by K. Bromberg
Or did he in fact tell me that? I’m sure he might have.
“Why would he tell you that? In the meeting, you mentioned that you met up with him again . . . want to tell me what happened?” Her stare is unrelenting as she tries to read me.
“Nothing happened.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, but I know my response doesn’t ring true. “That’s the problem.”
“Child, the mother in me knows a lie when she sees one . . . so spill it.” She leans back in her chair, and all I see is a woman determined to get an answer out of me.
Is it sad that I want to share it with someone? That I want someone to agree with me that he was arrogant and a prick when all she’s been doing is singing his heroic praises for the last ten minutes?
I emit an exaggerated sigh. “I was out running errands and saw him head into a bar. I conveniently had the urge for a drink so I sat beside him and then proceeded to badger him about the contest until he stalked out. I followed again—”
“Now, there’s your first problem right there.” She laughs. “Never let a man know you’re following them. They like hard-to-get. They like thinking they’re calling the shots.”
“If I wanted to sleep with him, that caveat would work. But I don’t.” At least I wouldn’t. Would I? The look she gives me says she’s thinking the same thought and doesn’t buy my response. “As I was saying, I followed him out to the back alley and ended up alone in the dark with a drunk guy who was a little handsy.”
“How little is little? Did he touch you?” I can see the momma bear in her come out.
“He had my arm, but—”
“Oh my God. How scary!”
“I could have handled myself.” It’s the same lie I told myself as I stared at the ceiling last night while very creepy variations of how the situation could have played out kept me up. “But Grayson forgot to pay and was coming back in and saw us . . . and, of course, he—”
“Stepped in to save the day?”
“I wouldn’t be quite that dramatic, but yeah.”
“I told you he was hero material.”
“Don’t, Rissa—”
“Gold. Mine. Marketing,” she says, emphasizing each word.
I glare at her. “He was a jerk.”
“Because he saved you?”
“No because . . .” Because he found out I was going to use him to save the magazine and was pissed? Because he demanded a thank-you? Both make me look like the ass. Again.
“Because why?”
“It’s the attention thing. He doesn’t want any part of it.”
“Then make him want it. It’s your butt on the line here. I’d think that would be enough motivation for you.”
“Easier said than done,” I murmur.
“Isn’t everything?”
“Sunnyville native, Grayson Malone, has been credited with rescuing a woman Friday night. Here on a work assignment, Sidney Thorton, daughter of media tycoon Frank Thorton, was cornered in the darkened alley behind Hooligan’s pub by an armed thug. Without thought to his own safety, Malone came to her aid, disarming the assailant and ushering Ms. Thorton to safety.
This isn’t Mr. Malone’s first brush with being a hero. He’s been credited with piloting rescue flights in the past but has neither confirmed nor denied these claims.
As a medevac pilot for Mercy-Life, Malone—”
“That’s enough.”
“C’mon. I want to read more about how my baby brother saved a woman from an armed thug,” Grant says as he peers at me over the newspaper.
“He wasn’t armed.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Or else you would have reported him.”
“And I’m far from being a fucking hero.”
“That isn’t what this says.” When he starts to read aloud again, I rip the newspaper from his hands, throw it on the table in front of him, and walk to the kitchen for a beer.
“I said that’s enough.” I’m pissed. Irritated. Why in the hell would she offer up that story?
“Testy. Testy.”
“Knock it off, will you?” He knows how to get under my skin and is doing a damn fine job of it. I grab a beer from the fridge and look out back to where Luke is playing in the fort we’d built out of sheets and two-by-fours.
“Let me see. Hot woman. You to the rescue. Why are you here being so pissy when you could be with her, getting laid?”
I set my beer down, brace my hands on the sink, and watch Luke as I ignore my brother. Is that why I’m in such a goddamn foul mood? Because I can’t stop thinking about her when I want to? Because I had a dream about her last night and woke up rock hard?
Christ.
I must be fucking desperate.
No. I’m just fucking dumb. I’ve done this song and dance before. Claire, meet Sidney; Sidney, meet Claire. Except one of them is in the forefront of my mind.
I scrub a hand through my hair. “It’s all a ploy.”
“A ploy?”
“And it’s your fucking fault.”
“My fault?”
“Quit repeating what I’m saying!”
“What are you saying?”
“Grant.” His name is a warning, and one I almost want to be tested on.
“What?” A chuckle. A lean back so he can prop his feet on my coffee table. Anything to annoy me.
“Sidney’s the one in charge of the damn contest you signed me up for.”
“Save-me-Sidney is?” He chuckles. “No shit. Do I know her?”
“Dude, we went to high school with her.”
“Ahhh, that Sidney.”
“Yeah, that Sidney,” I mutter. “And the article isn’t a coincidence. You signed me up for this stupid contest, and I told her I didn’t want any part of it. Now, I have to deal with this, and it’s your fault.”
“How is your wanting to get funky with Sidney Thorton my fault?”
“Who said I want to fuck her?”
“You didn’t have to. It’s written in everything you are not saying.”
“Back off. I don’t—”
He bursts out laughing. “Nice use of terms.”
I ignore him and keep going. “I don’t want her, I just want her to leave me alone. I want my brothers not to sign me up for a stupid contest. I want someone not to spread false bullshit rumors about me—”
“You sure have a lot of wants with a side of a lot of whines.”
“I’m starting not to like you right now.”
“Think of her as a distraction. Think of the contest as something to do with your free time. And hell, better those kind of rumors than the other kind,” he says softly and then purses his lips as our eyes hold.
And, goddammit, he’s right. I’ve lived through more rumor mills than I care to count. Grayson Malone, the man Claire Hoskin went slumming with. Was it true that her inheritance was threatened if she stayed with him? Were her parents to blame for her walking away, or did Grayson cheat on her?
Those fucking rumors ran my life for years. The lies her parents spread to cover how shallow and selfish they were and how they didn’t want their daughter associated with the blue-collar Malones. The payoff Claire gladly accepted because money and promises and freedom were so much more appealing than diapers and spit-up and forevers.
I clench my teeth and force myself to shove it all away. I push it deep into the abyss where I bury it most days so it doesn’t eat me whole.
“Don’t go there, Gray.” When I look up, Grant’s studying me. He knows where my thoughts went. “It’s been done and gone a long time. Don’t drag yourself down that damn rabbit hole again.”
“Fuck, man.” I plop onto the couch across from him and lean my head back and close my eyes. “I just want my life to get back to normal. Work. Luke. A—”
“—little piece of Sidney’s ass on the side.”
I crack an eyelid open and glare at him. “You’re just jealous that’s an option for me.”
“No, I’m not.” He holds his hand up so his wedding ring is in plain
sight. “No complaints here, but I’ll spare you the details that will make you jealous about how fan-fucking-tastic my wife is.”
“I definitely don’t need details on the fucking part.” Leave it to Grant to get me to laugh.
“So, is Sidney still hot? I mean, from what I remember from high school she was. Pretty but untouchable. Snobby but nice.”
“Annoying but . . .”
“Hot.”
“Gorgeous.” The word comes out automatically. There’s no denying it, even though I’d prefer to.
“And the problem with this is, what?”
“There is no problem with that. The problem I have is that there is an article in the newspaper about a situation only three of us knew about.”
“And we all know how much you love attention.”
I raise my middle finger to combat his sarcasm. “You know the why behind it, so don’t be an asshole.”
“Which why is that? How the Hoskins wrote Luke off and you fear anything on you may give them some kind of insight into Luke’s life? Or the how you are just the most selfless son of a bitch I’ve ever known and for some reason, you never want to reap the rewards for being a damn fine human being like every other person on the face of the earth would?”
“It wasn’t me who told the newspaper about the incident, and it sure as hell wasn’t Mick.”
“Mick?”
“The unarmed thug.” Being a cop, his eyes fire with recognition as my cell rings for what feels like the hundredth time today. People asking about the newspaper article. Attaboys about saving someone, even though I’m on desk duty for doing the exact same thing.
I switch the ringer off and shake my head.
“You really think she planted this story? Why would she do that?”
“Hell if I know. I even fucking accused her of setting it up, then dumbass me bought it when she said she’s not that conniving.”
“One bat of those lashes and shift of those thighs and poor Grayson’s blood leaves one head for another and impairs his thinking.”
“You’re being a dick.”
“And you got played.” He tsks. “The woman’s got balls.”
“Let’s hope not.” I laugh as I remember the heat of her body against mine last night.
“You know what I mean.” He leans forward so his elbows rest on his knees, and he levels me with a stare.
“Like I said, it’s all a ploy. The article. The hero thing. All of it.”
“If it’s a ploy to get you thinking about her, she’s doing a damn fine job of it.”
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“What’s the big deal about the contest, Gray? I mean seriously? Do the damn thing. Let Luke revel in the attention for a bit, let him think he has a famous dad. Win the damn thing and take him to Disney World like you’ve wanted to do for years. Let yourself relax for a bit instead of pacing back and forth, wearing a hole in the floor as you wait out this fucking stupid flight suspension. Like I said, your participating doesn’t give any information to the Hoskins that they couldn’t find by asking around town. And if it does, if it tells them that you’re better off without Claire, then good. Again, what’s it going to hurt?”
Of course, he has to throw Luke in there to get me to really hear him.
“She reminds me of everything Claire was . . . and the contest reminds me of everything I hate.”
“It isn’t one of Claire’s damn beauty pageants.”
“Close enough.”
“Bullshit. I bet your ass there is no crown in this contest, or high heels to prance around in. If there is, I’m front row to take blackmail pictures of you.”
“Very funny.”
“And Sidney isn’t Claire. Sure, they both lived on the hill when we were in school. Sure, they were inseparable and their friends were assholes to you where you worked in the diner, but hell, I’m an asshole to you sometimes, too.”
“You’re my brother. That’s different.”
“You’re missing the point. Just because she was best friends with Claire, it doesn’t mean she’s like Claire. They most definitely had a shit-ton more money than we did growing up, but having similar backgrounds doesn’t make them the same.”
“That’s supposition.”
“And that’s you being a stubborn ass. Besides, what does any of this have to do with Sidney in the first place? So what? She’s running the contest. That’s it. Big whoop.”
“She doesn’t deserve my help.”
“Help? What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Last night. The alley. I walked out, and she followed because she slipped and said she was going to use me to help save her magazine.”
“Save her magazine?”
I shrug. “That’s what she said.”
“Look at that. You could be a hero again.”
“Stop the hero crap.”
“I’m serious. Help the contest and in turn save jobs.”
He’s right and I hate it and refuse to acknowledge it. Yes, I’m acting like Luke would, but the woman is frustrating as all hell. “She doesn’t deserve my help.”
“Ahhh, so that’s what this is all about.” He runs a hand through his hair and chuckles. “You’re exhausting. All of that to get to the point.”
“The point?”
“Yeah. At first, you played it off as you not wanting the attention because of Luke, but dude . . . you’re projecting Claire onto Sidney in some fucked-up way, like participating would be you somehow giving in to what she did to you.”
“That’s such bullshit.” At least that’s what I tell him, but hell if he isn’t somewhat right.
“Uh-huh.” He draws the word out, and the sound grates on my nerves. “If that’s not true, then do the damn contest. Take a few photos. Give them the bio they want. Then step back and let whatever happens, happen. What would it hurt other than maybe pad your bank account if you win?”
“God, you sound just like Dad with all this wisdom.” I shake my head and laugh.
“Not quite. I don’t have all of his perfect sayings down yet—but I’ll get there.”
“Lord, help us.” I sigh and glance at Luke as he slams the door and runs up the stairs as he has some kind of mock battle between the Minecraft figures in each of his hands.
“What about him?” Grant asks as he lifts his chin to where Luke just disappeared.
“What do you mean, what about Luke? What would me going along with this teach him?
“That his dad is cool as fuck. That it’s okay to take pride in yourself. That it’s okay to step outside your comfort zone and do something you normally wouldn’t. How’s that for a lesson?”
“He’s eight. He doesn’t care about that shit.” The lie rolls off my tongue, and I hate that my brother’s words resonate deeper than I want them to. “Plus, you know what a hard time he’s been going through with the not having a mom thing.”
“Not having a mom. Dad being in a contest.” He holds his hands out as if he’s weighing both on a scale. “They have nothing to do with each other. So sorry, try again.”
“Just drop it, Grant.”
“No. You’re being ridiculous and stubborn, so I’ll say it again. The contest. It has nothing to do with Claire. The Hoskins—fuck them—won’t get any info on Luke. Sidney is not Claire. You might get some serious ass as a side benefit. And Luke—”
“That isn’t teaching him anything.”
“Stop thinking about what it’s teaching Luke, and start thinking about what it will be teaching you.”
The floor creaks as I pace from one end of the room to another. Papers blanket the table and chairs, the aftermath of the spreadsheet I was making for my father of advertising dollars. The heat is stifling. My cell is stuck to my ear as I wait for her to pick up.
There’s no way he’s going to think I didn’t set the whole thing up now.
No way in hell.
“What did you do, Rissa?”
“Whatever do you mean?” Her voice comes thro
ugh loud and clear across the phone connection. Kids play in the background, the wind rustles against the speaker of her cell, and her voice sounds guilty as hell.
“I just hung up with the who-knows-what-number reporter about an article that was written in the Sunnyville Gazette about one Grayson Malone.”
“What about him?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about how he saved me from a knife-wielding thug?”
“Huh.”
“Huh? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What do you want me to say?” There’s amusement in her voice.
I walk past the front window, glancing outside to see if the reporter for the local news is still there. The one who’d knocked on the door earlier and asked for an interview and photo.
“How about why you called the Gazette and told them about the other night?”
“Who said that I did?”
“Let’s call it an educated guess.” I put my hand on my hip and look back at the article sitting on my computer screen.
“It must be a slow news day for the Gazette to run a front-page article about the hometown hero rescuing damsels in distress, don’t ya think? It’s about time something other than the damn Harvest Festival has graced its cover. It isn’t as if they need to advertise. The whole town shows up, regardless.”
“It says the source was anonymous. That wouldn’t be your middle name would it?”
“Rissa Anonymous Patel.” Her laugh is immediate. “Has a nice ring to it, and it would be cool-ass initials, but nope, not it.”
“Rissa,” I say, trying to be serious, “what are you trying to accomplish?” And why are you trying to help me?
“Did you notice the comments online? It sure seems like local-boy Grayson Malone is getting all kinds of love from the people of Sunnyville.”
“Great. Good for him.” I sit and start scrolling through the comments. One after another. Praise heaped upon praise.
“It’s almost as if they’ve all been waiting to pay tribute to him for the other rescue he won’t talk about, so everyone is heaping it on now as a surrogate.”
“You’re sneaky.” And I damn well underestimated Rissa, mom of three.
“If it were to be known that Grayson was one of the top twenty in our contest, I’d think this would be the perfect time to rally support around him for the vote next week.”