Chapter 8: Red Thorns: Chapter 7

How does someone get used to depravity?

Does it help if it has flowed in our blood since the beginning of time or that every generation had done its best to deepen its impact?

The answer is no, it doesn’t.

No, it shouldn’t.

But who am I to start anarchy against the same system that made me? The system that saved me from the claws of death and hasn’t shoved me back in its path like it did my parents?

Dad tried to escape the system, to start anew without the shadow of the Weaver name. But look where that led him.

On the steps of hell.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m pretty sure each leader of the Weaver clan has made a deal with the devil sometime in their lives. So there’s no doubt that we’ll all end up in some sort of hellhole, but as Grandpa says, ‘Our sins don’t catch up to us today.’

Speaking of which, we’re having a family dinner tonight. One I need to escape from early for my date with Naomi.

The thought of her ignites me with a hot, fiery spark. It shouldn’t, not with everything I have planned, but fuck me if my dick understands logic. All that sucker has been thinking about since her warm stomach rubbed against him is ways to find himself in her mouth or between her legs.

Or shoved deep in her ass.

The kiss shouldn’t have happened yesterday. It was supposed to be a peck, a pretense, but then my mouth found hers and a completely different need emerged out of nowhere. My tongue was only interested in feasting on her warm heat and engraving myself in it with a roughness she’d forever remember.

Soon enough, we were speaking an identical language only the two of us could recognize. She can deny it all she likes, but there was something between us last night. Something beyond the crowd and football and cheering.

Something beyond normal.

I saw it in her inquisitive eyes and I know she felt it in my touch.

Why did I let her feel it?

Fuck if I know. Could be because I enjoyed seeing her defenses crumble one by one, or witnessing the flutter in her thick lashes and the tremble in her lips.

Or sucking her fucking taste that I can’t chase away.

All I know is that I’m in the mood for more.

I can’t remember the last time I was in the mood for anything except keeping the cycle going.

In order to break it, I need to escape the Weaver curse, and I guess that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Which is why I’m here.

My grandparents’ extravagant mansion is located in the fanciest upper-class neighborhood in Blackwood. In fact, only the mayor and a few high-profile politicians live in the same area and it’s resident-only.

Not only does it take up more space than it should, but it’s also three stories high with tall white fences and lights shining in the night that can be seen from a mile away.

I park my Tesla in the area near the garage and spy for the Mercedes that belongs to my only ally in the family. However, I find nothing.

One of the staff smiles as she opens the door and I grin back before I kiss her cheek. “Lisa, how are you? How is Pedro?”

“Excellent, sir.” Her smile widens as she speaks with a slight Spanish accent. “He’s grown and has been looking up to you. He didn’t sleep until he watched the game last night.”

Poor kid, looking up to a fraud. My smile, however, remains in place as I reach in my back pocket and produce two tickets. “Give him these and tell him I’ll get him my shirt next game.”

“Oh, sir.” Her eyes water. “Thank you so much. This will make his week.”

At least that’s one of us.

“My old folks inside?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “You’re late, sir, and so is Mr. Nathaniel.”

I don’t blame him.

If I didn’t want to intentionally piss my grandparents off, I would’ve used the same tactic myself.

The bell rings again and I beat Lisa to it.

My uncle, Nathaniel Weaver, stands at the door in his sharp suit and with his clean-cut look that he uses to intimidate the hell out of anyone in or outside of the courtroom.

“Nephew!” He opens his arms, apparently not worried about the bottle of wine in his left hand.

“Nate!”

We clasp each other in a bro hug and he pulls back to offer me one of his rare smiles. “Congrats on the win yesterday. I watched it with my colleagues and now they’re bugging me about autographs.”

“No, sorry. That comes with a price, Uncle.”

“Don’t call me that. Makes me feel ancient.”

“You are ancient. What are you? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-one, Rascal.” He gives me the middle finger behind Lisa’s back as we step inside. “Ready for battle?”

“Always am.”

The interior of the Weaver mansion is as extravagant as the exterior, if not more. Due to my grandparents’ expensive tastes, it’s full of rare finds, auctioned paintings, and exotic rugs.

The heads of a few dead animals hang in the entrance area as a showcase of Grandpa’s love for hunting.

When I was younger, I believed they were spirits that would come for us one day. In a different world, that might have been true, but now, it’s just another reminder of what a heartless bunch we are.

As soon as Nate and I step into the dining room, it’s like we’re in the midst of a chess game. The king is the man sitting at the head of the table.

Brian Weaver.

Being in his early-sixties doesn’t take anything from his composed demeanor and sharp, piercing eyes that aren’t only befitting of a politician but also of a Weaver.

The queen is the woman sitting on his right, wearing a soft smile. Debra Weaver is the definition of the saying ‘behind every great man is a great woman.’ She didn’t only fight tooth and nail for his political career, but she was also as ruthless about it as he was. At least, behind closed doors.

On the outside, people can only see a soft woman with golden blonde hair and a queen-like posture and wardrobe.

Uncle kisses her cheek first and I follow suit before we nod at Grandpa, then take our seats on his right. Soon after, the cook brings in some sort of ham casserole that I don’t recognize.

Grandpa is all about meat, although his doctor says it’s not good for his health in the long-term.

“You’re late,” Grandma chastises, but it sounds loveable—worried, even—when she’s, in fact, mentally checking a strike against us.

“Only because I was looking for your favorite wine, Mom.” Nate motions at the bottle he placed at her side.

She gives him a look before directing her hawk-like stare at me. “What’s your excuse?”

“I have none. I just woke up late because of the game last night.” I grin. “We won, Grandpa.”

“As you should have. It’s a given, unlike the show you put on camera.” His stern expression doesn’t change as he chews on his ham.

“Brian.” Grandma reaches her hand out and he taps it reassuringly, then she offers me her pressed smile. “Who was she, darling?”

I swallow down my mouthful of food, letting the slightly greasy taste settle in my stomach. I’ve been raised by these people since I was six. Fifteen years later, and I still feel like I’m a subject of scrutinization.

However, Nate taught me the best way to win over my grandparents—tell them what they want to hear.

“She’s no one.” I take a sip of wine, even though I dislike the stuff. “Just a ruse of a moment.”

Grandpa halts eating. “You want me to believe that you’d do such a thing?”

“He’s at college and a star quarterback,” Nate speaks while cutting his steak. “Kids his age do such things all the time.”

Thank you, Nate.

“Not my grandson.” Grandpa’s voice hardens as his entire focus zeroes in on me. “You’re a Weaver and you’ll act as such. The family’s future relies on you now that your uncle didn’t choose politics.”

“Slick, Dad. But in case you haven’t noticed, not everyone likes politics. Ever thought about asking Sebastian what he wants to do?”

“You took away his right to decide that when you chose to work for strangers instead of following in my footsteps.”

“If you mean screwing people over to get to the top, then no thanks. I have no intention of following in your blood-stained footsteps.”

“Those blood-stained footsteps put a roof over your head and gave you the name you don’t deserve, you ungrateful brat.”

Nate opens his mouth to retort, but Grandma clinks her fork on the plate loud enough that everyone’s attention slides to her. “Now, this is supposed to be a peaceful family dinner, not a place for throwing jabs.”

Nate grunts as he goes back to eating, but Grandpa ignores his beloved meat and fixes me with his furious stare. “No such stunts are allowed in the future. Got it?”

“Yes,” I say the only thing I’m allowed to under the circumstances.

Grandpa is right. By choosing law over politics, Nate took away my right to live my life. Now, everything needs to go per Brian and Debra Weaver’s plan. After all, they didn’t raise the offspring of the son they disowned for the prettiness of my eyes.

I’m here because I serve a role in the line of this family. The NFL? In my dreams. And if I had an actual dream? They’d turn that into a nightmare if they caught whiff of it.

That’s why I have to keep up pretenses and wear a constant mask. If I like something, they should never, under no circumstances, find out about it. If I covet anything, I need to do my hardest to keep it hidden. Otherwise, they’ll smash it to pieces just to keep me under their influence.

Sometimes, I resent Nate for escaping this fate and intentionally—or unintentionally—shoving me in it, but at the same time, I’m well aware I would’ve done the same if I were in his shoes.

Survival of the fittest is a motto in this family. One that Dad lost.

“Is she from class?” Grandma picks back up the conversation nonchalantly, almost as if she’s talking about the weather when she’s, in fact, fishing for any change in my demeanor.

“No.” I pour myself a glass of water.

“She looked like a cheerleader.”

“She is.”

“What do her parents do?”

“Mom,” Nate mutters, shaking his head.

“What? I’m just asking.”

“Her mother owns an haute couture house,” I say because it’s better to answer Grandma’s questions. She’ll find out anyway, so I’d rather gain brownie points than hide facts from her.

She beams at my answer, but I recognize her fake smiles. After all, I learned from the best. “What about her father?”

“She doesn’t have one.”

“Doesn’t have one?” She places a hand on her chest. “Poor thing.”

Give me a break.

I’m out.

Retrieving my phone, I furrow my brow and pretend I’m checking something important.

“No phones at the table, darling,” Grandma says.

“It’s the coach. He needs us for an urgent meeting.”

“Go ahead then,” Grandpa says.

Nate leans into my side and whispers, “You’re leaving me alone behind enemy lines?”

“I’ll make it up to you next time,” I whisper back.

“Worst wingman of the year award.”

I stand and go to kiss Grandma’s cheek. She pats my hand and smiles. “I’m glad you’re doing well, darling, and that she was nothing. A seamstress’s daughter isn’t suitable for you.”

I want to correct her, but I don’t bother as I nod at Grandpa and leave. I couldn’t escape this house faster if I wanted to.

It doesn’t take me long to drive to The Grill. I slip through the back entrance to avoid any celebratory rounds Chad is planning tonight.

One of the staff tells me that our usual booth is empty, so I sit there and bring out my phone.

I wait and wait, but there’s no sign of Naomi.

I text her at the number Reina gave me.

Sebastian: I’m here. You’re not.

The reply is immediate.

Naomi: Never said I would be. Better luck next time.

A predatory smirk curls my lips as I stand up. She wants a game? I’ll show her what playing is really like.