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“Jesus, Jennifer. What the hell is your problem!?” my father yelled, sounding exasperated.
“This! It’s ten o’clock, and you’re just getting home! We haven’t seen each other in weeks. We both work our asses off and for what? Bills we still can’t afford to pay! What do you want me to do?” I heard him say as he shut their bedroom door.
That fight was only the first of many. Their arguing was a constant occurrence that stayed consistent until I finally left home the minute I turned eighteen and could get the hell out that house. I hated the way my mother looked at my father as if she blamed him for the life she was living. To this day, I had a hard time spending more than a few minutes with the two of them. They would never have to fight about money again, but years of arguments had led to a mutual resentment that refused to dissipate.
Money had ruined their marriage. Money had ruined mine as well, but not for lack of it. It was just the opposite.
My husband had decided that new money and philandering went hand in hand. Once I had earned my first million, he had made it his mission to let me know he had supported me for years. It was if he assumed I would leave him. It was a total…fucking…nightmare.
My ex-husband, Ryan, had taken what he wanted off the top and invested it as he saw fit, so much so that there was only middle left by the time I had put a stop to it. Once he was completely cut off from me financially for pissing away hundreds of thousands of dollars, he began to resent me, though I kept him in a lavish lifestyle. I divorced him quickly and found out the hard way that I would forever be in debt to him for those few years he allowed me to stay at home while he worked. I was still paying him alimony.
Bastard.
The day I finally left him, he accused me of letting the money go to my head. I swore then, no matter the circumstances, I would never legally bind myself to another man. If it were love, it would last, regardless.
He never once apologized for the hurt his infidelity had caused, nor did he try to save our marriage in any capacity. He wanted my money, he made that clear. Ryan made it impossible to be excited about my new wealth. He left me jaded and bitter in less than a year of striking gold, and I would forever be wary of trusting anyone else with that much power over me.
And I have rarely been kind to anyone since.
I may have turned my back on the girl who grew up in this beautiful, hidden gem, but I could never turn my back on Charleston. The city filled with cotton candy sunsets, rich history, and natural beauty never grew old to me. No matter what exotic destination my wealth afforded me, I had only one home.
Charleston in its own right was definitely a playground for the wealthy. There was no shortage of culture, nor was there a shortage of places that catered to the rich. I considered it my little, comfortable corner of the world. It was my territory, and though the sharks had their cove, I still entertained the nooks and crannies to escape the world I was now drowning in. On nights specifically like these, I would make it a point to revisit the places that made me feel most humble despite my success.
I pushed the button for the security glass.
“Carson,” I smiled in the rearview mirror. He was the one person in the world who deserved what was left of my kindness.
“Right away, Ms. Scott.”
Carson was a kind, older man in his sixties with gentle eyes and an easy disposition. I had enough testosterone ramped men in my life, so I welcomed the way he regarded me. He had no personal opinion, and his eyes never offered any judgment against me. He simply did his job well and with ease. His intuition to suit my needs didn’t hurt, either. We had a simplistic relationship that was mutually beneficial. It was the only uncomplicated relationship I had in my life. Pulling up to my favorite secluded spot, I slid on my flip-flops as the sun was making its way down, knowing I only had an hour or so before it slipped beneath the horizon. I quickly made my way down the quarter mile of asphalt that led to the large sand dune that had to be tackled before I reached my view. This hour is what photographers called “the magic hour,” and it was aptly named. The sky was painted perfectly in soft pinks and varying hues
of blue with an underlying burst of brazen yellow. Staring out toward the Morris Island lighthouse, I sat in the sand in my five thousand dollar, Valentino dress without an ounce of concern. A few years ago, I would have never even looked at such an expensive piece of clothing.
I was the woman who swore she would never wear anything so costly, that I would do so much more with that kind of money. I chuckled now at the thought. Just out of spite, I might order a dozen of the same color tomorrow.
Nestled on the beautiful, white sand beach staring at the old, picturesque lighthouse, I could actually feel a familiar pull of something. Something that felt right and different from the everyday heaviness I had grown accustomed to dealing with. Instead of being consumed with thoughts of my next evil deed, or a way to one up the money driven predators in my circle, here I simply basked in the peace that surrounded me. The lull of the waves, the serenity, and infinite wisdom that the sea shared with me was one of the only constants in my life.
Nothing in the game of life really mattered, at least, nothing that I had grown to care about. I was just another hamster spinning the wheel. The world didn’t give a shit about my agenda, good or bad. And while money might buy me a better view of the ocean that humbled me, my money didn’t matter to the ocean one way or another. How I fared in life’s Monopoly game didn’t make one damn bit of difference.
Calm and clarity washed through me in that moment. I no longer wanted to be one of them.
I was wasting my life.
I let the air seep through my lungs and reveled in the sand that grew colder as the sun sank beneath the horizon while the tide quickly engulfed the small amount of sand that surrounded the base of the lighthouse. I loved this spot more than any other in Charleston, though I had never been able to pinpoint why. The strange and misplaced bone yard of old, pale tree limbs enclosed me in comfort as I noted the seagulls’ cries.
The sudden strum of a guitar interrupted the serenity of my Zen-filled spot, and I looked toward the direction of the intrusion. I heard a deep chuckle and squinted in the direction of it. Shielding my eyes from the setting sun, I saw the bare feet and tan, muscular legs first then moved my eyes up to a pair of cargo shorts. The white t-shirt was as far as I got before the sun completely blinded me from him as the strumming picked up and he began to sing.
“I keep pretending this is all a dream,” he sang softly. My mouth fell open at the sound of his voice. I quickly scrambled to gain my senses and mask my shock by retreating in the direction of the sand dune in favor of hearing more. His voice was amazing and whispered over the expertly plucked guitar chords. What was even more alarming was his lazy stance against a tree stub, and the fact that he didn’t even seem to be trying. With the sun still blocking the view of his face, I mourned the soulful lilt in his voice as I made my way back to the car. His last artfully sung words brought a shiver down my spine.
“Your misery makes you beautiful,” he rasped as I stood at the top of the dune to try for one more look. I had walked too far and was unable to see him from where I was now perched but stood there anyway, listening to him finish his song. Deciding that what my songbird looked like was better left a mystery, I turned away, having felt enough disappointment for one evening.
For a lifetime.
It was very close to dark when I made it back to the car. Carson simply nodded, needing no explanation as to where I wanted to go. I thought it sad my routine had become predictable. Then again, it was what kept me safe and away from those who posed the biggest threat to me.
Pulling up to my circular drive, complete with an obscenely sized water fountain, I smiled to myself. My home was the one thing I could never complain about. I had the most spectacular beach house imaginable. There wasn’t one room without a view, and I basked in the fact that I had designed every single one of them, with the right hired help, of course. I had lived in my dream home for two short years and not a day went by that I didn’t appreciate every detail put into it. It was rather ostentatious in size. The marble floor of the foyer, the obscene amount of crown molding, the dark metallics and rich woods all contributed to my need to have something tangible from my fortune. No one needed this much room, but the girl who was forced to share a bedroom with her little brother most of her childhood had no issues with the extra space. In fact, she had actually ramped up the original design to make sure there was enough space in every room, even the closets.
Stripping naked in my seven hundred square foot bathroom, I slipped into a whirlpool of soothing bubbles. My phone buzzed with an incoming message, but I ignored it. The good part about being completely independent was that I had the luxury of answering to no one. After a relaxing soak, I slipped on my robe and covered my skin in silk then lay in bed thinking about the orgasm Devin had given me.
