Net Worth by Amelia Wilde

14

Mason

It takes foreverto leave the gala.

I’m not sure why I agreed to ride here with Gabriel like a fool who doesn’t own several vehicles, but here I am. On the way through the crowd I spot Leo and his wife, Haley, coming in. I motion toward the exit like I’m being called out for an emergency meeting. He shoots me a look of pure, cold skepticism and rolls his eyes. He will give me shit for bailing early at the next card game. Knowing that prick, he’ll put a hand to his chest and say I hope you’re all right, Mason. We were so concerned for you after you fled the gala. Now tell me what the fuck that meeting was about.

Scott finally arrives, and we wend our way through the city. Takes forty minutes to get to the parking garage.

Which is exactly when my phone starts ringing.

Some lucky motherfuckers have the option to ignore calls from unknown numbers. I don’t. Not for fourteen years. You never know when some random teacher at your sister’s school will call from a field trip or when one of your brothers will call from—

“You are receiving a collect call from the Westchester County Jail. If you want to accept this call, please press one. This call is subject to monitoring and reporting.”

I let out a string of fucks and stab my thumb on the screen.

Scott looks at me in the rearview. “Do you need—”

“I’m taking the SUV,” I tell him. It’s the vehicle I find least painful to drive at times like these, when I have to show up at whatever new and exciting place my brother is being detained. “What did you do now, Jameson?”

“I’m at Westchester, and I need bail,” Jameson says, and I swear I can hear that bastard grinning over the line.

I bite back the urge to ask him if he is fucking serious, if he knows that Westchester is an hour away in good traffic, if he knows how much I worry that one day this call will be from a local hospital instead of a local jail. “Are you okay?”

“I’d be better if I wasn’t in jail.”

Then, Jameson, stop doing shit that lands you behind bars.

“I’ll be there.”

It takes more than an hour to drive to the Westchester County Jail. I would have been better off leaving from the botanical gardens. It hurts to drive. It hurts more when I’m stressed. Even more when I’ve just said too much to Charlotte Van Kempt in the botanical gardens, kissed her hard enough to feel something, and left her standing there at that ridiculous pillar.

And now I’m the asshole handing my ID to one of the officers on duty in a goddamn tuxedo while my knee pitches a fit.

“I’m here for Jameson Hill,” I say.

The second officer snorts. I pause in the middle of sending Remy a text to say I’ve arrived to give him a look. He presses his lips together to stifle a real laugh. I don’t know how anyone could laugh underneath all these atrocious fluorescent lights, surrounded by cinderblock walls and the people they’ve collected from God knows where. Apparently Jameson’s ludicrous behavior was enough to give this guy some entertainment.

At least it wasn’t close to home. The good people of Westchester County don’t care nearly as much about me or my money as the people in Manhattan. A couple of Jameson’s arrests have made the news, but I had enough time and enough money to keep his name out of the press. Partly for him, since he might not want to be known as a petty criminal all his life, but partly for the rest of us. Jameson works for me, which means his actions affect the reputation of Phoenix Enterprises.

The first one hands me back my ID. “He’s looking at breaking and entering and grand theft. Cash or credit?”

“Breaking and entering where?” I’ll hear all about this from my lawyer, but if this cop over here is laughing about it, then I don’t want to wait that long. I also don’t want to ask Jameson himself. I hand over my credit card. He takes it.

“A farm half an hour up the road.”

Of course. A farm. Christ.

They take their sweet time getting Jameson from his holding cell. He’s in jeans and a black button-down with a bruise on his cheek. Doesn’t look too bad. The second officer rifles through a plastic bin full of manila envelopes, finds one, and hands it over to Jameson. “Thanks,” he says, like he’s been offered a prize instead of his own belongings. “Been a pleasure.”

We’re both silent on the way back to the SUV. Jameson pauses a few feet off. “You want me to drive?”

“No,” I snap at him. “I don’t want you to drive. I want you to get in the car and come home and not get arrested again tonight.”

“No guarantees.” Jameson waits to see if I change my mind. I don’t. He shrugs, then goes around to the passenger side and climbs in. I wish I could let him drive, but I don’t know what’s going on with him. I don’t know what he was doing at the farm. If he’s truly sober and fine or if he’s acting like it for my benefit. I’m as sober as it gets. Irritated. Tired. But I’m good to drive.

I climb in too and get us the hell away from the Westchester County Jail.

Jameson relaxes the instant we’re out of the parking lot. He lets out a heavy breath and tips his head back. Closes his eyes. It hurts every time I have to move my foot on the pedal.

“A farm?”

“There were pigs.” A smile quirks the corner of his mouth.

What the fuck. There are endless questions I could ask Jameson, but they won’t do any good. I don’t know how to explain to him that I’m not pissed that he keeps doing these things. It’s part of how he grieves our parents and always has been. Am I frustrated at having to drive two hours in the middle of the night to get him out of jail because there were pigs? Yes. But mostly I have a gnawing dread in my gut that this ends with the rest of us attending his funeral.

“Are you actually okay, or should I go to the hospital?”

He doesn’t open his eyes. “I’m actually okay, big brother. Just visiting some friends of mine.”

“You need something to eat?”

“I can wait until we’re home.”

Is it home to him, though? He’s almost never there. Half the time he comes home closer to dawn than sunset. I hate it. That nagging fear that everything I’ve done has been inadequate beyond words.

It’s almost one by the time the elevator lets us into my foyer. Remy rushes in from the living room in leggings and an NYU hoodie and throws her arms around Jameson. “What did you do? Oh my god,” she says. “You cannot keep ending up in jail.”

“It was a noble cause.” Jameson moves them into the living room.

Remy finally stops clinging and pushes him into an armchair. “I want to know what happened,” she demands.

I want to sit down, but I don’t. I’m too pissed. I’m too worried. Jameson won’t stop with this bullshit. He does fine at Phoenix. I settle for leaning against the arm of the couch.

He folds his hands behind his head and grins. “One thing led to another.”

Remy falls onto the couch and pulls a throw blanket over her lap. “Okay, but how did it lead to you getting arrested?”

“Because nobody else was willing to go to bat for the pigs.”

“Jameson,” Remy says.

“It was one of those farms where they test things on the pigs. Worse than a lab, though. Called themselves a rescue.” Jameson’s lip curls. “I thought the pigs would be better off in another location.”

“Were you there by yourself?”

“Yeah.” His grin reappears. “Just me and six pigs who were sick of being science experiments.”

This won’t be the truth, but my brother won’t give up the other people who were there with him. Not even to us. I’m shaking my head before I know I’m doing it. “Dad would have kicked your ass for this.”

Jameson narrows his eyes, the grin staying in place. “Well, he’s not here. Are you volunteering?”

“Would it keep you from being such an immature asshole? Fuck, Jameson. It’s not a joke.”

He gets out of his seat as I straighten up. I don’t know who moves to the center of the living room first but we’re there at the same time. I don’t know what I’m there for. To block him? To shout at him? To grab his shirt and plead with him to stop being so reckless? Jameson shoves at my chest.

“You’re right. It’s not a joke.” He pushes me again. “You’re the joke.”

“Don’t fight. Please,” Remy says. Her blanket slithers to the floor behind me. She hovers off to the side, barely visible when I’m looking at our brother. “Jameson, please.”

“Right.” Another growl at my tone. “You’re getting arrested over pigs, and I’m the joke.”

Jameson lunges for my shirt and gets it in two tight fists. Gets into my face. “Here’s the joke, Mason. You’ve had a stick up your ass for years. You spend all your time trying to act like Dad, but you’re not him.” He laughs. It’s a rough sound. Almost wounded. “And by the way, no one asked you.”

“You asked me. You called me for bail.” I can’t shove his hands away from my shirt without risking my own balance in the process. My knee whines, the pain and pressure increasing, and all I can do is wrap my hands around Jameson’s wrists and stay on my feet. “And for the record, you were all minors when they died. Social Services wanted to take the three of you to God knows where, and you’re going to stand here and tell me nobody wanted this?”

Remy’s crying now. I can tell she’s torn over whether to come closer or stay out of it. I understand.

“No. Nobody wanted this.” He shoves me, and it’s almost too much for my knee. I shove him back.

“You wanted to be split up? Because that’s what would have happened if I hadn’t stepped up.”

“What do you want?” Jameson laughs. “An embossed thank-you card? Should we hold a gala in your honor? Maybe a statue in Times Square would suffice.”

His last shove is the hardest and he lets me go, no doubt hoping I’ll fall over. I don’t. I’ve had fourteen years of practice with keeping myself on my feet even when it hurts like hell. It hurts that way now. He didn’t want to be split up. I saw his face when the social worker came to my hospital room after our parents died to tell us the plan they’d decided on.

“You want to thank me? Do us all a favor and take a day off from being a reckless piece of shit.”

“Fine.” Jameson’s grin widens, but it does absolutely nothing to hide the hurt in his eyes. The grief. It feels like having nerves exposed to a sharp wind. I know.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

A delivery is here for you in the lobby, Mr. Hill. Should I send it up?

Jameson waits until I read the damn thing to saunter across the living room, brushing past me as he goes.

“What the hell did you send here?”

He turns his head but doesn’t stop walking. “There was a baby pig. I said you’d keep it in your bathtub.”