8. Brian
CHAPTER 8
Brian
I keep a brisk pace as I weave through the bustling city streets, my heart pounding in sync with the first half of my eight-mile run. Breaking in this new prosthetic hasn’t just kept me moving; it’s lit a fire under me, driving me to push harder, to see just how far I can go.
With every stride, I’m not just running—I’m charging forward, testing the limits, daring the fucker to keep up.
I smile and wave to a few folks on the bench who’ve stopped feeding squirrels to watch as I whip past. I’m no stranger to curious looks when I charge through—my left leg, a sleek blade of metal, flashing in the sunlight.
It used to eat away at me, exposing that missing piece of myself for the world to see. I’d bury it under breathable sweats, trying to dodge the inevitable pity in people’s eyes. But over time, I learned to own it. Every scar became a piece of armor I wore with pride.
Now, it’s my go-to conversation starter. It breaks the ice with battle-hardened vets who’ve faced the unimaginable and kids in wheelchairs who refuse to let life pin them down. Strength that lies in all of us. Sometimes, you just have to wade through the bullshit to force it to the surface.
So, when a few more pedestrians stare, their gazes feel...different. They’re watching me with wide smiles and something like awe, as if I’m the quarterback who just scored the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl.
Women seem extra friendly this morning. Unnervingly so. My spidey sense is all sorts of confused, like predators who’ve caught the scent of prey.
And I am not imagining it. They’re whispering, giggling, some blatantly staring. And maybe it’s my imagination, but I’m pretty sure some are sneaking photos.
I slow my pace, threading my way through a cluster of ladies waiting for the bookshop to open. Out of nowhere, a chorus erupts. “It’s him!” and “Are you Brian Bishop?” and, “Oh. My. God!! You!”
I blink, momentarily stunned. And before I can think or curse or say anything remotely meme-worthy, suddenly, too many camera phones are thrust in my face to count.
I hustle out of there and pick up the pace, heart pounding as I try to escape the frenzy. And, I’m not even kidding when I say that some of them actually chase me. And they are both determined and freaking fast. In heels.
I speed up and eventually manage to put some distance between us. Two more miles uphill, and my lungs are on absolute fire.
I round the corner and nearly crash into a small coffee shop, my legs threatening to give out. The line isn’t long—thank God—so I slip inside, craving a moment of peace .
As soon as I step into the queue, the whispers start, sharp and cutting. Glances follow, eyes dissecting me with every passing second.
But the line moves quickly, and running isn’t an option. Seriously, I’m one deep breath away from puking up a lung. So, I do what any battle-hardened soldier would do: jam my EarPods in, lower my head, and avoid eye contact like it’s a game of dodgeball.
The barista gasps the second her eyes land on me, then instantly vanishes into the back.
When she returns, her smile is wide, and she has two others in tow. “Good morning, Mr. Bishop,” she chirps, sliding a perfectly crafted drink across the counter. The other two hover nearby, their eyes wide with awe and barely contained excitement.
I pull out an AirPod, my smile tightening in confusion. “What’s this?”
She hands me the cup with a knowing grin. “Your favorite, right? Dark roast with a shot of espresso, two pumps of vanilla, and just a dash of cinnamon.”
My gut clenches. How the hell does she know that?
I chuckle, but it’s forced. “Thanks.” I move to pay, but before I can pull out my card, a woman behind me chimes in. “I’ve got his drink.”
“No, I do,” another one snaps, practically elbowing her way forward.
I take the cup, but before I can get out of there, they’re going at it—right there in the coffee shop over who gets to pay for my damn drink. It’s as if I’ve been yanked into the spotlight of a reality show...in the freaking Twilight Zone .
I snatch the cup and back away, watching in disbelief as they girl-fight over who gets to pay for it. It’s ridiculous, but before I can even process what the fuck’s going on, another woman steps up, asking for my autograph.
“Huh?”
And then—what the hell—someone’s hand lands on my abs. Which is my cue to get the hell out of there.
Everywhere I look, there are women—too many, too close, their eyes locked on me like I’m the main course. My apartment might be a stone’s throw away, but there’s no way in hell I’m leading this pack of deranged stalkers to my doorstep. No matter how much I need a shower.
Sweet but psycho is so four years ago. Fool me once...
My jog takes on a full-blown sprint as I head for our headquarters. There’s a small crowd formed at the entrance of the building—some of the paparazzi I recognize, though up until now, they’ve never recognized me.
There’s a swarm of them—dozens of women. One of them even has a sign that reads, I want Brian Bishop’s baby . I run a hand through my hair.
What the actual fuck?
“There he is!” one of them shrieks, and before I can react, they’re on me like I’m the last Birkin on earth.
Considering I’m a foot taller than them, I remain calm, figuring I can talk my way out of this. Firmly, I hold up my hands, trying to reason with the crowd though I’m forced to take a step back. “Look, ladies, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else?—”
“Did you really save that dog from drowning? ”
Bruiser? My damn goldendoodle? The fact that they know about him is just plain creepy.
Another woman chimes in, her voice dripping with sticky sweetness. “It’s adorable that you eat chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, Bri.”
Bri? Since when am I Bri?
“Tell them we’re getting married, baby,” another one purrs, her hand reaching out to brush my arm like we’re already a couple.
All right, that’s it. Loon meter officially pegged. I’m out.
Just as I turn to make my exit, I feel a hand grab my ass. What the ? —?
I spin around, ready to set one of these nut jobs straight about looking with their eyes, when the movement throws me off balance. My prosthetic skids, throwing me off balance.
I stumble, crashing headfirst into a stack of newspapers at the stand. Papers scatter as I lie there, half-buried in tomorrow’s headlines, when I feel massive hands haul me up.
“We’ve got you, sir,” Dean says as several guards swoop in, clearing a path and ushering me into the building. I swear, I’m doubling the salaries of every last one of them.
We make it through the lobby and to the elevator where Ames has it waiting. We rush in, and the doors slide shut.
I slump back against the wall, trying to catch my breath.
“That’s, uh, quite the fan club you’ve got,” Ames says, eyeing me with a mix of amusement and concern.
“Har,” I mutter, pressing the button for the twelfth floor repeatedly—corporate gym. My eyes drop to my favorite running shirt—now soaked in coffee, with two fresh tears marring the vintage Batman logo. Perfect.
Ames sniffs the air. “Do I detect a hint of cinnamon?”
“No.” Ames shakes his head. “More like two pumps of vanilla if you ask me.”
I blow out a breath. “What? Is there a billboard or something?”
“Nope.” One of them shows me his phone.
And there it is, splashed all over social media—like a headline straight from hell:
Get Up Close and Personal with the Iron Man of Manhattan.
My picture is plastered across the front, and not my good picture. Like, shit, my DMV photo.
“Iron Man,” Dean says with a smirk, his gaze dropping to my leg. “It’s got a ring to it.”
“Childhood nickname,” I start, trying to brush it off. “Mark was Batman, I was Iron Man, and Zac...Dean just raises an expectant eyebrow, clearly waiting for more. I open my mouth to explain, but then give up with a sigh. “Never mind.”
How does anyone even know about that? Did my mom start a fan club or something?
Before I can dwell on it, Ames chimes in with a grin. “Great interview, by the way. That story about you and the dog?—”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Irritation bubbles up. “I did not do an interview. And if that whack job publicist we hired went rogue, I’ll—” My words falter as my eyes land on the photo.
A tiny image of breathtaking beauty, full red lips tucked beneath oversized shades and a wide-brimmed hat, stares back at me, and suddenly, my brain short circuits .
I want to know everything about her—what makes her laugh, what keeps her up at night, what she’s thinking behind those mysterious glasses. How she takes her coffee in the morning.
Instantly, I scan the byline. Hmm, The Herald . And?—
“Who the hell is Sydney Sun?”
Ames and Dean both shrug, clueless. Ames checks his phone. “Uh, boss? Your secretary’s trying to find you. Something about a finance meeting. Texting her now.”
“What?” I blink. “That meeting starts at ten.” I glance down at my wrist, and then it hits me like a wrecking ball.
My watch. It’s gone.
Goddamnit.
Jess gave me that watch a millennium ago when she and Mark were still bitter enemies. She saved up for months, scraping together every spare penny she could find. Some days, she even skipped meals just to make sure I got it.
That’s how much it meant to her—and to me.
And even though it’s chipped and only keeps time if I wind it twice a day, that watch has been with me through deployments around the world—a silent witness to my brightest moments and my darkest hours. Now, the closest thing I have to a family heirloom is MIA.
I can already picture my baby sister’s reaction. Jess won’t waste time crying over spilled milk. No, she’ll be too busy tightening those slender fingers around my throat.
The elevator doors slide open, and we spill out. I drag a hand down my face, groaning. “I’m about to take the fastest shower of my life and pray soap hits all the right places. Dean, stall the board. Ames, get anyone available on the team to start tracking my watch.”
They scatter while I storm down the hallway toward the locker room. The second the hot water hits my skin and I lather up, the buzzing under my skin sharpens. I have the sudden urge to deal with a certain plump-lipped beauty—maybe teach her a lesson...over my knee...
Not. Now!
I shove the impulse down and rinse off. I’ve got bigger fires at the moment.
Little Miss Sydney Sun will have to wait.