Two Princes: The Biker and The Billionaire

by Victoria Danann

  Brash looked over at the beverage case. “Bottle of Beltzings.”

  Deli man looked at Brash with a little more respect. “Excellent choice. Eating in or taking out?”

  “Taking out. Why don’t you throw in one of those apples and a piece of that pie there. ”

  “Which one?” Brash pointed at the dessert carousel and deli man nodded.

  The sandwich was big enough to make two meals. It was also unforgettable. Brash ate in front of the computer while going over the same photos again and again.

  Early the next morning, he called Jon Matlack, a Black Hat the club used when they needed information. It was nine central time, but Jon sounded sleepy.

  “Still in bed, slacker?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Brash.”

  “Fuck, Brash. Why’re you callin’ in the middle of the night?”

  “Got a thing that can’t wait.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll get there in a minute. Right now I need to hear somethin’ about loyalty to the one who’s payin’ your bill. Know what I mean?”

  Jon paused for a few seconds. “You mean you don’t want the old man to know.”

  “I mean I don’t want anybody to know, especially not the old man. If you’re not good with that, tell me now. ‘Cause if you take this job and betray my confidence, your last meal will be your own balls.”

  “Jesus, Brash. No need to go graphic on me. The answer is yeah. I can keep your secret.” Black Hat was sounding more awake, which was good with Brash. “What do you need?”

  “Everything you can find on Brandon St. Germaine. And I need it in six hours.”

  Brash could hear a female voice in the background. That was followed by a muffled sound, like Jon had put his hand over the phone and said something to her.

  “I’m up and on it.”

  “Hold on. What’s the charge?”

  “Between five and nine, depends on the risk.”

  “Okay. Call me back at this number. Be prepared to walk me through it on the phone. Don’t want anything sent electronically.”

  “Yep. You got it. Later.”

  At four o’clock, Brash stepped out of the elevator into the top floor offices of Germane Enterprises, wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up to cover his long hair. The receptionist looked at him with more curiosity than disdain.

  “Can I help you?”

  Leaning on the counter, he glanced at the name plate next to her keyboard. It said Diane Nix. She was cute. Blonde with an athletic body. Just his type.

  “Yes, you can, Diane. I’m here to see Brandon St. Germaine.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I do.” He made a show of looking at his sports watch. “I’m a couple of minutes late. The elevator stopped on every floor.”

  “Your name?”

  “Brash Fornight.”

  She lifted the receiver of the interoffice phone system. “I’ll just check with his assistant.”

  “No need. I know the way.”

  Of course he didn’t know the way, but he picked a hallway and started walking. Diane called after him to wait and he suspected she would be making a call to security next. He hoped he could find the Big Dog House and get inside before uniforms arrived. He passed dozens of offices encased in glass walls, but didn’t look right or left. His goal was the big double doors at the end of the hall.

  Brandon St. Germaine was sitting at his desk, talking on the phone, when Brash charged in looking like a carjacker. He walked straight to the edge of the executive desk, tore off his sunglasses, and waited for “eligible bachelor” to register the unique character of the event.

  Brandon barely stifled a gasp when he looked up into eyes that were so very like his own. So much like his own they were… identical. “I’ll have to call you back, Phillippe.”

  When two security guards rushed in, Brandon calmly held up his hand signaling that there was no alarm.

  “Trouble, sir?”

  “No,” said Brandon. “Just a misunderstanding. Thank you for your quick response. Please close the door on your way out.”

  The guards looked at Brash’s back with suspicion, and glanced at each other uncertainly, but complied and backed away, closing the door as requested.

  Alone in the large office overlooking the east river, Brash and Brandon stared at each other for a long time without moving. Finally, Brandon said, “Who are you?”

  “Brannach Fornight. I saw your picture on a magazine.” He glanced around and saw the “Now” cover. Nodding toward it, he said, “That one. Flew here from Austin to try and sort this…” He motioned between the two of them and his gaze drifted to a large bowl of peanuts sitting on the desk. That caused him to smirk and shake his head. “Have a craving for peanuts, myself.” He pulled a bag from the pocket of his hoodie as if to demonstrate. Brandon continued to stare in silence. “I can see you’re surprised. I know how you feel. I’ve had a couple of days to digest the possibilities. You haven’t.”

  Brandon cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

  “You want to have a conversation?”

  “Yeah.” Brandon blinked a couple of times like he was forcing himself to be fully present in the room. “I have something I have to do now.” He looked at his watch. “How about dinner?” Looking Brash up and down, he said, “On me.”

  “Alright.”

  “Meet me tonight at eight at Pollegro’s.” He had taken a pad with his name printed at the top and was scribbling. “It’s in Little Italy. Any cab driver will know where it is. When you get there, give them my name and they’ll seat you.”

  Brash took the note Brandon handed him. “You’re not going to stand me up. Right?”

  Brandon rose and couldn’t help but notice that he was exactly the same height as Brannach Fornight. He pulled out his cell phone and handed it to Brash. “I won’t stand you up. But put your number in just in case there’s traffic.”

  Brash handed over his own phone to reciprocate. Each programmed their names and numbers into the other’s phone. Brash put his sunglasses back on. “Eight o’clock.”

  Brandon nodded.

  The restaurant wasn’t the typical Little Italy tourist stop. It was a hole in the wall with a barely readable sign a block and a half off Mulberry Street. Brash had located it and taken up a post across the street by seven forty-five. He had strong suspicions about his relationship to the guy who had his face, and voice, and well, his everything, but the dandy was still a stranger. So he wasn’t going to be first to arrive. He stood under the awning of a closed cobbler shop to keep out of the drizzle and waited.

  Ten minutes later a sleek black, long wheel base Range Rover pulled up in front. Its polish either defied rain or else the rain amplified the shine. Either way, Brash knew that Brandon St. Germaine was going to get out of the car before he did. When the car pulled away, Brandon’s gaze swept side to side like he was looking for something. After a couple of seconds he locked on Brash standing across the street. Brandon jerked his head toward the eatery behind him then turned and disappeared inside the door.

  Brash waited for a couple of cars to pass and jaywalked toward the nondescript door. Once inside, he did a quick scan. Nothing fancy. Small bar up front. Small rooms with a few tables in each wearing checkered tablecloths. It was quiet. Cozy. Even intimate.

  Brandon didn’t wait for the hostess. He made his way to a corner booth in the farthest room in the back. Brash followed and slid in opposite his doppelganger.

  A young waiter wearing a white apron appeared in seconds. He looked between the two with intelligent black eyes, but didn’t comment. Brash had already figured out that it was the sort of place where friendly questions weren’t welcome.

  “Whiskey neat.”

  Brandon looked at Brash in invitation to order.

  “Same,” Brash said in his economy-of-words biker speak.

  “And menus,” added Brandon.

  The waiter nodded and left without a word. Bra
ndon turned his full attention to Brash.

  “You first.”

  “I live in Austin. Texas. I was at the grocery store gettin’ peanuts.” He offered a slight smirk to punctuate the point. “Waitin’ in line when I saw that magazine, like I told you. I took it home. Read it. Then got on a plane to try and find out why some asshole in a pinstriped suit is walkin’ around with my face.”

  Brandon replied with his own smirk. “What made you think I’m an asshole?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, unauthorized walking around wearing my face is an asshole activity.”

  Brandon nodded. “Yeah. I can relate to that. You walking into my office, my reaction was pretty much the same. So what are your thoughts?”

  “We could get a DNA test, but I think we already know what the result would be.”

  The silent waiter waited a few feet away until Brandon nodded to indicate that he could approach. He set drinks then menus down on the table and took two steps back.

  Brandon looked over at him. “Give us a minute.”

  The man nodded and disappeared behind a two-way swinging door with a head-height porthole window.

  “You know what you want?” Brash’s brows drew down over his eyes and he gave Brandon a confused look. When Brandon realized he hadn’t been clear, he said, “To eat. What do you want to eat?”

  Brash looked around, everywhere but at the menu in front of him. “What are you havin’?”

  “Special of the day. No matter what it is. The chef’s a treasure.”

  “Sold. Make it two.”

  Brandon nodded and set the menus aside. “Have you been to New York before?”

  Brash shook his head. “Can’t say I have. You been to Austin?”

  “I haven’t,“ said Brandon. “Even though we own a property there. A place called the Yellow Rose Resort.”

  Brash nodded. “Yeah? It’s close to where I live. Fifteen minutes or so.” Brash took a sip of whiskey. “That’s good stuff.”

  “So what are you thinking?”

  “Same as you. My pop knew your mother really well twenty-nine years ago.”

  “If our conjecture is true, then technically that would be our pop and our mom.”

  “I asked Pop if he’d ever been to New York. He said no. How long has your company owned the Yellow Rose Resort?”

  Without saying anything, Brandon pulled his cell out of his breast pocket and selected a phone number from contacts.

  He held the phone to his ear. After a couple of seconds, he said, “How long have we owned the Yellow Rose Resort in Austin?” to an unnamed someone who had answered.

  “Hold on a second.” Brandon’s eyes met Brash’s as he waited for the answer. “Since May of 1988.”

  “Thank you.”

  Brandon ended the call and put the phone down on the table. “May of 1988.”

  Brash’s interest seemed to ignite. “You good at math?”

  Brandon smirked. “Reasonably so. Enough to figure out that a summer fling could make March babies.”

  “If our mother visited the property that summer…”

  “I know Pop worked as head mechanic at the Yellow Rose for a little while.”

  And there it was. They both studied each other with even more intensity than before.

  Brash cleared his throat. “Is your mother married?”

  “No. She never did. What about…”

  “No.”

  “What did he say when you asked about your mother?”

  “That she didn’t want us. It was hard as fuck to get that much out of him. The subject was closed tighter than a nun’s knees. But I can tell you this, he left no room for doubt that he wasn’t happy about the arrangement. What did she tell you?”

  “She just said it didn’t work out and wouldn’t say more. I didn’t like bringing it up.” Brandon took a drink and looked over at Brash. “Because it made her sad.”

  “Did you ever consider looking?”

  Brandon nodded slowly. “I thought about it. More than that. I always planned to do it. Just never followed through. I guess living got in the way.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What you said about her not wanting you… It doesn’t sound like Mom.”

  Brash’s eyebrows went up and he looked dubious. “Well, like Pop likes to say, actions speak louder than words.”

  Brandon’s knee jerk reaction was to want to defend his mother’s character, but the guy across the table was right. He didn’t have an explanation as to why his mother would have kept him and sent his brother to the exile of godforsaken Texas. But what really hurt, the thing he was having trouble coming to terms with, was the fact that his brother had been kept from him. It felt a lot like betrayal and it had been done by the one person who should have his back. His mother.

  It explained a lot about the lifelong nagging feeling that he was missing something… big. A chunk of himself. The minute he’d looked up at Brannach he’d known exactly what he’d been missing.

  “Yeah. I know how it looks. Fathers can’t be counted on. But mothers…”

  “Hold on. Don’t be throwin’ Pop in the bin with deadbeat dads. He ain’t like that.”

  “Okay.” Brandon agreed, but Brash thought it sounded insincere.

  “Christ.” Brash sat back and stared at his brother like he was trying to read his mind.

  “I guess we’ve both got brand spanking new issues with parents.”

  “Hmmm. Mine are not so new.”

  “Fine. Speaking for myself then.”

  Brandon noticed the waiter keeping a discreet distance. He motioned the man over with two fingers and asked for the specials. “Two Soffici Cuscinis and a bottle of Tenuta dell'Ornellaia Masseto.”

  “We have several years in stock.”

  “What do you recommend, Mercutio?”

  “2001.”

  “Bono.” He turned back to Brash. “I guess you’ll never know what it’s been like to have Mom as a single parent. But she’s done a good job of it if I do say so myself.”

  “Ditto. For you and Pop.”

  “You know that’s a ridiculous thing to call your father. Right?”

  Brash looked offended and his expression clouded over. “I didn’t pick it.”

  “Who did?”

  Brash looked thoughtful. “I don’t know. It’s one of those things that’s part of the way the world works. Like the sun coming up in the morning.” They sat in silence for a few minutes. “You know what you were sayin’ about me never knowin’ your mom like you do?”

  “Yes. What about it?”

  “Well…”

  “Stop right there. You know it’s a bad idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it would be like betraying our own parents.”

  “Oh and keepin’ us from knowing about each other was just fine?”

  “I’m not defending that.”

  “Well, good. ‘Cause there’s no defense for it.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “Let’s just get ‘em on a video conference call and find out then.”

  “We’re not doing that.”

  “Well?”

  “You’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

  “Trading places. Yeah.”

  Brandon considered his brother for a few seconds. “It’s tempting, but really brash.” Brash barked out a laugh and followed that with a series of chuckles that came in waves with alternating shakes of his long mahogany hair. “What?”

  “It’s my name. I mean my legal name is Brannach, but everybody calls me Brash. Always have.”

  Brandon’s smile gave Brash a funny feeling. He’d never been much for approval-seeking. So he was surprised to find out that he liked making Brandon smile.

  The waiter took the lull in conversation as an opportunity to open the wine. He poured a splash and handed it to Brandon. Brash was glad to see his brother didn’t make a show of smelling and swishing. He took a sip and nodded. That was it.

&nb
sp; Two glasses of dark red Italian merlot were poured. Like magic, the waiter was back with steaming plates before Brash had taken a sip.

  “Is there something else, sir?”

  “For starters,” Brash answered, “you can tell me what the hell I’m lookin’ at.”

  “Certainly, sir. It’s gnocchi, pancetta and red onions tossed with spicy creamy vodka sauce, topped with Parmesan and basil.” He said it like he’d memorized the dish from a menu listing word for word.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What else you got back there? This is an Italian place, right? How about some plain old spaghetti and meatballs?”

  “Of course,” said the waiter without ever changing expression.

  When the man was out of earshot, Brash looked from Brandon down to the plate sitting in front of him and back up again.

  “Well, go ahead. Just because I’m waiting on actual food doesn’t mean you have to let that crap get cold.”

  “Thanks,” Brandon said drily as he picked up a fork and speared a round of pork belly. “So is that what you want to be called? Brash?”

  Hearing his brother call him by name made Brash smile. “Works for me.”

  “Okay.”

  They both started to speak at the same time.

  “You first,” offered Brash.

  “We should think about it. Not go charging into something so…”

  “…brash.”

  “Yes. As brash, for instance, as trading places. I mean, aside from the fact that we have entirely different styles…” Brandon looked pointedly at Brash’s long hair.“ …we have entirely different everything.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, what do you do for a living?”

  “None of your business.”

  Brandon had to chuckle at that reaction. “None of my business? Really? In one breath you’re proposing that I impersonate you and the next you don’t want to tell me your occupation? You see anything wrong with that picture? If we were going to switch places, we would have to know everything about each other then practice pretending.”

  “For somebody who wants to think about it, seems like you’ve already given it a lot of thought.”

  “Well, that’s part of what I do for a living. Thinking.”