Page 1 of Twisted Truths

Chapter

One

OBSIDIAN

I’m not even sure why the fuck I’m here.

I toss back the remainder of my drink and rest the glass on the railing of the deck. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been holed up in a small cabin on the West Coast.

I scratch at the short beard I’ve grown—an attempt to remain anonymous in my travels, along with leaving my cell phone at home and only using cash so my brothers can’t track me.

The desire to leave my home and my brothers boiled higher every day until it bubbled over, and I fled our mansion. Anabelle moving in was the first simmer. Her living with us changed everything at Midnight Manor. Then came Rapsody, and the pressure grew intense, but I held on knowing my brothers needed me. Ultimately, Cinder broke me.

One by one, my brothers found someone to share their hearts, lives, and love with. God, I could choke just thinking of that word. Love. Never would I have thought that my brothers had it in them to love anyone but themselves. We weren’t brought up to believe in anything other than survival.

Then again, none of them are as fucked in the head as me. Courtesy of our good ol’ dad. May he rest in the fiery coals of hell for all eternity.

No one was more surprised than me when these feelings crept up. Why the hell should I care if my brothers are now in love? But as each woman moved in and my brother’s dining room chairs became vacant for our breakfasts and dinners, I felt like a flower people were pulling petals off of one by one, and pretty soon I’ll be just a bare stem.

With a sigh, I step back to sit my ass in the chair, but I stagger, grabbing the armrest, and ease into the chair. A sign I should’ve eaten dinner before starting in with the booze—again. But that’s how I’ve spent these weeks—drinking and smoking myself into oblivion. Anything to escape the swirling thoughts of the past and a bleak and solitary future.

It feels so good to give into my basest self and not have to put up the front of a charming, debonair billionaire who has nothing to hide.

It would be like finding gold at the bottom of the ocean if I found someone who understands my proclivities. Who won’t judge me. Won’t judge my past and will find me worthy.

Which is all kinds of fucked up because never once in my life, not for one second, have I ever thought I’d ride off into the sunset with someone. Never wanted to. Still don’t.

But now that my brothers have settled down, it’s like I don’t fit anymore. At one time, we were the mysterious, tortured Voss brothers with a fucked-up past, but now… now I don’t know what we are—or more importantly, what I am.

Well, I know what I am—alone. And maybe that’s it. Maybe I’ve realized that’s my greatest fear. Because while my brothers are living their lives with someone who understands them, forgives them, I’m here—alone.

Just as my father predicted.

Dark clouds settle over the raging ocean. The salty air whips over the rippling water and rattles the paint-chipped shutters of the cabin.

Another storm is brewing. You’d think the weather would be better in June. I probably brought the shit weather with me. I’m like Charlie Brown, traveling around with a rain cloud over his head.

The white caps in the ocean call my name, beckoning me to join them. I manage to stand, barely keeping my balance. For the past week, I’ve been learning to surf, and I never expected it to be so addictive. It’s as if I’m one and the same as the ocean—ominous and menacing. The breeze grows colder as I pick up my surfboard and trek down the beach, heading toward the water.

I’m not nearly experienced enough to be out there with the thunderous waves.

But maybe that’s the point. To feel powerless, overtaken by something bigger than myself.

As my foot steps into the water, acceptance coats my skin like a wetsuit. Relief floods through me.

Other surfers are dotted along the canopy of the gray sea, far enough out to avoid the jagged rocks that peek out every so often in the lull between waves. I lie on my surfboard, paddling out, and by the time I reach my destination, my arms weigh heavily, likely from dehydration and hunger. I sit atop my surfboard, bobbing up and down with each wave, watching the other surfers meticulously pick waves and ride them toward the shore.

Who would think of surfing as a war? Each man trying to conquer nature, and nature fighting back. People in the water cheer with each successful ride, but I watch solemnly, keenly aware of the dark aching pit in my soul that’s growing larger by the day.

In truth, the ache has probably been stealthily consuming me since I was a child. Every false smile, every witty remark over the years, to patch up the damage. Until there was only crumbling plaster that fell away and revealed what had been there all along—darkness rotting.

All the other surfers look at the horizon, each of them razzing another surfer to go after the biggest wave barreling toward us. In a split-second decision, I gather the courage to do what I came out here to do.

Turning, I paddle and paddle then hop to my feet, standing on my board. I’m sure I don’t look nearly as good as the experienced surfers, but I’m standing, aren’t I?

People shout behind me, and I make too quick of a move, getting too high on the lip of the wave. The power flips me over, my head racing toward the sandy bottom. My surfboard flicks up behind me and slams into the back of my head.

The water moves me like a rag doll, the current sweeping me one way and then the next. Instead of fighting, I succumb to the ocean’s force, allowing the water to control me and move me.

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