Quiet Protector- Brandon's Story

by Shandi Boyes

  “Petretti,” I interrupt. “How is she involved?”

  After snagging her briefcase off the ground where my entryway table once stood and detouring past the kitchen to snatch up the half-consumed bottle of whiskey, she retakes her seat next to me. “If you were manufacturing babies for well-to-do clients who either were infertile or didn’t want to ruin years of plastic surgery by growing their own baby, what services would be on your speed-dial list?”

  A normal person would automatically say an obstetrician. I’m not close to ordinary. Mr. Gregg taught me to think outside of the box, which is precisely what I do in this situation.

  “A pharmacist?” I suggest a few seconds later. “They have access to fertility drugs without needing a prescription, meaning there won’t be a messy paper trail for authorities to find.”

  “Exactly.” The whiskey burns my throat for a second time when Phillipa places an employee identification card next to our empty glasses. Although I only spent twelve hours with the woman smiling up at me from on the card, I’ll never forget her face. She’s one of a handful of people I blame for ruining my life.

  I want to believe the evidence Phillipa is presenting, but with my trust low, I have to remain cautious. “Olivia…” I stop, then correct, “Ophelia has only been ‘deceased’ for six years. Julian is a decade older than her. Your dates don’t add up, Phillipa. You’re missing a huge chunk of the timeline.”

  She smiles, pleased with herself. “I would say you’re smarter than you look, BJ, but you rock the smart, cutie vibe as well, so I won’t mess with your head.” She places a second ID card onto the first. This one is from many decades ago.

  “Ophelia’s mom was a pharmacist.” Since I’m not asking a question, it doesn’t sound like one. “Do you believe she was running the same scheme as Oli… Ophelia?”

  “I don’t think. I know.” She hands me a bunch of autopsy reports. “Drugs found in the older victims’ autopsies were matched to prescriptions filled at the drug store Lana worked at.” When she locks her eyes with mine, the confidence in them is nearly enough to put me on my ass. “The Petrettis were working with the Castros. I’m confident of it.”

  When I take a moment to work the facts through my head, the pause in time awards me more confusion.

  “There’s something we’re missing. Dimitri would never work with the Castros.” I don’t disclose how I know he hates them with every fiber of his being, but I do disclose we’ve had private conversations. “He’s also unaware Ophelia is alive. If your beliefs are true, Dimitri is in the dark about it all.” I am shocked I’m standing up for a criminal, but at the end of the day, Dimitri isn’t in the wrong—this time.

  “I guess time will tell.” Phillipa balances on the edge of my couch before digging her hand into her briefcase. “We have surveillance in place for Ophelia.”

  “When were these taken?” I ask when she dumps a file full of still images onto the coffee table.

  As she pours us another generous serving of whiskey, I rummage through the photographs. “My guy has been there since dawn…” Her words trail off when I curse under my breath. “What?”

  “That’s Isabelle.” I point to a photograph in the middle of the stack, cursing for the second time when I recall Isabelle’s sudden desire for a trip to Tiburon. “I told Izzy Ophelia was alive. I gave her a photo from Tobias’s folders.”

  Phillipa looks a cross between wanting to strangle me and hug me. “Brandon, why would you do that?”

  “I had no clue she’d seek her out.” That’s a lie. I knew the instant I showed Isabelle the picture, she’d do everything in her power to locate Ophelia as it’s exactly what I would have done if I were in the same situation. “I’ve got to go. Can you show yourself out?” Not waiting for her to answer me, I race to my front door.

  “Where are you going?” Phillipa shouts as I jab my finger into the elevator call button.

  As I dash into the awaiting cart, I answer, “To fix a fuck-up.”

  One of many I’ve made the past two weeks.

  Thirty minutes later, I pull my BMW into the driveway of Isaac’s private residence. No one had knowledge this property existed until Alex tailed Isaac and Isabelle home from his penthouse apartment a couple of months ago. I was in awe of the architect when I arrived to catalog evidence following the execution of a search warrant, but the inside of his palatial palace required a creative imagination. I don’t know who conducted Alex’s search warrant, but they spent more time destroying Isaac’s property than hunting for evidence.

  When several presses on the buzzer go unanswered, I pull my car to the side of Isaac’s estate so I can check for any incoming flights to Ravenshoe’s private airstrip. Isaac wasn’t seen in any of Phillipa’s surveillance images, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t with Isabelle in Tiburon. He never lets her out of his sight.

  I stop punching in the flight manifest for a private jet that arrived back earlier this evening when the headlights of a car shine into the cab of my BMW. Although I can’t see any features of the person seated behind the driver’s seat, I’m confident it is Isaac. His arrogance is felt from here, although it’s a little light tonight compared to normal.

  After a few minutes of psyching myself up for World War III, I curl my hand around my door latch, prepared to confront Isaac for the second time in under twenty-four hours. I’ve only just cracked open my door when another set of headlights beam into my car. These aren’t sleek and curved like most sports cars. They’re round and classic, convincing me they don’t belong to any of the cars in Isaac’s fleet. If its price tag is under one hundred thousand dollars, he won’t touch it with a ten-foot pole.

  My teeth grit when Hugo spots me as quickly as I spot him, then they’re crunched down to nubs when he conducts an illegal U-turn to pull in behind me. He’s got issues with me, and in all honesty, I understand why. I just wish he’d take his frustration out on my brother instead of me.

  I’m carrying more than my load. I don’t know if I can take another ounce.

  “What are you doing here, Blondie?” Hugo snarls, strutting my way. “You sniffing around hoping Isaac left out a bone?”

  A wish to ram Grayson’s suggestion for me to rile Isaac slams into me. Ever since I kissed Isabelle, I’ve taken hit after hit after hit.

  I guess that’s what happens when you mess with a taken girl.

  When Hugo stops in front of me, he puffs out his chest, ensuring I’m aware he has a good six to eight inches on me in height. Although his cocky stance would have most men running, some things Mr. Gregg taught me will never be forgotten.

  “I just want to make sure Izzy is all right,” I reply, fighting to hide my smile about how intimidated he is of me. He wouldn’t be parading around like a peacock if he thought he had one over me. The fact he’s constantly on alert assures me he knows I can give as good as I get.

  “Then why not go knock on the door like a real man?”

  An unexpected chuckle rumbles in my chest. “Been there. Done that.” More than once. When Hugo glares at me, confused, I relieve his confusion. “I’ve tried numerous times to see Izzy since she left the hospital. My attempts were always denied by Isaac.”

  He hates giving me any leeway, but the honesty in my reply doesn’t give him much choice. “Izzy is fine. She’s with Isaac… where she belongs.”

  Hugo’s brisk strides to his classic ride halts when my curiosity gets the better of me. “Even with Ophelia being alive?” I didn’t mean to voice my question out loud. I was just too shocked to hold it back.

  Hugo pivots around to face me, his brow cocking. “How do you know about that?”

  My throat works hard to swallow when it dawns on me that I blew my cover. I’ll blame my woozy head for my mistake.

  “You gave Izzy the photo, didn’t you? You thought it was your way in, the key to breaking up Isaac and Izzy.”

  I shake my head, both stunned by his suggestion and agitated by it. I may be an agent, but that doesn’t automati
cally place me on the opposition’s team. I’ve helped Isaac many times the past few months. I let his team into Megan’s ranch before authorities, and I got Isabelle out of Theresa’s clutch before the damage of her claws was irreversible. I’ve helped.

  Not that anyone ever notices.

  Hugo’s reply ensures I can’t be mistaken about this. “Bullshit. You weaseled your way into Izzy’s life by pretending you’re her friend, all so you could undermine her relationship with Isaac. I’ve got news for you… you can’t fight fate, so I suggest you give up while you’re ahead.”

  “I'm her friend,” I retaliate, my anger rising. “Everything I’ve done is because I’m trying to protect her,” I continue to shout, unaware I’m projecting my fears for Melody onto Isabelle.

  “She doesn’t need your protection!” Hugo’s roar is as violent as the bomb ticking deep in my gut. It’s indestructible and seconds from detonation. “She has Isaac. She has me.” He bangs his chest during his last confirmation. “She doesn’t need you, so go jump on your white horse and find another damsel in distress to save because Izzy doesn’t need saving.”

  When he stalks back to his car, I fight to control my anger. I remind myself time and time again that I’ve done nothing wrong, and that he’s just taking his anger out on the wrong person. But no matter how hard I fight, no matter how much I try to be the bigger person, I can’t.

  I’m done playing nice.

  “Are you going to protect her like you did Gemma?”

  Hugo’s spin this time around is faster than his previous. With his steps fortified with anger, he storms my way looking as if he wants to kill me.

  I could only be so lucky.

  After fisting my shirt, he drags me to within an inch of his face. He stares at me for what feels like minutes but is barely seconds. I can see the hate in his eyes, the anger. It mimics the hurt in mine to a T.

  “Who are you?” he asks, shuddering through the shivers wreaking havoc with every inch of his body.

  Pissed by my lack of response, he repeats, “Who are you?”

  Needing the pain to end, I mutter, “My name is Brandon James…” He grips my shirt tighter, his fury uncontained. “McGee.”

  Shock fills his face as he scans mine, seeking similarities only brothers have. When he finds them, he takes a stumbling step back. “You’re Grabby McGee’s brother?”

  Grabby McGee? I wish that were the worst of it.

  When I nod, answering the unvoiced questions in his eyes, he yanks me forward before ramming me back. The brutal crunch of my body into my car is sickening, however, it fills me with calm. Pain is good. Pain reminds me of how I failed.

  “Do you know who I am?” Hugo growls in my face, his spit sizzling on my cheeks.

  “Yes,” I reply, ashamed. I know every sordid detail, and I did nothing about it. Kind of similar to how I responded to Melody’s injustice as well. Madden is sitting in jail, awaiting his trial, but if I were a real man, he’d be dead. There’d be no question about that.

  I recall the reason for my shift in focus when Hugo asks, “Do you know what they did?” An array of emotions flares through his eyes—anger, hurt, frustration, they’re all there—even more so when he repeats his question. “Do you know what they did to me?”

  “Yes.” The simplicity of my reply doesn’t lessen Hugo’s annoyance. The redness on his cheeks doubles as he fights to maintain a cool head. I wish he wouldn’t. “But I'm nothing like them,” I assure, even with my confidence not as high as it once was. “I didn’t change my name because I didn’t want people to know who my father is. I changed it because I'm ashamed of it. I’m ashamed of them.” Him. My brother. The man who raped my girlfriend.

  I want Hugo to crack. I want him to break. I want him to hurt me until my outsides match my hideously ugly insides, but instead of doing any of those things, Hugo proves what I’ve always known. He isn’t a monster like Madden. He’s merely a broken man—just like me.

  After a final stare and an ashamed shake of his head, he stalks to his car, leaving me alone.

  Again.

  36

  Brandon

  My steps falter halfway up the stairs leading to my apartment building. A man is in the foyer, a man who shouldn’t be here. He’s undercover miles and miles from here. Usually, I’d be pleased to see him. That isn’t the case today.

  Grayson isn’t here because he needs my help. He’s here to help me. The worried expression on his face is very telling, much less the lady standing behind him, backing up his campaign.

  “Phillipa was supposed to show herself out, not let in strays.”

  Grayson doesn’t scoff at my low, woeful tone. He uses it to fortify his campaign. “You need help, BJ.”

  “Leave it alone,” I warn him, stepping past him and Phillipa. I jab my finger into the elevator call button in rhythm to the stabbing punctuation of my words. “I’m tired, restless, and I need to fucking sleep. That’s what I need.”

  “You need to admit that you’re hurting. You need to admit your brother did you wrong. You do not need to take the blame for him. He hurt Melody, Brandon. He—”

  “Raped her!” I interrupt, screaming. “That’s way beyond hurt, Grayson.” I step closer to him with my fists clenched and my nostrils flaring. “If you hadn’t stopped me, he’d be dead, and justice would have been served.” I get up in his face as Hugo did mine forty minutes ago. “Just like if you hadn’t forced Tobias to intervene, she would have never been hurt. This is as much on your shoulders as it is mine, Grayson. You deserve just as much of the blame.”

  “Yeah, it is, punk. It’s on my shoulders. I feel the weight. I feel your pain. But I’m not going to let that prick eat at my conscience until I don’t recognize myself anymore.” His eyes bounce between mine. They’re shimmering with tears. “I’m not going to let him win… unlike you.”

  He slaps my chest before taking a step back, having no clue the thread I’m clutching is extremely thin. If the desperateness to see Madden punished for his crimes wasn’t keeping me motivated, I would have let go by now.

  That’s how much it hurts.

  That’s how ashamed I am.

  I work my jaw side to side when Phillipa mutters, “We’re worried about you, BJ. You’re not yourself.”

  “I’m fine.” I grit my teeth when my lie doesn’t come out as strong as I’m hoping. “I just need to keep my head busy.”

  “And what happens when the busyness stops?” she asks, stepping forward, taking over the Brandon-is-a-wimp baton. “What happens then?”

  I won’t answer her question because, in all honesty, I don’t know how. I’m barely holding on. I can feel the cracks deepening, they’re seconds from being exposed.

  Since I don’t want that to occur in front of witnesses, I spin on my heels and dart up the stairwell. I’ve barely climbed half a floor when Phillipa shouts my name. She sounds worried about me. Or even worse, sorry for me. Both are as bad as the other.

  “I’m fine!” As a big chunk of the wall around my heart comes away with a brutal sob, I race up fourteen floors like my fitness hasn’t gone to shit the past two months. “I’m fucking fine.”

  When I burst through the front door of my apartment, I think I’m in the clear.

  I think I am safe from additional pain.

  I’m an idiot.

  This hurt is different than the agitated restlessness Grayson and Phillipa’s exchange instigated. It is sore, remorseful, and catastrophic. It’s bigger than me—not in stature, we stand at almost the same height—but in sorrow, deep, anguish-filled sorrow.

  Well played, Grayson, well played. You just utterly annihilated me.

  As I stand in the middle of my entryway, the girl from my dreams spins around to face me. She must have arrived in a hurry. Her dirty-blonde hair is kinked from letting it dry naturally, and her face is free of makeup. Even with her eyes full of tears, she’s even more breathtaking than she is when she graces my dreams. You can’t beat perfection unless your name
is Melody Gregg.

  “Hi, BJ,” Melody signs as her eyes float over my face.

  When gut-wrenching heartache beams out of me in invisible waves, she bridges the gap between us before throwing her arms around my neck. I try to be brave when she whispers in my ear that I’m not to blame for what happened to her. I try to be strong like I’ve been taught both as a child and an adult. I try to represent those men who never cry, not even when they’re attending the funerals of their mothers.

  But then I remember I’m not one of those men.

  I am Brandon James McGee.

  Peanut butter lover, baseball loather, and Melody Gregg’s best friend.

  I can fall because Melody will catch me.

  I can break because Melody will fix me.

  And I can say I’m sorry because only after I forgive myself for the mistakes I’ve made will I be able to accept Melody’s forgiveness.

  Furthermore, I’ll never grip love if I don’t let go of the pain. It’s not possible to keep them both. So, instead of continuing to hold onto that teeny tiny thread I’ve been clutching the past month, I let it go.

  The fall is brutal, and it hurts, but as predicted, Melody catches me.

  I can only hope she never lets me go.

  37

  Melody

  Have you ever sat in a dark room and just let your mind drift? I never had until Grayson called me out of the blue last night. I wouldn’t necessarily say it was an eye-opening experience for me personally, but it was epiphanic to the person I was once.

  As I sat in the dark, hoping to clear the gunk from my head, I kept hearing the same six words over and over again.

  “A victim knows a victim, right?”

  Leo’s words were for Julian, but the more they played through my head, the more they resonated with Brandon. A victim doesn’t have to be physically scarred from an assault. Emotional abuse is just as detrimental, especially to a gentle soul like Brandon.