Sinker: Alpha Billionaire Romance

by Colleen Charles

I groaned. “Dad, this really isn’t the best time–”

  “I’m not finished yet. Look, I know you’re feeling down about what happened at dinner with…what was her name? Brenda?”

  “Brenna,” I muttered, just about over the offensive butchering of her name.

  “Right, with Brittany,” Dad said. “But you have to think about it like this – everyone in New York knows about you, son. You’re a star, you’re a pitcher for the Yankees.” His voice turned husky and full of pride. “And son, that’s just incredible. I always knew you had somethin’ special, ever since I bought you your first glove. But I’m so glad to see that you made it so far.”

  “Uh, thanks, Dad.” I scratched my chin, unsure what else to say. “Look, I gotta–”

  “Now wait just one minute,” Dad said, articulating the most sentences I’d heard him say in years. “I know your mom is really pushing you to settle down. But Rhett, listen – take some time, okay? Don’t do anything you’re gonna regret. You’re still a young man, and this is the time for you to do whatever you want.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Yeah, Dad.” And don’t worry, the only woman I’d want a relationship with doesn’t want anything to do with me for the very activities you’re lauding like some kind of warped version of Jim Baker.

  “And don’t you worry about, oh, I don’t know. Women’s lib – feminism – whatever the hell those broads are calling it nowadays. Rhett, women like being taken advantage of – that’s what they all want. Why do you think they run around half naked, swiping right, and begging for a hook-up? I’ll tell you why, son. You see some girl with her tits hanging out, well damn, that’s because she wants you to look.”

  I groaned, not believing my own ears. Had Bill Cosby overtaken my father’s body? “Dad, really–”

  “And you’re not just a man – you’re a Bradshaw. And we Bradshaws are real tough men, aren’t we, son? We get shit done, and we get what we want.”

  “Yeah, Dad,” I said, trying to placate him. I just wanted to get off the damn phone before I said something disrespectful to my father. He meant well, but his small-town and backward family values were ones I’d shed years ago.

  In theory, I realized, but not in practice.

  “So, I’m just saying…don’t feel any pressure to put a ring on that girl just because she showed some spine,” Dad said. “You go out and have fun with half of New York if you want. Any girl who winds up with you is gonna have to understand that you’re a man, and men have needs.”

  I coughed. “What?’

  Dad laughed. “Son, I’m just sayin’ – settling down doesn’t mean settling for one gal, you know?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, wondering in that moment if my dad was confessing his own sins. The thought of my kindhearted Ma dealing with that kind of sick shit made me feel nauseated. I may be a player on the field and off, but marriage meant something to me. Which is why I’d decided to avoid the noose. “Are you trying to tell me that it’s okay to have a girlfriend because I can cheat on her?”

  “Well, son, I wouldn’t go putting it like that.”

  “Are you saying you’ve had affairs behind Mom’s back?” I stared at the ground in disgust.

  “I’m a Bradshaw, aren’t I? Just like my father before me. And we’re men, son. We do what we want – women are just programmed to accept it, that’s all.”

  I felt absolutely disgusted. “I gotta go,” I said. “Bye, Dad.” I hung up and shoved my phone in my pocket, groaning.

  I didn’t want to wind up like my father. I didn’t want to wake up in my fifties, still justifying frat boy behavior because I was a “Bradshaw.” I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life objectifying women and treating them like sex objects just because they threw themselves at me.

  If I wanted to make things right, I was going to have to do a hell of a lot more than just apologize to Brenna.

  Turning on my heel, I ran toward the nearest curb and hailed a taxi.

  ***

  A little less than twenty minutes later, I stepped onto the curb outside of the Sport Taste office building. I’d been here a few times before. Most recently, for a promotional photo-shoot that Riley had organized with a bunch of underprivileged kids from the Bronx. At the time, I’d told her it was ridiculous…but that hadn’t exactly stopped me from participating. Thinking about it now made me want to cringe. I’d been such a fucking phony, and for what?

  Blown up photos of famous New York athletes throughout the years decorated the modern lobby. I stopped in front of a giant Joe DiMaggio, grinning and striking the same pose as The Yankee Clipper. When I was a little kid, I’d dreamed of being as famous as DiMaggio…the fact that he’d fucked Marilyn Monroe hadn’t made it any less appealing.

  “I’ll get there one day,” I whispered, staring up at his looming visage. “Don’t write me off just yet.”

  A crowd of people bustled around the lobby. When I got on the elevator, a group of tourists pushed inside with me. They were young – maybe college kids – and two of the guys immediately recognized me. I figured they were here for the mini-museum at the top of the building – Sport Taste had a display of articles and photos that didn’t make the magazine, and it was free of charge.

  “Holy shit,” one of them said. “That’s fucking Rhett Bradshaw!”

  “No fucking way,” the other guy said, eyeing me. “Don’t be such a fucking spaz. This is New York, there are like sixty billion people here. There’s no fucking way it’s him. It’s just some dude who looks like him.”

  “It has to be him,” the first guy repeated. He looked at me and narrowed his eyes. “Sorry, are you Rhett Bradshaw?”

  Just as I was about to say yes and offer an autograph, one of the girls in the group rolled her eyes.

  “It better not be him,” she said in this snotty voice as she brought her black painted fingernails up to pinch her nose shut. “He’s such a disgusting pig, ew! What is it with professional athletes who like, take advantage of women like haters?”

  Immediately, I dropped my gaze to the floor. The two guys laughed.

  “Yeah,” one of them said, snickering. “He’s a real hero. I wish I could get the pussy that Rhett Bradshaw gets.”

  The girl smacked him with her handbag and the kid crouched down with a yelp of pain.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, I was just joking,” the guy muttered, rubbing his arm with a definite flair for the dramatics. “Lighten up, Carissa, and learn to take a joke! I’m on Rhett’s side. You women are joyless.”

  When the elevator stopped at the Sport Taste offices, I bolted out, trying to ignore the squabbling voices behind me. I felt like I was living in some kind of hellscape – my perfect New York City, turned upside down, with everyone out to get me. My worst nightmare.

  I’d just stepped inside the reception area when I saw Riley rounding the corner of cubicles with an older woman, maybe in her mid-fifties. She had an intimidating puff of black hair piled high on her head, dark eyes, and a severe expression. She pointed a red-tipped finger and lectured Riley under her breath. When Riley saw me, her eyes lit up.

  “Oh, Nina, thank god,” Riley said. “Here he is now – Rhett Bradshaw.” She hopped from one foot to the other, keeping an eye on me. “Rhett?”

  “Uh, yeah?” I narrowed my eyes at Riley. “Sorry, have we met before?”

  Riley’s jaw dropped. “He’s kidding,” she said to the woman in a rush of syllables. “He has such a great sense of humor, don’t you, Rhett?”

  I shrugged. “I’m looking for the editor,” I said to the woman with dark hair. “Do you know where I can find her?”

  The woman narrowed her eyes. “That would be me,” she said in a measured tone, sizing me up with her hawk-like eyes. I imagined myself as a mouse running across an open prairie. The woman looked like she’d swoop right down and end me. “Nina Capon. May I help you?”

  “Nina, oh my god, this is so great,” Riley babbled on. “Now that Rhett’s here, we can talk about that featur
e I mentioned last week!” She leaned down and tapped a girl who sat typing on her laptop in the nearest cubicle. “Hey, Liz! Look, Rhett’s here! I can finally get you his autograph like I promised!”

  The girl bounced up from her chair and darted over to Riley. “Oh my gosh,” she gushed. “I can’t believe I’m finally meeting the Rhett Bradshaw.”

  “Riley, what is going on?” Nina asked, her lips puckering into a frown. “I won’t have you trying to turn this office into a fan club. We’re a sports publication. Athletes come here all the time.”

  “I’m not doing–”

  “Riley just promised she’d get me Rhett’s signature,” Liz squealed past her glossy lips. “I can’t believe she actually came through.”

  I shrugged again and laughed, used to being recognized and having my personal space invaded. Might as well soak it up before I turned over my new leaf. “I’d be happy to sign for you,” I said, pointing at Riley. “But not because she asked.”

  Riley glared at me. I could almost see streams of hot vapor shooting out her ears. She wanted to play games and hurt Brenna? Well, two could enter that competition. “Rhett, this isn’t funny.”

  “No,” Nina spat. “It certainly is not. Riley, what is going on?”

  “I don’t know,” Riley said, throwing her hands up in the air. I watched the blood drain from her cheeks. “I swear, I know Rhett.” Her voice rose an octave as she spoke, struggling to control herself. I knew she wanted to rail at me. I had her cornered. Time to move in for the killing strike. “We’ve met before. Remember?”

  I burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” I said to Nina. “This happens a lot – you know, everyone recognizes me. Some of them I’ve met sometime but just don’t remember. But everyone who’s important? I know them. I don’t know this chick from Adam.”

  Nina didn’t laugh. “Riley, wait for me in my office. Now.”

  “I was really hoping to speak with the editor, but it seems like you really have your hands full already, Nina. Should I wait?”

  Nina rolled her eyes and puffed out her cheeks. She glanced from me, to Riley, to Liz, who patiently held out a copy of Sport Taste and a pen while her eyes blazed admiration.

  “Rhett, Riley, come with me,” Nina said, spinning on her sensible heel like a drill sergeant. “We’ve apparently got some urgent matters to discuss.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Brenna

  My mom always said, give yourself twenty-four hours to grieve. Cry, eat ice cream in front of the television, wear grubby pajamas, and let yourself feel whatever you’re feeling at the moment. “Don’t try to push it away,” she said. “Just deal with it. Just let yourself wallow. What you resist, persists.”

  When she’d first given me that advice – after I’d received the fuck-off form letter from Harvard – it hadn’t resonated.

  “I don’t want to cry,” I’d told her. “I want to hit something. Like the dean of admissions.”

  My mom had laughed. “Brenna, I know you’re on a rollercoaster of emotions right now. But you can’t let this dictate the rest of your life. Let yourself mourn, and then pull yourself right back up again. Bootstrap it, kid. You’re a Sinclair. We dust ourselves off and institute plan-B.”

  I’d groaned. It had seemed so stupid, so trite. So Oprah Winfrey network.

  And yet, my first thought after all this was to call my loving mom for her support. We’d cried together but then we’d strategized, and I’d come out of that cocoon of her love with a solid plan-B.

  I’d closed the blinds and pulled the curtains down, ordered fifty dollars worth of Chinese takeout, and queued up a marathon of Real Housewives – my trashiest reality show addiction. Oh, and wine. Definitely couldn’t forget wine at a time like this. I’d walked to the corner bodega in pajama pants and a hoodie with giant sunglasses for six bottles of my favorite white blend, just daring the foreign cashier to judge me.

  “All of this?” the cashier had asked with a snicker. ”For you? Aren’t you kind of tiny?”

  “I’m having a bad day,” I said, spearing her with my best ‘don’t fuck with me’ glare. “Keep the change.”

  As soon as I arrived back home, I flopped on the couch, determined to stay there until the mission of mourning reached completion. My career as senior reporter for Sport Taste remained at the top of the grief list. It was hard not to sink into the pit of depression I felt circling around me like a hungry shark. Ever since my dad had taken me to baseball games as a little kid, I’d known I’d wanted to write about Major League Baseball. It represented spring, renewal, and America.

  But that’s over now, I thought as I stuck a spoon into a full carton of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia welcoming the sugary sweetness as it slid down the back of my throat. And now onto something bigger and better.

  I tried not to let intrusive thoughts enter my head. I wondered if I’d even be able to get a reference from Nina – or if I’d be blackballed. I’d be lucky to get a verification of employment. I wondered if Riley would publish some exposé about my “relationship” with Rhett.

  Most of all, I wondered about Rhett’s thoughts. Despite his easygoing nature, he was something of a cipher. I knew that behind those blue eyes and that cockeyed grin, Rhett held his real hand close to his chest. After all, I barely knew anything about him…and I also knew that wasn’t because of my memory loss. He was one of those guys who threw out emotional tidbits like fish food. I remembered the time we walked around Yankee Stadium and Rhett told me about his friend from high school dying in a car crash. Had it been a lie? Was Rhett trying to reel me in with sympathy, treating me like a confidante in order to wear me down for the big seduction?

  Just as I lifted the bottle to pour myself a second glass of wine, my phone buzzed on the table in front of me. My heart leapt in my throat.

  Nina!

  I shot back a swig of alcoholic fortification before swiping. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Brenna?”

  “Yes, this is she.”

  “Brenna, this is Dani Banks – Nina’s assistant. How are you?”

  My heart slammed against my ribs. Why would Dani be calling me from Nina’s phone?

  “Um, fine.”

  “Good,” Dani replied. “Listen, Nina was hoping you could swing by the office in a little bit, she wants to speak with you. Are you available to come in today? I’m sorry about the short notice. It’s important.”

  I glanced down at my ratty pajama pants. “Uh, sure.”

  “Good,” Dani chirped. “Can you be here in thirty?”

  I groaned inwardly as I reached up and felt my greasy pile of hair. “Give me an hour.”

  “Okay,” Dani said. “Thanks, Brenna. See you soon.”

  As soon as we hung up, I sprinted into the shower. After briefly scrubbing shampoo and conditioner into my hair, I ran a razor up both legs. When I was done, I pulled on my smartest outfit – a two-piece grey suit that fit snugly around my hips and bosom. I’d worn it when I interviewed with Sport Taste for the senior reporter job, and I thought of it as my lucky charm.

  This way, even when Nina officially fires me, at least I’ll look good. The one glass of wine I’d drank faded from my system and took the liquid courage with it – vicious anxiety returned to nip at my senses.

  As much as I wanted to take a cab to the offices, I knew I shouldn’t be throwing money away…especially after that Chinese takeout binge. Instead, I took the subway and tried not to groan as we crawled through the underground streets of New York City. Taking the train in the middle of the day had a reckless, almost holiday-ish feel to it – like skipping school, or blowing off work for a bar crawl. I tried to relax and read my Kindle, but nerves blurred my vision, and I kept re-reading the same sentence. I tried to imagine how Nina would put the news.

  “Brenna, you’re fired.”

  “Brenna, this security guard will watch over you while you empty your desk. If you try to return to the premises, please be aware that I can and will have you arrested.�
�

  “Brenna, your contract has been terminated immediately. You’ll receive an invoice in the mail detailing what you owe to Sport Taste. If you cannot pay within twelve months, a warrant will be issued for your arrest.”

  By the time I got downtown, I struggled not to hyperventilate. A quick glance in my compact yielded red, sweaty cheeks and messy hair, but I didn’t have time to stop and fix it. I had to get to Sport Taste as soon as possible – or else I was really going to be screwed.

  The elevator seemed to crawl. By the time the doors dinged open, and I stepped into the once-familiar office, my legs wobbled underneath me. A loud din of chatter and conversation floated to my ears, but as soon as I started walking through the cubicles, a dead silence fell over the entire floor. I heard whispers and isolated giggles. Great. I bet Nina sent out an email telling everyone that I’d been fired. How embarrassing.

  I steeled my shoulders and strode forward. The few times I tried to make eye contact with one of my now-ex coworkers, they all looked away as if meeting my eyes would cause them to obliterate into dust. Finally, I made it to the other end of the floor and stood in front of Nina’s closed office door. A rush of heated voices argued on the other side.

  “Oh, Brenna!” Dani rushed over to me. “I’m so glad you could make it. Nina will see you now.”

  “It sounds like she’s busy…”

  “Now,” Dani repeated. Her frozen smile didn’t cover her quavering voice. Damn, this is going to be bad. She reached down and opened the door to Nina’s office, pushing it forward.

  I gasped. Riley, Rhett, and Nina sat in a face-off. Riley’s crimson face grimaced at the sight of me, but Rhett looked like he’d just seen an episode of Ghost Whisperer after eating spicy Mexican take-out. Flashes of our last interlude and my brazen behavior popped into my mind, sending my already galloping heart straight into orbit.

  I blushed beet red as I stepped inside. “Hello, Nina. Dani called and told me you wanted to speak with me. That it was important?”

  Nina nodded, businesslike as always. Unflappable. “Yes. Riley, you can leave now.”