CHAPTER 6: THE SILENT TARIFF
1372 Words
The leather interior of Mike Weller’s sports car still smelled faintly of the copper-scented first-aid ointment Eloise had smeared onto his split jaw a week ago.
Eloise Gilbert kept her forehead pressed against the cool passenger window, watching the manicured, iron-gated properties of Oakridge blur into a continuous wall of old-money privacy. Her fingers tightly gripped the canvas straps of her thrifted duffel bag, the faded fabric a stark contrast to the pristine, stitched leather beneath her.
"You're going to burn a hole through the glass if you keep staring at it like that," a low, gravelly voice cut through the hum of the engine.
Eloise didn't turn her head. She didn't need to. She could see his reflection in the window—the sharp, arrogant line of his jawline, now marred by a faint, fading purple bruise from the industrial warehouse brawl. Michael "Mike" Weller. Nineteen years old, standing at a towering six-foot-three, with a mop of golden blonde hair that looked effortlessly styled even when he’ve just rolled out of bed. He wore a simple white heavy-cotton tee that made his broad, varsity-trained shoulders look impossibly wide, and his piercing blue eyes were fixed lazily on the winding road.
He was acting like nothing had happened.
Like a week ago, in the dim, humid shadows of the warehouse district, his fingers hadn't lingered against the skin of her jaw. Like he hadn't tucked a wild strand of her ginger hair behind her ear and looked at her with an intensity that made her cynical, thick-skinned defense mechanics completely lock up.
It was just adrenaline, Eloise reminded herself, her hazel eyes narrowing at her own reflection. He had just taken a pipe to the shoulder and a fist to the face protecting his team. He was high on a victory and heavy lighting.
"I'm just calculating how much it's going to cost me to buy my soul back from your parents," Eloise replied, her voice dripping with her trademark, dry sarcasm. She finally pulled away from the glass, crossing her arms defensively. "My mother is a saint for keeping your family’s prize stallions from getting colic, but moving my entire life into your backyard feels like a highly elaborate corporate trap."
Mike’s lips twitched, the corner of his mouth tugging upward into that untouchable, arrogant smirk that usually made Eloise want to throw an arena rake at his head. "Relax, Gilbert. The guest house is entirely detached. You won’t have to see my face unless you want to."
"And what if I never want to?"
"Then you'll have to find a very creative way to return my car keys every morning," Mike said smoothly, glancing over at her for a split second, his blue eyes holding a dangerous, amused glint. "Because as far as the summer contract goes, you still owe me three weeks of labor."
The car pulled through the massive stone pillars of the Weller estate, tires crunching over pristine white gravel. The main house was a colonial-style mansion, but Mike steered the car down a long, weeping-willow-lined side path that led to a beautiful, two-story brick cottage. It was supposed to be a "guest house," but it was larger than any home Eloise had ever lived in.
Before the engine could even cut out, the heavy oak front door of the main house slammed open.
"Look who finally decided to bring the hostage!" a loud, booming voice echoed across the lawn.
Jacob "Jake" Bill lounged on the porch railing, a half-eaten green apple in one hand and a basketball spinning effortlessly on the index finger of his other. Jake was nineteen, six-foot-one, with a messy, sun-bleached brown crew cut and sharp green eyes that always looked like they were searching for the nearest source of entertainment. He was Mike's childhood shadow—wherever Mike went, Jake was usually raiding the fridge or causing a scene close behind.
Behind him, leaning heavily against the doorframe with a thick black compression sleeve wrapping his injured shoulder, was Chad Miller. Nineteen, six-foot-two, with dark, closely cropped hair and hard, gray eyes, Chad looked less like a high school senior and more like a heavy-duty bouncer. He was the varsity team's enforcer, still scowling from the medical restrictions the warehouse fight had put on his senior season.
"Don't start, Bill," Mike muttered, swinging his long legs out of the sports car. He didn't offer to carry Eloise’s bag—maintaining that cool, detached distance now that his friends were watching—but he deliberately stood between Jake’s prying eyes and the passenger side.
"I'm just saying, the compound just got seventy percent more interesting," Jake chuckled, tossing the apple core into a nearby bush and catching the basketball seamlessly. He jogged down the steps, his athletic frame moving with an easy, unbothered grace. He stopped right in front of Eloise as she stepped out of the car, offering her a mock, sweeping bow. "Welcome to the Weller Asylum, Eloise. If Chad gets too moody because of his shoulder, just throw water at him. He hates it."
Chad let out a low, gravelly grunt from the porch, his gray eyes tracking Eloise with a protective, suspicious evaluation. "Ignore him. Glad you made it, Gilbert."
"Thanks, Chad," Eloise said, giving him a small, genuine nod. She actually respected Chad; he was loud and aggressive on the court, but he didn't pretend to be a high-society prince like the rest of the Oakridge elite.
Eloise spent the next three hours unpacking her life into the guest house bedroom. The room was beautiful—hardwood floors, a massive window overlooking the stables in the distance, and a desk that felt too expensive for her to even rest her laptop on. By the time her sister was settled into the adjacent room and her mother had called from the road to ensure they hadn't burned the place down, night had fallen over Oakridge.
The estate was dead silent. The kind of silence that only wealth could buy.
Eloise sat at the heavy mahogany desk, the glow of her laptop screen illuminating the sharp angles of her face. The first day of senior year at Oakridge High was less than twelve hours away. The thought made a cold, familiar knot form in her stomach. Out there, in those hallways, the protective, strange summer vacuum she had shared with Mike Weller wouldn't exist. He would go back to his throne as the varsity golden boy, flanked by Allie Grace and the rest of the country-club royalty. And she would go back to being the invisible ghost who cleaned up after their horses.
She opened a blank document on her computer, her fingers hovering over the keys. She didn't write essays when she was stressed; she wrote lyrics. Raw, unfiltered, cynical poetry that she never intended for anyone else to hear.
Tonight, the keys clicked with a rhythmic, furious pace. But the words that spilled out weren't about her anxiety over the school hallways. They were about him.
Golden paint on a cracked foundation,
You hold the room like an obligation.
Ice-blue eyes looking right through the crowd,
Speaking in whispers when the world is too loud.
You pull me into the shadow of your name,
Then walk away like it's part of the game.
Arrogant smile, but your knuckles are torn,
A cardboard king wearing a crown of thorns.
You tell me I'm seen, but tomorrow we're blind,
Leaving the ghost in the wreckage behind.
Eloise stared at the text on the screen, her heart drumming a steady, heavy beat against her ribs. It wasn't a love song. It was an indictment. It was a map of the frustrating, confusing puzzle that was Michael Weller—a boy who could bleed for his friends in a gritty warehouse fight one day, and look right through her the next.
She saved the file under a generic name, English_Composition_Draft_1.docx, completely exhausted, her mind slipping into a heavy sleep as she shut her laptop, unaware of the quiet storm brewing just across the lawn.
- Writer
