Chapter 4
Trevor
“WHY THE FUCK isn’t he responding?” I fire off another text to my assistant, asking for the reports he was supposed to pull for me to look over.
The company my brothers and I own is growing so fast I can barely keep up.
We’ve got a backlog of orders for custom-built safe rooms and a whole fucking fleet of cars waiting for Tobias’s team to add the after-market safety modifications we specialize in.
Our warehouse staff can barely keep up with the outgoing security system shipments, and we’ve got more cyber analysis requests than Tobias’s crew could finish in a decade.
In short, I’m fucking stressed out.
And that means everyone around me is stressed out. Including the newest in a long line of my personal assistants. I go through them like water. Each running faster than the one before.
And it’s starting to piss me off.
I make sure they know what they’re signing up for when I interview them—and pay them accordingly—but I’m starting to get the feeling no one ever believes me.
And I’m the one who suffers for it.
“Fucking, Randall.” I drop down into the chair behind the cluttered desk in my home office, downing the last of the cold coffee in my mug as I bang out an email, hoping it will get me what I want.
But before I can send it, my phone dings, signaling an incoming text.
“Fucking finally.” I open the message, expecting to hear the report is on its way. Instead I see two words I’m becoming quite familiar with.
I quit.
Before I can think better of it, my phone’s sailing across the room, hitting the wood paneling of the office wall with a sound that indicates I’ve broken more than just another assistant.
It’s not smart and it’s not mature, but I’m at the end of my rope. When I suggested we expand the company eight years ago, never in my wildest dreams would I have expected it to become what it has.
And that’s amazing. My brothers and I have worked hard to build an empire—just like our mother did. She made it look seamless. Easy. Fun and exciting.
I don’t know how she did it, because maintaining an empire is a fucking nightmare. One I won’t be finding my way out of anytime soon now that I’m once again without an assistant.
Standing from my chair, I stalk across the room, crouching down to pick up my phone. The screen is busted and there’s a crack in the case. Even though I know it’s not going to work, I try to turn it on.
“Godammit.” I grip the cell tightly, fighting the urge to chuck it again.
Cramming the ruined device into the pocket of my jeans so I won’t be tempted to bounce it off another wall, I storm out of my office. I can’t function without a cell phone, so step one of digging myself out of this hole is replacing it.
Then I can pull my own damn reports.
After shoving both feet into a pair of boots, I grab my keys off the kitchen counter. I’m turning for the garage when a movement on the front porch catches my attention.
Squinting through the frosted glass of the door, I slowly step down the entry hall, trying to identify who in the hell is running back-and-forth across the covered outdoor space. The size and general shape is familiar, but doesn’t compute. Because why in the hell would my mother—
I open the door to a second nightmare.
One I’m even less equipped to deal with.
“What in the hell is happening out he—” I don’t even get to finish my question because my mother’s dog darts between my legs, leaving a wet streak of what I hope to God is mud along the inseam of my pants.
“Don’t let him in your house. He’s got a—” A crash coming from my kitchen cuts off whatever my mother was about to say.
I spin as Gunnar races back at me, mouth full of angry squirrel.
“Holy shit.” I manage to step out of the way just in time as he comes barreling past me, taking the irate rodent along with him.
I watch as Gunnar runs in the direction of Walker’s place, like he can’t wait to show everybody what he’s managed to catch.
Again. At this point I’m starting to think the squirrel is as guilty of a participant as my mother’s lab.
“Why is he running through the rain with that damn squirrel in his mouth?” Sometimes I feel bad for the shit I put—and probably continue putting—my mother through. Then Gunnar does something stupid and I decide I’m not as awful as a room full of former assistants would want me to think.
“Because he could tell it was the last fucking thing I wanted to deal with today.”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mother say the F-word in my thirty three years of life, and my brain doesn’t seem to know how to process it. My mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out.
It gets even worse once I get a good look at her. Between the dog, the squirrel, and her dropping an F-bomb, I hadn’t really focused on the aesthetics of her situation.
“What in the hell is all over you?” Like Gunnar, my mother is dripping wet and covered in muck. Her face. Her hands. Her boots. Even her hair is filthy.
And Deirdre Bradshaw is never filthy.
“Mud.” She lifts one arm to sniff at her coat. “And probably some horse shit.”
I’m too horrified to laugh. Too terrified to question her any further. I’ve seen many sides of my mother over the years. The mogul. The homemaker. The celebrity. They might have slight differences, but they’re all perfectly poised and perfectly put together. So this…
Is real fucking new.
“Do you want to come in and shower off?” I scan the area outside my house, brows pinching tight together at what I don’t see. “How did you even get here?”
My whole family lives on the same property, but three hundred acres is a lot of area to cover on foot. And while she and I don’t live at opposite ends of the property, the distance is still way more than I would want to take on. Especially on a day like today.
“I got most of the way here in my side-by-side.” She waves one hand in the general direction of my brother Tucker’s house. “But it got stuck in the mud halfway between your place and Tuck’s.”
“Why didn’t you call someone to come get you?” It’s out of my mouth before I think better of it.
She very well might have tried to call me, but my hotheaded ass couldn’t answer because I lost my fucking temper.
Again.
“I don’t know, Trevor.” The way she snaps the words at me makes it pretty clear I’m not going to like whatever’s coming next. “Maybe because if I can’t count on you or your brothers to show up at Thanksgiving dinner, why would I think I could count on any of you to help me out?”
Oh.
Shit.
“It’s Thanksgiving.” That explains a lot. Why she’s here and madder than a hornet. Why Randall was so fucking outraged when I asked for that report.
“Yeah.” My mother scoffs. “It’s Thanksgiving.”
“I totally forgot.” I bring a hand to my head, squeezing at the tension building across my forehead. “I’ve had a lot going on, and work has been insane—”
“That’s not an excuse. Work is always going to be insane.” My mother huffs out a humorless laugh. “I obviously taught you boys how to focus on your careers, but somehow managed to leave you thinking that was all there was in the world.”
“I don’t think work is all there is in the world.”
“Well you sure fucking act like it.” She lifts one arm, waving it around in a motion that sends clumps of dirt and vegetation sailing around my entryway. “You and your brothers. You’re all self-centered workaholics who can’t be fucked to think about someone else.”
I want to argue with her. Want to plead my case.
But I’m not sure she’s entirely wrong.
I really wish she would stop using the F-word though. It’s creating an unexpected amount of trauma I’m not sure I’ll get over anytime soon.
“We just want to make you proud, mama.”
My mother’s eyes snap to my face. “I don’t need you to tell me it’s my fault.”
“I didn’t say it was your fault.” I have great parents. I know this. My mom is one of the most beloved women in the United States, maybe even the world. Everyone knows her name. Recognizes her brand. Hell, ninety-nine percent of the population probably even own one of her many endorsed products.
But she was still always my mom. Cooked me dinner. Tucked me into bed. Showed me the importance of hard work and family bonds.
That’s why my brothers and I all work together. Because family is everything.
“We wouldn’t be where we are without you.” It’s meant to be a compliment. To make her feel better. To make her see she’s not at fault for mine—or any of my brothers’—shortcomings.
But it doesn’t seem like she takes it that way. If anything, my words seem to make my mom more upset.
The line of her shoulders squares, and her jaw sets. Eyes narrowed and nostrils flared, she stares me down. “I’ll keep that in mind moving forward.”
Without another word, she turns and marches out my front door, leaving it open behind her and me staring slack-jawed in her wake.