Bastards and Scapegoats

as I watched him, waiting for an explanation to his words. What did he mean, first time? He pulled a bottle of Bacardi out and let out a low whistle before pouring himself a glass. “The first time I realized my life was no longer my own, I was in the second grade,” he explained before finding a second glass and pouring a shot in there. Sauntering over to me, he continued his story while holding out a glass for me to take. “You’re going to need this. Every Beauregard knows that trauma pairs well with alcohol.” I wrapped my fingers around the cool glass and took it from him.
“You were saying?”
He lifted his cup and eyed me over the rim before taking a burning swig. I eyed the steady bob of his Adam’s apple. He licked his lips and continued. “My father had just gotten elected to—ah—I think district representative? I can’t remember. He’s had so many titles and roles over the years. His perfectionist platform gained him a lot of enemies. People like to poke holes in the lies politicians tell. It’s human nature.”
I swallowed a sip of my drink and let the burning liquid saturate my throat and warm my chest. “Everyone likes Jack,” I murmured.
“Everyone thinks they like Jack,” he amended. “The first scandal of our family hit. A very young woman came forward claiming she was my real mother. We looked alike. We looked scarily alike. I was at school when the news hit, and the paparazzi swarmed the front lawn. They had to pull me out of class. I spent years dodging their questions. Oddly enough, I didn’t hate them, though,” he said before spinning around and walking over to a towering set of windows overlooking the yard. “Suppose it’s hard to hate someone brave enough to ask the questions I was too afraid to. To this day, I don’t know if that woman was telling the truth.”
Fuck. I couldn’t imagine. “Don’t you want to know?” I asked.
Hamilton spun around to face me, wearing a smile that looked a little too scripted, a little too political. Did he get his convincing nature from his father or from years of trying to be something he wasn’t?
“It wouldn’t make a difference. I have—had—a mother.” This was getting pretty deep and fast. I took another sip. “All I’m trying to say is you’re going to have to get used to it. The moment Joseph married your mother, your life changed forever. Slowly, Jack is going to ask things of you. Slowly, they’re going to polish you up and use you like a prop. The world is intrusive and chronically curious. They thrive on finding your dirty laundry and airing it out to dry.”
“I don’t have any dirty laundry.” That was a lie. My entire existence was the dirtiest of laundry.
Hamilton smiled before stepping closer to me. “Not yet,” he whispered.
“Not ever,” I gritted.
Hamilton’s eyes thinned to slits. He took a step closer. I took a step back. Back. Back. He pressed on until I collided with the wall. A nearby photo frame nailed to the drywall shook at the force of my landing. “All I’m saying is, you’re better off getting used to it now.” He caged me in, one of his palms landing beside my head. I was overwhelmed with his scent and emboldened by the way his muscles flexed and curled around me. It felt both predatory and freeing.
How dare he. “Is that why you work in an oil rig offshore and show up late to your only brother’s wedding?” I asked before looking to my left at the hanging portrait now swaying on its perch. It was a painted depiction of Jack and Joseph. “You aren’t even in the family portrait.” I clicked my tongue and reached up to brace my palms against his chest.
“I prefer to be all or nothing,” he whispered while leaning closer despite my pushes.
“I prefer to stay at a hotel tonight,” I replied.
Hamilton smiled, as if my answer was somehow the right thing to say. “Then let’s get you a damn hotel room, huh?”

4
Hamilton was all too happy to take Jack’s prized Aston Martin for a spin. He’d driven his motorcycle to Jack’s house and didn’t have a helmet for me to wear. I was fine with getting an Uber, but he insisted on escorting me to a hotel and taking Jack’s classic ride. Something told me he just wanted an excuse to get behind the wheel of a three-hundred-thousand-dollar car.
Hamilton kept eyeing me with his dark gaze as we drove down the winding roads toward the city. Jack’s property was in a gated, secluded subdivision about thirty minutes from town, and the scenic road was lined with luxury cars and limos. It felt like the road to wealth, and the subtle divide between classes became clearer the closer we got to the city.
Before we left, Hamilton mentioned that he had a perfect place for me to stay where I’d feel safe from Saint. I didn’t really care where I went, I just wanted out of the Beauregard house and away from the terror I’d felt earlier today. There was a time when Mom and I lived in some pretty bad places, but never had I felt so scared. “Did Saint say anything to you?” Hamilton finally asked once we’d gotten to a red light.
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him what Saint said about my mother’s marriage, but I swallowed it. “He asked me if I knew about your mother,” I admitted. “He seems to think there’s some scandal to uncover about her death.”
Hamilton gripped the steering wheel, and he curled his lip. “Everyone loved my mom,” he replied, his words careful and somehow calculating. “I’ve heard plenty of theories surrounding her death over the years. I’m not surprised that he’s still fixated on that. People like to cling to conspiracy theories and gossip when someone wealthy dies young.”
I leaned