CHAPTER 39 Maverick Jennings
Birthday Gift
It’s my birthday. It’s Halloween.
My mom always called me on my birthday. Maybe it was Susan who reminded her to call me these last few years, but I don’t even have her to wish me a happy birthday this year.
Nobody from my team calls me. The brothers I was supposed to bond with. Not a single one of my coaches. Not even anybody from the practice squad.
I put myself here. I’m in trouble. I never should’ve gone to that goddamn casino. I never should’ve gone to the club, either, or the strip joint. I didn’t even watch the dancers. I just sat at the bar drinking scotch.
I should be getting ready to go out tonight—or at the very least, entertaining my girl for a while.
Instead, I’m sitting by my windows overlooking the Strip as I nurse a hangover.
Actually, if anything, I should be getting ready to play football tomorrow. Staying at the team hotel, eating right, going to bed early.
Not considering opening a new bottle of scotch alone at noon.
My phone dings with a text from Milton.
Milton: You have a package at the desk.
I wonder for a beat if he messaged the wrong person, but this is Milton. He doesn’t make mistakes.
I set the bottle of scotch down on the counter.
This isn’t me. Turning to alcohol—I didn’t even do that a decade ago.
I’m not sure what’s so different this time around.
Maybe because my emotions just shut off last time as a means of self-preservation, and this time I’m actively trying to avoid them.
I’m not sure, but everything is falling apart, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do to get my life back on track again.
I had a glimpse of the good life. I was so close. Almost there.
And then it slipped away. Just like everything always does.
Could I forgive her for choosing her family over me? The answer to that should be clear. Of course I can. But it’s not. Not when she knew my history. She’s one of the few I’ve ever shared my story with, one of the few people here to help my reputation, and she still chose the other side.
It’s a running theme in my life. Everyone always chooses someone else. My father chose those other women over bonding with his son. Christina chose my friend to get pregnant with. Dallas chose to get rid of me.
I thought things would be different here in Vegas. It should have been a fresh start, and instead, I’m back to where I started.
I head downstairs, and Milton hands me a large manila envelope.
“Happy birthday, sir,” he says to me.
I glance up at him, surprised he knew. “Thanks,” I murmur. He’s likely taking in my disheveled appearance. I didn’t even put shoes on to come down here—bare feet, a sloppy T-shirt and mesh shorts, my hair matted down, my beard growing in.
I head back to the elevator and take it up without opening the envelope. I’ll do it when I’m alone since I have no clue what could possibly be inside.
When I get to my floor, of course Everleigh is just locking hers up.
She glances at me, takes in my appearance, and purses her lips.
I take in her appearance, too. She looks tired. She probably is. She’s been cleaning up after me for two days. If she’s even half as emotionally drained as I feel, I guess I have to admit that she’s going through some shit, too.
But that doesn’t motivate me to be any more understanding.
“What?” I demand.
“Happy birthday,” she says quietly.
She rushes onto the elevator before the doors close and takes it down.
My stomach clenches that this is where we’re at. Me yelling at her again. Her judging me.
I head inside and tear open the envelope, and I read the words scrawled at the top of the page, likely by whoever took down the order for whatever this is.
Happy Birthday, Maverick. Love, Everleigh
My eyes skip down the page to the name of the company and then, below it, the actual gift.
Vegas Custom Autos
Custom auto paint finish for Ford Raptor. Suggested colors: black and Vegas Aces red. Client’s choice.
My chest tightens.
I haven’t had the time or energy to hunt down a place to repaint the truck I just had done in Dallas colors, and she did it for me. I said it once aloud to her. A one-time complaint about my regret.
Fuck. She fucking did it for me.
She takes care of me. She listens. She remembers.
How could she choose anyone else over what we were starting?
Maybe it’s harder for me to understand because of my own complicated relationship with my father. I suppose I chose football over my mother, but that was at my own mother’s urging. She didn’t want me to change my life to accommodate her. In fact, it was an explicit request.
But Everleigh is changing her life to accommodate her father. He asked, and she felt pressed. I know she’s loyal to her family. Fuck, her loyalty is one of the things I love about her.
But this meaningful little gift is another thing, and it just serves as a reminder of everything I’ve lost.
I toss the paper on the counter. I can’t bear to look at it.
A knock at my door lifts my spirits a bit. People don’t typically drop by unannounced in a building with a doorman, which means it’s her. It has to be her.
It’s not.
To my utter shock, it’s her brother.
“Can I talk to you?” Dex asks.
“Talk,” I grunt.
He stares at me for a beat, and I stare back. I finally back down and open the door a little wider, walking away to let him in without saying the words to actually invite him in. I don’t invite people in—not physically, and not metaphorically.
I wander over to my windows, and Dex falls into place beside me. I’m silent while I wait for him to make the first move, and predictably, he does.
“You doing okay?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“Did you know my dad had me bringing in whales when he first opened the lounge?” he muses.
We’re both still staring out the window, and I make some grunting sounds.
“I got out when it put my relationship in jeopardy,” he says, as if that’s opening the door for me to tell him about my relationships that are or are not in jeopardy because of the very same lounge he’s referencing.
When I don’t answer, he asks, “What’s going on with you and my sister?”
“Nothing,” I say, which feels like a truth and a lie at the same time. “Not anymore, anyway,” I amend.
“Then what was going on with you?”
I blow out a breath. “Look, I don’t know you.”
“No, but if something’s going down between you and Ev, then maybe we get to know one another. You know what I’m saying?”
“We were together. It was good.” As if that’s not the understatement of the century.
“But when your underground place was raided and I was caught there, I had a choice. I could give up the operator’s name, or I could protect your sister.
I let her decide, and she chose family loyalty. So whatever it was…it’s over now.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he says softly.
I glance over at him, surprised by his words.
“But let’s get one thing straight,” he adds. “It’s not my fucking lounge. I got out when I could.”
“Okay,” I say. I don’t really care what his role is in the place. It belongs to the family, so it’s tied to him.
“Look, a few months ago, I would’ve said fuck you. We don’t get along, Jennings, and maybe we never will. But if you make my sister happy, I’m willing to try.”
I huff out a mirthless chuckle. “That’s the thing. I don’t make her happy. She chose to let me take a potentially worse fall than I have to because she doesn’t want me to name your father. I can’t be with someone who won’t put me first.”
“That’s what my girl said, too. But it’s a two-way street, Mav. Just remember that.”
Of course I remember that. I feel like I’ve done my part. Haven’t I?
Maybe Dex is right. Maybe I need to do something about it. But what?
“I need to get back to the Complex,” he says. “I just came home to kiss my wife and my kid at lunchtime, and I thought I’d stop by and see if you needed anything on my way out.”
I probably do. But I have no idea what—or how to ask Dex Fucking Bradley for it. My teammate. My enemy. The brother of the woman I love.
Fuck, this is complicated.