Chapter One
Brantley
"You have a visitor."
I flick my gaze up from the newspaper stretched across my executive desk to scowl at Daniel Tipton, the asshole in a cowboy hat who claims he's my assistant.
He's been saying the same damn thing for the last four years. But let's face it, the man belongs at a record company less than I do. And this is the last place I should be.
But I just inherited the damn thing, so I'm stuck. I don't know what his excuse is, but he's shit at the job. Apparently, I'm shit at firing him, too. I've done it at least half a dozen times. And yet, here he remains.
"I don't have a meeting on my schedule," I growl. Wouldn't be the first time he conveniently forgot to add a meeting to the thing. Like I said, he belongs here less than I do. I think his only joy in life is torturing me.
Sobriety sponsor, my ass.
"Oh, I'm aware." His lips twitch, one dark brow arched in amusement. The early morning sunlight filtering in through the windows sends rays spilling across the lower half of his face, though the brim of his cowboy hat leaves his hazel eyes lurking in shadow. "That's why I didn't say you have a fuckin' meeting. I said you have a visitor. And judgin' by the looks of her, this girl hasn't had a meetin' a day in her life."
Jesus Christ.
I lean back in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose. I don't have the patience for bullshit today. Thanks to the newspaper stretched across my desk, I'm not in the mood for much of anything, as a matter of fact.
Yet again, my father's murder is front page news. Which means, yet again, my name is spreading across this city like wildfire. Half the state thinks I'm the reason he's dead. The other half thinks he's the greatest goddamn thing since sliced bread.
It's all bullshit. Every bit of it.
But I can't very well tell them that.
No one would believe me even if I did.
To the world, Bellamy Hill was the next thing to a saint. His son, on the other hand? Well, as far as the world is concerned, only one of the Hill men is destined for heaven, and it ain't me.
Ironic doesn't even begin to cover it.
If either of us is headed for hell, it's that bastard. Doesn't matter how much money he poured into charities when the spotlight was on him. Behind closed doors, he was a monster who got off on getting high and terrorizing his wife and traumatizing his son.
He was too smart to leave bruises anyone would see on my mother. Those, he left in places that could be carefully concealed. Hell, most of the scars he left me with were the kind that didn't leave marks at all. They cut a helluva lot deeper.
I spent years trying to forget them at the bottom of a bottle. All I got for it was the reputation he managed to evade and a sobriety sponsor who calls himself my assistant.
To people in this town, I'm the fuck up. My father is the legend. I'm the one who should have died in that parking garage. He's the one who didn't deserve it.
It's all I've heard since his dealers finally caught up to him. And I'm the idiot who continues to let them think it.
But fuck it, right? They've been saying the same shit about me for years. Never mind the fact that I haven't touched alcohol in four years. Never mind the fact that I've never done a goddamn drug in my life.
To them, I'm still the fuck up. He's still the legend.
Why bother trying to change their perception now? The only one it hurts in the end is my mother. The world doesn't need to know she was married to a monster. They don't need to know the shit he put her through. If they need to blame me to keep his precious memory intact, fine. So long as she doesn't suffer another fucking second because of him, I'll deal.
Doesn't mean I like it, though.
It's been four fucking years since I've had a drink…and I've never wanted one as badly as I have since the old bastard died.
"You want me to show her in?" Daniel asks.
"No. Tell whoever it is that I don't have time," I mutter. "I've got shit to handle today." I motion at the stack of paperwork on my desk—all shit I need to figure out now that I'm CEO of Hilltop Records.
If it weren't for my mother, I wouldn't be here at all. In exchange for me working at his side and keeping my mouth shut about who he really was, he kept his goddamn hands off her. I smiled and pretended I gave a shit about his company for years so she could live in peace.
Now, I own the damn company. There are dozens of recording artists counting on me. They've been counting on me for four years. While he got the credit, I did the work. Half the time, he was too distracted to even know what was going on. The other half, he was too busy trying to figure out new ways to steal from the company to do what needed to be done. Sorting out the mess he left is not making me want to drink any less.
"Oh, you're going to want to make time for this one." Daniel crosses his massive arms over his chest, smirking at me. "It's the sister."
I stare at him blankly.
"Your father's assistant's sister. The twin."
"Jesus Christ." I sit upright in my chair. "Isla Sterling is here?"
"Yep. Demandin' to see you."
Fucking hell.
Isla's twin, Bella Sterling, witnessed my father's murder. Last I heard, her dad sent her out of state to protect her. I feel terrible for the girl. She's barely old enough to have a job, let alone deal with something of this magnitude. She never should have been in that parking garage. She never should have come to work with my father. And she damn sure doesn't deserve to be embroiled in his shit now, with the men who killed him looking for her.
And the men who killed him weren't the kind of men you fuck with. As far as I've been able to figure out, he was in deep with the Dixie Mafia, owed them a whole fuckton of money.
He was borrowing from the label, siphoning off resources.
We had a massive goddamn fight about it not long before he was killed because the bastard tried to take out a loan in my name. He threatened my mother. I had to remind him—bluntly—that I'd spill all his dirty secrets if he even smiled at her wrong.
"What does she want?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at Daniel.
"How should I know? I wasn't goin' to grill the girl, Brantley. She looked like she was afraid I might bite."
"What the fuck do I pay you for again?"
"The benefit of my motherfuckin' wisdom." He grins, showing teeth. "You want me to send her in?"
"Fuck." I scrub a hand through my hair and then blow out a breath. "Go ahead. Might as well get this shit over with now."
Mac Sterling warned me I'd probably see her when he came to see me. Mac is…an interesting man. Not sure if he believed me or not when I told him that they weren't my fucking dealers. He just jerked his chin in a nod and told me to send his daughter home if she showed up.
Guess he knows her well, because that was three days ago, and here she is.
"Good luck." Daniel taps the door frame and then strolls out like he doesn't have a care in the world, the lucky bastard. He probably doesn't. The twin sister of the girl who watched his father being brutally murdered isn't sitting in his waiting room right now. And guilt isn't his constant fucking companion.
Christ. How is this my life? Better question...why the fuck is this my life?
I glance down at the newspaper spread across the top of my desk, glowering at the photo of my father staring up at me. If the fucking world knew what I did… Jesus.
I ball the paper up, muttering curses. Who am I kidding? Even if they knew, they'd pretend they didn't. Isn't that usually what happens with men like him? If you've got enough money and power, you can get away with anything, especially in a town like this.
I toss the newspaper across the room.
"Shit," I growl, grimacing as a gorgeous little blonde steps into my office.
She squeaks, dodging to the side just in time to avoid getting hit between the eyes with the paper. Her baby blue eyes widen as it sinks into the trashcan beside the door.
"Three-point shot. Impressive," she mumbles, lifting those blue eyes in my direction. "Unless you were aiming at me."
"I wasn't throwing it at you." I rake a hand through my dark hair, staring at her as my goddamn heart pounds like a war drum against my ribcage. I knew she was Bella Sterling's twin sister but…Jesus. They're identical in every way—curly blonde hair, big blue eyes, pink cheeks, porcelain skin, pouty lips. But this twin has my dick pressed up against my zipper like he's trying to Hulk through my damn pants.
That shit never happened the few times I met her sister. I didn't feel a thing looking at that mouthy little blonde except amusement.
This one has me forgetting how to speak.
It has to be that sweet little pink dress hugging her curvy body like it was made just for her. She looks like an angel—soft and sweet. Warm.
My hands itch to touch her. And that hasn't ever happened. I don't touch people. Ever. Haven't since I was a little kid and still trusted that there was good in this world. I stopped believing that a long damn time ago. But that's beside the point. The point is, whenever someone touches me, a whole goddamn parade of bad memories crash down on me, and I feel like I can't fucking breathe.
But I want this girl's hands on me. Actually, scratch that. I want mine on her.
And that is not fucking happening.
"My assistant said you were demanding to see me," I say, motioning for her to come in.
Her pouty lips pull down into a frown, her gaze darting toward the door. "The hulking giant in a cowboy hat is your assistant?"
"So he keeps claiming."
"Claiming?"
"I keep firing him. He keeps showing up anyway."
She cracks a smile. "I think that means he likes you, Mr. Hill. I heard cowboys can't quit you when they like you."
"Jesus Christ." I stare at her. "Did you just quote Brokeback Mountain at me?"
She bites her lip and then nods, her cheeks stained pink. "I'm sorry. I couldn't resist." She wrinkles her nose. "And for the record, I didn't demand to see you. I asked politely, but I'm guessing that's not in his vocabulary."
"Probably not." I tip my head to the side, studying her. "What can I do for you, Miss Sterling?"
"You know who I am?" Her teeth sink into her bottom lip in a way that makes me want to bite it my damn self, and then she shakes her head. "What am I saying? Of course you know who I am. He probably told you."
"Didn't need your name, sweetheart. You look just like Bella."
Her nose wrinkles again. "She looks like me. I'm older."
"Right." I grin, genuinely amused for the first time since my world imploded. She's fucking cute when she's anxious…and she's clearly anxious right now. Because of me? Because she's here? I'm not sure. But I'm suddenly curious as hell to know why this sweet little thing decided to come here. "What can I do for you, Miss Sterling?"
"Isla."
"What can I do for you, Isla?"
"I…" She fidgets from foot to foot and then huffs out a breath. "I don't know," she finally whispers. "I'm not entirely sure why I'm here, Mr. Hill."
"Brantley."
"What?"
"My father was Mr. Hill. I'm just Brantley."
"Right." She swallows hard, staring at me. Really staring. She isn't looking like most people do—like she's seeing the same shit they do. It's like she's looking past that, trying to figure out who I am underneath all the bullshit she's heard and read.
Aside from the handful of people I'm closest to in this world, I've never cared to let anyone else in. Never cared what they thought or what they saw. But something about this girl makes me want to let her peel back the bullshit and see the truth. I can't remember the last time I wanted that.
Actually, that's not true. I've never wanted it. Because letting people in means letting them see all the fucked-up pieces—the scars and the nightmares and the fact that, even all these years later, I still can't walk into a fucking closet because of the prick who called himself my father.
"I guess I just…I wanted to meet you," she says slowly.
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"Yeah, you do." I cross my arms, cocking my head to the side. "You wanted to know if I was really the monster they're making me out to be, right? The druggie son who got his legendary father killed?"
"What?" Her eyes fly open wide, shock painting her pretty face. "No, of course not."
I run a hand down my face, exhausted in a way I've never been. "If you want to yell and scream and blame me, you'll have to get in line, sweetheart. So does half the state."
"I-I don't want that either, Brantley."
"Then why are you here, Isla? Because, frankly, being a sideshow in this fucking circus is getting old."
She hesitates for a long moment and then wraps her arms around herself. "I read the paper this morning. The one you just threw in the trash," she whispers. "I guess I just wondered why everyone blames you when there's no evidence that you had anything to do with the men responsible. Just because you have a past doesn't make you guilty." She shrugs helplessly. "It made me wonder how you're doing. I have a feeling you haven't been asked that, and maybe I know a little bit about how it feels to carry things that aren't yours to carry."
What could this sweet little thing possibly know about the shit I carry? I grip the edge of my desk, fury coursing through me at the thought of someone hurting her—of anyone doing to her half the shit my father did to me. She's tiny, innocent.
"Did someone hurt you, Isla?" I ask, my voice level. Calm. Inside, I'm ready to commit fucking murder. All because that tremor in her voice tells me she knows a little too well exactly what's lurking beneath my surface. She sees me a little too clearly. And she relates far more than a girl like her should.
Fucking hell.
"No…I…" She flaps her hands as if she's trying to impatiently shoo away the question, but it only manages to make her look like an anxious little bird. "It doesn't matter, Brantley. I just want to know how you're doing. That's all."
It matters a whole fucking lot. But if she doesn't want to talk, I can't force her.
Jesus. What is even happening right now? She asks how I'm doing and…what? I lose my shit? Decide I'm her protector? Because she cares when no one else does? It's ridiculous. And yet…it doesn't feel ridiculous at all.
I force myself to uncurl my hands from the edge of my desk and sit back in my chair. Force myself to think rationally. Whatever this is, it's not rational. It's instinct. Emotion. And the only place that's ever led me has been to the bottom of a bottle.
"Been better, sweetheart," I say after a moment. "But it is what it is."
She scrutinizes my expression, and then nods. "I'm sorry everyone is blaming you."
Jesus Christ. Who is this girl?
Everyone else would swap me for him without hesitation. I've been called everything but a son of God by people in this town lately. And she's still standing here, apologizing to me, looking at me like she wants to fucking hug me.
"How are you doing, Isla?" I ask, trying real hard not to think about her hands on me. Or the way my dick is throbbing.
"Been better." She swallows hard. "I miss my sister."
"Your dad sent her out of the state?"
"To Silver Spoon Falls, Texas." She sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "It wasn't safe for her here. Bella…is complicated. She would have gotten herself hurt because she wouldn't leave it alone."
I narrow my eyes on her as her gaze drifts from mine. "Leaving it alone is good advice."
She nods, not speaking.
Son of a bitch.
"Leave it alone, Isla."
"What if I can't?" She looks at me again, her expression rife with anxiety. "She's my sister, Brantley. My twin. And she's in danger right now. She can't come home because of what happened. If I can help–"
"You can't," I say bluntly. "All you're liable to do is get yourself killed in her place."
"She'd do it for me," she whispers.
Fuck my life. Why are siblings like this? They never listen. Every damn sibling I've ever met is the same goddamn way. They fight like cats and dogs, but they'll jump in front of a bullet for the other without even looking to see if it's necessary.
In this case, it's the exact opposite of necessary. It's outright suicide. This girl can't go up against the Dixie Mafia. They'll eat her alive.
"And she'd die too," I say, not mincing words. "These aren't the type of men you taunt, Isla. They aren't the type you chase around because you're bored or need something to do, or think you're helping, or whatever fucking story you've sold yourself. They will kill you without hesitation or remorse just because you're in their way. So do yourself a favor and don't get in their way."
"Then help me, Brantley. You clearly know more about them than I do. They saw her face. They know her name. By the time the police figure out exactly who they're looking for, it may be too late." Her bottom lip quivers. "I can't lose my twin."
I want to tell her yes. I want to fall on my goddamn knees at her feet and agree to whatever she wants—whatever makes that bottom lip stop quivering. But I can't do that. Because she and Bella are identical, and the last thing this girl needs is for the Dixie Mafia to spot her and think she's her twin sister. They won't stop to ask questions before they pull the trigger. They'll kill her, believing they've silenced her sister…and her blood will be on my hands for not sending her pretty little ass back home where she belongs.
No matter what people in this city think, I'm not a monster. And I won't be one now. Even if it means dashing this girl's hopes all to hell.
I'd rather her be alive and hate me than bleed out on a fucking sidewalk in front of me.
"I'm not going to help you," I say, my voice cold. Hard. Leaving no room for argument. "If that's why you came, you wasted a trip."
Her expression falls, disappointment welling in her eyes. "Please," she whispers.
"I'll have Daniel show you out." I hit the buzzer on my desk to call him into the room.
"He was your father, Brantley," she says, glaring at me. "You should want the truth as much as I do."
I laugh harshly. "The one thing no one in this fucking town ever wanted was the truth, little bird. They prefer the comforting lie." I hold her gaze. "If I find out that you're looking into this, I'll call your father."
"Don't you dare," she practically hisses at me.
"Then run home like a good girl and let the police handle it."
"You are a jerk."
"Maybe." I shrug. "You can thank me for it in a few years when you're still alive."
Daniel appears in the doorway, poking his head into the office.
"She's ready to go," I mutter to him. "Please escort her out of the building." I pause. "All the way out."
Isla practically vibrates with fury, her blue eyes flashing. Christ, she's gorgeous when she's fired up and pissed off—like a goddamn storm waiting to unleash on the city. But she doesn't say a word. She simply turns on her heel, the bottom of her dress flaring around her as she stomps out of my office, practically shouldering Daniel out of the way as she passes by.
I watch her go with my heart in my throat, fighting the urge to call her back. As much as I want to do it...for her sake, I can't. She doesn't need to get mixed up in this bullshit. Especially not with a motherfucker like me leading the way.
The only thing I'm liable to do is screw up her life as badly as I've fucked up my own.
But goddamn if I don't want to do it anyway.