by Amiee Louise
“You got drunk, accused Brody, bloody Brody of all people, of sleeping with Peyton, and he hit you. I can’t say I blame him to be honest, but your mother was extremely pissed off, to say the least.”
I groan at my idiotic drunken behaviour, and then it all suddenly starts to come back to me. Peyton, meeting my son for the first time, almost having sex with Peyton, Peyton leaving, having sex with Lyla, the whiskey. Fuck me, the whiskey. I remember my mum, dad and Brody showing up and then rest is a blur, to say the least.
“Where’s mum?”
My dad checks my injuries.
“She’s asleep in the spare room; you might want to give her a wide berth for the time being, son. It’s going to take a lot more than chocolates and diamonds this time.”
I scrub my hands down my face. Shit, I hate seeing my mum so upset. I hate it even more that I'm the fucking cause.
“You’re going to have a bloody impressive shiner, but you’ll live. You can’t carry on behaving like this, son. Are you off your medication again? Is that why you're acting like a complete fucking arsehole?”
I shake my head, as he berates me.
“Not now, dad, please.”
He hands me a glass of water.
“You’re going to drink this, get yourself in the shower, then you’re going to make amends with Brody. After that, you’re going to do the right thing and go and see Peyton. Are we clear? You’re a father now, Sam. You have to be the responsible one, for once.”
I go to protest, and he holds his finger up. Fuck me, my head is banging.
“Ah, ah, this isn’t up for discussion, Sam. Not this time.”
As my dad says those words, there is a soft tap on the door. My dad gets up to answer the door in silence, and I hear the dulcet tones of my big brother, Brandon.
“What trouble has my little brother gotten himself into this time?” he says in an amused tone.
His dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and he is wearing a black bandana, black skinny jeans, a white vest, a dark grey chunky knit cardigan and black Converse trainers.
“Brand, keep it down, yeah?” I groan and clutch my throbbing head as he chuckles softly.
“You look like shit, little brother. Go grab a shower then you can tell me all about your epic fuck up.”
He strides into the kitchen, and I start to feel intense shame wash over me. I am officially the world’s biggest fucking idiot, and I don’t blame Brody one bit for hitting me. I scrub my hands down my face and make my way into the bathroom. I close the door behind me and look in the mirror. Brandon is right, I do look like shit. I have dark circles underneath my eyes, and the green of my eyes isn’t the usual emerald green. My face is pale, I have the beginnings of a huge black eye, and my hair is a state of disarray. I can’t help thinking that even a shower won’t fix this mess.
I emerge from the bathroom feeling a little better. My hair is still damp, and I am wearing a loose-fitting pair of grey jogging bottoms, which hang low on my hips. My chest is bare, and I have a black towel around my neck.
“Fuck me, don’t you own a shirt?” Brandon says drily.
He is sitting on my sofa with his one arm slung over the back. His feet up on the coffee table, and he is drinking a bottle of Budweiser. I step further into the living area and drop down onto the sofa next to Brandon.
“Dad told me to tell you he’s gone to smooth things over with Brody, although I can’t say I blame him. I would have done exactly the fucking same.”
He takes a swig of his beer.
“Thanks for being on my side, bro. Really appreciate it,” I say sarcastically, and he cocks his eyebrow.
“You really thought I would take your side after that? Fuck me, how hard did he hit you again?”
I run my hand through my hair, and I forgot how well Brandon knows me. I also forgot how much he fucking winds me up. Brandon is thirty-five, just four years older than I am. And even though he is older, we have always been close. I find him the easiest person in my family to talk to because he doesn’t judge. He is extremely laid back, and he tells it like it is.
“What’s this, get at Sam day?”
He chuckles softly and hands me a beer.
“Did I teach you nothing, little brother?”
I crack the bottle open and take a long pull, enjoying the cool liquid as it slides down my throat. It’s true what they say; hair of the dog really works!
“I’m someone’s fucking dad now, Brand. When did that happen? When did life get so complicated?”
He smirks.
“Didn’t mum and dad have the birds and the bee’s conversation with you? That’s what happens when you don’t wrap your Johnson, Sammy! First lesson in sex-ed 101, little brother!”
I narrow my eyes.
“Very fucking funny, Brand, dick.”
He laughs throatily
“In answer to your question, I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to knock someone up. You’re giving me a run for my money on how many notches are on your bedpost!”
I hit him playfully on the arm, a little harder than I intended.
“So, I’m an uncle? Who knew! Congrats, boy or girl?”
I smile as I think of my son Freddie, the adorable green-eyed boy, who is my double.
“Boy. His name’s Freddie, and he’s six months old now. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I never get sappy about babies.”
I show him a picture on my phone that I took while he was here, and Brandon nods.
“Wow! He's definitely a Newbolt, he's got good genes! How do you feel about it?”
I lean back on the sofa and start to wonder how I feel about having a son, being a father, and being responsible for another human being… a human being that’s half me and half Peyton.
“The truth? I’m fucking terrified; I’m terrified of fucking up. What if he hates me when he’s older? What if I can’t be what he needs, Brand?”
He leans back and looks at me, with a look of sympathy in his eyes.
“Look, you can’t go through life wondering what if, Sammy. There isn’t a guide that tells you how to be a parent. Fuck me, mum and dad raised five of us and do you think that was perfect? Hell no! For the first three years of my life, me and Sav spent it sleeping on a tour bus around America, listening to the sound of Milo and Seth’s bunks squeaking and the sound of female sex noises. It was far from a walk in the park. I remember mum and dad arguing a lot, her mostly begging him to give up his career. By the time she was pregnant with you, it was much more settled. We had moved into a house, and it was much more stable. Dad was on the road for six months of the year and it just...worked.”
For the first time in a few years, I am enjoying my heart to heart with my big brother. Even though he doesn’t have kids himself, he just seems to get it.
“What I’m trying to say is, he’s not asking for perfect, Sam. He’s just asking you to be there for him, to guide him, nurture him, take care of him, and be his dad. It doesn’t matter that you and Peyton aren’t together, you put your animosity aside, for his sake.”
I sigh and take another a pull on my beer.
“I take that isn’t a good sigh? Come on little brother, out with it. Did something happen with Peyton?”
At that particular moment, I sort of hate the fact that he knows me so well.
“We kissed; we...sort of, almost had sex on this sofa.”
He almost chokes on his beer.
“Gross! You dirty dog! I did not need that image of my little brother almost having sex in my head, dude!”
We both laugh.
“We got interrupted by Freddie crying on the baby monitor. I can already tell the little dude is going to be a massive cock blocker! Then she freaked out and kept saying it was a mistake. I almost talked her round, when she let slip that her family knew she was alive. If she lied about that, how many other things has she lied about, Brandon? My mind felt like it was about to explode. Then my psycho ex shows up! I swear I’m exp
ecting her next move to be bunnies boiling in pots; she’s one crazy bitch! Even though I was so fucking angry at Peyton, the look in her eyes when she saw Lyla broke my god damn heart all over again. She couldn’t even look at me, and she just left, taking my boy with her. That’s when I lost it.”
I scrub my hands down my face, deciding to leave out the fact that I shagged Lyla in the exact same spot.
“Fuck me; we need something stronger than beer, brother. Where do you keep your whiskey?”
I puff out my cheeks, and my stomach roils at the thought of more alcohol.
“I’ve had enough whiskey to last a fucking lifetime. Whiskey makes me turn into a complete dick. I accused one of my best friends of fucking Peyton, and then he punched me.”
I point to the black eye, and Brandon shakes his head.
“You never could handle your liquor, little brother!”
He smirks.
“I’m surprised it’s taken someone this long to knock some god damn sense into you.”
I cock my eyebrow.
“Thanks for the support, brother,” I say with a hint of venom in my voice.
“Put those claws away, little brother, I’m not trying to start a fight. I’m on your side. I am. I’ve never been against you, Sammy. I’m always in your corner, but...”
I hold up my hand to stop him.
“Brand, just stop, please. I don’t want to hear it. I know I’m a disappointment, I do dumb shit, and I’m reckless...”
As I say those words, he rolls his eyes and cuts me off mid-sentence.
“Please, spare me the fucking pity party, little brother. Seriously, it doesn’t suit you. If you’re looking for sympathy look in the dictionary between shit and syphilis,” he says wryly, and I smirk.
“Where the fuck do you come up with that shit, dude?”
He smiles and shrugs, as he takes a sip of his beer.
“It’s a gift.”
With those words, the phone starts ringing. I look at the name on the screen. It’s Brody; I swipe my finger across the screen and answer.
“Hello?” I say cautiously, expecting one of his famous Brody style rants.
“Sam, it’s me. Look, I wanted to apologise for punching you, dude, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you like that.”
I pause, surprised that he’s still actually talking to me.
“I’m sorry too, man, I deserved it. I can’t apologise enough. I shouldn’t have said that. I was drunk, and I was angry… not a good combination, you know that. Is she ok?” I enquire.
“She’s fine. Vance worked his magic, and she went back to the hotel with Remy. She’s upset and a bit shaken, which is understandable, but she seems fine on the whole. She’s made of strong stuff.”
A feeling of relief washes over me at hearing that she really is ok.
“She fucking needs you, Sam, even if she won’t admit it. You know what fucking women are like. Call her, go to the hotel, and let her know you’re there for her and your son.”
At that moment, I decide I have to let her know I’m there for her, despite what she might think of me, and despite everything that has happened between us. Whether she will listen to me, is an entirely different story.
39
Peyton
“I’ll ask you one more time, Miss Harper, or is it Miss Stonebridge?” Detective Price says forcefully.
Exasperated, I rest my head on top of my folded forearms, and I feel like I want to cry. I have been here for a few hours, but it feels like longer. This can’t be happening.
"We had a report that something had been posted on a social media site informing us of your return."
A look of pure confusion crosses my face. Who the fuck could have posted about me being alive? I am about to speak, when the door to the drab, grey interview room, swings open. The tall, dark-skinned detective, who is conducting my interview, gets up from his chair.
“Excuse me for one moment, Miss Harper.”
He nods and goes over to the door. He whispers to the short, balding uniformed officer in the doorway and turns around to regard me intently with narrow, guarded eyes.
“A lawyer has been sent to represent you, Ma’am.”
I look puzzled, and a figure emerges from behind the officers. He is average height, dark hair with a receding hairline and balding on top. He is average build, with dark hazel eyes. He smiles, and I can’t help but think it makes him look like a shark. He is wearing an expensive suit, Armani if I’m not mistaken, and it looks as if it has been tailor-made to fit his height and build perfectly.
“Miss Harper, I presume?” he says in a typically British accent, and I nod. “Ah, good. I’m here to help you get out of this sticky little situation you seem to have found yourself in. May I have a minute with my client, please?”
Detective Price nods curtly and closes the door, leaving me and the mysterious lawyer alone. I get up from my chair, and he looks me up and down.
“Definitely Sam’s type, although nothing like Brody described. Allow me to formally introduce myself; I’m Vance Stryker, legal representative of those darling boys, Rancid Vengeance.”
I shake his hand in a firm grip.
“Peyton Harper, but I don’t understand why Sam would send you here,” I say, confused as to why Sam would bail me out when he seemingly hates my guts at this present moment.
“Sorry to disappoint you, darling, but Sam didn’t send me, Brody did. I know that one just can’t resist a damsel in distress.”
My heart plummets at the thought that Sam didn’t send him. Vance places his briefcase on the table and looks at me.
“Now, are there any little secrets I need to know about before we proceed? I can’t say I’m partial to skeletons in closets, Miss Harper.”
He looks at his expensive Rolex watch.
“I have a very expensive scotch with my name on it, and I plan on drinking it in the next thirty minutes, darling. Times-a-ticking.”
He smiles his shark-like smile and taps his watch. I start to pace the room, suddenly feeling like a caged animal.
“I just need you to get me out of here.”
I feel my breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and I feel my chest start to tighten, the sure symptoms of a threatening panic attack. Fuck me! Please, not here. Vance seems to realise what’s happening and he pulls out a chair from the desk. He guides me by the shoulders and drops me down onto it.
“Head between your legs, sweetheart. Deep breaths. Good girl. Look, I’m going to do everything I can to get you out of here, but you need to tell me the facts.”
He crouches down in front of me, and I take deep breaths. A few minutes of awkward silence passes and my breathing returns to normal. I look at him and cock my head to the side curiously.
“How did you know what to do just then?”
He smirks.
“My delightful ex-wife used to suffer from panic attacks, anxiety, blah, blah, blah. I’m quite the expert, darling. You’re in good hands.”
He gets to his feet and once he’s satisfied that I’m ok, and claps his hands twice.
“Now, to the matter at hand, Miss Harper, the facts. I know the basics, but Brody was brief, to say the least. So, you’re going to have to fill in the blanks.”
He takes a Dictaphone out of his briefcase, presses the record button, and lays it down on the table. I spend the next ten minutes filling him on the events of the past year, up until the moment I returned. His eyes widen, and he nods, taking in the information I have given him. He stops the recording and places the Dictaphone back in his briefcase.
“That’s quite a tall tale, Miss Harper; allow me to work my magic.”
He winks and strides over to the door, filled with determination; he opens it and calls out to the detective.
“Detective Price, we’re ready for you now.”
A few moments pass, and the detective enters the room. We both resume our seats at the worn grey desk, and Vance takes the chair next to mine.
“Detective Price, are you going to charge my client?”
The detective regards Vance with a scowl.
“From what Miss Harper has told me, no crime has been committed in this instance, so you can either charge her or let her go. Your choice, Detective,” he says smugly.
“Miss Harper was presumed dead. A thorough police investigation took place, and a year later, she turns up alive. I can charge her with wasting police time and falsifying legal documents, which are very serious offences,” he says sharply.
