Chapter Five
Brantley
"Hey, Ma." I stoop, quickly kissing my mother on the cheek early the next morning. She's curled up in her favorite chair, her gray hair up in a bun, her feet up on a footstool, staring out at the garden with a cup of coffee in her hands.
"Brant! You're here!" She beams up at me, her eyes bright with relief. She doesn't try to kiss me back though. Even my own mother can't fucking touch me without panic gripping me by the throat. I know it breaks her heart, but she's never once let it show. She's never once blamed me.
"Told you I'd be here, didn't I?" I shake my head at her. Sometimes, I think she's convinced I'm no more trustworthy than the bastard she married. But unlike him, I've never lied to her. Even when I probably should have hidden the truth, I was honest. I caused her more grief than she ever deserved. I regret the hell out of it.
I can't change it now. Christ knows, I wish I could. If I could go back and undo everything I did, I would. I'd find a healthier way to deal with my shit. One that didn't break her fucking heart for years. But I can't do that. All I can do is the same shit I do every day—wake up and face the mess I helped create.
I didn't tell Isla everything last night. Some shame runs too fucking deep to voice. God knows, mine does. While I was out trying to drink myself numb, my mother's heart was failing. She hid it because she knew exactly what I'd do if I knew. And my fucking father hid it too, just waiting for the right time to use it like a goddamn trump card.
They were both right. The day I found out, I offered myself up like a sacrificial lamb, exactly like she worried I would. Exactly like he wanted. My freedom for her safety.
It was worth the price, but I hate the bastard for exacting it.
He claimed he'd changed. That he wanted to make amends. That we were family, and we needed to hash out our differences. As if our differences were some goddamn disagreements that could be smoothed over. It was such bullshit.
He poured every dime she had into his addiction, leaving her completely dependent on him. Forcing her to rely on him for the medication she needed to keep her alive. And when her money was gone, he started stealing from the company.
I've spent most of the last four years cleaning up his messes, trying to undo the damage he did. Trying to ensure his shit never touched my mother. Sometime in the next few years, she'll need a transplant. Until then, she takes a goddamn pharmacy of medication every day to keep it beating. She's suffered enough at his hands.
Christ, she's suffered more than enough.
I hope the prick is rotting in hell, burning every fucking day. It's what he deserves. If praying for his suffering makes me a shit human, well, there are worse things you can be.
I don't want to be one of them. For a long fucking time, I worried that I'd end up just like him. Does anyone with a parent like him not face that same fear?
My mother isn't the reason I stopped drinking. He is. I sat across from him four years ago, saw his bloodshot eyes, and it felt like looking in the mirror. I walked out of that meeting and checked myself into rehab because I wasn't willing to risk becoming what he was. I refused to allow that to happen, and the path I was on? It was only a wrong turn or two away from ending up just like him.
"I know, I know," she says. "I just worry. The papers…"
"You shouldn't be reading that shit, Ma." I sigh. "They never know what they're talking about."
Her hands flutter uselessly in her lap. "Maybe you should set the record straight, Brant," she suggests—not for the first time. "Clear your name."
"You know I'm not going to do that, Ma," I say quietly. We've had this discussion more than once since he died. She feels guilty over what they're writing about me, but it's not her guilt to carry.
If we set the record straight about the fact that they were his dealers, it opens up the potential for additional questions, for more prying. And that's a risk I won't take. The last thing she needs is the goddamn press at the door again, hounding her.
"Where are these bills that came in?"
She sighs, her nose wrinkling as she stares up at me. "You've always been a stubborn boy, Brantley Hill."
"I haven't been a boy in years, Ma."
She snorts at me, waving her hand. "You're still stubborn."
"Guess I get it from you, huh?"
A tiny smile cracks her lips. "You certainly didn't get it from him."
"He didn't give me jackshit. Where did you put the bills?"
"They're in the kitchen, but I can pay the bills, Brantley," she says.
"You aren't paying his bills, Ma. Don't give a fuck what else you do with the money, but it won't be that." Hell will freeze over before she spends a cent on anything he owes. She entered their marriage with a fortune of her own until he got his goddam hands on it, wresting it away from her. For years, she had to ask the greedy bastard for everything. Now that he's gone, she won't spend a penny of what's left paying for a single thing of his. Truthfully, there isn't much left. If I hadn't invested my money and told her it was his life insurance, we'd be selling off assets to keep her comfortable. He managed to blow through millions.
Had he not died, sooner rather than later, his house of cards was going to come crashing down. It was only a matter of time. The cracks were already beginning to show. Hell, they were showing for four fucking years. I was the only thing keeping the damn company from falling apart at the seams. He'd fucked it up too badly to even begin untangling the mess.
"Don't curse at me, Brantley Hill."
"I'm not cursing at you, Ma. I'm just saying, you aren't paying his bills. I'll handle it. He's taken enough from you. You aren't paying for more," I murmur, my tone gentle. "You need your money. Creditors don't."
She huffs at me. "You shouldn't be paying his bills, either."
"Technically, his company will be paying them since I get my salary from it," I murmur, splitting hairs.
She glowers at me.
I hold up my hands, backing away to go get the bills. I find them in a stack on the kitchen island beside her medication. "Did you take your medication this morning, Ma?"
"Yes, Brantley. I took my medication."
I smile at her exasperated tone. It annoys the fuck out of her when I try to look after her. She still thinks she's the one who should be looking after me. But hell, I haven't needed her to baby me in years. It's my turn to take care of her for once.
I tuck the stack of bills into my breast pocket to look at when I get to the office and then cross back to the living room. "I've got to get going. I've got shit to do today." And then I pause. "May bring someone by to meet you soon."
"Who?"
"You'll see."
"Brantley Eugene Hill, if you're talking about a girl and you don't tell me right this second!" she practically shouts, making me chuckle.
"Yeah, Ma. It's a girl." I swallow. Is it too soon to think she's the girl? Christ, I hope not because I'm pretty goddamn sure it's the truth. Isla Sterling is the girl—the only girl.
How the fuck am I going to help her bring her sister home? I need to figure something out. Otherwise, she'll put herself in danger, and I can't risk that. I can't risk telling her father what she's up to, either. Not when it might mean him sending her away, too.
I've never needed much, but I need her.
"Who is she? How did you meet? What's she like?" Ma demands, practically shouting at me again.
"Her name is Isla. We met when she came to see me at my office, and she's fucking incredible, Ma. She's so damn sweet," I murmur. "You're going to love her."
My mother stares at me, eyes wide. "Brant," she says, her tone soft. "I've never heard you talk that way about anyone."
"Never met anyone like her before," I mutter, shrugging. "She's… Hell, you just have to meet her."
"Bring her to see me," she orders, picking her cup up from the marble table beside her. "I need to meet the girl special enough to make you fall."
"Who says I've fallen?" I ask, brow arched.
She narrows her eyes on me, a 'don't bullshit me' look on her lined face. "Do I look like I was born yesterday? Bring the girl to meet me, Brantley Eugene."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And you treat her right, you hear me? Trust yourself to be what she needs. And trust her too. Enjoy what's happening between you and believe that you deserve it. You do, sweet boy."
I jerk my chin in a nod, my heart pounding. "I'm working on it, Ma."
"Good," she says softly. "You've punished yourself long enough for things that were never your fault. It's beyond time you learned to let yourself be happy, Brantley. Maybe now that he's gone, you'll finally let yourself reach for it."
Fuck. Is that what I've been waiting for all along? For him to finally be gone so I felt like I was free? So I could finally breathe?
It's a grim thought. But…I think maybe it's accurate too.
Ibarely make it into my office before Daniel strolls in, massive arms crossed and a scowl on his face. He plants his big ass in the chair across from me, kicking one booted heel up on the corner of my desk.
"You didn't check in last night, motherfucker."
"Shit." I grimace, dropping the stack of bills I picked up from my mother. "I forgot."
He eyes me silently, his disapproval coming across loud and clear. It's impossible to operate in this business without spending time in bars and clubs. It comes with the territory when you're in music. But he and I have a longstanding agreement. If I have to do business in a bar, I check in with him afterwards. In the beginning, he went with me. It helped keep my head on straight. I'm past needing a constant babysitter most days, but checking in ensures I don't fuck up. It's accountability to someone other than myself because I've never trusted myself not to slide over the edge if left to my own devices. Self-destruction was a hell of a lure when I spent every day working beside the man who still haunted my fucking nightmares.
"You forgot," Daniel says levelly.
"Isla was there. I had to take her home."
"Ah." He smirks, understanding dawning in his eyes. "You had to take her home, huh?"
"It's too early for your bullshit, Daniel."
"Too bad. It's what you pay me for."
"I pay you to answer phones and manage my schedule. Neither of which you're particularly good at, might I remind you."
He scoffs at me. "You like her."
"Your point?"
"You've never let yourself get close to a woman."
"Still not hearing a point." I don't want to talk to him about Isla. Matter of fact, he's the last person I want to discuss her with. He pulls no punches, and I don't feel entirely rational about her.
"It's about goddamn time you decided to live a little, Brantley," he says, pegging me with a hard look. "But if this is you feelin' guilty about her sister, I'm stickin' my boot up your ass."
"Her sister has nothing to do with the way I feel about her."
He grins. And goddammit, I know he just played me. He's good at that—getting me to reveal more than I meant to reveal with his bullshit mind tricks. He plays the part of the devil may care, foul-mouthed cowboy well, but he's smart as hell. Too fucking smart, actually. It's infuriating.
"Let's talk about how you feel then," he suggests, leaning back in his chair with that shit-eating grin. "Because I'm dyin' to hear this."
"Get out of my office."
"No can do," he says cheerfully. "Like you said, I'm not particularly good at answerin' your phones or managin' your schedule, but I am damn good at psychoanalyzin' the fuck out of you. And you need some of that right now. You've got a look."
"I do not have a look," I growl. Jesus Christ. How'd I end up with the only sponsor in this state determined to drive me to drink?
"Yeah, you do. Cut the shit. What's goin' on?"
I glower at him. He just stares at me. It's the usual damn standoff. And, like always, he wins. The bastard.
"We slept together," I growl.
His eyes widen. "Jesus, Brantley."
"Yeah."
"How was it?" He holds up a hand. "And I'm not askin' for details. I'm askin' how you felt about being that close to someone when you don't even like bein' touched."
"It's different with her," I mutter.
"Different how?"
"No panic. No anxiety. Different."
"Ah."
I swallow, glancing away. "Can you get addicted to people, man?"
"You worried about gettin' addicted to her or to the sex?"
"Her." I meet his gaze, my answer firm. The sex was incredible. But she's the one who made it that way. I wouldn't have even gotten that far with anyone else, which is a testament to her power. I'm in serious danger of getting addicted to her and the way she makes me feel. "Even without the sex, I liked the feel of her hands on me. Maybe a little too much."
Daniel grins at me. "You're supposed to like it, Brant. And because you've never had it, it's a brand-new feelin' for you. You're starved for affection, brother. You crave it. Now, you suddenly have it from this sweet little thing who likes you. Of course you want more of it. That doesn't make it an addiction. It makes you human."
"I don't want to fuck it up."
"So don't," he advises. "You stopped fuckin' up four years ago. Eventually, you gotta learn to trust that you might actually know what the fuck you're doin'."
I'm not sure I've ever known that. I've just been making the shit up as I go, trying not to end up like the bastard who raised me. I figured if I accomplished that, it'd be enough. But now that he's gone, it doesn't feel like enough anymore. I want…more.
I want to be a man Isla can be proud of. But I'm not even fucking sure where to start trying to be him when the goddamn past is still hanging over my head. It's everywhere I look. No matter how far I've come, I'm still surrounded by it. My fucking father still overshadows everything.
If she's with me, he'll taint her too. It's inevitable. I can't tell the truth about who and what he really was. So people will judge her for choosing me. Is that fair to her?
Of course not. But letting her go already feels impossible too. She's under my skin, running through my veins, as vital as air. How do I give that up when I'm pretty goddamn sure she's feeling the same thing?
I can't. I won't.
I wasn't supposed to get close to her. I wasn't supposed to fall.
I am anyway.
So there has to be a third option. One that allows me to keep her close while protecting her from his bullshit.
Shit. Maybe there is.
She wants me to help find out who killed my father. Maybe that's the solution. I find them and deal with the issue. We bring Bella home. And no one finds out exactly what kind of fucking monster my father truly was. His evil dies with him. It doesn't taint Isla. My mother doesn't suffer anymore. For once, we're free.
My house of cards doesn't come crashing down.
"How much does she know?" Daniel asks.
"Some of it." I scrub a hand through my hair. "I had a fucking nightmare."
"Same thing?"
I jerk my chin in a nod.
"I'm sorry, brother," he says quietly.
"Me too." I sigh.
"You told her about it after the nightmare?"
"Yeah." I swallow. "She knows about the shit he did and about why I went to work for him."
"Did you tell her...?"
I quickly shake my head.
Daniel sighs. "You're goin' to have to tell her, man. She deserves to know. Especially since it involves her sister."
"Yeah, I know." I scrub a hand down my face, my heart pulsing with anxiety. I don't want to tell her, though. Because I'm seriously fucking worried once I do, she'll hate me.
"It wasn't your fault. You didn't know who they were or why they were there," Daniel murmurs. "You can't blame yourself for not being able to tell the future."
That's easy for him to say. He wasn't in the parking garage the day my father was murdered. He didn't see the men sneaking inside. And he didn't drive off anyway, deciding it was someone else's problem. That was all me.
An hour later, my father was dead.
Isla thinks my mother is the only reason I've let everyone say what they have about me—why I've let them blame me and said nothing to defend myself—but that isn't the full truth. Like I told Isla last night, the truth isn't butterflies and rainbows. And people aren't wrong about me.
My father is dead, and her sister is in hiding because I just didn't care enough about strangers in the parking garage to pick up the goddamn phone. I thought they were lost and would figure out they were in the wrong place on their own. I thought maybe they wanted to rob the place and I didn't really give a shit about that, either.
And the worst fucking part is that, as much as I regret that Bella got caught in the middle—that her life is in danger—I don't feel a goddamn second of guilt over the fact that they killed my father.
How the hell am I supposed to tell her that?
I don't know. But eventually, I'm going to have to tell her because Daniel is right. She deserves the truth.