Chapter Seventeen
Brenna
My jaw dropped, and tears pricked the back of my eyes. Why on earth was this woman attacking me with the Jekyll and Hyde turnabout? “What?”
Rhett stared at me with a horrified look on his face, and I didn’t know what hurt worse…his mother’s vicious takedown or his lack of assistance. Rhoda looked like she wanted to reach across the table and rip me apart with her bare hands. And his father, Barney, just leaned back with his hands folded in his lap, looking like he’d just read a funny article in the Times.
“The hit piece,” Rhoda repeated, her words falling like cruel chips of anger. “The piece you wrote about Rhett.” She swallowed, tapping her chin with a chubby finger. “You called him a cad, Brenna. You wrote that he was the biggest manwhore in the state of New York. You wrote that he’d be lucky if he didn’t wake up in the morning with gonorrhea, syphilis, and genital warts!”
I heard an outraged shriek from the table next to us on the wart part as a mother put hand muffs over her toddler’s tender ears. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see her companion stand and throw her napkin down on the table. I couldn’t meet her eyes as she stomped off. Had I really written such mean-spirited things about Rhett? Were those things even true?
“I…” I trailed off, feeling weak and powerless. “I…I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, choosing every word with care. I wanted to defend myself, but without ready knowledge and understanding of the background, I didn’t quite know how. “I would never say those kinds of things about Rhett. Since I’ve come to know him as a person, I care about him.”
Rhoda shook her head and clucked her tongue so hard she resembled an irate chicken. “That wasn’t all,” she said. “You called my son a talentless poser unworthy of the Cy Young. Unworthy of wearing Yankee pinstripes. You said the only reason he was the starting pitcher for the Yankees was because he’d…” She trailed off, blushing angrily. “I won’t use that word here,” she admonished with a flourish of her chubby hand, “but trust me – it was absolutely disgusting! The kind of crap I wouldn’t want to see in a tabloid, much less a trusted and legitimate sports publication.”
I looked to Rhett for verification as one solitary tear escaped my eyelid to slide down my flushed cheek. I watched in horror as it hit the tablecloth and left a tiny watermark. “What’s going on,” I whispered. “What is she talking about?”
“Oh, don’t play innocent with me,” Rhoda said, gaining steam with each passing second and each verbal weapon she released. “You have a trashy mouth for someone who calls herself a journalist! And you were hell-bent on destroying Rhett’s reputation. Hell-bent, I say. And I’m sure you still are. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re milking Mr. Bradshaw and me for more fodder for your tasteless defamation. We should sue you. In fact, I’m going to call Mr. Richards as soon as I get back to New Jersey. He’s our neighbor, you know. He’s a lawyer.”
A burst of angry spittle escaped her lips on the word lawyer, and I felt nausea bubble up the back of my throat. “I wasn’t,” I defended. I really had no idea what I’d written. Was Rhoda on point or embellishing it for her own gain and to defend her own position? “Whatever I wrote – I mean, I don’t come up with that on my own. I get assignments, and my editor fact checks everything meticulously. She’s the best in the business.”
“Oh, sure,” Rhoda said, sarcasm lacing her every word. “Like an assignment to ruin my precious son’s life?”
“Mom, enough,” Rhett snarled through gritted teeth. “Enough, okay? Leave her alone.”
“No,” Rhoda shouted. I could have frozen icicles off her ass. “She wrote some incredibly disgusting things, and I want an apology. I want it now. And if I don’t get a retraction, and an apology in writing in Sport Taste, I’m calling Mr. Richards.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Rhett said. “She knows what she did – it was all in good fun. A joke, a lark for publicity. I was in on the whole thing.”
That couldn’t be possible.
Rhoda wiped a tear from her eyes. “I can’t believe that, Rhett,” she said. “I can’t believe you’d let some classless little bitch ruin your reputation like that. Why would you ever date a girl who would talk in such a trashy way?”
“Mom, enough!”
“Rhoda, please,” Barney said. He reached out and patted his wife’s shoulder. “Let’s just have a nice dinner and forget all about this. It obviously doesn’t bother Rhett, does it?”
“No,” Rhett said sternly. “It doesn’t.”
“Then it shouldn’t bother us. You’re letting yourself get all hot under the collar over a little story in a magazine. It’s not real life.”
“I don’t care,” Rhoda said, shrugging Barney’s hand off her body so hard it slapped down on the table with a loud thump. “Brenna, you’re garbage, and I don’t want you associating with my son any longer.”
The tears overflowed my eyes as I shook my head. “I never would have done anything like that. It’s not who I am. I know it’s not. Please, you have to believe me!”
“Well, then I’m not sure what I read,” Rhoda said. She turned her nose up in the air. “Maybe someone has memory problems.”
The taunt was enough to make me break down into an ugly cry. I hung my head down as I gathered my purse and stood on wavering legs that felt like mushy Jell-O. As much as I wanted to stay calm and defend myself, I’d lost control of my emotions. Rhett’s mother obviously hated me – but why? I had no idea what she was even talking about? Was there another Brenna who wrote sports journalism in New York and said horrible things about Rhett?
The man in question looked like someone had slapped him in the face. I grabbed my bag and spun around, frantically searching for the nearest exit. Thank God I’d put enough money in my bag for a taxi home.
“As it happens,” I said, my voice shaking under the strain of trying to gasp out the words between broken sobs. “I am having some trouble with my memory right now. I recently suffered a head injury. I truly don’t know what you’re talking about. Have a nice evening.”
Before I could leave, Rhett stood up so quickly that his chair toppled over.
“Yeah, Ma,” Rhett said, moving to my side to take my elbow. “Have a nice evening.”
Rhett pulled me through the restaurant. Everyone stared as we passed, and I could practically read their minds: What is that famous baseball player doing with some random girl, and why is she sobbing like a ninny in a public place?
Outside, the noisy and chaotic street heightened my senses. The tears wouldn’t stop, no matter how hard I tried. I hated crying. I found it completely useless – crying never solved anything, or fixed any problems. It only made my sinuses ache, and my eyes swell, and my makeup run.
Oh, and it also made me look absolutely pathetic.
“Brenna, it doesn’t matter what my parents think,” Rhett said. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and tried to pull me close, but I resisted. “I swear to god, I don’t care what they think.”
I buried my face in my hands and pulled away from Rhett’s warm, comforting body. “It’s not about what they think, Rhett. It’s about the truth. And as hard as I struggle to understand what happened, I don’t know what’s going on.” Panic rose inside my chest like boiling water, and I just wanted to run and run and run until I was so tired I collapsed in a heap somewhere quiet. Alone. This whole stupid head injury was ruining my life. I wished I could go back to the hospital and stay there in isolation until I remembered.
“Brenna, look at me,” Rhett pleaded, and something about the tug of emotion in his voice had me comply. “Come on, please.”
I sighed and sniffled, trying to muster a dignified look. But my cheeks were hot and stained with mascara, and my eyes felt so puffy I could barely keep my lids open. Pedestrians and cars swarmed around us, and even though no one seemed to notice the catastrophe, I felt like they’d already judged me guilty.
“I need to go,
” I whispered, pulling my hand free from Rhett’s grip and turning around. “I need some time to think.”
“Brenna, please.” Rhett leapt in front of me and hunched over, looking into my eyes. “Come on, we can work through this. Give it a chance. Don’t give up before we’re even out of the starting gate. That’s not the Brenna Sinclair I know.”
“I don’t even know the real Brenna Sinclair,” I said, stamping my foot in exasperation. “Rhett, I really need some time alone.”
“Brenna, I’m falling for you,” Rhett said. He grabbed my hand and tried to pull me close. “I feel like I’m falling in love with you. And I’ve never said that before. Not ever. To any woman.”
My heart sank. Somehow his words – the words I’d been dreaming of hearing – didn’t mean as much as I thought they would. If I didn’t even have my memories, what did I have left? Who was I? And who was Rhett Bradshaw?
“I don’t know anything right now,” I said, keeping my voice soft and calm through my veil of tears. A single droplet rivered down my cheek, and I wiped it away. “Rhett, I need to go.”
“Brenna, come on,” Rhett pleaded. “Sweetheart, come on, just listen to me. Come with me – we’ll go get a drink, then I’ll take you back to my place.”
I shook my head. “I need to be alone,” I argued, not wanting to hurt him, but I had to take care of myself first. And I had to get on the internet so I could research my past work. “Please, Rhett.”
Rhett’s blue eyes bored holes into my body. “Brenna, I need to talk to you,” he said, so urgently I stopped in my tracks. “I think there are some things you’ll want to know. And I want you to hear them from me.”
“For the last time, no!” I said loudly, yanking my hand back. The motion sent me careening backwards, and I stumbled on my heels before crashing hard onto the grimy Midtown pavement. Pain bloomed in my ass and my legs, and I felt like crying again as Rhett leaned down to scoop me up.
“Brenna, please,” Rhett said, his eyes a mixture of panic and something else I couldn’t recognize. “Come on, we’ll get through this.”
“No,” I snapped. “If you respect me, Rhett, you’ll let me go.”
Rhett released his grip on my wrists and shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. As he stood there in the dark evening with his blond hair pushed back from his forehead and his blue eyes shining with his own pain and regret, I realized that I’d never seen Rhett Bradshaw look more attractive.
“Okay,” Rhett said, giving up. Even though moments ago, I thought him letting me walk away was what I wanted, something else kept me rooted in place. “Go.”
My hands stung from the pavement as I brushed them off on the sides of my dress. My heart pounded and for a moment – just a single second – I wanted to throw myself in Rhett’s arms and ask him to take me away. But I knew that would be the cowardly action.
If I was going to recover my past, I needed to figure it out myself. My heart shattered into a million tiny shards of pain as I turned on my heel and walked slowly away from Rhett. A few times, I could feel his eyes boring into my back, and I whirled around, half hoping he’d still be standing there. But he’d let me leave, and I knew he wouldn’t be chasing after me anytime soon. Not after I’d rejected him in a blatant show of independence. But what would our budding relationship mean if I didn’t come to it a whole and complete woman?
Nothing.
I walked around for hours, staring at the sights and sounds and tourists of New York City, desperate to find my memories. My identity. My life. If anything, since the accident, I’d been letting myself spend the whole day thinking of Rhett which I now recognized as an avoidance tactic. He’d been in the right place at the right time to break my focus on my recovery. But I knew it wasn’t just that – there had to be something really wrong with me. Weeks had passed, and barely any of my memories had returned. Confusion was now my default state of mind.
After six blocks, my feet ached so badly that I went down into the subway and sat on a bench, watching as trains rushed back and forth, all loaded with commuters and people getting ready to go out and live their lives. Saturday night in New York had always had a festive feel – something that didn’t inspire just celebratory excitement, but anticipation, too. I’d always loved it – the fast-paced city that had made me feel like a confident, independent woman.
Except now, I wasn’t able to remember anything about that confident woman at all. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t summon her to mind. At times, I couldn’t even conjure up my own visage. I’d spent the past few weeks mooning over Rhett Bradshaw, dreaming of his touch and the way he’d said my name. I’d imagined him confessing deep emotion to me more times than I wanted to concede.
So why hadn’t it felt good when he admitted that he was falling for me? What was keeping me from being vulnerable too and throwing myself into his arms?
Regardless of the implications to my already broken heart, I knew I’d soon have to find out exactly what was going on.
And the outcome be damned.
Chapter Eighteen
Rhett
I didn’t even bother going back inside Tony’s Di Napoli. After Brenna stalked off, her face streaked with tears, I moped around Midtown for hours, trying to outrun the ghost of love gone wrong. Ernie texted me a few times – he was getting drunk at the Sapphire Club – and after a while, I decided to join him. No debauchery tonight, I decided as I strolled into the lobby. I just want a few drinks so I can relax.
Ernie sat at the bar with one stripper on his lap and another massaging his shoulder blades. When they saw me, they squealed and ran toward me, all flailing fake tits and limbs.
“Ernesto, you didn’t tell me you invited Rhett Bradshaw!” one of the girls squeaked. She had pasties with tassels over her nipples and a sheer pink thong that showed a perfect outline of her labia. She was gorgeous. On any other day, I would have grabbed her and paid for three dances in a row. But her green eyes and chestnut hair reminded me of Brenna, and shame blossomed in my chest like rot.
Bad idea, Bradshaw. You have to get the fuck out of here. Even being inside felt like a betrayal of the honest words I’d shared with Brenna only a few hours prior.
“Yeah, baby, he’s a good dude.” Ernie gave me a lazy grin and took a long gulp of his craft beer. “What’s good, brother?” From his voice, I could tell that he’d been drinking for at least three hours.
I groaned. The other stripper slid off Ernie’s lap, pouting as I sat next to him and made a shooing motion with my hand.
“Man, don’t scare the girls off,” Ernie said and slapped me on the shoulder. “I’m tryin’ to do you a favor tonight, man! That’s why we’re here. You need a little pick-me-up.”
“I don’t need any favors,” I said, venom seeping into my tone. I loved Ernie, but it seemed I’d outgrown him overnight. Maybe my priorities had changed. “I just need a drink. Straight liquor.”
Ernie rolled his eyes. “Brother, you’re into some heavy shit right now, aren’t you,” he said. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been calling you all day. Check your phone lately?”
“I went out to dinner with my parents,” I mumbled. Ernie didn’t reply – he was too busy staring at the gaping ass cheeks of a girl “dancing” on stage just a few inches away. I made a fist and slammed it down on the bar. “Fuck it!”
The bartender noticed my sudden display of temper and sashayed down the bar toward me. A petite brunette in her early twenties, she wore the same look about her as all female bartenders in strip clubs – judgmental, bored, and a little envious. She’d probably auditioned for the lucrative gig on the stage but didn’t quite have the goods to make it.
I smiled. “Hey, babe, get me a tequila shot. Patron if you have it,” I said and passed her a fifty-dollar bill. “And keep the change.”
The brunette smiled and snatched up the bill, tucking it into her ample cleavage. Normally, I would have smiled back and started a conversation with her, teasing out the details
of why such a pretty girl next door type had to work in such a sordid place with degenerates and perverts. And then it hit me. I was a pervert and a degenerate, so who was I to judge the comings and goings of other men. My social life had proved to be a marriage of convenience. If chicks made themselves readily available with their legs open, I’d availed myself of their offer. No more.
“I need to turn over a new leaf,” I mumbled, my mother’s grimaced face floating across my consciousness. If I hadn’t been an arrogant and selfish prick since I’d signed with the Yankees, I would have given Brenna Sinclair nothing to write about. My Ma had it all wrong. I’d made my own bed of thorns, and now I had to aerate my own skin by lying on top of them.
“So,” Ernie said. He leaned back in his chair, grinning. “How was din-din? You have a real nice time with the folks? Let me guess. Rhoda stroked your back and your ego, and now I’ll have to knock you down a few pegs. Huh, you arrogant bastard?”
He followed that analysis up with a slap to my back that caused a deep groan. “Not exactly,” I replied, not sure of how to explain the situation in a way that Ernie would understand or support.
The cute brunette pushed a shot glass toward me along with some lime wedges on a cocktail napkin, her eyes lingering a shade too long on my biceps. But I pointedly ignored her, glancing over her head until she rolled her eyes and stalked away.
“What happened?” Ernie frowned. “Oh, my precious baby genius Rhett,” he cooed, in an almost eerie imitation of my mother. “Did little Rhett have a bad time?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I growled. “You’re just pissed because you can only Skype with your mama. I took Brenna with me.”
Ernie hooted with laughter. Beer spilled down his lip, chin, and out of his nostrils as he wheezed and coughed and rocked back and forth on the stool. I found myself growing more aggravated toward him with every second of his ridiculous enactment. Until I realized it wasn’t a performance at all. I kind of felt sorry for him.
Sinker: Alpha Billionaire Romance Page 14
