by Sabrina York
When the hand still gripping the rail went numb, he simply let go, marveling at how easy that step had been. Why had he waited this long to….
“Brody!” A female voice screamed. Someone grabbed at him, yanked him close, pulling him down to the balcony floor. “Baby, baby, what are you doing? My god.” She held him, the woman who saved him, who cared about him and took care of him. She rocked him, crooning.
He stared at her dry-eyed, gut-deep emptiness driving him to a rash decision. “Marry me, Amber,” he croaked out.
“Oh course, my love.” she said, and he tried hard to ignore the flash of satisfaction on her face before he stood, pulled her up, ripped off her silk pajama shorts, and fucked her on the balcony, feeling absolutely nothing.
Chapter Seven
Sophie whimpered when the shower water hit her whip-striped legs. She leaned against the tile, taking deep breaths and internalizing the pain that had been so very worth it. Every blessed strike to her skin had done something she’d somehow required.
Even if it had not been Brody doing the whipping, she would have embraced it. She hadn’t experienced that sort of punishment—the kind that shoved her deep into subspace—in years. Frank had been good with the whip and as sick as that whole thing had been, she missed portions of it. The part of her that needed to be centered, to not be in charge, to surrender all control for a few glorious moments of pain and pleasure, had been empty for years.
Tonight, the new-and-not-terribly improved Brody fulfilled her in ways she loved. She’d gone so deep in to her private space, into her head, the glorious quiet was all that existed for her. That and the crack-snap of the whip on her flesh. She’d been surprised when he stopped, then when the pain hit her in the next seconds, she understood why he had.
Sensing his extreme distress from across the room, she’d lost it. That’s why she cried. Not from pain. It had released her in a way she’d missed. She’d obviously been in deep denial about that particular piece of her personality. But Brody…Robert…had been so distraught by the sight of her broke, it what remained of her heart.
Why had she chosen to have him? She’d known him within seconds. It didn’t have to be him…but something in her had shoved her forward, forced her to take action. Leading to the most erotic moment of her life. When he’d slipped into her body, whispering her name as if fantasizing, making careful, perfect love to her, something broken in her had simply healed.
And that allowed her to take the final step away from him. Because she had fully intended to remove the mask, to confront him and tell him who she was, and what they had created together. To tell him about his son.
But she’d collected that back to herself, got dressed, ready to go. Then at the last minute, when he’d held out his hand, open-palmed, like he used to, she made her final decision. Brody was lost to her. She had to let him go.
“Mommy!” The sound of Sam’s voice echoed through the bathroom, startling her. “Let’s go! We’re gonna miss the practice!”
She sighed, got out, and toweled off. It had been nearly a week since her moment at the club. Susan had given her some salve to put on the open wounds. While she yearned for something similar, for a heart salve, a memory bandage, so that all thoughts and visions of her time with Robert Vaughn might actually be covered up, and eventually healed.
Susan knew everything—about Katrina’s, Frank, and even Brody. It had been the best kind of relief to have such a friend she trusted and unburdened to. She stayed home a couple of days, calling in sick but doing a ton of stuff from her laptop. When Saturday had arrived, she’d decided to head in, figuring she’d use the off-weekend for the team to let Sam run around while she got some work done.
Her phone buzzed, and she grabbed it as she brushed out her wet hair. The fragile inner peace she’d maintained since the encounter at the club was shattered to bits by the text from Jack:
Brody is out. Getting married to that bitch of an agent. She is demanding we honor his request for transfer to Boston.
Exactly a month later, she had the papers ready for him to sign. This is for the best, she said to herself for the millionth time. He’s gone anyway. Your Brody is not coming back, no matter that one brief glimpse of him you got that night. Let him take this step. Clinging to him by pretending to wait for the best offer is immature. Grow up. Move on for good.
She reviewed the ten-page document, frowning at the price they were getting for the man—the sort of figure that seemed unreal, pretend, and would allow them to purchase a new goalkeeper at a slightly lower salary than what Brody currently commanded. All good for the Black Jacks. All good for Sophie. All. Good.
Her gaze fell on the thick, creamy envelope with the fancy calligraphy spelling out her full name. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it away. The whole team had been invited to the wedding at the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club. It would be the social event of the year, attended by soccer celebrities, sports commentators, crawling with photographers and gossipmongers. It would be a lovely, horrible event. She swept the stupid thing into the trash and refocused on the contract, ignoring the serendipity of the wedding date set for Brody Vaughn and Amber London: June tenth. The day his son turned four.
She drifted, revisiting some of the more erotic moments she’d shared with the young man who had captured her heart and still gripped it so tight she could feel the familiar warmth of his hand. How she had carried, born, and adored his son more than life itself.
The distinct sound of a throat clearing behind her forced her gaze from the empty soccer field below. She blinked, shocked to find none other than Brody’s fiancée, Amber, standing there, her stare so sharp, Sophie believed it might cut her. She sighed and leaned back in her seat.
“What?” she asked, making sure her tone stayed clipped and businesslike.
“I need to tell you something.” The woman took a seat without being invited.
Sophie glared at the pushy, successful bitch on the verge of fulfilling her dream—to truly own the Brody Vaughn brand by transforming herself into Missus Vaughn.
“I’m busy.” She stared down at her desk, setting her jaw, the words on various papers blurring. No way this woman would make her cry.
“I don’t think you’ll be too busy for this.”
The woman tossed something down on the tidy desk, giving her an eye-popping view of the obnoxious huge diamond on her left ring finger. She frowned at the paper. It bore the letterhead of, Nathan Gage, PI and fully outlined a report she skimmed until fixating on two things: Proprietor of an illegal prostitution ring, Katrina’s. And, follow-up report to child protective services as to the safety of Samuel Robert Harrison.
Her brain refused to accept it. She met Amber’s steely gaze. “What is this about?” She tried not to scream or plant her fist right into the smug bitch’s expensively-perfected nose.
“I know that kid is Brody’s,” Amber said, her casual stance familiar—that of the shark-agent using her best weapon. Pretending whatever happened during negotiations didn’t really matter. That she would win no matter what.
“I don’t care what you think you know,” Sophie declared, her ears ringing with terror. “And there is nothing illegal about Katrina’s. It is not prostitution. It’s a fully licensed, bonded, and insured dating service. You’re bluffing.”
“Funny thing about the media though,” Amber gave her a wide fake grin. “They are lazy.” She put both hands on the desk. Light bounced off the diamond, blinding Sophie for a split second. “So this,” she leaned in close, as if they were gal pals exchanging neighborly gossip over coffee, “this is my insurance policy.”
Sophie opened her mouth to tell the woman to get her filthy, lying, blackmail report off her desk and never come back. Amber held up a finger, waggling it like a teacher in the face of a naughty student.
“Brody is mine. I’m getting him the hell away from you and your stupid club on purpose. I’m losing money, too, which I don’t like to do because I know if I let him play another seas
on here….” She waved a dismissive hand at the window with its view of the team practice. The view Sophie loved and hated all at once. “He’d likely command even more dough. But mostly,” crossing her arms, she met Sophie’s incredulous gaze, “I want him…my fiancé…as far from you and your love-child, over-the-hill influence as I can get him. No questions asked.”
“But we are about to sign this,” Sophie spluttered, anger and a lick of fear darkening her vision. “I…I mean, we, agree in full to your terms. We’re letting him go.” She stopped talking, and rose, wanting to feel above this grasping, desperate excuse for a woman. “So take your blackmail bullshit and stuff it up your bony ass. I let Brody go years ago. Some of us know how to behave like mature humans, to understand when we just aren’t going to get our way no matter how badly we want it. Go, marry him, cheat on him, let him cheat on you, and have a messy public divorce. I don’t care.” She walked around her desk and yanked the door open. “Get the fuck out of my office, Amber. Next time make an appointment. I am way too busy for your nonsense.” Her knees shook. But she kept her voice calm and neutral.
The other woman stood, never taking her eyes from Sophie’s. “I’ll go.” She sneered. “No problem. I’m leaving this with you, so you always remember that any time you get the urge to pretend to be a sub when my Brody is at a club, or anything remotely sneaky just to get near him again, this,” she picked up the paper with thumb and forefinger and waved, then dropped it, “this shit gets real, Katrina.”
Sam chose that second to burst through the door, clutching his Black Jack-branded soccer ball and babbling a mile a minute. Amber’s smile narrowed at the sight of him—the so-painfully-obvious mini-Brody. The boy stopped, then stuck out his small hand. “Hello. I’m Sam Harrison. Nice to meet you.”
Amber crouched down and contemplated Sam for about a second too long for Sophie’s inner mama bear to tolerate. She stepped between him and Amber. The woman rose, her smirk back in place.
“Such a handsome young man. No doubt great at soccer, too. So nice to meet you Sam,” she said, her gaze fixed on Sophie. “You take care now. Behave.” And in a flash of white teeth, she exited the office.
Sophie crumpled into one of the side leather chairs.
Sam, in his usual, too-mature-for-his-own-good way, gripped her wrists. “Mommy, what’s wrong? She’s a bad lady?”
She took a breath. Gathering the boy close, she tried not to scare him by crying or screaming. He let her hold him a minute, then patted her hair and wiggled out of her grasp, his usual nervous energy getting the best of him. He climbed up on the window ledge, standing with his nose pressed to the glass. She felt utterly breathless with terror at the thought of losing him.
But she got up and sat with him, the amazing creation she’d very nearly given up, while he called out encouragement down to the field where the grown men scrimmaged.
Chapter Eight
Just ten days to go…then all this wedding hoopla would be behind him. He’d be on his way to a new team in a more established market, new town, new life, new everything, including new reality—that of married man. As his teammates jostled and joked and fucked around in the locker room, he maintained his usual independence, once more part of, but not really included in their friendly bullshit. With one foot out the door anyway, he had no idea why he even showed up to practice. Other than his desire to stay with them.
He sighed and turned to stare into his locker. Since the moment Amber literally pulled him back from the brink, and he’d done the one thing he thought he’d never do, his life had taken on a level of strangeness that seemed detached from him.
Amber had him in front of tux makers, florists, bakers, caterers, DJs, limo services, photographers, videographers, the works. They picked her engagement ring together, settling on the biggest one possible, it seemed. But he didn’t care. He would watch her at night while she slept, wondering who she even was, other than the one thing that kept his tenuous sanity together by its short hairs.
At times, he hated her. Truly despised pretty much everything about her including her bossy snarkiness, her casual dismissal of his one expressed desire not to leave the Black Jacks, her skinny ass, her bony hips. But he fucked her, a lot. Jesus wept, did they fuck a lot. His cock burned, looked raw in the shower. Despite that, he’d leap at her every chance he got, rip her clothes, and plow into her like an animal. He had no idea why. Other than it kept him from having to actually converse with her.
He took a shower, got into his suit, and wandered out into the spring evening, his mind whirling. The latest task he’d been given—to locate five men to stand with him and one to be his best man, had knocked him for a complete loop. He had no idea what that even meant. He had no close friends. So he’d started pondering and rejecting various team members.
“Hey, Vaughn!” He blinked, confused, his head starting to ache from lack of food. Metin lingered in the doorway. “Can I talk to you a sec?”
He nodded and followed the coach back into the complex. They sat, gripping water bottles, staring at each other. Brody had no reason to think he’d done anything wrong, no reason for Metin to call some kind of impromptu meeting with him. He leaned back, taking in the single photo gracing the small desk that sat under a window in the office – Metin smiling down at a baby, while an attractive dark-haired woman held it in her arms. He shuddered. Kids. God. He had no plans to impregnate Amber. No fucking way.
Metin cleared his throat. Brody tore his eyes from the photo. “Listen, Vaughn, I just…um…sort of wanted to check on you. Make sure you’re okay with how, ah, fast things are moving for you right now.”
Brody nodded, sipped his water, still missing the point of this meeting.
“I am living proof that a woman’s love can save you,” his coach said, surprising him. “You know my story. If it had not been for Melanie, for my wife, I would not be sitting here in any way, shape, or form as a normal human being.”
He took a deep breath, processing the man’s words.
“So, I just want you to know that…I think you’re making a mistake. Marrying Amber.”
“Not your business, I guess,” he said, suddenly angry.
“Actually it is. I feel responsible for you. We recruited you away from the going-nowhere league. I like to think I taught you a few things. You helped make the Black Jacks what they are today. I didn’t want to trade you and fought it because I don’t think you want to go. I think you’re leaving for the wrong reasons. Those reasons all center around one person: Amber London. She doesn’t want you here. And while I know why…I….”
He sucked in a breath. “What do you know exactly?” Something simmered between the two men. Brody sensed unspoken words burning a hole in Metin’s throat. Words he wanted to say, but couldn’t or wouldn’t, for whatever reason.
“Listen, Brody.” Metin set his empty water bottle on the table next to the photo, letting his gaze rest on it once more. The pure emotion hit him hard. He narrowed his eyes, something tickling the back of his brain. He leapt up and began to pace.
“I’m fine,” he insisted. “I’ll be fine. Whatever it is you aren’t telling me probably shouldn’t be said. I…I need to go.” He stumbled out, climbed on his bike, and roared off, not paying attention to anything but forward motion, away from a truth that lurked around the edges of his life but that he simply would not acknowledge.
One week later, he’d lined up some players as groomsmen and asked Metin to be his best man. The coach had smiled, clapped Brody on the shoulder, and said he’d be honored. No sign of the secret remained between them, leaving him relieved, if a little sad. He had an appointment with the legal lady, which he anticipated with an inappropriate amount of excitement. Then, remembering the reason for the meeting, he sighed and climbed off the bike, stashing his helmet and pushing his sunglasses up on his head.
It would be his last time with her, his last day in this building actually. He’d cleaned out his locker, taken his nameplate off the front of it with a s
ort of bemused detachment. He had no control over his life anymore, which on some levels gave him relief. Someone did…Amber…soon to be his wife. She held the reins, looked out for his best interests in her own way. He shivered, wishing that whatever had been niggling at him since Metin had done his little don’t marry her thing would just reveal itself.
His footfalls echoed in the hall. Familiar smells of new building, new turf, and plenty of sweat wafted across his senses. His heart pounded and his body seemed to head into a weird fight-or-flight mode. Simultaneously sweaty, cold, antsy, and stressed in a way he hated, he would give anything to have Amber there handling it. But she had a fitting or some shit for her dress and wanted to go out with her giant posse of girlfriends afterward. Sophie and Jack had requested his presence today, a Saturday, days before he got married. He shook his head, dispelling doubts for the millionth time in the last few weeks.
He turned the corner, his mind running a thousand miles a minute, and felt something run straight into his lower legs. He grabbed the wall and nearly fell down on a kid who sat on his butt, rubbing his forehead and frowning. Brody stared at the boy.
He’d seen him before, hanging around practices. Nicco gave him shoulder rides, and the others would kick around with him as if he were somehow a part of them. He had longish, jet-black, thick hair. And wore a small replica of the Black Jack’s uniform shirt, jeans that were undeniably grass-stained at the knees, and flat, indoor soccer shoes. Brody crouched down to get on his level.
“Sorry, dude,” he said, then took a step back when the boy glared at him. Brody had found an old shoebox that contained what he assumed were a few photos of himself a few days ago. It had been at the bottom of his closet, almost hidden. He’d dragged it out and sat with his back to the wall, thumbing through its contents.
Photos, mostly cheap Polaroids, faded to nearly gone. A few actually from film, developed, in the old way before camera phones and digital processing put the Kodaks of the world nearly out of business. One in particular floated across his vision at that moment, of him, about five maybe, or four years old, he didn’t know, his dark hair flopped over his forehead, double-dimpled, clutching a no-doubt dead frog and grinning a huge, toothy smile at whoever snapped the picture. He stared at the boy’s face now in front of him, soccer ball cradled in his arms like a precious treasure and experienced the most bizarre sensation—that of gazing into a time-traveling mirror.
