AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He looks over again, so I treat it as permission to continue.
“There’s so much pressure, all the time.” I swallow. “And the worst part is, I know I place most of it on myself. It’s…this need to be the best. All the fucking time. Hey, how much do you charge per hour for your therapy services, by the way? And thank you for not asking me how it makes me feel. I went to this therapist once and that’s literally all she asked the entire time. How does it make you feel? And how does this make you feel? What about that, how did that make you feel?”
“Do you ever stop talking?” Ryder asks me.
“Do you ever start talking?” I ask him.
He sighs.
“Dan Grebbs it is.”
I turn up the volume, and that’s all we listen to for the remaining forty-minute drive into the city. The lilting calls of loons and mournful wolf cries transform the car into something bigger than the both of us.
As I follow the GPS directions, I realize we’re going to be driving within two miles of my own house in Brookline. The suburb, which is surrounded by Boston on three sides, is probably the most affluent neighborhood in Massachusetts. At the very top of the list, at least.
I’m almost embarrassed to admit it when I say, “I grew up three blocks from here.”
The twinkling lights of the country club come into view. This club is one of the oldest in the state. Sprawling hills and twenty-seven award-winning holes make up the lush grounds. The golf course looks gorgeous in the darkness, with the historical clubhouse all lit up among the backdrop of a vast inky sky.
“Let me guess, your family has a membership to this place,” Ryder mutters.
“No, but they tried hard to court us when I was about fourteen,” I answer with a rueful smile. “Mom was, like, Let’s give it a shot. Who knows, we might love it. So we spent an entire afternoon trying it out. Dad hates golf and tennis, so he played squash and discovered he hated that more than those other two combined. He stole the racket and took it home and burned it in our fireplace. Mom was annoyed when they told her the dress code for women was only white or pastels. And it was the furthest thing from mine and Wyatt’s scene. We did some skeet shooting, and Wyatt got pissed because I outshot him, so he stomped off and tried to score weed from one of the kitchen workers.” I chuckle to myself. “That’s the day we discovered we’re not a country club family.”
I pull into the majestic circular drive and stop behind a BMW in the valet line. At the valet station, I hand my keys to the young man in the white polo shirt and khakis. He opens the door for me, and I realize too late that I didn’t bring any cash to tip the valets. Ryder has us covered, though, slipping the kid a ten-dollar bill.
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Big spender,” I murmur when the car disappears.
He shrugs. “These poor guys basically survive on tips. Least I could do.”
We walk through the arched entryway toward the ornate front doors.
Ryder tugs on his collar, ill at ease. “What now?”
“Now we mingle.”
“Kill me,” he begs.
“How do you feel about murder-suicide? I could easily kill you, but I don’t think I can kill myself, so you’ll need to murder me and then take care of yourself. Is that something you’re comfortable doing?”
He looks at me. “Forget I said anything.”
We enter the fancy lobby, side by side but with two feet of distance between us. It smells like money in here. Looks like it too, thanks to the mahogany-paneled walls and white marble floors. We provide our names at the table tucked away on one end of the lobby, then follow the discreet easel-set signs toward the main ballroom. There, we’re surrounded by a sea of people in tuxedos and gowns.
Semiformal, my ass. Clearly everyone went the black-tie route.
Every single woman we pass scopes Ryder out. That’s usually the case with tall gorgeous men, but it’s also the vibe he gives off. The men here are all slick, wealthy professionals. They’re businessmen, lawyers, doctors. Whereas Ryder… There’s something primal about him. It’s the barely contained power of his body. The way he walks. The intensity in his eyes. The way his expression conveys that he doesn’t give a fuck about anyone and couldn’t be bothered to be here. That bad-boy energy sucks you in every time. Women are drawn to it. Most men are too.
“Gigi Graham!” A stocky man in a crisp suit and graying hair at his temples appears in our path.
I vaguely recognize him but can’t remember his name.
“Jonas Dawson,” he says in introduction. “My firm represents your father’s foundation.”
