Page 4 of Bitter Rivals (Bitterwood Elites)

Bottom line—cancer fucking sucks.

Watching someone you love battle so hard, yet still lose her life, is something you never get over. The gradual loss of life leaving her eyes, her body weakening, organs failing… The image of her dead body lying on a hospital bed connected to dozens of tubes is burned into my brain even as I try to scrub it out.

Part of me wants to run from all this, just say fuck it and leave Mum’s company to her husband, Brian O’Connor. I could start fresh somewhere, unbury myself from the burdens that weigh so heavy on me. But that means, he’d win. And I can’t allow that to happen.

I fear I might have waited too long. I graduated well over a year ago yet here I am, still without direction, unsure whether to enroll in furthering my education or saying fuck it and diving into Mum’s business once and for all. I’ll be twenty next month and have no idea what my future holds, or what path I should take. It’s times like this when I miss her most of all.

A loud rapping on my door pulls my attention. “Cash, open the door. You have a letter.”

It’s dad but I’m not in the fucking mood right now. It’s probably just another rejection letter from colleges in the states. Seems they don’t want a flunkie from Ireland disgracing their prestigious schools. “Just leave it on the counter. I'll open it later,” I shout from outside.

“It’s not just any letter, Cash. It’stheletter. Get your ass out here.”

My entire body stiffens as I stare down the door. I attempt to keep my body from trembling as I walk to the door and pull it open. Brian stands there perusing me, but the normal malice and hatred I see in his eyes are absent.

He holds out the letter and I pluck it from his pinched fingers, tearing it open as Stella exits dad’s room wearing a strapless pink sundress that hugs her waist and flares out at her hips. Her hair is pulled back in double French braids making her appear even younger than she is. Brian doesn’t even look at her, just snaps his fingers and points at his side. She hurries next to him, pressing against his side, her eyes lowered, as he drapes his arm across her bare shoulders.

I don’t want her here for this, the fear of rejection would be enough to put myself through with Brian watching much less his dimwitted girlfriend. But I can’t show weakness. I can’t pull away or cower inside my room.

Nostrils flaring, I finally glance at the white envelope clutched in my hands. My name and address are scrawled across the front in elegant calligraphy. And the return address is none other than—

“Oakwood Prep?” Stella gasps and dad changes his grip on her, fingers ensnaring around the back of her neck as she scrunches her shoulders.

“Stella. What did we discuss about speaking out of turn?” Stella winces as dad applies more pressure, lips bared in a grimace. “Go ahead, son, open it.”

I almost scoff at his use of ‘son’. Never has he referred to me as such since we discovered I wasn’t his. Since then he mostly refers to me as ‘the bastard’. But I feel like the title fits me well. Takes one to know one.

Turning the envelope over, I pry at the seal, willing my hands to stop shaking. I tug the folded piece of ivory paper free and unfold it, holding my breath.

Dear Cashel O’Connor,

It is our pleasure to inform you that your presence has been requested at Oakwood Preparatory School for Elites. Enclosed are tickets for your travels as well as an itinerary for Orientation. You must travel alone and are allowed only a single suitcase. Uniforms will be given for all activities including school outfits, swimwear, pajamas, and exercise gear. The use of electronics is prohibited aside from laptops assigned to you at the school. You will have no outside communication unless granted explicit permission by Principal Windsor himself.

Extended rules, regulations, and expectations will be discussed at orientation. Failure to abide by the rules may cause students to suffer appropriate disciplinary actions or expulsion.

Attendance at Oakwood Prep is not optional, it's demanded of you. Your presence is expected on the first of September as stated in your itinerary.

Sincerely yours,

Principal Windsor

“You did it.”

I glance up from my letter in astonishment to find Brian beaming proudly at me. He releases his hold on Stella, shoving her away and wraps me up into a rib-crushing embrace. “I’m proud of you, son,” he murmurs, patting me on the back.

And as much as I wish it didn’t, his words affect me. It’s all I’ve ever wanted—to make him proud. And I’ve finally done it, finally made him feel what I’ve been so desperate to be on the receiving end of—his affection.

I hug him back, wrapping my arms around the only father I’ve ever known, basking in this strange feeling burning in my chest. It’s been so long since I’ve hugged anyone, not since Mum died and my heart shriveled up into nothing. But I can’t let this feeble act of kindness deter me from my ultimate goal—pulling the rug out from under him when he least expects it.

Brian pulls back and pats my cheek. “I’m taking you out to celebrate, Cash. Get changed. I’ll alert the driver.”

As he moves down the hallway to the main staircase, Stella starts to rush after him. I catch her eye and shake my head slowly, pointing back towards dad’s room. “Not this time,” I practically growl as she slinks back inside and shuts the door behind her.

Feeling victorious, I waltz into my closet and pull out a pair of gray slacks, pairing them with a bright teal button-up dress shirt. After taking a quick shower and washing the essence of Stella’s mouth off my skin, I floss and brush my teeth, then run gel through my fingers, weaving the golden threads to one side in a strategically messy look that causes women to take off their pants.

I’ve always taken pride in how I look. More often than not, my looks are the only thing I’ve had to fall back on. I might have fucked up a lot, but usually, my boyish good looks get me out of trouble.

My reflection stares back at me as I get dressed in front of a full-length mirror, tucking the shirt inside my pants before securing a black leather belt around my waist. I take care in rolling up the sleeves, ensuring they are equal on my arms, the action displaying a sleeve of traditional Celtic knots trailing up my left arm.

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