Heart of Gold (The Golden Boys - Book 1) Page 3

  “Rina?”

  My voice must have sounded as broken as I felt, because Rina stopped chattering away to herself and gave me her full attention.

  “Why are you friends with me?” I asked on a whisper.

  Rina’s eyes widened and her grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Do you remember the first day of classes at high school?”

  I shrugged and said nothing.

  “I was so nervous. Mom had made sure that I had the latest handbag and the newest phone, but none of that matters if everyone else has the same shit as you. Do you remember Sarah Mallory? Blonde, gap tooth? Her dad owns Mallory's Mill, the big lumber yard on the 603?”

  I nodded, because I did remember but I had no idea where she was going with her story.

  “Sarah made my life a living hell from day one, Harry. No one would even look at me. She told everyone that I had AIDS when I was out sick with Mono.”

  “Fuck, that’s awful.” I hissed in sympathy.

  “Sarah cornered me in the bathroom, remember?” Rina scratched behind her neck, her nervous tick. “You came in, and you have to admit it, Harry. You were a state as a kid. Wrinkled uniform. Worn out backpack that had been duct-taped together. Hair all over the place. You walked in that bathroom with your head in the clouds and the world on your shoulders. One of Sarah's minions had been dunking my head in the toilet.”

  “Ugh. High school.”

  “You scared Sarah off. You had a look in your eye back then. Everyone thought you were weird as fuck. But do you remember what you did?”

  I snorted a laugh. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You swung your backpack at her face. And then when she left, you looked me up and down. Told me I smelt of piss and then pulled out a chocolate bar from your backpack. It was all squished. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. Best friends ever since.”

  I knitted my fingers together. “You needed it more than me.”

  “I kept the wrapper.” Rina said smugly.

  “You did not!”

  “It’s in my wallet. No word of a lie.”

  I laughed to myself and ripped my head back, allowing the warm Louisiana air to run its fingers through the loose strands of my hair.

  “Your Mama has never taken care of you, Harry.” Rina whispered. “But you've always taken care of her and everyone else.”

  We pulled up outside of Langley Hall, Rina’s home. A large white McMansion complete with pool and eight bedrooms. I wanted to bury my head in my hands and cry but I couldn’t. Something prevented me from reaching out and telling her exactly what Mama had done. How she'd clipped my wings. How she'd made it all pointless. How I’d never escape.

  How she'd made me want to die. For just a minute.

  “I don’t know what she did this time, Harry.” Rina wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a hug. The manoeuvre was awkward as we sat in the BMW as it idled on the driveway. “But, you'll be free of her soon. You're almost there.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to correct her. Instead, I offered a watery smile.

  Rina looked like she wanted to say something else, opening and closing her mouth. Her bright red lips pursed and her jaw clenched. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. All of the subtle signs that made me feel uneasy, because anger normally meant getting hurt in some respect. I took a deep calming breath and exited the car, reminding myself that Rina wasn’t Mama and that her anger wasn’t directed at me.

  Rina wouldn’t hurt a fly. She was vegan for Pete’s sake.

  The housekeeper, Rosa, greeted us at the door with a smile and wave. She’d been with Rina since her mother had left Reginald Langley the Third for an insurance broker that used to work in town. Last I’d hurt, Michelle Langley (now Smith) lived in Baton Rouge with her new husband and a Chihuahua named Kimchi.

  Rina had shaken off whatever funk that I’d caused and danced in front of me as we walked through the halls of her mansion. She walked backwards, talking animatedly, as I navigated to her room on the second floor. Reginald Langley was old money, but despite not having a solid job description, he was never home.

  “You’ll love your dress.” Rina gushed. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  I chewed my bottom lip. “Rina, you know I can’t afford—”

  She put her hand on the top of my arm and shook her head. “Don’t care. I wanted to do it. Indulge me.”

  I laughed gently to myself and opened the door to her room. Rina dressed in a gothic vibe; there was nothing mainstream about her. Somehow her room reflected the opposite. Rina’s bedsheets were the colours of male peacock feathers and fake flowers dotted the canopy of her four-poster bed. I walked over and popped my butt down, sinking into the comforter with a happy sigh. My own bed at the trailer wasn’t uncomfortable, per say, but once I’d spent a night in Rina’s bed for a sleepover and it made it hard to get to sleep in my own single when I’d gone back home.

  Rina disappeared in a flurry of dyed black hair and ripped fishnets, darting into her walk-in closet before I could say a word. She appeared a few moments later with a sleek silk dress, high neck with a dipped back to expose the length of my spine. The bottom of the dress was ombre, from bright red on the hem to the lightest blushing pink until it became pure as driven snow at the waist and above. I flattened my hands over my stomach, and my worries about fitting into the clingy material disintegrated.

  Poverty lingers in a way that taints your every thought and decision. I would fit into the dress and there would not be an ounce of fat on me. Fat would imply that I’d had my share of good meals and was accustomed to the sensation of a full stomach. That was rarely the case. Even though the idea of wearing a dress that cost more than my whole trailer (and maybe Raul, my next-door neighbour’s trailer as well) was making me jittery, I forced a bright smile on my face as I took in the masterpiece. The stiffness in Rina’s shoulders dissolved, as if she had been waiting with baited breath for my response to her dress. The sparkle was back in her eyes for the first time since our talk in the car.

  “The stylist is coming.” She said with a cheeky grin. “She's gunna love your ringlets!”

  2

  The Goldryn Masquerade was a tradition in our little southern town. A ball that had been held, every year, since the battle of Baton Rouge.

  Marcella Gold, my mother, was a theatrical sort and the Masquerade was her baby. Every year, on the dot, the Elite of our town would gather at the Gold Manor to drink champagne and rub elbows with the other founding families.

  Mother hadn’t been born a Gold. That title came from my father, a man that people often said was colder than the Arctic and twice as sharp as a knife.

  I couldn’t begin to imagine how Marcella Dubois and Beauregard Gold had met and fallen in love. It didn’t make sense to me. Her warmth and his steel.

  People often said I rivalled my father. I couldn’t argue that; I was shrewd. I liked acquiring businesses and making them profitable. I thrived at cutting costs, even if that mean firing people.

  They called me the Iceman.

  The nickname had come about in High School. No one said the words to my face, but I knew. It had become a persona.

  If I pulled on a smile and started acting like Julian, I’d be pulled into a psyche ward quicker than a hot knife through butter.

  I stretched my arms behind my head and looked at the ceiling. The unfamiliar fabric of someone else's comforter pulled over my waist.

  The reason I was thinking about the Goldryn Masquerade and my high school moniker was stood on the balcony of my hotel room, chatting on the phone in a low voice so that she wouldn’t be overheard.

  I'd known Sarah Mallory since high school. She’d been in the grade below me. I rarely came to town on business, but she was a guaranteed sure thing whenever I did.

  She was also my 'date' to the masquerade in two days’ time.

  Sarah Mallory was an heiress in her own right. The only child to the Mallory's Mill, she was one of the lead lumber dist
ributers for St Ann's Parish. I didn’t have to worry about her wanting my money. She had plenty of her own. I could enjoy the sex without worrying about acquiring a Gold digger.

  I rubbed my hand over my face and sighed.

  I must have fallen asleep at some point, but I couldn’t remember if we'd fucked or not. I was naked, and there was a tumbler of whiskey on the bedside cabinet that implied that I’d been drunk in the last few hours.

  I'd been back in Goldryn Bois for a day, to help Mother with the preparations for the Ball. Not that she needed me. And for the first time in seven years, my cell phone was off and tucked away in my tailored trousers pocket. Which laid in a heap in the corner.

  I saw Sarah's willowy frame behind the gauzy curtains while glancing at the French doors. I didn’t want to stick around. We didn’t have the kind of relationship that inspired long and deep conversation, which suited me fine. She was a booty call and had told me, more than once, that she was happy with the way things were. I think I’d said five words to her in the last year.

  My brothers used to tease me all the time; claiming that I only spoke in grunts and icy glares. I just didn’t waste words.

  People irritated me. They waffled on and asked mundane questions. If you opened your mouth to answer one question, it led to ten others. It was a headache.

  I pulled on my trousers and scanned the hotel room for my shirt and jacket.

  I glanced once over to Sarah, who seemed oblivious as I searched the room for my belongings. I spotted my jacket thrown over the plush armchair by the doors to the balcony. I reached over to get it when I heard a snippet of her conversation.

  “You know I love you. You're my husband. You’re the one I married.”

  I shook my head in disgust. Was she married? Fuck. I'd never asked and she'd never said. I had a feeling that our casual sex wouldn’t continue once I’d left the room.

  “Baby, don’t so this. Don’t file those papers. I love you. I’ll get better. I swear.”

  I shook my head in pity. Wishing I wasn’t around to listen to the aftermath of a fucked up marriage—one that I’d probably helped nail shut—I searched for my shoe, but I couldn’t see it straight away. I lifted the armchair in the corner and saw it had been wedged underneath. Sarah's purse sat on the table, next to the chair, with her lipstick and medication on the floor next to my shoe. I picked them up to stuff them back inside. I turned the medication over, checking the name on the label.

  Flunitrazepam. Aka Rohypnol. I'd bought shares in a pharmaceutical company the previous year, and I’d managed to get them cheaper because of a scandal over that very drug.

  I reached into my jacket pocket and searched for the condom that I always kept inside. It was still there. My stomach contracted in fear.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I couldn’t remember the night before; my eyes shifted to the glass of whiskey on the side and I lifted it to my nose and sniffed. I'd never been drugged, and I wouldn’t have known what a tainted drink would have smelt like.

  The bottle was nearly full, and it was the only one.

  What the fuck had happened to me? I looked at the screen on the hotel phone and saw that it was five pm. I'd lost almost the entire day.

  I ripped the sheet off the bed, searching the room for a sign that we'd had sex but found nothing. My panic began to build, a roaring crescendo. My brain pounded against the walls of my skull like the slow roll of a steel drum.

  I slung my jacket over my shoulders and did the only thing for which I could think.

  I left.

  Shower. Freshly pressed suit and two shots of whiskey. I was right as rain.

  Even though I fucking wasn’t.

  I had a house on Goldryn Row that stood empty most of the year as I favoured my apartment in New York. I'd forgone staying at my own home in town and decided to take up a room in the Gold manor. Mainly to stop Mother from moaning and holding it over my head.

  Nathanial got shit for it every year but he still hadn’t learnt that the path of least resistance was the key to happiness when it came to dealing with the Golds. My youngest brother had a small studio apartment above his tattoo studio in town. Filigree Ink was the self-professed black sheep of the family, despite being my mother’s favourite.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket and tucked it away in a bedside cabinet. I'd left the Peterson Merger in capable hands and I didn’t want to focus on work when I should have been thinking about family.

  Julian was sat in the antique Chesterfield armchair in the corner of my guest room (which had once been my childhood bedroom). My brother's hair was styled to within an inch of its life. Inky black like mine, but artfully arranged in a halo of purposeful disarray. Julian's default expression was an easy smile, with the kind of affectionate warmth that was hard to fake.

  He swung his legs over the armrest of the chair, like he was still in grade school. You'd never know he was a successful business owner.

  I said nothing and turned my back to him, as I arranged my tie carefully. I did not address my brother as I got ready to meet with the decorators for the event. My task for the day was to ensure that the ice sculpture of a rearing stallion had arrived on time and with all four limbs.

  Julian's smile hitched up a fraction when he caught my disinterested glance in the mirror's reflection. I knew he had something to say. I beat him to it without even looking his way.

  “Reginald Langley is looking for a husband for Rina.” I said without inflection. Rina’s father had asked Mother if she could provide him with a list of the male guests. Why Rina Langley needed a husband was beyond me.

  Julian's smile turned brittle. “Rina?”

  Julian and Rina Langley had a strange relationship. There were professed casual friends, but had never slept together. Something that was rare for Julian.

  I brushed the shoulder of my jacket and turned to my brother. “Thinking of putting yourself forward?”

  Julian's lip twitched. “Maybe you should.”

  I shrugged a shoulder but said nothing.

  Julian's expression turned pensive. “Sarah Mallory is your date to the masquerade. I saw your names together on the first table.”

  I had forgotten to tell Mother to remove her. I grunted in response to Julian’s statement.

  “She's married to Hank Kellerman. You remember? Drafted to the NFL, got married at twenty and then wrecked his knee in his first game?”

  “I’ve been in New York.” I replied by way of explanation. I had no idea how Julian kept up with such an abundance of gossip. He was like an old mother hen.

  “Yes, you have.” Julian's face was smug. “Yet, you’re still taking a married woman to the ball. Scandalous.”

  “How’s Nathanial?”

  My brother shrugged. “Fine.”

  “What did he do now?”

  “Sheriff’s got his eye on him for something. He won’t say what.” Julian said.

  That something was Sheriff Bell's daughter, Gwen. I said nothing.

  Together Julian and I walked out of the west wing of the Gold mansion, towards the main ballroom to find Mother.

  Julian had a spring in his step like an exuberant puppy on its first outing. If we had been in public, I probably would have hung back a few steps to avoid him.

  It was an abundance of activity when we reached the ground floor. Maids zipped from table to table, carrying floral arrangements. Several work men were erecting a platform where the string quartet would play.

  “My darling boys!” Marcella Gold had been raven haired once, but her hair had turned white with age. She often said that every teenage rebellion of ours caused a grey hair. Julian maintained that we had nothing to do with it but I agreed with Mother. We weren’t the easiest children growing up.

  Our mother gripped each of our necks in a firm hold and drew us down to her height, encasing us in a cloud of J'adore perfume and buttercream icing. She smelt like home. Covered in Pomeranian dog fur, which had no doubt transferred to my jacket.


  I patted her shoulders as she rocked back on her heels to take us both in. Her eyes sparkled, the same way that Julian’s did.

  “I’ve missed you, Elliot.” Her tone was earnest but it still caused a pang of guilt to ripple through me. I allowed myself a sedate smile.

  “I’ve missed you too, Mother.”

  Marcella Gold clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth and turned to Julian. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Did you pick up the sheet music from the event planner like I asked?” She asked in a calm and measured tone.

  I watched smugly as Julian's own happiness melted into comical shock.

  He blinked. Julian had obviously forgotten.

  “But Mom—”

  “No buts, Julian Timothy Gold. You march your butt down to her office right this second.” Mother wagged her finger. I stifled a laugh but she caught me and brandished the finger of doom in my direction as well.

  Rolling my eyes, I slapped my hand against Julian's chest and used my chin to gesture towards the door.

  “Come on, Jules. Off we go.”

  I fished my car keys out of my pocket, and Julian made his way to my Porsche, dragging his feet like a child. The gravel crunched under my shoes as we slipped into the alcove where the day cars were kept.

  Strangely enough, Nathaniel greeted us as I unlocked my car. He was in the garage, putting his motorbike away. Nate pulled the helmet off of his head and fluffed his shoulder length hair out.

  “Where you guys going?” Our youngest brother fished a packet of cigarettes from the front of his tattered army jacket.

  “Errand.” I grunted.

  “Come on, Nate-y.” Julian coaxed with a wink. “The Golden Boys back in town. Join us. We've got to show the townsfolk our faces.”

  “Or they'll forget who owns every inch of this damn town?” Nate's voice was gravelly and monotone. No one could ever tell if he was joking or not.

  To be honest, even I couldn’t tell sometimes.