Brent Sinatra: All of Me

by Mallory Monroe

  “No,” she shot back. “Hell no! I could never do anything like that.”

  “Maybe his abusiveness drove you to it.”

  “I can never do a thing like that,” she said. “Never! I don’t care what he did to me.”

  She showed more emotion in her own defense, Brent thought, than in defense of her own child.

  But then the office door opened and Charles and Jenay walked in. They both looked as if they had seen a ghost. “So you’re the one?” Charles asked.

  “Hello, Denise,” Jenay said.

  “Is he,” Charles asked. “Did she say if he was yours?”

  Brent stared at his father. “Yes,” he said. “She admitted it.”

  Charles couldn’t believe it. His heart was hammering. Jenay could feel his pain. But he was looking at Denise. “How old is he? How old is my grandson?”

  Denise looked defiant. She knew Charles never did like her. “He’s ten, so what?” she asked.

  “So what?” Charles said. “So what?” He walked over to her, but not to confront her. He, instead, leaned back and slapped the shit out of her.

  Brent and Jenay hurried to his side, with Brent pulling him back. “Charles!” Jenay cried.

  But Charles jerked away from them and continued to look at Denise as if he was looking at a piece of trash. “Brent had a son,” he said. “I had a grandson in this world. A grandson. And you didn’t bother to tell us? You didn’t bother to let us know that our flesh and blood was out here in this world, under somebody else protection, in somebody else life? And you have the nerve to say so what?”

  Brent knew how his father felt. He felt the same way. But this kind of anger would get them nowhere. Brent didn’t know the full story. His son wasn’t in the clear yet. Getting angry with Denise could only serve to keep them away from Marcus. And that wasn’t going to happen.

  But Denise, being Denise, wasn’t about to let him get away with that. “I want him arrested,” she said to Brent.

  “Just hold on, Denise,” Brent responded.

  “Hold on nothing! I want him locked up for assaulting me. What kind of man are you anyway? Only punks hit ladies!”

  “Then he must not be a punk,” Jenay said, “because he certainly did not hit a lady.”

  “Just get me out of here,” Denise said to Brent, “or I swear I’ll take my child and none of you people will ever see him again!”

  That threat stopped Charles and Jenay cold. They were just realizing what kept Brent restraint all along. They were just understanding how much power Denise really had. She had the power, at least for now, to block their access.

  “Come on, Denise,” Jenay said. “Let me show you and Marcus to your room.”

  Denise looked at Charles again, but then she followed Jenay.

  When the door closed, Brent slumped down in a chair. Charles looked at him. “We’re going to ask for an emergency hearing to wrestle custody from her,” he said.

  “We can’t,” Brent said. “Not yet.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “It’s complicated, Dad.”

  “What’s complicated about it?”

  “Because the man in that motel, the dead man, happens to be the Lieutenant Governor of Massachusetts.”

  Charles was floored.

  “And when the press gets wind of this, it’s going to be wild. I’ll put guards at their room here at the Inn, and I’ll have my men follow her should she get out. But for right now, we have to tread very lightly, Dad. I’ve got to clear Marcus before any court of law will grant me custody of him. If Denise is involved in some way, I’ve got to prove it.”

  “But Marcus didn’t kill that man,” Charles insisted.

  “I know he didn’t. But before we drove over here, Marcus said out of his own mouth that he did it. Marcus said he killed that man. I’ve got to disprove that before I do anything else. It’s complicated, Pop. This shit is real.”

  And Charles, blown away, sat down too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was nightfall by the time Makayla heard Brent’s truck on her driveway. She was in her living room, with her feet up and her back against the armrest, reviewing a small stack of files. She text him earlier, to see how he was doing, but he didn’t text her back. Which wasn’t all that unusual for Brent. When he was on a case, or involved in some controversy, he was all in.

  But that didn’t mean she was all in with him. She was still concerned. She had to tell her boss that she didn’t have enough to press charges against Marcus yet, which was the duty of the D.A., when she knew a confession was always enough. But she didn’t even mention the confession. All because of her relationship with Brent. She even asked to recuse herself altogether from the case, since the child involved might be her boyfriend’s child, but the D.A. again refused. “This is Jericho,” Ira told her. “You will have to recuse yourself from every single case if we allow personal relationships to be a determining factor. Just do your job,” he added, “and you’ll be fine.”

  She didn’t do her job. She wasn’t fine.

  The doorbell rang once, and then Brent used his key. Because her townhouse was small, she saw him immediately when he walked in. And he looked drained.

  “Hey,” she said as he walked toward her.

  “I got your text,” he said.

  She waited for him to explain why he didn’t answer it when he got it, but that wasn’t Brent’s style either.

  He leaned down and kissed her on the lips. His plan was to give her a peck and sit down. He was that tired. But when smelled her sweet fragrance, when he tasted her, when he thought about how much he needed her right now, he found himself lingering in his kiss. And it changed. It became so good to him that he sat down on the edge of the sofa, placed his arms around her, and gave her a long, enduring kiss that moved from her lips. He lifted her blouse and her bra, and began kissing her breasts.

  “I missed you,” he said, when he finally came back up for air.

  “I missed you too,” Makayla said, as his passion became hers too. She looked into his eyes. She could see the pain, the anguish, the hurt there. “Rough day?” she asked.

  “Rough day,” he agreed. He looked down, at her bare breasts again, and then back into her face. “I miss you,” he said again, and began kissing her all over again. But this time was even more passionate than the first time, and she knew then that it was a matter, not of if, but of when. She knew it was coming.

  And it came. Immediately. He began removing the files from her lap and sitting them on the coffee table, and then he stood up and held out his hand. They walked, hand in hand, to her bedroom.

  And when he laid across the bed, with his feet dangling down, she knelt down in front of him, unzipped his pants, and eased it out.

  Brent felt the warmth of her hand around his rod as soon as she touched it. And when her tongue began licking in that oh-so-soft way she mastered, he began to throb.

  He laid there, so completely relaxed, as she administered the kind of relief he desperately needed. She licked and sucked and took him in full, and he fell under the spell of her tenderness and her expertise. Until her licking and sucking and swallowing became too tender, and too expert, and he was about to cum in her mouth.

  He pulled her on top of him, put his cock inside of her, and finished the job. But he wasn’t rough. He kept it slow and wonderful. Makayla laid on top of him, and felt his dick expand inside of her until it was too big, and too hard, and could barely move. That was the best time. That was when they reached their nirvana. Because Brent held her, and she held him, and they laid there in that state of almost-cum without cumming. It was the feeling of having it all, but more kept coming.

  Brent kept pushing into her against that tight resistance he loved, as he groaned his appreciation for her wet, the softness of her pussy. All the worries of the day, all the revelations and devastations that were sure to face them on days to come, evaporated like mere condensation as he made long, passionate love to her.


  And when they came, it wasn’t that earth shattering cum that caused them both to strain it out. It was a tender cum. The kind that only happened when it wasn’t about cumming, but being together, arm in arm, in their own little world.

  But that didn’t mean it wasn’t intense. It was. Because it was a long cum. Because Brent was able to continue to push into her, and she was able to continue to take him in, for a long time.

  By the time it was all over, both their hearts were racing with not only pleasure, but joy. They had each other. And that, they realized, was going to be more than enough.

  After sex, after that pleasure principle enveloped them in a kind of protective assurance, Makayla got off of him and they laid side by side for a long time. She had so much to ask him, but he was still breathing so heavily that she waited. It was nearly a ten minute wait. She knew he was ready to talk because he pulled her into his arms.

  She turned onto her side, and looked at him. “How did it go at the Inn?” she asked.

  “Rough, like everything else. But Denise did admit it.”

  “Admit what?”

  Brent looked at Makayla. “That Marcus is my son.”

  Makayla leaned up. “She admitted it? Really?”

  “She did.”

  “Wow.” She laid back down. “You have to be feeling some kind of angry right now.”

  “Yeah. I do. Mom and Dad does too. Dad slapped her.”

  Makayla frowned. “He slapped her? He slapped Denise?”

  Brent nodded. Makayla smiled. “Are you serious? Why?”

  “Because she didn’t tell us. Because he had a grandson in this world going by another man’s name. Dad was pissed.”

  “And so he should be. You should be too.”

  “I am, but I’m not thinking about Denise. My entire focus has to be on my son. And how to get him out of this legal jeopardy he may be in. Because when this is over, I’m going to fight to the death for custody.”

  Makayla didn’t say anything. Brent looked at her. “I know you didn’t sign up to be anybody’s stepmother, but I have to have my son.”

  Makayla nodded. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Brent. And you’re right. I didn’t plan to be somebody’s stepmother. But you didn’t plan to be anybody’s father either. If you can deal with it, I can too.”

  Brent smiled and pulled her closer, kissing her on her forehead.

  “How’s Marcus holding up?”

  “He’s okay. Still not saying much.”

  “Except confessing to a murder.”

  “Right,” Brent said. “Which makes you wonder why.”

  Makayla looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I couldn’t get that kid to tell me his name, but all Denise had to do was ask him if he hurt his so-called daddy, and he’s singing like a canary.”

  “She’s his mother, Brent. Of course he’ll talk to her.”

  But Brent wasn’t buying it. “Something’s off,” he said. “It sounded as if that boy had been coached into confessing to that murder. It didn’t sound genuine.”

  “Or,” Makayla said, treading carefully, “you can’t bring yourself to believe he would confess to a murder.”

  “I know that’s how it sounds. But that’s not how it is. Marcus didn’t kill that man. I’m certain of it.”

  Makayla considered him. “Then if he didn’t, who did?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “And why were they in Jericho?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “He was abusive.”

  Makayla looked at him. “To Marcus?”

  “To Denise. She showed me her bruises. I asked if he ever abused Marcus, but she claimed he didn’t. Not ever.”

  “Let’s hope that’s true.” Then Makayla thought of something. “Brent,” she asked, “you think it’s her?”

  “What about her?”

  “You think she could be the one?”

  “What one? I’m not following you.”

  “Since that man, her husband, had been abusing her according to her, could she have coached Marcus into confessing to murder? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering,” Brent said.

  “You think she could have killed her own husband, and wanted her son to take the fall?”

  “I know it’s a leap, but it is how I feel. Denise is a lot of things, but I don’t think she’s that far gone. I don’t think she would do that to her own child.”

  “It’s been over ten years since you last saw her, right? Unless there’s something you aren’t telling me.”

  “It’s been at least ten years, yes.”

  “People change, Brent. If she had been as abused as she claimed, maybe she had murder on her mind. Maybe she hated him just that much. Maybe it had come to this.”

  Brent’s cell phone began to ring. “I don’t know, Mal. She would have to be some kind of psychotic to use her own son that way.” He grabbed his phone from the nightstand. “I sure hope we’re wrong.” He looked at the Caller ID.

  “Who is it?” she asked him.

  “My dad.” He answered. “What’s up?”

  “Turn on the television,” Charles ordered.

  “Turn on the TV,” Brent said to Makayla. Makayla grabbed the remote and turned on her bedroom TV.

  “Which channel?” she asked.

  “Dad, which channel?”

  “Three.”

  They turned on channel three. A reporter was standing outside of the Jericho Inn. “And we just, moments ago,” the reporter said, “gotten confirmation from a well-connected source.” The camera panned out and another man appeared on the screen. “For our viewers who probably do not know,” the reporter said, “this is famed journalist Jock Ambers of the Boston Times. Jock, what can you tell us about this incredible situation?” The reporter shoved his hand-held microphone into Jock’s face.

  “I can tell you that it is confirmed,” Jock said. “The Lt. Governor was found murdered in a room at the Super Fin motel right here in Jericho, and his young son has confessed to the crime.”

  Brent, thunderstruck, sat up in bed. So did Makayla, completely unaware of her naked upper body. “How could they know about that confession?” she asked.

  But Brent was too stunned to speak.

  “How were you able to confirm this remarkable information?” the reporter asked Jock.

  “I obtained this information, this amazing information, from a source who will remain anonymous.”

  Brent threw the covers off of his naked body and hurried out of bed.

  “As soon as I obtained it,” Jock continued, “I immediately turned the recording over to the District Attorney’s office for this county.”

  Brent froze in place.

  “A recording?” Makayla asked, frozen too. “Somebody recorded it? Oh, my God.” She got out of bed too. “Oh, my God, Brent.”

  “Is the recording clear, Jock?” The reporter shoved the microphone back into Jock’s face.

  “It is very clear. The young man can be clearly heard confessing, without coercion I might add, to the murder of Lt. Governor Stravinsky.”

  Brent froze. Because he knew what that meant. This scandal wasn’t only affecting him now, but Makayla and Eddie Rivers as well, because they went along with it too. And Marcus. Brent knew that his son was in severe legal jeopardy now.

  “And even more amazing than that,” the reporter continued, “the alleged perp, after confessing, was not detained by Chief of Police Brent Sinatra and placed into juvenile detention, but was allowed to stay at Chief Sinatra’s parents’ hotel, the Jericho Inn, the very hotel Jock and I are standing in front of tonight. And most amazing of all,” the reporter continued, “the boy that is thought to be the Lieutenant Governor’s son, who will not be named because of his age, may actually be the biological son of Chief Brent Sinatra himself. Which begs the question, folks. How many ways can we say cover up?”r />
  “How could they know all of that?” Makayla asked, still unable to wrap her brain around the news.

  “I don’t know,” Brent responded. “But I’ll be damned if they’re going to get away with this.”

  “Only you, Denise, Eddie Rivers and I were in your office when he confessed. And it certainly wasn’t you and I. And why would Eddie tell the media?”

  “If it’s Denise,” Brent said, quickly putting on his shirt, “that only makes my theory more plausible. She want her son charged because she knows I’ll protect him.”

  “The fact that you wouldn’t accept his confession already proved that,” Makayla said.

  “Right,” Brent said, and then he looked at her. Her eyes seemed as naked as the rest of her body.

  “Put on some clothes,” he said to her. “I want you with me. We’ve got to put a lid on this before it explodes.”

  Makayla didn’t have to be asked twice. She dressed quickly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Ira Stockton led the way. He was a man on a mission and couldn’t wait to accomplish his goal. The media was out in force, the election was a few months away, he was going to be a hero when all was said and done. He led the way. Until they got to the door of the second floor hotel room at the Jericho Inn. An officer stood on guard. Ira showed him his paperwork, which necessitated that the guard step aside. And the two uniformed officers behind Ira took over. They didn’t knock, they didn’t announce themselves. Ira didn’t bother to ask for a key because he knew they the staff wouldn’t comply. He, instead, ordered the officers to do it. And they did. They took their version of a battering ram and knocked the door open.

  Denise ran from the bedroom to the living room and Marcus, already in the living room, stood up from the sofa.

  “We have a warrant,” Ira said as he hurried in, waving around a sheet of paper. “We have a warrant!”

  “A warrant for what?” Denise asked hysterically.

  “The arrest of Marcus Stravinsky, Jr. for the murder of Marcus Stravinsky, Sr. He’s coming with us. Get him,” Ira ordered the officers, and they grabbed Marcus.