Page 50 of Fake Dark Vows
The wristwatch barely makes it in time for the big event—probably not the greatest advertisement for one of the world’s most expensive timepieces, being late for its own unveiling. Damon and Kelly gift my father a pure white Arabian horse. My mother and Kelly exchange glances, and it’s obvious that this was my mother’s idea.
I’ve never suffered with paranoia, and overthinking is for other, less well-balanced people, but I’m not imagining Ron’s deliberate attempts to avoid getting drawn into conversation with either me or my mother. So, as soon as the dessert is finished, I head to the living room, grab a bottle of brandy, and slip out of the house unnoticed, following the primitive signs to Swimming Beach.
I toe off my shoes and sit on the sand with the ocean licking my bare ankles. The liquor burns on its way down, but it has the desired effect and blurs the edges of the thoughts raging around inside my head while the cold water keeps me grounded.
Until it doesn’t.
What is it about Rose Carter that has gotten me so addled? The news Sam flew in by private jet to deliver personally would ordinarily have had me packing a carryon and heading straight back to New York, a list of calls on standby for the moment we landed. But instead, I’m sitting on a beach appropriately named Swimming Beach like it was named for the children rather than the adults, with a bottle of my father’s finest liquor and a head filled with thoughts of the temporary housekeeper.
I thump my forehead with the palm of my hand as though that might knock some sense into me.
It was only a kiss. Like sixteen-year-olds playing spin the bottle and ending up in a cupboard for sixty seconds to make out. Was that all it was—sixty seconds? One minute out of a lifetime of experiences, and here I am wondering where I went wrong.
She kissed me back. She wanted it too, or I’d have never crossed the line in the first place, would I? Or have I grown so accustomed to the quick fix that I no longer see, expect, or hope for a repeat performance?
What does that even make me?
I slug back the whiskey and try to drown out the words knocking against my skull like a sledgehammer. It makes me as bad as Damon.
I raise the bottle to my lips again and tilt my head back, surprised when the back of my skull hits the sand and no liquid trickles into my mouth. I tip the bottle and give it a shake. Empty.
How did that happen?
There’s nothing else in it—I’ll have to go back to the house for more and hope that no one notices me. Especially my mother. If my mother notices me, she’ll expect me to chat with her friends about gala events and interior designers and the great fundraising work she’s doing for whatever charity she’s involved in right now.
The world spins out from under me and when I open my eyes, water is splashing my face, and the sledgehammer has increased its output to include a razor-sharp edge to the inside of my skull.
“Get off.” I shove away whoever is trying to wake me up and roll over, cold water lapping inside my ears and filling my nostrils.
I can’t breathe.
I try hauling myself into a sitting position, but my head has swollen to the size and weight of a bowling ball and keeps dragging me back down into the water.
I open my mouth and it fills with salt water. “Whiskey,” I mumble. But they must not hear me because the water keeps coming, and I close my eyes as the world goes black.
“Brandon.”
Something stings my cheek, and I turn my head away. I would swat the wasp away, but my arms are tangled up in the comforter, and my entire body feels heavy with sleep. How much did I drink last night?
The pounding in my head answers the question.
“Brandon, can you hear me?”
That voice… Where is it coming from?
“Brandon, please, blink if you can hear me.”
Panic. It’s unmistakable even through my wooly brain cells. Something bad has happened while I’ve been asleep, and I need to get up, only I’m so comfortable…
“Brandon!” A woman’s voice. “I can’t carry you back to the house on my own. I really need you to open your eyes.”
Carry me? I form the words inside my brain, but I don’t hear them come out of my mouth. I can hear something though. Water. Has there been a flood?
It takes all my willpower and a great deal of fist-clenching to open my eyes.
“Oh, thank god.” The woman’s shoulders slump, but I can feel her warm hand on my chest. Come to think of it, my ribs hurt too. “I didn’t want to leave you here and run back to the house.”
My throat is raw when I try to speak, and my tongue is too big for the inside of my mouth.