Saved (A Standalone Romance) (A Savery Brother Book)

by Naomi Niles

  “Not today, actually. I was able to talk Randy into letting me have the day off.” I opened the blinds over the bedroom window, and warm mid-morning sunlight spilled into the room. “I think he felt bad because he’s been dragging me all over the country lately. Right now, I could ask for anything I wanted, and he’d probably give it.”

  “It’s nice that of all the things you could’ve asked for, you chose to spend the day with me.” She began humming softly to herself. “I could probably close the shop early. I only have one customer this afternoon, and I think I could get her to re-schedule without too much fuss. Do you want to meet me for brunch in an hour?”

  “Consider it done.” I hung up the phone.

  We met up at the Walnut Café, a restaurant that was locally famous for its all-day breakfast and homemade pies. I deliberated for a long time over my menu before settling on the sunrise sandwich: two eggs served with chicken and mozzarella on rosemary olive oil bread. It didn’t take Ren more than a minute to decide what she wanted: she always ordered the Duzer’s breakfast burrito: a scrambled-egg-and-potato burrito topped with melted cheddar, sour cream, salsa, and black olives.

  When our orders came, I eyed Ren’s plate jealously for a moment.

  “You want to try it?” asked Ren. “It’s clearly tempting you, I can tell.”

  “No, but I’m definitely going to order that the next time we come.” I let out a dignified huff. “Makes me wonder who Duzer is and where he learned to make such excellent breakfasts.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure there’s a story behind that.” She bit into her burrito, dripping salsa over her plate. “True story: the first time I came here I thought it said ‘Dürer’s Burrito,’ as in the fifteenth-century painter Albrecht Dürer, and I was like, ‘No, thanks!’”

  “What would that even look like?” I wondered.

  “Very proto-surreal, no doubt.”

  It was always a little dizzying going from Braxton to Ren and back again. Ren was so articulate, so cultured, so quick with a joke, and so hard to keep up with. Braxton was—well, none of those things, exactly, but he was good-hearted and always striving to do the right thing even though he failed more often than not.

  “You want to hear something else funny?” asked Ren. “Maybe this is just a personal quirk, but when I sit down to eat with someone, if my meal looks particularly appetizing, I sometimes leave it sitting on the plate for a few minutes.”

  “Why, so you can stare at it? Why don’t you just Instagram that shit?”

  “No, actually!” exclaimed Ren, looking fascinated with herself. “I think it’s because I want the other person to see it and admire it. It’s almost like I have to make them jealous before I can start eating.”

  “Hmmm.” I bit a chunk out of a sweet potato fry. “I’m calling that out the next time you do it.”

  “You should; it’s probably mean and unhealthy. But I can’t deny it makes dining out a hundred percent more worth it. Jealousy is the best spice.”

  While we were eating, Ren told me about the book she had just finished writing, which she still hadn’t let anyone read except for her agent. She was stubbornly insistent on this point: she hoped to be famous but would rather millions of strangers read her stories than for her own friends and family to read them.

  “What is the book about?” I asked her. “You still haven’t told me anything, apart from it being a love story.”

  “I mean, I guess you could call it that,” she said uncertainly. “It’s more a coming-of-age story. It’s about a young woman who is invited to leave America and spend a year living in Egypt working as a private tutor for a family, and the various frustrations and setbacks and disappointments she goes through: not being able to buy food, the death of a family member back in the States, being in a long-distance relationship.”

  “Sounds like a rough year.”

  “Well, I wanted it all to feel very normal and mundane—just an intimate look at this one person’s life over the course of about ten months.”

  “Sort of like a Richard Linklater film.”

  Ren wagged her spoon at me, looking excited. “Yes! Yes, exactly.”

  “I like that. Sounds like you paid more attention to the emotional journey than to following a set of prescribed plot points.”

  “I did. It was important that her journey feel believable to me and to the reader. Half of learning how to write well is just figuring out how to get the reader believing in what you’re writing.”

  “Makes sense.” I took a sip of my latte. “You must’ve learned a lot while writing this book.”

  “I really did.” Ren smiled, looking quietly pleased with herself.

  “Tell me!”

  She pushed her plate back and folded her hands over the table. Ren loved to talk about writing but didn’t get to do it very often. “I think the main thing with this book has been learning how to craft compelling characters. There’s a porter in the hotel where she stays when she first moves to Aswan who is mourning the loss of his beloved pig, whom he loved like a member of his own family.”

  “Relatable,” I said.

  “Yeah. I tried to give even the most minor characters a dream and a heartache. It really fleshes out the world of the story. You feel like any one of these people could be the protagonist of their own novel.”

  “Yeah, it took me forever to realize that every person I had ever met thought they were the hero of their own story,” I said. “Growing up, I was convinced I was the protagonist and everyone else was just a quirky supporting character in the indie movie of my life.”

  “It’s a hard lesson,” Ren replied. “It’s a big step on the road to becoming an emotionally mature person, when we can accept that.”

  I drank the last of my latte, marveling at how much she had been learning and trying not to feel resentful. She had put in so much time and effort over the past year into mastering her craft, and I just hadn’t. I supposed she was right that I needed to stop making excuses. Maybe if I sat down and wrote for an hour or two each day, in a few years, I would be as practiced and accomplished as she was. Maybe not, but at least I wouldn’t spend my whole life wondering whether I could’ve made it as an author.

  “You okay, boo?” Ren asked, reaching for my hand.

  I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I just have a lot to think about.”

  “Anything you’d care to talk about?”

  I shook my head. “No, but thank you.”

  “How are things with the boy? Did you get him to watch the Before movies?”

  “I did, actually.” I smiled. “Well, the first one, anyway. I fell asleep about ten minutes into the movie, and when I woke up an hour later, he was still watching it. He looked mesmerized.”

  “Did he really?”

  “He said he had never seen anything like it. So take that for what it’s worth. And I don’t know, I just—I just like him a lot.” I shrugged shyly. “I stayed the night over at his house, and in the morning, he made me breakfast. He takes care of me.”

  “He sounds a bit like the Hulk: gentle and mild-mannered for the most part, until he’s provoked. And then you had better watch out!”

  “You make him sound so menacing.”

  “I mean…” Ren turned to the window. It was that hour of the morning when most people are at work, and the sun shone warmly over the half-empty streets. “I read online about the press conference. The media brought up some valid questions about his criminal history, and he never really answered them. He made the entire conference about his opponent, like a true politician.”

  “He’s good at that,” I said, feeling defensive. “It was one of the things Randy really liked about him.”

  “I guess.” Ren blinked sleepily and turned to face me. “There are still some things I would like to know, though.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like how much has he changed, really? Has he dealt with his demons, or has he just gotten better at hiding them? Why was he repeatedly in jail over the past couple
years for beating up vagrants?”

  “It sounds like you’re having second thoughts about my going out with him.” There was no concealing the irritation in my voice.

  “I would just like him to explain himself, is all. Just answer a few simple questions. Has he shown any signs of anger or aggression?”

  “Not at all. He’s been the soul of gentleness. He even has a cat.”

  But Ren didn’t look entirely convinced.

  “Look, I’ll admit I’ve only been with him for about a week,” I said angrily. “If he starts getting mean or abusive, then I’ll take that as my cue to leave. But he hasn’t yet. He’s been the opposite, in fact.”

  I was doing a poor job of explaining myself, but she wouldn’t have said those things if she had seen the side of him I had seen. I almost wished she had been there that night as he held me and caressed my face. He had said I was perfect. No one had ever said that to me before. And I had wanted to argue, but his eyes blazed with sincerity and conviction…

  “I know this is something you maybe don’t want to hear right now,” said Ren. “But it’s really easy for a man to seem courteous and polite and gentle at the beginning of a relationship. The real test of his character comes from how he treats people other than his girlfriend, and on that front—well, for now, I’ll just have to suspend judgment. Maybe he really has changed.”

  “I guess we’ll know sooner or later,” I replied. “If he’s really a heel, then he won’t be able to hide it forever.”

  “No, eventually the mask will slip.” Ren shuddered. “I just hope I’m wrong, because you’re the one who gets hurt if I’m right.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Braxton

  I was awoken at eight am on Friday morning by Winston, who was hunched on my chest purring hungrily. Groggily, I scooped him up in one arm and set him down on the ground next to my blue jeans. It was mid-morning, and steadily strengthening sunlight shone through the gray curtains.

  I stumbled into the kitchen and fed Winston. When I checked my phone, I found I had a message from Jaimie.

  Hey honey-bun, she wrote, just a heads up: you’re going to be getting some news today. Be prepared for that :)

  Confused and intrigued, my pulse fluttering with apprehension, I texted back: Anything I should be worried about?

  Her reply came almost immediately: Nope. Something to look forward to, I should think.

  Hmmm, I wrote back.

  To which she said: Sorry I haven’t been around much the last couple days. The boss-man and I have been working over-time on something FUN and secret. You should be hearing about that in a bit.

  Should I be worried about that? I replied.

  Nope, she said again. Just enjoy your day XO

  “Honestly,” I muttered at my phone. I enjoyed a good mystery as much as she did, but this was exasperating.

  I’ll try, I texted. By the way, you left your jade necklace at my place on Sunday night. I don’t remember how it came off, but I found it on my coffee table and figured you might like to have it back.

  Her response came a minute later: Mind if I come over tomorrow and get it?

  No, or I could come over there.

  Either way :)

  I had a sneaking suspicion she had left the necklace there on purpose, but I wasn’t going to press the issue.

  When I arrived at the gym at nine am, I found Nick on the elliptical trainer, his face shining with sweat. I asked him if he had heard any news.

  He shook his head emphatically. “No, should I have?”

  “Jaimie’s been teasing some big announcement all morning. She made it sound like a positive, but I can’t help feeling a little worried. I wish she would just come out and tell me.”

  “And you’re sure it has something to do with your job?”

  “She said she and Carruthers are about to announce something, and it sounded like the two announcements were connected.” I shrugged. “I hope this doesn’t all turn out to be a big nothing-burger.”

  “Sometimes trivial news is better than bad news,” Nick pointed. “At least you’re not going to jail probably.”

  “Fingers crossed.”

  “Yeah. Did I tell you I’m seeing a girl now?”

  I flinched in surprise. “Who?”

  Nick smiled. It was obvious he had been waiting to tell me this all morning—and he knew very well he hadn’t already told me. “Her name is Charise, and she’s a police lieutenant with the Boulder PD. She used to be a dancer and loves musicals. Last night, at her request, we watched Singin’ in the Rain.”

  I snorted involuntarily. There was something absurd and a little precious about huge Nick sitting on a couch crying over a Gene Kelly musical. “How was it?” I asked him.

  “It was good,” he said, his face impassive. “I just get scared, you know.”

  “Why? That she’ll arrest you?”

  He shook his head. “I just feel like I really have a chance with this girl, and I don’t want to blow it. I’ve blown every other chance I ever had with a girl.”

  “You were also a lot younger,” I reminded him. “You’re not likely to repeat the mistakes of the past.”

  “I hope not. I don’t know that for sure.”

  One question was nagging at me uneasily. “How old is this woman?”

  Nick winced in embarrassment. “She turns thirty-two on the thirty-first.”

  “So, about ten years older.”

  “She’s more settled and mature than a lot of girls our age. That’s part of her appeal to me.”

  There was no good way to phrase this delicately. “Are you sure this isn’t some kind of trap?”

  Nick stared at me blankly, his mouth agape. “What are you even talking about? What kind of trap?”

  I could see I was going to have to spell it out. “Are you sure she really likes you for you? Are you sure she’s not just after something?”

  “I think she has a healthy respect for my brain as well as my body.”

  I rubbed my head wearily. I could see this was going to take a while.

  But before I could inquire further, there came a patter of feet on the warm tiles, and Bruce came into the room, his curled hair all askew. Setting his blue and white lunch pail down on the bench next to me, he said, “Coach wants to see you in his office again.”

  He looked perturbed. I glanced cautiously at Nick. “Do you know what about?”

  Bruce shook his head. “No, he just wants to see you.” Picking up his pail, he slunk dispiritedly out of the room.

  “Do you think maybe this was what she was talking about?” I asked Nick.

  “It’s hard to say with Coach.” He brought the elliptical trainer to a halt and got off. “One time he called me in just to complain about U of C budget cuts. Another time, he was excited because he had found an old vinyl recording of Dolly Parton and Porter Wagoner’s joint album on eBay. You just never know.”

  With a mingled sense of curiosity and trepidation, I left the gym and walked down the narrow, carpeted hallway to his office, Nick following close behind.

  I found Coach seated at his desk with President Carruthers sitting opposite.

  “You wanted to see me?” I asked, my heart in my throat.

  “I do.” But instead of motioning me to sit, he held out a small bag of pretzels. “Take one.”

  Perplexed, I hesitated. Coach grunted in annoyance. “Sometime today, Savery!”

  I reached in and took a handful, but instead of eating them, I held them awkwardly in one palm.

  Coach motioned toward Carruthers. “I’ll let him explain what’s going on.”

  Carruthers, who was holding a fat three-ring binder in his lap, beamed warmly. “I assume you remember Luther Van Bones? LaMotta’s opponent in Vegas.”

  “I do.” It would have been hard to forget Bones.

  “Well, you’re never going to believe this”—Carruthers chuckled as though at a joke to which only he was privy—“he actually injured himself this week dur
ing training. He pulled a hamstring in his lower leg, and now he’s down for the count. He should be up and running again within ten days, but I spoke to him shortly after he left the doctor’s, and he specifically asked to face you in an upcoming match.”

  “Me?” I asked, almost inaudibly. “Why—why me?”

  Carruthers shrugged, looking chipper. “Apparently he got a good look at you during his rumble with LaMotta and decided you would be a worthy opponent.”

  I supposed I ought to have been flattered, but I was immediately suspicious. “Are you sure he doesn’t just see me as an easy win?”

  Coach actually laughed. “Easy? If you think you’re an easy win, Savery, I’m afraid you may need to work on your self-image.”

  “No,” said Carruthers, “he thought a fight would benefit both of you. He knows that your role in helping LaMotta achieve victory in the octagon was significant and knows by reputation that your fighting skills are formidable.”

  “It’s an excellent opportunity,” muttered Coach. “It’s true that Bones got destroyed by Bruce, but Bruce is one of our best players.”

  “Yeah, and it was touch-and-go there for a while,” said Carruthers. “I’ll say this: it’s rare that I feel this much excitement for a prospective match. Even if I wasn’t obligated to be there, I’d want to come for this.” He laid down his binder and folded his hands over it. “So, what do you think? Are you willing?”

  I answered without hesitation. “Yes, of course! I’m thrilled.”

  “Excellent!” Carruthers clapped his hands. “Then we’ll have my assistant begin drawing up the paperwork. You’re not going to regret this, and contrary to what you seem to think, I think you have a good shot at winning this match. As long as—”

  “As long as you keep your temper,” said Coach, “and don’t let him get the better of you.”

  “I won’t!” I said fervently. “Thanks so much, guys.”

  The moment we were out of the office, I turned to face Nick, who doubled over laughing, his fists clenched in victory.

  “You are going to RULE!” he exclaimed. “Bones is going to regret ever having requested you!”