Played

by Tasha Fawkes

  Everything proceeded as planned, and less than ten minutes later, the secretary told me I could go in to see Mister Holbrook. I knocked softly on the door once, then stepped in, closing it behind me. He stood, gesturing for me to take a seat in front of his desk in his very well appointed office. It looked a lot like Scott's office, although the furniture was nicer, he had a huge flat screen television mounted in a small niche in a set of bookcases that ranged wall-to-wall, and an entire glass wall behind his desk looking over the city and the hills to the east.

  He eyed me a moment but didn't seem to recognize me. I tried to hide my nervousness as I quickly sat, making sure that my purse was on my lap, the pocket facing him. At this point, I just had to hope that everything worked.

  "What can a do for you, Miss…" He quickly glanced down at an open calendar book and then up again. "Miss Lang?"

  He sat down, his attention fully on me now, leaning forward, arms crossed on his desk. I swallowed. "Actually, it's Megan. Megan Bryan. Daughter of Ruben and Ann Bryan." I was surprised at how steady and calm my voice sounded in the silence of the room. He said nothing for several seconds. He didn't blink, didn't clear his throat, didn't lean back in his chair, nothing. No hint that he even cared or that maybe he didn't recognize the name.

  He just sat there, looking at me. "You do remember my father, don't you? Ruben? An old business associate of yours?" Again nothing. No reaction. “I know what you did to my father."

  He offered a twitch of his lips. "And what exactly did I do to your father, Megan?"

  "You drove him to suicide," I said shortly. He had the audacity to offer a slight shrug.

  "That was business. Ruben understood that, if you're referring to the deal. Wasn’t my fault he hadn’t planned for unexpected contingencies. Nor that he had to file for bankruptcy." He paused and shook his head. "Nor was it my fault that your father was so weak that he couldn't keep it together."

  For several seconds, I was rendered speechless. Absolutely speechless. Then, a white-hot rage built within me. It took every ounce of my self-control to sit there and stare at this man and not lunge over the table and punch that arrogant smirk off his face. But I didn't.

  "I'm a busy man, Miss Bryan. What more do you want? You’ve said your piece."

  I put on my best poker face and proceeded, my voice steely calm. "I know about your arrangement with Kristin. I also know the baby isn’t Scott’s."

  Finally, I saw a twitch of emotion on the bastard's face. He leaned back in his chair, swallowed, and began to tap his index finger on the blotter. I said nothing, just waited. He eyed me for several seconds, as if waiting for me to say more. I knew that saying more might tip my hand so I waited him out, as difficult as it was.

  "Would you mind telling me exactly how you came by that information?"

  "Actually, I would," I said. While I maintained an outward show of calm, inside, I couldn't believe how easy it had been. My heart pounded, and my mind reeled. So, it was true.

  "And I suppose you're here looking for a payoff?"

  "A payoff?" I snorted, a decidedly unladylike snort, but I couldn't help it. "I'm not looking for, nor interested in, a payoff," I snapped.

  "Then what do you want?"

  I lifted an eyebrow. What did I want? "I just want you to know that I know what you're doing to your son. And one of these days, he's going to find out—"

  Mike Holbrook stood so suddenly that his chair nearly tipped over. I startled, watching him warily. His face turned a dark shade of red. "Tell me who told you. I know it couldn't have been Kristin. I paid her good and well for her silence." He took a moment to calm his temper and sat down again. "How did you find out?"

  As calmly as I could, I stood, moving slightly around the chair from which I had just risen, keeping it and the desk between me and an obviously furious Mike Holbrook. He wouldn't dare attack me in his office, but I wasn't taking any chances. I turned to leave. His voice stopped me cold.

  "If you say one word to Scott, I’ll make your life a living hell, do you understand me? And I'll make sure that hell includes your mother."

  I turned and stared at him, amazed how this man could’ve had a son his complete opposite in temperament. I spoke low, my voice cold. "You touch me or my mother, and you can guarantee that the truth will come out. And I’ll keep a recording of your threat and take it to the police. Do you understand me?"

  "Get out," he growled. "If I see you in this building again, or anywhere near Scott, you'll be sorry."

  I didn't even bother to offer a retort. I calmly turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind me. Only after I nodded a polite greeting to the secretary, walked down a short hallway, and then made my way toward the stairs. I didn't dare take the elevator for fear that he would follow and entrap me inside. I hurried down, taking two steps at a time, my breath coming fast, my heart pounding so hard I heard it in my ears.

  I had the proof I needed, but now what was I going to do with it?

  Nineteen

  Scott

  I had been surprised by the text message I received from Megan. Actually, I was surprised to hear anything from her at all. The message was brief, merely asking me to meet her on the Newport Beach Pier at one o'clock this afternoon. I was tired, but for once, the house was quiet, Kristin off somewhere with friends. I had driven all the way down to San Juan Capistrano yesterday to meet a potential client, only to have the client never show up.

  Frustrated, disgruntled, and annoyed at the wasted time, I had gone home, eaten a light dinner, and then headed up to my room and shut the door. I was annoyed with myself, my predicament, my stupidity, and with my life. That old saying, "Money can't buy happiness" was oh-so-true, wasn't it?

  I had gotten the text just at nine o’clock this morning. I’d texted her back, saying I'd be there. At twelve-thirty, I got in my car, drove down PCH a short distance, then headed south on West Balboa toward Oceanfront. The Newport Beach Pier would be crowded at this time of day, offering not only the Dory Fishing Fleet Market—always a busy place— but dozens of restaurants, great beachfront with plenty of sand, and of course, gorgeous scenery as well as fishing off the pier.

  I paid for parking and walked along the stretch of sand between the parking lot and the entrance to the old wooden pier, casually gazing at the crowds, the pier standing tall in the bright midday sunshine. A fresh breeze coming off the ocean tugged at my hair. I heard the laughter, the shouts, and the hum of the activity surrounding the fish market, founded in 1891. As I began to walk along the pier, looking for Megan, I glanced north toward Huntington Beach and then the south, where I saw the stark outline of the Balboa Pier.

  Swimmers played in the ocean on boogie boards, surfboards, or just screamed and laughed, some trying to dive under the waves, others trying to jump over them. Behind the pier, on the shore side of the beach, skateboarders, bike riders and more than a few babes in rollerblades enjoyed their fun in the sun, but I was focused on other things. I was cautiously optimistic, trying not to be hopeful about my upcoming meeting with Megan. What did she want? We hadn't spoken since my last phone call. I wanted to take this opportunity to apologize for the way I had broken things off, apologize for being so wishy-washy, and that's exactly—

  "Scott?"

  I turned and saw Megan, my heart giving a leap of excitement even though I told myself to not expect anything. I had hurt her. I had hurt her terribly, and I knew it. But maybe she'd find a way to forgive me for the way I treated her. Maybe.

  I smiled. "Megan, I'm glad to see you," I said, taking a step toward her.

  She nodded and turned to lean against the railing, politely turning away from a hug. My heart sank, but I said nothing as she looked off into the distance, the breeze blowing her hair behind her shoulders. I had to resist the urge to touch her shoulder, to turn her to face me. She wore a buttercup yellow sundress, the skirt billowing behind her, her shoulders wide, creamy and smooth under the mid-afternoon sun.

  "Megan, I want you to
know—"

  She turned toward me, looked up into my eyes for a moment, and then shook her head. She looked down and reached into her back pocket, extracting her iPhone. I frowned in confusion. "What's this about?"

  "I have something that you need to hear, Scott." She paused, took a deep breath, and then continued. "I talked to your dad—"

  "What?" I frowned again, confused. "When did you talk to my father? And more importantly, why would you?"

  "Yesterday, Scott. I saw him yesterday."

  I was befuddled. How in the world… and then it dawned on me. "You sent me on a wild goose chase down to San Juan Capistrano?"

  She nodded.

  "But why?" I asked. "Megan, what's going on?"

  She held up her phone, its screen facing upward, the sun glinting off it. I stared at it, then at her, saw her expression, and knew that whatever was on the phone, I wasn't going to like it. I steeled myself, sighed, and then I nodded. She pressed a button, held the phone up closer to my ear, and then I heard it. I heard all of it. Everything.

  A myriad of feelings raced through my mind, one after the other, one pushed aside by yet another, each growing darker by the minute. Dismay followed by fury. A hollow feeling crept into my stomach when I heard my father admit to it—to actually confess knowledge of it all. Kristin had played me for a fool, had accepted money from my dad for playing the game. She was pregnant, but now I knew the baby wasn't mine. My dad had literally blackmailed me into marrying her, and Kristin had been more than happy to play along. For several moments after the recording ended, I stood frozen. Speechless.

  It had all been a lie. All of it. And just as suddenly, it dawned on me that there was nothing now standing in my way of being with Megan, the woman I truly loved. There was no doubt I was going to end everything with Kristin, kick her out on her ass, figuratively, anyway.

  My father had threatened Megan, and in turn, her mother—threatened that if she said anything to me, they would pay. But I knew at this moment that I would do anything to protect not only Megan, but her mother from my father's warped sense of justice. At that moment, I realized what I needed to do. What I had to do. I reached forward to take Megan into my arms, to show her how I truly felt, but she took a step back, looking up at me, her demeanor stiff.

  I swallowed, my heart crashing to the pit of my stomach. Disappointment, sorrow, and regret filled me. "How did you know?" I choked out. "How did you dare confront my father with the accusation?"

  "It didn't take me long," she said, her voice cool. "I had my suspicions, and I had a feeling that Kristin was capable of doing something like that."

  I nodded. "I couldn't be sure, but without getting a paternity test—"

  "You do what you feel you need to do, Scott," she said. "I just came because I wanted you to know the truth. I'm not proud of the way I got the truth, but nevertheless, you have a right to know."

  I nodded, my gaze taking in every aspect of her face. I saw the smudge of shadows under her eyes, her face looking pale in the bright sunlight, but she was as strong as ever, lifting her face toward mine, looking me straight in the eye, making no apologies for what she had done.

  How could I ever get her to trust me again? To forgive me? I had done her wrong. I swallowed. "Megan, I'm so sorry, I… I was just trying to do the right thing."

  But even as I said it, I knew that wasn't the complete truth. I had been afraid of losing my inheritance. And that was the bottom line. In the very beginning I should've put my foot down, told my father to go to hell when he first broached his little scheme. But now, with Kristin's truth exposed, and Megan standing here in front of me, I realized more than anything that money wasn't worth a damn if I didn't have Megan in my life. I forced myself to smile.

  "What happens now, Megan? Is there any possible way that you can forgive me? That we can—"

  I was surprised when she stepped forward, placed her hands on my shoulders, lifted herself upon her tiptoes, and kissed me softly on the cheek.

  "Goodbye, Scott," she said.

  And that was that. She turned, and without looking back, not even once, she strode off the pier and toward the parking lot, neither looking right nor left, her shoulders back and her head held high.

  I turned toward the ocean, lifted my face toward the sky, and closed my eyes. I cursed myself for being a fool, at the way I had messed up everything. I should've had the guts to stand up to my father years ago, and not just the guts, but a sense of self-confidence in myself and my abilities. But no, I had allowed my own self-doubt, my fear of failure, my uncertainty, to destroy the only good thing in my life, and it wasn't money.

  I had ruined everything. And I only had myself to blame for it.

  I would deal with my emotions, but later. First, I had something I needed to do. I pulled my own phone from my pocket and called Kristin, told her that I knew the truth, wouldn't let her get a word in edgewise as I told her that she had two days to clear her crap out of my house.

  And then I called my dad. I confronted him with the truth and told him that if he so much as threatened or tried to follow through on his threats against Megan, he would find himself in jail.

  I stood on the pier for several more minutes, allowing the feelings to surge through me, to wash over me. I would get myself a hotel room because I couldn't even allow myself to be around Kristin, to listen to her vitriol, her tears, her threats, whatever the case may be. I needed time to think everything through, to make some decisions and some plans. As I began to walk off the pier, I lifted my phone once again and dialed.

  "Craig? We need to talk."

  Twenty

  Megan

  I tried to move on. I did move on, at least physically. It was hard, but I knew that for my ultimate psychological well-being, I had to. After a few weeks of awkward interactions with my mother, we both had a good sit-down talk. She apologized for taking the approach that she had, but I couldn't exactly cast any more stones in her direction after what I'd done with Mike Holbrook. I told her about that too, and we both agreed that while our methods had been flawed, our hearts had been in the right place.

  So, at least everything was back to normal in that aspect, but every night, lying in bed, I couldn't help but think of Scott. I wondered what he was doing, if he'd gone ahead with the marriage with Kristin. I hoped not, but it was no longer any of my business, or my concern.

  "You just about ready, Megan?"

  I put the last of the breakfast dishes away in the cupboard and turned to find Mom hovering at the edge of the hallway. It was farmers’ market day, and I looked forward, as I always did, to the distraction of the crowds and of course, the interactions with longtime as well as new customers.

  Actually, other than the brief interlude with Scott, nothing in my life had really changed, except emotionally. I felt good about confronting Mike Holbrook, and while he wasn't personally, or at least physically responsible for the death of my father, I'm glad that I had called him on it, at least in regard to his business practices. Did I expect that to change the way he did business in the future? Not at all. Mike Holbrook catered to no one, bowed to no one, and acquiesced to no one.

  I tried not to think about the man because every time I did, I naturally thought of Scott. And again, I shook my head. What was my problem today?

  "Megan?"

  "Yes," I said, gesturing to the containers lined up on the kitchen counter and our small dining room table. "Everything is ready to be loaded into the car."

  After several trips back and forth, rearranging a few of the containers in the back, we set off. It was winter in Southern California, not that the destination made much of a difference in temperature. Someday, I wanted to experience a white Christmas. Southern California's temperature rarely offered more than two seasons, warm and pleasant or hot and stifling. It wasn't unusual to find people wearing shorts and t-shirts on Christmas Day, and even well into January. Then again, I wondered if I'd be able to survive in the snow. As an experiment once, just last winter, an
d embarrassingly enough, I had stood outside in the middle of the night in January when the temperature had dipped to a frigid and rare forty-nine degrees. I had managed to stand there for only a couple of minutes before finding it uncomfortable.

  "Where are you?"

  I startled, turned to Mom in the driver's seat, and glanced at her questioningly. "What?"

  "You look like you're a million miles away. What you thinking about?"

  I offered a shrug. "Everything and nothing," I said with a smile.

  Soon we arrived at the Bill Barber Memorial Park and turned into the parking lot. No Little League games, as baseball season had ended a couple of months ago. Nevertheless, the field was now filled with middle-aged kids playing soccer, and off to the side, an older group of young men and women playing what looked to be a rather vigorous and exuberant game of flag football.

  I sighed, waiting for Mom to find a parking spot that wasn't too terribly far from where we would set up our stall, not that it really mattered. What else did I have to do today? Since I had quit working for Kristin, I'd once again returned to my temporary job status. I had done some part-time work at the local animal shelter and decided that I wasn't cut out for that type of work. I wanted to bring every stray animal home with me, an impossibility since our landlord didn't allow pets: no dogs, no birds, and oddly enough, not even a fish tank.

  I forced my thoughts away from anything that didn't have to do with the farmers’ market. The sights, the sounds, the aroma of not only our baked goods, but the scent of sizzling, rotisserie roasted chili peppers, tamales, and a myriad of other scents filled the air. By the time we finished setting up and making multiple trips back and forth to the car, I was ready to sit down on one of our folding chairs and just people-watch. It had always been a favorite pastime of mine, watching visitors meandering through the stalls, just—