Page 68 of Off the Rim
"I'm sorry," Ashton says, chuckling. "That was corny as fuck."
I burst out laughing, thankful for the clear escape he's giving me from the conversation. Despite the twinkle in his eyes, I do see him, and I see the hidden pain behind his laughter. It's not that I didn't appreciate what he said. Both my rapidly beating heart and my cock were immediately on board with the idea of Ashton being mine, but I'm not sure that my logical brain is on board. I don't know how to move beyond my doubts and fears about the past, even though I can see him making a valiant effort to challenge the status quo he was raised in.
Wanting to soothe the ache of rejection, because I'm not wanting him to feel that way at all, I turn us so our backs are against the wall. My hand slips from his hip to his ass, pressing intothe seam running down the crevice. A little champagne splashes out of the glass he's holding. He tries to cover his blunder by drinking the rest of the contents in one gulp, then chokes a little when I find just the right spot to push.
A server appears out of nowhere to replace Ashton's empty glass with a fresh one.
"I wasn't planning on drinking much at this thing," he mumbles, staring at the glass.
"Hold off, and we can get white girl wasted at the hotel," I say, still looking around for where the hell that server appeared from.
"Are you trying to take advantage of me, Mr. Vell?"
"Are you unwilling, Mr. James?"
Ashton shudders. "Gross, don't call me that."
"You started it."
"Yeah, well, I'm about to finish it." He swallows the champagne, prompting me to do the same. "Let's go."
Setting our empty glasses on a random table, Ashton grabs my hand and pulls me through the ballroom. A few people give us curious looks, but for the most part, no one pays us any mind. Ashton's parents are holding court with the Governor of South Carolina, a failed reality television star who resigned his position as treasurer over a decade ago after getting busted on major drug charges. He seems to be entertaining them enough that they're distracted from glaring at us for the time being, so it's a perfect time to sneak out.
Ashton pulls me through a door hidden behind a panel of heavy velvet curtains. I'm pretty sure this is an employee only area,but it's not like anyone's going to stop him. I follow him through a maze of hallways I'm convinced I'd be unable to memorize if I had grown up here. When we get to a wide hallway with a long, ornate rug running down the middle, Ashton looks both ways before pulling me quickly across the hall to a huge, dark staircase. Noticing how he stays to the far right side of the stairs as he lightly runs up the steps, I follow suit, assuming he knows where to step in case they creak, or our movements can otherwise be detected.
Down another long hallway, Ashton enters a room with a long, dark wood table surrounded by at least a dozen chairs. We rush to the opposite side of the room, where there's another door. This one is locked. Ashton steps up to a very tall cabinet that I thought was part of the wall. He reaches above and fumbles his hand around until he grunts that he found it, whatever it is. Another few seconds and a tearing sound later, Ashton walks back to the door and unlocks it, putting the key in his pocket.
"Done this before?"
"Not even once," he admits, looking at all nervous as he turns a lamp on. "I only knew that key was there because my nanny used it once when I was six. I remember because she had to stand on a chair to get to it. I had no idea if it would still be there."
"Lucky break," I say, blowing out a breath and looking around. The office is dark and ominous with only the light of one lamp. The high ceilings, crown molding, large arched window overlooking the dark, snow-covered grounds, and floor to ceiling dark wood bookcases lining the walls make the room feel cavernous. Ashton walks to the far side of the room, where there is a set of double doors, and flicks on an overhead light. The room still feels ominous, but that could just be because of who it belongs to and what we're doing here.
"Most of the important files are kept through here," Ashton says, leading me to yet another door. This one leads to a smaller room the size of a large walk-in closet. On either side of the room, the walls are lined with large cherry wood drawers, six feet high and the length of the room. At the far end of the room is what I'm pretty sure is a server deck. "I'll deal with trying to copy the digital files, if you want to pick a drawer and start rifling through."
Luckily for us, whoever organizes Mr. James' filing system did so in an easy-to-understand system, but I wouldn't have had to look too hard to find what we're looking for anyway. There's an entire drawer dedicated to V, and my family is the only one taking up much space in there.
"Ashton," I say, working the drawer off its tracks and pulling the whole thing down to the floor so it's easier to go through. Ashton takes multiple files out and lays them out over the floor, completely uncaring whether we make a mess or get things put away. We start looking through them immediately.
The first thing I notice is these files are very thorough. There's information about my grandma, including information about her parents. Her death certificate, along with the police reports and medical records from the accident. My father's file is the thickest. It seems AJames Enterprises really took a vested interest in him. His entire life. From his birth certificate and school transcripts to financial details about his business, all of it is here. Every detail of his life, down to the last job application he put in at the grocery store, is accounted for.
Why would anyone need this much information about someone, even if they felt the need to keep an eye on them? It seems excessive.
My file is less detailed, but no less intrusive. There are a lot of articles about my fall from grace in high school, including pictures of me looking unhappy or caught in a defiant pose. Ashton finds copies of letters to the editor of our local newspaper, as well as letters to the Deans of the two schools that I was being scouted by for college ball. The letters are anonymous, but it’s clear who they are from if there are copies of them here. They all state that Marcus Vell is a troublemaker, that he harassed and defamed his son because of an unrequited crush, causing irreparable damage to his self-esteem and college prospects.
"Well, this explains a lot of things," I murmur, thinking of all the applications and opportunities I was passed up for after the incident.
Ashton snorts derisively. "The fucked-up part is that the opposite is true. I was the one that did those things to you, but he was here turning it around, making sure you took all the blame. I always wondered why the public seemed on Kent's side, when he was so obviously unbelievable."
I shrug. "I just assumed it was rich guy bias." Ashton looks at me curiously, so I explain. "In most situations, the rich white guy is going to automatically get the benefit of the doubt. I have the privilege of a white guy, although I've been questioned about my lineage just because I don't look like a Ken doll like you." I scrunch my nose playfully. "But I'm from the 'wrong side of town', and I don't have a hundred-dollar haircut or wear brand-new brand-name clothes. No matter how neatly I present myself, people can still sense the poverty, and that gives them a bias. Like, for example, every teacher at CVU and even Coach, who has been supportive of me as a player, all think of me a certain way. The scholarship I got, the one Iearnedbusting myass, working twice as hard as everyone else, jumping through hoops that no one else had to jump through. That scholarship is seen as something given to me, like a handout I don't properly appreciate. So I have to work even harder to prove I deserve it, even though I know none of them are ever going to change their minds about me."
"I never thought of it that way," Ashton says, softly. "I mean, I definitely know people think that way about the scholarship and stuff. But that someone would believe Kent over you because of how much money you have seems like bullshit. Then again, I'm probably guilty of it, too, and didn't realize."
"Know better, do better. Right?"
"I don't know how to make it better. That he did this, I mean," he says, holding up the copies of the letters. "I don't understand why he did this."
"It's not on you to make it better. But if we can find out why he's obsessed with making my life miserable, that might help me be able to move on without this shadow hanging over me."
