I suffered evils, but without allowing them to rob me of the freedom to expand.
–Gordon Parks
Marc
“I’m sorry but I’m going to be late for dinner. We’ll have to cancel our reservations.” It’s seven thirty on Friday night. I should have been out of here by five, but I’ve spent the last two hours fixing a report Dad completely screwed up. “I have at least another hour here. But you don’t have to wait for me. We can go out tomorrow.”
“I haven’t seen you since the shoot on Monday,” Marissa says, her voice pouty. “I can wait at your apartment. Maybe that will entice you to hurry. Brent can let me in, right?”
I hesitate. Is her tone calculating, or am I just tired? “Yes, Brent’s there.”
“Great. I’ll head over there in a little while. Let me know when you’re on your way and I can order takeout or something. My treat.”
“That sounds great.” I relax.
We hang up and I frown at my computer. Time to get to work.
But I can’t focus, thinking about Marissa. Brent’s been acting weird about her lately. Well, not exactly weird, just silent. And I know Brent well enough to know something is up, but I’m not sure what. If it was something serious, surely he would have said something.
And now she will be there waiting for me. With him.
I’m paranoid. But I have reason to be. She wouldn’t be the first woman I dated who was more interested in my brother than me.
But Marissa is different. She never asks me questions about Brent. She hardly even mentions him.
Except for the other night. After the photo shoot in Harlem, she called to ask if everything was okay with Brent and the photographer. Apparently there was some scandal with Gwen over a year ago, and Marissa was worried about Brent getting involved.
When I asked Brent about Gwen, he said nothing had happened. They hadn’t even exchanged numbers. Then he asked why I wanted to know, and if I had heard anything about her, and was she single. It’s the most interest I’ve seen him show in a girl since Bella broke up with him. But odds are we’ll never see her again.
The thought makes me frown. Her face was sincere when she asked to take my picture, even though every other word out of her mouth was a direct hit.
I chuckle, remembering the look on her face when she said she knew I wasn’t a model. So full of chagrin and embarrassment. An oddly sweet mixture.
While no one should be shocked that I’m not a model, it’s equally unshocking that Gwen is a former model. She has the trademarks of someone who stepped off the runway, all long and lean—except not quite as waifish—with perfectly sculpted features.
When I asked Marissa why Gwen was bad news, she only said Gwen was flighty and naïve and Brent was better off without her. But Gwen didn’t come off that way, not in the few minutes we spent chatting.
Marissa’s warning piqued my interest enough that I took the time to google Gwen McDougall. A bunch of old articles came up in the search feed. She was the hot new thing for a fashion line one year, and in the next she had moved behind the camera and one of her shots was front and center in Times Square. Then a few months after that, an article in Stylz, Marissa’s magazine, stated that Gwen had had some kind of meltdown and couldn’t handle the pressures of her new job. Sources close to her had said she was unreliable, perhaps faking her success—no information about how she pulled that off exactly, which made me think it was bunk. Though, her boyfriend and best friend were quoted saying that she’d cracked and gone off the deep end.
I can’t quite fit the allegations in the article with the woman I met. Then again, this article is over a year old. People change. Besides, everyone is entitled to a little meltdown every now and then. I don’t know why this one thing makes Marissa so concerned about Gwen and Brent but . . . whatever.
I shrug the thoughts off and focus. I have to get this work done so I can get out of here.
Over two hours later, I’m done fixing the report numbers and charts and everything else. Dad really needs to retire, but as long as he’s having fun partying, I don’t think he’ll ever give it up. Which means I’ll be spending the next however many years trailing behind him with a virtual DustBuster, cleaning up his mess.
Anxious to be home, knowing Marissa is waiting, I call down to the lobby for a company car.
I wave to the security guards as I jog past them to the elevators.
I’m in such a hurry that I don’t realize until I’m halfway down Lexington that I forgot my cell back at the office.
“Dammit.” I didn’t call Marissa to let her know, but it’s too late now.
I nod at the doorman while speed walking to yet another elevator. The ride up is twice as long as normal.
Everything feels off, but I can’t pinpoint the reason.
When I get to our floor, instead of rushing into the apartment, I take my time and open the door quietly, stepping inside and shutting it behind me without a sound.
Voices come from the living room.
“Come on Brent, Marc will never know.” It’s Marissa, speaking with a teasing lilt I haven’t heard before.
I freeze in the hallway. I can’t see them, but I can hear Brent’s response.
“Marissa. Stop. Marc is my brother. Besides, I’ve told you before. I’m not interested.”
Before?
And immediately after that thought, Again?
I should have seen it coming. Maybe a part of me did see it coming, hence the creeping in the entryway like a stalker.
The problem is that I always want to believe that this time . . . this time, a girl will want me for me and not my attractive and athletic brother.
When will I learn?
I shake my head and take a deep breath to thaw out my frozen limbs.
“Hey, guys.” I stop in the doorway from the entry to the living room.
Brent is standing, arms crossed, behind the recliner in the corner. His jaw is tense and his eyes swing toward me, full of apology and something else I can’t stand. Pity.
Marissa is on the recliner, facing him, and she’s naked. Her head spins around and her mouth gapes opens. I half expect her eyes to pop out of her head and roll away like a cartoon.
“You were supposed to call before you left the office.”
I almost laugh. “Well. I’m real sorry about that, Marissa.”
I wait to see if she’s going to get the irony of my apology, considering she’s sitting there naked and propositioning my brother, but the moment doesn’t come.
Instead, it’s just silence. They’re both looking at me and I’m looking around the room. “Where are your clothes?”
“What? That’s all you have to say? You don’t even care that your brother, that he, that he—”
“That he what? Turned you down?”
She stands and crosses her arms over her chest. It’s not a bad chest, I’ve enjoyed it myself a few times over the last couple of months, but at this point I can barely stand to look at her. Even my inner caveman, who loves looking at boobs, won’t take a minute to enjoy the view. My stomach is churning.
“Put your clothes on and leave.”
“You can’t tell me what to do. No one can,” she snaps. But she does move, stomping down the hall in the direction of the bedrooms. She left her clothes in there?
“Marc . . .” says Brent.
“Not now.” I take a few steps into the living room and drop into the plush leather sofa, resting my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands.
I want nothing more than to go hide in my room, but I have to wait until Marissa gets dressed and I have no idea which room she left her clothes in, Brent’s or mine. And how did she ever think I wouldn’t find out? Although, Brent did say he’d told her before. How many times has she thrown herself at him? And why didn’t he tell me?
The clomping of her feet heralds her return. Her clothes have been yanked on, topped with a scowl on her face. “You guys suck.” She stomps toward the door and I wait to hear the door slam, but instead there’s silence for a few long seconds. Brent and I lock gazes, waiting. Then there’s a big crash right before the front door opens and then slams shut.
“She broke the Japanese vase,” Brent says.
“Yep.”
“I need a drink.” He disappears into the kitchen and a couple moments later reemerges with two open beers in his hands.
He passes me one and I take a long drink. “I need something stronger.”
He moves to the small bar in the corner and opens the scotch, bringing me a small glass before sitting next to me on the plush couch.
Dad’s designer furnished the apartment for me. Brent moved in when Bella left and he couldn’t stand being alone. It made sense, since we’re both rarely here anyway. There are three bedrooms and every amenity you could ever need, including a gym for Brent to work out in the off-season. It’s wasteful to have two barely used apartments when we can comfortably live in the same one and still rarely see each other. I’m rethinking that decision, though.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m sorry, man. I was going to, but the last time she tried something, she was drunk and I thought it didn’t mean anything. I shrugged it off and she never mentioned it so I thought she forgot. It was not like this. And after Cynthia . . .” He runs a hand through his hair and grimaces.
He won’t say it outright, but the last girlfriend I had was also using me to get to Brent and didn’t even bother hiding it after the first couple of dates.
“At least you know now,” he says. “Better to find out someone’s true colors early on. She’s gone for good.”
The words are supposed to make me feel better, and in a way, they do. But another part of me is supremely disappointed. Not necessarily that Marissa is gone. We’d only been dating a couple months, and thanks to my work, we barely saw each other as it was.
My heart’s not broken because of her.
What hurts more are the self-defeating thoughts. Will I ever find someone who wants me and not him? Will I always be in my brother’s shadow? Will I always have to worry that anyone I end up with would rather be with him? I’m not as hot as he is. I know it. I’m not as athletic, famous, or even as wealthy as Brent.
Why would anyone pick me?
The next morning, I’m in the kitchen making a cup of coffee when Brent appears in the doorway, holding his laptop. “Remember how I said Marissa was gone for good?” He turns it around so I can see the screen. “I lied.”
“What is that?” It’s some kind of web article. There’s a picture of him at the top of the page, but I can’t make out the words.
I walk closer and read the words out loud. “Brent Crawford—Superman or super sexual . . . predator?” My brows lift and I meet his eyes, taking in his pale face and shocked expression.
“The picture is from that night she was drunk and came on to me.”
It’s not a clear shot, but from all appearances she’s passed out and he’s leaning over her.
“Based on the angle, her phone must have been on the table by the couch. She hit on me and then I helped her into an Uber. I had to practically carry her downstairs. That pic must have been taken when I was helping her up.” He sighs and shakes his head. “The article says that I came on to her and then blamed her when you walked in on us.”
I grab the laptop and put it on the counter so I can skim down the words, my heart pounding with the implications. This could ruin Brent’s career. And tank the company. The amount Dad’s insisted we sink into this retail rollout is not something I want to contemplate right now, but if I don’t, who will? “This is all my fault.” Marissa planned these shots, weeks ago. How did I not see what she was really about? How could I miss it?
“It’s not your fault she’s crazy. You didn’t publish these pictures.”
“No, but I decided to date her and let her into our lives. I should have seen it sooner. You saw it sooner. Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t see this. I knew she wasn’t the one for you, but I didn’t think she would stoop to something so . . . damaging to our whole family. There’s no one to blame here but the real culprit. Marissa.”
He’s not blaming me, but the words hurt because they’re true. “I’ll contact the paper.”
“It won’t matter. Even if they print a retraction, it’ll be in fine print on the last page.” He winces. “Starlee is going to kill me. Dad is going to kill me. I’m supposed to be the all-American poster boy for the company, not . . .” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Whatever this is.”
“I’m surprised Starlee hasn’t—”
Brent’s phone chirps. He pulls it out of his pocket and looks at the display, lifting his brows.
“—called yet.”
As he turns away to answer the call, I turn my focus back on the coffee maker. “Hi, Starlee,” he says.
Brent winces and holds the phone away from his ear while Starlee screeches on the other end. I can’t quite make out the words, only the volume. The shouting stops suddenly.
“She’s coming over,” Brent explains. “She said don’t talk to anyone.”
Within minutes she’s at the door, fresh-faced and raring to go.
We’re still sitting in the living room in our robes and underwear, silent, too shocked to process anything.
“We need a plan, like now, like five minutes ago, like three days ago.” Starlee is five feet two inches of terror packed into a smart black suit. She operates on only two levels of emotion. If she’s not at a ten, she’s at a twelve. But I guess, being one of only a handful of female sports agents, she doesn’t have much of a choice. It’s always about proving herself.
“Three of your sponsors are already talking about pulling out and the Sharks issued a statement that they’re going to open an internal investigation, which could result in a suspension.” She puts her briefcase on the counter and clicks it open. “What did you do to piss off crazy-pants Marissa Reeves?”
“Crazy pants?” Brent asks.
“Yeah.” She pulls out her copy of the magazine and flips it open to the article in question. “It’s what everyone calls her. She’s nuts. Why didn’t you tell me you were dating her?”
“I wasn’t dating her, Marc was dating her.”
“Marc,” she barks.
I shrug. “I didn’t know she was crazy. I don’t put much stock into rumors and hearsay.”
“Well. Done but can’t be undone. Now we have to fix it. What happened?”
Brent explains the details of our evening and how he thinks she got the photo.
“Okay.” She taps a finger against her lips. “I’ll issue a statement. We’re going to say that you fully support and will cooperate with any investigation the Sharks want to pursue.”
“Of course,” Brent says.
“I’m also going to mention that Marissa hasn’t filed any charges and get some people tweeting about that little nugget to help sway some of the media in your favor.” She shakes her head and sighs. “I doubt she’ll go there. Knowing Marissa, she doesn’t want legal fees, just media attention. And then we need to work on recovering your good boy image. You need a girlfriend quick. A good girlfriend. Someone famous, but not too famous. Hot, but likeable. Someone people like a lot. America’s-sweetheart type. You know anyone?”
Brent glances over at me and then back at Starlee and shrugs.
I clear my throat. “I think I might.”