Victor said nothing and didn’t move as he heard Luke leaving, going down the back stairs, his footsteps fading off until the only noises were normal house sounds.
For a few minutes, he listened to the grandfather clock that stood one floor down; the very low, rhythmic ticking sound it made. He listened to it often when it was really late at night, and no one in his house was stirring. When he couldn’t sleep, it was the tempo of a song he tried to write in his head.
Not tonight. He couldn’t compose tonight. He needed to sleep. Victor fumed for a while but then got undressed and crawled into bed. In a few hours, he had to hit the road.
He promised himself he wouldn’t go with Luke to do any more late night sneaking around. Unless it was a dire emergency.
???
Victor’s alarm went off early. He had to get going.
For the most part, his morning routine was smooth. He stretched, showered, got dressed. He checked his face in the bathroom mirror and applied a thin layer of makeup over the scratch he’d earned the night before.
He checked his phone to see if Luke or anyone else had sent word. He prepared mentally for a long drive through Charleston and on to Summerville to pick up Kota.
Victor stepped out the back door, and as he closed it behind himself, a bell sounded deep within the house. The alarm shook him out of his still-waking-up state. He scanned the back yard, recognizing the alarm as the one that sounded when someone breached the wall.
Victor paused, his hand on the door handle with the door closed behind him and remained still. If he tried to go back inside, and security hadn’t captured whoever it was, the intruder could rush him through the door. He held his breath, straightened his posture, and surveyed the tall wall surrounding the property, checking for movement.
All of Charleston was beyond the wall, and at times, Victor felt that all that was holding them back was the one wall. And even that sometimes wasn’t enough. Sometimes he felt the neighbors watched their every movement and reported all sorts of rumors to Charleston society. The neighbors weren’t really a problem. He could deal with rumors. It was the tourists, the journalists, and the occasional fans who got nosy and wanted a glimpse of him.
One or two photographers sometimes waited around, pretending to be tourists, but at least they stayed on the sidewalk. They were waiting for him to make a mistake. Pick his nose. Walk next to a girl by accident while taking a walk in the neighborhood. Bend over to tie his shoe while standing next to one of the guards; a pose that might look provocative, if they took a picture at the right angle.
Social columnists lived to capture every minute of the wealthy in Charleston. The rich who lived downtown must enjoy being seen. There were other neighborhoods that were far more protected that they could have moved to.
His mother craved the attention.
His father thrived on it.
Victor hated it.
On top of that, his parents had put him on stage from a young age. He hadn’t been the best piano player in the world, but by age seven, he could tap out Beethoven with reasonable skill, and everyone thought it was cute. Ever since, he’d been the monkey on stage, playing whatever the crowd wanted. He entertained for the high society of Charleston and people from all over the globe who came to see the adorable piano prodigy.
Now that he was sixteen, he was a local celebrity, made even more popular by a scandal-prone father wreaking havoc at social events. The press loved to play him as the suffering son: Poor Victor. How does he live under the shadow of a crazy father? Where did his father wake up yesterday morning? At another hotel? Or maybe on a plane on the way to Europe? Will the parents divorce after all the rumors?
Worse than the photographers were the teenage girls who occasionally jumped the wall to get a chance at Victor, requiring security to be in place on a twenty-four-hour basis. Girls were the worst. They were sneaky.
Then there was the occasional random woman leaving quietly out the back door. Not that the women his father seduced were much older than the ones breaking in for Victor, but it seemed there were always desperate women around, making Victor feel vulnerable and insecure in his own home. Often, those women got pictures taken as they were leaving, creating more rumors, and much more unwanted attention on Victor. Most journalists liked to assume those women were for him.
Across the driveway were three buildings: a carriage house, a garage, and quarters for servants. They all looked the same, with light brown bricks and green doors. The carriage house had been converted into a security building. Two men in dark shirts and pants were emerging from it, hands at their waists, hovering over their tasers.
Victor stepped back, pressing against the house wall, and tried not to be too obvious. He was too curious to go back in. He checked his position, and then angled himself behind one of the pillars along the back porch and waited.
The men went right to a corner of the yard, beyond the pool, and then behind the pool house.
Victor held his breath and waited. Behind the pool house was a clever spot to breach the wall, as it provided cover. Intruders, however, neglected to think about sensors being in areas like that for that reason.
A few minutes later, the security guards emerged holding onto a teenage girl. Her face was red, and she held a phone out with a straight arm like she’d been filming.
Victor remained behind the pillar, watching the men escort her to the closest gate door, telling her not to return as they slammed the door behind her.
He sometimes felt a little sorry for the teenage girls, who may have not meant any harm, but how would she feel if some stranger walked into her yard to take pictures? He sighed. Hopefully being kicked out deterred her enough to not try again. If she tried again, they’d call the police. They kept a record of faces just to be sure there weren’t any repeated attempts.
Once forgiven, twice reported.
Victor waited a few minutes on the porch, allowing time for the teenager to be on her way. He felt the buttons on his crisp shirt, ensuring all were secure except the top two at his neck. The white Armani shirt and black slacks were like a uniform now. While he didn’t mind wearing the same comfortable outfit every day, it was also boring. However, it prevented photographers from bothering to take his photo as often. It was something he’d read other celebrities did; wearing similar clothing made those photos impossible to sell. Mr. Blackbourne had recommended it, and so far, it had been working.
Once the yard was clear and the guards went back inside, the show was over. Victor brushed a few waves of his hair from his face and stepped off the back porch toward the large garage, knowing he was being watched—if not by a desperate fan, then his own security team.
How his mother and father got used to this sort of thing, the always being under surveillance—even if for his own safety—he wasn’t sure. Growing up with it, Victor had never gotten used to it and still always felt uncomfortable.
At least within the Academy, he could disappear.
His gray BMW was parked in the middle of the driveway, where he’d left it last night, although he knew it hadn’t gone untouched. One of the staff often washed and vacuumed out the car during the night after he returned. The tires looked to have been shined as well. Despite his mother not liking his choice in buying a BMW, she insisted it looked brand new at all times.
Victor wanted the car because it looked normal. Fancy cars were noticeable, and much more likely to draw the wrong sort of attention or be stolen. If he was going to go to this new high school, he needed something far less flashy. The BMW was a compromise. He’d have preferred something even less luxurious, but his mother wouldn’t tolerate him driving a Ford or Toyota. They wouldn’t let him get an older BMW, either. Extravagant, brand new, fitting of his wealth. That was the only way.
Following the brick pathway, he reached into his pocket, pushing a button on his key fob.
The BMW’s lights lit up, and the doors unlocked with a click. Victor started walking around the car to open the doo
r when a voice called to him from the carriage house.
“Master Victor? Before you go...”
Victor turned. A guard approached the car, leaving the door to the carriage house open. He wore dark pants and a dark, long-sleeved shirt. He was blond, pale-skinned, and tall, yet unfamiliar to Victor. Guards didn’t often come out to address him personally. They rarely left the carriage house, unless provoked. His mother didn’t like guards scaring any authentic guests.
Victor paused briefly. Master Victor? He hadn’t been called that old-fashioned honorific since he was ten, and that was usually only by older men and women. “Good morning,” he said. “Is there something I could help you with?”
The guard blinked at him for a moment, as if the offer to help him threw him off. “Your mother is requesting you return at a reasonable time tonight. She’s anticipating guests for dinner.”
Victor forced a tight smile. Instead of sending a text, or waking up to tell him herself, she’d requested a guard stop him before he left? What a distraction it must have been for them. And how spoiled of her to do so. No wonder he used the term Master. She liked the old formalities.
“I’ll do my best, but...” Victor paused and then shook his head. “Sorry. I’ll let her know. I don’t mean to use you to pass messages.”
“I was a little surprised myself,” the guard said, relaxing his shoulders. “She doesn’t normally make requests. And she sent an email. I was wondering why she didn’t bother to tell you herself. She was home last night.”
“Was she?” Victor asked and then wished he hadn’t. The house was big enough that they could avoid each other most of the time, a fact Victor appreciated and often took advantage of. Otherwise, he’d be asked to attend parties or provide the entertainment for events.