by Misti Murphy
Taking the backpack off, I toss it to the ground and turn around, my hands behind my back.
“You have the right to remain silent,” he says, snapping the first rigid bracelet onto my wrist. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney.” The other bracelet circles my other wrist. This is a first for me. I wish it was worth it. “If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you by the court.”
Now that the cuffs are on he leads me to the back of the patrol car and opens the door. I climb in, which is rather awkward with my hands trussed behind my back.
He puts his hand on the back of my scalp. “Watch your head.”
“Thanks,” I say as I settle in as well as I can. If getting arrested is what it takes to get Bree to talk to me then I’m more than willing, but without finishing the job I doubt she’ll even know that I did it.
***
“Well, this is something I never thought I’d see. I can’t believe you were arrested,” Jeanie says as I walk into the reception area of the police station. She pulls me into a swift hug, pushing me away equally as quick. “Eww, you smell.”
“A night in the drunk tank will do that.” I rub at the stiffness in my lower back from sitting on a hard bench all night. It had been an interesting experience, surrounded by drunks and hookers. Not one I wish to repeat though.
“When I said grand gesture, I didn’t mean getting busted for property damage,” she berates me.
“It was the only thing I could think of. I hoped if she went back to her apartment that she’d see it and hopefully she’d be willing to talk to me.”
Jeanie squeezes my arm. “A fourteen-foot apology is a nice idea. I might have to use it in one of my novels, but I don’t think it would have worked, even if you’d managed to finish it. And she’d seen it.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” I’m at a loss. What else can I do without actually seeing her?
“You’ll work it out,” she says. “I have faith in you.”
“Your bail is sorted, and your court date is set,” Dutch says coming up to us. “Oh man, you look like hell. The reporters out front are going to have a field day.”
“How many?” I ask, glancing toward the exit. This might be the worst walk of shame ever.
“Hard to tell,” he says. “The crowd’s pretty thick. Word leaked fast, but I don’t think any of them actually know what you were arrested for.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” I mutter. Might be a different story if I’d managed to finish what I started, but I sure as hell don’t feel like sharing that information with them.
“Have you contacted your lawyer?” he asks.
“No,” I reply. “I’ll give him a call later today.”
“Let’s get you home so you can take a shower then,” he says, ushering me toward the exit. “You smell like the ass end of a goat.”
“Do you really need to be so descriptive?” Jeanie wrinkles her nose, and it isn’t entirely from the stale sweat and the aroma of the cell still clinging to my clothes.
“Considering you’re a writer, I thought you would appreciate it.” He stops short of pushing open the door as he turns to me. “Are you ready?”
“Not really.” I shrug. What does it matter? It’s just another example of bad behavior that isn’t going to help me win Bree back. I follow him out into the sunshine. The breeze slaps me in the face, and I would give my left testicle for my sunglasses, but it’s not like I deserve to have my eyesight saved from all the camera flashes.
“Parker, what were you arrested for?”
“Is it true that you assaulted a man?”
What? Where the hell did they get that idea from? “No comment.” We walk through the crowd, careful not to shove our way through since I don’t need to be marched straight back inside.
“Did they arrest you for carrying a massive weapon?”
Christ. I blink at that one. Who comes up with these questions anyway? If Bree were here we’d probably laugh. Fuck, it hurts to not have her next to me. “No comment.”
It takes almost ten minutes to reach Dutch’s Range Rover. The questions don’t stop even as we pile in and peel away from the curb. Slumping in my seat, I close my eyes. What a long ass twenty-four hours this has been. I’ve had all night to think about how I screwed up. The conclusion isn’t pretty. Apparently Cassie and I had something in common after all. I might not be a gold digger, but my career was my priority. I put my brand above Bree, willingly hurting the woman I love, when without her none of it matters. She needs to know that she comes first for me. That she’s the most important part of my life. “I have to find Bree.”
“You have to sleep,” Jeanie says from the front seat. “You’re dead on your feet. Even if you knew where she was, and she did want to talk to you, you can’t do it like this. She’d probably pass out from the smell anyway before you even managed to say hello.”
“She’s right, man,” Dutch agrees, steering through traffic.
“What do you know about it?” Jeanie rolls her gaze at Dutch. “Have you ever been in a relationship?”
“I’m not an idiot,” Dutch says.
“That’s not an answer,” Jeanie shoots back.
“Nope. Never,” I tell her. “He’s never dated anyone.”
“Figures.” She gives him her know it all smirk. The one that always meant she had the better of me when we were growing up. “But I am right. Shower. Eat. Sleep. Then work out how to get Bree to forgive you.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Bree
“Hey, Breezy.” Tim walks into the den carrying a cardboard box, the flaps sticking up. “I brought those items you asked me to get.”
“Thanks,” I mumble from under the quilt I’ve cocooned myself in.
“I picked up your curling iron and straightener too.” Tim picks through the items in the box. “A bunch of your makeup. I left a couple of your suits upstairs. Your contacts. When do you think you might venture into the sunlight again?”
How long have I been holed up in here? I’ve lost count of the shows I’ve watched, barely leaving the den except for the obvious necessities. Heartbreak or no, a girl still needs to pee. I’m not ready to face a world with social media, where the man who broke my heart struts around with his new favorite accessory. Every time I see the ad for their movie I die a little inside. I can’t handle the idea of Parker and Anabelle, there’s no way I can face it in reality. “I don’t know.”
Tim places the box on the armchair, shoos Sirius Black from the nest he’s made in my quilt before bunching it up to clear a place beside me. “Move over.”
I crawl up to one end of the couch so that he can drop onto it. He drapes an arm around my shoulder. “I hate to see you like this.”
I hate feeling this way. This constant ache in my heart sucks. The tears I can’t seem to control give me headaches. Callan keeps beating me on the Xbox because I can’t concentrate. I miss Parker, and it sucks that I do.
“Breezy, hiding out in here isn’t doing you any good. It’s been a week. It’s time to come back to work.” He rests his head against mine. “It’s so fucking boring without you.”
Has it really been a week? The days have bled into one another. I don’t even know what time it is. I draw my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. “Soon. I need a little more time.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “You’ll need to call Malcolm though. Ask for time off. I think he’s starting to suspect this isn’t stomach flu.”
“I will. I’ll do that on Monday.”
Tim raises an eyebrow. “Do you have any idea what day it is?”
“Um.”
“It’s Tuesday.” He glances around the room. “You really need to get some light in here. Open a curtain, crack a window.”
“It’s Tuesday?” I pick up my phone and stare at the day and date. I really have lost an entire week.
“How many notifications do you want to aim
for?” Tim asks, staring over my shoulder. “That’s horrific.”
I’ve barely looked at my phone because Parker was calling and texting me, and I wasn’t ready to talk to him. Maybe I’ll never be ready. By all rights it should be dead, but Callan demanded I keep it charged and near me. I guess he wanted an easy way to check on me when he’s not home, though I’ve kept it on silent. There are a ridiculous number of notifications. I didn’t know the counters went that high. Text messages, phone calls, Facebook. I toss it back on the table.
“No.” Tim scoops it up. “You can’t let it sit there with all those notifications.”
“Some of those are from Parker, and I can’t...” My breathing picks up, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
“I’ll do it,” Tim reassures me, tapping in my passcode.
“Thanks.”
“Actually, there’s something I wanted to show you. I’m glad I didn’t send it to your phone since you wouldn’t have seen it.” He puts my phone down in order to drag his own out of his pocket. A minute later he holds it out for me to see. He’s taken a photo of Parker’s billboard. “I almost crashed into a minivan, driving past this on my way over here.”
“Don’t take photos and drive,” I tell him. I miss Parker. I miss his stupid smirk and his molten chocolate eyes. And super cock. Even though whoever graffitied the sign did drivers a favor by painting over his bulge. Still, it was a nice bulge. My first. Because I honestly believed Parker wasn’t going to hurt me. “Someone finally graffitied it.”
“They did.” Tim continues going through my phone.
I try to hand his phone back to him, but he puts his palm up to stop me. “Don’t you think it’s interesting?”
“It’s graffiti.” I don’t want to look at it anymore.
“Yeah, but what does it look like?”
“It looks like Parker is holding a blob of paint over the bulge in his boxer briefs in a dick in a box type way.” Whoever the artist was; they weren’t particularly good. Or they got busted before they had a chance to finish. Possibly both.
Tim chuckles. “I can see that. But it reminds me of something else.”
“What?” This is ridiculous. I don’t want to play this game where I have to stare at the man who makes my chest hurt and try to guess what Tim’s thinking.
“Does that look like anything to you?” Tim prods.
“I don’t know.” I stare at the photo. The paint has a shape to it now that I’m studying it. Thicker at the bottom, then tapered, before flattening at the top. It does have a certain familiarity.
“A push pin, perhaps,” Tim prods.
It really does resemble a push pin head, without the jabby end. “Do you think they ran out of time to put in the point?”
“Bree, how many people do you think have an obsession with thumbtacks?”
“I can’t be the only one,” I say, handing him back his phone in exchange for mine.
“I’ll give you that. But how many people also know that you had a thing for stabbing pictures of Parker Kent with thumbtacks?”
“You think he did it? Painted over his own billboard?”
“It’s possible, isn’t it? The man obviously wants to get your attention and you refuse to even look at your phone.” He sits back and wraps his arm around me again. “That billboard is right near your apartment. I guess he hoped that you would see it. Do you want me to listen to your voicemails?”
“I-I...”
“I’ll leave them for now,” he says, handing back my phone. “I can do that later, or you can do it when you’re ready.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”
“Of course you will be.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Right now your heart is like a grape. All squashed and split apart. Like in the bottom of those barrels that merry maids used to dance in with their bare feet. You know, really just pounding those grapes.” He leans across me to punch his fist into his palm repeatedly. “Pounding and pounding.”
“Thanks for the visual.” I roll my gaze at him.
“That’s better,” he says. “We’re going to get you smiling again. Because you know what they make out of those grapes. With time and fermentation. Hella good wine. You’re going to be okay. Better than okay. You’re champagne, Bree. You’ll find your sweet bubbly self again. You’ll see.”
I give him a half-hearted smile. I love that he’s trying to cheer me up, even if it’s not really working.
“Okay. How about we watch a movie?”
“Okay,” I whimper. I can do that. With Tim here, I can face watching a movie. I have to at some point anyway. I can’t stop watching movies because things with Parker ended.
Tim steals the remote and flicks through the guide. “Jurassic Park or Pulp Fiction?”
***
“We have to do something about this,” my brother says quietly.
“It’s been almost two weeks,” Tim agrees.
“I can hear you,” I mutter from—surprise, surprise—under the blanket on the couch. I almost left the den today. Almost. Until I realized the date. Parker’s movie releases today. He’s at the premiere with Anabelle beside him. I can’t get up and pretend everything is fine. Not today.
“You need to get up,” Callan says, his voice growing louder.
“He’s right, Breezy. This isn’t helping. You’ll feel better if you stop hiding under that blanket.”
“Stop wallowing, you mean,” I reply, my voice muffled by the blanket.
“That too,” Tim says. “You have to move to move on.”
“I know, but...” I can’t seem to push myself out of this black hole I’ve found myself in.
“Get your ass off the couch, Bree, or I’ll do it for you,” Callan barks.
I bolt upright, the blanket still over my head. I probably look like a ghost, which is perfect since I feel like one.
“All the way up.” Tim grips my hand. “Come on. You’ve got this.”
I don’t. I can’t. Tomorrow maybe. “The movie premiere is tonight. Parker’s movie. With Anabelle.”
“Well, shit,” Callan exclaims.
“How can we help, Breezy?” Tim drops onto the couch beside me.
“I’ll make a run to the grocery store for ice cream and chocolate,” Callan calls out as his footsteps race up the stairs.
“And tequila,” Tim shouts.
“Tequila. Got it.”
“How about we take the quilt off our head, huh? I for one prefer to see my friends when I’m talking to them,” Tim tells me.
I drag the thick material off me and drop it into a heap on the couch. “I’m not handling this well.”
“Everyone handles heartbreak differently. Some of us like to drink and dance and flirt with strangers. You like to hide under a blanket. But eventually you have to face reality.”
“I know, but I really loved him. This...” I rub my chest. “My heart doesn’t seem to get it.”
“Hmmm,” he hums, rubbing his hands together. “Have you considered calling him?”
“What if he only wants to tell me to come get my toothbrush?”
“What if he wants to tell you that he made a mistake?”
“It’s a big mistake, Tim. He acted like he barely knew me when they showed him the photo. I can’t be his secret. You know that.”
“Look, I think you should think about it.”
I do. I consider it. Maybe he has a point. I don’t know. “I will. I’ll think about it.”
“Good,” he says, settling back and pulling me with him. “Now, what shall we watch? TV is out, right? In case we come across his pretty mug. Has to be movies.”
We’ve chosen three by the time Callan comes back with supplies. Indiana Jones, Independence Day, and Interview with the Vampire.
Callan sets down bowls, spoons, ice cream and chocolate along with a bottle of tequila and three shot glasses and pulls out his phone as it goes off. “Who’s Jeanie Kent?”
Tim’s phone beeps with a notification. A second later I get a n
otification too.
“Parker’s sister.” I pick up my phone, my pulse suddenly racing. What if something happened to Parker? Please don’t be awful news.
“There’s a link,” Tim says, jabbing the scream with his thumb.
“That’s what she sent me too,” Callan says.
“And me.” My breath gets stuck.
“It’s a video,” Tim says, jabbing the play icon. “Sorry Breezy, you know I can’t help myself when it comes to celebrity stalking our ex. Maybe the third time will be the charm, huh? Maybe it won’t be so bad this time.”
A man’s voice bursts out of the speaker on Tim’s phone. “How does it feel to find out you’re a finalist for Sexiest Bad Boy of The Year?”
“Yeah, they made the announcement this morning,” Parker replies. His voice tugs at me, forcing my gaze to the screen in Tim’s hand. He’s still sexy, the suit he’s wearing cut to fit him perfectly, but he sounds exhausted, listless. “Honestly, six months ago, I would have said it was amazing.”
“But not now?” The reporter asks, curiosity coating the question.
“Six months ago, I hadn’t met the love of my life.” Parker shrugs.
Oh God. Oh God. He’s seriously going to announce that he’s with Anabelle. I can’t tear my gaze away. I can’t listen to this. “Turn it off.”
“Are we talking about Anabelle?” The journalist asks. “There’s been a lot of speculation that you two are an item.”
“No, it’s not Anabelle Peters,” Parker replies gruffly, as though he’s sick of hearing her name.
“Is this her?” The camera pans to Jeanie’s face.
She laughs. “I’m his sister.”
I almost steal Tim’s phone from his hand, but he keeps a tight grip on it. My entire world stops.
“I’m so sorry. That’s embarrassing,” the reporter says. “So where is the lucky lady who’s swept one of Chicago’s favorite bad boys off his feet?”
“I don’t know. I screwed up.” He leans right to the mic, staring into the camera. “Bree, baby, I know I hurt you. I lied to everyone about you. Told them you didn’t mean anything to me. But that was never the case. From the moment we met, you were important to me. Maybe I didn’t know how much you’d come to mean to me straight away, but I knew you were the only woman for me. All of this...” he gestures at the red carpet and his fellow actors schmoozing with reporters. “It means nothing without you. You’re not nobody. You are everything, baby. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I will never give you reason to doubt it again. I can’t do life without you. I don’t want to. Let me tell you that in person?”
