“Good, good.” Her fingers tap on the table as she glances quickly around the room. “Your hair looks awful, by the way. I don’t know why you insist on keeping it long. It’s so proletarian of you. You should get a gentleman’s cut.”
“I like it long,” I murmur, but she either ignores me, or purposefully doesn’t hear me.
“Is that suit off the rack?”
The line of questioning needs to be stopped before I lose my shit in the middle of federal prison. By losing my shit, I mean by walking out without another word.
“It’s Tom Ford.”
She huffs, clearly finding my answer acceptable despite wishing she didn’t. Her hair is a little more gray than it used to be, but otherwise the color still closely matches my own. I inherited my light blond hair from her. My father’s hair is black, probably more salt and pepper now after the past few years. But I’m surprised she’s not maintaining her perfect shade of blonde. Lyla Shaw always maintains appearances.
“Well, this visit was nice and all. But you know why we have these. Looks good for my record when my son visits.”
“I graduate in a few months.”
Her eyes cut back to me, a hard glimmer in them. “Finance?”
I want to melt into the earth. “No.”
With a roll of her eyes, she stands from the table. The guard returns and escorts her to the exit, leaving me alone. The prison fades from my view as I walk out towards Claire and the waiting car. My head stays down, counting the taps of my shoes against the hot black asphalt. When I lift my head, the sight that greets me is Claire sitting against the hood of her car, cigarette dangling from her fingers. Fuck if that isn’t a good view.
I gingerly take the cigarette from her extended fingers. I inhale the smoke, letting it burn my lungs until my eyes water at the sting. Sitting between her legs, I lean back so that she can pull the bobby bins from my hair. The strands fall to my shoulders, blowing with the soft breeze that passes over us.
“So?” Claire asks, voice gentle.
“She’s still a raging bitch.” I take a pull from the cigarette, letting the acrid smoke blow into the breeze. The only time I ever smoke is after drama with my parents or a particularlybad boyfriend experience. Claire doesn’t know about the second though. I’ll keep it that way.
Her fingers comb gently through my hair, forcing my eyes to fall closed at her tender care. “You need to stand up to them. Cut them off.”
I flick the ash off the cigarette, frowning deeply. “They’d have no one.”
She hums softly. “They don’t have you either, baby.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, but it’s a laughter full of sadness, full of pain. It’s such a beautiful day outside. Makes me think of Beau. Where he is, what he’s doing? Does he ever think of me? It’s a nice wish. Even if he does think of me, it’s just about the persona, about Trevor. The perfect fake boyfriend is all I’ll ever be. Not worth much more than that.
But sometimes just theideaof him, the memory of Beau, can calm the violent ocean of pain inside me. The pain that says I’m only worth what I can be bought for. His gentle smiles, the warmth of his touch against my overheated skin, the looming promise of what his love could do to me if I deserved it… it could destroy me.
Once we’re back in Georgia, the sun has almost set, and Davis is gone from the clubhouse for the day. Claire settles at the desk, eyes still keenly aimed at me.
“I know this is a really weird question to ask, and it’s crossing a million fucking lines, but would you happen to have Beau Callahan’s number?”
Claire’s gaze doesn’t tear from me. Her eyes sharpen, but her mouth quirks up just a little, as if fighting a smile. My stomach curdles with nausea as she stares at me, only easing once she taps at her keyboard, then writes a number down on a sticky note, pushing it across her desk for me to hastily grab.
She taps her perfectly manicured finger on the sticky note just once. “Be good, Trevor.”
A smirk tilts my lips up as I reach for the sticky note. “I’m always good.”
Claire grabs my fingers, gives them a hard squeeze, before letting go. “I love you.”
I hold the note up and nod in thanks. The note burns a hole in my suit pocket the few moments it takes me to go down a couple of floors. My cold, mostly empty apartment below the clubhouse has never felt less like a home to me. Gaze sweeping the room, I realize that there’s nothing here, nothing has ever been here for me. Going through the motions is all I’ll ever do. All I’m capable of.
I carefully place the sticky note on my kitchen counter with shaky hands. Unable to be in the same room as temptation, I head into my room to shower away the awful day. Even the shower, soft sweatpants, and a cold beer from the fridge can’t calm my racing thoughts.
Two empty bottles later, I stand at the kitchen counter, eyes staring without blinking at the hot-pink sticky note. The numbers that’ll get me to Beau. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s everything with my damn mother, maybe it’s just the need to know he remembers my name, remembers me at all, but I don’t know what to blame my impulsiveness on when I dial his number with trembling fingers.
One ring.
Two rings.
