CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
TRAVIS
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Staring out the hospital window as Mama sleeps, the machine beeping rhythmically nearby, I grind my teeth and wonder if Brook is alright.
This isn’t good.
Any other woman, I might not be concerned. People will stay silent for money...and a little fear. Brooklyn, not so much.
She is a truth seeker and knows her rights. She has an enormous platform, and a story lined up to insert my name into—both fucking names. Plus, a woman scorned and all that.
I lied. I used her. I deceived her...and I knew what I was doing.
It was calculated from the very beginning.
None of what she’s thinking right now is untrue.
Even if she’d heard me out, I don’t think I could say anything that would make a difference.
But I cannot let her expose me.
Which means the space she wants and probably needs is not happening. I rang my lawyer, and Brook will already have an email in her inbox advising what will happen if she says a word.
It’s threatening and firm.
I’m a man with true power and the ability to destroy her in a matter of days. I’ll have her company shut down, her reputation irreversibly tarnished, and ensure that she is never taken seriously as a reporter again.
Ever.
Hell, I could make her disappear if I wanted.
I didn’t survive my father and the nights of him coming into my room, tearing off my pajama pants, and touching me in ways no child should ever experience... for years! ...to have some scorned woman expose me.
She’s not just some woman.
Parker, Maddox, Zayne, and Killian all suffered similarly, but the difference for me is my father is loved and adored by millions. It was painful to see it every day.
After emancipating myself, and I had the ability, I changed my name. I never returned to Los Angeles.
I started a new life. I’d found Mama and created my own found family as it's now referred to.
I’m a fucking survivor, and nobody is going to wreck the life and anonymity I’ve created and worked hard to protect.
No one.
Not even Brooklyn McKenna, who has made me feel things I never thought were possible. The one I’m standing here worried about. Worried how she is receiving the letter (threat) and wanting to go to her. To protect her from the pain I know she has to feel.
To protect me .
I hate how hurt she’ll be. How scared, despite how strong she is. I want to cup her face and tell her I’ll protect her even from me. Yet I can’t do that.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance at Mama, assuring myself that she’s okay once more, then walk out of the room to answer the call quietly.
“Done?”
“Yes,” Brian, my lawyer, says. “She replied immediately with, and I quote, fuck you .”
I smile.
But it’s surface level, and inside I don’t feel an ounce of happiness. I wanted her in my bed tonight. In my arms, where I knew she would be safe. Cared for and mine to pleasure.
Instead, I’m now her enemy, and she’s in pain.
The thing is, I’m not the only threat to her, and I don’t like that she’s out there in the world without me.
Well, the Barrett Security team is still guarding her. I immediately asked them to head over to her apartment when she left in the Uber.
My phone buzzes again. “Brian, I’ve got to go. Thanks for that. Keep me in the loop if anything else happens.”
“Will do.”
I answer the incoming call. “Warner.”
“Mr. Warner. It’s Decker.”
“Hey.” My head starts shaking. I know what he’s going to say, so just listen.
“I’ve been given three minutes to leave the building, or Ms. McKenna is calling the police. How do you want to play this?”
“Jesus. Okay, can you stay out in the car or nearby?”
“She thought of that and said she’d tell them I was a stalker or advise I’d been loitering,” he says. “Smart lady you have.”
I begin to say she’s not mine, but the words don’t come out.
For one simple reason.
Brooklyn McKenna is mine.
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WHEN I GET down to the car and look at the time, I see it's almost midnight. Jesus I’m tired. After the long flight home from Switzerland and all the events tonight, I just want to get to bed.
So why is it that when I cross the bridge into Manhattan, I head toward Brooklyn’s apartment building instead of going to my penthouse?
I park outside and glance up at the window that I’m almost certain is hers.
“God fucking damn all this.” I rest my arm on the steering wheel and stare out at the traffic.
My eyes land on my phone.
Strength in silence: revenge is a patient man’s game. We act in the shadows and never reveal our hand too soon.
Our code. If one of the boys rang me, I’d answer. We all would. I swipe, find the number and push send.
Three rings later, Maddox answers, his voice full of sleep. “You better be almost dead.”
“I fucked up.”
I hear the rustle of sheets. “Tell me there are no dead bodies, Travis.”
“None.”
He curses, and there are footsteps, then the sound of the fridge door opening. “Then what happened?”
“Mama had a heart attack.”
“Jesus, man, I’m sorry. Is she okay?” He’s now wide awake.
“For now. But she called me Terrance in front of Brook, so that’s fucked things up. She took off, and I’ve had my lawyer send a letter.”
He curses.
Maddox knows how much it cost me to create this new identity. It’s not just a bunch of new documents.
“She might not say a word, but she also won’t forgive me.”
Maddox is quiet, and I sense he’s sat down with whatever drink he pulled out. “Do you care?”
My eyes cast around the dark neighborhood. As dark as Manhattan gets with all the light and activity. I purse my lips as I consider his question.
“I’m not a dick. I didn’t want to hurt her,” I reply.
“Answer the question, Trav.”
Shit.
Why did I choose Maddox? He always calls us on our shit, no matter what. Which was why, when he kidnapped Kyra, it was such a shock to all of us.
I guess I know that—therefore, I likely chose him so he could slap me into reality.
“Yes, I care. This was not meant to happen. I should’ve locked her in the goddamn car before running into Mama’s house.” I slam my hand down on the steering wheel.
“She’s not a puppy.” Maddox slurps his drink, calm as fuck. “Which means she can rationalize why you did all this. Talk to her. Tell her the truth.”
Brook’s a fucking journalist; I’m not doing that. Just knowing my name and the information I shared last week about my father is too much.
“You know I can’t.”
“I know you like this girl, and given you are thirty-one years old and have pussy on tap, that means there is a strong possibility she is important to you.”
She’s mine.
“Put it this way.” He yawns. “If she started seeing someone else in a few weeks’ time, and you saw him kissing her, how would you feel about that?”
Sudden anger slams into my chest.
The vision of Brook with another man is pretty easy to imagine. My fist clenches and teeth grind, ready to do battle.
“I’d fucking kil—”
Chuckles fill the airwaves.
“You know, for someone who had to kidnap a woman to find a wife, you’re an arrogant motherfucker,” I reply, then hang up.
Fuck him and his useless advice.
Yet, I can still hear the echoes of his laughter.
Perhaps it was the last image he left me with, or maybe this was my plan all along, but I open my car door and walk across the road.