Broken At Love (Whitman University) Page 13

  I wanted to be better. I wanted to find a place in my father’s company. Maybe if I did that, some day I could prove that I was good enough for Emilie, too.

  “I’m bored, Seb. There are plenty of ways to make money.” I gritted my teeth and played a wild card. “Plus, you’re not going to show my father those pictures. We both know it.”

  “Our father. And of course I will.”

  “No, you won’t. We both know he’ll never leave Rowland Comm to you. He probably isn’t going to leave it to me, either, but that’s your only shot. To ride my coattails and pull my strings from the shadows like a spider. You expose me now and he’ll leave it all to Rick.” My father’s CFO was as big a jackass as Teddy, but he was smart. He wanted the company as badly as either of us.

  “So what if you’re right? You know I don’t really give a shit about running Rowland. I prefer to operate in the background. You’ll do what I say, or you’ll lose any scrap of a chance you have left as far as your father is concerned.” He threw back his drink and went for another. “And if he sees the pictures, Teddy could very well disinherit you all together. Who might benefit from that, I wonder?”

  I shook my head when he offered me a glass. It would have settled my nerves but going to the meeting with booze on my breath would have been counterproductive. “You’re the boss, Seb.”

  At least for now.

  On the drive to my father’s, I brainstormed ways to escape Sebastian. It had never occurred to me before with any real urgency, because as long as I enjoyed helping him spin his webs and collect his cash it hadn’t mattered. It mattered to me now, though, and there had to be a way to manipulate my way out of this mess.

  My half-brother slipped from my mind as I turned onto the long drive, waving at an unfamiliar security guard on my way past. The crunch of asphalt and gravel vibrated into my spine, pinging off the undercarriage and tweaking my nerves. Shadows danced off the trees like pixies intent on putting on a show, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken the time to appreciate the magnificence of the place I grew up.

  The bricked front mansion with black accents rose in front of me like a mountain and I stepped out of my dark green Jag, straightening my jacket and tie before picking up the briefcase holding my presentation.

  Angelica opened the door and took my jacket, smoothing the wrinkles on my shirt. “Mr. Rowland’s waiting in his office.”

  “Thanks, Ang.” Anxiety tightened my stomach.

  My idea was a good one. I’d pitched it to the Dean of the College of Communications and he’d thought it would be a great augmentation to Rowland’s Eastern European expansion. My father had to see reason, whether he hated me or not. I was better than Rick. I was family.

  Teddy’s stood staring out the window, rolling a cigar between his fingers, but turned at the sound of my footsteps. “Ah, Quinn. Right on time.”

  He motioned for me to sit, but I shook my head. “I’d like to go to the conference room, if you don’t mind. The presentation looks better on a big screen.”

  “You don’t need bells and whistles if it’s a solid business plan.”

  Heat grabbed the back of my neck. “Whatever you want.”

  Teddy settled behind his desk, the sunlight catching the grays in his thick auburn hair that neither Sebastian nor I had inherited. With fingers steepled under his chin, Teddy gave me the go ahead eyebrow raise.

  I took a deep breath and dove in, feeling unsettled and less prepared without my notes and organized visuals, knowing that’s exactly what he wanted. It wouldn’t throw me off.

  “I know you and the board have been discussing the best way to expand our reach farther east, and it would be a mistake not to use the resource you have in me. I’ve traveled extensively and I speak several languages, not to mention I have a plethora of broadcasting contacts. More importantly, I grasp something about working east of Europe that many of our competitors can’t—that those audiences won’t be wooed the same way as Americans.”

  Teddy remained silent, which felt like a good sign, so I kept going.

  “Americans don’t love tennis—you delighted in reminding me of that fact over the years—they haven’t since Agassi, Evert, and Sampras retired. But the rest of the world loves tennis. They also love cricket, soccer, and a few other immensely popular sports that Americans have no time for because there isn’t blood and violence.”

  “I hope that’s not your marketing plan.”

  “Not exactly, no, although I think class would definitely be a hook we could use.”

  “You want to start the expansion by buying sports rights that no other American communications business is interested in.” The tone of his voice betrayed interest.

  It encouraged me. “Yes. And I think it could be the best opportunity for me to start a brand of my own, within Rowland Communications, to prove I have what it takes to innovate and learn. The board will appreciate that, when it comes time for me to take over.”

  “Take over?”

  “Yes. I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m your son. Rowland doesn’t belong with anyone else.”

  “Sebastian is also my family, which means he will never want for a thing. But that sick little peckerwood won’t have a breath of control over the company I’ve built.” My father’s contemptuous gaze landed on me. “Your proposal is interesting. I may consider having Rick tweak it and take it to the board.”

  I shot to my feet. My mouth felt dry, my hands shaking. “What? It’s my idea. I’m the one with the contacts and experience to pull it off right, not Rick. You can’t be serious.”

  “Quinn, you should know that I’ve decided Rick will inherit control of Rowland Communications when I’m gone. Roger drew up the papers several weeks ago. “

  Disbelief burned in my gut. He was going to steal my idea.

  “Now, if you finish school and need a job, I have no plans to allow the appearance that my son is floundering. You’ll have a title at Rowland but we both know you don’t have the backbone or the cunning to run a Fortune 500 company. You’re embarrassing us both with these little exercises in futility.”

  Silence lasted another minute while my voice tried to find the words. Any words. Nothing came. There wasn’t anything to say. He’d made up his mind, which was something Teddy Rowland never changed.

  I should have known. Listening to Emilie was a mistake, and so was thinking I could ever be the kind of man she deserved. I would be what I knew I would become the day I announced my retirement from tennis.

  A worthless rich boy surrounded by paper dolls. Because I was one, too.

  “That will be all, Quinn.” My father sighed as though exhausted. “You can go.”

  ***

  Something hot vibrated against my cheek.

  My fucking head felt like jackhammers drilled into it and swallowing around dirty cottonmouth made me nauseous. The buzzing turned out to be the goddamn cell phone, which I thought had died days ago. I must have plugged it in at some point.

  I got up to take a piss and make myself a Bloody Mary before flopping back into bed, peering at the phone through blurry eyes.

  Snap the fuck out of it. French Open starts in less than a week.

  I squinted one eye, and it still took me three tries to type a response.

  Kiss my ass.

  Sebastian wouldn’t appreciate the reply but it didn’t matter. What did I care if he showed pictures of me to the whole world now? My father all but disowned me professionally and he’d never wanted me privately. Not since the day my mother ran out of her hospital bed onto the nearest plane.

  I tossed back two more drinks. The headache went away and my brain swam pleasantly again. The phone vibrated incessantly.

  You have three days, then I’m coming to get you.

  “Pfft. Come and get it, you sick fuck,” I muttered to the empty room.

  Angelica hadn’t changed a thing about my little hideaway on the back of the property. The place had been meant for staff or a gardener, bu
t their numbers were too big and my father built an extra wing on the house instead.

  The wooden walls were bare, unadorned. A quilt that Ang swore my mother had made while she was pregnant covered the bed, its swirl of blues and creams a comfort even now.

  I stumbled to the window and stuck my head outside, wanting to smell the coming summer. The tangle of hibiscus and plumeria always felt sexual to me, even as a boy, as though their scents seduced me on the breeze. Jose—the gardener—had an eye for color and the grove of flowers and trees around this cottage boasted more than one gulmohar tree. The bright red flowers brushed vibrant green fronds; they granted the wind passage with a quiet rustle.

  I’d seen most of the world, and Florida wasn’t even close to my favorite place. But it was home, and in the spring it at least managed to compete.

  Three large, brown-paper-wrapped packages caught my eye when I headed back to the bed. Someone had leaned them against the wall. The only person who would have dared come in was Ang. I tugged the paper off the largest, revealing Emilie’s painting.

  The black and blue one, the one that so perfectly represented the few days we’d spent together. Struggle and acquiescence. The color of a bruise, which is how I’d felt since I’d pushed her away. The undeniable attraction of the two halves at the center, coming together in a spectacular way but unable to maintain contact.

  It hurt like a fucking bitch so I turned it around, took two more shots, and got back in bed. I had no idea what those paintings were doing here, except that some asshat had delivered them to this house instead of the beach house like I’d instructed. Hopefully Ang had brought them out here before my father found them.

  Thinking I was hung up on some girl would cement his decision as the right one.

  The fact that I couldn’t hold my shit together, that my life was one reeking pile of failure, proved I’d done the right thing for Emilie. She might have felt hurt or used or embarrassed.

  That was good. It meant I’d be easier to forget.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Emilie

  Summer had returned to Florida and I couldn’t be happier. Ruby perched on the kitchen counter in the sorority house, sucking on an orange Popsicle, bare legs and feet banging against the cabinets. “So Toby said what?”

  “That no one has seen Quinn for weeks. He’s drinking himself into a coma or something, dropped out of school.” I licked my chapped lips. I’d been chewing on them, which was a disgusting habit my mother had broken in middle school. “His dad named his CFO his successor last week. I saw it on the news.”

  “So?”

  “So that’s why. He really wanted to prove to his dad that he could handle the responsibility. Quinn was even working on some project to pitch Teddy as his potential entry into Rowland.” The memory of him telling me about it while his fingers traced circles on my bare back in the loft zipped shivers down my spine. “It was a good idea.”

  Ruby’s sharp gaze pinned me until I wiggled. “It’s not your problem, Em.”

  “I know. Except whose problem is it? Does Quinn even have any friends?”

  “If he doesn’t it’s probably because he likes it that way. He certainly went out of his way to make sure you stayed clear.”

  “You’re right. It’s stupid of me to worry about him when he doesn’t give a shit about me. I just…I’ve never been so sure about someone and so completely fucking wrong.”

  In spite of my anger, tears swelled and dripped down my cheeks. I rubbed them away in irritation, sinking into one of the hard chairs around the cheap IKEA table. The expensive furniture was in the Chapter Room where judgy people could see. The kitchen at the DE house was actually comfortable, even if no one ever used it.

  “You weren’t wrong.” Ruby’s blue gaze found mine, softer now. The Popsicle was gone, the stick discarded on the counter.

  “What do you mean? I told you what he said to me that day at the SEA house.” I swallowed more tears at the memory. “You should have seen his face. He doesn’t care about me at all.”

  “He cares about you, Em. A lot. That day when I picked up your keys at The Grind he told me so himself. He made me promise not to tell you.” Guilt edged the words, making them almost incomprehensible.

  “What? Why would you keep a secret for him, Ruby? And these past couple months, you’ve known how hard I’ve been struggling with this—the fact that my instincts were so off. How could you let me think that?” It was hurt more than anger that poured through me, but they stung similarly.

  I wanted to cry all over again.

  “Because Quinn said he wasn’t good for you and I agreed. I thought you’d forget him and move on—it was only a fucking week, how was I supposed to know you wouldn’t shake it off? Or that he wouldn’t?” She paused, seeming unsure of whether or not to say more.

  “You may as well spill it all now, Rubes.”

  “He bought your paintings. He doesn’t just care about you, Em. I think he was totally falling in love with you.” She bit her lip. “Please don’t hate me. I thought I was doing to best thing for you. He’s got problems. Big ones.”

  Quinn bought my paintings.

  Shock numbed my limbs, making me feel weightless, like I was sitting in a tide pool. “Why would he do that?”

  It should have made me feel like a loser. It meant none of my art had sold that night at all. But ever since an anonymous donor had funded an art scholarship that I’d been awarded, my future felt light, buoyed by possibilities. I could continue to study graphic design, which I’d decided I liked, and paint in my spare time.

  “He said he saw you that night at the museum, and you were sad. He wanted you to be happy.”

  We sat in silence for several minutes before I got up, nearly knocking the chair into the wall. Pleasure and lust, sweet love, swam through my blood. He cared about me. I cared about him, and he was in trouble.

  He called you pathetic, a voice whispered. This changes nothing. He’ll do it again.

  The voice gave me pause, but only for another couple of seconds. He made me feel—whether good or bad—with more intensity than anyone else in my entire life. If he didn’t want to be with me, I needed to know. If he cared, but had some ridiculous medieval conviction that he was doing the right thing by staying away, we could work it out.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To see Quinn.”

  ***

  With the French Open—my favorite tennis major—looming, Quinn would probably be at the beach and not at the frat. Especially since, if what Toby relayed was true, he hadn’t been to class in weeks.

  The gorgeous house on the beach felt empty, my sandals clicking on the hardwood floor when a servant let me in. The elderly man had excused himself when I’d asked for Quinn, leaving me in a formal living room.

  Cream-colored couches, cleaner than they should be after the number of people who probably spilled heaven knew what on them for days at a time, rimmed the walls. A stunning Degas hung above the fireplace. It had to be an original, and though he’d never been my favorite—I preferred more abstract minds—it impressed me all the same. The entire house was tastefully decorated, if a little formal, which was exactly the kind of home I’d grown up in.

  “Emilie.”

  The voice was smooth like Quinn’s but not warm or playful. Sebastian smiled when I turned around, his grin reminding me again of a predator. An alligator. The Cheshire Cat.

  “Sebastian.”

  “Jeeves said you were here to see Quinn.”

  “Your butler’s name is Jeeves?”

  “No. I just like to call him that.” He winked at me. “Would you like a drink?”

  I felt my lips purse in distaste but tried to twist it into a smile. “No, thank you.”

  “Fine. Quinn isn’t here. Perhaps I can fill in for him.” His eyes roamed my body and I wished suddenly I’d worn something other than shorts and a tank top. “There are a great many parts of you I’d relish filling on his behalf.”

  Dis
gust and a tinge of fear crept over my skin, cold and slimy, like getting caught in seaweed. He seemed to know his effect on me and enjoy it. Guys like him were a dime a dozen, especially among privileged white males, and I’d dealt with them on other occasions.

  The trick was to act as though they’d merely commented on the weather.

  “That won’t be necessary. I only want to talk to him, so if you could tell me where he is, I’ll be on my way.”

  “I believe Quinn made his feelings on seeing you abundantly clear the last time you sought him out, did he not? But perhaps you’re the type of girl who enjoys a little abuse.” He licked his lips.

  “Sebastian, I’d love to stay here and spar with you all day—”

  “—would you, now?” He took a step toward me.

  I swallowed hard, concentrating on not backing up. “Quinn’s in trouble. I’d like to talk to him. As a friend.”

  “As a friend,” he echoed. “You’re holding rather tight to that delusion about his being broken, aren’t you? Let me clear something up. Quinn’s a bastard, and he’s good at it. He had a momentary slip where you’re concerned, but once I reminded him the game never changed once it had begun, he followed through.”

  Quinn had wanted to change the game before we’d slept together?

  “You must be a disappointment in the sack. Once he got between those pretty little thighs he seemed to be cured of your minimal magic.”

  What. An. Ass.

  “I don’t have any delusions where Quinn is concerned, Sebastian.”

  “Yes, you do. Do yourself a favor and hear this, though. Quinn will never change. He’s never been loved so he has no idea how to love anyone, least of all himself. Which means while he may be broken, he isn’t sad. He is the perfect compliment to my particular brand of debauchery, and I’m not losing him to a barely average spic bitch who thinks her pussy’s sweeter than the rest.” He watched me like a hawk stalking a mouse scurrying through the grass.

  The reaction he wanted boiled in my gut and clenched in my hands, which longed to smack the smug smile off his face. It wouldn’t get me to Quinn, though, and I couldn’t find him on my own. “You want Quinn back. I can help. He’s tired of listening to you, but if he has—had,” I corrected, “feelings for me, I could convince him to shape up. I did it once.”