His Secret Read online

  His Secret

  Brisa Starr

  His Secret

  Copyright © 2020 by Brisa Starr.

  ISBN: 978-0-9823722-3-4

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book contains mature themes, strong language, and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers. All characters are 18+ years of age and all sexual acts are consensual.

  Also by Brisa Starr

  Lockdown Love

  Dr. Mitchell didn’t believe in love at first sight.

  Until he met her.

  For updates, visit:

  BrisaStarr.com

  Contents

  1. Adron

  2. Alyson

  3. Adron

  4. Alyson

  5. Alyson

  6. Adron

  7. Adron

  8. Alyson

  9. Alyson

  10. Adron

  11. Alyson

  12. Alyson

  13. Adron

  14. Alyson

  15. Alyson

  16. Adron

  17. Adron

  18. Alyson

  19. Adron

  20. Alyson

  21. Adron

  Epilogue — Adron

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  Adron

  Today is my favorite day of the year.

  It has been since I was six years old.

  It’s the day, the same one every summer, when I go to Auntie Jenna’s house in Carefree, Arizona. Why is this special? Because it marks the best three months of the year for me. A time when I go into the casita, My Cave, which is off my Auntie Jenna’s 5,000 square foot house in the desert. It’s here that I work on my soul’s deepest passion. Undisturbed. It’s a yearly ritual, my muse.

  Though I’d never admit to anyone that I have a ritual I rely on so heavily.

  This time, my time, well, it pisses off my parents. They think I’m wasting my time, but they don’t understand me. Not to mention, they think they have other plans for me. They need me.

  Auntie Jenna understands me though. She always has.

  It’s ironic because Mom used to love when I went to Auntie’s for the summer. She got a break from me. That’s why she started sending me there every summer since I was six. It allowed my parents extended time to travel, unencumbered with a kid. Now, though, my summer in Carefree conflicts with her plans for me. This bothers her to no end, but there isn’t a damn thing she can do about it. She’s not in charge anymore.

  I look around my condo as I finish packing for my summer retreat. My place isn’t gigantic, but it’s impressive. I live in one of the nicest buildings in Scottsdale, a six-story building in the posh, Fashion Square shopping district, festooned with so many plants it looks like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. The panoramic views of Camelback Mountain and the city lights at night are enough to take anyone’s breath away. Especially at sunset.

  I like the clean lines and dark contemporary furnishings. They suit my mood. I limited any color to only an occasional mustard yellow, like the throw pillows my interior decorator told me I had to have. If it were up to me, the entire place would be gray and black. I’m not sure Auntie Jenna knew what she was doing when she named me, that I’d live up to the solitary thoughtfulness and creative depths associated with my name.

  I take that back.

  She knew exactly what she was doing.

  It still surprises me that Mom agreed to let Auntie Jenna name me. Though, back then, Mom was different, and, honestly, probably also a bit scared to put up a fight with Auntie and her psychic tendencies. These inclinations saved my mom’s life once when she was a child, and ever since then, my mom has both revered and feared her sister.

  Ready to go, I grab my one duffel bag. It doesn’t seem like much, knowing I’ll be gone for a few months, but I don’t waste space, or time, with frivolous items. I keep it simple. I’ve got enough black shirts, dark gray cargo shorts, and boxer briefs to last me for a week. The casita has a washing machine. Besides, I’ll mostly go shirtless with the blazing summer desert heat.

  I stand at the end of my bed and scan the room one last time to see if there’s anything I missed. It wouldn’t be a big deal, as Auntie Jenna’s house is only a 40-minute drive from my place. Though it takes me less than 30.

  Still. This time is my time every summer, and I don’t intend to come back down into the valley if I don’t have to.

  That’s when I look over and see it on my glass tabletop nightstand. My black tourmaline crystal. Shit, I almost forgot it.

  I grab the crystal and slip it safely into my pocket. It’s a small, but powerful, grounding force. From Auntie Jenna, of course. She promised me it would block negative energy, so I sleep with it on my nightstand. And I keep it with me in My Cave when I’m creating. I’d never admit to believing in it... well, except to humor Auntie.

  Perhaps it’ll ease my angst at breakfast, where I’m about to endure my parents. I twist my stainless steel spinner ring on the middle finger of my right hand, dreading the meeting. But I might as well get it done with. The sooner I do, the sooner I get to doing what matters to me the most.

  I sling the duffel bag over my shoulder, grab my guitar case, and ride the elevator down to the basement garage, where my Audi A8 Spyder is parked. Mythos black metallic. A much-needed present to my 27-year-old self last year. I throw my stuff into the car, slip into the driver’s seat, and I’m off.

  Driving to my folks’ house, it’s almost too hot to have the windows down this time a year in Arizona, but I enjoy the heat. Most people are fucking babies about it, only happy if they’re sitting in pampered air-conditioning. I don’t mind the heat at all. I love when it saturates me. I even crave the discomfort sometimes; it keeps me grounded, like my black tourmaline. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some stoic asshole. I like air-conditioning, but the heat doesn’t faze me. I like a little sweat. It’s good for the soul.

  I drive up 54th street toward my parents’ house on Camelback Mountain. It’s a beautiful place, designed in the 1930s by Frank Lloyd Wright, with a stunning, rugged mountain backdrop and city views from their floor-to-ceiling windows. But when you live somewhere you can’t afford anymore, it loses its allure, at least to me.

  But my parents expect to keep their prized house, and I’m the ticket to that. They claim sentimentality, and I could understand that, if it were true. I mean, god knows, I have my share of memories growing up here. My parents traveled constantly, and the parties I threw became so legendary that headlining bands on tour would “drop by Adron’s” after the show. I was the envy of my classmates, and, yeah, I thought it was cool to be essentially living by myself as a teenager with a limitless bank account.

  In hindsight, I basically raised myself, and I likely suffered some damage. For better or worse, I got comfortable being alone at a young age, and now I crave it, and the darkness that comes with solitude.

  I park in the driveway and take a moment to appreciate the view. Deep breath.

  Fucking hell, I might as well get this over with.

  I walk into my parents’ house. “Hey! I’m here,” I say into the echoing emptiness. I head toward the kitchen, and I hear Mom coming from down the hall, clicking her heels on the imported, white Italian marble tile she had to have, replacing the vintage, terra-cotta, Mexican Saltillo tile that t
hey say Wright himself picked out – literally every tile. Yeah, she had that torn up.

  “Hello, darling,” Mom says as she joins me in the kitchen and kisses both of my cheeks, pretending to be European – more specifically, French. She thinks it makes her more worthy. She wears her highlighted blond hair up in a French twist, naturally, and her makeup is perfect.

  She is a stunning woman.

  “Hey, Mom. You look lovely,” I say, and she grabs a hold of my hand.

  “Hello, son,” my dad says in his over-compensating voice as he joins us. “Have a seat.” He gestures to the kitchen table. It’s adorned with croissants, coffee, and fruit. He continues, “I’m famished.”

  We all sit down, and I reach for the coffeepot. I’m already uncomfortable in my hard chair; my parents prefer painful style over comfort. I’m ready for this to be over.

  “Don’t you want some breakfast, dear?” Mom asks, her tone disapproving. She knows I don’t have to stay long if it’s just coffee.

  “Intermittent fasting,” I blame, taking a sip of the delicious dark elixir, and with a single taste, I can already feel it strengthen my nerves. I’ll give my parents credit where due, they buy excellent coffee. Though I prefer the strength and brevity of a thick espresso, this will work.

  Not wasting any time, my mother dives right in, “Adron, I want to talk to you about the summer.”

  Here we go. I sit there waiting.

  She continues, “You need to take this more seriously, and you can’t spend it wasting time with your little music projects at Jenna’s.”

  The coffee suddenly sours in my mouth. I put down my cup. “I’m not wasting my time,” I say, measured.

  “You know what your mother means,” my balding father chimes in, trying to contribute and have a role. He pretends to wear the pants, but Mom wears them, and she does so with fierce style. My father wishes he were more like his father, my grandfather, the one behind the bullshit of this breakfast. My grandfather effortlessly commanded respect.

  “Look, it shouldn’t surprise either of you, but I’m going to Auntie’s this summer. Like I have every summer for the past 22 years.”

  “Yes, you need not remind us, but darling, you’re running out of time.” She looks at me pointedly, tapping her long and perfectly French-manicured fingernails on the table.

  I rub my hand over my two-day-old beard and rest my elbows on the table. I’m so tired of this conversation. We’ve had it multiple times a year for the past three years.

  “Please don’t start, Mom. I can’t force it to happen.” Impatient, I exhale audibly, but I know she’s just getting started.

  “Adron, this isn’t a joke anymore. Time is fucking running out. You need to find a wife and have a goddamn baby. You know you need this… we all need this!” She pushes her chair back, the screech of metal on marble matching her shrill voice.

  “Mom, I know very well how fucking old I am,” I say, matching her cuss words deliberately. She was an excellent teacher. “And, trust me, I understand your predicament with needing me to do this, but you know the rules. What do you expect me t-”

  She interrupts me and yells, slamming her hands on the table, the clank of her rings hitting the glass, “Then get on with it goddammit! You’re just about out of time!”

  My blood starts to raise from a simmer to a boil, but I refuse to let them see me sweat. I knew this conversation was coming; it’s no use getting upset. I spin my ring and she continues, but guilt laces her words now, and she softens her tone. “Adron, honey, you know we gave you the best life. You never wanted for anything, and in fact, you had the best of everything. You went to the best schools, had the best teachers, not to mention your music that we supported. You had your parties, you never wanted for anything, and now it’s time for payback. You owe us, Adron.”

  I exhale, not sure how long I was holding my breath. I can’t take any more of this, and I stand to leave. “Mom, Dad, as usual, it’s been a real fucking treat. I know what’s required of me. I don’t need it spelled out.” I turn and stride out.

  Mom calls after me, “Adron, wait!” Shit. What now?

  She follows me into the hallway and says, “I might be able to help.”

  Annoyed that I almost made it out of there, I stop and turn around. She walks over to me and continues, “I found two possible candidates, both very pretty girls.”

  “Mom, when are you gonna stop? You know the requirements of the deal.” I throw my hands up in frustration.

  Dad joins us and sees that Mom is getting upset again. He takes that as his cue to try to pull his make-believe rank. “Son, mind your mother. She’s worked hard at trying to find suitable mates. And you will listen to her.”

  I can’t get out of here fast enough, and it’ll happen quicker if I just shut the fuck up, listen, and play nice. “Fine, Mom, what do you got? I mean, who?” I say through clenched teeth.

  Surprise and relief hit her eyes, and she changes her tune to allegro. “Well,” she smiles and continues, “there’s Stephanie. Her family is very well-to-do, as you know, and that would help the situation. She’s just graduated from Pepperdine, and she’s back in town. And single.” Mom walks to her purse on the big Lecce stone table by the door. “Let me get my phone, I have a picture.”

  She shows me… big, frosty blond hair, big boobs, big weird lips. I sigh, and she sees my discontent but continues, “Or a friend of mine… her sister has a daughter, Leslie, who is supposed to be beautiful and smart, and she also has a good pedigree. She’s a lawyer, I think. Anyway, both of these eligible girls live here in Phoenix.”

  Pedigree?

  Woof.

  Seems fitting, sadly.

  Pretending to feign interest, I ask, “Do you have a picture of Leslie?”

  “Well, no, not yet. But I’m assured she’s suitable. Either way, I expect you to go out with one of them, or hell, both, and pick one, since you can’t seem to do the job on your own.”

  I almost choke on my spit as I clear my throat. I nearly snap at my mom for being both catty and presumptuous, but saying less is the smart play, as usual. So, I grin and bear it.

  “Fine, Mom, text me their information.” Having satisfied her, and by association, my dad, I get the hell out of there.

  I’m sitting in the quiet sanctum of my car, door shut. My body shakes off a slight revulsive tremor, ridding myself of the slime from that meeting. It disgusts me how they think I can marry just anybody. For breeding. Like I have no identity, and no self-respect. They just don’t get me. Nobody gets me. Well, that’s not true… Auntie Jenna does.

  My phone dings, and I see Mom sent me the information about the two women. I delete it. That breakfast won’t take up any more space in my head.

  Shitty detour done, I’m glad to be driving and back to my favorite day of the year – Carefree day… literally. I floor it and crank up Tori Amos’ Liquid Diamonds, letting the music soothe me as I turn my steering wheel into a pretend makeshift keyboard, my fingers following along with her.

  Carefree, here I come.

  I head north on Scottsdale Road, past all the new retail stuff that encroaches a little further into the desert every year.

  I pass all the newish homes and condos, and somewhere around Jomax Road, the desert really starts to look like it did a hundred years ago – rugged and thorny, so thick with saguaro, prickly pear, and cholla cactus that you can’t even walk through it, with a backdrop of scenic volcanic mountains and crystal clear, blue skies.

  The drive itself is only thirty miles or so, but it always feels further, like I’ve been teleported someplace far away, and a little out-of-time. It felt that way even when I was six years old, and it has never changed. I believe it’s what drew my Auntie way out here.

  A little past the tiny town of Carefree – population 3363, and most of them leave during the summer – I turn onto a dirt road leading up to Auntie Jenna’s house in the foothills of the New River mountains. I drive slowly here. Not only is the bumpy road hard
on my Audi’s suspension, but it’s not uncommon to see quail, roadrunners, javelina, coyotes, or even a red-tailed hawk holding a dead rattlesnake in its beak, sitting right in the middle of the road.

  Pulling into Auntie Jenna’s driveway, calm fills my chest. I smile when I spot her in the yard, wearing one of her typical flowing dresses, with her silver hair pulled back into a long braid, and her body jeweled head to toe with silver, turquoise, and crystals.

  I love it out here, a thousand feet higher than the Valley where I live, where her house perches on the northern edge of the city limits. To the north, her land backs up to the massive Tonto National Forest – which is desert here. Which puts her, practically speaking, in the middle of nowhere.

  It smells of hot sun, and everything is quiet, except for the gentle buzzing of cicadas, especially as the heat cranks up midday. There are acres of land between Auntie Jenna and her neighbors. They’re separated by treacherous, rocky gullies, dry arroyo stream beds, and an impenetrable bramble of cactus, creosote, palo verde, and mesquite trees. Out here, everyone keeps to themselves. Well, except for when you’re in town, and then everyone knows your fucking business, small town charm that it is.

  Auntie Jenna is watering the flowers, and her two dogs are lying in the shade nearby. She’s beautiful, she’s wise, and she’s perfect, and I adore her. I’m not sure I would’ve survived my childhood without her. Her husband, my uncle, was cool, too, but he died ten years ago from a heart attack.

  I get out of the car, and she drops the hose, running to me. I open my arms, and she crashes into my enormous bear hug. I pick her up and swing her around while she laughs.