The abrupt question causes me some mental whiplash. What’s this about? Is she having a grandbaby craving like my father? Every time he sees his “rival”—who doesn’t even know he exists—he goes crazy and calls me and my brothers to demand a grandchild.
“Marriage?” I ask warily. When you’re dealing with these two, the less said the better. They’re masters of twisting your words.
“You can’t live alone forever.”
“I’m averyhappy bachelor.”
“Could become an even happier husband,” Mom says, then lets out another puff of smoke.
I don’t buy the cool façade. There had to have been some sort of deal I’m not aware of, designed solely to fuck me over. “What did Dad offer you?”
“Nothing. We aren’t interested in grandchildren—not immediately, anyway—but rather a cementing of the families. The Webbers have two girls. About the right age. Pretty enough,” Grandmother says.
My face twists in displeasure. “No.” Being married to a Webber would mean getting entangled in Huxley & Webber. I’d be hooked like a fish, and all they’d have to do was reel me in. I’m already in more than I’d like because of my unwitting role in my cousins’ abduction, and I don’t want to get dragged deeper.
The family can screampietas et unitasuntil they lose their voices, but I create my own destiny.Idecide the direction of my life andItake the steps to forge my future. That means no fucking Webber is going to be my wife.
“Just keep an open mind,” Mom says, “and think about it.”
“You might just fall in love with one of them in a meet-cute,” Grandmother adds, her eyes twinkling, betraying how pleased she is with herself. Must’ve slogged through more than a few romantic comedies to come up withthatline. She usually likes horror and police procedurals.
Her dedication is terrifying.
“Yeah. When the sun rises out of my ass.” I stand up, leaving the dessert and coffee. “I need to get going before the rain starts.”
Mom frowns. “Rain doesn’t bother you,” she says. I was raised in Europe, then spent seven years in Massachusetts. The sky could spew hail, and I’d be fine on the road.
I look at these two women, whom I both love and hate. “No, but parricide would.”
* * *
The engine of my new Lamborghini roars as I drive away from the Huxley estate. The family should change its motto to whatever the Latin is for Make Huxley Our Puppet. We agreed that if I went to Harvard Law, they’d leave me alone. I never promised to take the bar or become a lawyer, much less join Huxley & Webber. That’s my mother’s dream—probably my grandmother’s too. But it isn’t mine.
Perhaps my graduating top five in the class gave them hope. Grant suggested intentionally flunking out, but why should I look like a dumbass? The classes were easy, and it isn’t my fault my classmates couldn’t do better than they did.
Uncharacteristic sullen clouds sit low in the SoCal sky, hiding a full moon. They’re swollen with rain, and the roads are mostly empty, since most Angeleno drivers fear rain like a zombie apocalypse.
Even after my declaration, Grandmother asked me to spend the night at her place for my own safety—ha!—but I declined because I’m not an idiot. She’s likely planning to ply me with the best whiskey and scotch from her liquor cabinet. For all I know, she might’ve planned a not-so-subtle “meet-cute” with one of the Webber girls accidentally falling into my bed.
Impatience wells. My family isn’t stupid: they’re all Harvard-educated lawyers. They should get the hint that being part of their legal empire isn’t my life goal. I’m building my own domain in advertising—the 4D Agency.
I am nobody’s puppet.
Another wave of resentment rolls through me at the memory of Grandma saying we’ve all benefited from the legacy—by which, of course, she meansme. Trying to guilt me into believing that I’ve taken from the family without giving anything back pisses me off. Dad, who’s not a member of the Huxleys, paid for my education and upbringing in full because he’s a firm believer in throwing money at things he doesn’t have time for. Mom’s always been busy with her legal career—after all, she’s gotta pull her weight—and the Huxleys didn’t have to contribute a penny toward my law degree. They’ve never done me a favor, not even free legal advice. Whatever legal services I’ve needed, I’ve paid for.
Grandma better not be referring to birthday and Christmas gifts. Shopping is her secret hobby, and she buys everyone’s present at least three months early.
Fifteen minutes later, the flat gray bellies of the clouds finally split and water pours down. Visibility deteriorates until anything more than four yards away looks like a hazy shadow. The wind picks up, blowing the rain at a sharply slanted angle. The raging weather reflects my grumbly mood, and it’s surprisingly soothing.
I make a tight turn around a corner, the Lambo responding like a dream. Beethoven’s “Egmont” overture rises dramatically from the speakers as I maneuver on autopilot. It’s the best time to be on the road—just me and the fury of nature.
Something jumps out in front of the car. I slam on the brakes, stopping just an inch short of hitting it.
“What thefuck?”
The headlights reveal a woman in a thin T-shirt and jeans, soaked to the bone. Her dark, stringy hair hangs limply around her face and shoulders. A drowned rat would look better.
Frustrated irritation surges. If she wants to die, she should find a way that doesn’t involve an innocent motorist. She rushesaround the hood and bangs on the passenger-side window, shouting something.
