I would like to thank Overlord & VampGirl1991. They were really great editors. There's a lot of detail and it takes time to get to the sex. There will be mistakes so feel free to help me improve, by telling me what can be fixed. However, please be kind while doing so.
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Tensions seemed high and the mood appeared grim from Mark Bryce's elevated perspective. His father, John Bryce, sat silently and perfectly still across from him inside the slick helicopter. John Bryce's stern, stoic face kept the truth at bay. This was the same unreadable face that had looked on as competitor after competitor overreached and self-destructed, eventually succumbing to his machinations.
Captains of industry and giants of capitalism would grovel at his feet as their life works were aggressively acquired and melted into the Bryce Empire. Unmoved, John Bryce would simply stare dispassionately into the shuttering eyes of his former peers and sip un-weakened single malts, aged for God himself.
The helicopter buzzed as the propeller blades spun, slicing through the late morning sky. Inside the helicopter's cabin all was quiet.
In the movies we are made to believe that it's so loud inside a helicopter that you can't even hear the fellow sitting next to you. That really isn't true, at least not with helicopters built by the Bryce Corporation. This was the fact with all their choppers, defense, commercial and private, especially the series that John and Mark Bryce now flew in on as they made their way to the Bryce estate in Poughkeepsie, New York.
Just out of rigorous flight testing and fresh off the line, the tilt rotor Bryce 270 was both a helicopter and a plane in one compact unit, something John Bryce, the boys at R&D and over eight hundred pre-ordered customers were quite proud of.
The passenger cabin was like that of an airplane. To top it off, its advanced features made it virtually sound-proof whenever you wanted it to be. For Mark, this made the silence even harder to bear.
Inside the cabin of the brand-new piece of engineering excellence, Mark Bryce had just finished spilling his guts out to his father. Now it was eerily quiet, like the calm before the storm.
"I am... I'm so sorry," Mark said pleadingly, looking as if he was seconds away from tears.
The few minutes it took to fly from the airport to the estate felt like hours. The elder Bryce's eyes looked out the window as he said, "When this helicopter lands, get out. Don't say another word... enjoy your birthday." John Bryce stated this in the calmest, steadiest voice. Had you not known the events prior, you would have suspected no malice at all.
What hurt Mark more than anything was that his father was purposely avoiding looking at him. It was as if his dad was disgusted by his presence.
The helicopter began to make its descent, one that felt hellish from Mark Bryce's point of view. He felt like he needed to vomit, but not from the flight. Mark played it over and over in his head; seconds turned into minutes and minutes into hours.
He remembered how it had gone down, how he'd confessed to having had sex with his stepmother.
Mark looked out the window in distress, trying to forget the last four minutes and the guilt spurring his stomach's discontent. As the estate came into view, Mark's eyes mapped out the thousands of acres of the sprawling historic compound. To the west of the mansion, Mark saw a glimpse of a stage tent and a group of spectators.
As the helicopter landed, John Bryce kept his eyes firmly toward the window. Nothing was said as Mark exited the chopper.
'What more could he say?' Mark thought.
A black man stood outside, preparing the exit. Of the two passengers, only one emerged. Mark lowered his head, scared that his six foot three height might just get him killed.
His son now off the chopper, John Bryce lifted a single finger, directing the pilots beyond the separating glass yards away to launch back up into the uncertain sky. With that, the chopper was up and out.
Mark walked with the man that had opened the helicopter door for him and pulled out the stairs. He had seen him before but had never actually met him; he had a wire of some sort in his ear, dark sunglasses, and a Bryce Corp security lapel pin.
"Young Mr. Bryce, I'm Tyler Casper. I'm your father's head of personal security. Oh, and before I forget, happy birthday," stated the dark-skinned man. His hair was black except for some peppered gray spots. Mark visually placed him in his forties.
Clearly distracted, Mark shook the man's hand, throwing out a less than joyous, "Thanks. Nice to meet you."
"Must have been some important conversation you and your pa had, young Mr. Bryce. He left his entire detail at the airport to be alone with you, and my boys are a trustworthy bunch," Casper said with his southern twang.
"That's really none of your business," Mark spat bitterly as the man walked with him toward the awe-inspiring century-old manor.
The man said nothing in return, but Mark did. "I'm sorry, that was... I'm just not feeling too well right now."
"No need for apologies, young Mr. Bryce; good people are allowed to have bad days from time to time. Try to have some fun, though. It's your birthday and they're pretty rare. Plus, the staff has a great night planned for you."
"How do you know I'm good?" Mark asked, speaking his feelings.
"You don't know me well, but it's been my job to know you. I've also known some evil sons-a-bitches in my time on God's green earth. What I've learned is that we can't fight our nature; you're always going to be the core of what you've always been. I tell ya what, young Mr. Bryce, you're a good kid, but we all make mistakes. What matters is that we rectify them and keep to the good Lord's path."
'Could he know what I did?' Mark wondered to himself as it began to rain. It was slow at first, then seconds later it began to beat down like something out of the Amazon. A young kid from the grounds crew came with a golf cart. Seconds later they were sloshing through pathways, passing great oaks and trees from all over the world, planted by Bryce's of generations past.
Arriving at the grand stone structure, the teenage driver with his blue Bryce uniformed top pulled out a uniformed umbrella, preparing to walk Mark the few yards to one of the side entrances of the stone structure.
Mark sped on ahead, purposely leaving the umbrella standing under the beating rain. Casper, right beside him, started to say, "Getting sick today will be a waste of a birthday."
Casper took the umbrella from the young driver, trying to cover up Mark who seemed to be stuck in a daze and begging to catch his death.
Eventually Mark was inside the Mansion, dragging mud and dripping water until he noticed what he was doing and went to wash up. About half an hour afterwards, he found the main kitchen. Upon his entry, an explosion of birthday greetings hit him all at once from at least thirty kitchen staff.
After dispensing with pleasantries, something else caught his attention. Mark noticed Casper eating what looked to be a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
"Is that peanut butter?" Mark asked with preserved urgency.
"Don't worry, young Mr. Bryce, it's artificial," stated Casper, smiling.
"How'd you know I was allergic?"
"It's my job to know."
"Do you need to be so mysterious?" Mark asked.
"No, but I tell ya what, it sure makes life more interesting."
