Page 13 of Scandal
I’m not sure why I even came back in the first place.
“I’ll be careful, Mac. I know how to dodge the press. I’ve been doing it for years, and you don’t have to worry.”
The look he gives tells me he very much doubts that, but he gives a curt nod and says, “As you wish,” and steps back, allowing me to make my exit.
For a moment or two, I consider taking his sage advice and staying within the safety of the estate. It’s impenetrable. Even though the ancient stone walls collapsed centuries ago, the fortress-like facade is enough to keep even the most persistent paparazzi at bay.
The high-tech fence and twenty-four-hour security that surrounds it also help.
“I’ll be back in an hour. Two, at most,” I assure him before rolling up the window and hitting the accelerator. His weary expression is the last thing I see before I leave the small garage and head toward the main gate. The cottage I’ve been staying at is near the back of the estate. The narrow road winds through the sprawling grounds. Dense groves of trees, gardens, and a small loch all make Blackstone House enchanting.
To me, though, it had always felt a bit more like a prison than a palace.
When I arrive at the front gate, the guard on duty doesn’t even blink when he sees my black Land Rover creep up, which can only mean one thing—Mac called and gave them a heads-up so I wouldn’t have any issues.
I shake my head in amusement. What’s the American phrase? “Some things never change.” Mac has always been like this—disliking my decisions but still supporting me nonetheless.
When I decided to defy my parents’ wishes and move to America with my bandmates, he knew I’d never come back. But he made sure I knew he was proud of me. He even bought me a case for my guitar to keep it safe.
Sometimes I wish I had asked him to come with us so he could have kept me safe too.
The guard, a young lad by the looks of it, gives me a quick nod as I drive through. The moment I’m on the other side, I feel like I can breathe for the first time in weeks.
I don’t know why I’m still here.
I’m not even sure why I instructed the pilot to fly here in the first place.
All I know is when those photos hit the internet, I needed out.
Out of LA and away from my whole damn life. So I went back to my old one.
I believed I could hide away in the forgotten cottage at the edge of my family’s estate. It’s old and desperately needs repairs. As a child, I pretended it was my secret hideout. The ivy took over years ago, and I used to stomp around barefoot, like a hobbit in my little hobbit house.
Of course, I am quite a bit bigger now. The cottage, however, is not. It makes for an interesting living situation.
The leaky roof and damp floor also add to the ambiance.
That, and my father banging on my door every few days to remind me what an utter failure I am as a son and heir.
Like I didn’t already know that.
It’s a short drive into town. Centuries ago, everything between here and Iverloch belonged to the Earl of Dunloch, and the villagers were his tenants. Taxes were collected to maintain the grand manor and to keep the earl—and the monarch—wealthy.
Clearly, much has changed since then. Like many grand ancestral homes, the land was sold over the years to help cover costly maintenance bills, and the staff had dwindled. As many families were forced to sell, Blackstone persisted.
A testament to my family’s stubbornness, no doubt.
I see a car up ahead and slow down, knowing there isn’t enough room for both of us on this narrow country road. I pullover to the shoulder and wait. As the driver passes, he waves and smiles.
My pulse suddenly goes into overdrive.
Fuck. Did he recognize me? Is he posting my location right now?
Will I be greeted by a hundred crazed fans the instant I arrive in town? Or worse…reporters?
My palms start to feel sweaty, and my chest burns.
God, this is a dumb idea.
