He pursed his lips. “I can’t wait.”
My aunt and uncle met me at the baggage claim at San Francisco International. Antoine—whose entire method of communication during the sixteen-hour flight consisted of grunts and intimidating glares—followed behind me like a huge, epically muscular shadow.
Aunt Margaret and Uncle Reginald (my dad’s brother) looked like California-fied versions of my parents: middle-aged, impeccably dressed, sticks up their asses, but tan.
I looked nothing like them. After a year in captivity, my skin was pale, making my green eyes stand out in a way that may or may not help me get laid. No telling what the Santa Cruz guys were like. My dad called all Californians dirty tree-hugging hippies in that close-minded, prejudicial manner of his I’d grown to know well. Never mind that they’d invested much of our billions in the tech industry that was right up the road from Santa Cruz. But I’m pretty sure the Parish family motto was “Never let a little hypocrisy get in the way of profit.” It’s probably emblazoned on our family crest.
My aunt and uncle bid Antoine farewell, and Reginald pressed a wad of cash into his hand.
I saluted my travel companion. “Package successfully delivered. I’m going to miss that big guy. Certain parts of him more than others, if you know what I mean.” I shot my aunt a wink.
“You look…well,” she stammered, glancing at me up and down as if I were a tacky gift she was too polite to return. “You’ve grown so tall since I last saw you.”
“Indeed,” Reginald said. “What are you, six-feet? Strong muscles. They fed you well in Switzerland.” He looked like he was going to chuck me on the shoulder then thought better of it.
“Indeed,” I said with a wide smile. “Protein shakes on the regular.”
They exchanged glances and I let the awkwardness simmer for a few moments, then said brightly, “Thanks for letting me crash with you, Aunt Mags and Uncle Reg.”
“Aunt Margaret, please,” she said timidly, as we headed to the car they’d hired. “Or…if you prefer, I suppose Mags is fine too.”
“Call us whatever you like,” Reg said. “We’re just so very pleased to have you, Holden, my boy.”
My ass. They were also scared I was going to spill the Alaskan baked beans to the press about what the family did to me. Already I could tell Auntie and Uncle were handling me as if I were a ticking bomb, ready to go off.
I could work with that.
Luggage stowed, I slid into the backseat of the town car, Mags on my right and Reginald sitting up with the driver.
“I need to make a little pit stop before we head to the homestead.”
“Oh?” Aunt Mags surreptitiously glanced at the delicate gold watch on her wrist.
Reginald craned his head around, frowning. “Where to?”
“Union Square, in the City. A little back-to-school shopping.” I tugged at the collar of my pineapple shirt. “You don’t mind, do you?”
They exchanged glances and then both smiled thinly at me. “Of course not.”
Four hours and $14,000 later, I had enough fine coats, shoes, designer jeans, sweaters, and silk scarves to get me through the school year.
“It’s quite pleasant in Santa Cruz until October,” Uncle Reginald said, eyeing the cashier at Gucci as she zipped an ankle-length wool coat into a garment bag. “You might want to think about clothes for warm weather.”
“I have thought about it, dear uncle,” I said with a pointy smile as I handed the gal my heavy black AMEX card. “But where I live now, it’s always winter.”
He and Mags exchanged more looks, and pity flashed over their faces.
Too late for that, I thought. The time to care about what they did to me was before Alaska. Not after.
I left the store dressed in designer jeans, a black silk button down shirt, and a black pea coat that I wrapped around me like armor. Aunt Mags eyed the trunk of the town car, bulging with the rest of my purchases, and smiled brightly.
“Time to head home? It’s about an hour and a half drive to Santa Cruz—”
“I’m not quite done preparing for my triumphant return to the land of the living,” I said, running a hand through my ash blond hair. “Why don’t you two grab a coffee somewhere while I pop into the salon?”
Without waiting for an answer, I headed to the DryBar salon across the street from the Square. Either it was a slow day, or the stylist thought I was hot (most likely the latter). I got in right away.
Damon stood behind me in the chair and ran his hands up through my thick hair that was cut short on the sides but longer on top. “Gorgeousness,” he said. “Don’t you dare make me cut this off.”
I met his eye in the mirror and gave him my flirty if-all-goes-well-we-might-fuck look. “Never. How about some color?”
“Perrrrfect. What did you have in mind?”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“With your coloring, I think something silvery would make those eyes of yours stand out like wow.”
“Do it.”
Several hours later, I emerged into the setting sun with silver hair that made my pale skin and green eyes even more stark.
Purely by coincidence, Damon’s dinner break happened to be the same instant he was done with my hair. At my request, he took me to the smoke shop a few doors down
