by Liz Crowe
“For what?” she asked, using everything she had to not touch him. To beg him to remember her.
“For not telling me.” He leaned back, seemingly at ease all of a sudden.
Curious but with a lick of fear at the base of her brain where Amber’s threat still lurked, she stayed quiet. She did not want to be named the new general manager and then face something like that. But more importantly, she refused to expose Sam to it, no way. Not even for Brody. “Okay. You’re welcome.” She got up. “You should go.”
“Wait.” He held out his hand, palm up.
Tears formed and fell, despite all her efforts. That was so…Brody. That simple gesture—it killed her because it had started everything for them.
“Don’t,” she croaked, crossing her arms to keep from falling into him. “Please.”
He rose, still with that hand outstretched. His eyes were pleading. “I don’t remember…much. But I know we were together. And I’m glad. I don’t mean to upset you, honestly. I just…need…someone….” His voice broke.
The unbreachable expanse of her small front porch yawned between them. She would not do this. Not as long as Amber made threats with her jealous bullshit. It wasn’t worth it.
“You will have someone. A wife. Tomorrow.”
He sucked in a breath, his face a mask of unhappiness as his arm dropped to his side. It nearly killed her, and she had a brief moment of wonder that her heart could pound so hard and still function. The moment had arrived—let him back in and risk losing her son forever.
“Good luck to you…Robert.” He winced, blinked fast, then that new Brody face slipped into place. She took a deep breath, relieved and destroyed all in one second.
“Thanks. Take care. Of yourself and…him.”
She nodded. He turned and walked back down to his bike. She ached where he had not touched her. Her arms actually hurt where she had not embraced him. But it had to be this way.
When she opened the door and stepped inside, she very nearly fell right over Sam. Clad in his PJs, clutching his blanket, just a little boy, but with the mature expression of a man, studying her, worry making his brow wrinkly.
“Mommy.”
She dropped down to the floor and gathered him in.
“Mommy,” he repeated. “Is that soccer man my daddy? The one who saw me, and how great I was, and left us?”
“Yes, Sam, he is. He got sick. He hurt his head really bad. All his memories are gone. He didn’t leave you. He just…never knew about you.”
Sam pulled away from her and seemed to puzzle over this, turning it around in his brain. “His memories of me?”
“Yes, baby. I’m sorry,” she said, never meaning it more.
“Well, maybe we can give him some medicine. And we can play some soccer together. And you guys can make dinner in the kitchen. And we can help him remember…me?” His face, so earnest and full of hope, eviscerated her. She hated herself and Brody for putting this innocent little boy through so much crap.
“No. He’s moving away tomorrow.”
“On my birthday?” The boy seemed utterly shocked by that. His face fell, a clear sign of oncoming tears.
“Yeah, now let’s get some sleep. We have a huge party tomorrow, right?” She tried to stay chipper, to distract him.
But Sam was already crying, full-on sobbing, sucking in huge breaths and blowing them out. Sophie stood, unable to move for a few minutes when the realization that she had just broken her own son’s heart hit her in the gut.
Sick of lying to everyone, furious with herself, she carried him to bed. The sobs reduced to hiccups, then deep breathing as he dropped into his usual tossing-turning sleep cycle. She’d be dealing with this tomorrow for sure, but for now, all she managed to do was fall over, hanging onto Sam’s warm body, the only thing anchoring her to the universe.
Chapter Twelve
The day dawned inauspiciously. Brody had a killer hangover, having gone straight from Sophie’s house to the bar. Nicco had picked him up well after two a.m., thanks to a call from the manager. He’d woken up with a mouth full of cotton and a pounding, sick headache. His wedding day, he mused, glaring into the mirror at his bloodshot eyes. It meant little to him. Less than that really. But he’d set himself on this path and truly had no idea how to alter it.
The juggernaut of Amber’s Wedding Plans had plowed him right under. She had a deft hand at involving him just enough to be mildly interested, yet not so much that he got bored, or pissed off by the lack of necessity of it all. The sum total of his responsibility today was represented by the custom-tailored tuxedo hanging in the otherwise empty closet, shined black shoes on the floor beneath.
He downed more water, heartbeat loud in his ears, unable to get the vision of Sophie—so beautiful, so perfect, and so completely, obviously over him or anything they had together—out of his brain. He had to move on. That little boy might be his son—his brain tripped over the word even as he acknowledged he had no idea when or how it happened. And if his stupid mind wouldn’t allow him to remember enough to make it worth her time? Well, he had to get the fuck over it.
He ran a hand across his rough jaw, tempted not to shave. If for no other reason than to give a real up yours to Amber and her spread-sheeted, over-planned, hyper-organized event because he was a mere player on her stage. Her…toy, plaything, the only way she would ever be famous as Mrs. Brody Vaughn. He suppressed a rush of nausea. Sophie had rejected him. He had a son, whose connection to him would always be as just some random guy on the soccer team and no more.
“Fuck!” He pounded the bathroom vanity counter. He did not want to leave. He did not want to marry Amber. He’d been grasping at every straw within his immediate reach when she pulled him back from his personal ledge that night. So he’d done the only thing he understood—latching on and not letting go. So, here he was, hours away from the big event, with nothing between him and honest-to-god misery but an overpriced wedding to a greedy, grasping bitch.
He flipped the switch in his head labeled wedding autopilot. Amber had planned an evening nuptial ceremony, thank the Lord, so he got a chance to nap and eat. Around five, he got dressed, stuck his feet in the shoes, leaving his jaw unshaven. Fuck her. Nicco and Metin picked him up. They handed him a beer. He took it, sipped, winced, and set it down. His stomach churned. He didn’t really wish to puke all over these people, his friends.
The two men kept quiet. Brody stared out the window, then followed them into the yacht club once they arrived. He’d been there just a few hours before, for the rehearsal, escaping when Amber had been busy with her group of cackling girlfriends. He’d gone to Sophie for reasons he truly didn’t understand. But he’d hoped to see Sam, truth be told. But she had protected her son, as a mother should.
Before he entered the main hall, greeted by all and knowing no one, Nicco pulled him aside and stuck something in his palm. He stared at it the photo in his hand. It was an old one, possibly from that shoebox full of mysteries he’d found in his closet. Sweat broke out on his brow, his body ice cold, quaking, still in the throes of hangover-induced stress. The image could easily be Sam, the kid he’d met, the boy Nicco claimed he had fathered. A fact Sophie had confirmed before telling him to get out of her house, her life, and away from their son.
He gripped the photo tight, ignoring the hullabaloo around him. His vision blurred. His gut churned. Then, without another thought, he started barreling through the growing crowd, the photo clutched tight in his fist. Seeking escape in the maze of hallways and doors in the old building where he’d suffered through the rehearsal, where he’d pondered his break away to confront Sophie with Nicco’s news flash. Now however, he wanted nothing whatsoever to do with this bullshit farce of an event, with him as central show pony. He would be no one’s toy or husband arm decoration.
You are my bitch. The voice sliced through his brain. Her voice. The redheaded cunt who’d left him alone ever since he nearly leapt off the balcony and been rescued by Amber London. Brody. M
y. Bitch, her memory screeched in his ear. Get over here and make me come. He winced. Put the fist holding the photo to his forehead, forcing her out and Sophie’s deep blue eyes back in.
He shoved open a random door, sucking in huge breaths of fresh spring Michigan air, heart light for the first time in…well, forever. If he believed Nicco, he, Brody had once been a very different man. Still the star goalkeeper, independent, stoic, quiet. But deeply in love. And not with the angular, scary Amber—with the smart, beautiful Sophie
Someone grabbed his arm. He tried to yank it away, speechless with his intent to get the fuck out of there. Metin stood there, dressed in his own monkey suit, his long, dark hair smoothed back, his huge hand with Brody’s arm in a death grip.
“Where the hell are you going?” he asked, mildly.
“Away from here,” Brody blurted out, his brain sending him a single message: Escape. Go to Sophie. Hurry.
“Good plan,” Metin said, patting his shoulder. “I’ll tell her. I’ve been dying to pop that bitch’s bubble.”
Brody grinned, tugged his bowtie loose, and glanced around. He had no real means of escape. Metin turned him around, pointed over his shoulder. His bike sat crouched at the curb, metal shining like a beacon.
“Nice.” He faced his coach…his friend. “Thanks.”
“Go to her. Make it right. Don’t rush her though. Get to know your son first and prove you are worthy of being a father. It’s an honor and something that must be earned. She will judge you by that, not how eager you are to get back in her bed.”
He nodded, taking it on, internalizing it, but dying to get away.
But Metin didn’t let go of his arm. “Do not fuck this up, Vaughn. Your woman is about to be named general manager of the club. She will be the big boss, big time.”
Brody blinked. His woman? His? A thrill of possessive lust shot through him at the thought. He took a breath then blew it out, words failing him. Finally he croaked out. “I just…need to see her.”
“I know.” Metin clapped him on the back again. “Go. I’ll tell Amber she’s been left at the altar.”
“I don’t wanna be that guy.” He meant it. “Really. I….”
Metin shook his head. “No. It’s no less than she deserves. Trust me.”
Taking his keys from Metin’s outstretched hand, he headed for the bike, his mind clear, light, and focused on a single goal.
****
After pulling up to Sophie and Sam’s house, he turned off the engine and tucked his helmet away. The small front lawn resembled a birthday party war zone, spent water balloons, streamers, and empty cups with soccer balls on them littering its expanse. A huge, Happy Birthday, Sam banner hung crookedly across the porch. No cars lined the streets. All seemed quiet.
He glanced at his watch. If things had gone to plan, he’d be staring down the aisle right then at Amber, future wife, future ex-agent. She’d wanted a classy evening wedding so by the time he’d bolted the scene and ridden out to Ann Arbor it was nearly nine o’clock. His nerves did an annoying tap dance as he walked up to the front door.
After a couple of knocks and still no answer, he decided to try around back. The deck was worse than the front yard, covered in ripped wrapping paper, more balloons, decorations, food plates. A few tiki torches remained lit. A fire blazed in a small outdoor pit. He tiptoed around, not wanting to scare anyone.
Then he spotted them. Sam sound asleep on his mother’s lap. Sophie’s huge blue eyes looked exhausted. He took his time, watching her, drinking her in, wondering how he would possibly fix this, but more determined to do so than ever.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, startling him but not sounding terribly surprised. “Shouldn’t you be slipping on a ring, declaring ’til death do you part, and all that?” She hadn’t taken her gaze off the fire.
He took a seat next to her, elbows on his knees, the photo of himself still clutched in his fist. “Yeah, well, that didn’t work out the way she wanted, I guess.”
Sophie turned to him, something like fear on her face. “You have to go back. Marry her. It’s best for you both.”
“How would you know what’s best for me?” he asked, honestly curious. Now that he was here, with her, it seemed as though all his troubles—the headaches, sleepless nights, general lowlying frustration—would all just vanish into thin air.
“You can’t be here. I mean it.” She got up, patting Sam’s back. The boy snuffled around, rousing enough to spot Brody. He frowned and glanced at his mother, as if seeking something from her. “It’s okay, baby,” she said. “Brody was just leaving.”
“No, actually I’m not.” He rose and faced her, pulse racing but never more sure of anything. Sam kept his arm around his mother’s neck but met Brody’s eyes. “Here, Sam. I brought this for you.” He held out the photo.
Sam took it. “How did you take this picture of me?” he asked, his face covered in a film of icing and dirt. Brody wiped some of the blue and green sugar off his son’s cheek. His gut flamed hot with resolve. He wanted this so badly he could taste it on his tongue; could feel it, deep in his soul.
“It’s not of you, honey,” Sophie told the boy, pinning her gaze on Brody.
“Your mom is right. It’s of me,” he said. Sam grinned and before either adult had a chance to react, he reached across the distance between the two adults. Sophie let him go, putting her hand to her lips as the boy wrapped his warm body around Brody’s torso, burying his face in his father’s neck.
“I knew you’d come back.”
Chapter Thirteen
Brody put Sam to bed, amusing Sophie with practical reminders to brush his teeth and wash the mess off his face first. They chattered away about how they would play soccer tomorrow, first thing. Sophie allowed herself a thrill of emotion when Sam planted a huge kiss on Brody’s cheek and gripped him in a long hug.
This could not be happening. Amber would release that damning fake report, and her son would be exposed to her life—her former life—as Domme-for-hire. Sam just loved having a man around. He’d get over it soon enough.
She brought them both a beer and they sat, as the fire burned itself down to coals. “So,” she said, “left the lovely Amber right at the altar, did you?”
“Yes, I did,” Brody agreed, seemingly hypnotized by the orange glow. Then he grabbed her arm and yanked her close so fast she yelped in surprise. He ran a finger down her face; his lips hovered over hers. A single most perfect moment—until she broke it. Forcing her mouth into a semblance of a smile, she disentangled, gave his arm a sister-like pat, and stood.
“It’s not that easy. I still don’t think you should be here.” She walked on wobbly legs to where she’d left a couple of large garbage bags, grabbed them, and shoved one at him. “Here, make yourself useful and help me clean up this chaos.”
He stared at the black plastic bag as if she had just handed him a live rat. “But,” he protested, “I’m…here to….”
She whirled on him, fury clouding her vision. “Your fiancée threatened me, Brody. Threatened my son.” She shut her eyes for a split second at the surprise on the man’s face as he rose to his feet. “No, no, it’s more complicated than you think.” In her space now, his very presence forcing the crazed spinning of her brain to settle, he gripped her arms tight, disbelief and fury on his face.
Clutching the garbage bag so tightly it hurt, she stayed focused on what mattered—her son and his well-being. “Don’t touch me. Just listen.” She didn’t trust herself. Because her Robert was back and he wanted to kiss her and god help her, she wanted to let him. And that was out of the question. “Sit.” She shoved him down on a lounge chair and took a seat opposite. “I own a business, a different business. It has something to do with your history that you don’t remember.”
He nodded, his face grim. “Headaches. I get them bad now and I don’t know why. And I dream about…I mean, I constantly see and hear even when I’m awake…this redheaded woman who’s dressed in leather, and ca
lling me a pussy, and her bitch, and her toy, and she…it hurts, but….” He ran a hand around the back of his neck. “I think I like it. I mean, I know I do, up to a point. Until she won’t let me, um, you know, finish.” Red rose in his cheeks, and Sophie suppressed a smile. “Then she keeps calling me names and shit.” His tightly clenched fists rested on his knees. A familiar sign of the frustration she recalled just before his collapse over four years ago.
Biting back the urge to soothe with her lips, she settled for touching one of his hands. He had to deal with this on his own. She had no part of him and his life now, nor would she. Her heart could not spare him another moment of consideration. So she kept her touch neutral, and slowly his fist released.
“Yes. You spent years, almost three, as a submissive, well, more like a slave, I guess, to one of your professors, at Vanderbilt. That’s where you went to college and played soccer. You guys won the NCAA championship your senior year.” She bit her lip. Doctors, and even her friend Susan, had warned her not to do this. Not to give the man his own memories. It wouldn’t matter and might make his life worse, knowing things he had no reference for and likely never would. “But Brody, you have to know that she was a bad person. I mean, some people do engage in the sort or relationship she pretended to have with you but she was…just…an abuser. I know it’s hard to get right now.”
“What else? What about…before that? Why do I sometimes see strange women smoking cigarettes and telling me to get my own supper?”
“You were an orphan. Your mom was a drug addict found dead in your house when you were seven or eight, and you spent ten years in foster care before you graduated from high school. Then you went to Vandy. When you were a sophomore you met….” She stopped.
She didn’t know the woman’s name. The woman whose fucking eyeballs she would merrily rip out of her head for her horrific treatment of the trembling man sitting in front of her now. That nameless bitch had damaged his very soul, and Sophie would never forgive her for it.
