Let's Talk About Sext

by Evie Claire

  “I will. Promise. I just need some time to figure out what to say.”

  She’d never entertained any possibility other than him hating her. Had the shoe been on the other foot, she would surely hate him. But now…now she had to ponder the possibility that Brody—a man who was cut from a wholly different cloth than herself—probably wouldn’t react in the same way. The thought brought so much hope. But so much torture, too. Pessimism had kept her from entertaining the idea that Brody might forgive her. It was easier to assume he wouldn’t. Yet now that Lorie had opened the can of worms, the idea would distract her from everything. If she didn’t do something about it. Best to get it done. Get it over with. Rip off the Band-Aid. Doctor the resulting wound.

  There were usually two answers to everything—yes or no. Fuck off was a third possibility, but it was really just a glorified variation of no. And while it would hurt like hell, she had more than earned it. In her normal type A fashion, she prepared herself for either outcome. If he forgave her, life could be blissful again. And if he didn’t, it would be just more of the same. Sucky, but nothing she couldn’t endure.

  The moment their show ended and the door closed on Lorie, Phebe grabbed her phone. Typed in Br and braced against the emotions of seeing his name on the screen.

  PHEBE: Hey. Hope you’re well. Can we meet to discuss your building project?

  It had been weeks since their blow-up. Weeks since they’d discussed his building. She’d held up her end of deal. Everything was ready to go. With one simple call to her chosen builder, the project would start. If the time line held, in three months Brody would be a landlord. She wanted that for him, even if he wanted nothing to do with her.

  Yes, she was completely within her rights to disagree with the choices he’d made. But to judge him so harshly—to verbally abuse his entire person in such a way—wasn’t. She’d once told him that when life felt out of control, she tended to overreact. And that’s exactly what she’d done. Because for her, the sheer thought of giving away millions of dollars was paralyzing. As a shrewd businesswoman, she would never be so generous in life. Hell, an inadvertent double charge on her Amex made her palms sweat. But his decision was exactly that. His.

  And while she still had a hard time wrapping her brain around the fact that Brody could behave in a way that seemed so utterly careless with money, she also couldn’t wrap her brain around the way she had so carelessly judged someone she cared about.

  Cold fear rippled through her when her screen moved. The text bubble turned from dark to a lighter blue. Read popped up underneath it. Seconds passed. Her heart hammered. Threatened to explode from the effort. She forced her breathing to steady. Now was so not the time for another panic attack. She needed her wits.

  Three gray dots danced on the screen opposite her text. She gripped the phone closer. Her breath coming short. Her chest unable to fully expand. Again, she forced calming thoughts into her brain. Closing her eyes, she covered them with her hand, massaging her temple with a thumb. Her fingers were cold and it soothed her. Breathe. Just breathe. Steadied, she looked back to the phone. The dots disappeared.

  Fuck.

  Then reappeared.

  Fuck.

  Then disappeared again.

  Neither her body nor her brain were prepared for such abuse. Such torture, really. Waiting around for the only man that mattered was pure hell. Never had she let anyone have such control over her life. And here she was giving Brody all the rein he wanted.

  If he wanted it. Finally, an answer.

  BRODY: I think we can both admit our project is over. Send me the bill.

  Phebe knew the debt he was already swimming in. The bills he had coming due that this project was supposed to help pay. Before she thought about things like appropriate wording, she fired off her answer.

  PHEBE: But you can’t possibly afford it now.

  BRODY: Don’t you think you’ve insulted me enough already?

  Phebe’s heart leaped into her throat, pounding so ferociously, breath was hard to come by. She was busy typing—can we talk—when another text came in.

  BRODY: Send the fucking bill.

  The moment she read his last text, the phone slipped from her hand, to the hardwood floor, joining the wine-stained towel. Seconds later, she sank to the floor beside it. On her knees, she allowed a tear to slip from behind her closed lids.

  Why? Why was she able to only fuck things up with Brody? Usually, she was a fixer.

  Now she was nothing but a mess.

  Chapter 25

  Brody

  Brody stared into the bathroom mirror, one hand stretching the skin taut down his neck, the other carefully guiding a straight blade right up to the edge of his beard. From beneath his T-shirt collar, navy and jade ink licked up the side of his neck. Just an inch or so. Nothing that couldn’t be hidden when needed. He paused and traced a thumb over the design.

  There were certain thoughts his mind shouldn’t still be lingering on. Not so far after the fact. His mind, he was quickly learning, rarely did what it should. Instead of concentrating on not slicing into his jugular, the razor stilled, splayed against his throat, and his brain turned all its efforts on an impossible question. One he had spent adulthood not giving a fuck about.

  Would I be better off if I weren’t me?

  Under a force he couldn’t possibly control, the air sucked out of his lungs, pushing up his throat and dangerously close to the cold steel blade. God, he hated the question. It turned his stomach to lead. Only in life’s darkest moments did he doubt himself. Lately, life was pitch black.

  He’d blown her off. Convinced his brain he didn’t care. But the second question that came zinging into his conscious thought laughed at the suggestion.

  Would she still be here if I weren’t me?

  The razor fell from his hand, clattering against the sink basin. Shaken by how closely the blade had skimmed his skin, he gripped the bowl with both hands, squeezing it, calming himself and his radical thoughts.

  It was none of her damn business what he did or didn’t do with property from his father’s estate. Property he wanted nothing to do with. In his mind, there was no greater purpose for the land than making all those kids smile. Phebe’s profession blinded her to that possibility. Not his fault. Phebe’s determination made her a cutthroat bitch sometimes. Not his fault, either.

  The only thing that was one hundred percent his fault was that he still questioned the whole situation weeks after it was so obviously over. It was masochistic on an epic scale.

  He turned the water to scalding hot. Wet a rag. And dragged it down his throat, wiping away the remaining lines of white shaving foam. The water burned like hell. Hot enough to momentarily move his thoughts off the reality.

  He threw a hand in the air in Drew’s general direction when he entered the bar and made a beeline for the hard liquor. Between Drew and a drink, surely he could find some peace.

  “Heads up, boss,” Drew said, extending a cocktail napkin toward his Adam’s apple. When he pulled it away, it was dotted with blood.

  “Damn,” Brody murmured, taking the napkin and holding it against his neck. He moved to the bar’s back mirror for a closer look. “Dropped my fucking razor.”

  Drew said nothing, nodding thoughtfully while he poured the drink Brody had been intent on. “Rough morning?” he asked.

  “Rough life lately, it seems,” Brody answered, accepting the outstretched glass.

  “A guy stopped by earlier. Wanted to know if you had decided when you wanted him to start work.” Drew motioned upward, to the empty floors.

  Brody grumbled under his breath and took the shot down. “Never, I guess.”

  “You don’t have to stop the project just because she isn’t here to manage it, do you?” Drew conveniently left her name out of it.

/>   “I have to. I don’t know the first thing about commercial real estate.”

  “Surely between the two of us we know someone who could take over.”

  “But that’s the thing, I never wanted to start the project. It was all her.” Brody balled the napkin and threw it in the trash.

  “Bullshit.” Drew popped a glass rag in Brody’s direction, getting his attention. “Whenever you get drunk the first thing you talk about is all the plans you have for this place. So don’t give me that crap about it being all on her.”

  “That’s what poor people do, Drew. We get drunk and dream about what we would do if we were rich. It’s the cheapest form of entertainment there is.”

  “Okay, bullshit on that, too.” Again, Drew lightly popped Brody’s arm with the rag. “You chose your income level, too, remember? Because I’ve also heard you trying to convince your mother—at least a hundred times—that you don’t want any of your father’s money.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Dude, I try to be supportive. But seriously? What is this?”

  “Drew, I didn’t grow up with the hustle-to-sports-practices-after-work kind of dad that you did. You were lucky. I wasn’t.”

  “Okay, but that was, what, ten, fifteen years ago. I could certainly get over it in that amount of time. Did your dad really leave you half of everything?”

  “Where’d you hear that?” Brody bristled and sat down on a nearby stool.

  “Man, everybody talks about it. You gave away everything at a time when your peers—my brother and your friend included—are struggling to make anything. Not to mention most wills leave major assets to the spouse first, kids second. Your dad wanted you to have something.”

  “Everybody talks about it?”

  Drew nodded.

  “Do me a favor?”

  “Sure, boss.”

  “Next time they start talking, tell them to shut the fuck up. They don’t have a clue.” Brody leaned his elbows on the bar top, spreading wide and staring up at the wall lined with liquor bottles.

  “You aren’t even going to try to renovate the empty space? I thought it was all ready to go.”

  “There’s too much of her in those walls right now.” Brody shook his head, staring into the void of rafters overhead.

  “Okay, I understand that.” Drew threw up his hands. “But what are you going to do about the loan repayment? That’ll come due soon.”

  “We never started.” Brody shook his head, adjusting his watch, certain the loan could simply be canceled, or whatever you did with things like that.

  Drew cleared his throat. “Um, yeah you did.”

  “How?”

  “Well, there’s permit fees, design fees, engineer fees. All the pre-work Phebe had to do before a single nail could be driven. Unless you paid that out of pocket?”

  The news hit Brody like a hammer. No, he hadn’t paid a dime. And because he’d trusted her so completely, he hadn’t even bothered to help. So, no, he knew nothing about anything. But he didn’t doubt Drew, because it all made sense once he stopped to think about it.

  “Fuuuuuck…” Brody groaned, and let his head fall back.

  At that moment, the door brushed open and Drew moved to meet the patron, knowing Brody was in no shape to do so.

  “Thanks, man,” Drew said to whoever had entered instead of reaching for a glass.

  The door snicked shut again.

  “Who was that?” Brody turned his head.

  “Mailman.” Drew extended a handful of mail.

  Brody was about to tell him to put it on the counter when he saw a familiar gold-encrusted envelope. “I’ll take that,” he said, reaching for a letter from the Boys & Girls Clubs. The address was handwritten. He tore it open and found a personal thank-you note from Brent, along with an official-looking form.

  Brody scanned the document, not knowing what it was, aside from the words For Tax Purposes stamped in bold letters across the top. Great, more taxes, he thought, remembering the hefty bill he already had due. One he’d hoped to use rental income from the upper floors to pay. So much for that now. His eyes scanned the page, then focused on a number typed into the very last column of the very farthest margin. A number that made his heart miss a few beats.

  $5,000,000.00

  “What the hell is this?” Brody read over the document again, his mouth going dry. The number was familiar. It was the estimate Phebe had given him for the Rhodes Street property weeks ago. A number he’d blown off, chalked up to her crazy emotional ranting. Turns out, he was crazy. Because five million was the exact value the Boys & Girls Clubs was allowing him to write off as a charitable contribution on his taxes.

  “Holy shit…” Drew said, reading over his shoulder. “That’s what you gave away?” Drew’s eyes went wide, taking the paper from Brody’s hand to read it over. “No wonder she freaked out on you, dude. I would, too.”

  Brody snatched the paper out of his hands. “Not a word.” He halfway balled it in the hand that had grabbed it and pointed a finger at Drew. Silent seconds ticked off a noisy bar clock. Brody was lost for words. He had never asked the value of the property. But now, knowing it, it made sense that Lona hadn’t wanted to take it, that the Boys & Girls Clubs had, and that Phebe had freaked out over it all.

  His gaze strayed to the rafters again. His mind clicking through facts so fast, he couldn’t think what he should do. For a moment, Drew watched him, and then, thinking better of it, sauntered halfway down the bar, knowing when a man needed room to think.

  Was Brody second-guessing his donation? No. He had zero remorse over that.

  Was he seeing some reason in Phebe’s argument? Maybe. Though it’d stung like hell, it wasn’t entirely unjustified.

  The bar barely made ends meet. He was swimming in debt. Phebe knew that and she was trying to help him by insisting on the renovation project. He hadn’t been honest with her about his financial situation, though it wasn’t the intentional lie she thought it was.

  The way Phebe saw life, he had failed. Disappointed her. Let her down. Just like his father had always said he would. Thomas’s frustration had never bothered him because it was coming from a place of utter disapproval.

  Phebe’s was different. And it was one small word that made it so. One small word he’d never given much attention.

  Us.

  It has everything to do with us.

  She’d wanted a future with Brody. One that a careless—even if completely altruistic—business decision had caused her to doubt.

  At the time, he’d been too angry at her inability to accept what he’d done with his property. Hell, even too angry at his father—still, after all these years—to accept any inheritance he’d left. That was squarely on him.

  It was a sloppy decision—one that had been an easy answer at the time. But easy isn’t usually right. And if his honesty was the totally brutal kind, his donation wasn’t completely selfless. It felt good to help the kids. It also felt good to defy his dad one more time.

  And what exactly had that accomplished?

  God, it was a muddled mix of emotions.

  This much he knew—he’d never regret what he’d done. But he could finally understand the motivation behind Phebe’s anger. Because who wants to do life with someone who is so stubbornly standing still that they let spite rule when reason should?

  * * *

  —

  It was embarrassing. It was also necessary.

  Lona Cantrell shifted in the seat beside Brody, adjusting her suit jacket, and then leaning over to adjust the cuff of his, too. He didn’t have to turn his head to see the way she was beaming at him. She opened her mouth to speak. He stopped her.

  “Please don’t say it again.” He folded his hands together in prayer and closed his eyes. Lona landed an elbow in his biceps.

&
nbsp; “Oh, stop it. He would and you know it.” Lona tsked from her seat.

  “He’s not the reason I’m here, Mom.”

  “Can’t you let an old lady be happy?”

  “You aren’t old. I saw two bankers checking you out while we waited. Wanted to tell them to get their eyes back in their heads.” Brody balled his fist for effect.

  Lona patted his arm lovingly but said nothing as the door opened and his banker reentered the room.

  “Mr. Cantrell, I have good news. The bank is willing to convert your construction loan to a general business loan if your mother agrees to co-sign. And they are willing to roll your other debts into the repayment—most notably the ten thousand dollars owed for a licensing infringement and twenty thousand for property taxes. Mrs. Cantrell, are you willing to co-sign?”

  Brody swallowed the embarrassment of needing his mother to co-sign a loan with him. Unfortunately, years of bad business and personal decisions had left him with little choice.

  “Of course, I am!” Lona said with a smile. “What mother wouldn’t?”

  “That’s nice.” The man returned Lona’s smile, his eyes lingering longer than they should. Was he hitting on her, too? Brody balled his other fist.

  “Just out of curiosity, I see Phebe Stark’s name on loan origination documents. Is she still affiliated with this project?” The banker scanned the original documents, reading with his finger, stopping when he had presumably found what he was looking for. “Here we are. Yes, she’s listed as the project manager. How in the heck did you manage to land her for a simple renovation like this?”

  “She was a friend,” Brody answered. His use of the past tense wasn’t lost on anyone in the room. It made for an uncomfortable few seconds. Until the banker switched into business mode.