by D. B. James
Glancing down, I notice I’m only in a pair of sleep shorts and a see-through tank top. At least whoever it is will die after getting an eyeful of my rack. Eh, there are worse things to see before you die.
Without glancing through the peephole, I rip open the front door with as much force as I can muster.
“Please tell me what the hell you’re doing at my house before dawn? This had better be important or I’m going to take a page out of Lorena Bobbitt’s book and make a few chops, if you know what I mean.”
“Wow, those are some harsh words, and I have to admit, I’m partial to lil’ Brant.” Holding out his hand, he places a cup of steaming hot deliciousness in my hand. “I came bearing goodies: coffee and brownies. Now, aren’t you going to do the polite thing and invite me in?”
He has the audacity to ask to come inside.
At 5 a.m.
To be clear, it’s 5 o’clock, in the morning.
“For future reference, don’t ever show up at my house this early again unless it’s arranged beforehand for a surfing lesson or something else as equally farfetched. Otherwise, I don’t climb from the comfort of my bed until at least 10 a.m. I never open my store—I have employees who do it for me. I am one hundred thousand percent not a morning person.”
Turning around, I walk back into my house toward the kitchen. I didn’t invite him in, but I did leave the door open, which is sorta the same as an invite, right? People shouldn’t be expected to brain until they’ve consumed at least two giant cups of coffee. Half the time I don’t start to talk until I’m well into my third cup. Whatever he’s doing here can wait until I’ve consumed enough caffeine to be decent…well, semi-decent.
He’s followed me into the kitchen, which I take as a positive sign. He opens the bag containing the brownies and hands me one before taking one for himself. Surprisingly, he’s stayed silent. Bonus points to him.
After eating one brownie, I reach for another. Before taking a bite, I lay out a couple of ground rules. “I applaud you for staying silent thus far. I’m going to need at least two more cups of coffee to reach human status from my current mood of ogre. You’re welcome to stick around until it happens, but never, and I must stress it again, never wake me before 10 a.m. again—unless, of course, someone’s dying, but it can be iffy even then. Depending on who it is, I may choose to stay in bed.”
Instead of answering, he laughs—a full-on belly laugh. Others might call it a guffaw, and whatever it is, it catches me completely off guard. Did I actually say anything funny? Maybe, but I didn’t think I was being funny.
“What’s so amusing?” I ask.
“You’re adorable.” Another chuckle. After he takes a few moments to compose himself, he finally finishes his thought. “You not wanting to be disturbed before 10 a.m. even if someone is dying. You never cease to amaze me, Cherry.”
“Cherry?”
Who the hell is Cherry?
“Yeah, Cherry. You call me Ace, I’m calling you Cherry.”
“But why?” Draining the cup of coffee he gifted me with, I get up to start brewing myself another cup while waiting for him to answer.
“Your lips taste like cherries.”
At least he brought me the coffee in a paper cup, because it’s fallen to the floor with a nearly silent thud. For all of the reasons I could think of with my sleep-deprived brain, I never expected to hear him say I taste like cherries.
I’m standing in the middle of my kitchen with a paper cup at my feet, staring at Brant sitting at my table, looking smug.
It’s entirely too early for this.
He needs to leave.
I need to go back to bed for a couple of hours, wake up, and go to work.
Why is he here?
Pretending his words didn’t affect me, I bend, pick up the cup, toss it in the trash, and brew myself another blissful cup of joe. He’s still staring, but I’m pretending like nothing happened. I told him already I needed more wake-up time, and I’m taking it. If he wants to talk about his new nickname for me, we can continue the conversation later—or not. I vote for not talking about it.
It’s…kinda cute, though.
I’ve never had a nickname given to me by a man before. Baby doesn’t count; it’s generic and doesn’t take any amount of thought. Mick called me baby, and I never want to be somebody’s baby again.
Now, Cherry?
Cherry is a name I could get used to.
Taking my seat, I demolish another brownie, moaning around each mouthful. Closing my eyes, I resist the urge to lick the chocolate icing from my fingers. This brownie? Orgasmic—though it could be because I haven’t eaten a bite since lunchtime yesterday when I rudely told Brant to back away and ruined his lunch as well. In my defense, I didn’t know his lunch was in the bag, too, and he did go ahead and walk away before I stopped him, which led to him kissing me. It’s mostly his fault he missed out on his lunch. He was leaving before I made him leave.
“Cherry?”
“Hm?” Dammit—I acknowledged his nickname for me.
“If you keep moaning while eating your breakfast, I may have to take you back to bed and peel those barely there shorts off your legs and give you something to actually moan about.”
“Nope. Not happening. Never. Get those thoughts out of your head, Ace. This ride”—I motion to what I hope amounts to my whole body—“is closed. A horrible marriage will do that to a girl. The ride formally known as Tessa has closed for any and all future business.”
“We’ll see. We. Will. See,” he replies with an air of arrogance.
“Ah, don’t sound smug. I can wipe smug off your handsome face, bub. All we can be is friends. I’m serious, Brant. Besides, you’re still up shit creek without a paddle. Until I hear some of this truth you’ve been bragging about, the offer of friends is off the table, too.”
“Since your second cup is bone dry, I’m choosing to say why I’m here this early. I stopped by to settle yesterday’s matters with you before you went into work and to get some issues off my chest. I knew it’d be a long talk, so I came shortly after I woke up.”
Ugh. He came to actually talk at the ass crack of dawn? When I’m still feeling a teeny tiny bit jetlagged? Why are men this damn difficult?
“Brant?”
“Yeah?” he asks while getting up to help himself to another fresh cup of coffee. Strange how he feels at home in my place when he’s never been here before today. Come to think of it, how in the hell did he know where I live?
“Is your truth horrible? Do I need to call Jasmine and tell her I’m taking the whole day off?”
What I’m asking is this: do I need to take time off to get drunk? In other words, are his truths going to drive me to drinking? Because if they are, I want to be prepared, and I want to send a text to Averill warning her of my impending call. Why? Because I have this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it’s telling me I’m not capable of handling his truths.
Threading his fingers through his hair, he tugs on it while letting out an audible sigh before answering me.
“A few of them are horrible, yes, but…there’s a light at the end of the tunnel now. My penance is this close to fully paid, and it’s time to let you in on all of my secrets and truths.”
Well, fuck.
Chapter Three
Brant
I don’t know why I’ve chosen to tell her now, before I’m fully free of my invisible chains.
I also don’t know why I’ve chosen her and not Rhys. He’d take it all okay, I think. We’d hash out our differences about the whole letter issue and we’d resolve things enough to move forward. My life could then implode all around me and he’d help me wade through the remains.
But I don’t want to involve Rhys.
I want Cherry.
I’ve wanted her in my life since the moment she came walking down Averill’s front steps. Her glittery dress and strappy shoes turned me to mush. Her raspy voice? It slayed me. Add in those killer sapphire eyes and dark
-as-midnight hair and I’m a goner, one hundred percent certifiably gone.
Except the words flowing from her mouth weren’t the ones I wanted to hear. She shut me down faster than the Flash can run around the block.
She’s had me by the balls every second since.
It’s probably a good thing she’s not aware of that fact. If she were, she’d have twisted me up way more than she already does.
I did the gentlemanly thing; I kept my distance, and I may have acted like a complete asshole toward her whenever we were in the same vicinity. It was the only thing I could think to do to keep her at arm’s length.
In Cancun was when it all changed. We went out dancing one night—the night I told her about keeping the letters from reaching Rhys. It was eating me alive during the whole trip, and then during the night spent out, my guard slipped and I was pissed at myself. I told her everything. To keep myself from kissing her, I told her one of my truths. Another reason I spilled was because the generous gift from Rhys had my guilt near an all-time high.
Now, I’m about to tell her some world-altering shit.
I’m about to tell her my whole life has been a lie, a complete and utter lie.
Yeah, I’m Brant Ashley—there’s no denying my name—but I’m not the Brant Ashley everyone thinks I am. They all think I’m an accountant for a huge dot-com company. It’s been easy to tell them the lie. I’m an accountant all right, but certainly not for a damn dot-com company.
I do keep the books. I audit, I guess you could say. You could also say I launder money.
I launder money for Vincent Martinelli, and his accountant—me—has been known to order the offing of an associate or ten.
Why did you think it was incredibly easy for Rhys to get a ‘job’ with Martinelli? Or for us to become friends with Vinny Jr. in the first place? Yeah, because I’ve been connected to the Martinelli family since the day I left California. Scratch that, since the day I was born.
How, you may ask?
The dad who raised me isn’t my dad at all. My mother slept with someone else a few weeks before she met the man who’s always claimed to be my father.
Taking a deep breath, I place my freshly brewed mug of coffee on the table and begin to pace the kitchen.
Back and forth.
Back. And. Forth.
It’s now or never.
“I’m not who you think I am, Cherry.” Taking three more steps toward the sink, I place my hands on the counter, facing away from her before I continue. “My full name is Brant Vincent Ashley-Martinelli.”
She gasps when she hears my full name. I have to give her credit though—she stays completely silent otherwise.
“For me to best explain, I guess I should start at the beginning.” Taking another deep breath, I stare listlessly out the small kitchen window. “When I turned eighteen, I received a certified letter. To say the contents forever transformed my life is an understatement. It contained my birth certificate with my full name, as well as a photo of the man claiming to be my biological father. The letter asked me to meet with Vincent on the day I graduated from college. Basically, I had four years to make up my mind on if I wanted to meet the man who was nothing more than a sperm donor to me. I didn’t have to think twice about any of it—I burned the letter, chucked it in the fireplace, and never looked back.
“A few months later, I’m sitting in my boring economics class when the professor asks to see me after class. Thinking nothing of it, I stayed, figuring maybe it was about the last assignment I turned in. He handed me another envelope, and this time the contents included keys to a brand-new truck. It was my high school graduation-slash-birthday gift, several months late. All I had to do was stop by the dealership to pick it up, scot-free. It was then I tried to find out more about who Vincent Martinelli was. He was a businessman, but not one I’d want to cross—his dealings weren’t completely legal, from what I managed to learn, and he was most definitely not someone I wanted to meet. Again, I trashed the letter asking me to meet with him after I finished college. Not knowing what to do with the truck, I picked it up and kept it.
“Keeping the truck was one of the stupidest mistakes I’ve ever made. Even if I didn’t want to meet the man who helped bring me into this world, keeping the truck sealed the deal. On the eve of my graduation, a man was waiting for me when I returned home from a night out celebrating with friends. He made me an offer: work for him in the family business for ten years and he’d disappear from my life forever. I’d never have to tell the father I’ve always known that I don’t share his blood. Vincent would keep the secret if I gave him ten years of my life, doing whatever he deemed necessary.
“Loving my real dad with my whole heart, the answer was easy—I’d do it. Ten years was nothing, and I believed I wouldn’t be doing anything too awful. He was a businessman, after all.” Turning away from the window, I look up and see her staring blankly at me. She’s hearing everything I’m saying, but I know she’s in shock. Sitting down, I place my hand softly on her shoulder. “I was wrong, Cherry, so fucking wrong. What I didn’t know about him was he is a mob boss. I knew he wasn’t an honest man, but I never pegged him for a mobster. Over the last ten years, I’ve ended up learning his whole business inside and out. I’m his accountant, his bookkeeper, numbers guy, whatever you want to call me. I’ve ‘taken care’ of people for him—well, I’ve issued the orders. I may not have pulled the trigger myself, but I’ve placed the hits. I’ve made mistake after mistake after mistake.”
Pausing, I move my hand from her shoulder and place it upon her face, turning her gaze toward me. “My ten years is up in two months, and I want you to be a part of my future.”
TESSA
Holy. Shitballs.
Holy motherfuckin’ shitballs.
For me to say my earth has been shaken to its core would be an understatement.
Brant is Martinelli’s son.
My mind can’t seem to wrap around this fact. The man who—let’s face it—has left me off balance since I first laid eyes on him just told me his deepest, darkest secret. He’s a mobster’s son, and not only is he his son, he works for him. He claims he’s been working for him to keep the man he calls Dad in the dark about his whole not sharing blood with him issue. Brant’s biological dad is Martinelli. Mind-blown doesn’t cover what I’m feeling.
Talk about having family issues.
It almost makes me happy what’s left of mine lives far away.
What’s left of mine is an old perverted uncle and one slightly off-her-rocker cousin. Come to think of it, I am thankful they live far away.
My first instinct is to call Averill and vent to her, but I can’t, at least not at the moment while a broken-down man sits in my kitchen, staring me in the eyes.
Shit.
What do you say to someone who’s revealed a whopper to end all whoppers? I mean, the shit-stirrer of all shit-stirrers?
“Brant?”
“Yeah?”
“All I can offer for now is my friendship. In fact, friends may be all I can ever offer you. I need to know you will be okay with only being my friend.” After what he’s told me, I should be able to open up my vein and let it bleed, but I can’t. It’s too much for me to handle at the moment.
“For now—I’ll accept it for now. The reason I can say this is because I can see the secrets hidden behind your sapphire depths. You’re hurting the same as I am. The difference is, I’m ready to deal with all of my stuff and grab hold of the future. In time, I hope you will be, too.”
With him telling me these secrets, I know he’s someone I’ll be able to tell about Mick. I’ve never truly opened up about what happened between us before, have never spoken the horrors he did to me out loud and given them a voice. If it remains inside my head, it’s almost like that part of my life didn’t happen. If only the nightmares would go away. If those bitches would disappear, I could fully forget about my abusive past. If I could, maybe…maybe Brant would stand a chance.
Placi
ng my hand on top of his where it still cups my cheek, I sigh deeply. It’s the only straight answer I can give him for now. He may not like it, but it’s the only one he gets.
“You’ll tell me when you’re ready, Cherry, and I’ll be here waiting. I’m not going anywhere. Besides, we have a deal to keep—you, me, the city. How about we make some plans for later this week and you can go back to bed?”
“Now that sounds like something I can handle,” I reply, a full smirk spreading wide across my face.
Bring it on, Ace.
Hours later, as I’m opening today’s deliveries, I find myself smiling while thinking about my plans with Brant for tomorrow morning. If you would’ve asked me yesterday if I saw myself ever having plans to hang out with Brant one on one, I’d have laughed in your face and walked away.
We may get along now, but this is still new. It’s weird, and more than slightly peculiar. Calling a ceasefire feels somewhat out of character for both of us. We’ve never truly gotten along, which is both of our fault. He claims he’s always been fighting his attraction toward me. Me? I’ve been fighting my lack of sound judgment when it comes to men. I’ve never witnessed him be outright mean to a woman, but I’ve also never seen him actually be with a woman. To me it seems like he’s always avoided their company.
He didn’t bring a date to Rhys and Averill’s wedding. He’s always been foul-mouthed about his conquests, but I’ve never observed him with one of said conquests.
Does Brant date?
The thought has never crossed my mind. He brags about it to Rhys; I’ve heard him—we’ve all heard him—but like I said, I’ve never seen him with anyone. Is it because of me? No, it can’t be. The thought alone is ludicrous…right?
Shaking my head, I brush the idea from my mind and think back to what we have planned for tomorrow—I’m taking him to the San Diego Zoo.
