by J. Kenner
"There you are."
"I was in the middle of something," she said. "If you expected to see me at a specific time, an appointment would have been handy."
"I understand you're still doing this ridiculous show."
"Yup." She forced herself to say nothing else. He was the one who'd taught her that—if you're on the witness stand, the fewer words, the better.
"Mmmm. Your mother and I are disappointed."
"Color me shocked."
"For God's sake, Brooke, don't be impertinent. I'm only making conversation."
She sighed. "Daddy, you and I both know that conversation is that last reason you're here. Tell me what the first is and let's get on with it."
"To be blunt, I've had enough. You had your fun with that boy years ago, and now it's time for you to move on. Do this job if you must, but that is not the kind of person we need in this family."
"Oh, really? Because I'm thinking someone with a real sense of family, who loves unconditionally and who's worked his ass off to get where he is actually qualifies as exactly the kind of person we should want in this family."
Assuming, of course, that she and Spencer were still a couple. But surely they were. They couldn't really be over, could they? Surely Spencer didn't really see himself the way her father saw him.
"He is a criminal."
"The hell he is." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cameron wiping down a nearby table, and she lowered her voice. "He has a record from when he was a kid and his world was falling apart. I'd like to see you survive what he lived through. Because, Daddy, I don't think you could have made it."
Her father drew in a breath and sat straighter in his chair. "Do not speak to me like that."
"Then don't come here asking for it." She drew her own breath and started to push her chair back. "Are we done?"
"We are not."
Resigned, she settled back into her chair. "Go ahead."
"Perhaps you recall that I have ties to the parole board."
Fingers of dread latched onto her spine. "Yes?"
"It seems that Richard Dean's case is being evaluated right now. One call, and I can ensure that he stays in prison. Not just today, but until he rots in that cell."
The dread morphed into cold terror.
"You can't possibly be that cruel."
"Cruel to keep a convicted murderer in prison? I think you have confused your adjectives."
She swallowed.
"There's a simple solution. You want Richard Dean paroled? Then walk away from Spencer. That's it. Easy as pie. You did it once before, after all. And you built yourself a successful business. Don't let him drag you down."
Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest that she thought it might explode. But she could do this. She had to.
She took a breath, then faced her father. "You know what, Daddy. Do it."
His eyes went wide. "Very well." He started to rise.
"But know that if you do, I'll fuck you up so good you'll never be elected to the bench again. Hell, you'll be lucky not to be disbarred. Every line you've pulled, every threat you've made, I'll make sure it's out there. And in case you haven't noticed, I have access to television and social media now. I have a platform, Daddy. Don't give me a grudge to go with it."
She stood, then aimed her best smile at him. The one he and her mother had paid for, actually. "I'm going back to work now, but feel free to order a drink before you go. I recommend the Jalapeño Margaritas. They have one hell of a kick."
Chapter Twenty-One
Spencer had seen Brooke only in glimpses on Tuesday, and he was smart enough to know that was intentional. But whether it was because she was giving him space or had washed her hands of him, he wasn't entirely sure.
He hoped it was the first. He'd been an asshole Monday night—he knew that. Hell, he probably would have picked up on that little detail even if Brooke hadn't done such a damn good—and thorough—job of calling him out.
He had no excuse, only explanations. He'd been burning up with jealousy, as potent as any fever he'd ever experienced. Foolish, probably. Hell, Spencer didn't know Parker Manning from Adam, but the guy had definitely gotten under his skin. Because Parker had class and breeding and money. Not to mention the kind of clean-cut good looks that landed on billboards and magazine pages.
What Spencer had forgotten was what Parker didn't have; Parker didn't have Brooke. Spencer did.
And that's where his second explanation-not-excuse came into play. Fear. Because Spencer had looked at Parker and had felt a cold wave of debilitating fear rise up with the knowledge that while Brooke might be his right then, there was no guarantee that he could keep her. Hell, he'd lost her before. And God knew there were a hell of a lot better men in the world for her than him. So why the fuck should he be the lucky one?
She swore he was. Maybe she even believed it.
But he was having hell of a hard time believing it himself.
"Hey, you guys!" Mina's cheery voice cut through the din in the back bar that was being used as a staging area for the guys. Behind her, he could hear the muffled chatter of the emcee, an indie film star that Jenna considered an absolute coup for the contest.
"So the way it works is that you'll walk down the red carpet, climb the stairs, and then you can say a one-liner if you want. Like A vote for me is a vote for hotness or whatever. And you really ought to take your shirt off," she added, grinning as she pointed a finger toward a still-reluctant Cameron.
"Then you strut your stuff back here until everyone's gone. Then you'll all come back, line up on the stage, and the audience will cast their votes. Then you all get to mingle once the ballots are collected until we announce a half hour or so later."
She turned her attention to Spencer. "Since you're last, you don't have to come back. Stay on the stage, and these guys will join you."
"You got it."
In the main bar, the music started, and the first of the twelve started that direction. Some of the others gathered in the doorway to watch, but Spencer didn't bother. He wasn't nervous; he'd had too many years in the spotlight for nerves to catch up to him now. But he wished he was. Nerves would give him something to think about other than Brooke.
As much for the distraction as for friendship, he eased over toward Cameron. "They finally talked you into it, huh?"
Cameron shrugged. "I figured I'd never live it down if I didn't do it. But I'm doing it my way."
Spencer nodded slowly, not sure what the kid meant. "Your way? I'm guessing you're not taking your shirt off."
A sly grin touched Cam's face. "Wait and see."
That, at least, gave Spencer something to ponder for the rest of the wait.
Cam was number eleven, and as the kid headed up the red carpet, Spence moved to the doorway so he could watch—and the first thing he saw was Brooke, a few yards away and moving straight toward him.
"Hey," she said, when she reached the staging area's doorway.
"Hey, back."
A smile flickered on her lips, and she reached into the room, her hand extended for his. He took it, awareness coursing through him. This was Brooke. And, dammit, she was his.
"I wanted to wish you luck," she said. "And if you fall off our amazing new stage, I'll have to kill you."
He laughed, a little bit more than the joke deserved, but it felt so damn good to be civilized.
"Listen," he said, but he never got any further, because the entire room had burst into laughter and applause.
Brooke and Spencer both looked toward the stage, shifting this way and that to better see the spectacle of Cameron Reed, bartender extraordinaire, standing shirtless on the stage, the words Comic Relief written across his chest in what looked like lipstick, and a big arrow pointing up toward his head.
"Oh my," Brooke said. "At least he didn't really go for self-deprecating and aim that arrow the other direction."
Spencer snorted with laughter, and Brooke stepped into the staging area long enough to press
a gentle kiss to his temple. "Knock 'em dead," she whispered, then faded back into the crowd right as his music began.
He made the trek to the stage, then sauntered across, making it a point to smile at all the women who were laughing and shouting for him to take off the shirt. Of course, he complied, then did a Mr. Universe-style pose, showing off front and back, before nodding to the crowd and then stepping to the rear of the stage as the other guys joined him for the line-up.
After that, he and the rest mingled in the crowd, where he and Cam were definitely drawing the most attention. He tried to find Brooke in the crush, but never managed to lay eyes on her.
He didn't see her again, in fact, until the emcee, Beverly, called for attention, and all the men trooped dutifully back onto the stage to get the results.
"A drumroll, please," Beverly said, and synthesized drums poured from the speakers. "And, ladies and gentlemen—but mostly ladies—your vote for Mr. February is Spencer Dean."
The place burst into applause and Spencer went forward to get the Mr. February T-shirt that Beverly was holding out for him as a prize. Molly and Andy were going to love this, that he knew for certain.
He was about to pull on the tee when he finally caught sight of Brooke in the audience. He'd expected her to be watching him, but instead, she was turned sideways, looking at someone in the audience, her eyes wide as if with fear and her skin as pale as death. What the hell?
He shifted, and when he followed her gaze, his entire body turned hot, burning with a heated rage that even brimstone couldn't match.
Brian.
Standing right there, his eyes on Brooke. His feet moving toward her.
No way. No fucking way.
He didn't think. He just acted. And the next thing he knew he'd leaped off the stage, grabbed the bastard's collar, and landed a brutal punch right on Brian's traitorous, fucked up, aristocratic nose.
He felt it crack beneath his hand. Smelled the unmistakable tang of blood. Heard Brian's howl as he went down, clutching his face as blood seeped through his fingers. Saw chairs scrape backwards and customers leap to their feet.
None of it made any sense. The wildness was still alive within him, and he shifted his stance, ready to pounce on Brian and fucking end him.
Brooke's hand on his arm stopped him, and he looked up to see her tear-streaked face.
Immediately, everything drained out of him, and he had to reach out and grab a nearby table to keep his legs from collapsing under him.
"Spenc—"
He didn't let her finish. "I'm sorry," he said, then turned and stumbled toward the door.
The panic that had filled Brooke upon seeing Brian still coursed through her veins, only now it had a different character. Now, she was afraid for Spencer.
"Spencer!" she called as he pushed his way through the crowd. She tried to follow, but a strong hand on her arm stopped her. She tried to jerk free, turned, and saw that it was Easton.
"Let him go," he said gently.
"But—"
Brent had pushed his way through the crowd and joined them. "Mina's called an ambulance. Is that guy okay? And what the hell was that all about?"
It was the voice of a cop, direct and to the point, but not without sympathy.
"I need to go find Spencer," Brooke said, realizing that she was crying. And that Casper and Nick were both hovering nearby. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Right then, being on camera was the least of her problems.
The world around her had fallen into slow motion. Tyree and Jenna and Reece had arrived to help Brian, and Brooke didn't have the energy to tell them he didn't deserve help. Easton and Brent were focused on her.
"Let's go to the back," Easton said. Brent nodded, and they led her to Tyree's office.
"Do you know what happened in there?" Brent asked. "More importantly, why it happened?"
Slowly, she nodded. And for only the second time in her life, she told the story of what happened with her and Brian, starting with their history as friends, then up to the day Brian raped her.
"Spencer knows," she said. "I told him a few days ago. Or, actually, I guess I should say I told him that I'd been date raped. He figured out the Brian part. There's a woman—Amy. She's a former employee of his, and she's pressing charges against Brian. She came to Spencer to see if he knew about any other victims, and he realized what Brian did to me."
The two men looked at each other, but said nothing.
"He had other reasons, too," she said, then told them about the financial shenanigans that Brian had been into.
Slowly, Easton nodded.
"I need to go find him," Brooke said. "Can I go now? Please?"
Brent laid a hand on her arm. "The man's a live wire right now, sweetheart. Give him until tomorrow morning."
"But—" She drew a breath, powering through the fear. "But what if they find him and arrest him?"
"My first job was with the District Attorney's office,” Easton said. “Let me make a few calls. And I also want to poke into this Amy thing. Even if the case isn't pending in Travis County, I might be able to learn something. I'll even go down to the police department and start there."
"I'll go with you," Brent said. "Odds are good I'll know somebody who can help us out. It's going to be okay," he added, giving her a quick hug. "Don't worry."
But that was easier said than done.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Spencer heard the rusty hinges of the mansion's kitchen door creak, and he stood to meet her. He knew it would be Brooke, and he knew why she'd stayed away last night. Because he'd fucked up. Proven himself to be the man she'd always feared him to be. A man whose life was in his hands, not his head.
"So there you go," he said, as she stepped into the room, her face pale and drawn. "That's me. That's the kind of man I am. And I know you can't handle—"
"Shut up, Spencer."
He did, mostly because her words shocked him into silence.
She moved slowly toward him, then took his hands. And as his heart flipped over, she gently bent and kissed his bruised knuckles. "For a guy who's made so much of himself, you can be pretty damn stupid. You know that, right?"
"Made—"
"You think you're not a success because you work with your hands and don't know how to do double-digit accounting? That's bullshit. You're capable and honest and loyal and you would lay down your life for someone you loved." She blinked, and a tear spilled down her cheek.
He held his breath, not sure what she was saying to him. Wanting to believe, but scared to take the leap.
He drew a breath, then decided to cut to the chase. "You didn't tell me about Brian because you were afraid I'd do what I did last night."
"Exactly."
"Well, I'm sorry, but this is who I am. And if—"
"Christ, do I have to hit you over the head with a brick? How many times do I have to tell you before it penetrates your thick skull? I don't give a fuck that you beat the shit out of that ass wipe. Do you think I don't understand how much it hurt you to hear what he did to me? To know that there was nothing you could do to erase that? Don't you know that I would have happily smashed his face in all by myself?"
"But—"
"But nothing." She drew in a breath, apparently gathering control. Or possibly considering kicking him in the shins.
"Come on, Spencer. I wanted to stand up and cheer when you punched him. I don't think less of you for protecting me—if anything, you get mega-brownie points in my book. But I swear to God, if you screwed things up for us by getting nailed with an assault charge—"
"Us?" The word had lassoed his heart, and he was having a hard time breathing.
She squared her shoulders and looked so put out with him that it was all he could do not to pull her close and kiss the expression right off her face.
"We had a fight," she said. "We'll probably have more. Do you really think that was the end of us? Because screw that. I'm not letting go that easily, Spencer Dean. Even if you do
have the thickest skull on the planet."
She moved in front of him, then poked him in the chest with her forefinger. Hard. "You. This man. This guy right in front of me. He's who I want. Who I've always wanted. And you're not getting away from me without a fight."
"Angel," he said, barely able to get the endearment past his clogged throat. He reached for her, and then she was in his arms, and he knew that no man in the world had ever been luckier. "I love you," he said.
"I love you, too," she said, her tone a little exasperated. Then she shifted in his embrace so she could see his face. "Oh, and by the way. We're trending on social media."
He laughed. A full-on, hearty laugh. And damned but it felt good.
At least until he remembered.
"I left a crime scene," he said. "I need to go turn myself in." He raked his fingers through his hair.
"That's what I mean," she said. "You're an honorable man." She pulled out of his embrace and took her phone out of her pocket. "I'll go with you. But let me talk to Easton or Brent first."
"Why—" he began, but then his own phone rang. He pulled it out, his chest tightening when he saw the number. And as Brooke moved away to have her own conversation, he answered the call from Richie's attorney.
When he hung up, he felt numb. As if his limbs had entirely disappeared. He sank to the ground and stared at his phone. Just stared at it until Brooke knelt in front of him, asking him what the hell was wrong.
"It's Richie," he said, then felt his face break into a smile as reality settled over him. "He's been paroled."
Her hand went to her mouth, and tears streamed down her eyes as she threw her arms around him and hugged him. He held her tight, not wanting to let go. Not ever wanting to let go. But after what seemed like an eternity, she squirmed free, then sat on her heels, grinning at him.
"Let me add a cherry on top this already awesome day. You're clear."
He blinked, confused. "Come again?"
"Brent and Easton have been working with the cops and the DA and Amy's attorney all last night and this morning. I'm going to swear an affidavit, and Brian's going to plead guilty to two counts of aggravated assault. And you, my hero, get to walk."
