Chapter 15 Mav
FIFTEEN
MAV
“I’m not wading into a fucking pond to get a golf ball,” I inform my brother.
“It’s more than one golf ball,” Jameson replies.
I snort as I slide into the golf cart beside him. “I feel good about today.”
“You lost more balls than you hit,” he points out.
I shrug. “I played golf.”
Jameson snickers as he turns the golf cart toward the clubhouse. “Want to get a beer?”
“A Coke,” I correct him. “And a steak.”
“And a steak,” he mutters, snorting. “If Pop could see us now…”
I glance at my brother. “You think he’s turning over in his grave that we turned out to be such fancy boys? Playing golf and eating steak?”
Jameson grunts but shakes his head. “Nah. I think he’d be proud of us.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” Jameson slides his palm over the top of the steering wheel and cuts me a look. “We turned out relatively stable all things considered.”
I snicker. “All things considered.” I sigh. This is it. This is the opening, the moment, I’ve been waiting for. “Jameson, there’s something I have to tell you.”
My brother’s expression sobers as his eyes flicker to mine, wary. “Oh shit. What is it?”
I grin, his reaction giving some much-needed levity. “I should have told you years ago,” I admit. “But I didn’t know how.”
“What?” He pulls up to the clubhouse, but neither one of us moves to exit the golf cart.
“Big Jim, he…” I sigh heavily. “He’s not your biological father.”
Jameson’s mouth drops open and he stares at me for a long moment, his gaze assessing.
“It doesn’t mean shit. We’re brothers and we’re Mom’s sons. But I guess it does mean something, because you don’t actually have all the fucked-up genes that I do. You’re not cut from the same cloth as the bastard who bounced on us and, well, you shouldn’t carry that shit around.”
“Neither should you,” Jameson says evenly.
“I—what?”
“Mav, neither of us is responsible for the choices Big Jim made. And neither one of us inherited his poor decision-making. We can make our own decisions, our own choices, and shape our lives the way we want.”
“I guess,” I say nervously, unsure where our conversation is going. Why isn’t he freaking out? Why isn’t he angry? Or…confused?
“I already knew,” he admits quietly.
“Knew what?”
“About Big Jim. Pop told me years ago.”
“I—what?” I sputter again.
Jameson snorts. “It was right around the time he started drawing me Wilbur.”
“Willoughby?” I gasp, my fingers feathering over my ribs where my first tattoo, a caricature of Pop’s creation for me, Warren Willoughby, marks my skin. Pop used to write me letters filled with comics that chronicled Warren’s adventures. I had no idea he did the same for Jameson.
“Yep. Wilbur; he had a brother.”
“Warren,” I provide.
Jameson nods, his eyes solemn. “Pop told me the truth through comics. And, well, I’ve known for years.”
I shake my head in disbelief. Good ol’ Pop. Half of what he taught me, he did through comics. Why didn’t I consider that it would be the same for Jameson? “Doesn’t it bother you?”
He shakes his head. “You’re my brother, Mav. That’s all I’ve ever needed to know. Big Jim can fuck right off. We’re better without him.”
I think about Mom and Nico and their artistic lifestyle. I think about Jameson and his ending his relationship with Amelia. I think about me, and rehab, and Mckenna.
“You’re right,” I say quietly. We’ve all made a mess of things at one point or another but…Big Jim leaving was one of the best things that could have happened to us. “We are better off without him.”
“He doesn’t define us, Mav. And his leaving doesn’t define shit either.” My brother shrugs. “It’s just something that happened. Doesn’t change a goddamn thing.”
“But isn’t a part of you relieved that your dad, your real dad, was a good man?”
He shrugs again, his brows pulling together.
“I haven’t spent a lot of time thinking about it.
I never knew the man. And, sure, I’d like to think he was a great guy, but it’s not like I’ll ever have the chance to know him.
The father of my childhood gave me you.” He smirks, one side of his mouth lifting higher than the other. “And it’s always been me and you.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. He’s right. Hell, I don’t even have any memories that don’t feature my big brother. “Fuck. You knew.”
Jameson nods.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t want you to be upset about it. Think we were less of brothers or anything,” he explains. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Same.” I snort.
Jameson grins. “See? We’re more alike than not.”
“Yeah,” I agree, nodding. “Fuck, Jameson. I’ve carried this shit around for years.”
My brother chuckles. “So, what you’re really saying is that steaks and Cokes are on me tonight?”
“Fuck yeah. And not just tonight, try eternity,” I grumble, sliding from the golf cart.
Jameson laughs harder and exits the cart, walking beside me and slinging an arm around my neck. “All right, Mav. Dinner’s on me.”
I snicker and shake my head. But relief trickles through my body as a weight around my neck, a heavy fucking weight, dissipates. I pull in a breath, surprised at how light my chest feels. Surprised at how damn centered I feel.
Then, I enter the clubhouse beside my brother, prepared to enjoy a cold Coke and a delicious steak dinner.
But just before we’re seated, my phone rings.
“What the hell?” I murmur at the call coming through from Massachusetts General Hospital.
Dread quickly eats my relief as I meet my brother’s eyes. “It’s the hospital.”
“Answer it,” he commands, his voice gruff.
We turn back toward the parking lot as I lift my phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Maverick Tate?”
“Yes.”
“I’m calling about your wife…”
My eyes close as I listen to the woman give limited information about Mckenna.
But it doesn’t matter, I’m already on my way to my wife. To my home.
I pace the hallways of the hospital feeling physically ill. I haven’t seen Mckenna yet and if my brother and Drew, who had also been trying to reach me, weren’t keeping me in check, I would have lost it the moment I crossed the threshold of the hospital.
“Where is she?” Mr. Byrne barrels down the hall toward me. Jeannie hurries beside him, her face pinched with worry.
“I haven’t seen her yet.” I throw out an arm, my frustration getting the better of me.
“It was him, wasn’t it?” Mr. Byrne demands.
I swear but nod. Yes, it was that little fucker Branson Burton. He attacked her in the parking lot of Aiden’s law office. If Drew didn’t pull him off her…I shudder to think what could have happened.
At my confirmation, the blood drains from Mr. Byrne’s face and he sags against the hospital wall, tipping his head back as he sucks in a long breath. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
“I should’ve fucking ended it when I had the chance,” he murmurs.
“You couldn’t have known…” I trail off. This isn’t on him and yet, I understand where he’s coming from. I’m dealing with feelings of guilt because I didn’t keep Mckenna safe. Again.
“It’s not your fault,” Jameson mutters beside me, as if reading my thoughts.
“It’s mine,” Drew says, his voice raw.
I shake my head. “It’s not.”
Drew doesn’t say anything but at the haggard expression on his face, I know he’ll carry guilt over what happened today for a long, long time.
Drew was waiting in the office building while Mckenna met with Aiden. He texted her to let her know that he and Alfred were going to grab a bite at a café on the ground floor.
When she messaged that she was leaving the office, he asked her to wait and hurried to settle the bill. Mckenna messaged back that she would wait for him in her car and that’s when everything went to shit.
Which is so fucked up. Because Mckenna should be able to walk from an office building to her car without being physically assaulted.
While I logically know it’s no one’s fault—not mine, not Drew’s, not Mr. Byrne’s—I also can’t check the helplessness and anger that course through me. I know Mr. Byrne and Drew feel the same way.
It’s impossible not to when a woman we all care about is laid up in a hospital bed because her attacker—her goddamn rapist—walked free months ago and we didn’t put a stop to it, to him, then.
My hands curl into fists and I bite back the sob that threatens to explode from my throat.
I want to see Mckenna. I want to hold her and kiss her and make sure she’s okay. She must have been terrified. Fucking traumatized at the hands of that sick fuck. Again.
Why does this keep happening?
As I glance around the sterile hospital hallway, a sense of déjà vu washes over me.
How are we back here? Have we learned nothing from the tumultuous circumstances that first brought us to this place? How is Mckenna handling things? Is she shutting down? Will she block me out? Will we still be…us? Can we be?
Thoughts I don’t fucking want to think assault my mind, ratcheting up my nerves and anxiety with every passing second that I don’t know shit about Mckenna’s mental state and physical well-being.
She was finding her footing again. She’s worked so hard for so long to make progress.
She graduated law school and took the bar exam.
She met with a legal team to press charges against Bran.
She sought out Aiden to put out job feelers in Boston.
She’s…her again. Fierce and determined and fucking perfection.
I can’t bear the thought that her light will be dimmed. I can’t accept that this attack may have set her back, again, and that the woman I see when I walk through the hospital room won’t be my Mckenna.
“What the fuck is taking so long? Where is the goddamn doctor?” I huff.
“Relax.” Jameson’s voice is low and steady. His hand lands on my shoulder and he squeezes. “Why don’t we go back to the waiting room?”
“I’ll get us some coffee,” Jeannie offers, nudging Mr. Byrne toward the waiting room.
“That’s a great idea,” my brother agrees. “Thanks, Jeannie.”
Mr. Byrne, Drew, and I don’t reply as we shuffle to the waiting room, sink into the chairs, and stare at the doors to the hospital ward.