by Shandi Boyes
The past twenty-nine hours have been good for us. Although Julian didn’t expand on the disclosure Leo made yesterday morning, he was more open and honest than he had been the three years of our relationship. We talked as we should have the morning he left and ended things more amicably.
Heartache is associated with any breakup, especially one as long as ours, but when both parties agree it’s for the best, it can also be encouraging. For years, I relied on Brandon. When I didn’t have him, I felt lost and alone, which had me leaning on Julian more than I should have. It wasn’t fair of me to do. However, I’m taking steps to fix that now.
That’s why I’m back here at the ranch. I lost who I was here, so it’s only right for me to re-find myself here. Then, once that’s achieved, I can shift my focus to fixing all the mistakes I made. Brandon included.
Not wanting Julian to see the wetness dwelling in my eyes, I move our exchange onto the dreaded farewell stage. “Thank you for the ride. I much appreciate it.”
Julian waits for me to press a kiss to his cheek before replying, “You’re very welcome.” After raking his eyes over my family ranch standing proud in the distance, he shifts them back to me. “Are you sure you don’t want Tiny to stay with you?”
“I’m sure.” I nudge my head to the tinted SUV that followed us here. It doesn’t belong to Julian’s convoy of vehicles, however, I know who’s inside. “I’m safe here. Kwan will make sure of it.”
It’s amazing how the shredding of someone’s shield has you seeing them in a new light. Kwan isn’t a man to be messed with, but that only applies if you’re hurting the people he classes as family. Since I have Gottle blood running through my veins, I’ve been given that title from him.
After dragging my purse from the back of Julian’s car into my lap, I pull out a small wrapped box. “Will you please give this to your mom for me? She was eyeing it earlier this year during our weekend in Santa Barbara, and I really want her to have it.”
When Julian dips his chin, agreeing to my request, I throw open the door of his flashy sports car. After climbing out and straightening my clothes, I pop my head back in. “There’s also a gift for you in the trunk. Don’t eat them all at once like you did last year, or you’ll get an upset stomach.” He laughs, fully aware as to what I’m referencing.
I wait for his laughter to die down before saying, “Goodbye, Julian.”
A touch of sentiment is added to our exchange when he signs, “Goodbye, Mel.”
Once the taillights of his vehicle fade into the distance, I shift on my feet to face the lonely SUV parked at the fence line of my property. “Are you coming inside? Julian’s cook stowed some mouthwatering pastries into my bags.”
Kwan slips out of his car quicker than I can snap my fingers. “You won’t tell the boss, will ya?”
“It will be our little secret.” He freezes mid-stride when I barter, “On one condition.” I wait until he’s sweating before spelling out my terms. “You have to clean Socks’ stall in the morning. I don’t do poop.”
“Deal.” His smile would have you convinced I said he could have Socks. “I’ll get to that as soon as I’ve fixed the thermostat in the water boiler. Damn near froze my nuts off last month when I snuck in for a quick shower.”
I laugh for the first time in over a week. I’m not laughing at Kwan’s confession. It’s recalling Brandon griping about the same thing two weeks ago when the water temperature barely rose past freezing.
“She loved it, Mel. Thank you.”
I nurse my hot chocolate into my chest before snuggling deeper under the blanket. “You’re very welcome. I’m glad she liked it. It’s not expensive, but sent—”
“Sentimental value far exceeds the highest price tag,” Julian fills in, smiling. “Is that why you’ve decided not to sell the ranch?”
After adjusting my phone so he can see me better, I shrug. “Yes and no. It’s cheap to stay here, and since I’m not technically working right now, affordability must be considered.” When Julian grumbles, annoyed I won’t accept his many offers of help, I talk faster. “But I also like it here. It’s…” I stop talking, unable to find the right word.
Julian doesn’t face the same dilemma. “Home.”
Smiling, I nod. “Yeah, it is.”
A stretch of silence spans between us. It isn’t awkward. More comforting than anything.
The same can’t be said when Julian asks, “Have you heard from Nichole?”
“Yes.” For how short my reply is, it shouldn’t seem as affirmative as it is. “Proceedings will commence February twenty-third.”
Julian’s sigh is so strong I feel it on the other side of the country. “Can I ask you something, Mel?”
“Anything.”
“It could be hurtful.”
I smirk, appreciating his honesty. “I’m okay with that. I’m a big girl. I can handle it.” That’s one of the biggest steps I’ve taken the past week. I had to learn that it’s okay to stumble as long as you get back up. Today is Christmas Day. I should be feeling lonely and isolated, especially since Kwan left to spend the day with his family, however, I don’t. I’m finally growing comfortable with my own skin. “Come on, Julian, out with it before you’re dragged away for brunch.”
His chest deflates when he exhales. “You were raped by the Governor’s son… so why isn’t the media blasting the story? It would usually be front-page news.”
It dawns on me that I know Julian better than I realized when I unearth the hidden agenda of his message. As much as he appreciates my name not being splashed across the tabloids, he’s also curious if this is the norm. His family is uber-rich. Their wealth and stature already have them targeted by the media, so you can only imagine how bad the scrutiny would be if Leo’s disclosure had been to anyone but me.
“In all honesty, I had wondered the same thing. Then I remembered what Vincent McGee is like. He’s unscrupulous, Julian. He doesn’t care who he has to steamroll to get his point across. Not even his own blood is safe.” I take a quick breather before adding, “I also asked for the charges not to be publicly acknowledged. Although I was technically an adult when the assault occurred, so there was no reason for Nichole to grant my request, I’m glad she did. The people I count on know what happened to me. I don’t need anyone else’s sympathies.” I stare straight at him while saying, “If you’re not getting the support you need from the ones you love, you need to get a new support network, Julian.”
He only nods, but I feel like I’m getting through to him. “Can I call you later?” He nudges his head to the party-like atmosphere happening behind him. “When that dies down.”
“Of course, you can. I’m not going anywhere.” My response has a double meaning. I have no plans to leave the ranch any time soon, but even if I did, I can still be there for Julian as he was for me for years.
Julian mouths his thanks before he shuts down our chat window. I’m still smiling about our friendly conversation when my phone receives a text message. I am hoping it’s from Brandon but am left disappointed when I realize it’s from the shipping company I used to return Brandon’s BMW to him. It was supposed to take two weeks for delivery, giving me plenty of time to work up the courage to tell Brandon his generosity wasn’t necessary. The Hellcat was his, so no payment was required, but the company’s text message advises they’re in the process of dropping his car off now. Christmas Day of all days. Even the Grinch knows that’s poor form. Brandon won’t see it as me saying payment for the Hellcat isn’t required. He’ll think I’m cutting him off and being ungrateful.
God, I need to fix this.
After returning a text to the shipping company, I leave a message on their voicemail begging for them not to drop off Brandon’s car today.
When another three attempts to contact them fails, I dial Brandon’s number. It rings and rings and rings, remaining unanswered until the sun is no longer visible in the sky, and my hopes are dashed.
I thought returning his car would shi
ne a little bit of light into the darkness surrounding us. Now I’m worried it may have shrouded us even more.
33
Brandon
After silencing Melody’s fifth call for this morning, I slide my cell phone into the pocket of my jeans before stuffing my arms into my winter coat. It doesn’t get as chilly here the day after Christmas as it does in Saugerties, but the iciness of my veins makes it seem much cooler than it is.
Ignoring the keys of my BMW sitting on the entryway table, I snatch up my house keys before hotfooting it outside. My legs are a little wobbly when I gallop down the stairs. Alcohol is known for step impediments, and I’ve had more than my fair share the past few days. Isabelle was found safely. Isaac was touted as being her hero, and I was informed by Phillipa I had failed the mandatory psych evaluation to be officially signed on as a consultant with her team.
Me.
I failed.
Part of me thinks Phillipa is making out I didn’t pass so I’ll be forced to attend the counseling sessions she suggested after Hugo’s shooting. She made out I was a part of a ‘traumatic incident,’ but I have an inkling Grayson told her about my quip about being suicidal.
I’m not suicidal. If I were, would I be looking into the death of a man who took the easy way out? Bar the handful of times Alex and Grayson have mentioned him, I don’t know Dane Liberman, but I couldn’t stop playing Regan’s response to his death through my head while I laid in bed, doing nothing. Instead of wasting time, I either went on an eight-mile run or combed through Dane’s file.
While I pop down to the shop to grab some supplies, my computer is downloading the many video logs I found on Dane’s personal computer when I hacked in via an open banking app. I doubt it will lead to anything, but I’ve got nothing better to do, so it’s worth a shot.
When I reach the footpath at the front of my apartment block, I raise the collar of my trench coat, effectively blocking out both the wind whipping off the ocean and the view of my BMW parked in my assigned bay. With my Hellcat being impounded yesterday for being illegally parked, I’ll have to walk to the store for supplies—regretfully.
Forty minutes later, I stuff a half-pint bottle of whiskey I was sneakily consuming on my trek back to my apartment deep into my bag of groceries. I’m not ashamed I am drinking in the middle of the day. I’m just so stunned by my unexpected visitor, alcohol isn’t needed to give me the buzz life is supposed to give me.
Isabelle jumps out of her skin when I greet her with a back-the-front hug. With one arm juggling a bag of groceries, and the other clutching a six-pack of beer, I had to use my shoulder.
After gathering her heart from the ground, Isabelle slaps my shoulder. “Jesus, Brandon, you scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry, Izzy.” I slant my head like a dog getting whacked over the head with a newspaper, feeling bad I scared her. “What are you doing here?”
An array of emotions hit me at once when she replies, “I just left Alex’s office.”
I was hoping it was a personal visit.
Clearly, we’re not that close.
Nodding, I place the security code into the door Isabelle is standing next to before gesturing for her to enter the foyer before me. I follow her inside after doing a quick scope of the area. Not only am I suspicious Isaac has someone tailing Isabelle, I’m also wary about Grayson’s uncanny knack for knowing more than he should.
Confident we’re alone, I head for the elevator. I’m not willing to risk the stairs with how unstable my footing is. My aftershave can mask the scent of whiskey on my breath, but what excuse would I have for stumbling up steps?
“Does Isaac know you’re here?”
Isabelle freezes before she shakes her head. “He’s in a meeting. I left him a note.”
While calculating how long it will take for Isaac to have one of his security details kick down my door, I suggest for Isabelle to enter the elevator before me. With the space confined, I don’t voice any of the questions in my head for our fourteen-floor climb. I can taste the whiskey on my lips. I don’t want Isabelle to smell it.
Isabelle takes advantage of my unusual quietness when she shadows my walk to my apartment. She takes in the high-end features and masculine feel of the space while I place the perishables into the fridge and hide my half-consumed bottle of whiskey in the cutlery drawer.
Just as she spins around to face me, I place the beers onto the counter. When she stares at them for several long seconds, I offer her one. She shakes her head while saying, “Beer has never been my liquor of choice.”
“What about a glass of red, then?”
Eager to get her as sloshed as me, I snag a wine glass from a frosted overhead cupboard before pouring her a generous helping of merlot. She eyes me with suspicion when I hand it to her but remains quiet, unsure if she knows me well enough to notice my change in temperament.
As I enter the living room, I give thanks to my insomnia of late. If I weren’t up all night removing the perp boards from my walls, Isabelle would have realized just how crooked Isaac is. In a way, I kind of wished they were still there. Perhaps that’s what Isabelle needs—a hard wake-up call.
When I plonk onto my rock-hard sofa, Isabelle fills in the spot next to me. After folding her legs under her bottom to lessen the stiffness of the material, she tilts closer to me. “What happened?”
Even with a woozy head, I still know who her question is referencing. She wears her heart on her sleeve, and for some stupid-ass reason, she’s worried about me.
After swishing my tongue around my mouth, I say, “We had opposing opinions on a matter.”
I’m hoping my all-encompassing reply will subdue Isabelle’s inquisitiveness. Regretfully, she’s more clued in than I give her credit for. “We’ve all had that with Alex, but nothing bad enough to warrant him letting us go—”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not concerned about my position.”
I snap my mouth closed, pissed at the curtness of my tone. My mother would be slapping me up the side of my head if she could hear me now.
“What’s going on, Brandon?” When Isabelle dips her chin to force eye contact, my mood worsens. Phillipa’s shrink did the same thing when she probed into my past more than I liked. “Something is bothering you. You seem off, upset even.”
I gulp down half my beer before placing it onto the coffee table. While staring at nothing, I think about all the things I want to say. How the number of blows I’ve been hit with in my life isn’t fair. How I worked so fucking hard for nothing. I don’t have a job or a stable family environment. I have nothing.
I don’t even have my girl anymore.
All the while, men like Isaac have everything—money, looks, cars, multiple business opportunities. They even get love, and for what, for them to piss it to the wall when it no longer suits them? Isaac was seen on surveillance with a prostitute. Isabelle saw the photos herself, yet, she stands at his side, supporting him as no one has ever supported me.
You’ve just got to keep moving, Brandon.
You’ve just got to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
You’ve just got to accept what life has to give you and be grateful for what you get.
But what happens when you don’t want to accept the same shit over and over again? Do you become like them? Like Isaac and my father. Do you take the law into your own hands and pray for understanding when it backfires in your face?
Or do you just give up?
“If you knew something would hurt your friend, but you also knew they’d never forgive you if you didn’t tell them, would you tell them?” I don’t recognize my voice. It’s like I’m here, but I’m not. Kind of similar to how I’ve been feeling the past week and a half.
“Yes,” Isabelle replies, reminding me I’m not as alone as I feel. “I'd want to know.”
“Are you sure, Izzy? Because once you know, it can’t be undone.” Believe me, I know that better than anyone. I can’t unread the reports I read. I can’t rewi
nd the video in my head. It’s there, stuck, never to be gone, never to be erased.
When Isabelle nods, I move to the leather briefcase hanging over my dining room chair—the leather briefcase Phillipa replaced for me when mine was never found.
“Alex told me about the payment between Isaac and Vladimir today,” Isabelle advises, wrongly believing the FBI folder I dug out corresponds with the payments Isaac made to her father last month.
It isn’t that.
It’s way worse than that.
“This isn’t regarding that.” Almost robotic-like, I return to the couch, pull out a six-by-ten-inch photograph from my folder, then hand it to Isabelle.
“No.” Her one word is like a punch to the stomach. It’s equally remorseful and heart-wrenching. “It can’t be.”
“I’m sorry, Izzy,” I murmur through the pain tearing at my chest. “It’s true. Ophelia is alive.”
After a painstaking thirty seconds, instead of letting me help her as I wish someone would help me, Isabelle leaps to her feet before seeking the closest exit. “Is there a back entrance to this building? Somewhere I can leave without Roger seeing me?”
“You should stay. We should discuss this.”
She shakes her head so fiercely, strands of dark brown hair fall in front of her eye. “No. I need a minute to digest this.” She’s quick to wipe away the solemn tear trekking down her cheek, but I still see it. “I can’t do that here. I’m sorry, Brandon. I just can’t.”
With her words being oddly familiar, I move to the front door of my apartment. “If you take a right at the end of the stairwell, it will direct you to the back entrance. You’ll need to input a security code to stop the fire alarm from sounding.”
I grab a pen off the desk to write the four digits of Melody’s birthday onto her palm. I’m shaking so much, my handwriting is barely legible. I want to say it’s the alcohol I guzzled the past week slowly seeping out of my body, but that would be a lie. It’s knowing I hurt someone just with the hope of easing my pain.
