My eyelids are heavy. I rest my head against the glass and stifle a yawn.
Fenton reaches over and takes my hand in his, lacing our fingers together. It’s the most normal, basic gesture, yet it feels like so much more. “You tired, rudo?”
“Yeah,” I mumble. Despite my exhaustion, I can’t help but grin. “But it was so worth it.”
“Today was great. One of the best days I’ve had in a long time.”
He watches me with a look of contentment, his thumb stroking my knuckles back and forth. My lids grow heavier and I fight not to drift off. I want to enjoy this feeling, this stillness I feel, for as long as I can. It’s a moment that, if I could, I would hit “pause” on and live inside forever.
“When we get back to our suite, I’ll give you a bath,” he whispers, a creaminess to his tone that warms me. “And then we’ll go to bed together. But I do have a meeting early in the morning, so I won’t be there when you awaken. Order some breakfast from room service and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Maybe I’ll just sleep until you get back.”
“In that case, I’ll climb in bed with you and give you a proper good morning.”
I laugh an easy, carefree burst of happiness. “You’ve just struck another deal, Mr. Abbott.”
He draws my knuckles to his lips and places a gentle kiss to each one. He startles when his phone buzzes. He groans, but lifts his hips and digs in his pockets and retrieves it. I don’t miss the shadow that creeps across his face as he looks at the number.
Clearing his throat, he swipes the screen. “Abbott.”
I sit up, now wide awake, and watch him. The easiness of the last few hours has evaporated. His jaw twitches and he stares straight ahead. “All right.” He blanches. “Fuck!”
Placing my hand on his knee, my heart lodges in my throat. I have no idea what’s going on, but I know it isn’t good. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge my touch.
“Do we have any additional information?” He listens intently, gripping the back of the seat in front of him with his free hand. “My God.” His head dips towards the floor for just a fraction of a second as he listens to the voice on the other end.
“This situation is out of control. I don’t give a fuck what has to be done. Even if . . .” He shakes his head, the voice on the other end getting louder. “Throw all the motherfucking money at it you have to in order to get answers, but I want them and I want them fucking yesterday!”
I flinch at the sudden outburst, drawing my hand back slowly. The vein in the side of his neck begins to throb.
I feel sick to my stomach.
“Are you not fucking listening to me, Duke?” He squeezes his temple. He’s trying to stay calm and I wonder if it’s for my benefit because I’ve never seen this side of him before. His next words come out controlled, way too bridled. “I’ve been very clear I want this . . . situation,” he chokes, “Ended. I want answers. I want amounts, locations, deals, and I don’t give a fuck how much it costs me out of pocket, do you hear me?”
He exhales harshly. I, on the other hand, hold my breath. I have no idea what’s happening or what this means, and I feel like a spectator at an event I shouldn’t be at, a witness to a conversation I shouldn’t be hearing. If we were in a room, I’d walk out and give him space. Yet, there’s nowhere for me to go.
Fenton glances at me over his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m aware of the possible outcomes and what the ramifications might be. I don’t care if they’re going to be pissed. Just . . . get it done, Duke. I mean it. Get. It. Fucking. Done.” He ends the call.
Clenching the phone in his hand, he places both hands against his head. He tugs at his hair, muttering something beneath his breath. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”
“It’s okay. Really. I just hope everything’s okay.”
He huffs, a blend of anger and sadness that chills me. “Yeah. Me too.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I say it before I think and realize it’s our ongoing joke.
He rolls his eyes. “Do you think I want to talk about it?”
“Absolutely.”
A small smile touches his lips. “I just . . . I have a situation I’ve been trying to resolve and it just keeps getting more complicated.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“I have to,” he gulps. He eyes me before sitting upright. “I’m going to have to cancel our breakfast in bed for the morning. I, um, I’m going to have to make some decisions tomorrow that are going to take some time.”
I consider that giving advice might mean overstepping my bounds, but his willingness to share that with me without prodding makes me think it’s okay.
“My brother used to say to not make decisions based on whatever problem you’re having. You should make choices based on what outcome you want.”
Fenton doesn’t respond, just watches me with a blank look on his face.
“I never understood that,” I continue. “I mean, it makes no sense, right? But my brother is a doctor and he explained it to me this way once: if a patient is bleeding, you can focus on stopping the bleeding or you can focus on saving their life. Maybe stopping the blood is a part of saving their life, but the decision has to be made with the bigger picture in mind.”
“Smart.”
I grin. “It really is. You have to weigh the risks against the rewards of your decisions. And when the balance begins to tip one way or the other, you just have to find the courage to do it.”
He grabs my arm and twists me so that I’m lying across his lap, pulled securely in his arms. He nestles his head into my hair and holds me tight. “You’re a little light in my life, you know that?”
“That’s me. Bringing sunshine everywhere I go.”
He snorts and lets me pull back so I can see his face.
“I’ve not known you for very long, but I know you’ll do what’s best.”
“I don’t normally get too worked up about things. I just pick a direction and charge on. But this one is just such a mess and what I choose to do doesn’t just affect my bottom line. If that were the case, I know what I’d do.”
“Fenton, you already know what to do. Follow your heart.”
“What if that means walking through hell?”
“Then take a fire extinguisher with you.”
He laughs, but it’s weighed down with his troubles. “You and your fire extinguishers.”
The car rolls up to our hotel and it catches me off guard. I hadn’t even realized we were back on the Strip. I uncurl off Fenton’s lap and gather my things from the floorboard. The car door swings open, but Fenton grasps my hand before I can step out. I turn to see him observing me. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t have to.
“It seems complicated,” I whisper so the valet doesn’t overhear. “But it isn’t. Risk versus reward. And then follow your heart.”
Fenton doesn’t speak as we trudge the last few feet down the hall towards our suite. He opens the door and holds it open as I enter.
I don’t recall him saying a single word since we got out of the car. He didn’t even thank the valet, which is beyond unlike him. He just nodded his appreciation and continued on, extending his hand behind him until I clasped it with mine.
The light switches on as I enter and watch Fenton make his way into our bedroom. I hear him rummaging around and I don’t know what to do.
What I want to do is hold him in my arms and reassure him. But really, I don’t even know what I’m reassuring him of. I just loathe the look of despair on his face; it’s such a contradiction to his usual confident demeanor.
Tossing my bag near the sofa, I stand with my arms around my waist. It’s so quiet.
I jump when he moseys back into the room. He’s wearing a pair of white sweatpants, no shirt, and no shoes. I sweep his body from head to toe, taking in the divine view. And then I get to his face and my heart breaks.
It’s a sorrowful smile, and I can’t stop myself from reaching for
him and wrapping my arms around his waist. He does the same, pulling me into his chest.
“I’m sorry I’ve put a damper on our night,” he says, his voice dejected. “This is not how I envisioned capping off the day.”
“Fenton—stop it. You can’t help it.”
“I know . . .”
“You did come here to work, remember?”
He plants a kiss on the top of my head. “True, but I didn’t come here to work on this. I came here to deal with a problem at Funda and . . . some other business here.”
“So you’re kind of caught off guard by this?”
He shrugs and pulls away, running his hands through his already wild locks. “Kind of. This has been a predicament for a while, but . . . let’s just say it just got a whole lot worse.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too, rudo. Me too.”
He sort of drifts through the room, aimless in purpose. Every now and then, he sighs or tugs at his hair. But he’s mentally someplace else, and I’m not sure whether to let him be or to try to cheer him up. My decision is made for me when his phone rings in the bedroom. He stalks towards it and disappears though the doorway. I hear him answer. A few seconds later, the door shuts.
“Ugh,” I groan, plopping down on the sofa. I don’t know what to do with myself. Dragging my bag to my feet, I search for my phone. When we got on the Ajax, I turned it off, and now I wonder how many times Presley has texted me. I smile thinking about the possible messages I’ll see when the phone turns on.
I flinch. Not only do I have a ton of texts from Pres, I also have a boatload of missed calls from her and my mom.
My stomach sinks. With trembling hands, I call my mother. Each ring takes an eternity. It rings once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth, right before I disconnect the call and dial Presley, it picks up.
“Brynne,” my mother chokes out. Her voice is barely audible, a whisper through the line.
I spring to my feet. I feel the adrenaline kick in without knowing why. It’s an automatic response because my mother doesn’t call a million times. She doesn’t answer like this. The only time she’s done that is to tell me about Brady . . .
Oh. My. God.
“Mom? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Brynne.” She sobs again, each hiccup gashing me. I start to cry too—scalding, blinding tears streaking down my face. I realize the senselessness of it, but it’s unintentional. Just a reaction to hearing my mother break apart and knowing that soon, I will be too.
“It’s Brady . . .” I guess, holding my breath.
“He . . . we . . .”
My hand covers my mouth, choking back the wails that threaten to break free. I can’t see for the tears, I can’t talk because panic has squeezed my throat shut.
I feel the sofa at the back of my legs, but I can’t sit. I’m frozen, immoveable—a girl standing alone with a wound splitting her into tiny little pieces.
“We got a call today,” she says, “A video of Brady has shown up on a website. We were hopeful, you know, because they told us early on that any contact or proof of life was a good sign.”
“What was it?”
Her fear is palpable. The misery I felt when I got the news he’d been taken pierces me again. My hands shake, my legs go limp. I nearly fall, but lean against the armrest and catch myself.
“It was grainy,” she says, “And from a week or so ago they think. Of course they didn’t tell us until they tried to verify it and garner any useful information. But it was him.” Her voice breaks when she says the last word and tumbles in an unbearable sob.
The howl I’ve been choking back is too powerful, my mother’s agony the straw that broke the camel’s back, and it breaks free.
“He looked so thin, Brynne. He had a full beard and his hair was covering his ears. He was on his knees, his hands behind his back. And these men stood behind him with guns pointed at him like before,” she breaks off, struggling to stay composed for me. “His eyes . . . My baby’s eyes are just so empty. Your father has watched it a few times, but I just can’t,” she cries. “They demanded a ransom. There was no time frame to pay it, but the number was astronomical. We know the government won’t pay it and I just don’t know how we could ever possibly come up with that amount!”
Her lament barrels through the phone and all I can do is add to it. I don’t have answers. I don’t understand any of this.
I feel along the sofa and fall into it, covering my eyes with one hand.
My body wrenches, ready to expel my dinner.
I hear a rustle on the line and my father’s voice comforting my mother. “Brynne Girl,” he says, calling me the nickname he gave me as a child.
“Oh, Daddy!” I cry, the tears rolling again in full force.
“Hey, now,” he rasps. “It’s going to be okay. We will find a way.”
I feel Fenton at my side. I can’t make him out through the wetness, but I feel him kneel in front of me. One hand lands on my knees, the other wipes my hair out of my face. His fingers brushing away tears that come faster than he can rid them.
“I know, sweetheart,” my father says. “We are doing everything we can. I won’t believe this will end in any way other than the right way. We have to make a push to get him out and Hyland has promised me he’s doing everything he can. I have every contact I’ve been able to make working on it. But baby girl, we have to remember, focus on the silver lining—he’s alive.”
“To hell with them,” I say, my agony turning into anger. I lift off the couch, nearly knocking Fenton over. I can feel the pain being dulled by the fury and I welcome it. I feel it flow through my veins, making me light-headed. “You tell those bastards to go get my brother! He isn’t just another person over there. He isn’t a soldier that fled. He’s a doctor there to help people and he should be home with his family and not left to rot in Zimbabwe because of some stupid fucking red tape!”
“I know, honey. But they’re sticking to the ‘not negotiating with terrorists’ line of bullshit.”
“So what? They don’t negotiate? They just leave him there to . . .”
I can’t say it. I can’t launch those words into the universe.
I dry my face with the top of my dress. I see Fenton standing near the sofa, watching me with wide eyes.
He probably thinks I’m a lunatic.
“He wasn’t working for the government, so he isn’t their liability. He’s an American citizen, so they’ll do a bit on his behalf. But with all the wars happening right now and the domestic terrorism on our own soil, Brady isn’t the highest priority.”
“I hate them, Daddy,” I blurt, my blood curling. “I hate every single one of them!”
“I do too, Brynne Girl.” My mother’s voice rings through the background and my father sighs. “Are you someplace safe? Are you with someone?”
Fenton takes a few slow steps towards me. He’s hesitant, like I’m going to start screaming at any given minute.
“Yeah, Dad. I’m with someone. I’m safe.” Fenton stops a few feet in front of me.
I blink rapidly, the tears threatening to fall again. “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, sweetheart. Stay strong. Call me if you need me.”
“I will.” I end the call and press the phone to my chest. I try not to look at Fenton because, if I do, I know I’ll cry again.
“Are you all right?” he inquires, his voice wobbly.
“No.”
“Can I ask you what’s wrong?”
I force a swallow past the lump in my throat. It burns as it goes by, squeezing through the constriction like lava. “Brady, um, went to Zimbabwe a few months ago. He’s a doctor. He’s so freaking smart, Fenton.”
I look up into his grey eyes. They’re crystal clear, so much so that I can see my reflection. I look like a wreck. My tear-stained face swollen, my lips over-plump, my eyes bloodshot.
“He went there as a doctor. Grant had worked for the company before, some kind of security company or so
mething. Grant’s the one that got him the job. Brady felt like it was his calling, in a way, to give back and felt like he could make a difference there. I begged him not to go . . .” My voice breaks and I can’t hold back the pain. The tears come again, wildly this time, and I bend forward in physical agony.
Fenton crushes me against him, holding my head against his body. The comfort breaks me, frees the rest of my anguish and I break down completely.
I sob so loudly I can’t hear my own thoughts. I cry so profusely his chest has a river of tears flowing onto the edge of his sweatpants. I wail so dramatically I’m sure someone is going to call the front desk.
I wipe the snot off my face and half-laugh at how ridiculous I must look. Today I felt like a goddess; tonight I feel like a baby.
“I begged him, Fenton,” I sniffle. “I told Brady I had a bad feeling about it, but he said it was where his heart was. And he had to follow it. So he went and I was right. I was right,” I whisper, wishing empatically I weren’t.
His face falls, his skin ashen. He’s as shocked as I was the first time I heard about it. You don’t expect this type of thing to happen to someone you know. This happens to other people.
“So they said my brother was helping a child and got kidnapped by a group of men. From what they’ve told us, it’s a local band of fuckers, not some coordinated multi-national group. Even so, our government won’t negotiate with terrorists. And his employer . . .” I clench my jaw. “Fuck those assholes.”
“What did they do?”
“Nothing. Not a fucking thing. Grant says they sent them into an unauthorized area, that they’re a careless company behind a benevolent façade. I believe that much is true because they don’t seem all that motivated to do anything.”
“But Brady went willingly, right?”
“That’s not the point,” I hiss. “And him not coming home wasn’t willing. So fuck that.”
He follows me with his eyes as I roam the room.
“I hope they die a painful death. I hope they lose someone and it hurts so bad they can’t fucking breathe. I hate them, Fenton,” I bite out, spinning around and looking at him. “I despise them.”
Wherever It Leads Page 14
