Love You More

Chapter 14: Beckett

"Beckett!"

A shrill voice that is so unlike the one I was just thinking about pulls me away from my thoughts. I clench my jaw, take a deep breath through my nose, and rise. I button my suit jacket and meet the eyes of the irritating voice.

The maddening voice belongs to Charleigh, my secretary. I'm still in college, but my internship with my father will most certainly turn into a permanent job, so I'm being groomed as such.

Don't get me wrong, Charleigh is incredible to look at. She's all leg, perfectly tanned, and her coral dress accentuates her insane figure. To boot, she's almost smart as hell. She graduated Penn two years ago, with a 4.0 GPA and a résumé about a mile long. You have to be the best of the best to work for my dad. He makes sure that I am exactly the type of employee he's looking for. I work longest hours than any college kid I know, and I'm basically attached to my father when I'm not in class.

On any other day, I'd probably take her into the back, in a sorry attempt to fuck the girl who is actually occupying my thoughts out of my mind. But today is not any other day.

As a whole, women bore me, especially women like Charleigh. She serves me a purpose, and we have an understanding. I've never touched her, but that doesn't stop her from trying.

People, especially women, know my name. They hear Beckett Rivers, and dollar signs begin to shine in their eyes. It's common knowledge how much my family is worth. What's not common knowledge is just how we keep all of this wealth. Avoiding women is basically an example number one.

My father hasn't been married since he incorrectly chose to endure 17 years of fucking hell with the woman I unfortunately called 'Mother'. Their marriage didn't end well, and she was a callous woman who didn't care a lick for my father or me. She cheated on my father with someone she claimed to love, then she mixed up one too many prescription pill martinis, and now she is dead. I didn't cry at her funeral, I was relieved that I no longer had to watch her continue to embarrass the family name. It's for the best, as I truly feel that women cause men to make irrational decisions.

Most people would love my lavish life, they dream of it, and even often try to mimic it for my attention. Their Instagram stories and Snapchats out at parties often make an attempt to get my face in it, so that they can say they hang out with "The" Beckett Rivers.

Ivy League girls tend to come off as being even worse because they're typically either extremely hot, extremely rich, or both, and they almost never have good intentions aside from trapping rich men like myself. I know this story all too well because my mother was one of these extremely hot, extremely rich Ivy League types - and look what she did to my father. She almost ruined him - ruined us, for nothing. Kennedy Rivers had it all. She had money, a husband and son who loved her, a gorgeous house, a job she loved, and it wasn't even close to being enough. Women like that never can have enough.

For this reason, I spend most of my time hanging out with people on athletic teams. Their parties typically don't allow phones, or if they do, there's some sort of NDA-signing situation so their coaches don't find out that they smoke weed or whatever. This ends up almost always working in my favor because the girls that come to the parties assume I'm an athlete, or they already know that I am in with the "we don't talk about the shit we do at parties" group.

I digress. I can't stop thinking about Callie Conti. It was a freak accident I ended up at her house that day. I don't often do business in place of my father, because I'm not as personable as he is, and also because I'm still on track to graduate from Wharton. This will earn the respect of his clients, and then maybe I won't have to be as personable as my father is in my future.

Women, as a whole, typically affect me about as much as Charleigh does. They're hot, they serve me a purpose, but I don't want to date them. I had serious girlfriends in high school, dated them for about a year or two, but it was mostly so I didn't have a million questions surrounding who I was taking to prom or who I would hook up with after the game.

In my older years, however, I've realized that I don't need the commitment, as it often breeds more drama than not. Whether it's her family hating me, or I'm not romantic enough, someone gets hurt with commitment. No one gets hurt when they aren't strings attached - or if they do, it's their own fault.

This is precisely why this obsession I find myself having with a hot mess of a (very much taken) 18-year-old collegiate freshman makes absolutely no sense to me. Last night replays in my mind over and over and over again. Her candid, cartoon-like eyes that look like they are made of green taken from the most beautiful parts of the Earth flash into my memory. I'll never forget the vitriol that encompassed my entire being when the brute who upset her swung the door open, flanked by his drunk buddies slurring an apology to us both.

Thankfully, my lacrosse buddies were right on their heels, and took care of the situation so I could quickly close the door and continue taking care of her. I have a violent nature, but rarely act on it, as I can't exactly run the family business from prison. It makes sense that she's so shaken, she went to a small-town high school and is a girl from the suburbs who wants a taste of the big city life. I think she's learned, maybe a little harshly, that the City of Brotherly Love can bite back.

To boot, I don't think the girl has ever really been drunk before - which blows my mind for a multitude of reasons. She's a total knockout and was dressed the part of a college girl ready to rush A-Phi-Beta-whatever. Her friends were also drunk messes, but they had the steadiness of people who party often. Callie, on the other hand, did not.

My phone buzzes and I realize my lunchtime alarm is going off. Considering I'm not a total psychopath, I don't typically set alarms for lunch unless I have a meeting, or I'm going to pre-season workouts with some of the lacrosse players.

The coach has been coming for me to play for him since my freshman year. This is laughable for many reasons, but not because of my lacrosse ability. I was ranked first in the country when I played at my prep school and found myself heavily recruited during my senior year. To compromise, I work out with the team often, I occasionally practice with them, and he was so irritated that I even cut a deal that if someone gets injured beyond belief that I will come in as an attacker for their team, but my work takes up too much time.

As I gather my shorts, my cleats, and my stick, I think about how my father never would have let me play sports at a collegiate level. In his words: "What's the point, Beckett? It's not going to be a career for you, and someone else needs that spot." My future has been decided for me since I was born, and it's a future a lot of people would kill for. He's right, but it is one of the only pleasurable things besides meaningless sex that I allow myself to indulge in.

Still, I find myself pulling my phone out and texting Callie, telling myself it's only to check on her from the events that transpired last night. If there's one thing I can't handle, it's men who use their status to put innocent people in danger.