I’ve never seen Elle mad, and it puts me in my place. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I know he loves me.”
She gives me a nod of forgiveness. “Then don’t make a scene tonight. I’m all for your self-exploration, but none of us, including you, can afford a scandal. You’ve all been through enough.”
“I understand.” I smile politely and wander off through the crowd of tuxes, jewels, hairdos, hair don’ts (are bouffants really back?), and expensive ball gowns to find champagne. I don’t normally drink, but I need to take the Brooks-edge off. I’m wound so tight, I might snap and break out in a spontaneous twerk to release the pressure.
I go to the bar and feel a warm hand on my back. I turn my head, deflated it’s not Brooks.
“Hello, Gerard. What can I do for you?” I say inhospitably.
He leans down to whisper in my ear, “You are the most stunning woman at this party. Every man is looking at you, and I too am raptured by your beauty.”
Oh boy. Coming from any other man, I might take that as a compliment. But his sticky suction cups are pressing on my bare back.
Off, damned octopod! Off! I step away.
“Do I offend you?” he asks.
Offend isn’t the proper word. Revulsion is more like it. “No.”
“Then why is your beautiful face the same shade of red as your dress?”
The mere fact that he has to ask is a sign of his utter senselessness. “I need to powder my nose.”
I shuffle off down the short hallway that leads to the restrooms and to the terrace doors. There’s a magnificent view of Houston’s skyline out there, and I know because I’ve spent hours hiding there over the years. But tonight, I’d really like to stay in the light. I want to show the world that even the quietest women can be brave and strong. Brooks needs to see I’m able to hold my own.
I head to the ladies’ room to freshen up, and when I come out, a hand snatches my arm and jerks me outside through the door.
“Gerard?” I push away from him.
“Oh, please. Do not tell me you don’t feel it, the animal attraction. The desire burning through you.”
“The burning you sense is my desire to vomit. Likely on your shoes. Let go.” I jerk my arm away, and he grabs me by the waist.
“Oh, come now, my little dove. I know you ache for flight.”
Did he get his romance training on the bottom of a cereal box? Because…damn. It’s cheap. And so underwhelming.
“Why don’t you take a flying-dove fuck off?” I say.
My refusal only seems to animate him. In the groin. Because I feel an unwelcome poke through his pants against my dress.
“Gerard, let Sydney go.”
I turn my head, and there’s Brooks.
Gerard releases me and goes inside without so much as a word. He clearly fears my boss, and he should. Nick Brooks is a large, well-built, and intimidating man.
And he’s in so much fucking trouble!
“You okay?” Brooks asks.
My nostrils flare, my fists ball, and my muscles pump with adrenaline. Gerard has riled me up, but not in a good way. “No. And how fucking dare you. You said to trust you. You said I’d be safe! Well, I wasn’t. And he’s…icky!”
“Icky?”
“Yes! Why would you put me in that position?”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Syd. But you held your ground, just like I said you would.”
Oh my God. “Is that what you think I wanted? To hold my ground against some rapy Pepe Le Pew?”
“He’s offensive, but totally harmless. And it’s good you learn how to not let assholes take advantage of you with their smooth talk—it’s a lesson you needed.”
Wait. “This is about you, isn’t it? You’re making some fucked-up point about keeping men like you away, because of what you said earlier. Of course, nobody gives a shit about what I want. Isn’t that right? I’m just some little girl who needs big strong men making decisions for her.”
“No.”
“Then why all this? Why the speeches and weird lessons?”
The harsh emotion dissipates from his handsome face, and his hard planes soften along with his lips. “Because someone needs to be the grown-up and ensure nothing ever happens.”
Between us, he means. “And that someone should be me?”
“Yes.”
There he goes again. Thinking for me. “Forget that!” I throw my arms around his neck and plant my lips on his. How’s this for a lesson, Brooks? He’s my dragon, and I want him to admit that he can’t make choices for me. No one can. Not anymore.
His hands go to my arms, and his body goes rigid, but he doesn’t push me away. I wait, drinking in the warmth of his lips, the two of us breathing each other in. I can feel him struggling to give in. Then he slides his arms to my waist and kisses me back. His silky lips move against mine, and his tongue glides into my mouth. My body lights up. It’s just a kiss, but it feels more intimate than anything I’ve ever imagined.
“Stop.” He pulls away, and just like that, the kiss is over. “Is it out of your system now?” he says coldly, like he didn’t even enjoy it.
“Not even close. And I refuse to be baby-fied.” Is that even a word?
He grabs my chin and shakes his head. “Then you can’t work for me anymore, Sydney.”
“You’re firing me?”
“You don’t understand,” he says in a low voice. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
“I know that you’re not as bad as you want people to believe. And that—”
“Sydney, you’re only going to end up hurt.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I’m an asshole.”
“I already know that. So again, why?”
He makes a little growl of frustration. “Because believe it or not, I like you too damned much. And if you ask for more of an explanation, you’re not getting one. It’s for your own good.”
“I’m not a goddamned child,” I snap.
“In my world, yes, you are.”
Wow. I can’t believe it. I’ve had just about enough of him, the world, everyone saying how helpless I am.
The rage is instant, and before I know what I’m doing, my palm is flying through the air toward his face.
He catches my hand in midair, and I try to jerk it away so I can land a good one. “Let go!”
It happens in a split second, but his cufflink catches the delicate satin strap of my dress and the thing just snaps.
I look down, and my breast is out there. Oh shit! It’s just…there, my pink nipple staring Brooks right in the eye.
Now, this is the part where most women would place their hand over their boob, gasp in horror, and run off to the bathroom, never to be seen in public again. Because, ohmygod! I am flashing my entire left boob to my boss. But we’re talking about me, the girl who locks up like a bad pair of brakes when anything remotely overwhelming happens.
I’m standing there, unable to react as my entire nervous system shuts down. Brooks looks down at my breast, and his mouth gapes open just as a couple walk out onto the terrace. I’m absolutely certain he’s not thinking straight and that the blood in his brain has gone to some other extremity because his instant reaction is to shield my naked body.
With his hand.
“Jesus! I’m so sorry, I—” Brooks jerks his hand away, and then, horrified that he’s let my boob out again, he plants his other hand over it. “Oh! God. I’m—” Fumbling with his hands, Brooks lifts up the flap of my dress and covers me by pressing it to my chest. Only now it looks like he’s just fondling me through the fabric.
“Brooks, get the fuck away from her!” Henry’s voice rages through the air.
“Ohmygod!” Elle rushes toward me to take over boobgate, and I turn my head just in time to see Nick Brooks meeting the full force of two hundred and sixty pounds of defensive end muscle known as Henry Walton’s fist.
Brooks flies back and lands with a grunt.
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“You’re fired, Brooks,” Henry roars. “Don’t ever show your face in any of my companies, let alone the state of Texas, again.”
I want to tell Henry that he’s wrong and it only looked way worse than it was, but I’m stuttering my words and Henry’s too angry to listen.
I watch Brooks dust himself off and leave without a fight.
Shit. Why did I just let that happen? It feels uglier than anything Brooks ever did to me. Who’s the asshole now?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It’s been two days since Henry fired Brooks, and despite my efforts, no one will listen to me. Not even Elle, who’s pissed that our night, which should’ve been about pediatric cancer research, turned into a tabloid scandal. “Mystery girl is attacked at Walton fundraiser.” Fortunately, the lighting wasn’t so great on that terrace, so my face is all pixelated. Unfortunately, the light hit my boob at just the right angle when Brooks reached for it, and someone tweeted the security footage. #BoobGateGala is born.
Regardless, I can’t argue. I let it all get out of hand, and now Brooks’s career is in the toilet.
I can fix this. I can. Henry will hear me if it’s the last thing I do when I go to his house tonight for a family gathering. I just need Brooks to know I’m not letting him drown. I once let it happen to a man who deserved it, but Brooks doesn’t. And no, the irony isn’t lost on me that I’m now trying to save the job of a man I was once hoping to have sacked.
I pull up to the Houston Tower Suites and give my keys to the valet.
“Are you a resident, ma’am?” he asks.
“Just visiting.” I’m about to take my valet ticket when I spot Brooks a half block down on his Harley, shooting from the garage.
“Never mind.” I grab my keys, hop in my car, crank the engine, and tear after him.
A half hour later, heading east, I’m sure I’ve lost Brooks. His bike has no issue weaving through Sunday afternoon traffic, whereas I’m quite possibly the slowest, most polite person on the road. My driving says: Um, excuse me? Would you mind moving, please? No? Okay. Then I’ll just wait.
Show some backbone, girl! I use my brights, followed by me waving while mouthing, “I’m so sorry. Emergency!”
It worked! I grip the steering wheel, but when the obstacle moves, Brooks is no longer in the fast lane.
I look around the stretch of highway and spot him taking the next off-ramp. “No!”
I make a split decision and jerk right, across four lanes, nearly slamming into a semi, who flips me off with a very loud horn and a finger out the window.
“Sorry!” I yell.
As I get to the off-ramp, I see Brooks ahead hanging a left at the green light.
Shit. I’m going to miss it. I hit the gas, but by the time I get to the intersection, the light is changing from yellow to red.
My tires screech as I take the turn anyway. Crap. Crap. Craaap! I make it, but only because the driver entering the intersection saw me coming and slowed.
“Sorry!” I wave. “I’m a horrible person!”
With my focus back on Brooks, I spot him up ahead, turning right.
No! I won’t see where he goes after that.
Praying I’ll get lucky and find him anyway, I make a right into a residential neighborhood filled with older but well-maintained ranch homes. The gardens have flowers and neatly trimmed hedges. The lawns are mowed. Tricycles are left unattended in driveways, and a few trees have tire swings. Immediately I know this is a family neighborhood, which makes me believe that Brooks is here to visit friends or something.
Just as I think I’ll never find him in this labyrinth of courts, lanes, and streets all named after flowers like lilacs, buttercups, and tulips, I see Brooks’s bike parked along the curb.
I slow my car, cautiously approaching. If he were to see me, I’d feel pathetically stalker-ish.
With no cars behind me, I come to a complete stop. Four houses down, Brooks is standing on the lawn, holding a little girl with dark curls. She’s got her arms wrapped around his neck and laughing.
Is she his niece? Or perhaps goddaughter? But I notice he’s holding her so tight that there’s a desperation to it.
He finally sets the little girl down, and that’s when I see her. A woman my age who looks like the girl. Wait. She looks really familiar. I just can’t place her. I then look at the little girl, and though it’s from a distance, I think she looks like…Brooks, too. Same nose. Same shaped eyes.
Ohmygod. Is that his daughter?
The woman smiles, overjoyed to see Brooks, and embraces him. I see the love in his eyes for her.
Fuck me. That’s his wife. Or, at the very least, it’s the mother of that little girl, and no one is acting estranged or unfriendly. It’s a picture-perfect scene of daddy coming home after a long road trip.
The reason he wanted me to stay away suddenly makes sense. He’s living a double life. He’s not single. He really is an asshole.
By Wednesday, my life is unraveling at all four corners. Sunday’s family dinner at Henry’s turned out to be a huge shouting match. Okay, they shouted with their mouths, and I shouted with my eyes. Nobody wanted to listen about Brooks, but mostly because I defended my ex-boss—a man who was caught bare-handed, cupping my bare boob at a charity function, only adding to the list of atrocities he’s committed, including making fun of my clothes, my mother, and making me cry in the bathroom.
Don’t get me wrong. If one of my sisters told me her boss had said and done those things, I can’t claim I’d be sympathetic. Regardless, I hadn’t been trying to defend him because I am beyond heartbroken to find out he has a secret family. Why the hell wouldn’t he just say the truth? However, my only intent Sunday had been to explain to my family that the fundraiser was a big misunderstanding. The real reason to hate the guy is far bigger, but no one would let me get a word in, and then I just got upset, so I left.
Monday, work was a cluster because everyone was talking about Brooks being fired and boobgate with some mystery girl, who most assumed was me. Abi could do nothing to get me out of the bathroom, but I couldn’t care less about that or Brooks being fired now. I was wrapped up in the image of him holding that sweet little girl and his wife—girlfriend—whatever. My anger, hurt, and disappointment came from one thing and one thing only: I believed in him, even if for a brief moment. But I should have believed him, not in him, because he warned me about the type of man he is. He just didn’t give the details.
Tuesday was worse than Monday in that my anger turned into a mental rehash of every tiny detail since I met the man, including that kiss. Now I can’t get the feel of Brooks off my lips. Their softness, their warmth, the lust penetrating my skin. How could he kiss me like that if he’s in love with someone else? Then the university called and said my approval had come through. I could finally take my tests and put this whole chapter behind me. The only downside is that I have to come today and test for all five classes. Ten hours straight, starting at seven a.m. My counselor told me to contest the short notice, but I’m ready to move the fuck on with all of it. The kidnapping, the legal battle, my internship, and Brooks.
Which leaves me here on a Wednesday evening, sitting in an empty classroom, rereading the biggest piece of crap ever written about revolutionaries in Latin America for my world history class: In conclusion, they fought. They fought hard. They wanted equality. They also wanted the power for themselves. They wanted to be the masters of their universe, and what the hell am I writing?
Ugh! I start erasing and write down some PC crap about man’s inherent right to freedom. It’s bullshit because “man” will never be free. We have to share this fuckball of a planet with the Brookses of the world.
I drop my pencil, grab my backpack, and hand the festering pile of philosophic turds to my professor, Dr. Mills.
She takes it from me, reads the title, and frowns. “Fuck World History? Especially the History Part?”
I jerk my head. “You try being in a plane crash, kidnapped by
your dad, and falling in love with your married a-hole boss, and then tell me what you think of the planet.”
It only vaguely registers that I have just spoken a very full sentence to a stranger without issue. Go figure. Hating my boss—ex-boss—was the cure all along.
My professor slowly bobs her head. “I will give your essay my full consideration.”
“Thanks.” I walk from the classroom, ready to give tequila my “full consideration” too. I push open the classroom door and launch into a steady stream of students pouring from the auditorium directly across. I stumble and slam into someone.
“Oh! Are you all right?” says a soft voice.
I look up and see a familiar face. Dear bajeezuz! It’s Brooks’s wife.
I knew I recognized her. I must’ve seen her around campus. Maybe we even had a class together once.
“Ohmygod.” She grips me by the shoulders. “You’re turning green. Do you need an inhaler? Are you having a heart attack?” She looks over her shoulder at some random dude. “Call 911!”
I shake my head and double over. “No! No 911. I’m fine,” I pant.
“You don’t look fine.”
“Looks. Can. Be deceiving,” I sputter, my head feeling like it’s trapped in a vacuum, lacking the proper oxygen.
She helps me upright. “Okay. Wow. I’ve never actually seen that shade of green on a person before.”
“Totally fine,” I croak. “I’m part frog.”
She frowns. “Can I get you some water or—why don’t you lie down for a moment.” She points to a bench against the wall near the exit.
I anchor myself and stand tall like a weak oak. “I’m okay, really.”
“Wait. Don’t I know you from somewhere?” she asks.
Yes. Your front yard. Sunday. You had your arms around the man who’s literally driven me so insane that I’m forgetting all my prior insanities.
“Nope,” I say.
“Wait. Yes…I’m sure I’ve seen you before.”
My fear tells me that she might recognize me as Georgie Walton, so I say the only thing I can think of. “Oh, wait. Yeah. I’ve seen you around my cousin’s place. They just moved into a house down the street from you and your husband—the guy with the Harley, right?”