Knox (A Merrick Brothers Novel)

by Prescott Lane

  Knox

  A Merrick Brothers Novel

  by

  PRESCOTT LANE

  Copyright © 2020 Prescott Lane

  Kindle Edition

  Cover Design by RBA Designs | Letitia Hasser

  Photo by: JW Photography and Covers

  Model: Dan Rengering

  Editing by Nikki Rushbrook

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Ryder

  Also by Prescott Lane

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  THANK YOU NOTE:

  Knox—

  I’m sure you’ve heard the saying “you don’t get anything in life for free.” Well, I don’t agree with that. I think you just have to know where to look.

  I’m talking about a post of a kid in uniform on his first day of school. A cute monogramed school bag. A stick figure bumper sticker of a family and pets. A sign in front of a house celebrating a new baby or a child’s birthday. A selfie and a tagged location.

  They tell me where someone lives, where their kid goes to school, his name and rough age, how many kids are in the family, their hobbies, whether family pets may bother me if I came by, unannounced, for a house visit.

  These are things us “normal” people do. All such innocent information. All given away for free.

  For me to use.

  Now let’s talk about you “Hollywood” types.

  You all are even worse—pretentious attention whores.

  Knox, I’ve heard you say you try to avoid the spotlight, that having a social media presence is just part of the job. That made me laugh. We both know that’s not true. You post everything so freely.

  I know where you’ve shopped, when and where you’re on vacation, which hotspots and fancy restaurants you’re at, what you drive, your favorite workout routines, who you hang out with, what kind of phone you have, what certain rooms in your houses look like.

  You may not post quite as much as some others, but, like the rest of Hollywood, you crave the attention, seek it out, thrive on it. And you’ve given me more than enough to use.

  So congratulations on a job well done.

  You’ve got my attention. I’m watching.

  Consider this a thank you for all the free information. I’ll make sure to use it!

  CHAPTER ONE

  THREE WEEKS EARLIER

  Mae

  “Welcome to The Breakup Bible. Ring the bells! Your Sunday night service is in session. Consider me the Mother Superior of broken hearts,” I say into the microphone of the radio booth that will be my home for the next two hours.

  For the past couple of years, every Sunday from ten in the evening until midnight, this has been my gig. I give advice on how to break up with your boyfriend or girlfriend in a compassionate way, and how to handle being dumped without going off the deep end.

  My personal experience with both has turned The Breakup Bible into a nationally syndicated radio show. In a time when streaming television and podcasts reign supreme, I’ve managed to bring people back to the radio. Of course, you can stream audio of my show on a radio app—we don’t live in the Stone Age. A little luck and the world’s epidemic of broken hearts made my show the success it is.

  I hit the button on the switchboard to take the first caller. “What’s your name? And how can we break you?”

  That’s my usual way to address a new caller. I don’t “break” people. That catchphrase started back on my very first show. I was nervous, and my words came out wrong. Somehow, it just stuck. It was my senior year of college, and I was doing an internship. Normally, I got coffee and took messages, but when the regular Sunday night DJ didn’t show one time, they put me in front of the mic. Before I knew it, I had my own show.

  “Mother Superior,” the caller starts.

  Most callers refer to me as Mother Superior or sometimes Sister, but my true identity remains a secret. Only those closest to me, my inner circle, know who I really am. Keeping my identity a secret started out as a way for me to maintain my privacy. After all, I do talk about some pretty private things. Anonymity also allows people to open up more freely, like talking to a stranger in an airplane, but the secrecy has become part of the draw of my show. There’s a mystique surrounding it, but I’m also a private person by nature, so it’s a win-win.

  My show is syndicated, meaning that people across the nation listen to me. I don’t like to know how many people are actually tuning in. And unlike most radio personalities, I don’t make appearances. There can be big money in those side hustles, but my privacy is more important to me.

  “Hi, my name is Sally.”

  There is no way this young woman’s name is Sally. No one actually names their daughter Sally anymore, but I’m not using my real name, so I don’t expect my callers to, either.

  “Confess,” I say.

  “There’s this guy.”

  “There always is,” I say, grinning to myself.

  “We’ve only been seeing each other a few weeks. I really like him. I think he’s the one.”

  Oh dear Lord, she thinks she’s found the “chosen” one. Where’s the holy water? This one might take an exorcism.

  “I don’t usually feel this way about guys. I’ve never slept with a guy this quickly before.”

  Yes, my callers give me all the details. Anonymity also makes for loose lips. It used to surprise me what people would call in and tell me, but not anymore. I’ve pretty much heard it all, but even after almost four years, it never gets boring.

  “Things were going great, and then last night, he tells me that he wants to take a break. He says he’s got some work to do on himself. Can’t devote himself to me one hundred percent.”

  That’s the modern man’s version of the it’s me, not you speech.

  “I told him I’ll give him all the time he needs, but I’m wondering if that’s right. Should I wait around?”

  Normally, I might ask some follow-up questions, needi
ng more details. Things like the exact length of their relationship or how they met, but sometimes the answer is obvious, even if the person on the other end of the line can’t see it. It’s often hard to see what’s right in front of us. We’re too close to it. That’s why people call me. It’s an honor, really.

  I’m just a twenty-something single woman. I’m not a psychologist. I’m not a relationship expert. I’m just someone who’s been there, too.

  “You should praise God to be rid of his ass. Hallelujah, the devil has left your bed,” I say.

  “But I think I love him.”

  My show is fun, but I also try to speak from my heart. “Sally, I’m going to let you in on a little secret I’ve learned. Following your heart is never wrong. It’s just the heart doesn’t always have a good sense of direction. At least mine doesn’t. My heart needs a GPS!”

  She giggles a little. All she really needs is to know she’s not alone, because nothing feels lonelier than having your heart broken.

  “I don’t know if you’re anything like me, but when I sleep with a man, I start to catch feelings.”

  I hear her start to cry, and she asks, “Why aren’t men the same way?”

  “That’s one for a higher power than me.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Knox

  Lola, Lula . . . I look over at her naked body in bed next to me. Christ, what’s her name? I know it starts with an L.

  Luna?

  She arches her back, her full tits presenting themselves. Who gives a fuck what her name is? Her head turns, giving me a smile that makes her look a little too full of herself. I’ve seen it before. It’s why I don’t feel bad that I don’t know her name. She knows mine.

  Knox Merrick.

  She’s seen my name on movie posters, theater marquees, sexiest man alive covers. She wanted to bag a movie star. I wanted to fuck. She gets to spend the rest of her life telling everyone about the night she slept with a Hollywood movie star, but I’ll forget all about her by tomorrow. Seems to me she gets the better end of the bargain, so her name is a minor detail.

  If she’s looking for round two, she’ll have to look somewhere else. She wasn’t that good. She’s got all the right equipment—a killer body, but no idea what to do with it. Give me a woman with a real body who knows how to use it over one of these model types who just lay there any day of the week. I should’ve known better, I’ve been burned before.

  “What time is it?” I wonder aloud, looking for a clock. Hotel room clocks never seem to have the right time. They’re either twenty minutes off or still on daylight savings time.

  She rolls over on top of me, her black hair falling around my face and grabs the clock. “Oh my God, it’s after ten?”

  “So?” I ask.

  “So!” she screams, messing with the clock, turning the radio on. “It’s Sunday.”

  “Late night Bible study?” I joke.

  “Sort of,” she says, still searching the radio channels. “Mother Superior is on.”

  “You aren’t serious?”

  Playfully, she tries to kiss me, but I turn my head. “She’s not a real nun. Well . . . No one really knows who she is. Her show is called The Breakup Bible. Have you not heard of it? She talks about all her bad dates. People call in. She’s totally awesome. I never miss it.”

  Seems like as good an excuse as any for me to make a getaway. Shifting her off me, I get up, reaching for my clothes on the floor.

  “Found it!” she says, sitting up straighter in the bed, the sound now coming in clearly.

  “I’m going to go,” I say, pulling up my pants. “You stay, enjoy the room.”

  The woman with the mysterious L name grabs my hand. “Listen with me. You’ll like it. I promise.”

  “Our caller brings up an interesting point.”

  My heart starts to race. I’m frozen, unable to even finish zipping my pants. Her voice stops me dead in my tracks. I’d know her sassy tone anywhere, even after all this time apart. I can’t remember the name of the woman I just banged, but I’ll never forget that voice, her name.

  Mae Sheridan.

  My Mae. The one I let get away.

  “Some heartbreaks haunt you. You think you’re over the person, but then bam! You break down all over again.”

  How my dream woman turned into the love that haunts me, I’ll never know. Well, I do know. I fucked it up. It’s the classic story of man who doesn’t know what he has until she’s gone. Let me tell you, the pasture isn’t always greener on the other side.

  Prime example: the “L” named woman before me.

  Mae keeps talking, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. She’s on the radio? Is this really her? I look over at my one-night stand. I can’t have Mae’s voice in my head, and a different woman’s tits in front of my face. It feels wrong, even though it’s been five years since I’ve seen Mae.

  It makes no sense, but I imagine this is what infidelity feels like. I wouldn’t know firsthand. I’ve never been married, and I’ve never cheated. I’ve had a romp or two or twenty in my trailer on movie sets and one-night stands aplenty, but if I’m exclusive with a woman, I don’t stray.

  “Got to go,” I say, throwing on the rest of my clothes.

  “Call me,” she says as the door slams behind me. I don’t bother with a response. We both know I won’t call. Why lie?

  When the door closes, Mae’s voice disappears. It’s almost like losing her all over again.

  *

  My first memory of Mae is the day my mom died.

  Haven’s Point, Colorado sits just forty-five minutes outside of Denver, but that day, no haven could be found. I had just finished kindergarten two days earlier. I was sitting on my front porch across the street from her grandmother’s house. People had been coming over all day, dressed all in black, carrying flowers, cards, and casseroles. I was crying because my dad wouldn’t let me kiss my mom goodbye. I was six years old. I know now it was because he didn’t want me to see her lifeless body, to have that image burned in me forever, but back then, all I wanted was to kiss her one more time.

  Mae walked over, all knees and elbows in a navy sundress with red flowers on it. Her light blue eyes looked almost clear, and her brown hair was pulled up in pigtails, except for a few loose strands hanging around her face and neck in little curls. Her grandmother and parents walked inside the house, and she took one look at me and ran back towards her grandmother’s house. I thought it was my shaved head that scared her off. My dad, older brother, and I all did that for my mom. But Mae wasn’t scared.

  I learned that about her early. Mae Sheridan doesn’t scare easily.

  She came out carrying a pair of scissors. Looking me right in the eye, she cut one of her pigtails right off. Her lopsided haircut made me smile. Even at six, I already knew how important a girl’s hair was to her. My mom losing hers taught me that. There Mae was, just six herself, and she cut her hair off to make me feel better. This kid she never met. That’s who she was.

  That day began a fifteen-year relationship, most of which we spent as friends and pen pals across the continents that separated us. Me, living a quiet life in Haven’s Point, and her, the military brat shuffled around the world from base to base. Then there were the years we were together. Those teenage years when everything feels so damn intense. It’s now been five years since things ended. We spent more time apart than we ever did together. Maybe that’s why five years hasn’t changed my heart.

  I’m used to loving her from afar.

  She became my best friend that summer so long ago, my partner in crime. She knew when to let me be sad about my mom, and she knew when to make me laugh. But it was only a couple months, that was it, then she went back overseas with her parents. I didn’t know it then, but I’d just met the first girl I’d ever kiss, make love to, fall in love with. Sometimes I wonder what that means about us.

  Our friendship was born in sadness. Is that why things went so wrong?

  *

  Casset
te

  Mae to Knox

  Age Thirteen

  Knox, for your information, I’ve heard of email. I don’t live in a cave. I’m a military brat. Yes, military bases have Wi-Fi, even in Germany. I know handwritten letters take a long time, but I find them more personal. Besides, we’ve been pen pals since we could barely write. Do you remember that? I still have all your letters, even the drawings we used to send to each other. Still, I offer this cassette as a compromise. You can listen to my voice. That is, if you own an old-fashioned cassette player. Personally, I think all thirteen-year-olds should own one. They’re vintage. You know how I love anything old. People, movies, songs. Everything gets better with age, except maybe food. Come to think of it, day-old pizza is surprisingly good, too.

  I’m rambling. This is why letters are better. I don’t ramble in letters, but since you insist we modernize our communication, your punishment is that you have to listen to all my unedited diatribes.

  That’s a word from my ACT vocabulary book. I’m already studying. Some of the kids on the base call me a nerd. I call them morons, so we’re even.

  *

  Cassette

  Knox to Mae

  Age Thirteen

  Mae, you’re so old! I had to go to a thrift shop to get a cassette player. Cost me five bucks. But it’s worth it to hear your voice.

  When is your dad getting leave again? Will you be visiting your grandmother in Colorado when he does? Haven’s Point is so boring without you.

  By the way, I know the word diatribe. I have the same book. I’ve learned all the words through E, so I guess I’m a bigger nerd than you. Who are these kids calling you names? Make me a list, and I’ll come all the way over to Germany to kick their asses. I’m the only one that gets to call you a nerd. Just kidding.

  I see what you mean about the rambling thing. But I think we should promise each other to always listen to the tape, no matter what. Even if we are in a fight or something. Also, when we are recording, we should never stop the tape then continue recording, or start over altogether. It’s better this way. The ramblings feel more honest. And honestly, I miss you.