33. Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Two

I haven't seen Wyatt all day. Well, to be honest, I've barely seen anyone beyond the silhouettes through my cracked eyelids, passing me meds and water while we traveled the last leg of the journey. I spent most of the car ride spread across Dax's lap with an eye mask on. To my credit, I only threw up on him once. Without him caring for me, there's no way I would currently be sitting upright in this busy restaurant, just about ready to stomach food.

The restaurant is in the heart of a bustling city, and thankfully is packed tonight. Every table is filled with smartly dressed people of all ages, chatting and laughing over their meals. Amongst the masses, and given the table's position off to the side, I'm visibly invisible to all who don't know I'm there. Servers rush back and forth from the open kitchen, balancing plates of steaming food on their trays. The chefs work at a furious pace, and I welcome the distraction whilst wringing my hands in my lap.

"Darling," Nixon's voice rings out amongst the clinking of cutlery and noisy chatter. I smile at my adoptive father, standing to accept his hug. His salt and pepper hair is pushed back and his blue eyes hold a startling amount of clarity for his age. The waistcoat of his three-piece suit rubs against my cheek as our embrace lasts a few more desperate seconds, then I'm swiftly ushered back into the high bench seat. Nixon opts for his back to the door, his neck slightly hunched as if trying to shrink into the cushion.

With less caution and a whole load of new curiosity, I settle back in my comfortable jumpsuit. Sea blue and cinched at my waist by a fabric belt, the floaty material swishes around my legs. There's a teardrop cutout in the bust, held in place by a halter-neck strap. Around my neck, I've taken great care in applying concealer to hide the faint bruising that lingered.

"You look beautiful." Nixon attempts a smile. It falls flat. "Where is your brother?" I use the distraction of a waiter taking our drink order to hide my blush. Especially after last night, I don't want to think of Wyatt as my brother ever again .

"He'll be here soon," I attempt to answer casually. As I meet Nixon's searching gaze, I can only hope my voice doesn't betray the fluttering sensation in my stomach. The sound of Wyatt's words play on repeat in my mind, his searing green gaze as heated as the touch that had lingered on my skin.

I'm not allowed to have you like this.

"So, how is business?" I ask after clearing my throat. A feeble effort for some normality, but Nixon isn't truly present. His eyes are darting everywhere, looking at everyone who passes. In the dimmed lighting at the back of the restaurant, his skin appears gaunt, cheeks slightly hollowed.

"Business is as fine as it can be," Nixon responds, his gaze sweeping back to me. His smile is tainted with a hint of melancholy that had not been there a minute ago. "You know how cutthroat the corporate world is. But enough of that, tell me all about your schooling. Have you made some good friends?"

Opening my mouth, I close it again. My gaze travels over Nixon's shoulder, over the booth's high back. And there he is. Wyatt confidently navigates through the restaurant as if he owns the place. Brown hair gelled back, sharp jaw freshly shaven. The black ink swirls around his open top button. Deftly unhooking his jacket button with one hand as he walks, Wyatt slips into the role of the millionaire's son with ease. This is why he was always asked to attend the award ceremonies and charity events. Being a cocky, charming bastard is second nature to him.

"Father," Wyatt holds out a sharp hand. Nixon stands and shakes it, briefly patting his son on the shoulder. Seats are taken and I hold my breath, tightly pressing my ankles together beneath the table. Wyatt's attention stays on Nixon, not bothering to even acknowledge my presence. "Did I interrupt anything?"

"Avery was just about to tell me how school is," Nixon nods for me to continue.

"Um, yeah. It's good, I suppose." I sip my water. I hadn't planned to get to the point so quickly, but the opportunity has presented itself earlier than expected. "But I really think I would be much better off returning to the manor. There are so many…distractions at Waversea. My education isn't progressing anywhere nearly as quickly as it did with the tutors. And then there's Counselor Lorna who doesn't know anything about me and I have reason to question her client confidentiality."

I shoot Wyatt a look but he's only interested in the menu. Lowering my gaze to my own, I quickly decide I can't stomach any of these rich dishes. Soup it is.

"You're in the right place, Avery." Nixon states, leaving no room for argument. Clearly he forgets how headstrong I can be.

"Can this be open for discussion?" The waiter approaches again, delivering our drinks and producing a small tablet in his hand. Wyatt asks for a whiskey, to which Nixon swiftly says no. Instead, he orders a bottle of red wine and my stomach rolls. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I order my soup and wait for him to leave before placing a hand on Nixon's arm.

"Please Nixon. I spent a long time carefully constructing a cage around myself in the manor. It's where I feel safest." I try once more with a gentler tone. Nixon's blue eyes soften, his hand covering mine. I know from the small incline of his head, I've got him.

Sure, I'd miss the guys, but their fleeting interest in me hasn't changed anything. I'm a shiny new toy, something to play with. I still envision a future for myself where I can work from the study, dance in the ballroom, and be in total control of who enters my life and when. Besides, they could visit, if they wanted to.

"That's a shame," Wyatt comments, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "You're supposed to be the prima ballerina at the Winter Showcase."

"Oh, that's wonderful news!" Nixon releases my hand and his posture instantly straightens. The smile he gives is one full of pride. "You'll have to let me know the date. I wouldn't miss my little girl's first public performance for the world." The scowl I give Wyatt should be enough to set his hair on fire. Starters are served; Wyatt's smelling so strongly of fish, I know he's toying with me. I chew on a bread roll, trying to ease myself out of the remnants of my hangover. Once Nixon has poured and drank half a glass of wine, I huff and try again.

" Please Nixon ." I try again, tucking my long blonde hair behind my ear and lean in closer. "I don't…I would feel safer at the manor. Let me return home."

"I'm afraid that's not an option," he shakes his head. I feel the anger tears building up behind my eyes. "You're not to return to the manor. Not even for Thanksgiving break."

"What? Why?!" My cheeks redden at the attention I attract and I quickly lower my voice. "I was planning to catch a flight in the morning and spend the break with Meg." I turn whiny and I don't care. Dropping my bread roll onto the plate, I cross my arms. I can't understand why Nixon is punishing me like this. Wyatt is there with a quip to seal the deal.

"I'm sure you and Meg had some more of those wild parties planned. What was it you mentioned about screwing guys in my bed?" His face cracks into the most cunning grin, while my eyes prepare to pop out of my head. Nixon has gone still, his wine glass halfway to his mouth. The waiter who comes to retrieve our small plates cleverly does so without making any fuss. The restaurant is buzzing with noise, whereas our table couldn't be more silent. Finally breaking the tension, Nixon moves on.

"The manor is having renovations done." He eyes me and Wyatt in turn. Wyatt's smile falls away, his eyes narrowing. "There is asbestos within some of the walls and ceilings. I've commissioned a full repair to clear it out. Neither of you are to return there until I tell you it is safe to do so."

"Why are we here?" Wyatt suddenly interjects, his face tight and body turned towards Nixon. I shrink back, feeling like a fly on the wall. I've heard of the screaming matches the two of them can have, but usually only from Nixon's end of the phone call. I can only imagine how venomous Wyatt can be when the mood strikes.

"It's important that we talk. There are matters the three of us must discuss." Nixon swallows hard and it's the sight of his nervousness which causes my stomach to twist.

"Out with it then," Wyatt rolls his eyes. If I could pulverize him with my stare, I would. Nixon doesn't have the same notion, his head lowering for his hushed tone to be lost beneath the restaurant's clamor.

"It mustn't have gone unnoticed that I've been distant lately," Nixon begins. Wyatt snorts and I kick him under the table. "After Cathy's death, I started receiving…letters. Threats. And there were photos. "

"What kind of photos?" I frown. Nixon touches his jacket, as if those very images are burning a hole through the cashmere, but he doesn't remove them.

"Pictures from the crash. Angles I haven't seen in any of the police reports. I believe they were taken before."

"Before the police showed up? What are you saying?" I shake my head. The ground is slipping away beneath me and when I look around the table, I have nothing to cling onto. Not the man delivering me news he's kept hidden, and definitely not the younger man who's gripping his knife too tightly. A shrill ring bursts from Nixon's pocket, and he promptly excuses himself to take it. More like rushes out of the booth and slips into the back of the restaurant.

"What is he saying?" I ask Wyatt, expecting some sort of answer. In the spiraling confusion, I'd forgotten how much of an asshole he is.

"Don't tell me you nearly fell for that?" He chortles, reaching for his wine but I saw the effort it took to unfurl his fingers from around his butter knife. How white his knuckles were before they disappeared until the table. "Nixon has other interests, and he's willing to create any fiction in which to make himself feel better."

I blink once, my brows raised. Wyatt searches for patience on the ceiling and finds none.

"He's got someone else, you moron. He's moved on, probably even before my mom died, and now he's palmed you off onto me so he can run away into the sunset. He's always been a selfish bastard obsessed with appearances. He wanted to be the charitable foster parent, and when the novelty wore off, he found another focus." Spearing a piece of his fish, Wyatt pops it in his mouth and chuckles to himself. "You really can't keep anyone's attention for long, can you?"

I sit back, opting to tap my foot in irritation rather than launch myself across the table and gauge Wyatt's eyes out. No one so cruel should have eyes so beautiful. My jaw aches with the telltale sign that I might cry, so I push all emotion aside. Wyatt will not get the satisfaction of seeing me hurt.

"What the hell is your problem?" I whisper-shout across the table. "You say I'm this terrible burden in your life, yet you've done everything to ensure Nixon won't let me go home. I don't care who he has or what he's doing, I just want to leave you as far behind as possible." Wyatt rests his elbows on the table, his shirt sleeves stretching against his biceps. He's so brutally handsome, it's hard to look at him.

"Nixon was never going to change his mind, although it is comical watching you try. I figured I'd knock you down from your Golden Girl pedestal instead." Wyatt's shoulder raises in a shrug as he drinks from his glass. His throat bobs, his fingers toying with the glass's stem when it touches back down on the table. All the things I don't want to notice, and shouldn't, I do. "You're not the only one who can fuck with people's heads."

A small laugh bubbles from me. Oh, so this is a twisted type of punishment. I want to leave Waversea, and as much as Wyatt wants the same, he's willing to suffer at my expense.

"This isn't part of the twisted game you like to play." I retort, my eyes rolling as I cross my arms again. "This is my life." Wyatt continues to toy with the glass stem, his gaze flickering between the wine and me. He smirks, but there's no kindness behind it.

"Isn't this life we've been thrown into together just one grand circus act? Sure feels like it most of the time." I frown at him across the table. Around us, one table starts singing happy birthday and a round of cheering follows, glasses clinking, hands clapping. At our table, it's more akin to a funeral. Death glares and unspoken words. Nixon reappears in a flurry, his eyes wild and cheeks puffed out.

"I'm sorry, I have to go. It's urgent." Collecting his jacket from the chair, he hastily puts it on.

"Already? We didn't even get to catch up properly." I stand, trying to still his arms. He drags me into a quick hug and presses a kiss to my head.

"I know, darling. Stay and enjoy the meal. It's nice to see the two of you together for a change." There's a sudden feeling of churning in the pit of my stomach.

"Wait, what about Thanksgiving Fest?" I complain. Fuck, I'm really coming off like a whiny bitch, but I can't help it. Thanksgiving Fest is an annual tradition for the Hughes' to celebrate their staff. Every year has a different theme and is outsourced from external companies to give every employee at the manor a lavish night off. Mom always planned it months in advance, meaning this is the last time we would get to enjoy one of her dinners together. My last chance to feel like she's still with us in spirit.

Nixon simply shakes his head. Wyatt steps forward and takes his turn to be stonewalled.

"You were supposed to be explaining some invisible threat of Avery's that I was supposed to care about. Not running back to your-."

"Shut your damn mouth, Wyatt," Nixon spits so harshly, I flinch. All of the tension around our table rushes into Nixon's posture, the worry in his blue eyes turning glacial. I reckon if we weren't in public, he'd have throttled Wyatt and thrown him across the room. "I expect you to take Avery's safety seriously. Her wellbeing is paramount. Do you understand?" Nixon's voice drops to a threatening level. Wyatt doesn't miss a beat, his eyes narrowing once more.

"What aren't you telling us?"

Nixon's phone rings in his pocket again. There's only time for him to throw me one more sympathetic look before he leaves, leaving us staring after him. I follow several steps into the main restaurant, watching his dash through the tables. Not to the main entrance, but off to the side and out of sight. At the restaurant's exterior, a crowd of paparazzi have gathered, flashes capturing a celebrity who is entering. The noise is deafening in the short time the door is open, a phrase leaking through. ‘Look, it's the Hughes siblings!'

I quickly spin and duck into the booth, keeping my back to those now spilling across the restaurant's window front. Security does their best to usher them along, but the cameras keep flashing and my head starts to pound. There has never been a photo of myself and Wyatt together in any tabloids. No proof we have ever stepped into each other's lives really.

The waiter returns, placing three meals before us. Wyatt is back in his seat, fully focused on his steak salad and intent on ignoring me. What's new? I sink lower, a mixture of emotions clashing within my chest when a hand touches my shoulder. I flinch for the second time as a row of figures appear at the table. The four of them have opted for less formal clothes, slacks and fitted t-shirts or sweaters. My mouth waters more than it has done all evening.

"Sorry to impose," Huxley brushes his thumb over my bare shoulder, "but we've been sitting at a table in the back and saw Nixon leave. "

"And we figured you might prefer some more enlightening company," Dax adds, eyeing Wyatt who's now ignoring everyone. It must be a really good salad. As the others nudge me to shimmy around the table, Garrett drops into Nixon's empty space and picks up the knife and fork.

"And it's a huge shame to waste such good food." He's already shoveling dauphinois potatoes into his mouth and eyeing up my breadbasket. "You gonna eat that?" I push both of my bowls over to him and sigh.

"Can we just get out of here? It seems totally pointless coming all this way for nothing."

"Not for nothing," Axel leans over to speak in my ear. His hazel eyes are alight with mischief, a small smile on his lips. He strokes my arm languidly, instantly melting my insides. "We spotted a club down the road. Silk and Satin," his brows bob playfully.

"What kind of club is called Silk and Satin?" I snort. Garrett's grin grows.

"A sex club," he announces around a mouthful and loudly enough for anyone nearby to hear. Wyatt falls deathly still, his focus centered on the tablecloth. Pushing my bowl of soup back towards me, Garrett winks. "Eat up. You'll need some energy."