Chapter 39
Liam
Natural – Imagine Dragons
People surprised me at times. Mom when she said something that wasn’t some out there hippy-dippy shit, Nate when I found him wearing sweats and a tee, Cole when he made a damn social media presence for his stupid donkey—actually, no, that didn’t surprise me.
Charity pulling off the dinner with the most incredible setting did not surprise me either.
The room was especially beautiful, glowing under the soft lighting, warm golden pools flickering over the purple décor like candlelight on wine.
I knew, even when I was arguing with her about the decisions she’d made, that she’d do a great job.
And she had. I was blown away by it all.
The compromise she’d made on the color made me thankful that I’d paid for the band.
Some might call it an apology, I called it having faith in the woman I was falling for.
My chest felt tight in the way it does right before a storm breaks, charged, restless and alive.
The only fly in the shitty ointment of the evening was the snake Whitfield.
I swear the air felt colder every time he slithered past, carrying that faint stench of expensive cologne and something rotten beneath it.
Slipping and sliming around the room like fucking Voldemort.
Even his voice grated, a low hiss slipping between the music and chatter.
All through dinner, which Sophia Carlucci had catered to perfection, he leaned into Charity whispering in her ear, the rich aroma of butter, herbs, and roasted meat—which still hung in the air—soured every time he leaned in.
At first she’d been all professional, smiling politely, laughing at whatever he was saying, but after a while I could see she was getting a little uncomfortable.
Her chair kept inching further away from him.
I hated that we weren’t sitting next to each other, but Pru had insisted on changing the seating plan so that she and I were next to each other and the sponsors on either side of us.
Whitfield as a late addition had been slotted in next to Charity, again at Pru’s insistence.
“Are you ready for your speech?” Pru asked, pouring more wine into her glass. “I mean if you’re not then I have one ready.”
“I’m good,” I snapped, my eyes on Whitfield as he placed a hand on Charity’s arm.
When he moved it down toward her hand, I’d seen enough.
“I’ll be back.” Heat roared in my ears, pounding like a drum as I shoved my chair back, almost toppling it over as I jumped to my feet and hot footed it to the other end of the table.
Even the music felt muted under the rush of blood pushing through my veins.
As I approached, I spotted Charity’s eyes narrow as she tried to pull her hand away. Whitfield’s fingers curled tighter around hers. A flash of red tinted my vision, sharp and hot, like someone had lit a match behind my eyes.
“I suggest you get your hands off her.” My voice came out low, rough, more growl than words as I leaned on the table, moving in closer, eye to eye with him. “Now.”
Whitfield smirked and relaxed back in his seat. “Wondered when you’d come over and say hello. Charity has been the perfect hostess by the way.”
I was inches away from punching the stupid fucker.
My fist twitched at my side, itching with that familiar, dangerous burn of adrenaline.
Not even for the last hour of watching him slime all over my woman, but for what he’d done to Nellie.
How he’d broken her. The memory hit like a cold punch to the gut, bitter and metallic as old blood.
“Did you hear what I said?” My eyes went to Charity. “You okay, Sunshine?”
She took a breath. “I think we should get ready for the speeches.”
“Not what I asked.” I held my hand out. “Come on, let's go.”
“Surely you don’t have to go yet.” Dexter Whitfield was seriously sailing close to being laid out by my fist, and I was not a man of violence. Not often.
“It’s a busy night and besides I haven’t had much time with Liam.”
When she smiled at me, eyes warm, my heart skipped a beat and the knot in my chest loosened, warmth sliding through me like whiskey.
“I’m sure he can manage by himself,” Whitfield said, moving to refill Charity’s wine glass. “I want to talk to you more about the charity my sponsorship is going to. You said it was special but not which one.”
Charity raised her eyebrow, her lips twitching. “Liam.”
I winked at her. “It would be my pleasure, Sunshine.” My hands on the table, I leaned closer to Dexter Whitfield.
I could smell his cologne, sharp, synthetic, and oily.
It made my teeth grind. “A women’s charity, Dexy.
Your sponsorship is going to the Sundance Women’s Aid, I think you know their president, Nellie Jenkins, and one of the trustees, Madeline Jenkins. ”
His nostrils flared, his shoulders stiffened, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “What?” he said with an audible swallow.
“Sundance Women’s Aid,” I repeated. “Your sizable donation will be going to them. I’m sure Nellie will be thrilled.”
Whitfield turned in his seat, eyes narrowed on Charity.
“You never said that’s what my money was being used for.
” He leaned in closer, and I almost dragged him back by his stupid fucking bow tie.
As if she knew, without even looking at me, she lifted a pointer finger from the starched, white tablecloth.
She had this.
“I wasn’t aware I needed to.”
“Do you want to withdraw your sponsorship?” I asked, daring him to even pause to think about it.
“No,” he snapped. “I just…”
Whitfield looked distinctly uncomfortable. Trapped, because he knew how bad it would look if he withdrew the sponsorship out of spite. Yet, he hated the idea of where it would be going. Especially as Nellie and Madeline were involved heavily in the project.
“I think it’s time for speeches, Sunshine.”
Watching Dexter Whitfield squirm throughout my speech was one of the most satisfying things I’d seen in a long time.
Every flinch, every stiff breath, was sweeter than the applause echoing around the room.
When pictures of the two charities benefitting from the dinner flashed up behind me, I thought I could hear his sharp intake of breath when a beautiful image of Nellie talking to a young mom and her toddler came on the screen.
Charity, on the other hand, flashed a beautiful smile the whole way through.
It was the only encouragement I needed to carry on with something that was one of my worst nightmares.
I only spoke for five minutes and then let Pru take over seeing as she was so desperate to.
The band had taken over from the DJ and people were dancing and singing along to the anthemic tune they were currently playing.
The bass thumped through the floor, pulsing up my legs like a second heartbeat.
I felt so much pride in the fact that my girl had organized it all.
The wait staff were on the ball, filling up glasses, the bartenders were running around every which way, and still Charity buzzed around the room making sure everything was running smoothly.
Her dress caught the lights each time she moved, a flicker of red like a flame weaving through shadows.
That said, I hadn’t seen her for the last five minutes, and something about that was making my gut ache.
A cold, hollow pressure spread under my ribs, like the air had thinned around me.
I didn’t know what it was, or why, but I felt odd.
Like I’d had an accident and was waiting to hear whether I was going to lose a limb or something. That was how off I felt.
When I realized Whitfield was missing too, I felt the vomit rise in my throat.
I spun around, my vision tunneled, everything turning into blurry movement and noise.
I looked in desperation over the guests on the dancefloor and at the bar.
Feeling my heartbeat in my throat, I grabbed hold of Marti Sanchez who owned The Taphouse.
“Marti, you seen Charity anywhere?”
He was carrying two glasses of whisky, one of which had been filled more than generously. Probably so he’d repay the favor some time.
Taking a quick sip from the overflowing glass, he nodded toward the double doors leading to the hallway. “Saw her slip out that way about five or six minutes ago. Can I get you a drink?”
I waved him away. “I’m good, man. Thanks.” Not waiting to chat any longer, I rushed away in the direction I hoped to find Charity.
Pushing through the double doors, I almost ran into a couple of women who were looking at something on one of their phones.
Just dodging a collision, I jogged across the lobby where two corridors ran off it.
One was where the restrooms were and the other a series of meeting rooms. The line for the ladies’ room was out of the door, women’s chatter echoing sharply against the hallway tiles, every sound grated on my nerves because she wasn’t there.
I headed for the meeting rooms and swung the first door open, but it was empty when I got to the second one, I heard her before I even had a chance to go inside.
“I said no!”
The door nearly came off its hinges. The sharp slap of wood against the wall cracked through the room, startling even me.
My feet echoed on the tiled floor as I stormed toward them.
The sour tang of spilled alcohol hit my nose, mixing with the sharper scent of fear as I saw that he had her backed up against a table, his hips up against hers with one hand on her cheek.
Charity was pushing at his chest, squirming under his touch and moving her head around to avoid his lips.
“Get your fucking hands off her now, you piece of shit.”
Charity’s whimper of relief almost pulled me to a standstill, but I kept my focus on the man I was about to end.
He turned to me, giving Charity an opportunity to push free and stumble away from him, kicking a discarded beer bottle on the floor.
Her beautiful dress had something spilled on the front of it, her hair disheveled.
“Liam.” She reached for me, and I pulled her to me, kissing her forehead.
“I’ve got you.” Maneuvering her behind me, I instantly went for Whitfield.
White-hot rage forcing me forward with my hands curled into angry fists.
His eyes were wide as Charity’s gasps echoed around the room the moment I lifted my arm and pulled it back.
A roar built in my ears, mine, the room’s, I couldn’t tell which.
The crack of bone against bone echoed through the small meeting room. Whitfield staggered backward, his hand flying to his nose as blood began to stream between his fingers. The confined space made his pained grunt seem amplified, bouncing off the walls.
“You son of a bitch,” Whitfield snarled, his voice thick and nasal. “You'll regret that.”
“The only thing I regret is not doing it sooner,” I said, stepping protectively in front of Charity. My knuckles throbbed, but the satisfaction of finally putting Whitfield in his place was worth every bit of pain. “That,” I snarled, stabbing a finger in his direction, “was for Charity and Nellie.”
The meeting room door burst open, and Pru Livingstone stood there, her face flushed with indignation. Behind her, I could see curious faces peering in from the main dining area.
“What is going on here?” Pru demanded, taking in Whitfield's bleeding nose and my defensive stance. “Liam Brown, what have you done?”
“Ask him what he was trying to do to my girlfriend,” I shot back, not taking my eyes off Whitfield as he dabbed at his nose with his pocket square.
Whitfield's face went white beneath the blood. “This is assault. I'll have you arrested.”
“Try it,” I said quietly. “I'm sure Charity would love to tell the police exactly what you were doing in here.”
“Charity,” I said, reaching for her hand. “Let's go.”
She didn't hesitate. Her fingers intertwined with mine, and together we moved toward the door. Pru stepped aside, her mouth agape, as we walked past the gathering crowd.
As we reached the main dining area, I heard Whitfield's voice behind us: “This isn't over, Brown.”
I didn't turn around. It was over. At least the part that mattered.