49. Brian
CHAPTER 49
Brian
It’s only been a few days since I last saw my Jules, but it feels like forever.
I’m worn down to the bone, dragging with exhaustion, and all I can think about is a hot shower, a decent bed, and holding my wife for a straight week, no interruptions.
The second the wheels touch down in New York, it’s like stepping into a storm. Reporters swarm us like locusts on a summer field. We exit the plane, and they’re already shouting.
“ Are you having an affair with Sydney Sun?”
“Is she pregnant?”
“Are you a throuple?”
A what?
“Is the divorce final?”
My heart seizes in my chest. Divorce?
What the fuck is going on?
My mind locks on the only thing that matters. Jules .
It takes less than a second to realize she won’t be at the house. Mostly because if she were, the place would be swarming with press, and Jules dodges reporters like a pack of zombies circling the last fresh brain.
Out of pure habit, I check my pockets for my phone. No surprise, it’s not there.
Colby pulls his out, tries to power it up. Dead, of course.
We finally, finally , manage to break free from the crowd, thanks to a friendly face in airport security—one of my former troops. He makes sure we’re left alone and even grabs a brand-new, fully charged cell from the nearest vendor.
For which I’ll happily owe him seats behind home plate for the next season’s Yankees games.
I dial Jules’s number. It rings. No answer.
Then I punch in the number I know by heart. “Tell me you’ve got a track on my wife.”
“I do,” Harrison says, his voice clipped. “She’s at her place. I’ve already got three guards posted to keep the media out. But we got there a bit too late...Trent Mercer from Mercer Media slipped in.”
My stomach drops. Trent Mercer? Of all people, that son of a bitch is with her? “And you didn’t kick his ass out because...?”
“From the window surveillance, they’re just talking. She’s not upset. If anything, they’re chummy.”
“Chummy? What the fuck does chummy mean? ”
“It means we’re handling it,” Harrison says, way too calm for my liking. Then he adds, “Chopper and car are waiting. If you can get your ass out of JFK, we’ll have you there ASAP.”
I mutter a curse under my breath and say, “Thanks.”
The ride is long, the drive even longer.
Harrison’s getting me up to speed, firing off news articles and photos—each one a punch to the gut.
Jules was left all alone to fend for herself while I’ve been stuck wrestling with the living nightmare Angi becomes when her coke high crashes.
Goddamnit.
I’ve got enough anger simmering under the surface to burn the whole damn city down, and not just at the press. At me.
I left her.
Abandoned her without a word for days.
Fuck .
I should’ve been there to protect her. Or at the very least, stop hiding the truth and come clean.
But I gave her father my word. I swore on my parents’ memories that I’d keep quiet—about the drugs, her fragile, spiraling mental state, the attempts to end her own life. Repeated ones.
How the hell do I go back on that now?
And how do I not tell my wife?
Jules, who had only just stepped out of her no-social-media bubble, is now a PR agent’s worst nightmare. She’s wearing a target a mile wide, and I’m the reason she’s in the crosshairs.
By the time I pull up to her place, the frustration has built to a boiling point. I’m ready to bulldoze through that door like the Hulk .
But then it hits me—Trent Mercer, the guy who owns the largest global media empire on the planet, is on the other side of that door. Smashing in like a wrecking ball?
Bad idea. A very bad idea.
I suck in a slow, meditative breath.
Must. Calm. Down.
Just as I get close, the door swings open, and there he is—Trent Mercer. Expensive suit, power tie, stepping into the hall like he owns the damn place.
I pause, listening, because fuck, I don’t know, old habits die hard.
Jules is still inside, and I have to strain to hear her. “I was thinking of blowing off some steam. Arcade World. Vintage games, junk food, zero booze. And spanking you at Pac-Man.”
I freeze, my jaw locking. My wife —asking him on a date? Of all people, a sleazeball like Trent Mercer?
The second that smug smile spreads across his face, my fists clench, itching to wipe it off.
“I’d love to,” he says, voice as smooth as cream.
I duck out of sight, behind a—what the hell? Ficus. My pulse is hammering in my ears, and I’m way too wired to face either of them right now. I can’t lose my temper with Jules. Ever. She’s not the kind of woman you win back by roaring like a caveman.
And Trent? Let’s just say first-degree murder is a bad look. Not exactly the best move when I’m trying to fly under the radar at the Centurion Group.
So, instead of barging in on my wife or shopping for headstones for Trent, I stand there, rooted in place, fists clenching and unclenching .
My brain’s spinning out, trying to figure out the next move when my new phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out to see Harrison’s name flash across the screen.
“What?”
“If you need alone time with the Ficus, that’s cool. But if you need a place to crash tonight, mi casa es su casa.”
I let out a breath, half chuckle, half exasperated sigh and simply say, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I know how Jules works. Coming at her full force, with all the charm of a bull in a china shop is the quickest way to lose her for good.
So, I go up to the door, and knock.
After a moment, it opens. Just barely. Taylor peeks out. “She doesn’t want to speak to you.”
The flimsy chain lock would be so easy to bust open, I could do it with a finger, but I don’t.
“Let me in, Taylor.”
“Um”—she pretends to think—“No.”
Then she closes the door in my face. And now I’m banging on the door hard enough for the neighbors to hear. A few peek their heads out, then scurry back inside. Which pisses me off more, because what if I was an actual bad guy?
Finally, it opens, chain intact, Jules, with red, swollen eyes, looking up at me. She looks so defeated, it’s taking everything in me not to kick in the door and scoop her up in my arms. “What do you want?” Her voice is small. So small.
“I, uh...” I notice people peeking their heads out again. This time with camera phones. I rub my neck to regain control. Any sudden moves are sure to go viral. “Can we talk?”
“No,” she says softly. I can see she’s barely holding it together, and I slip a hand through the door, hoping she’ll take it.
Miraculously, she does.
“I promise you, I can explain. It wasn’t what it looked like, and?—”
“Can we talk in the morning? I’m tired, and I just need a good night’s rest.”
“Sure. I’ll be here. Bright and early. I’ll even bring your favorite muffins,” I add, hoping to sweeten the deal. I know she loves the peach ones with cream cheese frosting—bite-sized so she can eat them by the handful and still get that perfect cream-cheese-to-muffin ratio.
“Goodnight,” she says, her voice quick and final as she slips her hand from mine. Abruptly, the door clicks shut like a slap, the kind that lingers long after the sting fades.
I make my way to the street, but every nerve in my body screams Turn around, you idiot. Don’t leave her. Not like this . And just as I’m about to, I hear her, soft but firm. “Brian, wait.”
I whip around, and then she’s on me—lips crashing into mine with a kiss so fierce, it steals my breath, my sanity, my soul.
It’s heat and want, deep and raw, pulling me under until I’m drowning in her. My hands grip her like she’s the only thing tethering me to the world. And in that moment, she is.
Then, as fast as it started, it’s over.
She’s gone, and I’m left standing there, panting and stunned like I’ve been hit by a truck.
It takes a beat for me to notice the tiny weight in my hand. To open my palm and see it—her wedding ring, cold and final.
It isn’t until a car pulls up that I blink from the fog. The window rolls down. Harrison hollers, “Get in. ”
I don’t move. “What?”
“You’ve been standing there for half an hour, and it’s about to rain. Get in.”
With no more fight left in me, no more breath, and no more reasons to stand here, I do. I slide into the car, damn near certain I’ve just lost everything.