Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I never gave a shit about that feud. Stockton, Spatter, Hegney, I don’t give a shit about a last name. Grandpop and the others can distract themselves with weird revenge fantasies like we’re the rich version of the Hatfields and the McCoys, but the idea of hating some people just because of shit that happened before I was born is extremely absurd.
Still, Grandpop is the spine of our family. He’s the soil we’re all planted in. Without him, I don’t know what we’d be, and we all owe him our respect. I keep telling myself that, even if I think this feud is childish.
“You’ve never let me forget them,” I say with a tight smile.
He grunts in reply. “Of everything I’ve wanted to do, destroying that family’s always eluded me. Don’t give me that look, boy. I know I sound like a comic book villain right now, but it’s the goddamn truth. I’m eighty-five years old, and it’s time I stepped down, but not before I hurt those fucking Stockton cunts so badly they never forget me, and I want you to be my weapon.”
Grandpop stops walking and faces me again. I stare down at him vibrating with energy. Finally, finally, the old bastard is talking about retirement. He’s eighty-fucking-five years old and beyond past the age where he should’ve given up control, but finally it’s time, and all I have to do is play along with his insipid little revenge story.
“What can I do?”
“There’s a daughter. She’s Ernest’s youngest granddaughter. Mother’s that junkie bitch they’re always so ashamed of. I hear Ernest has been looking for a good match for her and plans on marrying her off soon.” He moves closer to me. “I want you to step in. Seduce her. Marry her. Destroy her. Find me something I can use against that family.”
My smile tightens and spoils. “You want me to whore myself?”
“I want you to fuck them. Fuck the girl too for all I care, though I hear she’s nothing special.”
“Why would Ernest ever consider me? He hates you as much as you hate him.”
“He wouldn’t but the girl might. Convince her. I don’t care how.”
I take a deep breath. This feels deeply, deeply fucking wrong, and it’s the last thing I want to do—why drag this poor girl into this stupid bullshit? But I’d do anything to take over the family, and if I have to fuck some stupid Stockton girl to do it then I’ll put on my best suit and my best smile and eat her pussy until she spills all their secrets.
“What’s her name?”
He starts walking again. “Katherine Stockton. Goes by Kat. Find her, ingratiate yourself with her, and get me some revenge. You can do all that and the family will be yours. But don’t take too long, boy. I don’t have forever.”
I nod and let Grandpop take the lead. I stare at the grass, at the valley, at the bushes and the rocks, and the sun climbing into the sky, and I wonder how far I’ll go for this, how much of myself I’m willing to give up to this old man.
And I know I’d give up everything, do anything, kill anyone to get what I want.
Including Kat Stockton.
Chapter 4
Kat
Sara Lynn teeters down the stairs that lead to the events space beneath the main floor of the Oak Club, throws her hands in the air, and grins as the band begins to play “Isn’t She Lovely.” “Thanks for coming to my birthday party!” she shouts over the music, and the audience claps. I swear there isn’t an ounce of irony as she descends the rest of the staircase and gives her big, strapping husband a tight hug, kisses her little boy and her little girl on the cheek, and ditches them for the bar. She’s thirty years old—thirty years old—and still getting birthday parties every year like it’s perpetually her sweet sixteen.
I’d get lucky to get a slice of cake. Meanwhile, darling Sara Lynn gets the events space in the Oak Club, which is basically like Rich Person Valhalla. It’s the most exclusive society club in the country, maybe the world, and if there’s something even more exclusive then I haven’t heard about it. Which is totally possible, since I’m barely ever allowed here, much less somewhere better.
I try not to let myself feel bitter. Sara Lynn’s happy and laughing and surrounded by friends and family, and her kids look they’re having a good time sneaking extra sodas and running around the dance floor, and even her husband is smiling and not drinking too much for once. All the dysfunction of this family is safely hidden beneath expensive champagne, delicious catering, and the ambiance of a vintage speakeasy complete with priceless Tiffany lamps and stained glass leading nowhere. I stand off to the side by myself, sipping a glass of white wine with three ice cubes—I swear the bartender looked like he wanted to throw up when I asked for ice, and he reluctantly plonked in exactly three baby cubes—and watch my cousins milling about, shaking hands, smiling, fitting in, while I wonder what that must feel like.