Page 2 of The Consequence of You
For that reason alone, I always race anonymously under the monikerArsonist. The crowd chose it, not me. My first car had red and orange flames painted on the sides. It’s laughable, really. They were already on there when I bought the thing, and I never got around topainting over them. Race six or seven, I totalled the car, but by then, the nickname had stuck. My current ride is a plain black, standard model Subaru with nothing special about it.
I frequently swap to a different car, which means the wins belong to me and me alone. The plates are fake, and I always pay cash. In this world, cash is king, and if you flash enough of it, you can have whatever you want. It’s sickening really, but it is what it is. Even the initial buy-in, the one I paid a couple of years back, was hefty. It’s set so high, only those able to lay their hands on substantial cash can enter.
But that was then, and I’ve recouped that amount fifty times over. I draw in a big crowd when I race. They come to see me eliminate my competition each week. It doesn’t faze me. I want to be challenged. I need it. I fuckingthriveoff it. It’s addictive.
At least that’s how it was initially. It’s become so rare for me to lose a race these days; it means the high isn’t what it used to be. In the beginning, I’d go into the race not knowing if I’d make a bad turn or meet my match. I’d wonder if my car would go up in a ball of flames, and I’d earn my nickname. But despite my best efforts, it’s all too predictable now, just like the rest of my mundane existence.
I sigh. So much for feeling better after I race.
It takes less than half an hour to get back to my house, a huge stately home on the outskirts of Sussex. It’s been in the family for hundreds of years. Passed down through the generations to the eldest child. Eventually, my younger sister Aurelia will marry and be gifted one of the large cottages on the grounds, and I’ll move into another. Our elder brother, Sebastian, will inherit the Dukedom, theestate and everything that goes with it because he’s the firstborn. I sound bitter. I’m not. There can’t be much worse than the noose he has hanging around his neck.
I’m just the younger brother, with all the same expectations to behave and live up to our family name, but none of the actual recognition. It fucking sucks for him and it sucks almost as much for me. Once my parents had Sebastian, they had a second child hoping for a girl, but they had to try one more time before they got Aurelia, so when I say I serve no purpose as far as they’re concerned, I mean it.
Our family name and ourfamily treeare the reason we have no autonomy over our lives. At the last count, Sebastian was 37thin line to the throne. In years gone by, maybe we could have lived a normal life, but the way social media is these days, journalists are hungry for any morsel of gossip, even regarding the most tenuous of ‘celebrities’, so it means we live in the public eye. Our every action documented. And while I don’t give a flying fuck, my parents do.
The pair of them are obsessed with our public image. Growing up, I tested the boundaries at every opportunity. I messed up repeatedly, watching as they covered up my misdemeanours, paying off journalists and neighbours. Even the fucking staff on occasion.
It didn’t take me long to work out that it wouldn’t make much difference what I did; they had enough money and connections to make it go away. For a while, testing that theory was fun. But eventually, I grew bored with it. There are only so many hotel rooms you can smash up, politician’s daughters you can be caught skinny dipping with, and socialite charity dos you can turn up inebriated to. I was dragged out of nightclubs, thrown out of restaurants, even sent to a Europeanboarding school to ‘consider my behaviour’ for a year at one point.
Growing up, I had no idea what I wanted my future to look like, but I knew I didn’t want it to look like my parents’. And yet, inevitably, my life will only be one thing; a watered-down version of theirs.
As I pull into the drive, one of our staff, George, approaches the car. I lower the window.
“Sir, I can park the car for you.”
“It’s okay George, I’ll do it.” He nods and steps away. I close the window and park in our vast garage. As I exit the vehicle, my shoulder twinges. I probably hit a bend too hard tonight. I rub at it as I walk inside the dark house. It’s late now. Well after midnight, but I’m not tired. I never am after a race.
Heading downstairs into our gym, I run a few laps on the treadmill until my legs ache and my chest burns.
University starts in a few weeks and can’t come soon enough. Education is monotonous, but it quiets my mind when nothing else will.
Exam results are due next week, and I’ll pick them up with the rest of our year group, but I already know I’ve done well. I had an email from one of the exam boards to say my mark was in the top half per cent of students in the country. I’ll be getting some kind of award, but really, what’s the point? It’s not like I can use my qualifications for anything useful. Lordships aren’t dependent on decent qualifications.
My future was predetermined the moment my father’s sperm reached my mother’s egg. I let out a bitter laugh. Some students would kill for results like mine, top grades that would open up a world of opportunity, but for me, they aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.
Stifling a yawn, I glance at my watch. I promised my best friend, Grayson, I’d help him and his girlfriend, Dahlia, move into their new apartment tomorrow. Which, as of an hour ago, is now today.
I wipe the sweat off the handles of the treadmill and strip before standing for a full three minutes in a freezing cold shower. Redressing in some clean shorts, I head to bed.
CHAPTER TWO
CALLIE
When Dahlia invited me to grab breakfast before helping her move into her flat, it hadn’t occurred to me that her boyfriend would invite his best friend too.
Socialising is not really my thing. I’d spent three years avoiding people, but Dahlia and I hit it off instantly when she started at the Academy last year, and being friends with her drew me into situations I’d never voluntarily choose to be in. I’m not complaining, but it can be uncomfortable at times.
Like today. Breakfast with Dahlia. Great. Breakfast with Grayson. No problem. Breakfast withLordAsher Pennington. Definitely not on my to-do list.
Part of living in the world we do, attending Heathley Academy for all those years, means I can play nice with the best of them, but it’s easier said than done around certain people.
I’m already in our favourite booth in Lollies, an American-style diner, on my second cup of coffee when they arrive together. Dahlia slides into the seat opposite me, pulling her boyfriend’s hand after her, leaving only the seat beside me free. Asher looks every bit the suave aristocrat he is this morning. His blond hair is slicked back, and he's dressed smartly in beige chinos and a navy blue, short-sleeved linen shirt. Instead of his usual tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, he wears a classic pair of black Ray-Bans and on his wrist is a watch, which, despite its simple design, probably cost him more than the average person’s car. His toned biceps bulge when he shoves his hand in his pocket. He reminds me of one of those male models you see in magazines advertising summer holidays in the Hamptons. It’s easy to see why he’s so popular with the girls at the Academy. Shame his toxic personality doesn’t match the pretty package he has going on, on the outside.
I can’t see his eyes while he wears those shades, but I can still feel his glare. I shiver involuntarily.
Asher pauses as though he’d rather be anywhere but here before sliding onto the striped padded bench next to me. Why he came if the diner is so beneath him, I’ll never know. He folds his tall frame into the seat, immediately man-spreading until his thigh touches mine. I shuffle closer to the window, but all that achieves is him widening his legs further, causing me to feel more than a little penned in.
He’s always impeccably turned out; I’ll give him that. His clothes fit him perfectly. They’re probably tailored for him, and it shows. Damn him for making me notice him in that way. Henry, from the gym; I couldn’t tell you the colour of his hair or his eyes, but this jerk, even with hisdark glasses on, I can picture their exact shade of green and the flecks of gold that paint his irises.
