Chapter Two
Isla
"Are you following me?"
I glance up from my lunch to find Brantley Hill standing in front of me in the diner, his hands shoved into his pockets.
"No." I scowl at him, still annoyed that he sent me on my way like I was a little girl two days ago.
"Then why are you at my favorite diner?" he asks, those piercing green eyes locked on my face as if he's trying to read me like the book sitting on the corner of my table.
"Is your name on the building? Do you own the diner?" I narrow my eyes on him. "Because last time I checked, it wasn't, and you didn't. And this is a free country. I can go where I want."
He mutters a curse, shoving a hand through his dark hair. The move pulls his shirt taut over his stomach. And mine flutters in response. He's way too gorgeous.
For a while, he was also Nashville's problem child.
He drank, fought, and gambled his way through half the city, starting when he was barely even old enough to leave home. He barely finished high school. He spent more nights in jail than some of their freaking janitors. For several years, he was on a path of self-destruction, seemingly hellbent on drinking himself to death.
Four years ago, he walked out of a meeting with his father and checked himself into rehab. He's been a different man ever since. Everyone says that meeting was his father threatening to cut him off if he didn't get his life together, but I'm not sure I buy that. I've spent the last week reading everything I could find on the man. And from everything I've been able to find, Brantley has never depended on his father.
In fact, until that meeting four years ago, I don't think they spoke at all for a long time. There are no photos of them together, no mention of them being in the same place at the same time, nothing. Whatever made him leave home at seventeen created a rift between them that didn't heal until that meeting four years ago.
I'm not sure what happened then that prompted him to turn his life around, but he did. He went to work for their record label, made a small fortune. And he's been sober ever since.
People have been tearing him apart since Bellamy was murdered, claiming the men who did it were looking for Brantley. For some reason, he hasn't put out a statement clearing his name. But it seems highly unlikely that he's responsible for what happened to his dad. I'm missing pieces—important pieces as to why he's not clearing his name. I'm just not sure what they are yet.
He knows, though. Every answer I need, he has.
It's irritating as hell that he doesn't want to give them to me. Contrary to his belief, I'm not a little girl. And I don't need to be protected. What I need is my sister home safely. One way or another, I'm going to help make it safe for her.
A slow smile spreads across his face. "You wake up on the wrong side of your princess bed today, little bird?"
"Nope. My day was going wonderful until your shadow darkened it." I bat my lashes at him. "It'll be wonderful again as soon as you go away."
I'm a liar. I did come here hoping to run into him. He eats lunch here most days…and I've been feeling particularly irritated about the way he kicked me out of his office two days ago. I need his help.
"Oh, so now that you know I'm not going to help you, you don't want to talk to me?" he asks.
"No. I don't want to talk to you because you kicked me out of your office."
He has the good grace to grimace like he regrets doing that. "It was for your own good, Isla," he says quietly. "You don't know what you're trying to get mixed up in."
"I'm not trying to get mixed up in anything. I'm trying to bring my sister back home where she belongs." I drop my half-eaten sandwich back onto the tray. "But you don't care about that, so if you'll excuse me…" I hop up, trying to slide past him.
He plants himself directly in my path. "Leave it alone, little bird. Before you get yourself hurt."
I have no intention of dropping it. I can't. If it were me, Bella would do the same thing I'm trying to do. It's always been the two of us against the world. That didn't change just because our dad sent her to a bodyguard in Texas.
"I wouldn't get hurt if you'd help me."
Brantley mutters a curse, scowling at me. But not before I see the split second of hesitation in his eyes. I think he wants to help me, but for some reason, he's determined not to do it. There's something he doesn't want people to know. And I think he's worried about whatever it is getting out. It's a sobering realization. And a hopeful one, too.
It means he can be cracked.
I just have to figure out how to crack him.
"Go home, Isla," he growls, turning to stomp toward the door.
I watch him go, my mind racing as I try to put together a plan.
How do you crack a man like Brantley Hill?
I have no idea…but a little thrill goes through me at the thought.
I like him, dammit.
"You can drop me here."
My driver glances at me in the rearview mirror before slowing his Civic to a crawl. The hesitation painted across his wizened face makes it clear he doesn't think this is a place for a girl like me.
He's probably right. Judging by the number of motorcycles pulled up outside the Devil's Run, I'm going to fit in about as well as a square peg in a round hole. But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
Apparently, stalking is on this girl's agenda.
It's illegal in all fifty states. I checked before I decided to go through with it anyway. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and times are desperate. Brantley has information I need—probably a lot of it.
And he may think he got rid of me by ordering me to go home yesterday, but I intend to annoy the hell out of him until he agrees to help me. Step one, stalking. Step two, convincing him to help me. Step three…well, I'm still working on step three. All I know is that the masterplan ends with Brantley telling me what he knows and Bella back home where she belongs instead of locked away in Texas like she did something wrong.
My sister is a witness to a crime. She's innocent. Yet she has less freedom than the men who killed her boss. The irony isn't lost on me. Isn't that typically how it goes for women? We play by the rules, and somehow, we still end up paying for it in the end.
"Ugh," I mutter, annoyed all over again.
"What was that?" my driver asks.
"Oh, nothing." I shoot him a bright, reassuring smile. The last thing I need is for him to decide I've lost my mind and call the cops. This bar may belong to Memphis Hughes, one of the biggest names in Nashville, but I don't think the people who frequent it are the kind who like the cops hanging around. I've heard enough rumors about the kind of people who come here to know better than that.
What I can't figure out is why in the world Brantley is here. I saw the sobriety chip on his desk the other day. He's a recovering alcoholic. The last place he should be is at a bar.
So…why do I get the feeling that's probably exactly why he's here? Brantley strikes me as the kind of man who tempts fate just because. There's something dark in him, something self-destructive. I saw it in his eyes in his office the other day when he told me I'd have to get in line if I wanted to blame him. Guilt practically dripped from his voice. I'm just not sure why because I'm positive the men who killed Bellamy weren't there looking for Brantley.
"Miss? Are you sure you want me to drop you here?" The concern etched across my driver's face when he meets my gaze in the rearview this time jolts me into motion.
I grab the door handle, practically launching myself from the vehicle. "Yes, yes," I hurry to say. "Here is fine. Thank you so much." I step out onto the cracked sidewalk, slamming the car door behind me before he can argue with me. And then I take a deep breath before turning to look up at the Devil's Run.
The line out front is intimidating as hell. Even dressed in tight jeans and a stretchy black cold-shoulder top with my makeup done, I do not fit. Not even close. Everyone outside is either in biker leathers and cuts or miniskirts and crop tops. I'm also not entirely convinced I look old enough to get through the door even though I'm twenty-one.
But I press my shoulders back, lift my chin, and stride forward anyway, determined to take another crack at convincing Brantley to help me figure out who killed his father. I don't understand why he's so reluctant to help. I highly doubt he's afraid of whoever killed Bellamy.
The man doesn't strike me as the type who is afraid of much of anything. He's certainly not the type to back down from a fight. His past is littered with the proof of that fact. So…what does he know that I don't? Why doesn't he want to help me? He said he didn't want me involved—and I don't think he was lying about that—but it wasn't the full truth, either.
The simple fact of the matter is…Brantley doesn't want me looking into what happened because he doesn't want the truth coming out.
So long as no one solves Bellamy's murder, the whole world never has to know that the men in that parking garage were his dealers. They don't know anyone to know that one of the most important men in Nashville owed very bad men a lot of money. That's bound to look bad for Brantley's family and his company.
If this were any other day, I'd probably let him keep his secrets. I don't want to ruin anyone. Bella loved working for Bellamy. He gave her a chance when no one else would. But this isn't any other day, and she's the one in danger now.
Before my dad sent her to Texas, they tried to kill her, too. They found her apartment. They set her car on fire.
My dad loves us beyond all reason. When we were little kids, our mom hurt us. She resented us because he loved us more than he ever loved her, so she neglected us. She was kind of awful to us, honestly. And then she tried to frame him for defrauding our Uncle Ian's company. Our dad didn't even hesitate to send her to prison—not because she tried to frame him but because she hurt us. He's never forgiven her for that.
So there's no way he'll ever let Bella come back home again so long as the men looking for her are still out there. I know it. She knows it. Even he knows it. He's just not capable of taking that kind of risk with one of us.
The only way she'll ever be allowed to come home again is if the men who killed Bellamy Hill are dead or in prison. And I need my twin. Even when we fight and argue, she's my best friend. She's a piece of me.
I feel guilty that we were fighting before she left. We've been doing that a lot since our biological mom, Marion, got out of prison. Bella doesn't want anything to do with her because we have Jenna now, and Jenna is the best mom. She loves us as if she gave birth to us, and we love her the same way.
But I still have questions that only our biological mother can answer. That doesn't mean I've forgiven her. It doesn't mean I ever will. But she owes us answers for everything she put us through.
Does she really regret it? Did it haunt her? Has she truly changed like she claims? Like I said, I've got questions. Bella doesn't understand why I need answers…but I do. I told her to butt out.
And then Bellamy got killed, and she wouldn't leave it alone. I got scared, and we fought about that, too. Now, she's in Texas, and I feel completely freaking alone. She has to come back so we can fix it. We can't spend the rest of our lives mad at each other. We can't spend the rest of our lives at odds over Marion. She ruined our life once. I refuse to let that happen a second time.
Halfway to the back of the line, a hand clamps down on my arm, spinning me around. I yelp, automatically launching into one of the self-defense moves my dad taught me. I spin to the side, bringing my elbow back at the same time.
"Jesus Christ, little bird," Brantley grunts in my ear as my elbow connects with his hard stomach. "Easy. It's just me."
"Brantley!" I gasp, my knees sagging with relief. I peer over my shoulder into his gorgeous—pained—green eyes, guilt surging through me. "Oh my gosh. I'm so sorry. I didn't know it was you."
"I can see that." His gaze skirts over my face, his full lips pulled down into a frown. "What are you doing here?"
"Here?" I stare at him blankly, and then remember where we are. Standing outside Memphis Hughes's bar. Right. Crap. I probably should have come up with a cover story because I've got nothing believable. "Oh, um, I come here all the time."
Amusement drifts through his expression. "Oh, really?"
"Yep. All the time."
"Right. And you just happened to be eating lunch at my favorite diner yesterday."
"Exactly. Why are you here?" I ask, trying to sound like I'm not freaking stalking him. Except…I'm the world's worst liar. "I saw your sobriety chip. This is a bar."
He stares at me levelly, completely silent.
Crap.
"Worried I'm off the wagon, Isla?"
"What? No, of course not." I chew on my bottom lip. "It's okay if you are, you know. It happens," I whisper. "No one is perfect. I heard that sobriety isn't a linear journey anyway. It's more like a wave for most people, with highs and lows. The important thing is that you get back on the wagon, Brantley. You did it once. I know you can do it again."
"Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters, staring at me with this…look…in his eyes. It's heat and steam and somehow soft and fierce at the same time.
My heart races, my mouth going bone-dry.
Lord, he is beautiful. Short dark hair, paired with his piercing green eyes, beard, and strong jaw are just the tip of the iceberg with him. The tattoos licking up his collarbones are all too attractive. And don't even get me started on the way his t-shirt hugs the muscles in his broad shoulders and chest or his jeans cling to his powerful thighs.
"I'm not off the wagon, little bird," he says softly. "I had a meeting with Memphis."
"Oh," I whisper.
"Now, how about you cut the shit and tell me why you're here?" He takes a step toward me, pinning me in place with those eyes. "Because we both know you've never stepped foot inside that bar." He crooks a finger beneath my chin, and it might be my imagination, but I think he shivers. "In fact, I don't think you've ever been inside a bar at all, have you?"
"I just turned twenty-one," I whisper.
He groans like I just told him a dirty secret, his body pressing up against mine. "Doesn't matter how old you are," he murmurs, his gaze locked on my lips. "You're still a good girl at heart, baby. And good girls like you don't drink themselves stupid at titty bars."
"T-titty bar?"
A ghost of a smile slashes at his lips. "You didn't know?"
I shake my head, struck silent. Clearly, I should have looked into this place a little more before I decided to follow him here.
"Why are you really here, Isla?"
I chew on my bottom lip, not willing to tell him that I'm stalking him. If I'm too much of a good girl for a titty bar, I'm probably too much of a good girl for jail, too. Yes, I'm definitely too much of a good girl for that. It…irritates me that he has me pegged so well, though. That he knows me—or thinks he does—after meeting me just days ago.
Maybe I'm not who he thinks I am. Maybe I'm more like Bella than everyone thinks I am.
"Tell me," he growls.
"You won't answer my questions. Why should I answer yours?"
"You didn't ask questions. You asked for my help."
"Does that mean you'll answer my questions?"
"Did you drive, little bird?"
I silently shake my head.
"Of course you didn't." He releases me with a sigh, stepping back. "Well, come on then. Let's go."
"Go?" I frown over at him. "Where are we going? Inside?"
"Hell no," he snaps, scowling at me. "You aren't setting foot inside that bar. I'm taking you home."
"You do realize you can't tell me what to do, right?" I glower at him, annoyed that he thinks he can boss me around. "I'll go inside if I want to go inside."
"Oh, yeah?" His expression slips into one of amusement before he lifts his head. "Jessup!"
The scarred man standing near the door turns to look at us. Everyone in line falls silent.
"This one doesn't get in unless I say so," Brantley says loudly, nodding at me. "Not tonight or any other night. We clear?"
The man looks me over, his expression level, before he nods. "Got it, Brant."
I glower at Brantley, my cheeks bright pink with humiliation. "You are a jerk," I hiss.
He smirks at me, completely unaffected by the insult. "Yeah, I am. You ready to leave now?"
I stomp around him, trying desperately to ignore the murmurs of the crowd. It's nearly impossible when I know they're whispering about me, though. I can freaking hear them, wondering who I am and what I'm doing with Brantley Hill.
Plotting ways to murder him painfully, I want to tell them. Instead, I don't say a word. Not even when I hear him chuckle behind me.
Maybe I don't want to work with him, after all. He's insufferable. Irritating.
Delicious, a little voice whispers. So damn delicious.
It isn't wrong, dammit all.
We're barely in his ridiculously oversized truck when his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket, glances at it, and then curses softly.
"I need to take this," he says, almost like he's apologizing to me.
I wave him off, staring out into the night. Still annoyed.
"Hey, Ma," he says a second later, his voice soft.
I peek over at him, surprised. He had to answer a call from his mom? That's…cute. Unexpected. He doesn't really strike me as a mama's boy. Honestly, he kind of seems like a man apart, someone who doesn't let anyone too close. He holds the whole world on his shoulders.
I think maybe he's stumbling under its weight.
"Hey, you don't need to do that," he says. "I'll take care of it. Just leave them all there, and I'll grab them in the morning." He listens to her for a moment and then shakes his head. "Ma, just leave them."
She says something else, her muffled voice floating down the line.
Whatever she says makes him grin, though. "What do you take me for, Ma? I know you. You're probably still fucking with them right now." His gaze flits toward her and then away. "Yeah, I'll swing by in the morning. I've got some shit to handle tonight."
Oh, he will not be handling me.
I narrow my eyes on him, which only makes that sexy smirk of his grow.
He chuckles. "Love you too, Ma. See you in the morning." He doesn't stop staring as he disconnects and drops the phone back into the console. "Sorry. I don't like to keep her waiting for shit since…"
My heart pulses. "How's she doing?"
"Fine," he grunts, glancing away to start the truck. But not before I see the guilt and pain in his eyes. It makes my heart ache. "Better now."
"You're really sweet with her," I murmur, trying to soothe him in some way. I can't imagine what he's going through is easy. And the whole freaking city keeps blaming him.
"I'm sure you're the same way with your mom, little bird."
"Definitely with my stepmom. I've always kind of idolized her. But I don't know my biological mom well." I lean my head against the window as he backs out of the parking spot.
"Why not?" he asks.
"Um, she went to prison for trying to frame my dad for fraud and embezzlement when Bella and I were little. But before that, she wasn't a great mom. She resented that she had us, I guess. Or resented that my dad loved us more than her. She neglected us. Treated us badly."
I'm not really sure why I tell him when I've never willingly opened up to anyone about her. It's always been something Bella and I very adamantly refused to discuss with people—mostly because they treated us like we were salacious gossip instead of real people with real feelings. I guess maybe I tell him because he knows what it's like to be gossip, and I want him to know that my life isn't perfect either. It's never really been that. My dad and Jenna made it amazing despite our mother, but it was never perfect.
"Maybe we do have something in common after all, little bird," Brantley mutters into the silence, his voice tight. "Knowing some parents don't deserve the title is a fucked-up kind of pain to live with, isn't it?"
I glance over at him, my mouth open to ask what he means, but the expression on his face silences the question. It speaks for itself. He isn't talking about his mom. He's talking about his dad.
"Everyone thinks they know my father," he says quietly. "They have no fucking clue what kind of bastard he really was."
Oh, my god.
"Brantley." I swallow hard. "Did he…?"
He meets my gaze, not speaking. But he doesn't have to say a word. The truth is written on his face in stark lines. His dad hurt him. Badly. And judging by the haunted look in his eyes…he's still fighting the pain. He's been fighting it for a long time.
Defiance wells up from my soul, screaming in silent protest.
I reach across the console without a word, slipping my hand into his.
He glances down at our joined hands and then over at me and swallows hard, his fingers closing around mine. He doesn't say a single word. He just clings to my fingers like I'm a lifeline.
I cling just as tightly, my heart aching for him. Questions bubble on my tongue, but I swallow them back, refusing to ask. He doesn't owe me those answers, and I won't ask for them. But I want to help, even if it's just a little bit.
"I'm sorry he hurt you," I whisper when he pulls up in front of my apartment ten minutes later. "No matter what that little voice of doubt says, you deserved better."
"Jesus," he rasps.
"Thanks for the ride, Brantley."
I'm halfway up the sidewalk before I feel him touch my elbow. He spins me to face him, breathing hard.
"What–?"
His lips crash down on mine, his hand fisting in my hair. I gasp against his lips as he pulls me up against his body, holding me dangerously close for one perfect moment as his lips move against mine.
"Thank you," he whispers.
"For what?"
"For being you, little bird." He brushes his lips against mine again, sighing softly. "For being you."
My heart flutters as he pulls back, his gaze tangling with mine. And I realize I don't want him to leave yet. Even if he doesn't agree to help me…I think I want to know this man. I want to help him.
"Will you come inside?" I blurt.
He stares at me for a long, silent moment, a war raging in his eyes. "I shouldn't."
"Okay," I whisper, glancing down at the ground. Rejection stings. I don't like it much.
His thumb slides along my bottom lip. "I said I shouldn't, Isla. Not that I'm not going to."
My gaze bounces back to his, my eyes wide.
He groans softly, shaking his head. "Let's go before I remember why I shouldn't."