End Game

by Lisa Renee Jones

  He gives my bloodstained clothes a once-over before narrowing his eyes at me. “It’s more what I can do for you.”

  “Unless you came to tell me my brother and wife are both fully recovered, there isn’t much you can do for me right now,” I assure him.

  He glances at Seth. “We need a minute.”

  Seth looks at me, and I motion for his departure, and while his expression remains unchanged, I sense the crackle of unease in him, the hesitation, before he heads to the hallway. The agent claims a chair by the wall, no doubt trying to pull down my defenses by leaving me in a power position. It’s reverse psychology, and I don’t like being toyed with. I don’t like other people being in control, which is exactly what I’ve allowed to happen, or my woman and my brother wouldn’t be fighting for their lives right now. Removing the agent’s perceived upper hand, I sit in one of the chairs lined up down the middle of the room, directly across from him.

  “All right, Agent Dennis,” I say. “You obviously want to talk, so talk. But be clear. The minute they walk in here with news about my brother or my woman, this conversation ends. Make your minutes count.”

  He takes me at my word and gets right to the point. “Why are you involved with Martina?”

  “I’ll be as direct as you just were,” I reply. “The short version. My brother met Martina’s sister, Teresa, and fell in love. Ramon was in love with Teresa, and the rest is pretty obvious.”

  “That explains your brother’s involvement with Martina, but not yours.”

  “I wanted my brother out of the Martina circle,” I say. “That didn’t go over well with my brother, who insisted Martina was legit and that I was an asshole for judging him by his father, considering our father is no one either of us wants to claim as our role model.” And because I am now certain they’ve been watching, I add, “I met Adrian. He showed up to welcome me to the family. I saw who he was that day. I knew I was right about him, and thus I worked to get my brother the hell away from him and Teresa.”

  “Obviously, you failed.”

  “Ironically, the bitter pill to this is that I did not. Teresa wanted to protect him as well. She left him and it jolted him enough to get him to step away from the company. He was leaving the city.”

  He stares at me several long beats, calculation in his brown eyes. “Help me get him.”

  “Ramon’s dead.”

  “We both know I’m not talking about Ramon.”

  Anger comes at me hard and fast. “Let me get this straight,” I say, leaning forward, my elbows on my knees. “My brother and my woman could be dead before this night is out, and you see this as an opportunity to recruit me to help you.” I stand up. “Conversation over.”

  He pushes to his feet. “Your association with Martina is a dangerous one.”

  “Whatever threat you think to issue is not only poorly timed, but misplaced. And whoever else you might intimidate with your badge, I’m not on the list.”

  “We both know Brandon Enterprises has gray areas, something you shared a little too legitimately with Martina.”

  “If you’re on a witch hunt,” I say, “you’re going to need an attorney as good as me to fight me, and you won’t find one.”

  His jaw sets hard and he scrubs it, that stubble of his giving a loud rasp. “Look.” He presses his hands to his hips. “My timing isn’t the best here, but I won’t apologize for wanting to take down Martina. He’s a monster hiding in a two-thousand-dollar suit.”

  “He wouldn’t be seen in a two-thousand-dollar suit. It would be beneath him at that price tag, which tells me you don’t know him. Figure him out or you’ll never take him down.”

  “Help me.”

  “No,” I say. “My family had a brush with that man, and you see where that got them.”

  Our eyes lock and hold. “I don’t believe for a minute you’re going to let him get away with this.”

  “Ramon did this. Not Martina.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “No, Agent. That’s my final answer.”

  “I’ll ask again.”

  “You mean you’ll look for a way to force my hand. I can promise you, you won’t find it. I’ve taken over the company for a reason. We do things right. And right doesn’t involve you.”

  He stares at me for several heavy beats before he says, “Good luck with your family,” and heads toward the door, pausing to turn and face me again. “Wearing those bloodstained clothes is like wearing the self-blame and guilt. You might even decide it’s what you deserve, but those things can be dangerous if unchecked. No telling where it might lead you, and me.”

  He turns and exits with the promise that he’s watching me, his intent clear. He wants to box me into helping him, but I don’t want his form of justice. I want revenge. Sweet, bloody revenge: on Martina, for playing the games he played with my brother and my company. On Mike Rogers for fucking my mother and trying to take over our company. And on my fucking father, who pitted us all against one another and gave Martina a weakness to invade. Only, cancer is already taking its revenge on my father.

  Eyeing the change of clothes Seth’s left on a chair for me, I snatch them up and exit into the hallway to find Seth talking with Agent Dennis. Ignoring them both, I enter the bathroom directly across from the lobby and lock the door. Alone now, out of anyone else’s view, I allow myself the first real breath I’ve taken since finding Derek and Emily in that office. I lean against the door, squeezing my eyes shut, my temples throbbing, that moment when I had to leave Emily on the floor to attend to Derek slicing through me. Then again, when I had to leave her in an ambulance alone, to ride with Derek to the hospital. What if he lives and she dies, and I wasn’t there for her?

  What if they both die?

  I shove off of the door, my hands balling into fists, the urge to hit something, or someone, almost too much to bear. Anger and pain consume me. I can’t fix this. I’m helpless. I should have done so many things differently, and my gaze goes skyward. “Please, God. I know I don’t talk to you often. I know I’m not the most religious man, but I try to be a good man. I try to do what is right. Please save them. Please heal them.”

  My hands come down on the sink, and I think of the blood spilled tonight and the blood I want in return. “Save them and I won’t kill him,” I vow, opening my eyes to look in the mirror, blood streaking my cheek, and while blood is not familiar to me, it is to Adrian Martina. If Derek or Emily dies, my loss will be nothing to him. “I have to kill him,” I say, looking skyward again. “I can’t tell you that I won’t kill him. He needs to be sent to hell even if I have to go with him.”

  Resolved with that decision, I push off the sink and strip out of my jeans, jacket, and once-white T-shirt, replacing them with the clean scrubs before splashing water onto my face. Drying off, feeling a bit more human, I consider tossing my clothes into the trash, but the detective’s words come back to me: Wearing those bloodstained clothes is like wearing the self-blame and guilt. You might even decide it’s what you deserve, but those things can be dangerous if unchecked.

  Dangerous.

  Me.

  Unchecked.

  Yes, I am.

  And everyone responsible for today is going to find that out.

  I’m keeping the clothes and the memories they represent.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I’ve just embraced how dangerous my guilt can be when a knock sounds on the door, followed by Seth calling out, “Shane.”

  I yank the door open to find a woman in scrubs standing in front of me, Seth hovering behind her. “What is it?” I ask, bands of tension radiating up my spine as I wait for whatever this piece of news might be.

  “Your wife’s out of testing,” she says, and just the inference that Emily’s alive delivers a small piece of relief. “We’ve set her up in one of your private rooms. The doctor would like to speak to you.”

  “How is she?” I ask, stepping into the hallway and wanting some good news now, not later.

/>   “I was told she’s still stable,” she says, “but I’m an aide. That’s all I know.” She gives an awkward gesture over her shoulder. “This way.”

  She starts walking, and Seth and I fall into step with her, each at one of her shoulders. “How’s my brother?”

  “He’s still in surgery,” she informs me.

  “It’s been at least an hour,” I point out.

  She directs us down a hallway to an elevator. “I really don’t know anything but what I’m told. I’m sorry.”

  The elevator doors open and we step inside the car. Once there, the aide punches in the seventh floor, and the instant the ride begins, I flash back to the moment Derek flatlined in the ambulance; once again, I’m replaying the list of mistakes I’ve made, too long to even complete before we’ve finished the short ride. The doors part, and we follow the aide into a hallway, walking a long path that leads us to yet another hallway that leads to double doors. “This is your private suite,” she informs us, keying in a code. “One-eight-one-eight,” she says as the doors buzz open. “That will be your security code, which will remain intact until you depart.”

  I take in the information, but I’m focused on one thing: Emily, who is on the other side of these doors, but I manage an agreeable nod and follow the aide inside. She pauses just past the entrance to wait on me. “I’ll leave you to the medical staff,” she says, stepping around me while Seth holds the door for her, but I’m already moving forward, eager for news on Emily. Desperate to see her and touch her, I round the corner to enter what equates to a giant suite, with a living area and kitchen to the right. But most important, to my left, there is a hospital room setup that includes a bed, and the sight of Emily on top of it, tubes in her mouth and arms, punches me in the chest.

  Beside her bed, a tall man wearing blue scrubs, who I estimate to be in his forties, is speaking to the nurse I met in the lobby. Both seem to sense my presence at the same moment, ending their conversation to turn to me. “Mr. Brandon,” the man says, returning Emily’s chart to the side of the bed. “I’m Dr. Milbourn.”

  “How is she?” I ask, walking toward her and him, only to have him do the same, placing himself between me and the bed, his tall, lanky body a wall between me and Emily that I want removed.

  “She’s—”

  “Stable,” I supply, anticipating what he’s about to say. “I keep hearing that. What does that mean?”

  “Her scan shows swelling of the brain.”

  “Swelling,” I repeat. “Of the brain. That doesn’t sound stable.”

  “As dramatic as this sounds, in reality, all concussions are a swelling of the brain. The good news in this is that there’s no fluid to drain, at least not at this point.”

  “Has she woken up?”

  “No, she has not, and that isn’t a bad thing. She needs rest to heal, and that means we have to give her body the support it needs to make that happen. Which is why, thanks to the consent forms you signed, I was able to act quickly and place her in a medically induced coma.”

  “Coma,” I repeat, angry. Afraid. “You put her in a fucking coma?” I lower my lashes a moment, tamping down on this wave of anger I didn’t invite and irritatingly can’t control. My hand lifts, and I look at him. “I’m sorry, Doctor. Please explain.”

  “A medically induced coma allows us to slow her brain waves, which means the brain needs less energy to heal. And the sooner it heals, the less likely she’ll have long-term damage.”

  “Long-term damage? Do we think—”

  “No,” he says quickly. “I don’t anticipate long-term damage, but that’s experience and instinct speaking, not science. The brain is complex, and for all we know about it, we still know much less. I can’t promise you an outcome. I can, however, assure you that inducing a coma helps promote a good outcome.”

  “And you can wake her up from this coma?”

  “Yes. It’s essentially like having her under anesthesia.”

  “And the risks in doing this are what?”

  “Her blood pressure will be lowered, as will her heart rate, but we’ve placed a breathing tube and provided the necessary support to ensure she’s protected.”

  “How long will she be like this?”

  “I’d expect a week will do the job, but again, that comes from experience, not science. We’ll scan again in seventy-two hours. We can’t know how her body will react, but we should see improvements by then. For now, sit with her. Talk to her. We’re handling this.”

  Sit. Talk. Wait. Things I’m not good at. Things that don’t allow me to fix anything. “And my brother?”

  “I know his surgeon well and he’s one of the best, not just here, but in the country. Derek’s in good hands.”

  “How long until we know the outcome?”

  “I’ve seen these types of surgeries take two hours and I’ve seen them take eight. It just depends on what the doctor found when he got in there. The staff here in the private wing is in touch with that team. They’ll keep you posted on an hourly basis.”

  I give a nod. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Hang in there, son.” He grabs my shoulder. “We’re going to take good care of both of them.” He releases me and walks away, but his nurse claims his spot, becoming yet another barrier between me and Emily. “A few instructions are necessary before I leave you alone.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The door to the right of her bed is the entrance to the room where your brother will be after his surgery. We’ll update you on his condition every hour and long before he is brought there.” She glances at her watch. “I should have an update in another thirty minutes.” She lowers her arm and, seeming to understand that I’m not exactly in a chatty mood, moves on without waiting for a reply. “Both rooms have cameras and audio. We can see and hear the monitors from an adjoining booth, but there is also a remote control with a buzzer on the table by her bed. The refrigerator has snacks and the kitchen has coffee. And finally, as tempting as it will be to sit on the bed or hold her, don’t. We need to keep her completely still.”

  “Understood,” I bite out, when all I want to do is exactly what she just said: hold Emily and never let her go again.

  “Let me know if you need anything,” she adds, and once again she doesn’t wait for a reply. She steps around me, and her footsteps carry her toward the exit while my gaze lands on Emily. So pale. So unmoving. So lost to me. But her chest rises and falls, her monitor echoing with a steady beat. I want to go to her. I want to pull her into my arms. I want to fucking hold her and never let her go. But I don’t. Not yet. I need to be alone with her.

  A buzzer sounds, and Seth and I both turn toward the entrance. While Seth walks to the door, I wait, holding my breath for news on Derek. Waiting for what feels like forever, but it is a mere thirty seconds before Seth reappears. “Your clothes,” he says, indicating a plastic bag in his hand. “You left them in the bathroom.” He crosses to the couch to the left of Emily’s bed and tosses the bag onto the coffee table. “The FBI will be handled, by the way. I’ve already called Nick to get him to call in favors to back this Dennis asshole the hell off.”

  It’s important information. I should care. I don’t. “Leave, Seth,” I breathe out. “I need to be alone with Emily.”

  With no discernible reaction, he simply says, “I’ll be close,” and heads for the door. No ruffled feathers. No politics. No pretense. That’s Seth, and if he was any other way right now, it wouldn’t end well. His footsteps sound on the floor, echoing like a drum, while my gaze lands on Emily, her face pale. Her brown hair a tangled mess. Her body still so damn unmoving. The doors open and shut, and then there is only the sound of the monitor, and my breathing, which is heavy, thick. I walk to the side of the bed, and my fingers curl into my palms, my need to grab her and kiss her almost too unbearable to contain. I inhale sharply and grab the rolling stool nearby and pull it to the bed, lowering the railing before pulling her cold, tiny hand into mine.

  And suddenl
y I am back in time, remembering the first moment this woman touched my life. Back in the coffee shop of our building.

  My order appears and I straighten, intending to claim my coffee and find a seat, when a pretty twentysomething brunette races forward in a puff of sweet, floral-scented perfume, and grabs my coffee.

  “Miss,” I begin, “that’s—”

  She takes a sip and grimaces. “What is this?” She turns to the counter and puts it down. “Excuse me!” she calls out. “My drink is wrong.”

  “Because it’s not your drink,” Karen reprimands her, setting a new cup on the counter. “This is your drink.” She reaches for my cup and turns it around, pointing to the name scribbled on the side. “This one’s for Shane.” She glances at me. “I’ll be right back to fix this. I have another customer.”

  I wave my acknowledgment and Karen hurries away, while my floral-scented coffee thief faces me, her porcelain cheeks flushed, her full, really damn distracting mouth painted pink. “I’m so sorry,” she offers quickly. “I thought I was the only one without my coffee, and I was in a hurry.” She starts to hand me my coffee and then quickly sets it back on the counter. “You can’t have that. I drank out of it.”

  “I saw that,” I say, picking it up. “You grimaced with disgust after trying it.”

  Her eyes, a pale blue that matches the short-sleeved silk blouse she’s wearing, go wide. “Oh. I mean no. Or I did, but not because it’s a bad cup of coffee. It’s just very strong.”

  “It’s a triple-shot latte.”

  “A triple,” she says, looking quite serious. “Did you know that in some third world countries, they bottle that stuff and sell it as a way to grow hair on your chest?” She lowers her voice and whispers, “That’s not a good look for me.”

  “Fortunately,” I say in the midst of a chuckle I would have claimed wasn’t possible five minutes ago, “I don’t share that dilemma.” I lift my cup and add, “Cheers,” before taking a drink, the heavy, rich flavor sliding over my tongue.