A lump formed in his throat. This place used to hold so many happy memories. Now, all it did was remind him of his selfishness.
He continued on and ran his hand over his grandad’s first pair of wooden skis mounted to the wall, before coming to all the shots of him on the winners podium taking first place at the Winter X Games, skis in hand, smiling a broad easy grin like he used to before it all went to shit.
“Fucking finally!”
Brennen looked up to see his brother. It was like looking into the damn mirror. All the Bergen brothers shared the same dark hair. The same blue eyes. Except, while he liked to keep a little stubble—the women seemed to appreciate it—Jasper was the rigid, clean shaven of the crew. A man wound so tightly it was a miracle he didn’t bust a molar clenching his jaw day in and day out.
Brennen fell into the aloof, arrogant playboy role he’d mastered over the last decade. “Come on, Jas.” He plucked the aviators from his face and entered the office. “I just got back from Bergen Mountain last night. Cut me some slack.”
Jas glanced at his phone. “Must be nice.”
At any one time, Jasper Bergen was involved in at least six deals. CEO of Bergen Enterprises, he oversaw everything. The sporting goods stores. The apparel. The different Bergen properties and resorts. Christ! He didn’t even know if his brother slept, let alone loosened his damn tie. The man’s entire life was work.
Brennen sat down on the office’s leather sofa, stretched his legs, and settled into his cavalier role, ready to bait his older brother. “We run a mountain sports company. Maybe you should try getting out on the mountain every once in a while.”
Jasper’s eyes flashed contempt, and victory surged through Brennen’s veins. Hook, line, and sinker, he’d managed to flap the unflappable Jasper Ryan Bergen.
But the rush didn’t last long. It never did.
Jas regained his composure. “One of us needs to act like an adult. Cam’s off doing god knows what in Switzerland. You’re sticking your dick into anything with a pulse, and I—”
“Have chosen to be a self-righteous workaholic monk.”
“At least I don’t hurt anyone with my behavior.”
Brennen rose to his feet and sprang forward, eye to eye with his brother. A brother he’d idolized growing up. A brother he wanted to be like until the day everything changed, and the Bergen brothers ceased being a cohesive unit and faded into the caricatures that now got them through the day. Workaholic and playboy, the men watched each other. This was the game. Who hid the pain better? Who shouldered the burden with greater fortitude?
After the bender he’d been on the last few weeks, Brennen wasn’t up for this shit today. He blinked then took a step back and glanced around the office. “Where’s Grandad, anyway?”
The stick up his brother’s ass must have dislodged itself a fraction because the man’s dour expression softened. “He went down to meet Gram.”
“Gram?” Brennen echoed.
Jas glanced back at his phone and rapidly typed a message. “You must have just missed her in the lobby. She asked me to set up this meeting.”
Shit! The tightness in Brennen’s chest was back.
Harriet Livingston Bergen was the matriarch of the Bergen family and reigned supreme in Denver society. Raising millions for children’s hospitals, the Special Olympics, and Denver cultural staples like the Performing Arts Center and the Denver Botanic Gardens, the woman Brennen affectionately called Gram was a powerhouse negotiator, a champion for those in need. At eighty-one years old, she could still kill it on the slopes, giving him—a former Winter X Games Slopestyle and Superpipe ski champion—a run for his money.
But Gram had never summoned him to the Bergen headquarters for a meeting. In addition to her work in the community, she oversaw the Bergen Foundation, the philanthropic arm of Bergen Enterprises. The branch of the family business he was technically affiliated with.
If you wanted to get down to brass tacks, he worked for his grandmother. His title was President of the Bergen Foundation, but he saw his position as somewhat honorary and mostly voluntary. He’d attend a party here and there and smile for a photo op when the mood would strike him—something that seemed to happen less and less as the years dragged on.
Did he follow a schedule?
No.
Did he have a work ethic?
Yes.
Two priorities: tits and ass.
Not exactly the most philanthropic of pursuits, but it served to numb the ache in his chest he’d lived with for the last ten years.
“My beautiful, bright stars!” came a familiar voice. The sing-song lilt. The buttery warmth. Those few words threatened to unleash a wave of memories he’d locked away.
Brennen ignored the anguish in his heart and turned to greet his grandparents.
“Hi, Gram,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek.
She patted his arm. “Have you been eating your greens?”
Her standard greeting. Gram wasn’t your average octogenarian. A mostly vegetarian diet paired with a lifetime spent hiking, skiing, and biking had left his grandmother looking like a woman thirty years her junior.
“Oh yeah. Salad every day.”
His standard bullshit response.
She nodded as his grandfather sat down at his modest desk and she took a seat in a simple club chair across from him. That was the other thing. While Bergen Enterprises’ net worth sat in the billions, his Brooklyn born grandparents, first-generation Americans, lived modestly—by his standards at least. They owned homes all over the world, but their main residence was a stately red brick colonial in a historic Denver neighborhood that backed up to the botanic gardens.
A mansion?
Sure.
A gawky eyesore that screamed billions in the bank?
Not in the least.
Their past was inspiring. Two young newlyweds from NYC who saw a life filled with snow-capped peaks and crystal blue skies instead of subways and cement. Barely twenty years old, they set out for the wild west, planted roots in Colorado, and opened a simple ski rental shop that ballooned into the global giant Bergen Enterprises was today.
And if that wasn’t enough to be enamored with the self-made couple, his grandparents shared a loving bond he’d seen matched only by the way his father used to look at his mother.
Love. Trust. Respect. Partnership.
All the things he’d never have because he didn’t deserve them.
His gram glanced at his brother, still hammering away on his phone. “Jas, dear, you look awfully busy. Your grandfather and I can take things from here.”
Double shit!
Everybody was in on something.
“Is this some sort of intervention?” he asked, half kidding until nobody laughed.
Jasper looked up from his phone then headed for the door. “Grandad, I’ll get you those numbers on acquiring the new fleet of snowmobiles for the Bergen Resorts,” he said over his shoulder, gaze back on his cell.
“Thank you, Jasper,” his grandfather replied, folding his hands on his desk—his signature posture when he was about to lay down some knowledge. The geezer could drop the mountain air vibe and go all Brooklyn whenever he wanted to, and Brennen needed to cut him off at the pass.
“Listen, I think I know why you two wanted me to come in.”
He’d played this game with them before.
He gave him his million dollar grin. “It’s the car, right?”
He’d recently added the Mercedes SUV to his growing collection of high priced rides.
His grandfather sat back. “No, but I was surprised you needed another vehicle.”
“What’s that, your fourth?” Gram asked with a little twist to her smile.
Here’s the other thing. His grandparents knew all the numbers. She knew damn well it was his fifth Mercedes in as many months.
“Number five,” he answered, relief flooding his system. If this was just a talk about not throwing cash around like a newly signed rapper, h
e’d be out of here in ten minutes and could have Jasper’s secretary riding his cock in fifteen. Her tits weren’t that bad.
“Brennen Carl Bergen,” his gram said, evoking his middle name.
Triple shit!
His grandfather narrowed his steel-blue gaze. “You asked if this was an intervention. It is.”
“It’s time you grew up, Brennen. I’m done seeing this in the paper.” His gram produced the Lifestyle section and slapped it on the desk.
There he was. Front and center with possibly Ashley or Emma at his hip, beer in hand, mountains in the background.
“That was just a party for the Bergen Mountain Resort staff.” He paused and glanced between his grandparents. They’d gone full-Brooklyn circa 1953, each portraying a do not bullshit a bullshitter expression.
His grandmother held his gaze. “You can do better, Brennen. This isn’t you. This isn’t the little boy who spent hours on end perfecting the mechanics of his form on the slopes. There’s a reason you won all those ski competitions. You worked hard. You were dedicated. You cared.”
Heat filled his chest, and he swallowed past the lump in his throat. Maybe he was all those things once upon a time—but not anymore. It didn’t matter. The damage had been done. But he’d found a way to block the pain, and he couldn’t risk losing it. “So, your aim here is to guilt me into stepping up? You want me to live a boring life chained to a desk like Jas?”
His grandmother smiled the sweet old lady smile that some might misjudge as conceding surrender.
They’d be dead wrong.
Brennen knew his gram well enough to know this smile meant she’d already won and that she meant business. There weren’t going to be any slaps on the wrist today.
She stood and squeezed his hand. “No, we’re not going to guilt you into anything. We’re giving you a choice. Shape up. Start fulfilling your duties as President of the Bergen Foundation and act like the man we know you are, or we’ll fire you and cut you off.”
His jaw dropped. “Cut me off?”
Her expression grew serious. “The money. Access to the mountain properties. The penthouse at The Dalton. All that will go away.”
He paced the length of the office, mind racing. That was how he coped. That was how he escaped. The sickening sensation of anxiety and humiliation twisted in his gut.
“You agree with this Grandad?”
The man nodded. “One hundred percent.”
His gram settled back into the club chair. “I’ve been around a long time, my darling. I know why you behave the way you do.”
Brennen shook his head. This was getting way too damned close to a part of his life he’d purposely sealed off.
“And Bren, you know the life you’re living right now isn’t the life your parents would want for you,” his grandad added.
The breath caught in his throat.
He could hear the squealing tires and the angry groan of metal buckling.
“Your father, my darling, was our son, and we loved your mother like a daughter. It’s okay to miss them,” Gram said, bringing him back to the present.
His grandfather shared a knowing look with his wife. “We miss them, too, Bren. But we’re not going to let you go down this path any further. The women. The partying. It’s not only just bad for you. It could harm the company.”
A muscle ticked in Brennen’s jaw. “The company? I’d never hurt the company.”
His gram lifted her chin. “You, Jasper, and Camden are the next generation of leadership.”
“I don’t see you summoning Cam back from St. Moritz,” he shot, hating that he sounded like a spoiled teenager.
Gram leaned forward. “I don’t see Cam’s escapades splashed all over the paper and the internet.”
He paced the length of the office. “What now? Is there an office set up for me in the Bergen Building? A little box for me to sit in all day?”
Another knowing glance passed between his grandparents.
“No, darling, your talents are better used elsewhere.”
He stared out the window. “And where’s that?”
“Whitmore Country Day.”
His eyebrows shot up, and he turned to face his grandparents. “My elementary school?”
Gram stood, pulled an envelope from her bag, and handed it to him. “As the President of the Bergen Foundation, you’re going to take my place and volunteer at the school for the—”
“Whitmore Community Partnership. Mom’s…” he trailed off.
Gram nodded. “The program your mother spearheaded fifteen years ago. Yes, I’ve done it in her place for the last ten years. I think it’s time I passed that duty on to you as the foundation’s president.”
He met her gaze. “That’s it? You want me to go help out at my elementary school?”
“That’s the gist. You’ll be paired with a teacher and volunteer in her classroom. There are a few other activities you’ll take part in, but the teacher can fill you in on all that.”
He turned back toward the window, stared at his reflection in the glass, and saw the same blue eyes as his father and his grandfather. The Bergen trait that reminded him every day that while he was a Bergen, he’d failed his family in the worst possible way.
A way that made him unworthy of love.
A way he could only quiet through mindless debauchery.
“It’s a couple of months, right?” he asked, making sure to keep the emotion out of his voice.
“Yes, darling, it all wraps up after the school’s annual ski trip.”
He weighed his options. A few months parked in a classroom couldn’t be that bad, and then he’d have his grandparents off his back. Maybe he’d be able to bribe the teacher. Slip her a few grand, sneak out the back, and nobody would be the wiser.
He released a sharp breath. “Fine. I’ll do it. But it’ll have to start in a few weeks. I’ve told the pilot that I want to head down to our beach house in the Cayman Islands tomorrow to spend a few weeks near the ocean.”
His gram smiled as something mischievous twinkled in her eyes. “I’ve told the pilot you’re not going.”
He furrowed his brow. “Why would you do that?”
“Because, darling, your volunteer duties at Whitmore start today.”
3
Abby
Cadence knocked on the doorframe of Abby’s classroom and peeked into the room. “You made it to lunch!”
Abby waved her in. “The kids are great, but I’ve had quite a few visitors.”
“The parents?” Cadence asked with a sympathetic grin.
Abby grabbed her sack lunch and joined Cadence at the kidney-shaped table in the corner of the room. “Yeah, they seem to know everything about me already.”
“They do that around here.”
“Do what?”
“Deep background checks.”
Abby nearly dropped her yogurt. “Different from the background checks the state does when we apply for our teaching license? Like a private investigator background check?”
Cadence nodded, unbothered, and pulled the cling wrap from her sandwich. “They probably haven’t hired a PI yet. The email about you taking over Roberta Schram’s class went out yesterday. I bet most were only able to do an online check. But don’t be worried if you see a guy following you around. It’s probably just some parent-hired investigator making sure you’re not dealing crack on the side or eating non-GMO corn—both fireable offenses at Whitmore.”
Abby froze, yogurt-laden spoon paused midway in the air. “Please, tell me you’re kidding.”
Cadence chuckled. “The parents can get pretty intense here, but they don’t hold a candle to—”
“Miss Quinn!” came a shrill voice.
Lena Mackendorfer stood in the doorway of Abby’s classroom.
Abby gestured toward the table. “Would you like to join us?”
The woman crinkled her nose. “I take lunch with Principal Ramos,” she said but stayed put.
“Oh! Okay, is there
something I can do for you?”
“Your job.”
“My job,” Abby echoed. This wasn’t good.
“You were one minute late picking up your students from art. My class has art after yours. When you’re a minute late that makes me a minute late. And I don’t like to be late. There’s a reason I’ve been named Teacher of the Year at Whitmore seventeen years in a row. Do you know why?”
Abby shook her head.
“Excellence. I demand excellence, and the parents know it. That’s why my first graders always rank at the top.”
Abby pressed her hand to her chest. “I apologize. With all the parents dropping in and this being my first day and all, I was running a little behind.”
“Miss Lowry,” Lena Mackendorfer said, ignoring her apology.
“Yes, Mrs. Mack.”
“Please remind Miss Quinn of the high standards here at Whitmore. It would be a shame if things turned out for her as they had for Roberta.”
“Of course,” Cadence said as Mrs. Mackendorfer continued down the hall.
“What happened to Roberta?” Abby whispered, remembering the principal had said that the teacher decided not to return after a medical leave of absence.
Cadence leaned in. “Sort of a mental breakdown.”
“Oh my gosh! Is she okay?”
“I think so. I heard she got a teaching position in Guam.”
Abby swallowed her spoonful of yogurt. “Guam? Like the island?”
Cadence nodded.
“Did Mrs. Mackendorfer have something to do with her…leaving?”
“I’m pretty sure she did. They butted heads a few times.”
Abby glanced down at her yogurt, no longer hungry.
Cadence recycled her sympathetic smile. “You’ll be fine, Abby. I heard a few of the parents talking in the hallway. You’ve mostly taught at inner-city schools, right? Like gang violence and stuff?”
Abby nodded. Whitmore was the first affluent, private school she’d taught at.
Man Fast: Bergen Brothers: Book One Page 3
