Chapter Nine
Brantley
I pace my office, frustration seething through me. I swear to Christ, sometimes Daniel drives me up the fucking wall. It's like he never knows when to quit. He pushes and picks at wounds and never fucking gives up. He's adamant that I'm paying these pricks off to punish myself, and maybe there's a thread of truth of that, but that's beside the point.
This is about doing what's right for Isla and for Bella. Because, regardless of any of my shit, Bella deserves safety. And Isla deserves peace of mind. They don't deserve to be causalities, torn apart by my father's bullshit.
"Brant, you've got a problem," Daniel says.
I've got so many fucking problems it's laughable.
I sigh heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I'm not discussing it any further, Daniel. I've already made my decision. As soon as I talk to Isla to tell her what's happening, I'm going to meet them to discuss my terms. Either get on board or get out."
"She just left, brother."
I wheel around to face him, my hand falling heavily to my side. "What?"
The look on his face makes my blood run cold.
"She heard us," he says. "I don't know how much she heard or what she heard, but judgin' by the look on her face, she heard enough to break her heart."
"Fuck." I start across the room, my heart in my throat. She heard us. Oh, Christ. I didn't intend for her to find out like this. I meant to tell her. After I dealt with the problem and guaranteed Bella's safety, I intended to tell her everything. I just needed to fix it first, needed time to prove that I never meant for any of this shit to happen. I didn't fucking know they were there to kill my father. I didn't know Bella was going to get caught in the middle. I didn't fucking know.
But now she does. And she doesn't know everything. She doesn't know that part. All she knows is…what? How much did she hear? Enough to hate me, I'm guessing. Enough to think the worst.
"I've got to find her," I mutter, my mind racing a million miles a minute. "I have to explain."
"Maybe you should let her go for right now," Daniel says, stepping between me and the door. "Give her time to cool off before you try to explain."
"Get out of the way, Daniel."
"You know I can't do that," he says quietly. "She ran out of here because she doesn't want to talk to you about it. And the last thing you need before you go meet the motherfucker who ordered your father's death is a fuckin' gut-wrenchin' conversation. You need your head on straight for that."
"You think it is right now?" I growl, glaring at him.
"I think you love her, and you have a tendency to self-destruct. So there's a better possibility of you comin' home alive right now when you've still got hope that you can fix things with her than there will be if she tells you to fuck off," he says bluntly. "Right now, you need a reason to make it through that meetin' without self-destructing. Knowin' things are unresolved between the two of you is a damn good reason."
Goddamn him. It pisses me off that he knows me so well. And it pisses me off that he's right. If I talk to her right now and she tells me she never wants to see me again, odds are I won't give a fuck if I make it out of that meeting alive. I've been breathing for her since I met her. If I fucked it up… Christ, this can't be the end.
I stride back to my desk and snatch my phone from the top, scrolling to my conversation with her. My hands shake as I send her a message.
Me: It isn't what you think, little bird. I swear to you, what you heard isn't the whole story. When you're ready to hear it, come to me. I'll be waiting. I love you.
I wait for a long moment, hoping for a response even though I know one isn't coming. When it doesn't, I sigh regretfully and shove the phone into my pocket before turning back to Daniel.
"You aren't going with me," I mutter. "If this shit ends badly…"
He scowls daggers at me. "It better fuckin' not, Brantley. I haven't kept you alive this goddamn long just for a bunch of drug dealers to murder your miserable ass. You do what you need to do, and you bring your sorry ass back here, you hear me? You and I have work to do."
"I keep telling you, you're shit at this job, man."
"And I keep tellin' you, that ain't the goddamn job I'm doin'," he growls. "It's never been the job. Makin' sure you aren't here alone with that prick is the job."
"He's dead, Daniel. Mission accomplished."
"Not yet," he mutters. "When his fuckin' ghost stops hauntin' you, it'll be mission accomplished. We ain't there yet."
I don't argue because he's not fucking wrong. But I do shake my head as I stride toward the door. "One of these days, you're going to tell me where the fuck my mother found you."
"Why? Want to send a thank you note for creatin' me?"
"Hell no." I bark laughter. "I'm sending a goddamn restraining order so they never send anyone else like you."
My laughter fades as I step out into the hall, imagining Isla standing out here, listening to us just on the other side of the door. Christ, that must have broken her heart. She probably thinks I'm a monster just like the prick who raised me. Can I really blame her if she does? Everything he touched, he poisoned. He did it to my mother. He did to me. Even this company slowly started rotting under his leadership, infected by him and his evil. Contracts slowly got less and less generous, less fair. The last few he tried to get artists to sign were fucking awful.
He was spiraling out of control. He lost control when he lost control over my mother. I don't think he knew how the fuck to handle the stress without someone to torment. The high wasn't as fun for him when he couldn't use it to make her miserable. It took more and more drugs to give him the same rush, the same thrill. And he never managed to find it because it was never the drugs that excited him. It was the power that came with being a violent fucking bully to his wife and son. That was the real drug for him. And no matter how much money he spent or how much cocaine he snorted, he couldn't recreate that feeling when I wrested it away from him.
I hope the loss of control ate at him every goddamn day until the end. It's what he deserved. But he kept his word, so I'm trying to keep mine. He kept his hands off her. I'm trying to keep his goddamn secret. He doesn't deserve it. But I owe it to him, as fucked up as that is.
I don't want to owe him a damn thing. I want to never think about him again, in fact. But I've never been able to accomplish that. Like Daniel said, his goddamn ghost still haunts me. And the bastard is probably laughing his ass off about it, enjoying every second of my misery. He always did.
An hour later, I'm sitting at the long bar at the Devil's Run with Memphis when Alton Jackson, head of the Dixie Mafia in Tennessee, strolls in, dressed in a pinstripe suit and matching tie. From where I'm sitting, he could be anyone. He certainly doesn't look like the leader of fucking criminal syndicate. But looks are deceiving. And he's one big piece of shit in a suit.
"Play it cool," Memphis murmurs to me, his voice pitched low. "Don't let him rile you."
I jerk my chin in a nod, watching warily as Jackson strides toward us, his gaze sharp and assessing as it rolls over me.
"Hill," he says in a deep southern drawl.
"Jackson," I growl.
He glances from me to Memphis. "Hughes."
Memphis jerks his chin in a nod, grunting wordlessly.
Jackson glances back at me. "You demanded an audience. I'm here," he says. "What do you want?"
"To pay my father's debt."
Surprise flares in his eyes. "You know how much he owes?"
"I know. I want it paid off, and I want your people gone."
"What's the catch?" Jackson asks. He's smart.
"No catch. But I do have terms."
"Ah." His lips twist in a mocking smile. "So you think that's how this works, do you? I'm not a debt collection agency, Hill. You don't get to negotiate the price down or set conditions. He owes. You pay. End of story."
"I'm guessing he owes you enough money to make your cock hard," I mutter, eyeing him levelly. "You wouldn't have shown up today if he didn't. Which means you want it."
"We can always exact our price through other means." His mocking smile grates on my nerves. "I believe you're familiar with those means."
"You mean murder," I say bluntly. "There's just one problem with that, Jackson. Dead bodies don't get you paid. And last I checked, skin is only a currency when it comes to fucking. You can kill whoever you want to kill. It won't pay your bills. My money will. Your choice."
His lips compress into a line. "And what is it you want enough to offer up so much of it? Let me guess." He holds up a finger. "The men who killed dear old daddy."
"Their names will do," I snap. "And I want your people to leave the girl alone. If I pay you, she's off-limits. So is her entire family and everyone she knows."
"That's an awful big list."
"It's an awful lot of money."
"What else?" he asks.
"You and your people disappear back into the hole you crawled out of. You don't come around again. There will be no additional payments. There will be no trying to get more. You get what you're owed, and you walk the fuck away."
"And the police?"
"Not my goddamn problem," I snap, holding his gaze. "If you didn't want them stressing you, you shouldn't have killed a goddamn record executive in Nashville. That was your mistake, not mine."
"Rookie mistake," Memphis mutters, earning a glare from Jackson. He isn't wrong though. It was a stupid move. If the police crack their little organization apart over it, that's their problem. And sooner or later, the police will put the pieces together. They'll realize who my father was getting his drugs from. And they'll go looking. With a case this high profile, they cannot afford not to go looking. They need that win.
Which means Jackson and his people will lose. If Jackson is smart, he'll take the money and disappear before they come knocking. Someone else in their organization will take the fall, and he'll keep on doing what the fuck he does in some other city. I'm guessing it won't be the first time. It probably won't be the last, either.
"Why do you care about the girl?"
"Not your concern."
"She isn't yours, either. And yet, here you are, offering up a small fortune to save her life. It's interesting. Your father wouldn't have done it."
"Yeah, well, I'm not him. Do we have a deal or not, Jackson? I don't have all fucking day."
"Get me the money and I'll cut you the deal," he says.
"I need a couple of days to get it together."
"You'll have it." He pulls his hands out of his pockets, tapping the bar. "Nice doing business with you, Hill."
I grunt instead of responding. It's not like I'm going to return the sentiment because there's nothing nice about this. It's a necessity, that's it. But it's done. All that's left to do now is transfer the money. Bella will be safe. Isla will have peace of mind. And this shit will finally be over.
Christ, I can almost taste the end.
It tastes like Isla.
It tastes like freedom.
When I step outside an hour later and see Isla's text, the taste of freedom turns to ashes in my mouth. I feel her slipping through my fingers.
Isla: You lied to me, Brantley. You've been lying since the very beginning. How am I ever supposed to trust what you tell me now?
I stumble toward my truck, my mind racing. She's right, goddammit. A lie of omission is still a lie. And I knew it when I failed to tell her everything. I purposefully didn't tell her everything because I knew where it might end. Because, even if I didn't know why they were there, I still walked away and left them in that fucking parking garage.
All of this shit happened because of me. They found her sister. Tried to kill her. Their dad sent her to Texas. All because of me.
Even if I tell Isla the full truth, how the fuck is she ever going to look at me the same again? Why should she?
I've been fucking things up for so goddamn long, it's almost a biological imperative at this point. If there's even a remote chance of something going right in my life, I put my hands on it and taint it. I poison it, the same way he poisoned everything.
And I tried like hell to tell myself that paying his debts would fix it. But that's a lie. Because it won't fix me. I don't think anything can do that at this point. I'm still trapped in that fucking closet, still broken. I always have been.
And I don't know how to find my way out of the dark.
I don't know how to be worthy of her. Maybe the best thing I can do for her is just…stop fucking trying and admit I never will be. I'll never be good enough for her. I'll never deserve her. All I'm going to do is continue fucking up her life, the same way I fuck up everything.
She doesn't deserve that.
The best thing I can do for her is let her go. That's what she deserves. Before I break her like I break every other goddamn thing I touch.
Me: I'm sorry, little bird. I'm so damn sorry. You deserve better than me.
I toss my phone in the console, my jaw clenched against the fucking agony threatening to rip me apart. Christ, it hurts. And it's precisely what I deserve. Maybe it's what I always deserved. Who fucking knows?
I don't go back to the office.
I head down Broadway, looking for the nearest bar.
I need a fucking drink.