31. Sarcasm Won’t Help This
SARCASM WON’T HELP THIS
brAXTON
Elias sits across from me at Pop’s kitchen table.
He scours the paperwork I received a few short hours ago, making notes on a tablet as he reads.
His poker face never slips, but his gaze hits mine a few times.
He seems a bit distracted at Colt asleep in my arms, his little mouth popped open in an “O” while his face rests peacefully.
“Well?”
“Well,” he begins. “It’s straightforward and looks iron-clad. You are Colt’s legal guardian.”
“I’m his father,” I interject, the words coming out angrier than I mean them.
Eli raises his hand like he needs to negotiate this with me.
“Brax, let me finish. I’m on your team.” When his hand drops, he lifts his brows at me.
His am I free to go on look stays longer than I’d like.
When I say nothing more, he continues, “The Carringtons are suing for full custody. This”—he gestures to the paperwork—“is probably more of a power play than anything else, while they work with their legal teams around a more permanent arrangement.”
“I—”
“Braxton.”
My head whips back to his.
“For fuck’s sake, listen to me. Don’t react to this in any way.
This is temporary. How you respond will be noted.
They’ll have intel—too much—and you don’t want them to have any more.
You get mad? It’s noted. You fly off the handle?
It’s noted. You don’t want ammo for the Carringtons.
They’re locked and loaded as it is. She’s watching.
Emberleigh Carrington is their eyes and ears on the ground.
And I’m sure she’s reporting in. You cannot react to this.
Reacting will hurt you in the long run.”
“I get that, Eli. As my attorney, you need to know I’ve already reacted, gotten angry, and, well…” I hedge, before continuing, “Been the ass we both know I can be. So, now what?”
“Tell me what you did.”
I do, leaving out nothing. Eli is not happy with me when he knows all that’s gone down.
“You didn’t do yourself any favors by doing that.”
“Fair enough.”
“That’s your response? ‘Fair enough’?” he asks.
“Fuck, she moved into my house. She had me served, at work, on my ranch, the day after Colt came home. She pushes every single button I have.”
Eli nods.
“Nothing I can do to fix it now. Unless there is.” I look at him, wishing he could predict the future. “Before we go there, what else do I need to know? Aside from ‘Don’t show my ass again’?”
“You make the decisions. You’re his guardian. And his father,” he rushes to add when I clench my jaw. “You cannot kidnap him, move him, or do anything permanent.”
“Got it. So don’t tattoo Ranger on his forehead. What else?”
“Sarcasm won’t help this.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I reply.
“You cannot prevent Emberleigh from seeing him or having time with him. But she cannot leave with him or do anything permanent either. So, she tries to go back to Highland Park, she can be charged with kidnapping. You have some protection with the way this was written. In their effort to stop you, they inadvertently stopped themselves as well.”
“Well, that’s a sliver of hope.”
“Be smart, Brax. You being a dick to this girl hurts you.”
“So, no tattoos, don’t show my ass, and don’t be a dick.”
“Pretty much. And, let’s face it, those last two? They’re going to take some effort on your part.”
“Fuck off.”
“So glad you got that out of your system. Now you need to go be nice to Emberleigh Carrington.”
“Yeah, but not yet,” I say, standing and plopping Colt onto his lap. “I held him so I’d stay calm and remember why I’m fighting them, but—” I turn and punch the wall. “Fuck!”
“Dumbass, Kimp’s walls aren’t going to absorb your anger.”
I turn back to face him. “Know that, Finchley. Just need to get it out since you’re saying I have to play nice and be on my best behavior for the next forever many days.”
“The girl’s been living at your house for less than twenty-four hours and you just said ‘forever many days’ to me. She didn’t strip you of your balls when she moved into the guest room, right?” The humor is back in his voice.
I’d love to light him up, but Colt stretches and opens his eyes, looking around.
“Hey, Colt, want to go home?”
“You can do this, Brax.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Emberleigh
The sound of a bedroom door opening somewhere wakes me.
I throw my eyes open and fight for my bearings.
I tense, realizing it wasn’t a nightmare—the dreams I had.
This is my life right now. Lying on top of my new bed in Braxton’s spare bedroom, I apparently managed to fall asleep, fully clothed, after last night’s melancholy set in.
I distracted myself for a few hours with work. Not well, mind you.
Emerson is never far from my thoughts. Neither is Colt.
But with no Em and with Colt gone, I was able to dissolve into the surface needs of some clients who got pushed off for the last week. They know me. They understand. But if there’s one thing that Wainwright Carrington has taught me, it’s that we never show weakness.
We work. We finish what we start. No one should ever be caught up in my drama.
Today is no exception.
The dilemma before me is to lie here and hide—what I really want to do…
curled up in an emotional cocoon, self-protected, and less vulnerable—or to put on a brave face, and go find my boy, never letting Braxton see me flinch.
I want the former. Dealing with Braxton right now seems like too daunting a task, one I can only fail at.
I choose the latter, but only because of Colt.
My sweet Colt needs me, and I need him even more after the night I’ve had.
I pop off the bed and do fifteen jumping jacks just to get the blood flowing.
I check my reflection in the mirror and gasp.
Swollen eyes, pallid skin, and hair that needs a professional all say I’m not living my best life, but I plaster on a big, fake smile.
I’ve hidden long enough and know that no matter when I see Braxton, it’ll be too soon and too painful.
But holding Colt will make it worth it.
I walk down the hall and into the open kitchen and dining room. My steps are tentative, but I convince myself I have as much right to Colt and to be here as Braxton does.
“Where’s Colt?” I singsong as I come around the corner, only to stop dead at Braxton’s naked, strong back. He holds Colt chest to chest, rubbing his hand up and down his back and cooing to him as he warms a bottle in the sink. He needs an actual bottle warmer, but he can struggle for all I care.
Colt’s head pops over Braxton’s chiseled shoulder, and his pale arm pops around his father’s tan one to reach for me. His little fingers splay and collapse, his sign for want, and I move, arms out to him as he wriggles to reach me.
“Whoa, Colt,” Braxton says, turning my way, the baby closer to me than before. “Emberleigh,” he says flatly, but nods, as if we’re in agreement. No clue what he thinks we’re agreeing to.
“Braxton,” I reply, just as flatly, but don’t nod in return. I certainly haven’t compromised where he’s concerned.
“Looks like Colt wants you.” He frowns as he says it, like it bothers him but he doesn’t know what to think of that. “Mind watching him while I get a shower? His bottle is almost ready.”
He tips Colt toward me, and my little man reaches out and smashes his palms into my cheeks, his wide two-toothed grin flashing.
“Don’t mind a bit.” I turn to dismiss him, but add quietly, “Thanks.”
He simply nods and walks out of the kitchen.
I have Colt. In my arms.
I’m home.
Or, at least, he’s home to me.