Knotted (Boys of Bishop Mountain #3)

1. Brian

CHAPTER 1

Brian

From the age of four, my fate was sealed.

I mean, with the backyard being Gotham City, and the living room sofa transformed into the ultimate battlefield every afternoon—weekends, too—my future was crystal clear.

I was Iron Man—armed with sheer determination and an indomitable will. Some call me stubborn. Often my mom.

And since my best friend Mark was Batman, and his brother, Zac, perpetually switched gears between a half dozen evil villains, our battles were epic.

And usually ended with one of us in the ER on a monthly basis.

As if childhood games could foreshadow reality.

My foundations are built on a long line of heroes. My grandfather served in the legendary 101st Airborne Division, earning him a Silver Star and a Purple Heart.

My father was a Green Beret, leading missions that were the stuff of legends.

When it came to me, being a soldier wasn’t just in my blood—it was my destiny.

From the moment I enlisted, I thrived. A bold statement, especially for the guy who was voted both prom king and most likely to end up in jail.

The drills, the discipline, the camaraderie—it all resonated with me. I excelled at executing missions with laser precision, each one building my confidence and arrogance in equal measure.

But airborne operations spoke to me like nothing else ever could. Leaping out of a perfectly good plane and hurtling toward the earth at breakneck speeds, relying on nothing but a thin piece of fabric to save my life—it was pure adrenaline.

A terrifying thrill that both scared me shitless and set me absolutely free. It gave me purpose. Defined me like nothing else before.

Like the kid who dashed around in his underwear and bedsheet cape, I felt invincible. All it took was one mistake—a sudden shift of the wind, an immovable cluster of trees—and my perfect world came crashing down around me.

That small twist of fate shattered everything I knew. My body broken, my spirit teetering on the edge, I clung to the one thing that could hold me together: pain.

Raw and unforgiving, I leaned into its cold beauty. And it kept me alive, transforming me from hero to someone tipping over the edge until I’ve become a man no one recognizes.

Playboy.

Asshole.

Sinner .

All while wearing five-figure suits and watches that cost more than cars.

I doubled down on being the worst side of me, doing whatever it took to dull the ache and keep the demons at bay. Because the real battle isn’t in the field or the sky.

It’s being haunted by all the mistakes I made, wishing to my core I could make just one right.

“I’ll do it,” I say, my voice slicing through the room’s thick tension. For the past hour, I’ve watched Mark wrestle with his dilemma—caught between planning a six-week dream honeymoon for him and his blushing bride—aka, my baby sister—and the looming threat of four major accounts slipping through the cracks if he’s off in Fiji, New Zealand, and Australia. These are all places Jess has fantasized about visiting since she was a kid.

With his former stand-in, his brother Zac, trading his suit and tie for a perpetual lumberjack ensemble, The Centurion Group is at a major crossroads, and I’m stepping in to play traffic cop.

Mark blinks, clearly taken aback. “You’ll do . . . what?”

“I’ll take the reins,” I say firmly, meeting his gaze. “I’ll stand in as the acting suit until you return.”

“He knows the operation as well as we do,” Zac says, rubbing his ever-growing scruff. His contemplative eyes shift to me. “But you do realize you’ll hate it, right?”

I shake my head. “For the most part, this place is a well-oiled machine. You’re just looking for a front man to be the face of the campaign for a month. I think I can handle it.”

“Six weeks,” he corrects. “And it’s not the work you’ll hate,” Mark interjects. “It’s the women.”

“And women are a bad thing?” I ask, confused.

“They are when you’ve just landed on Manhattan's Top 10 Most Eligible Bachelor list.”

“I can handle myself around women,” I say, confident and assured.

“You think that now,” Zac says. “As a hero in jeans and a T-shirt, you’re catnip. In a suit, you’re crack cocaine.”

I scoff. “Having copious amounts of women clamoring for my attention? I think I’ll manage.”

Mark steeples his fingers, his gaze piercing. “No pressure, but you realize there’s $300 million on the line this month. We have four separate contracts with high-profile clients who don’t like too much attention.”

I rub a hand through my hair, staring at my reflection in the mirror. “I am the king of covert.”

“Is that why you’re preening?” Zac asks, eyebrow raised. “Practicing to be more covert?”

Mark crosses his arms, his gaze drilling into me. “Everyone will know who you are. If you sneeze, you’re on your deathbed. If you forgot your wallet, you’re declaring bankruptcy. If you even fart, they’ll record it.”

“Lucky for us, I’m a champion clencher.”

His jaw tightens, frustration rolling off him in waves. “I’m canceling the trip. Jess will have to understand.”

I spin around, locking eyes with him, my voice razor-sharp. “One”—I hold up a finger—“my sister will never understand. It’ s like you don’t know Jess at all. And two”—I raise another finger—“I nearly died saving a dozen men and women, and you nearly died saving me. For fuck’s sake, carpe diem already. Let me help.”

I can tell by the look on his face he’s still not convinced, so I throw one more argument his way. “Besides, you and Jess have been through enough. We’re not letting the media win this one. Not on my watch.”

Mark’s eyes narrow, a storm brewing in his gaze. I can see the conflict warring within him, his jaw clenching as he weighs his options. Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping in reluctant acceptance. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Zac sucks in a breath. “Worst-case scenario, I guess I could shave my beard and come back to the office.” He strokes his scruff thoughtfully, frowning.

I glare. “For your information, I do not need a safety blanket.”

“You’re a living, breathing PR nightmare in the making,” he counters.

“I’ll just lie low. Avoid headlines.”

Mark reclines back in his chair, hands casually laced behind his head. His smirk is all arrogance as he drops the bombshell. “Really? Because one of your first orders of business is an interview with Roxana Voss.”

Oh, fuck.

The one woman who’s been a thorn in my side since day one. She’s a bombshell, all legs for days and curves that could make a man forget his own name. But her obsession with me? She’s got more red flags than a parade .

The last thing I need is for her to proposition me—again—about moving in and “helping me around the house.” In the nude, no less. And she’s dead sure I’m the one and can’t wait to share a toothbrush with me.

Big, blaring warnings on every level. I mean, who the hell shares a toothbrush?

Yeah, hard pass. I prefer my crazies at arm’s length. Or whatever’s detailed in a court-mandated restraining order.

“Right,” I say, forcing a casual tone. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You’ll need to figure it out sooner than you think,” Mark says, barely glancing up from his phone. “The Herald’s been chomping at the bit for an interview, and PR can’t blow them off any longer. I suggest you get a professional to help you with what to say.”

I stare at him, incredulous. “To talk with Roxie Voss? First of all”—I hold up a finger—“she’s a gossip columnist, not 60 Minutes . And second”—I raise a second finger—“she’s been trying to get me into bed for years.” I lean in, my voice dropping lower. “I think I can have a simple conversation without a handler.”

Mark’s eyes flick to mine, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You also thought indecent exposure would get you a slap on the wrist, not a mug shot. Face it, a guy like you needs a script. Everything you say won’t just be used against you—it’ll be a meme before you can even blink.”

Zac leans against the wall, his grin widening. “Oh, I can see it now. When he calls you baby but can’t remember your name , with a confused Travolta meme plastered right next to it.”

Mark’s chuckle turns into a full-on laugh. “Or how about, When she asks for a commitment and his brain short-circuits , with Homer Simpson disappearing into the bushes.”

Zac, barely holding back his laughter, raises his hand. “And how about Leonardo DiCaprio from The Wolf of Wall Street stumbling out of his car with the caption: When he thinks he’s God’s gift to women, but tequila has other plans. Can someone say mug shot? ”

Mark doubles over, struggling to catch his breath between laughs. “For indecent exposure.”

“Twice,” Zac gasps, wiping tears from his eyes.

I roll my eyes, but the grin tugging at my lips gives me away. “You guys should really consider stand-up. You’re killing me.”

Mark claps me on the shoulder, his smirk widening. “Just looking out for you, buddy. You’ve got to be careful out there.”

Zac nods, still chuckling. “Yeah, man. The internet never forgets.”

I sigh, shaking my head. “Noted.”

“Trust me, your image will be everywhere.” Zac rubs his beard. “There’s a reason I’m incognito. You can’t be the face of The Centurion Group and stay behind the scenes. Keep things low-key. Practice discretion now.”

I point at Zac. “You focus on growing that thing to Paul Bunyan levels.”

“More like Jason Momoa,” he says, stroking the shag with a smirk.

“And you”—I jab a finger at Mark—“focus on wining and dining my baby sis. If the media wants my rugged good looks plastered out there like I’m the next Calvin Klein guy, be my guest. ”

Zac shakes his head with a sigh. “I don’t think you understand what you’re in for.”

I step closer, planting my foot on a chair, drawing attention to my newest prosthetic—sleek and damn near bionic. “I’ve been on the front lines, stared down war, and walked away with this little trophy.” I flash them a cocky grin. “Trust me, I think I can handle one little date.”

“This isn’t a date,” Mark bites out, eyes narrowing. “Call it that, and Roxie Voss will expect the world. Any rejection and she’ll go nuclear. The last thing any of us need is to see your name headlining that disaster. This is professional. A meeting. Do not flirt with her. Do not charm her. And for god’s sake, don’t fuck her.”

“As if I need a warning. I’ve had my share of stage-five clingers, so believe me, I know the drill.”

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and I’ll be dodging round-the-clock texts and surprise late-night visits for months. Thanks, but no thanks. If I wanted a life of perpetual covert ops, I would’ve stayed in the military.

“I said I’ve got this,” I repeat confidently.

Mark rolls his eyes, exasperation etched in every line of his face. “Famous last words.”