My Lovely Jerk {Completed}

Chapter - 6

Instead, I was faced with a plain brown brick, one story, home. The lawn was cut but the bushes in the front of the house looked untamed. The home had a single light that was illuminating from the small porch.

“It was Randall, just checking on me,” I said as I unbuckled.

Bryson didn’t ask any more questions as he too unbuckled. “Ummm, before we go inside the house, just a side note, speak up.”

I gave Bryson a crooked look as I became unsure about what he meant. “Huh?”

He scratched the back of his neck before sighing. “My grandmother, she is hard of hearing. So, just speak up and whatever you do, don’t take what she says to you to heart.” Bryson ended our conversation by opening his door and getting out of the car.

I watched as Bryson started to walk towards the front door. Rolling my eyes I started to talk to myself. “Bryson, you are such a gentleman. Thank you for getting my door for me,” I muttered as I got out of the car. “Why, thank you for closing my door, like a gentleman, so kind of you,” I mumbled as I shut the passenger door and looked at Bryson that was unlocking the front door. Glaring holes at the back of him I began to think that I was crazy to be going along with this.

I just turned eighteen last week and here I was deciding that I was going to get married. Not for the reasons of love, but for money.

Walking to the door that Bryson just left wide open for me, I began to feel dirty. Not in the physical way, but just morally. I mean, I can technically be called a harlot. Only difference between a harlot and I, was that I wasn’t getting paid to have sex with someone --- okay, maybe I can't compare myself to a harlot, but I still feel dirty. I’m practically selling myself just for my college to be paid for.

Strolling into the house, I closed the door behind me. My eyes glanced around to see that I was in a living room. It was small, held one white couch and worn leather wingback chair. There was a huge television, which looked as if it dated back to the early 90s. It was located to the opposite of the couch and chair.

Trudging farther into the room, I saw that the T.V was on and was playing “Iron Chef America” on the Cooking Channel. I also noted that neither Bryson nor anyone else was in sight.

“Bryson?” I called out softly.

“Hold on!” I heard his voice shout from a room over.

“Who are you?” A female voice asked from my right side.

Looking over I saw an old woman, probably in her seventies, standing in a doorway to my right. She was staring at me with piercing blue eyes.

I felt small in her presence as I gave off a small smile. “My name is Elle White...”

Her wrinkled face crinkled up even more so as she walked slowly in the room. Her eyes stayed on me as she took a few steps. Stopping, she placed her stemless wine glass, which held some dark liquid in it, on a glass coffee table that was by the wingback chair. “If you are ever going to get somewhere in life you need to learn to speak up, Child. No one is going to want you if you are a mutter-mouth. Also, stand up straight. You look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.” Walking closer to me, I felt her eyes size me up. “Is that piercing on your nose?” She asked.

My hand involuntarily went up and touched the tiny diamond stud that was on the left side of my nose. I decided not to tell her that I got it out of a bet. You see, Kat actually thought I wouldn’t pierce my nose and bet me forty dollars to do it last year. I, of course, laughed in her face, for her thinking I wouldn’t do it. Minutes later I was dragging her to a local piercing place. An hour later I had a stud in my nose and forty extra bucks. “Yes, Ma’am,” I spoke with a slightly elevated voice.

Her expression melted into one of disgust. “Children these days! I swear, they get uglier and uglier by their own accord.” Her eyes peeked around me to look at something that was behind me. “If I ever catch you with a piercing, I’ll ring your neck, little boy.”

Glancing over my shoulder I saw Bryson standing in a doorway that was facing my back. He was obviously trying not to look as if the situation before him was humorous as he nodded and walked into the living room. “Yes, Ma’am,” he commented with a higher voice then normal. “Nana, we’ll be in my room.”

Without warning Bryson grabbed my arm and started to drag me down a hall that he was lingering in the entrance of moments ago. The hallway was short for it only held about three doors. Bryson walked to the last one and opened it followed by pulling me in.

Looking around I saw the room was ordinary -- and small, it was unlike what I was expecting ... again.

The walls were white and had a few dark scuff marks here and there. His bed was just a mattress in the middle of the room, no frame or anything holding it up off the floor. It saddened me to a degree because everyone I knew had a bed frame, yet here I was standing by the door of Bryson Wyatt’s room and I was looking at his bed that seemed so bare. The sheets were dingy looking and I arched an eyebrow as I wondered when the last time they were washed.

Removing my eyes from his bed, I looked around the room some more. There was nothing else really to analyze beside a small chestier drawer that was made of some kind of dark wood. Stepping closer to it, I noted that it wasn’t wood. It was just plastic that had a wood imprint on it.

“Listen,” Bryson spoke under his breath but just loud enough so I could hear.

I shook my head and cut him off. “You’re not rich, are you? You swindled me!” I shrieked. “You are a bastard, Bryson Wyatt!” I spat as I started to feel like a fool. He lied to me. I bet it was payback for what I did to his car earlier ... “wait, why ... why do you have a 2013 mustang that is obviously over your budget?” I questioned as I looked around his room once more.

“If you just listen, I will tell you what you need to know! ... Now, my mother’s family was rich, but in order to inherit money from her family you have to marry. My father and mother never got the chance to marry...” I watched as Bryson thought hard about what to say next. It was obvious that he was going to leave holes in his story because there were things he didn’t want to tell me. “So, all the money that was going to be my mom’s was passed down to me after her death…

“When she died,” he continued, “I had no family left but my non-finically stable grandmother on my father’s side … anyways the point is in order to get the money, I have to marry, like I stated before. However, there are a few loopholes set by previous generations. Like for example: you can dip into your inheritance money for a car, gas and school fees. But in order to get into it, I have to have a special lawyer that approves my experiences and all that jumbo … it is stupid, really. All the rules to how I can get the money that belongs to me … is truly brainless! I hate it, in a sense, because it constricts me … for now…” I could tell that he was not really happy with the loopholes. It was evident in his eyes that he wanted more … more then what was given to him ... and I was his golden ticket.