Malibu Rising: A Novel - Taylor Reid (top 10 motivational books .TXT) 📗

“I told you that’s not—”

“I said I wasn’t done.”

“Nina, I am your—”

“You are fucking nothing.”

Kit’s mouth dropped and Jay’s and Hud’s eyes went wide. The three of them watched their father’s face as he moved through stages of shock. The air carried only the sounds of the crashing waves in front of them and the light cacophony of the party above.

Nina spoke again. “You are a big somebody to the world, Dad. We all know that. We live with it every goddamn day. But let’s be clear about one thing, you are not anybody’s father.”

Kit looked at Nina, trying to catch her eye. But Nina would not break her gaze. She stared only at Mick.

It would not be her that bent and broke anymore.

Casey left the bedroom and started walking down the stairs. She was restless and didn’t know what to do with herself.

She walked past a couple making out so aggressively that she couldn’t be sure they weren’t having sex. But she was almost positive both of them were anchors on the nightly news and she resolved to never watch Channel 4 again.

When she got to the living room, she saw a group of people swinging from the chandelier like they were swashbucklers. Just as two people grabbed on and let it fly, the entire thing came off the ceiling, plaster and crystal covering the floor and the table and the heads of everyone underneath it.

There was a hole where the chandelier had been, exposing the inner frame of the house.

Casey reversed course. As she started to move through the dining room on her way to the kitchen, she noticed a vase had been shattered and two paintings had fallen off the wall.

When she finally made her way into the kitchen, she saw the floor was covered in tiny shards of chips and crackers that had been crushed under dancing feet. Empty wine bottles were rolling around on the ground. Two grown men sat on the island countertop, washing their feet in the sink.

“My editor says he thinks my manuscript could be the defining novel of the MTV Generation,” one of them said.

As the two of them hopped off the counter and left the room, Casey got to work. She stood next to the stove, stacking empty trays, using a sponge to wipe up crumbs. Her mother had always tidied the house when she felt out of sorts. She remembered that her father had known to ask her mother what was wrong when he found her cleaning the drum of the washing machine.

The world may have taken her parents but—as cruel as it was—at least it had left her the memory of them. It did not rob her of the ability to remember Memorial Day 1980 at Dodger Stadium, when her father spilled mustard on his shirt and then laughed and squirted some on hers so he wouldn’t be the only one. It had not stolen the scent of Wind Song that her mother used to wear or how their home always smelled like Pine-Sol. It could not take away her father’s many pairs of reading glasses, left all over the house, collecting, disappearing, and reproducing.

Casey knew that, in a few years, the memories would begin to fade. She might forget whether her father had spilled mustard or ketchup. She might lose the ability to recall the exact smell of Wind Song. She might even forget about the reading glasses altogether after a while, as much as it pained her to admit it.

She knew that she could not sustain her life fueled only by the memories of those she once loved. Loss would not propel her forward. She had to go out and live. She had to find new people.

She tried to imagine her parents doing what she was doing right now, crashing a famous party in Malibu. She could not even picture it. But she understood that while the circumstances were almost unrecognizable, she did still have the instincts they’d given her. After all, when they could not have a child, they went out in search of one. They had taught her that family is found, that whether it be blood or circumstance or choice, what binds us does not matter. All that matters is that we are bound.

And that was why Casey was there. In search of family, just as her parents once had been.

Casey slowly put down the sponge, turned from the counter, and walked outside.

She was going to walk down those terrifying steps. The ones that appeared to lead to the very edge of the earth.

Brandon Randall woke up and realized he had passed out on the guest bedroom floor. He looked at his watch. It was half past three in the morning. He stood up, a little dizzy, and remembered he had to win back the love of his life.

He put his shoes back on. He fixed his hair. And then he walked downstairs and out the front door to where all of the vehicles were parked.

“I need my car,” he said to the valet.

“Sir,” the valet said. “You don’t seem like you should be driving.”

“Just get me my car,” Brandon said. “The silver Mercedes, up there at the front.”

Brandon had been the first one to arrive and so his car was packed in, quite firmly, behind at least a hundred others.

“It’s going to take a while,” the valet warned.

The key stand was left unmanned as the valet began the job of getting Brandon’s car out. The other valets were busy with other people. Brandon stood alone, lost in his own impaired thoughts, and started to forget why he was waiting there.

What had he been hanging around for? Oh, right. A car.

Fuck it. Brandon helped himself to a set of keys he saw with a Jaguar key chain and then used them to unlock the black Jag right in front