BECKETT MEETS CALLAHAN MCMILLIAN
Beckett sat uncomfortably on Sebastian and Remington’s couch, crossing and uncrossing his legs over and over again. The out of place feeling that enveloped him when he was around Sebastian hadn’t worn off yet, and the other man paced the living room, talking on the phone and saying things that made no sense at all to Beckett. He talked about estates and endowments and clauses, and Beckett sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in defeat. At the end of the day, he was utterly useless when it came to helping Sebastian and Remington with whatever machinations they were working on to help Rhys get out from under his father.
In the past few days, Beckett had learned a lot, though. Not just about the history of the family and the St. George entanglement with the McMillians, but also the fact that rich people were only rich because of a complicated and confusing string of legal technicalities and loopholes. Sebastian, Rhys, Remington, and the rest of them were brought up to understand the ins and outs, whereas people like Beckett would never have known otherwise.
Beckett had rent and groceries and unexpected healthcare costs and credit limits, where Rhys had creditminimums,and mutual funds, and a lot more that Beckett didn’t. They were different people and they’d lived different lives, and yet, Rhys sneaked him phone calls and text messages whenever he could, whispering him assurances and promises that had Beckett’s heart skipping beats.
The second stolen phone call, Beckett had begged Rhys to give it all up. The money wasn’t important, Beckett had sworn. If he could live on nothing, Rhys could live on a little more, but Rhys had cut him off before the thought made it all the way out of his mouth.
“It’s not about the money,” Rhys had said, all hushed tones and strangled desperation. “Well, it’s a little about the money, but it’s the principle.”
At that, Beckett knew he wouldn’t see Rhys again until Rhys had seen his game through. Because Rhys was calculating and shrewd, but he wasn’t a liar. He had morals and values, and he would do what he’d always done…what he thought was right. This was no exception and, if anything, it was maybe the rule, Rhys’s last chance to prove to himself and everyone else that he wasn’t a bad guy, that he had honorable intentions.
“You look like you want to crawl out of your skin.” Remington appeared from the kitchen with a bottle of water in his hand. He handed it to Beckett and sat down beside him on the couch.
“I do,” he admitted.
“What’s bothering you the most right now?”
Beckett unscrewed the cap and took a swig of water. The thin plastic bottle crackled beneath his nervous grip. He was nervous about a lot of things and he hadn’t bothered to order them from most threatening to least. It was just one giant bucket of horrible preemptive anxiety.
“All of it.”
“Pick one,” Remington said, leaning back on the couch casually. Beckett was met with a flash of resentment at how at ease Remington seemed, but then he remembered these were Remington’s people. This had been his life. No matter how hard he tried to get away from it, the trappings of growing up rich were inescapable.
He sighed.
“Pick one,” Remington said again, and Beckett closed his eyes, mentally arranging the list of things that ailed his mind. “If it’s easier, start with what bothers you the least.”
“That Rhys will change his mind and not want to come back home,” he whispered.
Remington chuckled, changing the cross of his legs. “That’s what bothers you the least? Your confidence in your place with him is admirable.”
Beckett gave him a sharp look. “Shouldn’t it be?”
Remington held up his hands and smiled. “That’s not what I said. It’s admirable that you know your place.”
Beckett’s place was with Rhys. He knew that, and he knew Rhys knew that. He did worry the longer Rhys was away, the more his father would tell him otherwise, but itwaslow on the list of concerns.
“I’m worried that he won’t be able to outmaneuver his father on his own,” Beckett admitted.
He’d heard stories over the first half of the week from Sebastian about some of the clever tactics Rhys had used in the past to get what he wanted. Stories ranging from how Rhys had manipulated their father into buying him an Aston Martin instead of a Range Rover to the way he used to barter his way out of eating carrots at dinner as a teenager. Beckett knew Rhys was smart, probably smarter than anyone he’d ever met, save for maybe Remington who undoubtedly had a vocabulary that rivaled the dictionary, but he didn’t know if that was enough. Rhys had learned to be the way he was because of the environment he’d grown up in, and that had largely been curated by his father.
“That’s fair,” Remington agreed, and for some reason it made Beckett feel better. Remington wasn’t dismissing his fears as childish or trivial. He acknowledged the very real possibility Rhys had met his match. “What else?”
“That Callahan won’t help,” he rasped.
“Callahan will help,” Sebastian said, coming from down the hallway. His hair was wet from the shower, but he was dressed in black jeans and a short sleeve white button up. The top was loose and water glistened where it had collected in the dip of his throat. He was barefoot and looked completely at home and comfortable. Sebastian went straight to Remington like they were tethered on a string. He sat beside the other man and rested his head on his shoulder.
“How do you know?” Beckett asked.
“Because he’s my best friend.”
“From what I hear…” Beckett swallowed. “Things didn’t end well with them.”
“When things end with Rhys, it’s never well,” Sebastian said, interrupted by the doorbell.
It wasn’t reassuring.
