hello friends!
whew sorry it's been a while! I've been working on all my projects simultaneously!
sorry this chapter is a bit short! I couldn't think of a better stopping point (and also I have to figure out the plot soooo...)
thanks for y'all's continued support! i am eternally grateful to those who read my stories :)
review would be very very much appreciated! I'd love to know how this is going!
thank you my friends!
peace out!
Nash stood across from his grandfather's desk, not daring to sit down, as he hadn't had an invitation. His hands twisted together as he mustered the resolve to look up, glancing at the old man. His grandfather's face was stony, scrutinizing him with the focus of a laser beam.
"Do you know why you are here?" the old man asked, leaning forward.
Nash shook his head, then winced at the twinge of pain. "No, sir."
"I wouldn't expect you to. You've proven over and over again that you are the least intelligent of my grandsons."
He tried not to let his eyes burn. Why did the old man have to insult him at every opportunity?
Tobias Hawthorne lit a cigar, the smoke drifting through the room. "I called you here, Nash, because I need you to find a way to pay for that Bugatti."
"Grandpa," Nash said, shocked. "That car cost four million dollars. How am I supposed to get the money to pay for it? I ain't the one with the fortune!"
"I give you ten thousand dollars to invest every year," the old man reminded Nash.
Nash did a quick mental calculation. "It would take me four hundred years to pay off the car that way, Grandpa! Look, I'm sorry I crashed it, but there's gotta be some other way I can pay it off, cause there ain't no way I can make four million bucks!"
"You underestimate yourself, boy," the old man drawled, blowing out a puff of smoke.
"Well, excuse me for thinkin' I can't do anythin'," Nash snapped, "because it ain't like you're helpin' with my self-esteem."
He regretted it immediately. Tobias Hawthorne's face twisted, and Nash squeezed his eyes shut an instant before the slap landed on his cheek, sending a flash of pain through his skull. Nash stumbled sideways, his hip colliding painfully with the nearby bookshelf.
A drop of something warm and wet rolled down to Nash's jaw, and he opened his eyes, his vision slightly blurred as he raised a trembling hand to his face. His fingers came away scarlet, and Nash realized that his grandfather's ring must have left a cut.
"I—I'm sorry," Nash whispered, trying again to keep the tears out of his eyes. "I didn't mean that, Grandpa."
"See that it doesn't happen again," the old man said severely. "As I was saying, I need you to find a way to pay off the Bugatti. I am aware of how difficult it will be, and unless you somehow manage to strike oil or produce a movie, I don't believe you can do it. However—"
Though a spark of apprehension had lit in his chest, Nash kept his head down. Looking up wasn't worth the risk. His cheek still burned.
"—I am willing to offer you a second option. It will require more brainpower, more skill, and less time. It does not involve you giving me any money whatsoever."
Nash's heart thumped wildly against his ribs, threatening to burst out.
"The consequences of failing could be dire."
Was it a risk he was willing to take?
"But if you succeed, you will be honored above your brothers. You will gain my approval. You will be the most loved of all the Hawthornes."
Yes, it was.
"Would you like to take my offer, Nash?"
"What's the downside?" Nash asked, daring to raise his eyes a few inches.
The old man shrugged, smoke drifting around him in an ethereal haze. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Nash. But I suppose you could say that it's a very risky gamble."
"Risky?" Nash asked, staring the old man in the eyes, trying to fill his own with fire. "I live for risks, Grandfather. I live to take gambles. You know I do—I'm a Hawthorne."
Tobias Hawthorne smiled, and the sight drove a spike of fear into Nash's heart. "So we have a deal, then?"
"Deal," Nash said, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice as he shook the old man's hand. His grandfather's grip was surprisingly firm, despite his age, and Nash realized that the old man was much, much stronger than he seemed.
"Thank you, Nash," said the old man, his face contorting into an even more twisted smile. "Let the games begin."
"He wants me to put together a game," Nash groaned, flopping onto his bed and burying his face in the pillow. "A game that he can't solve. How am I supposed to do that? The old man literally said I'm the dumbest of all of us!"
"You're much more intelligent than the old man gives you credit for," Grayson said firmly. The younger Hawthorne lay on the end of Nash's bed, his hands on his stomach, tapping his fingers together as he stared upwards.
The brothers were beginning an intense brainstorming session—the old man had never said Nash couldn't have help on creating the game. Once Jameson and Xander had been released from the medical wing, Nash planned to bring them in as well.
"Obviously, you should incorporate some of the secret passages," Grayson said, apparently lost in thought as his gaze strayed to the ceiling. "I'd also recommend some kind of booby trap. Not because it would serve any purpose for the game, but because I'd love to see the old man dangling from the ceiling by his ankle."
Nash couldn't help but laugh. "Consider it done, Gray."
"Ciphers are always a good idea," Grayson mused. "But the old man will see those coming a mile away. He's best at codes and riddles, and his mind is as sharp as ever. I think you should try and enhance the physical aspect of the game—Grandfather can't move as fast as he used to, and his vision isn't as good. It'll slow him down if you make the clues hard to read or out of reach."
"Should I time the game?" Nash asked. "Because there ain't no way he's gonna give up and say he can't solve it."
Grayson nodded. "Give him, I don't know, a day. Obviously, you can't make it impossible, or he'll figure out what you're doing and invalidate the game. You have to make sure the old man is able to get all the clues—eventually. Just try and make him take as long as possible."
"He can still fight, though," Nash said worriedly. "The old man is pretty strong. I can barely beat him in a fight."
"Maybe he's strong, Nash, but there's a reason we call him the old man. He'll get tired more easily than you would during a game, and there's no way he's as flexible as you are. Yes, Grandfather hits hard, but that's about all the physical strength he has."
Nash sighed, pulling his cowboy hat off and tearing a hand through his hair as he leaned back on his pillows. He put the hat back on, then sighed again, louder this time. "I still don't even know what's gonna happen if I can't pull this off, Gray. I mean, I'm obviously gonna have to try and pay for that Bugatti, but I'm scared the old man's got somethin' else in mind. Somethin' where y'all might get hurt."
"You can do this," Grayson insisted, glancing over at Nash. "You'll be fine, Nash, I promise. I mean, I'm helping you, aren't I? And I know you'll protect us if Grandfather does anything."
Nash smiled. "Yeah. Thanks, Gray."
He really wasn't sure it would be fine, though. The last time he'd tried to protect his little brothers, they'd ended up in a car crash. Nash winced every time he saw Grayson's swollen eye—the kid looked terrible, and his injuries were nothing compared to Jameson's or Xander's.
But Nash had to do this. Building this game could be his one chance to earn his grandfather's respect. His love.
And wasn't that what Nash had wanted his whole life?
If he could win his grandfather's love, it wouldn't matter what he had done to upset the old man. It wouldn't matter that he'd almost killed himself and his brothers.
It wouldn't matter that Nash had never been enough.
After the crash, Nash was only allowed two days off from school, and then he had to go back—back to the world of uncomfortable uniforms that didn't let him wear cowboy hats and students that hated Nash for being a Hawthorne.
He'd tried to deny that fact before, a stupid mistake that had accomplished nothing but get him beaten up by a bunch of juniors—although that was nothing compared to what the old man had done to Nash when he found out.
All Nash really wanted to do at school was fit in, but fitting in anywhere was difficult when your last name was Hawthorne. It meant that everyone thought you were a spoiled brat who was absolutely convinced the world belonged to you and that you were God's gift to humankind.
Nash thought he was anything but that.
Spoiled, perhaps, but he had no control over that. A brat? Absolutely not, although the old man was quite fond of describing Nash with that term. Only a very small corner of the world belonged to him, and Nash was fairly certain that he had been an accident, not a gift.
In the kitchen, Nash packed Grayson's lunch, which had to be made very carefully or Grayson wouldn't eat it. For the sandwich, white bread was required, with peanut butter on one slice, Nutella on the other, and sliced bananas in between. Vegetables were staunchly refused, but sweet fruits like raspberries and watermelon were allowed. A bag of chili cheese Fritos was an absolute necessity, and heaven forbid Nash forgot the cinnamon twist donut.
Thankfully, his other two brothers were nowhere near as picky as Grayson, so it wasn't too much work to pack their lunches too. Nash usually packed all three of his brothers', plus his own, but Jameson and Xander, while no longer confined to the medical wing, were staying home for the whole week.
Nash worried about them—Jameson was in a wheelchair for the time being, since it was difficult to use crutches with his broken wrist, and Nash could tell that he was in pain more often than not. However, Jameson had kept his spirits up, complaining constantly about how annoying his casts were and challenging everyone to races in his wheelchair.
Xander, on the other hand, had been strangely quiet. His normal bubbly personality was present at times, but his hand kept straying to the gauze on his face, and he suffered from almost constant headaches. It didn't help that Xander still couldn't remember what had happened the night of the crash.
Nash's mind strayed to Grayson, who seemed every inch his normal self, sarcastic and methodical, no signs of pain or fear. But Nash remembered how scared Grayson had said he'd been during the crash, and he suspected that his little brother was bottling up his feelings.
There was no mistaking the fact that the crash had taken its toll on all of them. Nash couldn't even look at his little brothers without feeling guilty for crashing the Bugatti—it was his fault they'd gotten hurt, and he didn't know if he could forgive himself.
Nash slipped his backpack on—it was difficult with his arm in a cast—and stepped outside into the periwinkle dawn, breathing in the crisp October air. The sky was perfectly clear and pure cobalt, flecked with tiny sparkles of silver on the western horizon.
He always walked to Country Day—Nash didn't like making the chauffeurs drive him all of three minutes to school, and besides, he needed the exercise. Nash liked to stay in shape, mostly because the old man looked through everyone's weights on the smart scales and would bar Nash from all junk food if his weight went up even a pound.
The sidewalk changed from perfectly smooth to cracked and uneven, with weeds growing through the gaps between the concrete. That was how Nash knew he had left the grounds of Hawthorne House—everything became messier, more chaotic, once he stepped out of the bubble of prosperity that was his life.
A small brown ball of fluff, perched on a branch hanging over the sidewalk, twittered its high-pitched song to the morning sky. Nash stopped and gazed at the tiny bird—a wren, probably. It looked at him with dark liquid eyes, and he held up his finger, holding perfectly still.
The wren hopped off of its branch and onto his finger, cocking its head as if to ask Nash a question.
"I wish I could be like you," Nash whispered. "You're free. You don't have to worry about who loves you and who doesn't."
Chirp?
"You don't have to be a Hawthorne."
Chirp.
"I probably look ridiculous, huh?" Nash murmured. "Talkin' to a bird."
He lifted his finger to the heavens, and the wren took off, winging its way into the slowly lightening sky.
Nash walked the rest of the way to school in silence, staring at the ground and wishing he could just fly away.
The bell rang, and Nash jumped, nearly knocking over the chair he was sitting in.
He stood up, shoving Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows back into his backpack and heading out of the library toward AP Environmental Science. It was a good enough class, but no one in it seemed to like him. Actually, no one in any of Nash's classes seemed to like him. Sure, the teachers did—they positively fawned over him—but that didn't count.
It wasn't like Nash wasn't used to that, though. That was how it had been for most of his schooling—once the other kids figured out that he was one of those rich people that lived uptown, they all ditched him. Nash had been fine up until third grade or so, when everyone was old enough to realize that he was different from them.
When he got to the classroom door, Nash straightened his tie and made sure his shirt was tucked in, then walked into class. He kept his head down, sliding into his seat and setting his backpack on the floor under the desk.
He kept his head down a lot in school. Most days were fine—it wasn't like he was constantly harassed—but Nash didn't want to take chances. He'd learned what could happen if he let people see him.
Halfway through APES, Nash's phone vibrated in his pocket. When Mr. Oakbridge turned toward the projector, pointing something out, Nash stealthily retrieved his phone, glancing down at the text. It was from Grayson—they always were. Not many other people texted him.
Good morning, Nash.
Xan says he wants some kind of pet to keep him company while he recovers. I told him he has to run it by you first, and he asked for guinea pigs.
Do you think that's a good idea? Because there's no way the old man would allow that.
Nash texted back, swiping across the screen as fast as he could. Oakbridge wasn't strict, but Nash didn't want to disappoint his favorite teacher by having his phone out.
theoretically, that's a great idea. realistically…not so much. we'd have to hide them from the old man, which ig wouldn't be that hard given the size of our house.
how many piggies were y'all thinking?
Grayson's response was swift—it usually was. Two.
one gp is a battle, Nash replied. two gps is a war
:P
Oakbridge turned back to face the class, and Nash hastily shoved his phone back into his pocket, glancing back up to the front as the lesson turned to the layers of the earth and its atmosphere. He tried to concentrate—really, he did—but Nash's mind raced with thoughts of The Game and how on earth he was going to pull it off.
His head started to hurt, and he let it drop onto the desk, his cheek pressed against the pages of his textbook. Before he knew it, the world was sliding, blurring, drifting away…
"Nash!"
Nash's head shot up, pulling away from the textbook with such force that he ripped the page stuck to his cheek. Flushing, he peeled the paper off his face and blinked rapidly, trying to clear the sleep from his vision.
"Hey, kiddo," said a soft, heavily Southern-accented voice, and Nash realized that Mr. Oakbridge was kneeling in front of his desk. The lights in the room were off, and the desks were devoid of occupants.
"Sorry," Nash said hastily, standing and starting to gather up his things. "I didn't mean to fall asleep—I've gotta get to second period—wait, what time is it?"
"It's almost time for lunch," Oakbridge told him. "You can sit down, Nash. I wanna talk to you."
Nash sat back down, slowly lowering his backpack back to the floor and dreading the lecture he was surely about to get for falling asleep in class.
But all his teacher said was "Are you okay?"
Nash stared at him for a moment, then whispered, "Yes, sir."
"I'm not sure you are, Nash. Your arm's in a sling, and I couldn't help but notice your forehead. What happened? You wanna talk about it?"
"I crashed my car," Nash mumbled, not wanting to impose his feelings on Oakbridge. "I'm okay, sir, really, thanks."
"Your home life goin' okay?" Oakbridge asked, his tone gentle.
Nash nodded. "Nothin' out of the ordinary, sir. Just tryin' to help everyone heal up from the crash, is all."
"You can always talk to me, okay, Nash? You hear me? Don't be afraid to tell me anythin' you need to."
"I will," Nash promised, though he wasn't sure he really believed it. "Thank you, sir."
"Off to lunch with you, then," Oakbridge said, straightening up. "You take care, okay, kiddo?"
Nash grinned and gave the teacher a thumbs-up with his good hand, then hurried out of the classroom and toward the cafeteria. The smile quickly dropped off his face as he walked, somehow still exhausted even though he'd apparently just slept for five hours.
Oakbridge meant well, that was for sure, but it wasn't that simple. Nash couldn't just tell his teacher about The Game or about his guilt over crashing the Bugatti or his desperate desire for love.
But you promised!.
Well, then, he had to stop making promises he couldn't keep.
The cafeteria was loud and completely packed, nothing out of the ordinary. Nash threaded his way through the throng of students, heading toward his usual corner table.
He'd have liked to have sat with other kids, but not many had wanted to for years. Nash didn't know what was so undesirable about Hawthornes—he thought he was a nice guy, and he couldn't be that bad-looking. Sure, he looked better in a cowboy hat, but Nash was fairly certain that he was at least somewhat attractive. That couldn't be it.
Maybe everyone thought that he believed he was better than them. But that didn't make sense, either, since Nash always tried as hard as he could to fit in with everyone else. He never answered questions in class anymore, even if he knew the answers, for fear of seeming like a haughty know-it-all.
Nash set his lunch box on the table and sat down, careful not to jar his injured arm. He fingered the cross under his shirt, thanking God for his food, then began to eat his sandwich in silence.
"Hawthorne!" a voice jeered, and Nash cringed, not daring to look up. But then a hand landed on his shoulder, and he was forced to do so, staring into the dark eyes of Jace Henderson.
Nash tried not to gulp. "Howdy, Jace. How're you doin' this fine mornin'?"
"Fine," Henderson drawled. "But I couldn't help but notice that you don't seem to be doin' too well, Hawthorne. Been drivin' lately?"
"Of course he hasn't, Jace," sang a high-pitched, breathy voice, and Nash's stomach plummeted. The voice belonged to Persephone Worthington, a ridiculously pretty girl who had the student body wrapped around her little finger.
She was also Nash's personal tormentor.
"Poor thing crashed on Saturday, didn't you, Nash?" Persephone said sweetly. "What did your grandfather have to say about that?"
"Nothin'," Nash replied. "'Preciate the concern, Cici, but everythin's fine."
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Nash tried to ignore it. It was probably Grayson, worried about Xander's request for guinea pigs.
Persephone's smile grew steadily more fake. "Nash, dear, who said you could call me Cici?"
"That's only for her friends to call her," Henderson seethed, and his grip on Nash's shoulder tightened, pulling Nash upright. "And you are not her friend, Hawthorne."
"I'm sorry," Nash mumbled. "I didn' mean to—to overstep my, um, station. My—" He cleared his throat. "My apologies, Ci—Persephone."
"That's alright," she said soothingly. "Jace, honey, let's let Nash go. He didn't know."
Henderson shot Nash a glare but released him, and Nash swallowed hard as Persephone stepped closer, her eyelashes fluttering seductively. "You know, Nash, you really ought to be more careful when you're driving. People could get hurt."
Her gaze flicked to his arm. "Seems like you already have."
Nash was aware of the burning stares of everyone in the cafeteria on him—when Persephone Worthington spoke, people listened. And she was speaking to him, so he was the object of their attention.
He desperately wished for the floor to open up into a bottomless pit.
"But I suppose it's to be expected of a Hawthorne," Persephone sighed, looking at Nash with pity in her eyes. "Spoiled, destructive little brats that they are. I heard the youngest nearly burned the house down a few weeks ago, didn't he?"
"Persephone," Nash rasped, his mouth dry, but she paid him no heed.
"And the little gentleman—what is his name? Grayson, that's it. Is it true that he's in emotional therapy with the school counselor?"
It was true, and his tone was warning now. "Persephone."
"I hope not. I would feel awful for bringing that up. Especially in front of all your friends. Oh, wait—you don't have any."
She stepped closer, and Nash clenched his jaw, trying not to explode with fury.
"And of course, we have you," Persephone whispered. "Driving like you don't even care who you could have killed. Because Hawthornes don't care—all they care about is money and power and being the best."
"Persephone, stop it."
There was fire in her eyes. "And that needs to change, Nash, because you are, in no way, the best. How could you be, you and your brothers being what you are? Worthless, illegitimate pieces of scum who will never, ever be good enough for anyone."
"STOP IT!" Nash roared, and Persephone stopped, backing up a step.
All Nash could see was red. "They ain't worthless, and they ain't scum! They're way more than someone like you could ever deserve! And if you—if you say another word about my brothers, Persephone, I swear—"
He stopped, breathing heavily and shaking all over, and he could feel everyone's eyes on him, horrified and angry.
The scarlet haze began to clear, and Nash's face dropped from a glare into what he thought was probably a look of panic, the realization that he was screaming at the most popular girl in school, perhaps even attacking her—
What did they think of him now?
"I'm sorry," Nash whispered, trembling. "I—I didn't—"
A blow landed suddenly on his cheek, and Nash stumbled backwards, nearly falling back into his seat, but a hand grabbed the front of his shirt, holding him upright.
"No one yells at my girl," Henderson hissed. "If you ever do that again, Hawthorne, I'm gonna personally make you wish you'd never been born, do you understand?"
Nash nodded, his eyes burning as much as his cheek, and Henderson released him, shoving Nash back into his chair.
He brought a hand to his cheek as Henderson led Persephone away. She shot Nash a tiny, evil smile, and Nash dropped his gaze to his lap, fighting to keep his lip from trembling.
He couldn't cry. He was sixteen, for heaven's sake.
But what did everyone think of him now? He'd just threatened Persephone Worthington in front of the entire school. How could they seem him as any more than an insecure sophomore who couldn't take a simple joke.
Of course, it hadn't been a joke. Nash knew that. But everyone watching would probably see it differently.
What did he have to do to get people to love him?