Filthy English by Ilsa Madden-Mills

Elizabeth, who’d popped up to kiss his cheek. “Anyway, maybe you’d like to invest in an older home, live there, and maybe do some work on it, and then resell it. Or rent to college students. The real estate market is on fire, and you’d be good at it.”
    I smirked. “Me?”
    “Why not? You’re a smooth talker and handsome, so why not capitalize on those traits? I’ll help out with the business side if you need it, although I think you’ll be just fine.”
    Hmmm. “Are you saying you don’t think I’m smart enough to graduate, and this is my fallback?”
    “No, wanker, I’m saying this house is a steal for the money and you have that and more in the bank. Even if you don’t sell it, maybe it would be nice for you to put down some roots. That’s all.” He sent me a brotherly scowl through the phone.
    Interesting. “Ah.”
    We moved on to other conversation, mostly about the upcoming trial of Elizabeth’s attacker who’d broken into her apartment and attempted to kill her back in November. In the fray, he’d sliced the artery in Declan’s leg, and it had been touch and go for a while until we’d known he’d make it through surgery.
    “He didn’t make bail, thank God, so he’s sitting it out in jail until the trial in January,” he told me.
    “Any chance he’ll get off?” I asked. His father was a senator of North Carolina, but our father had deep political connections as well.
    “I don’t know. Time will tell.”
    That didn’t sound good, and I could tell he didn’t want to delve into the explanations with Elizabeth there, so we talked for a few more minutes until he had to leave for the gym, and then Elizabeth got on. We chatted for half an hour until she finally had to go take a shower.
    Falling back on my bed, I stared up at the ceiling. Mulling. Brooding.
    This summer I’d turned a corner; perhaps the day I’d driven out to the Hampstead Rehab Center to bring Spider home. He’d come out the front doors a withered version of himself, face gaunt, lines feathering out from his mouth. Drugs and being on the road had worn him down to a skinny whip of a guy. Even with the guiding compass of his bandmates, he hadn’t held his shit together.
    And the thing that struck me the most— he was alone .
    No groupies. No girlfriends. No parents that wanted him.
    I knew the pain of being alone, when greedy people want something from you because you’re the son of a rich man or because you’re popular.
    Remi had never been like that. She hadn’t kissed my ass when I’d treated her indifferently. Hell no—she’d strutted out of my room like she owned the place, sweater and all. Most girls would have gone along with whatever I said just to be near me, but not her.
    She’d wanted a version of me that I couldn’t be at nineteen.
    She’d wanted love although she’d never said it out loud.
    I slipped on some jeans and walked into the large bathroom attached to my room. I washed my face and arranged my hair with my fingers, my brain running in all directions, mostly about what I’d do after I graduate. There’s not much out there with a degree in psychology if you didn’t go to graduate school.
    What did that leave?
    Bartend? Maybe. I did have four years’ experience of drinking at the Tau house and knew a lot about mixing alcohol. Billy, the owner of Cadillac’s, had offered more than once. He claimed I brought people in the door.
    Work at Declan’s gym? I’d spent all last spring working out with him at his gym, and had really gotten into the fitness groove, but working for Declan? Mixing family with job responsibility is tricky.
    Invest in the housing market? Hmmm. I didn’t know shit about houses.
    You could learn . Maybe. The idea grew on me.
    As if by instinct, my feet found themselves at my closet, and I reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a letter. It had been written from Mum before she passed away, and I carried it everywhere. Father had given one to each of us when we