Ethans Fal (3 page)

“If it were that simple I would, but you have my name and I will not let my legacy end with this dirty little moment in our history.”

“Always about the fucking name! Keep it; I want nothing to do with it. I just want my baby! You can’t just take her from me…there are laws!” My voice is rising again as I feel myself spiral out of control once more.

“There are laws. You always were so bright, but I only need one parent to sign the adoption papers, since you are in no fit state to make the choice.” His vile smile chills me to my soul.

“Cal would never do that.” Tears instantly wet my cheek. I am so out of my depth with the evil before me. I need Cal. I need Pip. I need my family.

“He already has. What do you think he was dropping off?” He laughs and all I see is a haze of red mist. My hands clamp high around his neck, where they squeeze, grip, and twist the air from the bastard’s lungs. Flexing and clenching, my nails dig into the wrinkled skin on his strong neck. Even as his hands fly to grab my wrists, I can see the panic in his eyes.

“I am going to do it. I am going to squeeze the last breath from your bastard body. I hate you…I fucking hate you,” I promise him.

“Do you mind, doctor? I can see that she’s settled, but I would like a private moment with my daughter before we leave her in your capable hands. You are certain she can hear everything, yes?” My father glances over his shoulder at the nodding doctor, and with two strides he’s by my side. Waves of nausea churn in my stomach.

“Of course, I understand, and yes she can hear everything. Come, Lady d’Aubeney, let me escort you to the guest lounge. We are no ordinary private hospital for patients with behaviour problems, you know.” He chuckles and leads my mother by her arm. “I believe the bar will be open now and they do a wonderful strawberry mojito.” I would gag and punch something, if I could, but mostly, looking into my father’s eyes, I would kill, if I could. The door closes and my father leans into make sure I can hear his low whisper.

“Oh yes, you can definitely hear me, can’t you, Arti? Good because I want you to hear this.” He draws in a breath and my chest rises in unison–involuntary as it may be. I hate that I breathe the same air as him. “Fifty thousand pounds, in case you were wondering. That was the price I paid that piece of shit you loved. Fifty thousand pounds for your own daughter. Just thought you should know because I can see the hatred in your eyes; but know this, you can hate me all you want but at least I didn’t sell my own child. He didn’t even negotiate. He never loved you. I told you that back then and I have the proof now. He just wanted your money. I am sorry for one thing though…had I known how little it would have cost, I would have done this two years ago. Had you committed, aborted your child, and paid off that scum. This has been most inconvenient, Arti, but never underestimate the lengths I will go to, to protect the family name.” He draws his finger up my cheek and wipes the residue of tears with his handkerchief before he discards it in the bin. He looks at his watch and huffs. “And now I am going to be late for dinner. I’ll never get your damn mother out of that bar,” he jokes. He jokes and walks away. He has destroyed my life, ripped my family apart, and has left me in a million, shattered pieces, numb and desolate.

Today

I NEVER GET
tired of this view. I know my technical home lies three hundred miles east of here in the garden of England with Dad, or in my London apartment, but this is most definitely my spiritual home. I can say that with a good deal of certainty as I have spent almost the entire last twelve months travelling to some of the most heavenly places on the planet. But I am done roving, or hiding, as both my father and Bethany believe. Maybe that was true in the first few months. I know I upset Bethany with my long absence. Christ, Daniel called me enough to reiterate the point that I was upsetting his wife and it was a good job I was on the other side of the world, because he was more than ready to kick my arse, if I didn’t sort something out. I did sort something because as much as I didn’t want to share what I was going through, I really didn’t want her to worry, especially after what she had endured, and in her condition. I left the day after their wedding, but I really only went off the grid for a few weeks before we started to make regular Skype calls. It stopped the tirade from Daniel and it was good to see her so happy and alive–no thanks to me.

I shake my head at the dark spiralling thoughts, halting them before they do their worst. I pull the car to a stop on the brow of the hill over-looking the harbour. This is what I needed. I don’t know why I didn’t come here first. It’s where I healed after mum died. This is not the same, I know, but it was close. I really felt something…I don’t know if it was love but I was willing to go with it because it sure as shit felt real. Bethany had told me it was so…well at least tried to. But after everything happened the way it did, how can I possibly know the truth? How will I ever be able to trust myself to know the difference? I won’t. That was my epiphany whilst travelling. I have shit judgement, but it doesn’t matter because I am not going there again–ever. Returning home, going back to my playground, I am happy to start again and more than glad to erase the possibility that I was ever in love. I have a whole new perspective–well not entirely new. I lived this way long for before Kit, and I’ll do it again. Simply put, I love women; I just won’t let myself
love
a
woman.

The sun is high and with the tide out, the beach is dark with crammed tourists making the most of the unpredictable English weather. This is a little gem of a fishing town and it’s where I feel most at peace, where I have the most fun. I close my eyes and let waves of calmness wash and saturate me, a deep sense of belonging filling my soul. Yep, this is where I need to be. I crack the door open and walk to the edge. The flimsy, rusted railing is the only barrier to the sheer hundred foot drop of cragged rock into the sea below. Warm salty air rushes into my lungs when I draw in a deep satisfying breath. I feel the first surge of joyful energy permeate every single cell in my body. I may have chosen to lock my heart up for good, but that leaves all my other organs ready to play. This is going to be a great summer.

The main seafront road to my place is closed, and I had to abandon my car on the outskirts of town. I will pick it up later when the heaving masses have ebbed. I grab my rucksack from the back seat, and make my way to the harbour front. The town has an entirely different feel in the summer as a whole population of people descend to take their holidays. It’s heaving but buoyant with tourists, primed to have a good time. It’s very much a family destination but recently, with the opening of a few trendy bars and eateries, it attracts a fair number of young single travellers. That coupled with the influx of transient tourists looking for seasonal employment, I know I won’t be lonely for long. I make my way to my bar, deciding to check in before I head home. I am only a silent partner, but I was thinking about picking up a few shifts behind the bar. Put my new cocktail making skills to good use and as I push my way through the lunchtime crowd, I can see my timing couldn’t be more welcome.

“Hallelujah! He answered my call.” Buddy, the bar manager, looks up from drawing two pints, and uncapping a bottle of sparkling water. He doesn’t look flustered. He is pretty much unflappable, which is why I was happy to invest with him when he wanted to set this place up. But he is getting slammed with the sheer volume of orders. I work my way behind the bar and throw my bag into the open store cupboard.

“Who’s next?” I look over the bar to the next customer just catching Buddy’s killer smile, which at the moment is filled with obvious relief at my opportune arrival. We work seamlessly together; a fluid, easy cohesion unaffected by my lengthy absence. We don’t have time to talk until it is nearly four in the afternoon and there’s finally a break in service. “Wanna tell me why you have no staff? Let me guess…you fucked the wrong waitress and now they have all left?” I take a well-earned slug of my ice cold cider and raise a teasing brow.

“Not likely. Happily married, remember? Besides that’s your job, as I recall; although, you never manage to piss any of them off. How do you do that, by the way?” He wipes down the bar before he starts to empty the drip trays–always working.

“Trade secret.” I smile to myself at the truth of that statement. It might be a very distant memory, but strong enough to imprint on my five-year-old self and last a lifetime. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you, and where would I find another hard-working bar manager to keep my pension pot healthy.” He barks out a short laugh.

“Yeah right, like you need to be planning for your pension. Besides, I know exactly how you stay friends…’You don’t shit where you eat’. You do everything but fuck these girls and they love you for it.” He moves along the bar, still cleaning.

I laugh out. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Hey, I’m not gonna mess with a rule that works for me. Don’t ask me why, but making some girl fall apart and scream my name any which way I can is fine. But the minute I stick my dick in, it complicates things. So no, I won’t fuck anyone local, but this town triples its population during the summer, so passing trade is fair game and this summer it is game-on.” Buddy grins and shakes his head. I step back and take a look around the place. I can’t believe it’s been over a year since I was here. It hasn’t changed but it looks good. We tend to change the theme and decor every two years to keep it fresh, but we still do a once over maintenance paint in the winter. Buddy is very handy at any odd job, so nothing ever looks too old or tatty. Unless that’s the theme we’re going for. But he has changed the back wall. I had chosen some graffiti-style, large scale paintings to hang above each of the six alcoves. I saw them in a small gallery off Portobello Road. They were eye catching and brighten the place with an urban twist. Very different from the usual display of artists in the competing restaurants and bars.

“What’s with the paintings?” I nod toward the new display of equally striking portraits, which now dominate the back wall. They are almost abstract impressions, but the brush strokes are so detailed and evocative, I almost envy the artist having such a stunning muse. They are impressive, beautiful, and I am just a little surprised Buddy has them hanging in the bar.

“Thought they raised the tone of the place. I like the graffiti ones just fine but Sheila showed me these, and well, I thought they looked dead classy.” He coughs and if I’m not mistaken, his cheeks colour. He looks away at my curious stare like he is hiding something. “Anyway, I liked them. They have all sold, but we get to keep them for the season,” he adds, and looks over at me, then back at the paintings. A faint warm smile curls his lips and I am intrigued.

“Sheila painted these? So this is a life painting then?” Sheila Woodruff, a local elderly artist, has lived here her whole life, but only ever paints from models. “This hot girl is someone you know I take it?” I round the edge of the bar and slide onto an empty seat, facing Buddy, who is still looking at the paintings behind me. He catches my smirk and throws the bar cloth at my face. I catch and flip it back at him, hitting him square in the forehead.