears on his face, slamming his foot down on the gas and gripping the steering wheel with both hands. The little pink pill he’d taken earlier was at war with the half bottle of bourbon he’d ingested, leaving him tired and wired, his father’s words bouncing around in his skull like a pinball.
What a waste you are. All the money we spent to make you normal… and for what? For you to be down on your knees in a bathroom like some two-dollar whore… at a public event? At one of my events. In front of my friends!
It amazed Wyatt that his father had the audacity to callhima whore when the event in question had a twenty-five-thousand-dollar per plate buy-in. His father had a peculiar idea of normal. Marrying a woman he hated for her trust fund. Selling his soul to appease his base. Kids in cages. Walls to keep out nobody. Yet, Wyatt was the whore. Wyatt was the abomination. What a joke. His jagged laugh was startling in the car’s silence.
What are you even looking for? Attention? Money? What’s it going to take to get you to turn away from this deviant lifestyle once and for all? They have programs… adult treatment centers. Better than the ones we sent you to before. More aggressive. Let us help you before it’s too late. Your soul is in danger.
A sob escaped. His vision was a stream of white lines that ebbed and flowed like he was in the Matrix. He needed to slow down, but he knew he wouldn’t. He knew way down deep in his gut—where he stuffed down all the things he used to think were possible—he wouldn’t stop. His father would never leave him alone. Never let him be who he was. Never let him have anything that might fill this giant gaping hole inside him. What was the point? Of any of it.
He flipped his headlights off, engulfing himself in darkness until the streetlights were shooting stars and the reflectors electricity and people just energy. He was just energy and atoms and if he just let go of the wheel, it could all be over. No more pain. No more hurt. No more frustration. No more disappointment. No more Wyatt.
Wouldn’t he be doing the world a fav—
Metal shrieked against metal like some prehistoric monster and fire trailed along his cheeks and forehead and then he was flying. Was this what it was like to die? The sudden stop stole the breath from his lungs and pain exploded behind his eyes as his body rolled for what seemed like forever.
Was death supposed to hurt like this? Maybe this was hell? Wyatt tried to open his eyes, but only one seemed to cooperate. The night sky swimming overhead showed a world painted crimson. Maybe his father was right, and he would now spend his afterlife tortured for all eternity. He tried to laugh, but it came out as a pained wheeze and the taste of copper flooded his mouth. Did he still have his teeth? He tried to touch them with his tongue, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.
He didn’t remember closing his eyes, but he must have because when he opened them again, a face appeared. He might have screamed if he could manage it, but instead he swallowed hard, trying to focus. The man lingering above him, illuminated by the streetlights, was a round-faced guy with wire-rimmed glasses and a boater’s tan. Only the skin around his deep brown eyes showed how pale the stranger’s complexion was. Did people fish in heaven?
“Holy shit. Are you alive? Jesus. You’re alive!” The man was shaking him, and Wyatt fought the urge to vomit. “Honey, holy shit. Holy shit! He’s alive. He’s looking right at me. Call 911.” Then the man was back in his face. “Hey, try not to move, okay? You could have like a broken neck or something.”
The man had so many teeth. So white. Wyatt focused on the Chiclet-like teeth as he willed his body to give him back control. “M’m fine,” he tried to say, but his tongue was too big for his mouth. He tried again. “I’m fine. If… if you could just get me to my car.”
The guy huffed out a startled laugh. “I don’t know how to break this to you, dude, but you could fit what’s left of your SUV in your pocket. It’s a miracle you’re alive.”
Wyatt’s stomach sank. He couldn’t even do this right. He gripped the guy's hand. “Tell my dad… tell my dad I tried to end it. I tried to do the right thing. Tell him.”
“The senator will see you now.”
Lincoln Hudson stood, fighting the urge to tug at the neck of his white button-down shirt. He should have checked to see if his suit still fit before he agreed to the hasty meeting, but it was too late now. He’d been in fatigues so long the collared shirt was like a noose around his neck. Or maybe it was the job itself causing the choking sensation. Linc couldn’t be sure.
He followed the petite blonde woman down a stately hall lined with ugly blue and gold carpet and painting after painting of stuffy old white men. When they reached a set of double doors, she swung them open with a flourish and gestured for him to enter before flashing him an unenthusiastic smile and shuffling away. A man—presumably the senator—held up a finger in a “one moment” gesture before swinging his chair away from Linc as if that would somehow erect a cone of silence around his conversation.
Linc didn’t give a shit about the man’s phone call, so he prowled the room instead. He counted no less than three dead animals adorning the walls. Two from the endangered species list. Bookcases filled with leather-bound books took up the entire left wall. Linc wandered closer, trying not to roll his eyes when he noted almost every title involved the law, both secular and biblical. This guy must be a laugh at parties. The furniture was all shiny mahogany and the man’s decorator had encased anything not made of wood in brown leather. The bar in the farthest corner of the room displayed an array of crystal decanters filled with only dark liquors. Linc would bet the man had Cuban cigars stashed somewhere in his enormous desk.
“That’s a beltway problem, Jerry. That’s not what I’m about. Listen, I gotta go. Yep. I have a meeting. You give Clare and the kids my love, and we’ll talk about this more when we meet at the club on Saturday.” The man paused. “No. Wyatt won’t be joining us. He’s meeting with some people regarding a clerkship. Yes, we’re very proud. He’s a great kid. Alright. We’ll talk soon.”
Linc returned his attention to the senator when it sounded as if he was wrapping up his conversation. The man hung up the phone, turning to face Linc, giving him his first real glimpse of his new client. He was broad-shouldered with golden-blond hair going gray at the temples and combed just so to hide his receding hairline. He’d lost his suit jacket and just wore a pale blue button-down shirt and a navy-blue tie, loosened at the neck. When he stood, Linc noted the man’s gut sagged over his belt despite the defined muscles of his arms and chest.
“Sorry about that. That man could talk the ears off corn, if you know what I mean. Montgomery Edgeworth. My friends call me Monty.” When he spoke, his tone was affable, his soft Southern drawl speaking of Georgia roots, not Florida. He extended his hand, and Linc shook it, noting the way the man squeezed his hand for far too long and with much more strength than necessary.
What was this guy trying to prove, anyway? Did he think Linc was looking to get into some kind of dick-measuring contest with him? Linc had met dozens of men like him in the service, insecure assholes trying to exert their dominance with these over-the-top displays of masculinity. He found the whole thing rather tiresome.
