End Game

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “I know,” she says. “I hate that, but I’m back to being conflicted. Part of me is glad we have to wait because it means I don’t have to accept he’s gone. The other part thinks he deserves to be put to rest. And I know from losing my father and mother that, really, you don’t start healing until after the funeral. It’s when you start finding closure. When you start working toward some kind of peace.”

  This is where she wants me to agree, even expects it, but I don’t. “Let’s try to rest.”

  “On one condition,” she says. “You don’t leave, Shane.”

  She’s not talking about now. She’s talking about the bigger picture, the fear of losing the ones you love that death has a way of creating. “I’m not leaving you and you aren’t leaving me.”

  “Of course we can’t promise each other that,” she says. “But somehow saying it makes it feel more real, doesn’t it?”

  “We aren’t going to lose each other,” I promise. “Come on.” I maneuver us both into the bed and under the covers, with her snuggled close to my side. Neither of us moves to turn out the light and, at least for me, the darkness is somehow a place more empty than it once had been.

  I hold Emily, and I think of her words about the funeral: It’s when you start finding closure. When you start working toward some kind of peace. She is right. Those things are coming, but not with, or because of, the funeral. They’re coming with, and because of, the justice I’m going to deliver for my brother.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Morning comes with me still awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to Emily breathe, while I remind myself how close I came to losing her, as I have Derek. At the first light of Saturday morning, careful not to wake her, I slip out of the bed and into the closet. Once inside, I bypass the suits and ties I haven’t worn for weeks to snap up a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. I’m about to exit when my gaze returns to those suits, and I think about choosing one for the funeral. I have to choose a suit to bury my brother, and I find myself back in that ambulance, holding his hand as he said, “Save the company.”

  “Damn it, Derek,” I hiss, my fingers curling into my palms. “I told you we were going to do it together. We were supposed to do it together. That’s what I always wanted.” I shake myself, mentally and even physically, before exiting the closet, to find myself pausing, staring at Emily where she rests in the bed. In our bed, in our home, where I intend to keep her safe, no matter what I have to do to ensure that happens. With that thought driving me, I’m ready to get to work sealing every loose end in our lives right now, and I cross to the bathroom, shut the door, and make my shower fast, in hopes Emily won’t hear the water.

  Fully dressed, I step to the sink to shave, not because it’s necessary, but because I want control in all things right now. I will never lose control again, like I did two weeks ago. I lather up and take the blade to my face, precise in my strokes, the way I plan to be about every move I make to get to that peace and closure Emily mentioned last night and beyond, to the justice I seek and will have. When I’m done, I head to the bedroom to find her standing up and knotting the sash of her pink silk robe, her dark hair a tousled, sexy mess.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” I say, closing the distance between us and pulling her close, my palms settling at her neck, under her hair. “How’s your head today? We didn’t overdo things for you last night, did we?”

  “Things?” She laughs, her hands settling at my waist. “No. We did not overdo things. I’m officially off bed rest now, and I don’t even have a headache this morning. But it is kind of scary how deeply I’m sleeping when I finally do. I didn’t hear you get up.”

  “Your body’s healing,” I say. “You need rest.”

  “So do you,” she says, “and you aren’t sleeping, Shane.” Her hand flattens on my chest. “You haven’t had more than a few hours of sleep a night in a week that I remember. I know it’s been longer.”

  “I’m fine.” I kiss her forehead, and my hands go to her waist. “And you’re tiny right now. How much weight have you lost?”

  “Enough to pig out on pancakes this morning,” she says, her eyes lighting with the idea.

  “Pancakes,” I repeat, loving the pure joy spreading over her heart-shaped face.

  “Yes,” she confirms. “Pancakes. With pecans and whipped cream and lots of syrup.”

  I laugh, which is really a miracle considering all that’s happened, but then, she is my miracle. “I can get you pecans, whipped cream, and lots of syrup too. Anything else?”

  “Coffee that includes whipped cream and chocolate.”

  “All right then,” I agree. “I’ll order room service.”

  She pushes to her toes and kisses me. “Give me fifteen minutes before you order so I can shower and get downstairs.” She twists out of my arms and playfully darts away toward the bathroom, the ease at which she moves telling me her headache really, thankfully, is gone.

  She’s about to disappear into the bathroom, when my cell phone rings from where I’ve left it on the nightstand. I grab it and glance at the number, and I am unsurprised that it is once again my mother. I do as I have a half dozen times before: tap the decline button and then stick my phone in my pocket, only to look up and find Emily watching me.

  “Your mother again?”

  “Yes,” I confirm tightly. “My mother again.”

  “Shane—”

  “I’m not talking to my mother before I’ve had coffee.” My gaze slides over Emily’s slender body, that pink robe gaping at her breasts, that dark roar inside me looking for an outlet. “Go shower. Before I don’t let you.” I turn away and head down the stairs, grimacing as my phone rings again in my pocket.

  Grabbing it, I decline my mother’s call again, and my mind is already elsewhere. I focus on settling down at the stainless steel island in the kitchen, my computer and files in front of me, a cup of coffee in my hand. I pull up my email, fully intending to deal with a few work-related contractual issues, but the top message in my inbox reads: Funeral arrangements—Derek Brandon.

  My lashes lower, and fuck if my eyes don’t burn. My fingers also seem to be tapping the side on the counter of their own accord. I stare at them like they belong to someone else, and then push off the barstool, standing with absolutely no purpose. Out of control. I do not like being out of control. I’m not out of control: the company is officially divided, and announcements are set for the week after the funeral, after I tell my father. The offer for the sports complex is in negotiation. Brandon Enterprises will take over the new fashion brand in four weeks. Everything is in order, and yet right now, in this moment, nothing is fucking in order.

  My phone vibrates and I grab it, eyeing the text message from my mother: Why won’t you take my calls, Shane?

  “Because I’ll have to hear whatever you say all over again when you get here, Mother,” I bite out, dismissing her to focus on what’s important: Emily.

  I tab to my saved numbers and call room service, placing our order. I end the call and set my phone down, pressing my hands to the counter, my chin settling on my chest, that damn email about Derek’s funeral grinding along every nerve ending in my body. Emily was right. The funeral is a turning point. It represents everything I can’t fix. Everything I can’t control. Like the behavior of my damn parents when they return tomorrow night. The funeral isn’t closure to me, as Emily suggested, but it is a doorway to a place where I escape what I can’t control. And it’s on Tuesday. I just need to get past Tuesday.

  I push off the counter and sit down, forcing myself to pull up that email again, which turns out to be a bill. I forward it to Jessica to handle and text her a heads-up. Her reply is simply: Consider it handled. And it will be. That’s one thing about Jessica. She handles things and she doesn’t screw around, which I’ve appreciated more in the past few weeks than ever.

  It’s also made me appreciate just how important it is that I ensure I really do have control when this funeral is over,
which is exactly why I dial Seth. “We need to talk about loose ends,” I say, cautious to say nothing that could be recorded and therefore a problem. “Emily’s loose ends.” Meaning her brother, Rick, and the hacking operation he has her hiding from, with the fear of death if found.

  “I expected this call,” he says. “And I’m working on options.”

  “Work fast,” I say. “And to be clear: a solution that lacks anything but full closure no longer works for me.”

  “Also expected, but we need to set a clear, realistic goal. We can’t eliminate the threat of the hacking operation. They know her. They see her as a threat.”

  “All the more reason we can’t have Rick running around like a live wire, ready to ignite trouble for Emily. In the time she was in the hospital, there wasn’t any ping on his location?”

  “Nothing,” Seth says. “Which means he’s either underground, dead, or a bigger dick than we expected and just doesn’t care enough to have shown up.”

  “That’s too many unknowns. I’m done with unknowns. Handle this.”

  He’s silent several beats before he says, “I’ll have an update soon.”

  We disconnect the call, and I sit there a minute, thinking about the irony of her brother being the threat to her safety I fear now, when my brother is dead in a casket after saving her life. After he put her in danger, I remind myself. I can’t make the mistake I made with Derek and allow a problem to fester until it becomes lethal. I won’t let that happen. For now, though, I refocus on my email and move on to business matters, which include an email from the attorney representing the owners of the sports complex, countering my offer by 10 percent. It’s expected, which is why I held back 15 percent of the figure I was prepared to offer. I type a reply that makes it seem as if I’ll have to work for the extra money, all but done with the deal that will give Martina control over Mike Rogers. There’s also an email from Jessica with the contract I’ve been waiting to proof attached. I pull it up and start reading through the work I masterminded, a document that ensures my father’s retirement whether he likes it or not.

  Twenty minutes into my review, the doorbell rings and I stand up, heading to the front door to allow room service to set up our covered plates on the island where I’ve been working. They’ve just left and I’ve returned to the kitchen when Emily breezes into the room. “I’m starving!” she exclaims, hurrying toward me, dressed in a pale pink sweat suit. With her cheeks and lips shaded to match, she looks more herself than she has in weeks. “Have you looked under the covers yet?” she asks as I hold the barstool next to mine out for her.

  “Not yet,” I say. “I didn’t want it to get cold.”

  She lifts the silver tray cover in front of her to stare down at the stack of pancakes drenched in her requested toppings. “They look amazing.” She glances over at me. “I’m warning you. I’m going to gain that weight back really fast and will need to eat egg whites while jogging mile after mile.”

  “I like egg whites.”

  “For now you get to like pancakes with me. Or … what did you get? Please tell me it’s not healthy.”

  “You inspired my hunger,” I assure her, lifting my tray to reveal my own stack of chocolate chip pancakes. “I thought we’d share both.”

  “I love it,” she says, and just seeing her love anything makes me love her more. It’s crazy, maybe. Or maybe not. But as I watch her now, as I share this moment with her, I fall just a little more in love with her. And I’m going to give her the life she deserves, and won’t let anyone, including her brother, take it from her, or us.

  I hand her one of the two coffees sitting to my right. “White mocha, with the whipped cream you normally skip.”

  “I’m really going to start liking all of this stuff too much,” she says, sipping her coffee and giving a little moan of pleasure. “I need the doctor to clear me to run again, like, yesterday.”

  “There’s no reason to rush yourself,” I say. “You need to go slow.”

  “But I like our runs,” she says. “It’s our thing.”

  “It’s one of our things,” I say, emphasizing the word she’d joked about earlier.

  She laughs. “At least we have last night’s thing back.”

  I laugh with her and we start eating, talking about our food and landing on the topic of Jessica. “I think there’s something between her and Cody.”

  “There’s chemistry there,” I say, “but I’d be disappointed if Cody let that happen. Not when he’s on our protective detail. He’s too close to her.”

  “And how long do you think we’ll need him?”

  I set my fork down. “I’m not in a rush to get rid of your protection.”

  “And there it is,” she says, setting her fork down. “The elephant in the room I’ve avoided. We’re still in danger. Martina is still a problem.”

  “I’m being cautious, sweetheart, and under the circumstances, I think that’s reasonable.”

  “Reasonable because there’s still a threat, which I should have already asked about. I’ve just … I’ve been in denial. Talk to me, please. I thought that once you sold off the pharmaceutical brand, which you’ve done with Mike Rogers, Martina would be gone.”

  “It’s almost done,” I say. “The transition of power is in process. When it’s done, he’ll be gone, but even then, we’ll need to give it time to ensure there are no back doors leading to us.”

  “Right,” she says. “That makes sense. It’s logical. We need Cody.” She laughs without humor. “I guess the good thing about that is that we force him and Jessica to get to know each other before they clutter it with hot sex.”

  “Emily—”

  “It’s okay, Shane,” she says. “Really. I’m tough. I think I’ve proven that.”

  I draw her hand in mine. “I don’t want you to have to be tough.”

  “Well, I am tough,” she says. “And I’m not done with my pancakes.” She tugs her hand free. “I think I like yours better than mine.”

  I hesitate to let her change the topic, but decide it’s for the best. I mean, I get it. We all deal with grief and fear differently, and it’s not always even what we expected from ourselves. “I happen to like yours better,” I tell her, reaching for the plates and switching their locations, setting mine in front of her and hers in front of me. “Problem solved.”

  “Perfect,” she says, grabbing her fork. “I think we both need a nap after this.”

  “We just got up.”

  “And your point is what?”

  My cell phone rings, and I dig it from my pocket where I’d stuffed it during the room service delivery, note my mother’s number, and set it on the table. Emily sets her fork down again. “Is that your mother or your father this time?”

  “My mother,” I say. “My father stopped trying to reach me.”

  “Talk to me if you won’t talk to them. Why are you avoiding them?”

  “I spoke to them when Derek died. My father told me he was in remission and gets to live, but my brother, who he pushed and pushed over the edge, is now dead. The irony of that keeps gutting me.”

  “I know,” she says grimly. “But what about your mother? She lost a son. She needs the one she has left.”

  “I’ll see her tomorrow night when she arrives with my father.”

  Emily twists around in her chair, facing me and snubbing the food she’s been excited over. “She needs you, Shane. You know that right?”

  “No, I do not.”

  Emily’s phone starts ringing, and she removes it from the pocket of her sweat jacket. “It’s her,” she says. “I think I should take it in case they have travel changes or your father—”

  “Take it,” I say, standing up and moving the barstool to press my hands on the table. “But I don’t want to talk.”

  She nods and answers the call. “Maggie,” she says. “Yes. No. I’m fine. Shane’s not available, but hold on. I need to put the phone on speaker. It bothers me to hold it to my head right now.” Emily punches
the speaker button and sets the phone down. “Okay,” she says. “I’m here. Are you okay?”

  “Are you okay?” she surprises me by asking her. Emily’s eyes meet mine as my mother adds, “You’ve been through so much.”

  “I’ve been through nothing compared to you,” Emily says. “You lost a son.”

  My mother makes a choked sound. “Yes. I did. And it hurts that I am here and not there. I need to be with my boys. Both of them. Why won’t Shane talk to me?”

  I lower my chin to my chest, cutting my gaze, hating the mixed emotions I’m feeling right now.

  “Everyone deals with things in their own way,” Emily tells her. “He’s just trying to survive this like everyone else.”

  “He hates me, doesn’t he?”

  “No,” Emily says without hesitation. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not angry at a lot of things.”

  “Of course he is. Of course. How can he not be? I, ah … don’t even know who I am right now. Is he okay?”

  “He’s strong,” Emily says.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Maggie asks. “Because if anything happens to you, I’m pretty sure I’ll be burying another son, and someone will have to bury me too.” Her voice cracks, and I hate how much I want to speak up and comfort her. She doesn’t deserve my comfort. Not when she undermined Derek and tried to steal the company from him and me.

  “I’m doing well,” Emily says. “How is Brandon Senior?”

  “Ready to be home and dreading it too,” she says. “It’s real when we get there. The funeral—”

  “It’s handled,” Emily says. “Just concentrate on getting here safely.”

  “We arrive—”

  “Tomorrow night,” Emily supplies. “We know. We’ll be at the airport.”

  She’s silent several beats and then says, “Tell him I love him.” She hangs up.

  I lift my head and look at Emily. “That call changes nothing because I don’t believe she’s changed. And seeing them is going to be hell.”

  She pushes to her feet and slips under my arm to rest against the table in front of me. “No one understands the anger a parent can create in the midst of loss more than me. You know this. I was, and am still, angry at my father for killing himself. I was angry with my mother for selling out to a man like my stepfather. And I wish I could tell you that seeing them will wipe away what you’re feeling. But it won’t. You’re going to be angry. Other people are going to be angry. At my father’s funeral there was a fight. At my mother’s funeral there was a fight.”