Four Heirs Watching Me

I sit in the back seat of the car, comfortably tucked between two boys, a book resting in my hands. Sunlight has left my legs bare and tanned, and the denim shorts hug the curves of my thighs. A white knotted crop top, with the fabric gathered between breasts and tied again just below them, revealing a glimpse of my toned midriff.

I turn a page, the corner of my mouth lifting as I read. Apparently, I seem completely absorbed in the book, but I’m aware of the glances that pass between the boys beside me.

I simply choose not to look up.

I feel the warmth of one boy beside me, his hand brushing my bare thigh, fingers trying to spread my legs for more access. While the other leans closer, caressing my breast, making it impossible to read a word.

Ignoring them is only making things worse.

The warmth of their presence and their touch make it harder to focus. I keep my eyes on the book, but the electric tension between us is impossible to miss.

My focus drifts as I feel the rush in my veins, a thrilling sensation that quickens my pulse due to their relentless touch. I can’t help but steal a glance at the boy on my left. A flutter of excitement washes over me. Then I turn my attention to the other one, his intense eyes drawing me in, making my pulse race.

I hear a sharp tut from the driver’s seat and let my gaze drift toward him. His hands tighten around the steering wheel, the veins standing out beneath his skin. He says nothing, but occasionally he steals a glance at the rearview mirror, which catches me off guard, and I feel pressure against my skin. A steady beat of my own heart when his gaze falls on my cleavage.

A soft thud comes from beside the driver’s seat.

The fourth guy is leaning over the radio, turning the dial, trying one station, then another; finally, a song begins, and I smile.

“Yeah, this one.”

The guy turns around, and his hands begin brushing my knees and then move up to my inner thighs. I realize the guy driving the car slips his hand under my foot and places it over the middle console. He traces his fingers beneath my foot and sends a shiver down my spine.

I don’t understand how four guys can make me feel so much at once. One guy, I can understand. Maybe even two, if I am feeling reckless.

But four?

Four guys, four different kinds of trouble, and somehow my body seems determined to react to every single one of them. I press my lips together, trying to settle myself. It doesn’t work.

The worst part is that I can’t decide how all four of them are making me feel this way. I feel a flutter in my stomach and a rush in my veins, but the growing suspicion that I might not want it to stop.

The atmosphere of the car immediately turns into something strange, erotic, and lustful. My book drops from my hands, and I can’t help but throw my head back and roll my eyes at the back of my head.

My breathing falls into a rhythm that leaves no room for anything else. My thoughts, questions, and confusion that have been crowding my mind begin to loosen, one by one, until nothing remains but the movement of their hands and lips and the rush of their warmth against my body.

My muscles burn. My lungs demand more air. My heart pounds faster, sending a fierce, electric rush through my veins. It feels almost intoxicating—the kind of exhaustion that makes me forget what I was worried about in the first place.

​I hear a gunshot crack through the car, followed by the sudden splash of something warm across my skin. Tires screech against the road, and my eyes snap open.

I am drenched in blood and it’s not mine. I lurch forward as the car jerks to a violent stop—my pulse hammers as I stare through the windshield.

A man in a black hoodie stands in front of the car. His face is hidden in shadow, but the pistol in his hand catches the light. Then I look around. Too much blood. My gaze darts between the four guys inside the car.

Who is dead?

A cold shiver crawls down my spine. In the front seat, the guy’s head hangs at an unnatural angle, eyes open but empty. I swallow hard and look at the remaining three.

They’re all holding the same pistol the man in the hoodie is holding. My body trembles in fear. It’s clear that everyone knows something; everyone is hiding something. Suddenly, I can’t tell who I should be afraid of.

The car seems to fill with secrets. I grab the door handle and yank. Nothing. It’s locked. I pull harder; panic coils in my chest. The dead guy suddenly turns his head toward me.

Our eyes meet, and I scream—

I jolt awake. My chest heaves as I sit upright in bed, staring into nothing. For several seconds, I don’t move. Then I realize I’m safe. It was only a dream. Or at least, I desperately hope it was.

I drag a hand across my face and lean back against the headboard.

For a second, I simply sit there, trying to convince myself that there is nothing to be afraid of. But nightmares refuse to disappear completely. Pieces of it cling to my mind: the blood, the gun, the lifeless body, and those four guys in the car.

Then I hear it.

A clink of a spoon against a mug downstairs.

Dad.

A second later, his voice goes up the stairs, completely off-key as he sings one of the ridiculous songs he writes himself while making a pork sandwich in a restaurant.

A smile tugs at my lips. Dad can turn making coffee into a full concert.

I force myself to smile wide and push the nightmare to the back of my mind. Whatever happened in that dream stays there. I climb out of bed and head into the bathroom.

I am eighteen and live with my dad in East Brooklyn. I finished school about two months ago, and now I work with him at our little neighborhood restaurant.

When I was younger, I had big dreams.

I genuinely believed something extraordinary would happen to me someday. My life would change. I wouldn’t spend my days serving criminals and feeding half the neighborhood for almost nothing.

Then again, life has a funny way of laughing at childhood dreams.

My mom opened the restaurant. Years ago, she helped a criminal who showed up at their door badly injured. She cleaned his wounds, fed him, and let him sleep in the back room for several days. She never asked who he was or what he had done.

When he finally left, he promised to repay her kindness.

He did.

Even after my mom died, while giving birth to me, the criminals around East Brooklyn protected the restaurant. Nobody messed with us. Nobody threatened us. Somehow, our little place became neutral ground where everyone could come, eat, and feel welcome.

The only problem?

Most of them never paid.

We barely make a profit, but somehow, Dad and I still manage. Maybe it’s because we don’t need much. We have each other. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, puff out a breath, and brush my teeth. Then I splash cold water onto my face.

Because of our unusual reputation, nobody at school ever dared ask me to prom. Not even once. Apparently, the boys were terrified that if they broke my heart, the baddies of East Brooklyn would hunt them down.

Which is probably why I am eighteen, still a virgin, and have never had a boyfriend. Not one.

I change my clothes and head downstairs.

“Good morning, Dad.”

He turns from the coffee machine, walks over, and presses a kiss to the top of my head before handing me a mug.

“Here you go, sweet pea.”

I squint at him before accepting it.

“Am I in trouble?”

Dad takes a sip of his coffee, his mouth twitching with amusement. He slowly shakes his head. I take a sip of mine and shrug.

“Then what is this for?”

“Saturday night.”

I widen my eyes, and my mouth forms a little O.

“Oh, no.”

Dad raises a brow. I put my mug down on the table.

“This week, my song, else. I’m not singing.”

Dad’s jaw drops in exaggeration, and I raise a finger to remind him.

“Last week, we sang your song.”

Dad puffs out his cheeks and rolls his eyes.

“Fine.”

I giggle.

“Don’t be a baby.”

A loud knock suddenly rattles the front door.

My smile disappears because I know who it is. I take another sip of coffee and sigh.

“We really don’t have any life of our own.”

Dad knits his brows together.

“Sweet pea, they’re our people.”

“Yeah, and our people never pay, so what’s the point of doing business?”

Dad grabs his coat from the chair and shakes his head.

“Come on. Smile. It’s a beautiful day.”

I can’t help smiling.

“I’ll join you after I finish my coffee.”

He waves a hand at me before opening the door.

“No hurry, sweetie. Take your time.”

The door closes, and I sit there alone for a few moments, holding my mug between both hands. Then my mind drifts back to the dream—those four boys. I feel a strange sensation in my body.

I don’t remember their faces. Not even one of them. Yet something about them feels strangely familiar. I still feel their touch, their warmth. A strange shiver runs through me. My thighs flinch involuntarily before I can lose myself in it again; a car speeds past the window, its horn blaring so loudly that I nearly jump out of my skin.

I blink rapidly. Reality rushes back. I exhale, finish my coffee, and hurry outside to join my dad. We’d spent the whole day preparing for Saturday night. It is packed as expected.

The place is old and barely big enough to hold everyone, but nobody seems to care. Every Saturday, people come for one thing.

Our music.

I sit beside Dad on the little wooden stool we use as our stage. Dad holds an old acoustic guitar that has more scratches than paint.

No spotlight, no microphone. Just a string of cheap fairy lights hanging across the wall and a room full of people waiting for us to begin. Dad strums the first few chords, and the restaurant quiets.

I look around and see familiar faces smiling back at me. The older man who always orders the same burger. The couple who splits one plate of fries because they can’t afford two. The neighborhood kids squeezed into a booth, whispering and giggling. Even the rough-looking guys in the room seem different tonight.

For a few minutes, nobody is a criminal. Nobody is broke or struggling. They’re just people. Dad starts singing, and I join him. Our voices blend, his rough and warm, mine lighter against it. I laugh when he deliberately changes a lyric just to make me roll my eyes.

The restaurant erupts with laughter. Someone claps along. Then another person joins. Soon, the entire room is clapping to the beat. I look at Dad, and he looks at me. We both smile. This is our thing.

Every week, everyone waits for this moment. We might not have money, fancy cars, or clothes, but we have this. For a few songs, we forget about everything waiting outside those doors. Dad finishes the final verse, and I sing the last line with him.

The room explodes into applause. I laugh when Dad bows from his stool.

“Thank you, thank you. We’ll be here all week.”

Someone throws a napkin at him. He catches it against his chest and pretends to be wounded. I laugh so hard my stomach hurts. Later, after the last customer leaves, Dad and I clean everything.

Tables are wiped. Chairs are stacked. The floor is swept, and fairy lights are switched off one by one. By the time we lock the restaurant, the streets are quiet.

Dad walks beside me, carrying the guitar case, and I carry the small bag of leftovers. We reach home tired and happy. Dad unlocks the door, and I step inside and immediately notice something under my foot.

Dad turns on the lights, and I was right; I am standing on a white envelope. I move aside and pick up the white envelope; my name is written across the front.

Brielle Miller.

I frown because there is no return address. Curiosity wins, and I tear it open. A thick letter slides into my hands, and I unfold it.

My eyes move across the first line. Then the second. My heart stops—a letter from the most elite college in the country. My fingers begin to tremble. Something else slips from the envelope and lands on the floor.

Two tickets.

I stare at them, then back at the letter. My mouth falls open because I never applied to any college, considering our financial situation. But what is happening? I don’t understand at all.

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