Cross Check (Marriage Contract #1)

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Authors: Colleen Masters

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By Colleen Masters

Copyright © 2016 Hearts Collective

 

All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in
any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas,
characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and
any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely
coincidental.

 

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CROSS CHECK

A Marriage Contract Novel

 

* * *

 

by Colleen Masters

 

 

Prologue

Little Silver, NJ

June, 2004

 

The wheels of my yellow beach cruiser hiss across a stray
drift of sand that’s settled across the bike path. In the gathering twilight, I
don’t even spot the hazard until I feel the telltale wobble of my bicycle going
over the sandy patch. Though my body may be here, coasting along this familiar
path on my hand-me-down cruiser, my mind is a million miles away. Well, 258
miles away, to be more precise. That’s the distance between this little beach
town where I’ve spent my entire life and Cambridge, Massachusetts—the place
where the next four years of my life will unfold.

Though my high school graduation ceremony wrapped up hours
ago, I’m still wearing the dress I chose for the occasion. With its fitted
bodice of white eyelet giving way to a full skirt, it’s not exactly as
contemporary a getup as most of the other girls in my class were rocking under
their graduation gowns. In fact, my dress is as vintage as it gets; it belonged
to my mother. I figure since she couldn’t be here to see me graduate as s
alutatorian
of my class, I could at least bring her along in
this small way.

“Wow,” was all my dad had managed to utter as he caught
sight of me wearing Mom’s dress this morning. “You’re just the spitting image
of her, Leah.”

It didn’t escape me that this was high praise, coming from
him. My mom, Eva, had been the apple of Dad’s eye from the time they were
fourteen years old. Right up until she passed away during my freshman year of
high school, those two were inseparable. Mom and Dad even worked side-by-side
as the housekeeper and groundskeeper of the King Family estate here in Little
Silver. We all lived together in the groundkeeper’s cottage, tucked away in a
peaceful corner of Loudon and Priscilla King’s sprawling bayside property.

For the last four years though, it’s just been me and Dad.
And in a few weeks’ time, I’ll be off to college. I can’t even think about
leaving Dad alone here without choking up a little, no matter how many times he
assures me that he’ll be “Just dandy” on his own. Taking in a huge breath of
salty sea air, I try and let the distressed thought flow out of my mind. All I
want right now is a quiet moment to sit and reflect in my favorite spot on the
entire King property—and let me tell you, there are a lot of spots to choose
from on this opulent North Jersey plot.

I brake gently as I approach an old gazebo, swinging my leg
over the side of my bike and walking it the rest of the way down the faint
path. This isn’t exactly the most heavily trafficked corner of the estate, and
it shows. The once-stately gazebo has been more or less given up on. Where
there used to be white paint, there is now bare wood. Where there was once a
well-trod footpath, there is now sand and grass. Cattails have sprung up all
around the modest structure. Maybe by the time I make it back home again from
college, they’ll have swallowed up the gazebo completely.

Resting my cruiser against the weather-worn structure, I
tread lightly up the creaking steps and let a sentimental smile play across my
face. This simple landmark has been my “secret spot” since I was a
copper-haired munchkin exploring the estate like it was the Wild West. I’ve
lived on the King property my whole life, and was given free rein to explore
the land by my trusting parents (who honestly had enough on their plates, what
with running this place and all).

But it wasn’t just my mom and dad who gave me license to run
wild here—it was the master of the house, Loudon King, as well. Mr. King
inherited the Little Silver estate, along with his family’s entertainment
empire, forged just over the Hudson River in New York City. The Kings had been
in the “business of show” since the early 20th century, when Vaudeville still
reigned supreme. Their company, King Enterprises, has expanded a bit since
then—and today, they’re one of the most successful entertainment financing
companies in the country.

Maybe it’s because he’s still thought of as “new-ish” money
by the other East Coast bazillionaires, but I’ve always considered Mr. King to
be a standup guy—not the prototypical tycoon one might imagine. With his George
Clooney good looks and Daddy Warbucks-esque generosity toward me and my family,
I’ve always been fond of Loudon King. He’s always had a bit of a soft spot for
me as well. All my life, he’s gone out of his way to compliment my scrappy
determination, my hard work, my success in school and love of the arts. More
than anything, Mr. King loves holding me up as an example to his own two children:
the spoiled layabout Cordelia, four years my senior, and Jamison, Jay for
short, who graduated alongside me just this afternoon.

The mere thought of the Jamison King sends my fingers
curling into agitated fists. I suppose this response is hardwired in me after
18 years of competition and one-upmanship. Whether I like it or not, Jamison
King has been a constant figure in my life, popping up from my very earliest
memories onward. He and I were born just months apart, and despite the
difference in their stations, our moms kept each other good company when we
were small. Even when my mom returned to work as the Kings’ housekeeper, Jay
and I were often sent out to play together. Maybe the Kings thought it would
build up their son’s character, being friends with “the help”.

It may have done, too, if Jamison and I weren’t such natural
born rivals. From the time we could put two words together, we've teased and
torn each other down relentlessly. Everything is a competition with Jamison
King, and I’m one of the only people in his life who doesn’t immediately let
him win. He's had the entire world handed to him on a silver platter, a fact to
which he is painfully, and willfully, oblivious. Even though our companionable
rivalry has mostly given way to indifferent silence as we’ve gotten older, I
don’t think the competitive fire will ever completely go out of our
relationship… Whatever you would even
call
our relationship, at this
point.

As I lean against the railing of the gazebo, looking out
across the bay, the warm summer breeze shifts subtly. All at once, snippets of
grating Top 40 music start sailing my way, puncturing the bubble of peace and
quiet I hoped to find out here in my “secret spot”. I glance over my pale,
freckled shoulder with annoyance. Of course Jay is throwing one of his famous
ragers tonight. With his parents out of town for some film festival or other,
and Priscilla anything-but-studying abroad in Spain, Jay has the King mansion
all to himself tonight. Well—himself and every decently appointed kid in our
graduating class, that is.

I try and ignore the pounding music and caterwauling voices
of my classmates as I gaze out across the water. With only a few weeks left to
enjoy my hometown, I don’t want to let the escapades of a bunch of rich kids
derail my generally uplifted mood. It’s been a daily struggle, finding my
equilibrium again since Mom lost her battle to breast cancer nearly four years
ago. But tonight, as I prepare to fly away from this sleepy little town
forever, I finally feel like I’m starting to make peace with all that’s
happened…

Though of course, no feeling of peace is likely to last long
with a roaring house party going on a stone’s throw away.

My ears prick up at the strident footsteps crunching along
the footpath toward me. Bracing myself to intercept some drunken classmate or
other, I tuck my long auburn hair behind my ears and plaster a benign smile on
my face. The few good friends I’ve held onto at school wouldn’t be caught dead
at a kegger like the ones Jay is known to throw, but I can bear to make nice
with a school acquaintance. At least for a minute.

“What’re you, waiting for your prince to come?” a familiar,
taunting voice rings out in the near-darkness. “Hope you’ll settle for a King
instead.”

A peal of sarcastic laughter escapes my lips before I can
even turn around. “Good lord, Jay. I hope for your sake you haven’t tried that
line on anyone else.”

“Nope,” Jamison King grins, appearing at my side as he
slings a broad arm across my shoulders, “I was saving that one just for you.”

“Why don't you save it for someone who’s likely to fall for
your nonsense?” I shoot back, ducking out from under his arm. “Surely there’s
some starry-eyed freshman back at the house who’d eat that crap up.”

“Nah. I’ve been through all the freshmen already,” Jamison
shrugs, his blue eyes dancing as he watches me from across the gazebo.
“Besides, those preppy girls bore the hell out of me.”

“Poor little rich boy,” I drawl, crossing my arms tightly
across my chest.

I pray to god he doesn’t notice the goosebumps that sprang
up across my skin as his bare arm glanced against my shoulders. Jamison King
may be a rich, entitled, womanizing jock, but even I have to admit that he’s
one fine specimen. Having always been a natural athlete, Jay eventually chose
ice hockey as his main sport—and he has the chiseled, powerful body to prove
it. With his sandy blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and imposing six-foot form,
Jay is the quintessential high school golden boy. And he knows it full well,
too.

“Why didn’t you come to my party, Brody?” Jay challenges,
hanging a pool towel over the gazebo railing. He’s dressed for a swim, wearing
nothing but his black swim trunks. I force myself to keep my eyes on his face,
rather than letting them trail down his impressively muscled torso. “Are we not
friends anymore, now that you’re off to the Ivy League?”

“We’ve never been friends,” I remind him bluntly.

“Come on, of course we have!” he shoots back with mock
innocence.

“You called me ‘Grody Brody’ for the first thirteen years of
my life,” I press, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“And you called me ‘Captain Trust Fund’ right back. It’s our
bit,” he shrugs.

“You’re forgetting the part where you went from name calling
to radio silence for the last four years,” I point out, “Was that a bit too? Or
could your reputation just not take a hit like speaking to the class bookworm
even one time?”

Jamison’s sharp jaw pulses with tension as my words land.
Have I actually found a chink in his golden armor?

“I guess I figured you could do without my bullshit
after…You know,” he says softly.

 His meaning catches me square in the gut. After my mom
passed away freshman year, everyone in my life started treating me differently.
Handling me with kid gloves, for the most part. In hindsight, Jay was no
exception—though I barely noticed at the time, what with my entire world being
forever altered and all.

“Actually, I probably could have used a sparring buddy,” I
laugh shortly, averting my eyes from his, “I spent so much time playing the
Good Grieving Daughter, it would have been nice to let off some steam once in a
while.”

“Well…Why don’t we make up for some lost time, then?” Jay
grins, reaching into the pocket of his trunks and pulling out a sleek silver
flask.

I smile back despite myself, happy not to dwell on the
subject of my mom’s passing. It’s not exactly my favorite event to revisit.

“Why the hell not,” I say, holding out my hand to accept the
flask, “It’s our graduation night, isn’t it?”

“Sure is,” Jay replies, taking a swinging stride across the
gazebo towards me. We lean back against the railing together, facing the wide
expanse of the bay as we pass the flask back and forth between us.

“That’s pretty nice,” I remark, savoring the smoky sip,
“Someone raided Mommy and Daddy’s liquor cabinet, huh?”

“I’ve been stealing their scotch since I was thirteen—why
stop now?” Jay laughs, taking a deep swig.

“That’s the Jay I know and barely tolerate,” I say wryly.

“Hey, I’m sharing aren’t I?” I shoot back, “Give me some
credit once in a while, Brody.”

“I will. When you earn it,” I reply, no longer joking.

Jamison glances down at me, a dark streak of indignation
flashing in his blue eyes.

“Like I could ever earn anything for myself, according to you,”
he says coldly.

“You
could
, you just choose not to,” I shrug, not
holding anything back. Not tonight. “You’ve always taken your life for granted,
Jay. Coasting by in school, not even trying—”

“We can’t all be rocket scientists like you, Leah,” he cuts
me off, “I work my ass off just as hard as you do.”

“You’re joking, right?” I scoff, whipping around to face
him.

“No, I’m not joking,” he says, drawing himself up to his
full height, “Just because my work happens on the rink instead of at the
spelling bee or whatever the fuck—”

“So you spend a few hours every week slamming other dudes
into the boards at the ice rink,” I say flatly, “And for that you think you
deserve your scholarship to BU?”

“Just as much as you deserve yours to Harvard,” he replies,
not giving an inch.

“Well,” I say, shaking my head, “I just hope they actually
make you take an actual class or two while you’re up there. Maybe you’ll
finally get schooled on the concept of
privilege
.”

“Fuck it,” Jay growls, turning away from me, “I don’t know
why I let you draw me into this petty bullshit. You made up your mind about me
a long time ago. Why not just let it lie?”

“Fine by me,” I snap, feeling the heat rising in my cheeks.
Thank god the low light of the evening will hide the easy flush coloring my
face. My complexion is as Irish as they come. I couldn’t suppress a blush to
save my life. 

A stormy silence falls over the gazebo, but neither of us
will be the first to walk away. That’s one thing we have in common: unrelenting
stubbornness. It’s not the only thing we have in common, though, surprisingly
enough.

Nostalgia lifts my gaze to a bench across the gazebo from
where Jay and I stand silently fuming. Padding across the weathered boards in
my white flats, I make my way over to the narrow seat, sinking carefully onto
my knees before it. I can feel Jay’s eyes following me as I go. If I didn’t
know better, I could swear I feel them lingering on the dip of my waist, the
swell of my hips and chest. Glancing over my shoulder with a small, conspiratorial
grin, I grab hold of the seat’s wooden edge and push gently. The bench opens up
on rusty hinges to reveal a small cubby, long unused.

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