The Outcasts Book 3

Autore

Ruth Robinson

Letto da

50,2K

Capitoli

Autore

Ruth Robinson

Letto da

50,2K

Capitoli

Miliardari Fratellastri Drammatico Contemporaneo

Chapter 1

Book 3: The Neighbor

Rebecca

Gripping my suitcase tightly, I wipe away tears of mortification that have been coursing down my cheeks for the last two days, ever since my boss had dismissed me in front of the entire office.

The wheels of the battered green case rumble over the rough asphalt, reminding me of the quiet rumblings of my coworkers as they witnessed the most humiliating day of my entire twenty-six years.

My cell phone has not stopped chiming since I turned my phone back on once the plane had landed, but I am ignoring them all.

I know at least one message would be from my bewildered landlord, who I had tried to explain to through my tears and hyperventilating breath that I would no longer be living in that stupid ugly city, and so I was vacating the cutest apartment I’d ever lived in immediately.

I’d already arranged a company to go in over the next couple of days and pack up all my belongings and ship them across country to my mother’s.

My mom. The only family I have. Except now she is getting remarried to some rich widower who has a son a few years younger than me, so I am soon gaining a stepfather and a stepbrother. Yay for me!

I am yet to meet either of them, as it had been a whirlwind romance ending in a marriage only six months after they first met. A wedding which is happening this weekend. Coinciding perfectly with my need to run away from my old life.

“Becky! Over here, Becca!”

I make my way over to where my mom is excitedly waving her hands to get my attention. I quickly run a hand over my face to clear away any tears.

I haven’t yet told Mom my current predicament, partly because I really don’t want another “I told you so” speech, and partly because I don’t want to rain on her celebrations.

“Hi, Mom.” I collapse into her warm hug, and she squeezes me tightly, rocking from side to side.

“Hi, baby. I’m so happy to see you!” She pulls back, beaming as she frames my face with her hands, then pulls me back into her embrace.

I let myself relax in her arms, inhaling her familiar Chanel No. 5 scent.

“Come along, you’ve got to meet Max! He’s waiting in the car for us.”

She walks us over to a sleek charcoal-gray Porsche hatchback, and the trunk pops open at the same time as the driver-side door.

A middle-aged blond guy, with white temples and a friendly smile which makes the corners of his light-blue eyes crinkle, steps forward and encases me in a hug.

“Rebecca! It’s so good to finally meet you! I’m Max.”

I awkwardly pat him on the back before subtly pulling away. “Nice to meet you too, Max. Thanks for letting me stay with you.”

“Nonsense!” he replies, easily stowing my case in the car, and I cringe at how old and used it looks against the fancy car. “You are family now, and I couldn’t let family stay in a hotel.”

I give him a shy smile, slipping into the leather interior behind my mom’s seat, and he pushes the door closed.

Thirty minutes later we pull up outside a surprisingly modest-looking colonial house. Well, as modest as a six-bedroom house can look.

I may or may not have done some googling of the man my mother is marrying, and his net worth is ridiculous!

Mom had already told me she had signed a prenup to basically say eff you to all the people who would want to claim she was only marrying him for his money. Although fortune is probably a more apt word.

After a tour—and yes, it really was a tour—of the house, we settle around the dining table while some poor guy in a fancy suit serves us food. Yeah, this guy has actual servants.

I tearfully tell them both the current sob story which is my life, and Mom tries to probe deeper, obviously sensing I am keeping something back. I am, but I don’t want to be looked upon with even more pity.

Max pats his mouth with a napkin—or serviette as the posh guy in the suit called it—and clears his throat.

“Well, you are free to stay here for as long as you need. Just make yourself at home. We put you in the room next to Junior’s, but he’s rarely here, so feel free to spread yourself out a little if you want.”

“Oh? Does your son not live here then?” I ask.

“He retains an apartment downtown, but he still spends a few nights at home with us.” He frowns down at his smart watch. “I had expected him home for dinner so the two of you could meet, but he has been called into work unexpectedly.”

“The two of you will get along so well.” My mom turns on her beaming smile once again—I can practically see her rose-tinted glasses in front of her starry eyes. “He’s such a sweetheart.”

I force a smile back. That will obviously have to wait to be seen.

After making my excuses, I slip back upstairs to my new room to unpack.

My room and my new stepbrother’s room are linked by a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. I quickly check both locks to make sure they both work. Huge sigh of relief, they do.

I gather my toiletries and start to fill the bath. Slowly slipping out of my clothes, I avoid the impressive wall of mirrors which sit behind the vanity, stepping into the steadily filling bath to acclimatize my body to the water temperature.

I hate mirrors. Especially when I’m naked…or semi-naked… Okay, all the time.

I found out a couple of years ago that I suffer from polycystic ovary syndrome—or PCOS. It means, among many other things, I am on the heavier side.

Not exactly fat, but curvy in the places I should be curvy. Especially around my stomach and my butt. It doesn’t matter how many diets I try or how many hours I spend killing myself on the StairMaster, the chub just won’t budge.

Tears blur my vision as the hurtful words of my ex replay once again.

“You know, Becs, you look pregnant in that dress. Maybe you should give it to Natalie, she could pull that off so much better than you. I’ll make sure just to order you the salad if you insist on wearing such clingy clothes.”

The asshole was with me when I got my diagnosis, and he knew how much energy I poured into exercise and diet, but he still seemed to take pleasure in putting me down.

I allow myself a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity before I wipe my face clean and start to scrub my legs, ready to shave them.

Another wonderful part of PCOS is the hirsutism.

My body hair comes in fast, thick, and dark. It seems like I need to shave my legs immediately after having shaved them, and embarrassingly, I have to take care of hair on my stomach and chest too—even the dreaded facial hair.

My arms are hairy too, but I am so self-conscious of how bad my skin looks on my legs and bikini line when I get the dreaded razor burn that I just cover up my arms with long-sleeved tops rather than having to live with the embarrassment of explaining to people why my arms are not only covered in stubble but a bumpy red rash too.

I’ve spent so much money over the years on all kinds of hair removal, even trying the most expensive laser removal I could afford, but nothing seems to work.

An hour and a half later, I am fully washed and fully shaved.

I take extra care to rinse the hair from the bath, just in case the elusive Junior decides to turn up during the night, and collapse into a set of sheets with possibly the highest thread count I’ve ever had the pleasure of sleeping on.

***

I had spent the whole morning being primped and preened by an annoyingly perfect-looking woman, whose coconut-smelling skin had made my mouth water.

Holding my breath as I roll up the tight full-body Spanx I’d invested in, I gingerly step into the gorgeous forest-green dress my mom had chosen for my bridesmaid dress.

She said she had chosen it as it matched my eyes and went perfectly with my hair color.

And before you ask…no! My hair is not green, it’s a drab brown. And my eyes, while they are green, are not such a vibrant shade as the silky material is.

Although I have to admit, the annoyingly perfect woman was also annoyingly good at makeup and had managed to do something with the magic of eyeshadow which made my eyes seem brighter and less muddy.

“Oh, Rebecca!” My mom gets all misty-eyed as she takes me all in, clutching her hands in front of her mouth.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t cry, Mom, you’ll ruin your makeup before Max gets a chance to see how beautiful you are.”

She sniffs, dabbing her eyes with a lacy handkerchief, nodding slightly in agreement.

“Well, I think I’m all set, so is there anything you want me to be doing? Or am I just hanging around until the ceremony now?”

“Um…I don’t need you for anything. Maybe go and see if Max needs any help. Or find Junior! You can get to know each other a little.”

I’ve been living at his dad’s for two whole days, and he hasn’t deigned to grace us with his presence yet.

I wander down the halls of the grand country house they are getting married in until I find Max standing outside by the stone fountain at the top of the sweeping driveway with a couple of similarly aged men, all smoking cigars.

“Here she is! My new daughter!” Max grins, pulling me under his arm and patting my bare bicep, making it wobble a bit.

I try to bite back the urge to run back upstairs and find a cardigan to cover up with, but Mom has already made it clear that under no circumstances was I to put a long-sleeved top on until after all the photos were taken.

She maintained that nobody noticed the dark black hair which covers my forearms, but I know she was lying.

I flash a shy smile as I’m introduced to his friends, both of whom I promptly forget the names of.

“Um…Max? My mom suggested maybe I hang out with Junior. You know, get to know the little brother a little.”

Max frowns down at his smartwatch—his whole life seems to be on that tiny screen. “He should have been here by now, actually.”

His phone rings loudly, playing some obnoxious classical tune, and he fumbles it out of his tuxedo pocket.

“Ah! It’s him,” he says, pressing his cell to his ear. “Junior! How much longer till you get here? There’ll be no more ch…” His cheery voice trails off as he listens intently to whatever his son is telling him.

“Of course…if there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.” He mm-hmms a few more times, then finishes the call. “Oh dear, he won’t be able to make it, the two of you will have to meet another day.”

He pats my arm, turning back to his friends. I walk away slowly, feeling the tiniest bit pissed off. What in the world could be more important than watching your dad get married?!