by Shandi Boyes
“Who sent you here?” I don’t believe a word he said, but the fact he’s talking keeps me talking.
With his white teeth gleaming in the sunlight, he answers, “Why not ask him yourself? He’s standing right behind you.”
I’ve barely cranked my neck halfway back when the butt of a gun strikes my temple, knocking me out.
25
Brandon
When I wake up groggy and confused, trained survival techniques kick in. I grab the first person I sense, having no clue I’m clutching the arm of the woman I love firm enough to snap her bone until she frailly whispers my name. She isn’t panicked I’m about to hurt her, I dropped my hand the instant she muttered my name. She’s worried about the cool metal material brushing my temple.
This time around, Kwan has his gun butted against my head.
Doesn’t mean I’ll go down without a fight, though.
Even with my head still murky, I disarm him so fast, Wren would have baked me enough peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies to last me a month if she were still alive.
When I turn Kwan’s weapon back on him, four are focused on me. Henry’s goons are as big as Kwan, and their guns are just as powerful.
There are many ways to get out of a gun battle alive, but they don’t usually involve a second hostage. Since I can’t risk Melody catching a wayward bullet, I don’t take down the threat as I’ve been taught. Instead, I unload the magazine from Kwan’s gun onto the dining table I’m waking up on, then remove the spare out of the chamber.
After skidding the gun across the floor, putting a good six or so feet between it and its owner, Henry signals for his men to stand down. He’s seated at the end of the table, acting as regal as a king.
I guess he can gloat since years of investigations haven’t slanted his crown.
“What do you want?” When Henry drifts his desolate, yet oddly possessive eyes to Melody, I shake my head. “She’s not up for negotiation.”
“I’m not here to negotiate.” Melody forcefully swallows when Henry stands to his feet, exposing I wasn’t out long enough for him to disclose they’re related. She isn’t acting as if her blood is standing across from her. “I want to know why you haven’t told her who I am.”
Melody’s eyes snap to mine when I answer, “The timing hasn’t been right.” I can see a million questions in her eyes, but since she’s fearful about what my answers will be, she remains quiet. “I’ll tell her… just not yet.”
Henry slants his head, his brow cocking. “Does the ill-timing have anything to do with her visit to Saugerties PD earlier today?”
My lips twitch, preparing to answer, but before I can, Melody beats me to it. “I’m standing right here, so if you have something you want to know about me, why don’t you ask me?”
When Henry smiles, so do his goons. “Such spark. You’re very much like your mother.”
Red dots line my chest when he attempts to touch Melody’s face. I grabbed his wrist before his hand could get anywhere near Melody’s cheek, soundlessly warning him I’d rather die than have her touched without permission again.
Although frustrated by my protectiveness of Melody, Henry also seems pleased by it. “If only you had gotten more of your father’s blood, then perhaps we could have put your skills to good use. Alas…” as he twists his lips, he shrugs, “… you prefer playing on the wrong side of the law.” He once again signals for his men to stand down before he takes a step back from Melody, thinning the solidified blood coursing through my veins. “The ranch will not be sold. It will remain in the Gottle name as it was meant to be.” After clicking his fingers two times, a blond man on his left hands Kwan a briefcase. “This should cover expenses until I’m long gone. If it doesn’t, you know where to find me.”
“Boss?” Kwan interrupts, his voice barely a squeak.
Henry blows air out of his nose. “Kwan would like to continue feeding Socks each evening. He has a weird fondness for him.” He drifts his eyes to me. “His daily visits will also ensure no unexpected ones occur.”
I nod, hearing his unvoiced words the clearest. If people believe this is Gottle turf, they won’t dare come here without Henry’s permission. Although I’d rather leave Melody’s protection up to me, I’ve done a piss-poor job of it in the past, so a little help wouldn’t go astray, even if it comes from the wrong side of the law.
Mistaking my head bob as me agreeing to his terms, Kwan snaps open the suitcase. Melody’s gasp fans my nape when bundles upon bundles of hundred-dollar bills are exposed. There would have to be over two million dollars stuffed into the case.
After slamming the case shut and placing it onto the dining table, Henry hands me a USB stick. “This will set it straight on what happened to your brother. Once you’ve watched it, destroy it.” The threat in his eyes turns deadly when he mutters, “Don’t make me come back here and tie up more loose ends.”
He glances at Melody for the quickest second before he spins on his heels and leaves. His men follow closely behind him, Kwan a little slower since he’s sporting a bullet.
Melody and I stand in silence for the next several minutes, only speaking once the sound of tires rolling over untouched land no longer fills our ears.
“What the fuck was that?” Melody’s voice reveals she’s on the verge of another terrifying panic attack. “That’s blood money.” She thrusts her hand at the suitcase Henry left as her chest heaves. “I can’t take that money. I’m an assistant district attorney for crying out loud, I can’t accept money from the head of the Mafia.” As she begins pacing, the color drains from her cheeks. “Do you know how that looks? It will make it seem as if I’m corrupt.”
“If you don’t accept it, no one will think you’re corrupt.”
She stops frozen to glare at me. “Exactly how do I reject his offer, BJ? Thanks for the bundle of cash, Mr. Gottle, mob boss of New York, but I don’t want your money. Here, take it back.”
I’m an ass for smiling, but I can’t help it. I forgot how cute she is when she’s angry.
“BJ… don’t… this isn’t funny.” With each word she speaks, her anger lessens. She must put her frustration into her fists because when she whacks me in the stomach, the air in my lungs evicts from the strength of her punch. “You shot a goon, got knocked out by another, then threatened to kill a mob boss if he so much as ran the back of his hand down my cheek. Now is not the time for laughter.”
My smile grows, loving that she heard my unvoiced threat, but when our eyes collide for the quickest second, the seriousness of our situation smacks back into me. “There are many ways we can handle this. But first, I need to disclose some things to you.”
“I don’t like the way you said disclosed. That didn’t sound like a good disclosed.”
As I guide her into the living room, I ask, “Do you remember the first night we slept together? When I said I needed to rock my hips up for just a second, and that it will hurt, but it won’t last long.” Melody looks as uncomfortable as I feel when she nods. “That’s kind of like this. It will hurt, but the pain won’t last long.”
While guiding her to the couch, I ponder on how to tell her the news. Should I rip it off like a band-aid, so it’s quick and fast or gently ease her into it.
I lose the chance to do either of those things when our trek to the sofa covered with a sheet has me veering Melody past the last family portrait taken of her family. Even without deducting the aura of arrogance that forever pumps out of Henry, the similarities between him and Liam are uncanny in this photo. If you added a decade of wariness onto Liam’s face, you could pretend he was Henry.
Even a woman bogged down with grief can’t deny their likeness. “He’s my actual uncle.” Melody shifts on her feet to face me. “Henry Gottle is my uncle.”
26
Melody
As I stare at my family portrait for the umpteenth time the past three days, unease melds through my veins. I don’t know how I missed it. Even with him being a mob boss, Henry’s fa
ce is well known to all levels of society. I’ve perused it many times the past ten years—in papers, on reports, during depositions. I’ve seen him a hundred times, if not more, yet, I failed to notice how his nose is the exact shape my dad’s was. How his top lip is slightly bigger than his bottom one, and that his eyes can share a lifetime of secrets without his mouth opening.
I’m shocked, but in all honesty, my dad’s overbearing parenting style now makes sense. He left that lifestyle for my mom, he did everything to protect her from being hurt by it. However, it didn’t work. She was still brutalized by his family’s enemies.
Although my adult nightmare slowly overtook the one from my childhood, I still recall how my mom’s nails dragged across the floorboards when she was pulled away from me and the vibrations of her screams hitting my chest.
I also remember how the pleas in my dad’s eyes shifted to anarchy when they refused his numerous requests for clemency. It was the same look Brandon’s eyes held when he played the video on the USB stick Henry gave him.
Joey didn’t kill himself. He was murdered. Brandon’s CIA friend, Phillipa, identified two of the men in the footage. The third is still under investigation. They’re hoping he’s one of the men killed during the Castro raid last week, but until their faces are digitally reconstructed, we won’t know for sure. A shotgun wound to the face makes identification a little hard.
We could have asked Castro, but that avenue was lost when Henry finished tying up the loose ends as he mentioned earlier this week. Castro was found hanging in his cell the same way Crombie was. Neither Phillipa nor Brandon believe it was suicide.
Those who didn’t know Brandon would believe his quietness the past few days is because he’s determined to get justice for his brother. I know that isn’t the case. He’s angry at himself, confident he is to blame for Joey’s death… and perhaps my assault.
There’s no truth behind either of his theories.
The footage Henry gave Brandon clearly shows Joey knew the men were trouble the instant his eyes landed on them. When they asked him if he was Brandon, he simply replied, “If I am, who’s asking?”
His cocky attitude usually worked in his favor.
That night, it didn’t.
Mercifully, the footage stopped before we reached the outcome of their exchange. It was for the best. We all know how things ended that night, we didn’t need to witness it again.
Both good and bad came from learning the real cause of Joey’s death. I can one hundred percent testify that he died as an honorable man. He was kind and sweet and put himself in danger to ensure his baby brother was safe.
But it also bombarded me with additional guilt.
I knew the type of man Joey was, so why didn’t I look deeper into the doubts festering in my gut the past seven years? Why didn’t I give my intuition the chance to speak? If I hadn’t run, I could have stopped Madden from hurting the woman Nichole discussed during my statement.
Unfortunately, Gemma Calderon-Levesque’s rape can’t be mentioned during my hearing. Because her charges were dismissed and she filed a civil suit against Madden, my case will be tried as if hers never occurred.
That makes me angry. If Madden used his trust fund to pay off Gemma, doesn’t that show culpability? The non-lawyer side of my head wants to say yes. Alas, not even ADAs can alter the law to suit themselves.
I’m drawn from my thoughts when soft voices project from the laptop Brandon is seated behind. After placing down my nighttime mug of hot chocolate, I float to his side of the living room. Instead of going back to the hotel three days ago, we stayed at the ranch. Only last week, it felt odd being here. With Brandon, it feels normal. I can almost forget the past seven years has happened.
Brandon’s eyes lift to mine when I ask, “What are you watching?”
For the first time in days, his voice sounds happy when he answers, “Grayson asked for an extra set of eyes on a case before he went back undercover. With everything going on, I put it on the backburner.” My heart does a weird flutter when he signs. “It is not a case. It is us.”
“Us?”
His smile when he nods—Kill. Me. Now. My engagement was only dissolved seven days ago, yet here I am getting flutters in a damp place several inches lower than my heart over a smile. It’s not even a straight smile, but it is damn near perfect.
“Look.” When Brandon swivels his laptop around to face me, my cheeks groan in protest about how fast they incline into a smile. “How old were we there? Around eight or nine.”
“Seven.” I point to the tiniest little slither of red across Brandon’s forehead in the footage of us playing a board game on the floor of my childhood bedroom. “Remember when I pushed Tania Rich off the swing, and her seat accidentally smacked you in the head?”
Brandon laughs. “I do recall that. I was certain you were seconds from kissing the bump better—”
“But before I could, Mrs. Foster arrived out of nowhere to take care of your boo-boo.” I’m laughing so hard recalling how Brandon’s head got lost between Mrs. Foster’s gigantic bosoms when she carried him to the nurse’s office. My words are barely understandable, so I switch to signing instead. “I was certain you would never be a breast man.”
He keeps his hands low, however, I don’t miss his reply, “If yours didn’t blossom as they did, I wouldn’t have been.” The heat bristling between us turns roasting when he playfully growls. I’ve felt his growls before, but this is the first time I’ve heard them.
“BJ…” There’s a need in my voice I can’t explain. It hasn’t been there in years, and in all honesty, I didn’t think it would ever come back.
After floating his eyes up my body, taking in my peaked nipples, thrusting chest, and taut neck on his way, Brandon’s eyes land on my face. “Yeah?”
I want to beg him to kiss me, I want to tell him I love him and that he doesn’t need to be sad, but more than anything, I want him to know what happened to Joey and me isn’t his fault, but instead of doing any of those things, I bump the two-seater dining table out of my way with my hip before straddling his lap. The old wooden chair I sat on every morning for almost eighteen years creaks in protests about our combined weight. It won’t collapse, though. Life couldn’t be so cruel to the same man continuously. He eventually has to catch a break, doesn’t he?
Hopefully, I am that for him.
Although Brandon hardens beneath me in an instant, hesitation still fires in his eyes, “Melo—”
I steal the unease from his throat with my tongue by kissing him with everything I have. It goes above and beyond our kiss at the gala and fills my heart with both sentimental muckiness and an urge to wipe the slate clean. He smells different, yet the same. His jaw is holding the beloved prickles it always had when we weren’t at school, and the living room is fully lit.
I feel safe and protected even with my heart racing a million miles an hour.
This is a huge step for me, but I can imagine it’s even more massive for Brandon. This is all so fresh and new to him, he still thinks my rape occurred last week. I’m not fairing much better, but unlike Brandon, I’ve had years of counseling and the care of a supporting man to see me through it.
He has no one but me.
The knowledge has me deepening our embrace.
Mercifully, Brandon kisses me back, forever an equal participant in each exchange we’ve shared. It isn’t a hurried kiss or a messy one. He doesn’t demand anything more than I’m willing to give and follows the prompts of my lips and tongue when I require more. It’s perfect, just like him.
“Please,” I murmur over his mouth when he stops the slither of my hand to the waistband of his pants.
He locks his eyes with mine. They’re wide and brimming with lust. His lips are well kissed, and his cheeks are heated. He wants this, he’s just afraid to answer the many pleas filtering through his head. He’s always been so logical-thinking. Even when we were kids, he was forever looking two steps ahead.
Hoping I can
get him over the line, I remove myself from his lap, gather his hand in mine, then guide him to my room. It’s not my childhood bedroom. I had trouble sleeping there our first night here, so Brandon agreed to switch rooms with me, so I could have the guest bedroom. It didn’t aid in getting more sleep, but it was a little less awkward.
Brandon doesn’t utter a sound the entire trip to my room, but he does gasp out a breath when I push him onto the bed before balancing my knee between his splayed thighs. My aggressiveness in the bedroom is nothing new to him. It’s the unbuttoning of my shirt that has his lungs fighting for air.
I send thanks to my mom for good genes when Brandon’s hand moves to cup my breasts after I fan open my shirt. It’s like he’s acting on instincts. He’s here, but he isn’t really here if that makes any sense.
The nervousness knotted in my stomach slackens when his index finger creeps into the space between the lace of my bra and my heated skin. Excitement bundles low in my stomach, loving the roughness of his finger on my silky-smooth nipple.
While peering up at me, he tugs down the cups of my bra, fully exposing my breasts to his avid eyes before he sucks one of my nipples into his warm and inviting mouth. I call out, the sensation overwhelming. When we were teens, I thought I had sensitive nipples. Numerous attempts to self-please myself the past seven years prove I don’t. Brandon just has the knack for knowing the exact amount of suction to use and the perfect pressure of his teeth.
“More,” I beg, signing, my mind too spiraling to talk.
“Guide me,” Brandon murmurs against my breasts, heightening my senses even more. “Tell me what to do.” His voice is still as stiff as his movements, but my mind is too hazed by lust to look further into it.
I need this as much as my lungs desire their next breath.