Page 31

CHAPTER 31

MARCUS

Ashton grabs my hand the moment we step out of the hired SUV with tinted windows. I look back at the heated leather seats forlornly, wishing we could just stay inside, flirting and touching while we drive along. Just another few minutes of ignorant bliss before everything blows up in our faces.

I feel it. Something big, maybe something bad, is lurking ahead.

"Stop fidgeting," Ashton whispers, and presses a kiss to my temple. He straightens the bow tie on the tux that showed up at our room shortly after we exited the shower, along with a tailor to make sure the fit was right. By the time we took a nap, sucked each other off, and took another shower, the garments were waiting for us, along with shoes and matching silky purple bow ties. A small box that I'd ordered, and spent a huge chunk of my meager savings to have delivered discreetly, conveniently arrived around the same time.

"I feel ridiculous."

"You look hot as hell. I'm worried I might not make it long enough to search the office before I need you to fuck me."

I hum in appreciation. "I'm surprised you're not more fidgety, actually."

Ashton chuckles. "Oh, I'm barely holding back, believe me. We're lucky that jock strap is tight enough, but it's only going to contain things so long if you keep looking at me like that," he growls.

I can't fucking help it. Ashton James in a tux is a sight to behold. Everything about him is smooth, suave confidence. From the tips of his shiny shoes, to the one strand of hair escaping his top knot.

Another car pulls up, and we're shuffled toward the walkway. Thus far, I've avoided looking at my surroundings, focusing on Ashton for my own comfort. When did that happen? When did we move from tense, distrustful silence to me linking my fingers through his to calm my nerves?

The James estate is a massive mansion, larger even than the hotel we're staying in. The huge circular driveway is busy with cars dropping off rich and famous guest dressed in formalwear that would rival an Oscar’s red carpet. The path from the driveway to the front entrance to the house is lined with tall, thin cypress trees decorated in tasteful white lights. The grounds are frosted with a thin layer of just enough snow to make it feel like the party planners have control over the weather.

If I thought the outside of the house was imposing, the inside is even more intimidating. The entrance hall alone is nearly the size of my childhood home, except it’s three stories high. A chandelier the size of the SUV we arrived in hangs from the ceiling, dripping with crystal and what looks like diamonds, casting a sparkling glow on the guests as they enter, hand their coats to the staff, and make their way to greet our hosts.

I forget everything else when Ashton wraps his arm around my back and escorts me through the foyer, the crowd growing silent as they watch our procession. Ashton warned me there would be some shocked expressions at first, but that everyone in their parent's circle was especially good at covering their reactions and keeping the gossip quiet amongst themselves. We aren't likely to have to endure any poor behavior, which is another reason we're showing up here like this. Our public appearance, at one of his family's most popular social events of the year, forces his parents to put on a strong front and act like everything's fine. They'll be forced to show public acceptance or face being the subjects of gossip and scandal.

As his parents look up to see what the sudden hush in the room is about, I get the pleasure of watching their eyes shutter through multiple emotions in the blink of an eye. To their credit, their faces give nothing away. Both of them have frozen but pleasant expressions on their faces, so long as you don't look too closely at the way their eyes dilate and focus in on me. It's almost robotic, and a little creepy.

Ashton's mother is the first to break the awkward silence. She approaches her son with a gleaming white smile, taking short but elegant steps in her tight-fitting gold floor-length gown. "Ashton, you didn't say you were bringing a guest. Who is your friend?" she exclaims, feigning surprised elation at our arrival and air kissing both sides of his cheeks.

"Mom, this is my boyfriend, Marcus Vell."

Boyfriend?

We didn't really discuss how I was going to be introduced, but the implications that we're together—as in, together-together —were a given. He said it was to keep me safe from whatever his father could be planning, because he'll be more concerned with public appearances than going after me. But it didn't occur to me that we'd have to pretend to be official.

The moment Ashton says my full name, her mask slips. It only lasts a split second, but the reactions I read in that flash of expression range from disbelief to rage, settling on an expression that can only be described as where did you get the audacity . Ashton smiles down at his mom, knowing exactly what's going through her mind and loving every second of her discomfort.

Mrs. James begrudgingly offers me her hand, which I take and press a light kiss to the top. I mostly do it because I'm not sure what else to do, but I admit I also get a sick sense of pleasure watching her react to my unaffected charm. I learned it from your son, lady. Watch yourself.

"Son," Mr. James says, though it sounds more like a warning than a friendly greeting.

"Yes, father?"

I stand awkwardly beside Ashton as he and his father engage in a little standoff. Wanting this part to be over with, I extend my hand.

"Mr. James, I don't think we've ever actually been properly introduced. I'm Marcus Vell. Roman's son." The little spark of enjoyment I get from watching his expression darken at hearing my father's name is short-lived.

Mr. James gives me a once over before accepting my handshake. "You clean up nicely, Mr. Vell. I remember your father was also very talented at presenting himself as a civilized person."

"When you were stepbrothers, you mean?" Maybe now wasn't the right time to show any of my cards, but I can't help it. The immediate tension in his body, as well as the little gasp of outrage from Mrs. James, is exactly what I need to hold my head up high and not let his disrespect of my father's memory get a reaction from me. "Well, we don't want to hold up the line," I say, hooking an arm around the back of Ashton's waist and pulling him closer. "I look forward to getting to know you better, Uncle."

Ashton’s body shakes with laughter as we leave his parents open-mouthed in the entryway and step into the ballroom. Yes, Ashton's childhood home has an actual ballroom that's the size of my high school's gymnasium. Everything is draped in white and accented with gold. Garlands of deep green and massive Christmas trees are perfectly placed throughout the room to give enough ambiance and cheer without making the space feel crowded. There's a stage where a string quartet is playing somber versions of holiday classics. Behind the quartet, there's a massive gold harp, the musician waiting patiently for their time to shine. It's really something to behold. I whistle my appreciation.

"Yeah, I know. It's a lot."

"I can't believe you grew up here. I've never seen anything like it."

"It's not all it’s cracked up to be. All the staff and parties and people coming in and out…"

I shake my head. "It doesn't sound pleasant to me at all, actually."

Ashton gets a faraway look in his eyes, like he's replaying memories of his childhood here. "It's weird thinking about how I've always been surrounded by people, but I always felt so lonely. I've only ever been a prop to these people."

Annoyed at myself for feeling so mushy towards him right now, I pull Ashton against me and look up into his deep brown eyes. I always thought they looked a bit soulful when they weren't twinkling with mischief, but maybe it was just sadness.

"I see you, Ashton James."

"Can I just be Ash to you?"

"Yeah, baby. I'll call you anything you want."

"How about mine ?"

My stomach does an uncomfortable flip, setting butterflies wild in my chest. My breath catches a little, brain struggling to come up with a response.

"I'm sorry," Ashton says, chuckling. "That was corny as fuck."

I burst out laughing, thankful for the clear escape he's giving me from the conversation. Despite the twinkle in his eyes, I do see him, and I see the hidden pain behind his laughter. It's not that I didn't appreciate what he said. Both my rapidly beating heart and my cock were immediately on board with the idea of Ashton being mine, but I'm not sure that my logical brain is on board. I don't know how to move beyond my doubts and fears about the past, even though I can see him making a valiant effort to challenge the status quo he was raised in.

Wanting to soothe the ache of rejection, because I'm not wanting him to feel that way at all, I turn us so our backs are against the wall. My hand slips from his hip to his ass, pressing into the seam running down the crevice. A little champagne splashes out of the glass he's holding. He tries to cover his blunder by drinking the rest of the contents in one gulp, then chokes a little when I find just the right spot to push.

A server appears out of nowhere to replace Ashton's empty glass with a fresh one.

"I wasn't planning on drinking much at this thing," he mumbles, staring at the glass.

"Hold off, and we can get white girl wasted at the hotel," I say, still looking around for where the hell that server appeared from.

"Are you trying to take advantage of me, Mr. Vell?"

"Are you unwilling, Mr. James?"

Ashton shudders. "Gross, don't call me that."

"You started it."

"Yeah, well, I'm about to finish it." He swallows the champagne, prompting me to do the same. "Let's go."

Setting our empty glasses on a random table, Ashton grabs my hand and pulls me through the ballroom. A few people give us curious looks, but for the most part, no one pays us any mind. Ashton's parents are holding court with the Governor of South Carolina, a failed reality television star who resigned his position as treasurer over a decade ago after getting busted on major drug charges. He seems to be entertaining them enough that they're distracted from glaring at us for the time being, so it's a perfect time to sneak out.

Ashton pulls me through a door hidden behind a panel of heavy velvet curtains. I'm pretty sure this is an employee only area, but it's not like anyone's going to stop him. I follow him through a maze of hallways I'm convinced I'd be unable to memorize if I had grown up here. When we get to a wide hallway with a long, ornate rug running down the middle, Ashton looks both ways before pulling me quickly across the hall to a huge, dark staircase. Noticing how he stays to the far right side of the stairs as he lightly runs up the steps, I follow suit, assuming he knows where to step in case they creak, or our movements can otherwise be detected.

Down another long hallway, Ashton enters a room with a long, dark wood table surrounded by at least a dozen chairs. We rush to the opposite side of the room, where there's another door. This one is locked. Ashton steps up to a very tall cabinet that I thought was part of the wall. He reaches above and fumbles his hand around until he grunts that he found it, whatever it is. Another few seconds and a tearing sound later, Ashton walks back to the door and unlocks it, putting the key in his pocket.

"Done this before?"

"Not even once," he admits, looking at all nervous as he turns a lamp on. "I only knew that key was there because my nanny used it once when I was six. I remember because she had to stand on a chair to get to it. I had no idea if it would still be there."

"Lucky break," I say, blowing out a breath and looking around. The office is dark and ominous with only the light of one lamp. The high ceilings, crown molding, large arched window overlooking the dark, snow-covered grounds, and floor to ceiling dark wood bookcases lining the walls make the room feel cavernous. Ashton walks to the far side of the room, where there is a set of double doors, and flicks on an overhead light. The room still feels ominous, but that could just be because of who it belongs to and what we're doing here.

"Most of the important files are kept through here," Ashton says, leading me to yet another door. This one leads to a smaller room the size of a large walk-in closet. On either side of the room, the walls are lined with large cherry wood drawers, six feet high and the length of the room. At the far end of the room is what I'm pretty sure is a server deck. "I'll deal with trying to copy the digital files, if you want to pick a drawer and start rifling through."

Luckily for us, whoever organizes Mr. James' filing system did so in an easy-to-understand system, but I wouldn't have had to look too hard to find what we're looking for anyway. There's an entire drawer dedicated to V, and my family is the only one taking up much space in there.

"Ashton," I say, working the drawer off its tracks and pulling the whole thing down to the floor so it's easier to go through. Ashton takes multiple files out and lays them out over the floor, completely uncaring whether we make a mess or get things put away. We start looking through them immediately.

The first thing I notice is these files are very thorough. There's information about my grandma, including information about her parents. Her death certificate, along with the police reports and medical records from the accident. My father's file is the thickest. It seems AJames Enterprises really took a vested interest in him. His entire life. From his birth certificate and school transcripts to financial details about his business, all of it is here. Every detail of his life, down to the last job application he put in at the grocery store, is accounted for.

Why would anyone need this much information about someone, even if they felt the need to keep an eye on them? It seems excessive.

My file is less detailed, but no less intrusive. There are a lot of articles about my fall from grace in high school, including pictures of me looking unhappy or caught in a defiant pose. Ashton finds copies of letters to the editor of our local newspaper, as well as letters to the Deans of the two schools that I was being scouted by for college ball. The letters are anonymous, but it’s clear who they are from if there are copies of them here. They all state that Marcus Vell is a troublemaker, that he harassed and defamed his son because of an unrequited crush, causing irreparable damage to his self-esteem and college prospects.

"Well, this explains a lot of things," I murmur, thinking of all the applications and opportunities I was passed up for after the incident.

Ashton snorts derisively. "The fucked-up part is that the opposite is true. I was the one that did those things to you, but he was here turning it around, making sure you took all the blame. I always wondered why the public seemed on Kent's side, when he was so obviously unbelievable."

I shrug. "I just assumed it was rich guy bias." Ashton looks at me curiously, so I explain. "In most situations, the rich white guy is going to automatically get the benefit of the doubt. I have the privilege of a white guy, although I've been questioned about my lineage just because I don't look like a Ken doll like you." I scrunch my nose playfully. "But I'm from the 'wrong side of town', and I don't have a hundred-dollar haircut or wear brand-new brand-name clothes. No matter how neatly I present myself, people can still sense the poverty, and that gives them a bias. Like, for example, every teacher at CVU and even Coach, who has been supportive of me as a player, all think of me a certain way. The scholarship I got, the one I earned busting my ass, working twice as hard as everyone else, jumping through hoops that no one else had to jump through. That scholarship is seen as something given to me, like a handout I don't properly appreciate. So I have to work even harder to prove I deserve it, even though I know none of them are ever going to change their minds about me."

"I never thought of it that way," Ashton says, softly. "I mean, I definitely know people think that way about the scholarship and stuff. But that someone would believe Kent over you because of how much money you have seems like bullshit. Then again, I'm probably guilty of it, too, and didn't realize."

"Know better, do better. Right?"

"I don't know how to make it better. That he did this, I mean," he says, holding up the copies of the letters. "I don't understand why he did this."

"It's not on you to make it better. But if we can find out why he's obsessed with making my life miserable, that might help me be able to move on without this shadow hanging over me."

"Uh, this might have something to do with it," Ashton says, handing over another file. This one has my mother's name on it, and the first item inside the folder is a letter in her handwriting.

Dear Junior,

We've never met in person, but I trust that you know exactly who I am and why I'm writing. This isn't an easy letter for me to write, nor is it something I ever expected I would have to do, but it's clear by your actions that you have hid behind your wealth and power for too long, so much so that you've become blinded to your own cruelty.

The death of my husband was not a coincidence. You may not have murdered him with your own hands, but you know as well as I do that your years of harassment and calculated destruction of his business played a direct role in the stress that ultimately killed him. You pushed him too far, because of what? Some sick obsession with him from your teenaged years?

I'm sure you think it's all over now, that you can erase the past and move on, burying whatever love or guilt you may feel under piles of money, but that's not how this is going to end. You took my husband from me, and now you will have to answer for what you've done. The agreement you and Roman once had is no longer valid. With his death, the last thread of your twisted control on him is gone. Now you have me to contend with, and I have no choice but to hold you accountable for your actions.

I've spent months reflection on the pain you caused my family. I've seen the way you manipulated situations and used your position to make Roman's life harder than it had to be. I see the truth. The way you used your power to prove a point no one but you cared about. You couldn't stand the idea that Roman was moving on, happy, and building a life without your toxic influence. So you played with him, took away his livelihood. You used your influence to keep him down and struggling, reminding him at every opportunity that you still exist, when he just wanted to move on and live his life.

You wanted him to fail. You wanted to break him. And in the end, you succeeded.

Do you feel relieved? Or do you feel as empty as I do, knowing nothing can ever bring him back?

Ever since Roman's funeral, I have thought of the flowers you sent. Such a big, expensive display, with nothing but a company logo and a generic sentiment. Exactly what you are. Big and flashy on the outside, generic and empty inside.

I can't help but wonder what would happen to your company, your name, your empire, if the world knew the full extent of your cruelty. I have the proof. And no amount of money, no bribe, no attempt at silencing me, will change the facts. I could take this to the media, to every outlet that will listen. People will know what you've done. And when they hear the truth, they'll understand the lengths you went to destroy a man who never did anything but love you.

But what I really want to know is why? Why couldn’t you just let him live?

Julia Vell

On the next page is a typed response on AJames Enterprise letterhead, marks along the side showing that it was clearly copied.

Dear Mrs. Vell,

I trust this letter finds you well. I’ve taken some time to reflect on the sentiments you shared with me months ago. While I understand your pain, I must admit that I am deeply sorry for the direction this is all taking. You have my condolences for your loss, and I can only imagine the weight of the burden you’ve carried since Roman’s passing.

I've sought to give you time and understanding that your words are those of a grieving spouse. However, I must address a matter that has recently come to my attention. My son, Ashton, has shown an interest in your son, Marcus. I find it convenient, to say the least, that Ashton’s sudden interest in Marcus coincides with the threats you made in your previous letter. It seems odd that after all this time, your son’s future would suddenly be intertwined with a business matter I assumed was settled long ago.

If this is part of your plan to drag my family into your vendetta against me, I strongly urge you to cease immediately. Should you be foolish enough to involve Ashton in whatever personal crusade you feel the need to pursue, be advised: to threaten my heir is to declare war. And I don’t take kindly to such provocations.

You’ve made your point clear, Julia. Let me make mine just as clear. If you continue with your threats, you will find Marcus’ dreams—his basketball opportunities, the very things that will propel him to a better life—will suddenly be out of reach. I have influence that stretches far and wide, and I will use every bit of it to ensure Marcus never gets the chances you’ve dreamed of for him.

As for your accusations about me and Roman, I would remind you that Roman’s business failed not because of me, but because he was simply not a good businessman. The decisions he made—decisions that left his business vulnerable—were his own. As a businessman, I saw an opportunity to help revitalize the town’s infrastructure and bring in commerce. I understand that you, a bartender with a degree in graphic arts, may not fully grasp the complexities of such decisions. But I assure you, they were made with the community’s best interests at heart. And as for your accusations about my past with Roman, let's be honest, Julia, those are nothing more than a desperate attempt to tarnish my reputation.

I would strongly suggest you reconsider your next steps. If you continue down this path, you will regret it.

Kind regards,

Ashton James II

My eyes close, and I think back to the sometimes-erratic behavior my mom exhibited. She wasn't able to come to a lot of my games because she worked so much, but now that I'm thinking about it, she always came to the games against Easton Academy. And after every game, she'd shuffle me away before I could so much as look at Ashton too much, much less talk to him.

She had to work the night of that championship game, couldn't get out of it. She blamed herself for what happened, and now I understand why.

"My mom provoked him," I say quietly.

Ashton pulls my chin to look away from the letters and face him. "That doesn't make what my dad did okay. It does sort of explain why he acted like you'd done it on purpose. He thought you were trying to set me up."

"My mom thought that, too. She thought you staged the whole thing." I huff out a breath, remembering how upset she was. When she met me in the emergency room later, I thought she might start throwing stuff again. She kept apologizing. "She wanted me to go after Kent Richards until she found out that your dad had gotten involved. She stopped pushing after that, and let me let it drop."

"I think you should have gone after him," Ashton says. "They would have settled to keep it out of the press. You could have used the money to pay for school, taken a walk-on spot on a good team, and you wouldn't have been set back."

"I think I was exactly where I needed to be," I tell him, averting my eyes because I can feel my ears turning red, and I didn't mean for that to sound as mushy as it did.

Coughing, I start shuffling the papers back into their folders, taking pictures of anything that might be of interest later. We’ve taken too much time already. We’re not going to get away with hiding out in this closet all night without anyone noticing we've gone missing.

Ashton grabs the last of the files from my hands and leans forward, his tongue flicking out against my earlobe.

"You know what I think? I think where you need to be is inside me, taking out all your frustrations on my ass.”

That gets my attention.

Should I be more concerned with getting out of this office than I am with getting my dick in Ashton? Yes.

Am I? Apparently not.

For someone who’s spent most of his life being the responsible guy who makes logical, non-self-destructive choices, this feels like solid proof that I've fully lost the plot. I don't know who I am anymore as I follow Ashton out of the file room, eyes glued to his tight ass that I know is wet, stretched, and ready for me.