Page 30 of Price of Victory (The Saints of Westmont U #5)
NINETEEN
AIDEN
I opened my eyes to the familiar sight of glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across my childhood bedroom ceiling.
They were faded now, their green luminescence barely visible in the morning light, but they were still there exactly where I’d stuck them fifteen, sixteen years ago.
Every constellation I’d created in my twelve-year-old imagination, every carefully placed star that had helped me fall asleep during the worst years of boarding school homesickness.
The comforter slid off my torso as I sat up, the Egyptian cotton sheets that cost more than most people’s monthly rent feeling strange against skin that had grown accustomed to Rhett’s threadbare dorm linens.
My feet hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud, and I slipped them into the leather slippers that had been waiting beside my bed like faithful dogs.
Everything in this room was exactly as I’d left it when I’d gone to college.
Comic books lined the shelves in alphabetical order, action figures still posed in whatever dramatic scenes I’d arranged before abandoning them for more adult pursuits.
Hockey trophies gleamed from their designated spots, a timeline of achievements that had once felt so important but now seemed like artifacts from someone else’s life.
It was a museum of my childhood, perfectly preserved and completely untouched, as if my parents had been waiting for me to return and resume being the person I’d been before I’d learned to think for myself.
I padded to the bathroom in my baggy pajama shorts, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
Ten days of highway motels and gas station coffee had left their mark.
My hair was longer than I usually kept it, curling slightly at the ends in a way that would have made Rhett run his fingers through it and tease me about looking like a romance novel hero.
The thought of him hit me like it always did, sharp and unexpected, even though I should have been used to it by now. Ten days of driving, and I hadn’t managed to outrun the memory of his hands, his laugh, the way he looked at me like I was something worth keeping.
I brushed my teeth mechanically, tasting mint and regret in equal measure, then stepped into the shower that was larger than Rhett’s entire dorm room.
The water pressure was perfect, the temperature exactly what I wanted, but none of it felt as good as those cramped shower stalls where we’d pressed together under barely adequate spray and pretended the rest of the world didn’t exist.
Ten days. That was how long I’d been running from the wreckage of my own making.
I’d driven straight from my apartment to the highway, with nothing but my phone and wallet, no change of clothes or backup plan or destination in mind. Just the need to move, to put distance between myself and the look on Rhett’s face when I’d pretty much accused him of being a corporate spy.
The first night I’d ended up at a highway motel somewhere in Indiana, exhausted and empty and wondering what the hell I was doing. I’d bought a change of clothes at a truck stop, eaten questionable diner food, and fallen asleep to the sound of eighteen-wheelers rumbling past on the interstate.
But sleep hadn’t brought peace. I’d dreamed of Rhett’s voice, the way he’d said my name when I was touching him, the soft sounds he made when he was half-asleep and thought I couldn’t hear him.
I’d woken up reaching for him, my hand finding nothing but cheap motel sheets and the growing certainty that I’d destroyed the best thing in my life.
The days that followed blurred together into a haze of highway miles and anonymous towns.
I’d driven through Ohio, Pennsylvania, parts of West Virginia I’d never seen before.
I’d stopped at scenic overlooks and roadside diners, bought clothes I wore once and threw away, stayed in motels that all looked exactly the same.
No matter how fast I drove or how far I went, Rhett was always there in my peripheral vision.
In the passenger seat of my car, in the booth behind me at every diner, in the mirror when I checked myself into another faceless motel room.
I could smell his cologne in the wind when I rolled down the windows, could hear his laugh echoing in empty truck stop parking lots.
I’d turned my phone off after the first day, unable to face whatever messages or missed calls might be waiting for me.
The world could burn down around me, and I wouldn’t have known, wouldn’t have cared.
All I wanted was to disappear, to find some place where I’d never heard the Morrison name and could pretend I’d never learned what it felt like to fall in love with someone I was supposed to hate.
By day eight, I’d stopped moving entirely. I’d found a motel in some forgettable Pennsylvania town and stayed there for two nights straight, ordering pizza and watching terrible cable television and trying to convince myself that I could just keep running forever.
That was when they found me.
I was having breakfast at the attached diner when the waitress brought over the phone. My mother’s voice was crisp and controlled, but I could hear the steel underneath.
“Enough is enough, Aiden. It’s time to come home.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Then perhaps you’ll find your credit card no longer functions when you try to pay your bill.”
The threat was delivered so matter-of-factly that it took me a moment to process it.
They’d been tracking my transactions, following my paper trail across three states like I was some kind of fugitive.
And now they were calling in their markers, reminding me who really held the power in this relationship.
For a moment, I was tempted to call their bluff.
To let them cancel the card, abandon the car, walk away from everything they’d ever given me, and find out what it felt like to exist without the safety net of Whitmore money.
I could disappear into the mountains, learn to build fires and hunt for food, meditate in silence until I turned to stone like the monk in that old story.
I felt like a steam-powered machine, my clockwork heart ticking mechanically through the motions of breathing and eating and sleeping without actually feeling any of it. Maybe it would be better to just shut down entirely, to find a cave somewhere and wait for my batteries to run out.
But in the end, I’d driven home anyway. Not because of their threats or the money or the fear of being cut off. But because running wasn’t fixing anything, and I was tired of being a coward.
I’d arrived late last night, pulling into the circular driveway of my childhood home like the only son returning from war.
The head of staff had let me in, his expression carefully neutral as he informed me that my parents were already asleep.
I’d climbed the stairs to my old room, past family portraits that tracked my evolution from gap-toothed child to perfectly groomed young man, and fallen into bed without bothering to change out of my travel clothes.
Now, standing in my childhood bathroom with water dripping from my hair, I knew I couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer. They’d given me one night to collect myself, but morning meant facing the music.
I dressed carefully, choosing clothes that would project confidence and competence without looking like I was trying too hard.
The same performance I’d been perfecting my entire life, the careful balance between rebellion and compliance that had kept me in their good graces while maintaining some semblance of personal autonomy.
A soft knock interrupted my preparations, and my mother entered without waiting for permission. She was already perfectly put-together despite the early hour, her hair immaculate and her expression carefully controlled.
“Your behavior lately has been impossible to tolerate,” she said, but her voice carried undertones of worry that she couldn’t quite hide. Her lips were pressed tightly together against emotions that threatened to unravel her composed facade.
“I know,” I said simply. There was no point in defending actions I couldn’t explain, no way to make her understand that I’d needed to run because staying would have meant facing truths I wasn’t ready to handle. “You look nice.”
She scoffed, but I caught the way her expression softened slightly at the compliment. Despite everything, despite the manipulation and the emotional blackmail and the constant pressure, she was still my mother. She’d still worried about me while I was gone, still felt relief at having me home safe.
“We needed you, Aiden.”
“I know that, too,” I admitted. “I just…couldn’t.”
She nodded once, a tiny gesture that contained multitudes of understanding and forgiveness and frustration. It was perhaps the most honest moment we’d shared in years.
“How’s Dad?”
“You can ask him yourself,” she said, her voice softening further. “He’s been asking about you.”
The walk to my father’s bedroom felt like a march to the gallows. I’d been avoiding this conversation for months, had transferred schools and moved apartments and generally reorganized my entire life around not having to face him directly. But there was nowhere left to run.
I knocked softly and entered to find him sitting up in bed, reading what looked like financial reports with the same intensity he’d always brought to his work.
He looked different than I’d expected. Thinner, certainly, but healthier than the last time I’d seen him.
His eyes were clear and focused, his speech patterns normal when he greeted me.
“Dad?”
“Aiden.” His face lit up with genuine pleasure, and for a moment, he looked like the father I remembered from childhood, before business had consumed everything else. “Come, sit with me.”