I can fuck up real good.
–Georgia Hardstark
My Favorite Murder episode 124
Brent
I’m doing chores to avoid the inevitable. I pick up a shirt from the floor—the one from yesterday—and smell it. Wildflowers and mint. Bethany is all over it. The scent gives me strength to do what needs to be done.
It takes a bit of deep breathing and tossing my old football around while pacing a hole in the floor, but I finally call the surgeon and schedule the date.
Three weeks.
I have three weeks to tell the world the truth. Well, Dad and Roger, and while they aren’t exactly the entire world, they might as well be.
Then the team will have to be informed. Contract rejected.
It’s not the money. I have money. It’s the dream.
Bethany calls while I’m on the phone and before I can call her back, the phone rings in my hand. It’s the front desk.
“There’s an Angela Sinclair here to see you, sir,” the guard says. “Can we send her up?”
Ever since the last incident with Marissa, they never send anyone up without asking. Unless I’ve cleared it with them first, like I did with Bethany.
Why is Angela here?
“I’ll come down.” Not that I think she’ll shoot me or anything, but better safe than sorry.
I meet her in the lounge by the guard desk.
“Hey.”
She leans in and kisses me on the cheek, grabbing my hands in hers. “Can we talk?”
“Sure.” I nod to a couple of chairs and gently extricate my fingers from her grasp. She’s being oddly handsy.
She’s wearing big dark sunglasses and a beige pea coat over slim white pants and high heels.
“I’ve been trying to call you,” she says once we’re sitting.
“Sorry. I’ve been really busy.”
“I understand you want to sow your wild oats now, as they say,” she chuckles and removes her glasses, pushing them on top of her blonde head. “But I just want to let you know I’m not going to stand for it when we’re married.” Her voice is loud, carrying through the lobby.
Even so, the words don’t register at first.
Wait. What? Married?
I glance around. Is she delusional?
I search her eyes but her gaze is steady and clear. “Angela, I’m never going to marry you. And you don’t want to marry me.”
She bites her lip and the mask slips. Her eyes fill. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Sorry for what?”
She blinks rapidly, eyelashes flashing, her voice low. “If I don’t do this, he’s going to ruin Charlie.”
“Who’s going to ruin Charlie?”
Her eyes flick to the window behind me.
When I turn, there are paparazzi snapping photos. I shake my head and turn back to her. “What is this?”
She covers my hand with hers and leans closer. “I have to protect her. You should check on Bethany. I think your dad fired her this morning.”
“What?” I pull away and stand.
She speaks loudly enough so the press standing outside can hear. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!” Then she stalks out the door.
A little dramatic, but if the flashing camera lights are any indication, it doesn’t matter. People will eat it up.
None of that matters. Who’s going to ruin Charlie? Dad? Did someone find out about them? I have to call Bethany.
I stalk to the elevator as quickly as possible, waving off the concerned look the security guy gives me.
Once I’m in the elevator I call Bethany, but it goes to voicemail.
Worry niggles at me.
Dammit, Dad.
He’s next on the list and he answers right away.
“I’m not marrying Angela Sinclair.” Might as well cut right to the point.
“You don’t have to marry her. She’s a pretty girl, just date her for a bit until this deal goes through.”
“I can’t date Angela. I’m dating someone else.” And so is Angela, but I’m not getting into that right now.
“Look, Son, I know you think you like Beth but she’s not for you. You have to suck it up and do this for the good of the family business.”
I make it back to my apartment and shut the door with a hard thunk. “What is it with you and this business?” I explode. “You don’t need the Sinclairs. It’s not like we’re suffering. You want me to do something that makes me unhappy just to make a few extra bucks?”
“We’re talking millions here, Brent.”
“What does it matter? We have millions. You’re seventy-six years old. You can’t pack up all that money and take it with you when you’re gone.”
He doesn’t even hear me. His voice rises. “What does it matter to you? I’m asking you to take a pretty girl out for a couple months and you’re acting like it’s this big hassle. I’m talking about our family legacy, getting the Crawford name into households everywhere. It will live forever.”
With my free hand, I pick up my old football from where I left it on the couch and squeeze the firm leather with my fingers. “I don’t care about any of that. I care about my life, right now. I found someone, someone important, and I’m not going to ruin it.”
There’s a long pause. “You can’t screw the help your whole life.”
“It’s not like that.” I swallow. “Did you really fire her?”
“You’re damn right I did.”
“She is the best thing that happened to that place since Marc left.”
He doesn’t even bother acknowledging my statement. “I know what it’s like to want to chase tail around the office all day, believe me.”
“I’m not chasing her. We’re together. Don’t you understand? I need her. She’s different.”
He scoffs. “They’re all good pretenders until they accidentally get pregnant and then she’s got you by the balls and the bank account for eighteen years. At least Angela knows the score.”
I slam the football against the wall in frustration. “You’re not listening to me.”
How can I get him to take me seriously? The phone beeps in my ear.
“I’ve gotta go. Roger is calling.” I hang up before he can say anything else, taking a second to take a few deep breaths and pick up my ball from where it rolled on the floor.
He doesn’t understand.
Money isn’t important. Fame isn’t important. What’s important is right now, this moment, being with the people I love . . . making memories. My eyes fall shut.
Life is short. I can’t make him see that, though. He has to see it for himself. Just like I had to.
I answer the other line. “Hey, Roger.”
“Brent. We have a problem.”
“What is it?” What now?
He sighs. “I just got a call from a friend at Stylz. They’re running an article tomorrow about you having some kind of terminal heart condition. Is that true?”
Said organ thumps in my chest. “What? How . . . ?”
“What’s going on?”
Shock forces me into silence. Someone spilled. But who? My hand flexes around the football and I stare down at the worn leather. “It’s not necessarily fatal, but they’re not exactly wrong, either. Who’s the source?”
“I don’t know. They’re anonymous and apparently have some kind of recording of you talking about a heart problem and . . . there’s no easy way to say this but they have you talking about not being able to get it up. I tried to get them to trash the story, but there’s no way to stop it. They paid handsomely for the information and they’re running it no matter what.”
I shake my head. “That’s . . . what?”
The only people who know the whole story are my doctors and Bethany, and she wouldn’t.
Dad just fired her, a little voice in my head pipes up. And she needs the money for her mom.
No.
“Is it true? About your heart, I mean. Honestly, bud, we all have that other problem sometimes and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I was going to tell you. I’m having surgery in three weeks.”
“We’ll have to figure out how all of this affects your career. Is this why you’ve been avoiding signing the contract?”
“Yeah.” But right now, I don’t give a fuck about my career. Someone betrayed me. And the sinking feeling in my stomach is pointing to the only person I’ve given the power to completely destroy me.
My father’s words ring in my mind.
I shut my eyes but it doesn’t stop them from replaying in my head.
They’re all pretenders.
No.
No.
Not Bethany. She’s a terrible liar. She wouldn’t do that. Images flash into my mind from this morning, staring into each other eyes, laughing in the sunlight. We were so connected.
I think about Bella. Marissa. Even Gwen. Maybe I’m the one who can’t be trusted. Can I trust my own instincts?
“Is there any way to find out who this anonymous source is?” Because despite the evidence, despite my father’s claims, despite my past, I don’t believe Bethany would do this.
“I can try. I’ll talk to my friend at the magazine. I doubt they’ll spill, but I might have other ways to track them down.” Roger’s voice is gentle but firm. “Brent, this is a huge thing to keep under wraps for as long as you did. You signed a health statement at the end of last season. The team could sue you. Besides all that, I need you here as soon as possible. We’ll have to set up something before this article runs, put our own spin on it.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I hang up on him and then silence my phone.
I don’t know how long I stand there, trying to breathe around the ache in my chest. It could be minutes, it could be an hour. This is it, the end of my career.
There’s a knock at the door and I know who it is. There’s only one person security allows up without calling first.
I open the door and she walks right by me, like she belongs here. Like it’s any normal day.
“Ugh, today has been killer.” She hangs her purse on the stand by the door, then she grimaces. “Bad choice of words. Don’t freak, but Mr. Crawford fired me, for reals this time, because he saw those pictures of us . . .” She trails off as she takes in my expression and then reaches for my hands. “Are you okay? What’s going on? Is it your heart?”
She’s so concerned. So guileless. Her eyes are clear and open, the emotion written all over her face. This can’t be a ruse. It can’t be.
But I have to ask. Because there’s still that inkling in the back of my mind, that “what if” that can’t trust anyone. If she did do it . . . well, I wouldn’t even care.
The realization stuns me.
I would understand, given what she’s gone through, but I need to know for sure. I want her to be able to tell me everything. Anything. Good, bad, indifferent, shameful. All of it.
I care more about her than I do about my career or reputation or . . . anything else.
Her hands still in mine, I tug her into my chest and I’m finally able to breathe. “I got a call from Roger. There’s uh . . .” I shake my head, clearing it. “Someone at Stylz got ahold of information about me. About my medical condition. They’re printing an article tomorrow. They know everything. About my heart. About the side effects from the medication. All of it.”
She pulls back to look up at me, her mouth popping open. “They . . . what? How?”
I keep my eyes focused on her face. “I hate to even ask, but do you know anything about it?”
Her brows crawl up her forehead. “You think I told them? Why would I do that?”
I rush to explain. “I would understand if you did. I mean, my dad did just fire you. And I know what you’re going through with your mom. And it’s just, there’s no one else who knows—”
“You think I would sell you out for money?”
“No. I mean, not entirely.”
She steps back, away from me, and when I try to follow she holds a hand up to stop me. “First your dad fires me for putting you—for putting us—before him and my job, and now you are accusing me of using you for money? Don’t you think I would have taken you up on your offer to help yesterday if that was the case?” Her voice rises as she speaks.
This is not going how I imagined. “I don’t think you would betray me like this, but I just had to ask. No one else knows.”
“Your doctor knows.” Her arms cross over her chest.
My jaw clenches. I rub the back of my neck. I know she’s had a bad day, but she’s not the only one. “My doctor could lose her license. What do you have to lose?”
She blanches and goes pale.
I immediately regret the words. “Bethany, I didn’t mean—”
“Maybe I should leave.” She walks back toward the door, grabbing her purse from the stand.
“Please don’t.” I follow her, wanting to hold her, wanting to convince her I didn’t mean it, but when she turns to face me, her expression is closed and guarded. I try once more. “Can we talk about this?”
“I think I need some space.” Her breath hitches on the words. She won’t meet my eyes. She pulls something from her bag and, instead of handing it to me, places it on the table in the entryway.
With a whisper of sound, she’s out the door, shutting it gently behind her.
I walk over to the table and pick up the object she left behind. My watch. My super-expensive, six-thousand-dollar watch. I must have left it at her apartment.
Crushed with the weight of the last half hour, I slide down the wall to the floor, gripping the watch in my hand.
How can a day that started so beautifully twist so quickly into hell?
My chest tightens with pain. I choke back the tears that threaten to overwhelm me.
There’s no time to rail at the unfairness of the universe. I have go see Roger and fix this mess. But my heart isn’t in it. My heart just walked out the door.