by D. M. Burns
When he straightens himself to his full height, I’m left speechless as from his words as well as motionless. For the second time in less than two hours, I find myself in complete shock. What am I supposed to say to that? I’ll go with the truth here.
“Channing, I’m not really sure when it happened or maybe it’s been this way since I first saw him, but I’m in love with your brother. No matter what took place back on that overcrowded street, I don’t want to hurt him or even the score by using you and that’s what this would be. I’d never do that to him much less you.” I whisper out. It’s the cold hard facts. His jaw ticks out and he tries to look unaffected but it’s an epic fail. He needs to know the truth. He deserves it.
“Yeah, I got that. Like I said before, you’re a good woman, Brea. Now, come on. I’ll take you home. My car is just around the corner from here.” He says.
Channing holds his hand out offering to help me up but once again, I simply stare at his hand. Something deep within my being tells me not to accept whatever this is. Even as simple as this may look, an offered friendly hand, seems damning to my soul. That’s the only way I can explain my internal alarm.
It’s like if I submit, I’ll be doomed in ways that even I can’t fathom. My heart is still racing frantically. My eyes bounce from his hand to those eyes that are deep dark disks outlined by a sliver of silver. Is it possible that this simple gesture has the potential to crush my little girl Brogan Creed fantasies?
Slowly, I finish buttoning my coat then stand without accepting his helping hand. He merely laughs at me, but the overwhelming relief that consumes my soul from not catering to his gesture is profound. I feel like I just dodged entering into a deceptive deal with the devil himself. Aside from the penthouse premonitions and dreams, I must be scary-Sherry next level mad. Yelp, country girl-crazy in full effect.
“You’re stubborn but I happen to like that about you.” He says.
“Friends, right?” I rasp out.
I quirk my brow at him and smile trying to take the bite out of the fact that I’m squashing his preconceived notions of what he believes is taking place here. He holds his hand out for me to proceed him but when I step forward, I feel the burning hot sensation from his other hand come to rest at my lower back. Channing doesn’t answer me as he steers us out of the café and when we clear the door he leans down and whispers in my ear.
“Friends is guaranteed, sunshine but God intends for us to be so much more and last I checked, I’m a God-fearing man that’s intent on following his lead.” He chuckles. A shiver runs down my spine, but I bite the inside of my lip trying to ignore the evident meaning behind his words.
“Your trouble, Mr. Channing Creed,” I say.
“You keep saying that and you're going to give me a complex.” He looks down at me and smiles wide.
“I highly doubt that.” I quip. “You’re a beautifully successful man. My vote of confidence is not needed, I’m sure.”
“Ahhh, you think I’m beautiful?” He asks.
“You know you are,” I say. I nudge my shoulder into his side playfully and he wraps his arm around me again pulling me closer. I look like a dwarf standing next to this man.
“I think you’re stunning and even that word doesn’t do you justice. Those are simple facts.” He says.
The Creed DNA should be tested in a lab and mass-generated for distribution, period. I can only imagine that sperm banks would charge millions for either brother’s specimen. That thought has me giggling.
“What’s so funny?” He asks.
“I was just thinking that if a sperm bank received a donation from either of you brothers that their top-shelf sales price would be ridiculous.” I laugh out loud.
“Jesus, your mind is a mystical place.” He laughs out loud. “Tell you what, I’ll gladly donate to you for free, reoccurring. You just let me know should you ever be interested, yeah?” He chuckles as we turn the corner and that sobers my giggles right up.
“Noted.” I push at his ribs and branch off from him when he beeps the locks on a black shiny Bugatti Noire. Even I know the expense of this car. Jesus. Boys and their toys.
“Wow. The Bugatti is an impressive and expensive choice, Mr. Creed. It suits you well.” He looks over at me like he didn’t expect me to know what kind of car this is. Seriously, I’m not that blonde.
“I love cars. It was a splurge decision.” He shrugs his shoulders as he opens the door for me. “I figure if I work hard then I might as well enjoy the fruits of my labor.”
“Very true,” I say as I lower myself into the car that costs more than I’ll ever make in my lifetime.
“Are you sure you’re done shopping because if there’s somewhere you’d like to go I’d be more than happy to chauffeur you?” I shake my head no.
“Just home please.” He winks at me while shutting the door then rounds the hood and climbs in.
“Sunshine, you’ve made my day. I enjoy talking and spending time with you. Thanks for having coffee with me.” He smirks as he pulls out onto the street.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Channing,” I mumble while my eyes roam over the car's ridiculous gadgets. I want to let the kid in me out to freely touch the multiple buttons, trying to figure out the mechanics but I’m afraid.
“Have dinner with me tonight?” He phrases it like a statement but it’s a question all the same. He and Brogan are so much alike. They don’t even realize how much. “As a friend of course.” He adds.
“Uhm, can I get back to you on that?” I look over at him and he nods his head yes. “I have a few more things to wrap for Christmas and get shipped off to my grandparents.” After everything that has happened today, I just want to crawl in bed.
“I’ll give you my number and if you decide you want to get out then just let me know, yeah?” He says.
“Okay, sure,” I say on a smile.
That fuzzy disoriented muffling in my head doesn’t stop my heart from screaming out that this is hazardous. Why do I feel calm but uneasy at the same time? My internal organs are fighting against each other almost every time this guy is near. That within itself is perplexing. Channing is walking talking glorified sin and smells of toxic temptation. I desperately need distance from this man. Heck, from both of the Creed brothers.
chapter 26
Brogan
This shit is slow torture and all I want is my god damn life back before Miss. Winters stepped into my fucking boardroom. Or to drop Channing off the face of the earth. Fuck. I’m so drunk from finishing off the Billionaire vodka Brea left behind but surprisingly it’s some pretty damn good shit. I took over with this label when I funneled through my Southern Comfort and Cognac. Turning it up for another go seems to be my calling card for the night. Why the hell not, right?
After Brea left last night, I went straight to Channing’s house. I needed to break his face but more importantly, I needed fucking answers first. Oh, I got them alright. Just now, I wished I never had. Knowledge is not key, not by far.
As the clock ticked slowly by and he never showed face, I had a sinking feeling where I could go to find the motherfucker. Sure enough, he was passed out on Brea’s couch, beside her. That sight is burned into my brain and much like Brea’s Christmas movie of choice this time of year, it’s on constant repeat.
Running into Cassia while leaving The House of Creed was no accident. That little Couture coincidence was orchestrated and no matter how much that coat carried on over the Gods throwing us in each other’s path, I’m far from a fool. I was also in no mood to entertain her bullshit. That woman is diabolic in nature. I can appreciate her hustle, just from a distance.
Having that cunning coat walking alongside me on a public street left me with no reason to disagree. Plus, it’s frowned upon if you push a bitch into oncoming traffic. I tuned her babbling out but as soon as she disappeared into a designer store, it was game over. She tried to steer me in but when I held the door open for her to proceed me, I was out. I let the door close beh
ind her with me safely on the other side. Our time was over the morning I left her in bed months ago and especially after she showed up at The House of Creed.
Needing to take a walk and clear my head a little was the main goal but that was evidently not in the cards for me. The streets were lined with people and the traffic was horrific with noise, but I heard her over all that shit. She was speaking with her heart. That very same heart that I heard screaming out in pain resonating from her deepest reflections hit me with forceful impact.
I should’ve known that my craziness was too much for him last night. My dream state death visuals of his house coupled with my virginal status pushed him in her direction. I should’ve kept my secrets safe inside but instead, I shared them with him. God, I’m a fool. I knew he’d hurt me.
When I turned around and searched over the crowd of faces, I easily found her blonde locks spilling out from under a black beanie. Brea was desperately trying to flee the scene by blending into the swarm of people, but I saw her. God damn, I saw her.
Her hushed assumptions were soul slashing, marking me in a way that I’ve never encountered before, ever. Mutilation of the worst kind. I instantly wanted to jaywalk across the street, death by yellow cab be damned, and scoop her up in my arms while whispering into her ear how wrong she truly was but I couldn’t.
I also saw him swooping in to save the fucking day too. Captain Creed being the little bitch that he is was dry humping her leg with that embarrassing pink dick hanging out slapping in the wind. Channing gave me a chin lift like we were lifelong loving brothers and I hadn’t just beat his god damn ass the night before. Fuck him.
I’ve never felt so powerless to a situation in all my life. If it were just his guided directions that I had to steer my way, I’d crash course a Mac truck over his ass to get to her. But Channing had not one damn thing to do with what took place at my penthouse with Brea. I saw that devastating shit scene for myself.
There was so much blood, her blood. The stagnated death in the atmosphere felt like it was choking the very life out of me and Brea was gone. I try not to think about the kid, no. Fuck! I turn the bottle up again finishing the vodka off.
True to form, me being me, I want to ignore it all and go after what I want the most, her. But there’s a flip side to this shit. The thought of her one day not being around because of me is something I can have no part of. Channing is right. This is not about what I want anymore. Brea is a life force I never saw coming and to take that away from the outside world for my selfish needs is an abomination.
There’s a conversation that needs to be had but I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch if I’m not dreading it like one would a colonoscopy appointment. Stumbling back from the island, my eyes roam over the elegant kitchen. A flashback pops up in my head of Brea’s beautiful face from last night as she stared back at me with those deep blues on that very counter. I look down at the empty vodka bottle in my hand and without thought, I thunder it through the room shattering it into a thousand pieces against the far wall.
Finding myself outside her fire escape again is no surprise to me. It was bound to happen. I’m drawn to her and drunk. Pair that shit together and you’ve got yourself a Lone Walker stalker with unstable tendencies. No doubt, Lincoln is probably thinking I’ve finally lost my god damn mind from where he sits two blocks over.
He never said a word on the drive over, but I saw his eyes shifting to me every-so-often in the rearview mirror. When I stumbled out of the car with a brand-new bottle of Southern Comfort in hand, he offered to help me, but I waved him off mumbling that I was fine. He remained on the sidewalk cursing under his breath as I disappeared between the buildings to get here.
Hell, he knows what I’m doing here. It’s best he keeps his opinions to himself. I pay him for his discretion and driver assistance. And tonight, I damn well wasn’t capable of driving myself anywhere. So, he’s earning his substantial paycheck.
With my back to the inner railings and ass to the rusty bars, I’ve managed to wedge myself into a semi-comfortable lounging position. I continue to spy on her as she sits Indian style on her living room rug thoroughly captivated by Charlie Brown’s Christmas bullshit playing on the tube while mindlessly picking at a bowl of popcorn that she’s yet to take a bite of. I wonder if she knows that she’s merely just rearranging the popped kernels around in the dish.
This woman has been in my life less time than it takes to break in a new pair of shoes. But here the fuck I am with my face all but stuck to her frozen windowpane. She sets the popcorn bowl on the coffee table then drops her chin in her palm turning toward me. It’s like she’s staring straight at me, but I know she can’t see me, no.
My wonderful disappearing act must be good for something, right? Might as well serve a good purpose. None better than one that keeps my drunk ass out of jail for lurking outside her place. Turning the Southern Comfort up I chug it back with zero shits given for tomorrow's hangover that’s sure to come. Hell, I stopped wincing at the harshness of the alcohol a half bottle of vodka ago.
When the window suddenly opens, that gets my attention and I pop the bottle out of my mouth. Quietly, I watch as she climbs through the cutout hole in the bricks, carefully pads over, and plops down right beside me. I let my eyes rake over her body as she adjusts herself. God damn it, she smells like strawberries. That must be the lotion of choice for the day.
Brea’s wrapped herself up in a soft lavender looking bulky blanket with her long blonde hair blown straight falling around both sides of her face. She has on fluffy pink piggy slippers that have a curly tail sticking out in the back and a pink snout in the front. Jesus, this woman is too much. I find that I’m silently chuckling and rubbing my hand across the prickly stubble on my jawline.
Letting my head loll to the side, I can’t help but think it’s way too cold for her to be out here in nothing more than yoga pants and a sports bra covered by an oversized cotton tank that’s wrapped up in a blanket. As that thought flickers through my head, she pulls the blanket around her little body looking just like a Brea burrito surrounded by soft cotton.
She takes a deep breath and bows forward resting her forehead against the rusty railing and closes her eyes tightly. Then without warning, I hear her silent thoughts… Not that I’m blocking her. Hell, I’ll take whatever I can get of her right about now.
Jesus, I can feel him everywhere. I can even smell him.
“I’m truly losing my mind.” Her voice is barely above a quivering whisper.
She lets out a long sigh and a glistening tear leaks out of the corner of her eye cutting a path down her porcelain cheek. I want to gently swipe it away while pulling her over into my lap. I’ve got to stay away, I know this, but it hasn’t hit me yet that I actually have to let her go. This is enough to break me, her. Shit.
“Now, I can add talking to myself to my list of crappy craziness. I just don’t understand.” That makes two of us baby.
Brea giggles without any humor in the action and raises her head off the bars slowly turning in my direction. Those deep indigo blue’s seemingly piercing through me and she rubs the salty wetness from her cheek. I simply study her motions while I have her so close. Southern Comfort in the truest form, right here. She’s less than an inch away from my face. Hell, I bet she can smell the Southern Comfort on my breath.
Instead of touching her like my fingers tingle to do, I sit here unmoving with both my arms at my side feeling as though they weigh a thousand pounds each. My one hand clutching the whiskey bottle in a vice-like grip to keep from grabbing her up and carrying her into her loft then shutting out the world. Sitting here like a coward anonymously sharing time with her without permission and stealing her personal thoughts along with it. Her eyes squint and I wonder for the briefest of moments if she knows.
When a loud knock sounds out both of our heads snap to her window. It pisses me off that someone is interrupting my time with her. Fuck. Brea pushes up and moves through her window making her way to the door. Sitting up
straighter, I crane my neck as she crosses the room and starts to fiddle with all the locks. I stumble to a stand as she pulls the door open and none other than Nate Nixon's smiling face comes into view.
Mid-drink of Southern Comfort, I spew half the contents out all over Brea’s fire escape and window. I use the sleeve of my ten-thousand-dollar coat to wipe off the leftover dribble on my mouth. The chords in my neck are strain and I’m acutely aware that they could possibly snap like a rubber band at any moment. I’m fairly certain that one of my eyes begin to twitch too.
This assclown is so damn predictable. Wonder how my dear old brother, “the future hubby”, would feel about this turn of events. That has me chuckling with an evil bark and shit aftertaste effect. It’d serve that fucker right and if I were a better man, I’d root the Nixon bitch on. But I’m not. I want her for myself.
Bottom line, the statistical sad facts are that my selfish fucking ass feels an immense amount of satisfaction that’s damn well wrong on so many different levels knowing that her mind is mine. She thinks of me. NOT THESE FUCKERS FLOCKING AROUND HER. ME!
Not to mention, Channing acknowledging that Brea loved me last night was like the cement filling in the bricks of a happy home that can never be constructed or lived in. Want to talk about fucked? Think about that for a second and let it soak in.
My mind has been consumed by everything that took place last night, but that revelation is at the forefront along with the soft feel of her body undermine, however brief it was. It’s burned a permanent impression across my forehead. I feel like a flawed block of gold, marked by her. But nothing compares to the picture of her lifeless body on the floor of my penthouse, fuck no. That’s embedded in my retina’s. Wide awake or deep in sleep, I see that on repeat.
