End Game

by Lisa Renee Jones

  The instant she sees me, she pops to her feet and grabs her purse from her drawer, sliding it over her shoulder and looking every bit the executive she is in a navy-blue dress suit. “I’m ready,” she says.

  I step inside the room and shut the door. “Let’s sit and talk about work for a few minutes first,” I say, choosing my words carefully as to not to alarm her over her brother.

  “Okay,” she says, sinking into her chair, her brow furrowed.

  I cross the room, set my briefcase down, and then choose the seat across from her, my intent to give her the position of power that she’s earned. The folder in my hand then goes on the desk in front of her. “Look at the numbers inside.”

  She flips it open and studies it for about sixty seconds before her gaze jerks to mine. “What is this, Shane?”

  “A survey of salaries for executives in your role in the fashion and beauty industry, inclusive of experience and time served. As you can see, you’re being grossly underpaid for your new role.”

  She shuts the folder and slides it toward me. “I’m not doing this for money.”

  “When you planned to go to law school, did you plan to make money?”

  “Well, yes. Of course.”

  “The kind of money that would allow you to buy your own Bentley?”

  “Shane—”

  “Answer me.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think now, starting a major fashion brand, that your work and efforts mean you should earn less?”

  “You’re trying to compensate for the loss of my legal career,” she says. “You didn’t take that from me; my brother did. And, Shane, I love you for this. I do, but no.”

  “Anticipating that comment is exactly why I had human resources provide that data.” I open the folder again and pull out page two, setting it in front of her. “This is your new compensation package, which includes bonuses for profits.”

  She glances down at it and her eyes go wide. “No.”

  “Yes. It’s done.” I stand. “Let’s go get you cleared by the doctor.”

  She doesn’t move. “Shane.”

  I walk around the desk and turn her chair to face me, my hands pressed to the arms. “You earned this. This business endeavor is your brainchild, and it was you who found the acquisition. And now you work to get it off the ground. Stop convincing yourself this is about anything but your success.”

  She inhales and lets out the breath. “This isn’t you trying to make me feel better?”

  “This is me feeling lucky as hell I have you running this operation.” I help her to her feet, my hands at her waist. “Be happy.”

  “I am. More than I thought possible a few months ago.”

  “Then let’s go get your medical clearance and go home and celebrate.”

  * * *

  An hour later I sit in the lobby of the hospital where my brother died, while Emily completes a scan, emotions I don’t want to feel clawing and kicking inside me, demanding to be heard. It’s almost like Derek’s here with me. I feel him. God. I really do feel him. I stand up and walk to the reception desk. “I’m going around the corner to the coffee shop. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” I don’t wait for a reply, exiting the waiting area and entering a familiar hallway I walked often while Derek and Emily were here. Memories start chattering in my head, and I flash back to Mike visiting the hospital, the reason I was out of the room when those alarms went off. I can see myself the moment they sounded. The next as I started running toward them. I can feel all over again how certain I was that either Derek or Emily had died.

  I shake off the memory, rejecting it, and enter the coffee shop. The line is short and I order two coffees, one for me and one for Emily, and I’m not only back in the waiting room in a few minutes, I’m the only person occupying any of the two dozen or so chairs, leaving lots of empty space for my mind to fill. I hold my coffee, but I don’t seem to be able to stomach it. I set it aside and rest my elbows on my knees, memories chattering in my head again. Inhaling, I straighten and fight the urge to pace, when I never pace. Pacing isn’t about control. Pacing is about losing control.

  I lean back in my seat and rest my head on the wall, shutting my eyes, the memories of the past refusing to be ignored. I’m back to those moments when I’d run toward the alarm.

  I reach the doors of the hospital suite Emily and Derek are sharing, staff members blocking Emily’s door. “I need inside!” I shout. “I need inside!”

  A nurse turns to me, but right now I can’t think of her name. “Shane—” she begins, but I cut her off.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Emily’s fine. She’s absolutely fine.”

  Relief and heartache hit me in one breath. “My brother.” It’s not a question.

  “They’re working on him now,” she assures me. “But we need you to wait outside the room.”

  “Emily needs me. She might wake up.”

  “She’s still unconscious,” she says. “It takes time for her to wake from the coma, which is normal.”

  “Shane!” I turn at the shout to find Teresa walking toward me, tears streaming down her face, her pain so damn palpable, it’s like there’s a living, breathing beast in the room.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I want to go to her, but it’s as if my legs are now frozen. The world is spinning around me, and I watch as Teresa falls to her knees. Adrenaline surges through me and I am moving now, rushing toward her and screaming for help. Once again I’m pushed back by medical staff and I hear the word “shock.” I’m not sure if they’re talking about her or me.

  Cody appears from I don’t know where. He’s speaking to me. Telling me about the sudden crash Derek has had, but I barely hear him. He’s like a silent movie. His lips are moving, but no words are coming out. He’s still moving his mouth when the doctor walks out of Derek’s room and scans the hall, his gaze falling on me, the look on his face telling me what on some level I already knew: Derek is gone.

  I inhale and return to the present, aware that I’ve replayed that memory with a version of me that was much calmer than the day it happened, by at least 50 percent. I’d been shouting and demanding. I’m pretty sure I shoved a cart at some point. I’d been a crazy person who resembled nothing in myself I know. That I’ve blocked that now, well, I’d like to think that’s my mind’s way of telling me I’m halfway to sanity again.

  The doors to the treatment area open, and I’m on my feet by the time Emily exits, a huge smile on her face. “I’m clear. Today is a good day,” she announces, wrapping her arms around me.

  “Yes,” I say, stroking hair from her face. “It is.” And as I stand there, drowning in her pale blue eyes, I’m reminded that the day I lost Derek was the day Emily came back to me. We talk about a new beginning, but the truth is, that day was the real new beginning.

  * * *

  Hours later Emily and I have long ago changed into jeans and T-shirts to enjoy a night at home, which included takeout from the restaurant we’d gone to the night we met. We’ve just cleared our plates after finishing a meal of brown butter ravioli, making room for the Macallan collector’s edition box my father gave me. “Now we celebrate,” I say, setting it in front of us, along with two glasses.

  “It’s almost too pretty to open,” she says, running her hand over the shiny black finish. “Shouldn’t we collect a collector’s edition?”

  “We drink it with enough confidence to believe we deserve every drop and can afford to buy another bottle every damn week if we want to.”

  “Confidence,” she says. “I like that.”

  “Determination,” I reply. “One of several gifts my father did give me.”

  She reaches over and strokes my sleeve upward, revealing my tattoo. “The eagle on the shoulders of the lion.” And then she repeats the meaning I once shared with her: “‘The eagle is knowledge, strength, and leadership.’”

  I finish the description for her. “‘And the lion is cunning and vicious. He’ll ri
p your throat out if you give him the chance.’”

  “And your father’s the lion.” She twists around to face me. “You’re both the eagle and the lion now.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Yes. It is. Because you choose how and when to be those things, with the moral compass your father is missing.”

  My hand covers hers over my arm. “I’m a Brandon, Emily. You need to know that.”

  “And you’ve changed what that means. You need to know that.”

  “And what does that mean to you?”

  “Everything.”

  I lean in to kiss her as the doorbell rings. “For a place with security,” I say, “we get a lot of interruptions.”

  She sits up, tension radiating off of her. “It’s about Rick.” She looks at me. “It’s about my brother. I don’t know why, but I just know it is.”

  I stroke her hair. “Don’t work yourself into fear. This is probably nothing.” But as I stand and walk toward the foyer, her nerves become my adrenaline. I’ve lost a brother. I know the pain and do not wish this on Emily, and her pain is my fear. The doorbell rings again and I stop at the door, steeling myself for a blow, not because it’s logical, but because I can feel Emily behind me, waiting anxiously.

  I unlock and open the door to find Seth standing in front of me, and the very fact that he’s in jeans and a black polo tells me this isn’t an expected visit. “I have news,” he says, and now it’s him with an envelope in his hand.

  Backing up, I give him room to enter, and he joins me in the foyer, shutting the door behind him. His gaze immediately lands on Emily, as does mine, her face pale, expression tight. “I need to show you both something,” Seth says, flicking a look between us.

  I motion toward the kitchen and he walks under the archway to his right, headed in that direction. I hold out my hand to Emily. She walks forward and places her palm in mine but says nothing as I guide her to the island where we stand side by side across from Seth. He opens the envelope and tosses down a photo. “We found your brother.”

  Emily gasps and grabs the grainy photo, staring down at it and then looking at Seth. “Where was this? When was this?”

  “In Germany. An hour ago.”

  “How did you find him in Germany?” Emily asks.

  “A hacker he knows and trusts, a woman he has a relationship with actually, who also occasionally works for us, found him.”

  “He’s alive,” Emily breaths out. “Thank God, but … if you could find him, can’t the Geminis?”

  “They could,” Seth agrees, “and he needs to be smarter to survive, but we’ve had our contractor create a scare for him and force him back underground. With us following him, of course, from this point forward. And knowing that he’s in another country and pushed underground, we can be certain that our efforts to close the books on Reagan move forward without fear that he’ll involve himself.”

  “So it’s done,” I say. “He’s safe and he won’t become a problem for us.”

  “He can’t get to Emily without us knowing,” Seth assures us. “This book is not closed, but we’re the ones turning the pages.” He sets the envelope on the table. “There are a few more shots inside that I’ll leave.” He turns to leave, but I pursue him, catching him at the door.

  “Seth.”

  He turns to face me. I give him a nod meant to be a thank-you. He returns the nod and exits. I lock up and return to Emily, finding her still at the island, looking through several photos. “How do you feel?” I ask, joining her and turning her to face me.

  “Relieved. Happy. He’s not dead, but he’s no longer the trouble for us that I feared. It’s surreal. This is it. This was what we wanted and needed. This is me without security guards and—”

  “Not quite yet,” I say. “Let’s allow everything to settle into place, but yes. We’re almost there, as close to our normal as we’re ever going to get. Tomorrow when we wake up, we start that new beginning. And now we celebrate.” I scoop her up and forget the whiskey. I carry her upstairs to our bedroom, and already in my mind, I’m planning what I hadn’t dared until now. How and when to ask her to be my wife.

  PART TWO

  NEW BEGINNINGS

  EMILY

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  JUNE 2016

  There are times in our life when we face fear, and either we defeat it or it defeats us. Fear of life. Fear of death. The first time I experienced death was my father’s suicide. I was angry with him. I was ashamed of him. I was angry with myself for not saving him. And then came the fear. Fear that I was his daughter, and therefore I would become him. Fear that I would never be loved, because if he loved me, he wouldn’t have left me. Fear my mother was so distraught from his loss that she too would leave me. And she did. Years later, but she never recovered from his loss.

  See, I believe that when fear controls us, it makes decisions for us. For my mother, fear chose my stepfather. Then my brother chose my stepfather. Then my mother was gone and I chose my brother, but he did not choose me. He turned on me. He deserted me. Shane chose his brother too, and ultimately his brother chose him when he chose me. That’s hard to face sometimes. To know another person gave their life for your life. To know Shane looks at me and sees the woman who replaced his brother. Guilt and blame are almost as evil as fear. But Shane has never once acted as if he blames me, and he seems to know when I blame me and shuts it down. He doesn’t let me feel those things, but his own feelings are another story. He feels guilt and blame, but that’s where I have to shut it down for him as well. Because I choose Shane. And he chooses me.

  I still think about my brother though, out there, in another country. And I still feel fear. Maybe because this past month since we found my brother, life has been almost too good. Shane and I have fallen into routines together that we enjoy. We endure random encounters with his parents together. We get excited and angry over business together. We celebrate success together. I think he was as excited or even more so when I managed to recruit the Luc Monroe, who has designed for two of the largest brands in the world, to join our operation.

  Some part of me feels like what we share is too good to be true. Like Shane will be ripped away from me, the way so many things in my life have been ripped away from me.

  The private jet Shane chartered for us to fly from Denver to Manhattan begins to descend, and I shut my new journal that I bought at the airport a few hours ago, nervous and excited about our arrival. “I can’t believe I’m about to be in New York City,” I say, “experiencing your alternate universe. And that we’re going to visit our designer at his proposed flagship Fifth Avenue store.”

  “Alternate universe?” Shane laughs, our jean-clad knees pressed together; his are faded, low-hung, and sexy, while mine are simply black. “Sweetheart,” he adds, his hand settling on my thigh, “there’s no alternate universe. There is just the one we’re living inside together.”

  “Now,” I say. “But we’re entering a place that was your world before me. The one you, rather than your father, created.”

  “This is our world,” he reiterates. “The one where we have apartments in Denver and New York, and a business that favors an operation in both cities.” He taps the journal in my hand. “You’ve been writing nonstop in that thing since you picked it up in the airport. What has you so inspired?”

  “I’ve kept a journal since my father died,” I say, sticking it inside my oversized black Chanel satchel purse that I’ve come to favor these past few weeks because it doubles as a briefcase if I really organize well. “I guess I missed the therapy and creativity it represents more than I realized.”

  “I hate to bring this up, sweetheart, but you know—”

  “Not to write about Reagan or anything related to Reagan. I know. It’s mostly just my feelings anyway.”

  “Feelings?” He arches a brow. “Anything I should be concerned about?”

  “You can read it if you want and decide for yourself.”

  “That’s
your private escape,” he says without any hesitation, “and if anyone deserves that, it’s you. Besides I’d rather you tell me, and show me, what you’re feeling.”

  My lips curve. “Show not tell?”

  “I like it when you show and tell.”

  I laugh, but a thought hits me and my eyes go wide. “My old journals,” I say, twisting around to face him. “I wrote information about my brother and stepfather in them. About the Geminis. What if that has law enforcement hunting for them?”

  “Reagan’s death was ruled an overdose,” he says, “so I doubt they read those journals, but we’ll text Seth.” He grabs his phone from the drink holder next to him and sends a text message. He hands me the phone to allow me to read what he’s typed, and Seth answers as he does: All of Emily’s things are in our possession, to be returned to her in the next few weeks. I’m not aware of any journals the police investigated at all. It’s a non-issue.

  “There you go,” Shane says, slipping his phone into his pocket and then squeezing my leg. “Don’t start creating a problem where there isn’t one. We’re past that.”

  “And yet you still have Cody following me around in Denver?”

  His gray eyes darken, those shadows I find lurking in their depths overtaking the blue flecks too often these days. “Let’s consider this weekend a trial run without him.” The plane comes to a halt, the engines’ roars turning to purrs. “And we’re here.” He unhooks his belt, drags a hand through his thick, dark hair, and stands up.

  I unbuckle myself but remain sitting, watching first as the doors open, an airport staffer entering the plane. The man seems to know Shane, waving at him and closing the space between us. The thirtysomething man, in a logoed collar shirt, gives me a mock salute and then refocuses on Shane. “Good to see you, man.”

  “Good to see you too, John,” Shane greets him, shaking the other man’s hand, and it’s clear there was a time that Shane chartered planes on at least a semi-regular basis.

  “What can I get for you?” John asks.