Fake You | MV Ellis: Boys Of Trinity Hall Book 2 Read online

  By the time I’d made it backstage at the end of her last set, I was as hard as stone, and drunk as a skunk. Still, I figured there was no time like the present to get what I needed to do done, so that I could get my father off my back, and know that my mother and grandfather weren’t going to be made homeless. Until the next threat, of course.

  When I’d barged into the room, I hadn’t had a plan, as such, I’d figured I could play that by ear depending on how the whole thing went down. Not that I’d really properly thought through the possible outcomes of a strange guy following a girl into her dressing room. After the awkward stand-off, where my booze-addled brain couldn’t think past my throbbing dick, as I took in her semi-naked body, it was only the mention of the police that had kicked the drink-induced cobwebs from my mind, and spurred me into action.

  I’d taken weird enjoyment in seeing her squirm when I’d used her real name, and could practically hear the cogs of her brain turning as she attempted to piece together who the fuck I was, and more to the point, how I knew who she was. It was a priceless moment. If he’d been capable of feeling any emotion except hate, Victor would have been proud.

  I wondered if maybe for the first time ever, my father had misjudged the situation and her. He seemed to think she was a tough nut to crack, but I hadn’t seen any evidence of that so far. She’d looked like a deer in the headlights throughout the entire encounter. Even more so after I’d dropped the name bomb.

  And sure, she’d recovered herself eventually, but it had been too little, too late. Plus, her voice had been shaking a little as she yelled. Her tough-girl routine wasn’t even mildly convincing, and the fact was, with the difference in height and build, I could have snapped her like a twig if I’d wanted to. Good thing for her that I’d had no intention of doing so, although there were quite a lot of things I did want to do to her.

  I’d backed out of the room, my mind suddenly clearer than it had been all night, and strolled across to the bar, both to get another drink, and to think about what best to do next. More than that, though, it was to buy myself time for my boner to dissipate, so that I didn’t have to go back to our booth, looking like I was sporting wood for one of the guys, or worse still, for one of them to figure out that something was going on with me and Kik.

  The shit show with Xavier and the waitress was more than enough drama for us to be dealing with, without adding my crap into the mix. Besides, there was no real way of me telling anyone what was happening without lifting the lid on the whole sorry mess of lies that was my life. and I had neither the mental, nor physical energy to pick that scab at that point in time. Or at any point in the foreseeable future.

  The fact that my entire existence was one big charade, as was that of the legendarily perfect Cavanagh family, was a massive bombshell, and one that I didn’t see myself dropping—not even to Xavier—any time soon.

  Chapter 4

  Kik

  Thursdays, along with Mondays, were my favorite days of the week, as they were comparatively easy. Hanging with old Mr. Malcolm and living the life of a retired wealthy octogenarian for eight hours a day, was a pleasure. I accompanied him everywhere, even when he went to play poker with the “boys”, and on his regular dates with old Mrs. Erstwine. Most of the time I felt more like a friend than an employee. A friend who not only happened to be a lot younger than him, but also got paid to be in his company. Not only did I get paid, but I got paid very well.

  Though, even if no money changed hands, it was a pleasure to hang out with Ernie—as he insisted I called him. Ernest Maclean Malcolm III was a cool guy now, so I could only imagine how awesome he must have been back in the day when he was in his prime. He would have been my kind of dude for sure. Not for dating—the slick-rich-dude thing really wasn’t my vibe—but definitely for hanging out.

  Even at almost ninety, his mind was as sharp as anything, and his tongue was even sharper. Even better, he had a filthy mind, the contents of which he had no qualms about sharing with me whenever the mood took him, which was often. I loved the fact that there was zero need to be on my best behavior around him.

  A case in point was the fact that he had a list—an actual written list—of all the women he wanted to nail, and it was long. It made me laugh every time he consulted it. I reality, if he lived to be one hundred and fifty years old, and survived on a diet of spinach like Popeye, and mainlined Viagra, he wouldn’t ever have the time to sleep with that many women, let alone the energy.

  But I figured it was a harmless way to keep his brain ticking over, and the cylinders firing—I guessed it was like how some old dudes studied the form, or spotted trains, planes and automobiles. Instead, Ernie spotted pussy. Keeping up the list was almost a full-time job though, as though he was constantly adding to it, there was also a high natural churn rate, given that most of the women on it were also as old as time. There was a funeral every week—sometimes multiple. In that sense it was handy that his appetite far outweighed his abilities, and the list never ended.

  I envied Ernie’s life. Big time. Discounting the fact that his friends and potential love interests were dropping like flies—and his own wife had died fifteen years earlier—it was a charmed existence. He’d retired decades ago, after a long and successful career that had come to an abrupt end due to the collapse of his company—or else he’d probably still be working to this day. He now filled his time doing whatever the fuck he wanted to.

  His needs weren’t complicated—a little poker, a little pussy watching, a little golf, a little shooting the shit with friends—but that was what made him happy. Even having spent as much time with him as I had, I really couldn’t imagine that kind of luxury for myself. My life wasn’t about what I wanted to do, but all about doing what I had to do to survive.

  As I pulled the car into the lot at the golf club, I looked in the rear-view mirror at Ernie.

  “Nice day for a few rounds. Not too hot, enough of a breeze to keep us cool, but not enough to disturb the game,” I told him.

  “That’s right, perfect conditions, just like God intended it, huh?”

  “I guess.” Not that I believed in God, or the Universe or any other euphemism for Higher Power, especially not after the things I’d been through, and the things I was very much still going through.

  “Looks like Martin is already here. That’s new his ride, right?” I jutted my chin toward the classic Rolls Royce in the space next to us.

  “Yeah that’s it. The ostentatious bastard. We all know he’s richer than God. I don’t know why he needs to advertise it to the world. Someone should tell him that all that conspicuous consumption is ugly.”

  I tended to agree—not that I had any business having an opinion about how rich people spent their money—but I did find the way Ernie’s friend, Martin, was all about the greens tacky as all hell. Ernie never said it in so many words, because he was way too classy for that, but I had a feeling it was the difference between old and new money.

  Ernie’s people were rich for as far back as the eye could see. Sure, their fortune had diminished over time, and seemed to have ended with the loss of their family manufacturing business, but they had what people referred to as good breeding.

  Martin, on the other hand had a fuck-ton of money, but probably less class than me. He’d made his fortune selling cars—hence the Rolls Royce—and that money was so new the ink was still drying on it. Literally. The guy was shady AF.

  He was barely welcome at the club, for exactly that reason. He might have been able to buy the entire thing and everyone in it, but new money was new money, and the club was all about the oldest of the old school. Sometimes I thought that was the main reason Ernie was friends with Martin—because he knew it pissed off all the stuffed shirts he hated.

  I had no idea whether he’d been that way his whole life, or if it was something he’d picked up as he’d grown older and more cantankerous, but he never missed an opportunity to flick the old guard the finger, for what seemed like nothing more than his ow
n entertainment. I had to admire that in him. I aspired to that level of assholery when I was his age, if not sooner.

  I jumped out of the car and opened the door for Ernie, offering him the crook of my arm, to help him out of the seat.

  “Leave me alone. What do you think I am, some kind of old bastard?” That wasn’t only exactly what I thought he was, but also exactly what he was.

  “You? Old? What are you talking about? You’re not a day over forty, are you?”

  It was a well-rehearsed routine between the two of us, but it made me smile every time, regardless.

  “Ha! I’ll be eighty-nine next birthday, and I could teach you youngsters a thing or two, I tell you.” I didn’t doubt it.

  “Your secret’s safe with me, Ernie. If you don’t tell them, people will never know.”

  “I know, right? Good genes in my family. Very good genes. I used to be quite the lady-killer before I married Lilian, you know. And let me tell you, we were very happily married for fifty-eight years, but there were always plenty of women who wanted a piece of the action. Plenty. There still are, when I come to think of it. I’ve still got it.”

  I stifled my laughter, turning it into a grin. “No doubt. If I’ve still got even half as much as you by the time I hit your age, I’ll be happy.” I smiled to myself. I loved the simplicity of our schtick. We both knew our roles, and played them to a tee. I handed Ernie his cane, and prepared to walk at a snail’s pace across the parking lot. He might have liked to think otherwise, but the fact was Ernie was no spring chicken, and was starting to really slow down, even just in completing simple tasks.

  At least his body was getting slower. I saw no sign of any change in his brain. I once heard or read somewhere that with aging, you either got to keep your mind or your body. Very rarely both, and if the old people I knew—mostly through Ernie—were anything to go by, this definitely seemed to be true. Those who were physically spry had only a loose grip on their marbles. Those who were still able to perform mental gymnastics weren’t about to run any marathons. I often thought about which I’d prefer when the time came—not that I’d have a choice in the matter—and would flip-flop back and forth between which I thought was the least bad option.

  Once we were inside the golf club we spotted Martin in his usual spot, propping up the bar, nursing a scotch and soda. It was 10 a.m., but as ever, nobody seemed to notice, or care that it was a little early to be knocking back the hard liquor.

  While they chewed the fat, I went farther into the club to arrange their round of golf, and say hi to a few people. Not only did I bring Ernie to the club at least once a week, but I worked there too—Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. It wasn’t the worst of jobs, and I had it to thank for the sweet gig that was being Ernie’s babysitter or “elderly companion”, or whatever the fuck it was officially called.

  That made it totally worth putting up with all the boring old rules and regs, and bullshit procedures. Not to mention being treated like a second-class citizen because my skin was a few shades off white. The place was an old-school hell, in some ways, but the money was way better than I’d earn working in a fast-food joint, or somewhere, doing the exact same work, and most importantly, it came with insurance. I appreciated the job for that fact, and so did my dad.

  As I rounded the corner back to the bar to take Ernie and Martin out onto the course, I stopped in my tracks, and my blood ran cold.

  Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

  I briefly considered my options—fight or flight, and for the second time in twelve hours I did neither, just stood momentarily dumbfounded and motionless. In the end, I had no choice but to opt to fight. Figuratively. There was nowhere I could run to that wouldn’t draw a heap of unwanted attention, jeopardizing both my gig with Ernie, and worse still, my job at the club. I couldn’t afford to risk either, so I forced one foot in front of the other, and approached the group.

  Chapter 5

  Drew

  “Ah, there you are.” My grandfather smiled warmly at the person who was approaching us, as though greeting an old friend. “I wanted to introduce you to my grandson,” he told them. He’s going to be joining us for a little lunch when we’re done with our round. Drew, this is my assistant, Kevin. Kevin, this is Drew.”

  “Kevin. Pleased to meet you.” What. The. Fuck? I hoped to God my face wasn’t betraying the shock I was in.

  “Likewise.”

  We shook hands, and it was just about the most awkward introduction in the history of introductions. Not that my grandfather, or his friend, Martin, who was at the bar with him, seemed to notice. Or if they did, there was no way they had any inkling of the reason why.

  I stared “Kevin” in the eye, enjoying the awkwardness. After all, I wasn’t the one who needed to squirm. Not even close. In fact, it was one of those moments where on the one hand, life had given me lemons, while on the other, it had also given me a bottle of vodka, and some soda. It was party-fucking-on.

  I looked at my grandfather. “So this is the famous Kevin you’ve been waxing lyrical about all this time?”

  “Yep.” He popped the p for emphasis. “I’m glad you two are finally meeting, I think you’ll get along. You’re about the same age too, right? Kevin here, is nineteen.”

  “Mmm, hmm. Close enough. Well it’s good to finally be able to put a face to a name.” I drew each word out, letting each one hang heavily in the air between us.

  “Oh really? What have you heard? All good I hope? Ernie’s said almost nothing about you, so I’m guessing he’s been telling you the worst about me!” Kik smiled tightly, trying for lighthearted, and achieving ‘constipated’ at best.

  “Oh no, not at all. He’s always saying what a good, honest, hard worker you are. Such a trustworthy and genuine guy.” I emphasized every relevant word so heavily, even the old men must have caught the sarcasm that time. There was another loaded silence, which I was not afraid to let stretch out forever. In the end it was Grampsie who eventually broke it.

  “Well, what are we all standing around gasbagging like a bunch of old women for? The day’s not getting any younger, and neither am I. We have a round of golf to play, and the sooner we get that done, the sooner we get back here for lunch, and more importantly, drinks.”

  If there was one thing I knew—and loved—about Grampsie, it was that he didn’t like anything to get between him and a bottle of fine scotch.

  I smirked. “Of course. Don’t let me keep you. You guys do what you need to do. I have some shit to take care of while you’re out there.”

  “Okay, son, that’s great. Kevin, is the buggy ready?” Kik nodded mutely. “Good. Stop dilly-dallying, and let’s go then.”

  As the trio made their way to the courtyard alongside the bar, where the buggy was parked, I offered a two finger salute to their retreating backs. Kik hung back a little, and turned to glare at me as the two old men stepped outside. This was going to be too much fun.

  When they’d finished their round of golf, we sat in the dining room eating lunch. I always enjoyed these times with Grampsie, and felt guilty that lately, with my college work, and all the shit I had to do with Cygnus Dei, I hadn’t met him at the club for lunch for a long while.

  It wasn’t like it was a chore or anything, I actually always had fun when I hung out with him and Martin. Grampsie was a cool guy. What I liked most about him was his straightforward approach to life, and the fact that what you saw was what you got.

  He was someone who told it like it was one hundred percent of the time. In other words, he was the polar opposite of my father, which was a good thing. I trusted Grampsie with my life, whereas, in contrast, I didn’t trust my father as far as I could throw him.

  The other great thing about Grampsie was his wicked sense of humor. Again, in stark contrast to my father, who was just about as humorless as anyone could be—he made even the sternest of people seem like a barrel of laughs. Grampsie was the polar opposite—he could take something mundane, and totally ordinary, and render i
t hilarious, with his own unique take on life.

  “So, old man, what’s news?”

  “Less of the old, thank you! You might be a big hulk like your father, but you’re never too old for me to spank.” I’d like to see him try. Old guy or not, I’d take him down before I let him hit me. “What do you mean what’s news? At my age, the only news is that some other poor fucker kicked the bucket. That’s all that ever happens, isn’t it, Martin?”

  Martin nodded while stuffing altogether too much food into his mouth.

  “Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best question.” I didn’t bother to remind him that it was the same question I always asked. “So how are you?”

  “How do you think I am? I’m the same as always. Just sitting here waiting to die.”

  “Grampsie, don’t talk like that, you’re not going anywhere.”

  “Ha! We’re all going to die, kid, just some of us sooner than others. In the meantime when you get to my age, that’s what it really is, a waiting game. I go to all these funerals all the time, and I just know that the next one could be mine. It’s bullshit.”

  “So is all this crap you’re saying. A whole load of BS. You’re not going anywhere for at least another hundred years, so that’s the last I want to hear of all this death talk, okay? What else have you been doing?”

  “Nothing. Well, there’s the list, of course.” Aah, the list. There was always the list. This was one way in which Grampsie was just like my friends and me. Even at his advanced age, he was still all about the pussy. It made me laugh.

  “Okay, so how’s the form?”

  I watched as he dug a dog-eared piece of paper out of his pocket and laid it on the table, peering down at it as though it was the most significant thing to ever have been written.

  “Well, I can’t keep up with updating it, it all changes so quickly. Elsie died just last night, so that’s another one bites the dust. Like I said, it’s an impossible task.”