by J. Kenner
Now, the beard was a little unkempt. A little wild. And for one fleeting moment, she wanted to feel those dark whiskers on her cheeks again. Her lips. Her thighs.
He cocked his head, as if he'd heard someone call him. As if, she thought, he'd picked up on all the decadent images running wild through her head.
She froze, and Hannah looked back at her curiously.
"I—I forgot something in the ladies' room. Y'all go on ahead. Nolan's a really nice guy. Just introduce yourself."
"What—"
But Brooke turned away, cutting off Shelby's words, because Spencer had turned toward them, and like a coward, Brooke was going to bolt.
She had no idea if he'd seen her, and she wasn't going to hang around to find out. She knew she couldn't put off talking to him forever—especially if they were doing a show together—but she needed time to prepare. And one minute wasn't nearly enough.
She slipped back into the hallway that led to the restrooms and office space. She assumed there would be an emergency exit down there, but after she passed the closed office door and turned the corner, she realized the space was little more than an alcove with some shelving for paper supplies. Napkins, paper towels, toilet paper, rolls of receipts. Damn.
The exit to the alley must have been the other direction, back toward the kitchen.
She turned, took one step, then squealed as Spencer pushed her back into the dark corner, his palm firm on her shoulder.
"Brooke," he murmured in that familiar, rough voice. "I think it's time we had a little talk."
Chapter Five
"What the hell, Brooke?" His voice rolled over her like salted caramel, rough and sweet at the same time. "Was it not enough that you yanked my heart out? Then stomped on every goddamn thing I thought was true and real and right? Now you have to come back so that you can rip open the scars? I mean, Christ. You've stayed away from me for five goddamn years. Why the hell are you back in my life now?"
She tensed, her insides coiled like a spring about to snap. She told herself she wasn't scared, but that was a lie. She was terrified. She just didn't know if she was afraid of Spencer—or of her own reaction to him. Trepidation, yes. But underscored with genuine desire.
In other words, she was screwed.
"Let go of me." The words were low and forceful, and she congratulated herself on her voice not shaking.
His brown eyes hardened, but he complied—and she immediately regretted the demand. He wasn't touching her now, true. But both his hands were on the wall on either side of her, effectively caging her in and putting his entire body in extreme proximity to hers.
Years ago, the wild pounding of her heart and the lightness in her head would have been evidence of excitement. Right now, though, it was fear.
Not that she thought Spence would hurt her—she didn't. But she couldn't breathe like that, with him trapping her, stealing away what little control she had over the situation. Not anymore. Not after what happened.
"Back off." She'd intended the words as a demand, but they sounded choked and weak. She lifted her chin and straightened her spine. Hadn't her father always told her that looking in control was almost the same as being in control?
He didn't move. For that matter, he didn't say a word.
"I mean it," she said, feeling stronger. "If you want to talk, then call me, and we can meet for coffee. You don't have to manhandle me." Brooke forced her voice to stay steady, and she hoped he couldn't hear the pounding rhythm of her heart. He was close—so close she could taste the whisky on his breath. "Or is that the way you roll now? Intimidating women in dark corners?"
Still, he said nothing. But he kept his eyes on her face, studying her intently as if she was a problem he had to solve. Which, frankly, she pretty much was.
The silence lingered, thick and heavy, until she couldn't stand it any longer. "Spencer. Please."
She didn't know what he heard in her voice. But he took two steps back, his arms falling away, freeing her.
For a moment, his expression seemed gentle. Almost understanding. And she allowed herself to listen to the small, pitiful voice that said he would forgive her. That she'd done the right thing five years ago, and eventually the universe would correct itself.
Brooke knew there was no chance for a future with Spencer—she'd had no illusions when she walked away, and she'd made her peace with that. But it hurt more than she'd ever believed possible to know that the man who'd once loved her so tenderly, now despised her beyond all measure. Even if that hate was inevitable.
"Tell me about this show." The words—barked out like a military order—surprised her, and she responded without thinking.
"I have a remodeling business. Here. In Austin, I mean. And there was a call for proposals. I submitted, and—"
"And you thought you'd toss me into the mix?"
"The hell I did," she snapped.
He tilted his head to the side, nodding slowly. "That's exactly what you did. Tossed me into the mix. Made sure your show has my name. And figured I'd prostrate myself because I owe the network one more goddamn show."
"Like I said, it wasn't my idea." She set her jaw, annoyed that he'd think for a moment that she manufactured that nonsense.
He stepped closer, still not touching her, but so close she could feel his breath on her hair. "But you didn't say no, did you?"
She didn't answer; what would be the point? Obviously, she hadn't protested. If she had, they wouldn't be standing here.
He nodded, his tight expression suggesting that he'd solved some daunting puzzle. "I'll do your show, Angel—"
"Don't call me that." Not that way. Not like a curse when it used to be an endearment.
His eyes narrowed, the change almost undetectable, but she saw it. For a moment, she even thought she saw compassion in his eyes. Then they went cold and hard, and he nodded. One quick, tight jerk of his head.
"I'll do your show, Brooke," he said. "But I'll do it on my terms."
"Your terms." She didn't want to react, but she couldn't help but swallow. "Okay. I'll bite. What exactly do you want?"
Once again, his hand went to the wall, but this time it was so he could lean in until his mouth was kissing-close to her ear. "You," he said. And, damn her, she felt the word reverberate through her, like a hot wire touching every part of her and teasing her with a fire she was no longer allowed to touch. For one precious moment, hope filled her. But then she saw the hardness in his eyes, and the hope slithered away, dark and lost and lonely. "I want you at my mercy."
"I—I don't understand."
"It's simple, baby. You want me on your show, then we're together again. Completely. Totally."
He pushed back, but let the hand that was on the wall trail down her arm, from her shoulder to her hand. She stood frozen, forcing herself not to flinch, to cry, to run.
What horrible kind of game was he playing?
She wanted to ask—hell, she wanted to shout. But she was afraid to speak, even though he was looking at her as if expecting her to say something.
When she didn't, the corner of his mouth curled up a little. And she wasn't sure if she'd scored a point ... or walked right into his hands.
"I want you to remember what it felt like. I want you to relive how you exploded in my arms. I want you to beg for me, baby. And when the show wraps, this time it'll be me who walks away."
She wanted to shout at him. To pound her fists on his chest and tell him that this wasn't fair. She'd had no choice. No choice at all. Because her choices had been ripped away from her, leaving the unhealed wounds that he was now poking.
She didn't shout. She didn't cry. She simply stood there, taking in his pain and his anger, telling herself that she could stand it because she had to.
"What kind of game were you playing, Brooke? Was the plan to use me to learn the business? To get your rocks off? Or was that just a side benefit? What made you walk? Was I not dark enough for you? Not bad enough to keep Daddy pissed off?"
She didn't realize she'd slapped him until she felt the sting of impact against her palm. "I knew you were rough, but I never thought you were cruel."
He rubbed his cheek. "Cruel? Baby, you invented the word."
"You son-of-a-bitch. You have no idea what—dammit." She clamped her mouth shut, determined not to speak.
"You know my terms. Take them or leave them."
She opened her mouth to reply, but he pressed a finger to her lips. "Molly and Andy are in LA. They'll be back on Wednesday with the contracts. The meeting's at eleven. If you show up—if you agree to the deal—that means you agree to my terms, too. All my terms."
He brushed a finger over her lower lip. "I want to be clear before you decide. We do this, and you're mine. Any time I want, any way I want. Complete control. I'll punish you, baby. Believe me. But I'll also bring you so much pleasure that you'll beg me not to stop. Not to ever stop. But that's the kicker, my pretty little angel. Because in the end, I will stop. I will walk away. And this time, you'll be the one left wanting me."
He trailed the finger down from her lower lip, then along her neck to stroke her collarbone before dropping lower to brush, ever so lightly, over her nipple. And then, to her mortification, she drew in a breath that shuddered with desire.
He didn't move, but she saw the realization in his eyes. And when his lips quirked into a grin, she knew that she'd lost this round.
"You want your show?" he said. "Well, I want revenge."
And then he turned and left the alcove, disappearing into the dark as Brooke's knees gave out, and she sank to the floor ... and into her memories.
Chapter Six
Five years ago
"You're crazy," Spencer said, laughing as he pulled Brooke into his lap. "You know that right?"
She snuggled close, breathing in the scent of sawdust and turpentine. "Just because I think we should drive away after the wedding on your bike instead of a limo? That doesn't make me crazy. Just crazy for you."
She lifted her head long enough to kiss his lower lip, right above his beard, then relaxed as his arms tightened around her.
"Well, then we're equal. Because I'm nuts about you, too." Humor and love laced his voice, and she smiled to herself, happy to hear that tone of joy. These last few days had been so damn hard for him. Hell, for all of them.
Honestly, the news was so tragic—so heartbreaking—that she'd even suggested postponing the wedding. But he wouldn't hear of it. "Postponing the wedding wouldn't change anything. And besides, I can't give you the chance to find someone better, can I?"
His tone was joking, but the words made her wince. Because even though she loved him with a ferocity that sometimes scared her, she knew that he secretly feared that she'd come to her senses, realize her parents were right, and find a man with an MD and a trust fund to marry.
As if.
Brooke might only be twenty-three, but she knew who she wanted. And that was Spencer. And she didn't give a flying fuck what her parents thought of him or his family.
Spencer had never hidden his background from her. He'd told her over and over that he knew her family would disapprove, and he wanted her to go into the relationship with eyes open. And because he'd wanted her from the first moment he saw her, he'd told her his story on the night they'd met.
It had been getting on toward midnight almost two years ago when he'd pulled up on his bike and helped her change a tire. Well, help wasn't entirely accurate, as she'd been doing nothing other than searching her purse for her AAA car so that she could call for assistance. But assistance had materialized in the form of a dark man with an unkempt beard, a leather jacket, and the kind of tight jeans that had made her breath catch in her throat.
He'd changed the tire in record time, then asked if he could buy her a beer. She'd never known for sure what made her say yes, but she thought it was something in his eyes. The flecks of gold in the brown that looked like starlight and seemed to promise her the universe. As if he held the power to lay the world at her feet.
Her yes had been barely audible, but it had been enough. And she'd followed him in her car to a divey joint tucked away in a section of East Austin into which she'd never ventured.
They'd played pool, drank beer, and swapped life stories. And he'd made no bones about the fact that he'd grown up piss-poor in one of the roughest neighborhoods in East Austin. Or that his brother was on death row. "I want you to know," he'd said. And she'd desperately wanted to hear.
"My dad—Billy—was as white trash as they come, and in his teens and twenties, his gang was his family." But then Billy met Carina, the woman who would become Spencer's mom, and he'd sworn to clean up his act. He managed to extricate himself from gang life and made a decent living doing construction work. They got married, had Richie, and then seven years later, Spencer came along.
But Carina died when Spencer was four. Complications from a third pregnancy, and neither mother nor child made it.
"I only remember bits and pieces, but my dad pretty much spun out. And that's when Richie stepped in to be the man of the house. All of eleven, and he was supporting all of us."
"That's not possible."
"Yeah," Spence had said. "It is. He just had to find another kind of family."
"A gang."
"The Crimson Eights. Fingers in drugs, guns, probably human trafficking, though I don't know for sure. Heard of them?"
She'd shook her head. "I don't think so."
"You said you live in Westlake, right?"
She felt embarrassed to admit that she came from such a well-off Austin neighborhood, but she gave a little nod. "So?"
"I'm not surprised you haven't heard. Not much in the way of grit is reported in that area."
"You talk like you know it."
"I went to Trinity," he'd said, then laughed as her eyes went wide at the reference to the exclusive private school. "Don't worry. No gang dollars financed my education. I was there from middle school through my sophomore year. Their scholarship program. It's all about community outreach. My brother really pushed my dad to get me in, and so Dad pretty much hounded the committee until they relented."
"That's great."
He nodded. "Yeah. My dad got his shit back together once he realized what Richie was doing to keep food on our table. And he made it his mission to make sure I didn't get sucked into the gang life. Not hard, because Richie didn't want me in it either."
"But Richie stayed in?"
"He stayed in," Spencer had acknowledged. "Despite my dad's pushing and prodding and fighting." He exhaled. "And that choice cost Richie everything."
The death penalty.
It had cost Spencer, too. He'd dropped out school after Richie's arrest. "I went off the rails," he'd told her. "I was angry at the world. At life. At fucking everything. Was lucky I didn't get tossed into foster care or into a juvie center. Or, hell, tried as an adult. You'd think I'd know better after Richie, but it was like I was trying to be like him. Basically, I was a fucking mess."
"But you got it together," she'd said, and he'd nodded. "I put all my energy into working with my hands. Carpentry. Bricklaying. Roofing. Framing. Electrical work. If I didn't already know it, I learned it.”
Now, safe in Spencer's arms on the couch, she thought about the man she'd met only once behind a piece of Plexiglass. A man who'd been living in a cell for ten years by then. They'd spoken to each other across an old-fashioned handset, and Spencer had introduced her as his bride-to-be.
Richie's face had bloomed with the news. "You're doing good, little brother. Don't fuck it up."
Spencer had laughed and kissed her. "Never happen."
There'd been hope in the air that day. Richie's lawyers were arguing one more appeal in the morning. With luck, Richie would walk. At the very least, the family was hopeful that he'd be transferred off Death Row.
Brooke shuddered, the pain of the memory washing over her. That hadn't happened.
"You okay?"
"Only a chill," she lied,
pulling the soft throw over them both. "I'm perfect."
He chuckled. "Yeah," he said. "You are."
She turned in his arms, then pressed her palm against his cheek. "Are you okay?"
For a moment, she thought he'd lie and tell her that he was fine. That he could handle it. But then he blinked, and she saw the tears in his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was rough and raw, full of anger and pain and futility.
"I can't believe they're really going to do it. Three more months and then my brother will be gone."
Tears spilled down her own cheeks. "I know. I wish—God, I would give anything to change it. To make it better for him. For you."
They'd learned only yesterday—two days before the wedding—that the last of Richie's appeals had been denied, and his execution date had been set. And Brooke had never felt more helpless than she had when she saw Spencer take the phone call, then collapse into a chair, as if every ounce of strength had left his body.
"You do, Angel," he said as he stroked her hair, her cheek. "Don't you know that you make everything better?"
"Spencer." Emotion overwhelmed her, so intense that she almost couldn't breathe. She'd never in her life felt the way she did in his arms. Cherished. Loved. Beautiful. With Spencer, she believed that everything was possible. That she could follow the life she craved and not the one her parents had planned for her. That she could actually make it work. And it tore at her heart that they both had to face Richie's execution—such harsh evidence that even in the arms of perfection, the world could go horribly, ridiculously wrong.
“Come here,” he demanded, though he didn’t give her time to respond. Instead, he buried his fingers in her hair at the nape and pulled her down to him. He took her mouth in a long, slow kiss. A kiss that tasted like sunshine and promised the world. A strong, magical kiss that had the power to push them through the pain of Richie’s pending execution to the future of a life together.
A kiss that built in passion as they moved against each other, both craving the release. The connection.
