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  Hayden

  Four Sons Series

  J. D. Hollyfield

  Edited by

  Word Nerd Editing

  Hayden

  Copyright © 2018 J.D. Hollyfield

  Cover Design: All By Design

  Photo: Adobe Stock

  Editor: Wordnerd Editing

  Formatting: Raven Designs

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Blurb

  I am a hothead, a wild card, and son to a murdered man.

  I crave the things I can’t have and don’t want the things I can.

  Now, I’m left to pick up the pieces—stitch our family back together with a damaged thread.

  This isn’t the life I envisioned. And to make matters worse, the women in our lives are testing the strength of our brotherhood.

  My name is Hayden Pearson.

  I am the eldest—a protective, but vindictive son.

  People may think I’m too young to fill our father’s shoes, but it won’t stop me from proving them all wrong.

  Dedication

  This one goes out to all my readers.

  I would be nowhere without your love for filthy books.

  Keep on keepin' on.

  My father isn’t dead.

  I’m staring right at him.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Meet the other Sons

  More from J.D. Hollyfield

  About the Author

  Stalk Links

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Hayden

  Selfish. Spoiled. Unapologetic.

  That’s who’s staring back at me. A constant reminder of the person I am. Who I’ve become. A man who sees something he wants and takes it.

  Just like him.

  A set of familiar steel blue eyes stare back through the reflection in the full-length mirror.

  Just like his.

  Fresh out of the shower, I stand in front of the mirror inspecting myself. I follow the droplets of water as they drip from my wet hair and down my face. My hair is overgrown and in need of a cut. The scowl I constantly wear is just another indication.

  I am no different than him.

  No, I am exactly like him.

  The steaming hot water after a long run does nothing to thaw out the ice in my Pearson veins. I rake my hands through my wild hair and watch as more water slides down my lean chest. Not an ounce of fat hides behind my tan physique. Another Pearson gene. One I can appreciate. Unlike the rest of the vindictive traits he passed down.

  My father has been rotting six feet under for the last two years, but the essence of his darkness is still very much alive. It lives and breathes inside me. The need to control and conquer. To own and destroy. My father didn’t raise his four sons with the vision of us blossoming into decent, honorable men. No, he made sure we were groomed to become leaders. Fearless warriors. Emotion was not a quality important to Eric Pearson. He used to always say emotions made a person weak. Vulnerable to one’s enemies. And he was right. Because that’s who I’m surrounded by.

  I pull the towel from my waist and toss it to the floor. Stepping into my briefs, I adjust my cock comfortably and head into my large walk-in closet to dress for work. Four Fathers Freight, a company I now run. I have three other partners, but I’m the one holding all the cards. My father made sure of that.

  Sometimes, I wonder if he knew he was going to die. The plan he left in his will sure as fuck made it feel that way. But he also knew he raised a leader. And that’s why he left it all to me. The house, the company, responsibility of my three brothers—all the burdens he carried now lie on my shoulders.

  Another reason for me to hate my father.

  I didn’t want this. I wanted out. But my father decided to get his head blown off for underage pussy and now I’m leading the pack.

  Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you.

  But as the infamous Eric Pearson would say: “I always get what I want. In business. In life. In the sack. Always.”

  * * *

  The sound of the television blaring from the living room as I walk through the condo Camden and I moved into three months ago tells me my brother is already awake. Knowing him, he’s been up for hours watching CNN or another political debate channel he’s been obsessed with. I’m pretty sure his first words were “foreign trade.” I always tell him he’s too pretty to be in politics, but the truth is, Cam is a triple threat: wealth, brains, looks—and he’s not even eighteen yet. He’s going to run the world one day, I’m sure of it. A force to be reckoned with.

  “You ever sleep?” I ask, turning the corner to enter the lavish, state-of-the-art, marble kitchen and opening the fridge for a drink. I don’t know how I stayed in our family home so long after our lives changed. Two years ago, we buried our father. We mourned the loss of a man all four of us loved but hated just the same. Right after it happened, I fought the urge to burn the whole place down. I wanted to rid us all of the fucked-up memories that house held. But I quickly learned you can’t rid yourself of scars. You don’t erase the memory of your father getting shot and killed by a psychopath in front of you or the realization of where your mother had been all these years.

  In the beginning, I tried keeping us all together. But shit just kept getting fucked up. Eventually, Nixon and Ro took off. Brock was into his own fucked up shit. He left shortly after for college and barely came home. Cam was still a minor, which fell on me as his legal guardian. That’s right. Overnight, I went from the wild, no-fucks kid to a parent to my youngest brother. Not to mention, CEO to a multi-billion-dollar freight company. All because my father couldn’t keep his old ass dick in his pants and away from Ro—the one who should have been anyone’s but his.

  But finally, I was done. Living too close to the memories was doing more harm than good.

  “I can ask you the same thing,” Cam chimes back. “You were already gone when I woke up at four.”

  Shit, I must have slept in. I’m normally up and out the door by three, needing the quietness of the world around me while I run. I’ve always been athletic. It’s in our Pearson genes. But as of late, or should I say the last two years, I’ve been pushing myself, running ‘til my muscles burn and my lungs give out to help myself stay focused. I need it to stay focused.

  Some days, I think Jax Wheeler did us all a favor. He got rid of the one person who was supposed to show us love. Teach us how to be good men. But instead, he only taught us how to be cold and heartless. I hated my father for what he created in us all. And when Jax took his life, the mess he left for me…it only made me resent him more.

  My father never discussed what would happen with Four Fathers if anything ever happened to him. I’m sure he never expected to be offed for his inappropriate behavior. The
way he looked at her—treated her—I would be lying if I said the same murderous thoughts as her father hadn’t run through my brain. Who knows. Maybe if Wheeler didn’t take out my father, it would have eventually been one of his own sons.

  “You gotta work all day?” Camden asks, turning off the TV and joining me in the kitchen.

  “Yeah. Partners’ staff meeting.” Which makes me want to put a fist through the wall. For the past two years, I’ve been busting my ass trying to prove myself to those assholes. And all I get in return is anger and resentment, like I stole something from them. My father’s will didn’t leave his shares to his partners. Not even his best friend. He left them to me. His first born. The news shocked everyone, including me. I had no interest in touching Four Fathers. I couldn’t give a fuck what happened to it. To be honest, I just wanted whatever insurance money dear old dad left for each of us and take off. But even six feet under, my father is still fucking with my life. He didn’t just leave me his shares, he made sure I couldn’t turn around and sell them. I guess maybe he did know me better than I’d thought.

  The stipulations in his will were as stated: I was to inherit his fifty-one percent in the company. Yeah. That’s right. That meant I was the primary shareholder of Four Fathers. But there were terms involved. Bold writing that stated I was not to sell off my shares until I was twenty-five. He made sure I had no choice but to stick it out and run his company. At that point, if I still wanted to sell, I was to sell my shares to the one person my father saw as family: Trevor Blackstone.

  “You think Uncle Trev is gonna get on you again?”

  I grab a power drink from the fridge and slam the door shut. “He’s not our uncle. Stop fucking calling him that. And if he tries, I’ll put his ass in his place like I always do.”

  “You know he’s only trying to help you though, right? Dad would have wanted us to lean on him if we ever needed—”

  “We don’t fucking need him. God, wake up, Cam. He’s not family. He’s no one to us. He was Dad’s best friend. And Dad’s gone. He just wants my shares and is kissing my ass like a fucking weasel until I’m twenty-five.” Little does he know, he’s not getting shit. I may act like I want nothing to do with Four Fathers, but you don’t give someone this much power then hand it away. All the time I’ve invested, it’s mine—and that’s how it’s staying.

  I lean against the marble counter and take a swig of my drink as I stare out the window. The view is impeccable. You don’t get a view like this without paying a small fortune. The condo looks over downtown Tampa all the way to the bluest waters of the ocean. Cam comes to stand in front of me and folds his arms, making the muscles tense. Little shit is nearly as built as me now. Guess we both use working out as a release.

  “Speaking of time, you know what’s next week, right?”

  My fingers tighten around the bottle. The crunch of the plastic sounds as my knuckles turn white. Next week will officially be two years. The anniversary of his death. “I know what fucking next week is.” I guzzle the rest of my drink and toss the empty bottle into the garbage. I turn to Cam, who looks sullen. My mood swiftly changes, and guilt settles in. I may have hated my father, but Cam didn’t. He misses him. He still talks about him as if he were this great man. Great father. He was just too young to understand what kind of man Eric Pearson really was.

  It doesn’t help that the same day he lost his father, he learned where his whore of a mother had been the past eight years. That shock hit us all more than watching our father die before our eyes. Eight years, we all convinced ourselves she didn’t love us and left. We weren’t good enough for her. And she’d been dead the whole time. Mere fucking yards from our home.

  “Well, I just wanted to remind you since I know you’ve had a lot on your plate lately. I reached out to Nixon, but he hasn’t returned my text. Same with Brock. I thought he would be home for summer break already. You don’t think they’d forget, do you?”

  Who would want to remember? Even if they tried, no one could scrape away the fucked-up scenario we all witnessed. Rowan, Dad—Wheeler shooting both. The skeletal remains of our mother floating up in the heavy rain. Time doesn’t seem to make the memory any more distant. And every year when we have to relive it, it sets us all on edge.

  “They won’t forget. Stop worrying about it. Focus on school. Get the fuck out of here like you’ve always planned.” I head back to my room, stopping next to him, and rest my palm on his shoulder. The small but quick endearment lets him know I’ve got his back. I didn’t ask to be where I am, but god knows I won’t let my brother get dragged down because of our father’s mess.

  I head out and jump into my Bugatti Chiron, bringing her to a quick purr. The condo is a quick ride through the city to the office, which is how I like it. In a short time, I pull into the private underground parking of Four Fathers Freight. The strange feeling never goes away. The intense sensation inside my gut reminding me I hold all the power. There might be three other partners, but as the years pass, I get a better understanding of how powerful my father truly was. Because that power lies in my hands. Nothing in this company happens unless I say it happens. I make the final decisions and call all the shots.

  Since the moment I slipped right into my father’s seat, I’ve been baited, propositioned, and sweet talked into selling off my shares. Levi was the worst. That asshole was the first one banging down my door. Offering a trade in pussy. Telling me I could have it all, and he’d show me the way, just sign over a few to him and my life would be set with the tightest cunts alive. Little did that asshole know, I got more pussy than his old ass ever did. Plus, seems his playing cards have been long revoked since he’s married with a kid on the way. Really killed his game. Lately, all he does is brag about his monthly blow jobs from his cranky ass wife.

  Mateo never pushed. He may have thrown a few hints that he was interested if I was offering, but other than that, he’s been cool to me. Never tried too hard to convince me to sell. He spent more time offering advice on running the business. I respected him for that.

  But Trevor, I couldn’t be in a room longer than five minutes without wanting to pummel his face in. He was supposed to be my dad’s best friend—the only guy my father trusted. I don’t even think he trusted his own children. Shit, he even loved Trevor more than us. When Nixon suggested Trevor was his dad, I’d set the record straight. I’d seen the files our father had in his will, and the paternity results all came back clear: we were Eric Pearson’s sons—Nixon included.

  Much to Nixon’s, and if I were being honest, my surprise.

  Trevor even looked relieved that day at the hospital. Because you’d have to be blind not to see the similarities in their features, and Nixon has the same obsessive personality as Trevor. If I hadn’t seen the results myself, I would’ve questioned it too. I was content knowing he wasn’t—until that fucking night, four months ago I learned Trevor was a lying cunt. Turns out, he did fuck my whore mother. I knew it. And now I needed to expose him for the lying piece of shit he is.

  Four months ago…

  I’m pushing through a bunch of boxes that have been stored in the attic for too many years to even remember. I don’t even know why I’m up here. This isn’t the first time I drank myself into a stupor and came up here, tearing the place apart. Why? I have no fucking idea. I know when we get rid of this place, we’ll have to do something with all this shit. I see boxes with my and my brothers’ names on them. Baby clothes. Toys. Kids bedding. Too bad there’s not one labeled weed and pills. I could really use them to chase this drunken high like nobody’s business.

  I kick a box, knocking over some old shirts, when I come across a wooden chest. It has a lock with no key and the letters JB, my mother’s initials before she was married carved into the wood.

  I’m confused as to why my father kept it. He’d tossed, burned, cut…shit, he did everything in his power to get rid of everything that reminded him of her.

  It’s the only thing I’ve come across up here tha
t’s been hers.

  Rubbing my hand over the soft wood, I debate whether or not to open it. Curiosity gets the better of me and I dig through a toolbox for some bolt cutters.

  A few of my mother’s personal things lay inside. Her birth certificate, some old letters my dad wrote to her. A few baby pictures of us kids. I dig further to find a small hand gun. I’m tempted to take it and go back to the pool and shoot Brock in the ass with it. Ever since Dad died, he thinks he can do whatever the fuck he wants.

  I push it to the side, and dig even further, until something catches my eye. A letter. It’s not from my dad, but the handwriting is familiar. I pull it from the envelope, and a picture falls out from nestled inside. Is that Trevor? Why would Mom have a photo of Trevor in her box? He must be in his early twenties. The photograph is old. From the wear and tear, it’s been crumpled and re-flattened more than a dozen times. It’s hard to truly make out the face, but it looks similar to Trevor. I flip the photo over and read the handwritten name on the back—in Trevor’s script. Jameson Vincent. Who the fuck is Jameson Vincent? I take another hard look at the man, and the certainty inside my gut starts piecing it together. His build, hair color...it’s got to be Trevor. Was Trevor an old flame of my mom’s before she met my dad?

  I open up the letter, and my gut drops.

  Trevor, you have to make this go away for me. You promised.

  The words in black pen are scribbled in my mother's writing over a DNA test—a replica of the ones in our father’s will. This is Nixon's, and the results say he's not a match to Eric. What the fuck?