Bargains

By Cali Moore

Brax had it all. Well, actually, he'd had too much of most things. A more decadent life had rarely been lived and even he was tiring of it. He'd made bargain after bargain with self-interest always in mind. His road to Georgia was littered with excess.

            Jaime's was paved with sorrow. Her tragic youth shadowed every decision she made until a horrific accident befell her young protégé. Determined to help him recover and fulfill his dreams, she returned to Uncle Frank's house and assumed her inheritance.

            The adults that arrived were as different as the journeys that led them here. Or so they thought. Mutual fascination leads to shared desire even as Jaime fights to defend herself against the one thing that scares her. Accepting Brax's friendship and passion is not the same as accepting his love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cali Moore
• Release date: Mar 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393942139

Book preview

Chapter One

The Children

A child is everything.

How easy it is for some to forget that.

HIM, 1969-1971

Braxton watched the black limo pull up the long, tree-lined drive. A quick glance assured him his mother was still drinking by the pool with Auntie Sal. Auntie Sal wasn’t a real aunt and Brax didn’t like her.

But then, he didn’t like most adults in his experience of six years.

Braxton’s lips tightened in concentration as he studied the sketch in his hands. It was good. He knew it. It looked just like his father. Right down to the cold eyes.

He scrambled off the window seat and ran down the steps as fast as his little legs would carry him. He was in the grand foyer before the butler even knew his father had arrived.

Braxton opened the door with the dignity of a fifty year old retainer at the sound of the footfalls on the front steps. Good evening, Father, he said politely. Welcome home. I drew this for you. He held out the sketch he’d worked on all afternoon.

Benton Rath glanced at the sketch before looking at the gray-stained fingers of his only child. Men of means do not dirty themselves, Braxton.

It’s the charcoal, sir, Braxton said hopefully. I’ve only just finished and wanted to show you.

There isn’t time, Benton growled. Dawson will be here in minutes. He shook his head at his son. Do not show yourself until you have cleaned up.

Braxton’s eyes dropped from his father’s face to the ignored drawing in his hand. Yes, sir.

The disappointment wasn’t as great as it had been in the past. Braxton had grown accustomed to his father’s indifference and realized he’d expected nothing else. He wasn’t what his father wanted in a son and he knew it. Father? He queried, before the man had a chance to disappear into his study for a drink.

What now, Braxton? Benton asked, stopping but not bothering to turn around.

Must I come down tonight? I don’t like Mr. Dawson.

Benton turned then. Either do I, but he is a necessary evil. Go clean up, get dressed and present yourself for dinner.

If I don’t?

Benton’s lips thinned and his face turned red with anger. I will burn every piece of paper in this house. I will grind your charcoal to dust, break all your pencils and melt all your crayons.

Braxton’s eyes narrowed in a mirror image of the man before him. That a boy of six could show such restrained rage said a lot about his life. One day, Father, I will be old enough to leave this house.

Benton grunted, softening at the show of steel. He didn’t understand this son of his. The boy was no weakling, physically or mentally, but all he wanted to do was draw. That wasn’t going to get him very far and prevented him from learning what he needed to know to run the Rath Empire. Was it my imagination, Braxton, or did you ask me to hire a tutor to teach you about paints last week?

Brax held his breath. He’d begun dreaming about working in oils. All great artists worked in oils. I did.

I will make a deal with you, son.

What? He asked suspiciously. His father wasn’t one to offer deals that benefited anyone but himself. He’d known that since he was five.

I will hire you your tutor, but you will give equal time to an endeavor of my choice. And equal enthusiasm, he added pointedly.

Brax considered that. His father wanted him to follow in his footsteps and he knew it. The truth was he hated math. He hated what little he knew about business and commerce. His father had no friends. He had employees and business associates. He already knew, at six, that his father saw other women and his mother was sleeping with her hairdresser. Neither was oblivious to those facts. Neither cared as long as no one else knew it.

It was all an illusion, this so-called family of his. Love entered into none of it. Certainly not love for the sole child they had created.

Well, he decided, he could create his own illusions. Brax glanced at the accurate sketch in his hand. He’d always drawn what his eyes saw, not his mind. Maybe that was his mistake. Maybe it was time he learned the magic of being not what one seemed. His little frame moved with the force of his sigh. His small, dirty hand extended toward his father. You have a deal, sir.

Benton looked at the filthy hand with distaste before finally accepting it, sealing the bargain.

And so it began.

Young Braxton Rath, the heir to the immense fortune of Benton Rath, began his studies in oils and how to manipulate the world to his own liking. His first assignment was to convince his father he cared about more than his art.

Braxton waited until the door shut before he stuck out his tongue. He picked up the lesson book and threw it against the wall just for the satisfaction of it.

And the thud was satisfying.

A moment’s attention on the clock told him he had an hour to kill before Oscar showed up. He considered going to his studio but rejected it quickly. Stress wasn’t a word, much less an affliction that an eight-year-old child should know. He knew it as both.

He also knew it was part of his father’s plan to wear him down. The elite private school he attended kept him away from home for seven hours a day. When he got home, it was two hours with Mr. Henry, followed by two with Oscar. That brought him to eight o’clock, which gave him half an hour to get cleaned up for dinner. After dinner it was homework, then bed.

The weekends were nice unless his parents were entertaining. They did less and less of that as time wore on. Brax knew the love they might have shared at one time was long dead. No one else did.

Illusion.

He’d become good at it himself in the last two years. That he was smart made it easy. His studies didn’t really tax his brain and despite his loathing of Mr. Henry’s teachings, that man did appreciate his aptitude and verbally embrace him as a genius.

Unlike Oscar. Oscar was the one who ridiculed him. The one who was never satisfied. Braxton appreciated that too. Oscar was an artist.

The funny thing was that Brax had learned he didn’t really want to be an artist. There was no great desire in him to create something from within. He just wanted to draw what he saw.

As the years passed and his talents developed, that didn’t change. Braxton was happiest with a sheet of paper, a piece of charcoal and a worldly vision in front of him.

HER, 1973-76

Jaime watched the old dusty Rolls come down the street. She knew it would be coming. Uncle Frank always came when her father grew silent and locked himself away. At six, she had learned to read the signs that heralded the moments of her life, good and bad.

She’d already packed her backpack. She had her toothbrush, her blanket, her stuffed dog, called Rainbowy because of all the colors in him. She didn’t need toys or clothes. Uncle Frank kept some on hand for these times. His house was one big toy. He’d told her once that he loved it when she grew because he could go get her more things and he liked shopping for her.

Eggsentric, she tried out quietly. She’d heard someone call him that once and didn’t understand the word. She thought it meant something good because Uncle Frank was good. Jaime loved Uncle Frank more than anyone but her parents.

Jaime, sweetie.

Jaime looked at her mother in the doorway. She looked tired and Jaime knew why. Sort of. Uncle Frank had come to take her away because Daddy was mad at Mommy. Uncle Frank always took her away then.

Uncle Frank is here.

I saw the car, she admitted and slid off the window seat, grabbing her backpack in the same motion. Why don’t you come too, Mommy? Uncle Frank won’t care. We’ll come back when Daddy’s happy again.

Elaine smiled at her precious daughter. God, how she loved this sweet child. She dropped to her knees and held her arms open. Jaime walked into the embrace and she hugged her tightly. I can’t, honey. Daddy needs me with him. You go and have fun, OK?

Is he going to hurt you again? Jaime asked into her neck.

Elaine sighed and forced the tears back. How could she explain any of this to a six year old? She couldn’t. She couldn’t explain it to herself. No one had been able to explain what went on in Bob’s head. She’d lost count of the doctors they’d consulted, the medications they’d tried. In the end, they all failed and Elaine wasn’t willing to put the man she loved into an institution for the odd weeks each year he lost control over his very soul.

All she could do was ride out the occasional storm and protect Jaime any way she could.

Elaine hadn’t realized Frank was there until she felt the hand on her shoulder. She turned to smile at him. He was really her uncle. Her father’s brother. He was a kind, gentle man, who lived in his own world. An inventor who’d had more than a few good ideas and had grown absurdly wealthy in his fifty-five years. Frank had never married and had doted on Jaime from the day she was born.

I have a surprise for the mite, he said, a gleam in his pale blue eyes. He patted Elaine’s head. She’ll be happy. You call if you can’t handle things.

Elaine hugged Jaime again quickly and released her. I’ll let you know when she can come home.

Frank nodded, patted her cheek, and held a hand out to the little girl who needed him so very much. He’d discovered through young Jaime that he liked to be needed. Come on, Mite. Wait until you see what I’ve done now.

What? Jaime asked, her eyes brightening with the thought of an adventure. She hated why she went to Uncle Frank’s, but nothing else about it. Uncle Frank’s was fun. He was fun.

You’ll see. Ready?

She nodded and placed her tiny hand in his large, rough one.

Jaime blinked at the addition to Uncle Frank’s large house in southern Georgia. Her house in Atlanta was nice, but nothing like his. A pool?

A diving well, he corrected.

That’s not a well, Uncle Frank, she said knowledgeably. It’s a pool.

He laughed. So it is. But it is for diving. That’s why there are boards.

Her bright blue eyes traveled up to the high one. That’s too high, Uncle Frank.

Not for people bigger than you. He squatted down to eyeball her. Jaime, have you ever seen anyone really dive?

She shook her head.

It’s beautiful and those that do it love it. It’s like a dance in the air.

She frowned and tilted her small head. Do you know how?

Not really, not right. I found someone who will teach you if you’d like. She was still staring up at the three-meter board. You would start on the lower one, he added gently.

Why did you do this?

Frank shrugged. You know what a vacuum cleaner is, right?

Of course.

Well, there are vacuum cleaners for pools too. Someone suggested I try to make one that would run on its own. That a person wouldn’t have to push. There are some, but they’re not very good.

Like a robot? She knew all about robots. Uncle Frank loved them.

Yes. His knees couldn’t stand it so he sat down and pulled her onto his lap. I needed a pool.

Like this?

He chuckled. No, but I’m considered an eccentric, so why not?

Eggsentric, she repeated. She loved that word. What does that mean?

Strange, but in a nice way.

She frowned at him. You’re not strange, Uncle Frank.

Not to you, Mite, he said and hugged her tightly. What do you think? Do you want to learn to dive?

I don’t know. Is it hard?

I have no idea. It’s beautiful. Don’t you want to be beautiful?

I don’t care.

Frank drew his head back and smiled at her. I’ll remind you you said that in ten years. What do you say? Give it a shot?

Jaime would do anything for Uncle Frank. She didn’t know the words then, but Uncle Frank’s was her sanctuary and he was her protector. She only knew that he would always keep her safe and do his best to make her laugh.

Neither of them realized, that warm July day, that he was also giving her her future.

Jaime had finished packing before Uncle Frank arrived. Her mother had been too late in calling him and the violence had already begun. She knew a little more now. Enough to know her father was mentally ill. What no one could figure out was why the medication always worked for a while, then failed, resulting in violence, followed by deep remorse and depression.

It had never been directed at her.

Jaime knew her father loved her. He also loved her mother. And they both loved him. He was usually a good man. Financially successful with a lot of friends, few knew about Robert Foster’s dark side.

Elaine didn’t want it known.

She’d started confiding in her nine-year daughter a few months earlier. Jaime’s questions had finally worn down the woman who needed someone to understand. It wasn’t only her mother who had shed light on what was really going on. Her father had played a part too. Once he’d realized Elaine had hinted at the problems to their young daughter, he’d talked to her. Not to defend himself, but to make sure Jaime didn’t think less of her mother for sticking by him.

For putting up with him.

Jaime descended the stairs, intending to wait for Uncle Frank outside. She knew he was coming, she was the one who had called him. As she reached the main floor her father came out of the kitchen with a bag of ice.

Should I go to her? Jaime asked calmly. Her mother had warned her to remain calm no matter what. It wasn’t always easy.

Call the cops, he said seriously, seeing his daughter through a haze of tears. Tell them to lock me away.

Mom has to do that. Jaime set her bag down and approached him. Her small hand touched his cheek. We love you, Daddy. Can’t you trash the house instead of Mom?

He squeezed his eyes shut. Oh God, Jaime. Why won’t she leave?

She loves you. If I were her, I would leave. But I’m not and she won’t. Not out of fear of being on her own, but of what would happen to you. What you might do to some stranger if she wasn’t here to keep you home.

You’re too young for this, he ground out. Ah, Jesus, Jaime, I’m so sorry.

You’ve just beaten her and you’re apologizing to me, Jaime said slowly, doubting that age would bring her any closer to understanding his behavior. Why is it just her?

I love you. You’re my daughter.

She’s your wife, Jaime countered. You’re supposed to love her too.

I do. He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears.

She didn’t have any answers. In Jaime’s eyes both her parents were nuts and her eccentric uncle was sane. She knew what that word meant now. In his own way, Frank was also a little nuts. Who put a diving well in his backyard to perfect a pool sweep and provide a place for his niece to learn to dive?

Insanity, she’d decided, ran in the family.

She wondered what Frank was working on now. He’d gotten the bugs out of the pool sweep and had made another financial killing. He might be crazy, but his sort of insanity paid off.

And he was fun. She was out the door as soon as she saw the dusty old Rolls appear. She wondered how long it had been since he’d had it washed and decided to do it for him. There wasn’t a thing she could do for her parents and she knew it.

Chapter Two

The Adolescents

It takes a sturdy bridge

To cross a child into adulthood.

HIM, 1977-81

Rath.

Sir, Braxton responded, his head held proudly. His bright green eyes met the headmaster’s without flinching. His body hadn’t quite grown into his mind, but it was close. He’d shot up to five foot ten and was beginning to fill out. No one believed he’d reached his full height, but Brax doubted he’d break six feet, as his father hoped.

The headmaster regarded the proud boy intently. He didn’t approve of the rules that would be broken for the boy. Freshmen did not leave campus unless with their parents over vacation. This boy would be picked up every night at seven and returned at ten. No one had deemed to tell him why.

As of today, you will be at the front desk at seven o’clock. Your father’s chauffer will pick you up and return you at ten.

Brax hid his grin. I know, sir.

Do you know why?

Of course, sir. His lips twitched. His father had no choice. Either he was allowed to continue with Oscar or he’d get his ass thrown out of school in such a grand fashion it would be on the national news. His father had turned an interesting shade of purple when he’d delivered that ultimatum. Obviously, the headmaster didn’t know where he was going every night or why. Presumably his father was too embarrassed to explain that his son wanted to paint pretty pictures. That was fine with Brax.

He was at the desk at seven when Benjamin walked in. Brax grinned. Hi ya, Benny-boy.

Master Braxton, he said politely for the benefit of the matron at the desk. Are you ready?

I was born ready, he announced and opened the large door. Let’s get out of here. He let himself into the limo. The front seat, not the back, and waited for Benjamin to climb behind the wheel. When are you going to teach me to drive this thing?

Ben grinned at the boss’ son. Brax, you’re going to get my black ass fired one of these days.

Who would know?

Your father, soon enough, he said dryly and started the sleek vehicle. Eventually you’d bait him with possessing knowledge he wouldn’t approve of.

One of these days, Brax said seriously, It won’t matter. You can work for me instead of Mr. Frigidaire.

How did you get him to agree to this? Ben asked. He’d been dying to know what the boy had threatened. Brax didn’t argue with his father. He agreed until he came up with a suitable threat or piece of blackmail and then got what he wanted. It was no secret to the staff that Benton had lost patience with his son’s ‘doodlings’, as he called Brax’s art.

I told him I would bang the headmasters’ wife and capture it on video tape. Film at eleven.

Ben glanced at him with a grimace. You didn’t.

Oh, come on, Ben. Father sleeps with anything under twenty-five with large breasts and short skirts. The apple didn’t fall that far from the tree.

You’re fourteen, he said slowly.

And have only had four women, he lamented. I have to get ten more before my next birthday. I figure I’ll have as many as my years from now until I die.

Ben rolled his eyes. And when you’re seventy?

Think of the challenge, Brax quipped. I’d better get an exercise regimen, don’t you think?

Or a psychiatrist.

Brax laughed.

Oscar was waiting for him when he arrived. Brax, my boy. I’ve got a surprise for you. Lovely Michelle has agreed to pose for you. I’ve got the easel and paints ready. She’ll only give you the week.

Brax studied the beautiful woman before him. She was maybe twenty-two or three. Her breasts weren’t overly large, but they were nice, crowned by luxurious nipples. Her hips were a little wider than he found personally attractive, but he knew most men would think them perfect. Already a cynic, he decided quickly that she’d failed as an actress or legitimate model and wasn’t willing to go the porn or stripper route. Not that she had the breasts for the big leagues.

He ignored the paints and grabbed a sketchpad and pencil. Before he’d even sat down, lead was leaving its trail on the pristine page.

Oscar watched over the boy’s shoulder as he had so often in the past. Brax could paint. He understood the textures that could be achieved with oils, the techniques that made a good painting a great one. One day he could be a master, but Oscar doubted that would ever happen.

This was what the boy loved. The subtle shading of black to innumerable grays he could achieve with a pencil or a piece of charcoal. If Brax saw anything within himself, he didn’t reveal it in his art. He drew what was before him, exposing details few even noticed.

He watched the woman appear on the page and looked at the flesh version when he thought something was wrong. It wasn’t, of course. He just hadn’t noticed the beginning of the wrinkle on the woman’s neck. Michelle wouldn’t like that Brax had.

There was more as the sketch developed into an accurate portrayal of the model. Not only was everything on the body revealed, but the look in the eyes showed the desperate attempt to be something. And the knowledge that she would never achieve that elusive goal.

Perhaps we should forget the oils, Oscar mused.

Brax’s hand stilled. But that’s why I’m here.

Oscar sighed and pointed to the sketch. Let’s try an experiment.

What?

Here, with Michelle and that sketch to guide you, you will paint her. You will also create the same vision with ink at school.

Brax frowned. Ink?

Brax, Oscar said gently. What are you going to do with your life? I’ve gone to you or you’ve come to me for five days a week for eight years. You’re in a prep school geared to getting you into some stuffy place such as Harvard. To study business and step into the old fart’s shoes. What are you going to do, young Braxton? If you could choose and be guaranteed success in any choice, what would it be?

Brax compared the sketch before him to the woman. His eyes went back and forth critically, looking for errors in shading or proportion. He didn’t find any. I’m not an artist, am I? He asked slowly. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?

What is an artist? Oscar countered.

A man of vision, Brax said thoughtfully. He sees more than the reality. He takes the reality into his soul and adds it to what’s in him. Then he tries to express that to the world.

Not bad, Oscar approved. Why do you think you don’t do that?

I have no soul.

Oscar scowled and moved in front of Brax to force him to look at him. You have a soul, Braxton Rath. It’s probably a very good one. But it’s yours and you don’t want to give it away. That’s all right, son. It’s like religion. Some view it as a community activity, the whole fellowship bit. Others find it very personal and don’t want to discuss their beliefs with others. It is between them and their God. Is one a better Christian than another? Maybe. Does one have more faith? No. You are an artist, Brax, but you aren’t willing to give up your soul to it.

So where does that leave me?

Oscar grinned. Inks, my boy. Illustrations. Draw what you see for yourself and make your fortune drawing other people’s souls.

I don’t understand.

Books, Brax. Draw for books. It’s no tougher than making it as an artist. It’s probably easier for a man of your talent. And the business knowledge your father is cramming down your throat will help you. Publishers like dealing with people who understand their problems.

Brax considered that. When I was really young, I used to draw monsters.

The bogeyman?

I suppose. I’d wake up from a nightmare and know there was no adult comfort to be had, so I’d draw my fears to banish them. I often made them ridiculous.

Do you think you could be happy drawing for children, Brax? Could you give them that?

Yes, he said quickly, easily. Yes, Oscar, I could.

Oscar patted his knee. Let’s forget the oils and concentrate on ink.

All right.

Brax didn’t realize it, as Oscar did, but he’d sealed his future that day. He would use the education his father provided and the talents fate had given him. Braxton Rath would set out on a path where he would use and take advantage of everything life granted him.

Come on, Brax, Rick pleaded. The girls are waiting.

Brax put the finishing touches on the latest challenge Oscar’s friend, Bea, had given him. He’d only met her a month ago. For two years he’d been working in inks, learning how to make magic out of realism. He still preferred the subtly of charcoal, but he was learning to appreciate the different boundaries ink provided. He still went for highly detailed, but the added dimension of color made it both easier and more difficult to achieve that. He’d been told once that any photographer worth his salt preferred to work in black and white and he was beginning to understand why. Depth was about subtle layers and only black and white allowed all those layers to show. Color simply replaced art when it came to serious work.

Bea was an illustrator who worked with a prolific writer of children’s books. She’d challenged him to recreate characters she had drawn long ago in a very successful book that had won many awards. He’d read it as a child, but was only working from the words now. The long ago illustrations only a vague memory that he tried to suppress when they floated back to his consciousness. They better be hot, he complained.

Rick grinned. You’re getting laid tonight, my friend, I guarantee it.

Brax grunted and set the drawing aside. And what is it going to cost me?

The beer. I got the weed.

Let’s go. I can afford beer.

You can afford anything now that you’re top of the class. Your old man thinks he’s finally convinced you of the error of your ways. Rick picked up the drawing while Brax tucked in his shirt and re-fastened his belt. Jesus.

What’s wrong?

Rick blinked and all but dropped the sketch. It’s like every nightmare I ever had.

Brax chewed his lower lip. Too scary, then.

For a pre-schooler, yes.

He sighed. Damn.

Worry about it tomorrow, Rick said, grabbing his arm. I want to get laid tonight.

They both got laid, but Brax spent all but the critical moments wondering how to lighten up the sketch. He didn’t want to produce nightmares for some innocent three year old. He wanted them to look at the picture and find it as silly as scary.

Two days later Brax waited nervously while Bea and Oscar studied the sketch. He wasn’t worried about Oscar. Artistically, he knew it was great. It was Bea’s opinion that concerned him. She knew the market that concerned him the most. He’d learned in the past two years that he wanted this. Oscar had understood that and pushed him in the direction he most wanted to take.

It really was all about souls. He could do this, be creative, and never have to open up his own. It didn’t get any better than that for a boy who was afraid to reveal his thoughts and feelings in fear of being ridiculed and rejected. Rick was right. He and his father had reached a bit of a truce. It wouldn’t last, but Brax was content with it while it did. Even his selfish mother seemed easier, but he supposed that was due to his own aging. At sixteen he was feeling more man than boy and his reluctantly aging mother had no influence over him anymore. He might be torn about his feelings for his father, but he had none for his mother.

Bea finally smiled at him. Brax, this is great.

It’s not too scary?

At first, yes. The absurdity is a little subtle for a young child. Their parents will have to point it out.

Not all children have parents who read to them, he argued. His certainly had never bothered. Some kid may check that out of the library and have the shit scared out of him. I don’t want that.

You’ll learn to tone it down, she said positively. Brax, I’ve been looking at some of the sketches you’ve done over the years. Mostly the nudes. Are you a virgin?

I’m sixteen.

Which means?

He took in her amused face and frumpy garments. Bea was no beauty. She was an over-weight, late middle-aged woman, and he would have given anything for a mother with half her sensitivity. I’m not a virgin. Are you propositioning me?

In your dreams, kid. I like men, not boys.

He grunted.

Well, that’s a manly sound anyway, she teased. Brax, I have a reason for asking that question.

What?

I know somebody who’s looking for an illustrator. I think you can do what he wants.

What is it?

Erotica.

Brax’s brows rose. Paying job?

A couple of grand if he likes it. You’ve got to start somewhere.

I do something like that and I’ll never get hired for kids’ books.

That’s what aliases are for, Oscar interjected. Brax, I’ve read the book and it’s pretty hard core. You’re so young.

I’m sixteen and I’ve slept with forty women. How many have you had?

Both adults stared at him. Forty? Oscar finally managed.

Fourteen in that year, fifteen in that one. I have to get five more before my seventeenth birthday to make sixteen this year.

Bea scowled. Braxton, sex isn’t a game.

You just asked me to draw porn and you’re going to moralize? When she said nothing, he glanced at the clock. Ben will be here soon. Give me the book and I’ll see what I can do.

Bea looked at Oscar after Brax left with Ben, hardcore book in hand. Oscar, that boy is heading for trouble.

He sighed. I know, but I can’t stop him.

Why not? She wailed. He respects you!

He watched from the window as Brax jumped into the front seat of the limo. There’s a price for happiness. You know that, Bea. Braxton will have to pay his just like the rest of us. His will be higher because of his parents. I like to think the happiness he’ll find at the end will be also.

He may not find it, she warned.

He’ll find it.

How can you be sure?

He lifted a sketch out of a large potfolio and handed it to her. Brax drew that when he was six.

Bea studied the features of the stern man. It was the eyes that were really unsettling. If one could draw the North Pole and hell in the same image, she was looking at it in those eyes.

That’s Benton Rath through the eyes of his six year old son. When I first saw that I asked Brax what he felt for his father. He said, ‘Nothing, which is what he feels for me’. It wasn’t a complaint, just a statement of fact. I then asked him what he would change if that was his face, at that age. He said the eyes. He said if he lived that long he would become the child he’d never been. He was still six at the time.

Bea closed her eyes for the little boy Braxton had been. Or not. No wonder he’d slept with forty women already. Now he’s sixteen. He might have forgotten that wish.

He wants to draw for children, Bea, he said quietly. Do you think he’s forgotten?

Bea looked at him. How would you paint Braxton?

He smiled. As I already have. And no, you may not see it. When he finds that happiness, or thinks he’s in danger of losing the chance, I will give it to him.

A hint?

I painted him as the man he should become, and that is all I will tell you.

So helpful, she groused.

Braxton gave his speech as valedictorian. He didn’t make waves with it. Those would come soon enough. As he accepted his diploma he regarded his beaming father and smiling mother. A handsome couple. To this day, no one knew the true state of their marriage. Peaceful co-existence, mostly because they simply ignored each other when not in public. In public, you’d think they tore up the sheets every night. Brax wondered if they’d even slept together since he’d been conceived. As long as he could remember, they’d had separate bedrooms.

He didn’t love them. Nor did he hate them. They were his parents and as such deserved some respect. He tried. It was easier to respect his father. He, at least, worked hard for his millions. That it was more important to him than his family made it difficult, but Brax tried. His mother was harder. Never maternal, it seemed to him the only thing she cared about was looking young. She did look young and would at her death since that was coming fast, thanks to cancer. He doubted he’d grieve much. She’d refused all treatment, preferring to die gorgeous than bald.

He thought her foolish.

Braxton, his father said at the following reception. I’m still waiting for Harvard to send a bill.

Brax sipped his punch. I’m not going to Harvard, Father.

What do you mean, you’re not going to Harvard?

Just that.

Stanford? Yale?

None of the above.

Braxton, I’m not amused. I will not pay for a college I don’t approve of. You were accepted everywhere you applied.

Columbia.

Benton sighed. Ivy League. They have a good business program.

I’m not majoring in business.

His eyes narrowed. Art? You’re majoring in art?

Fine arts, if you please.

I don’t! Benton hissed. Damn it, Braxton, I thought you’d outgrown this foolishness!

Brax cocked a brow. Foolishness, Father?

You will major in business or I will not pay for it!

I don’t believe I asked you to, Brax said, thoroughly enjoying himself.

You can’t afford Columbia.

Brax grinned. I’ll have you know, Father, that I can. I’ve been a professional artist for two years now. I’ve made a tidy packet with my doodlings.

His eyes narrowed more. I would have heard.

Pseudonym, Father. Even I don’t want to be known for those drawings.

What are they?

Polite society calls it erotica. I call it porn. It will pay the bills. He’d never thought to see his father speechless. He considered it quite the coup. Cat got your tongue, Father?

You will never see another dime from me, Benton hissed.

Brax shook his head. We both know I could blackmail you out of that threat. Just imagine, Benton Rath’s son illustrating erotica. Now, that would be a headline. He sipped the punch again. Oddly, I don’t want to. I have my first year’s tuition. I’ll send you a copy of the bill. You can reimburse me or not, as you wish. Either way, I am now eighteen and I will choose my life. If you can’t accept that, so be it. It matters little to me.

For the first time in his life, Braxton Rath walked away from his father before being dismissed. Nor was it a momentary gesture of defiance. As far as Brax was concerned, he was done with his father. Any contact from now on, would be of his choosing.

His life would be of his choosing.

Her, 1981-1984

Jaime adjusted the fulcrum and returned to the rear of the board while the announcer did his job. She took a deep breath and wiggled her fingers before stepping up to where she would begin her five step approach. She eyed the end of the board and visualized all she would have to do in a matter of seconds. As always, she thought of her slightly bowed legs. They were always obvious standing on the boards, waiting to begin.

She knew as soon as she bent into the pike that would begin the double-twisting one and a half that she’d been too eager and cut off her height. She was going to have to fight for her entry. She opened and wrapped her arms fast, concentrating on not crossing her feet.

They crossed with the force of the spin.

Now she really had to drill the entry if she was going to get the sixes and sevens she hoped for. It was a new dive for her and this was the first meet she was using it in. She caught her spot once, twice, and bent again, bringing her long legs up to pull in the entry.

Reaching, stretching, praying.

She nailed it. It wouldn’t go down as the prettiest dive ever, but she’d compensated for the critical error in the beginning and managed the entry. She let out a silent shout as she hit the bottom, turned and shot herself to the surface.

She smiled at her coach and then her parents. Her mother looked nervous, but she couldn’t think about that now. She had four more dives to get through. Her father smiled back, but it didn’t last long. Jaime sighed and reached for her towel as her coach approached.

I started too soon and crossed my feet, she said, disgusted with herself.

And spun like a gyroscope, he said with a laugh. Jaime, you did great. His grin widened and he nodded as scores ranging from seven to eight were posted. Just great.

You’ve always told me, blow what you want, but not the entry. It’s the last thing they see.

And that’s why you have eights, doll. You got through it, the meet is yours to lose.

She smiled. I won’t.

Good. He swatted her butt lightly and concentrated on the girl on the three meter board, ready to begin her dive.

Jaime didn’t lose the meet. She rarely did. She wanted too much to win and no matter how good the competition, she always stepped up her own performance to best it. The South-Atlantic Regional was a major event and this was only the second year she was competing as a senior. She’d come in second last year, losing to a seventeen year old. It had made her more determined to win this year. The defending champion wasn’t happy