Mr. & Mrs. Wright: A BWWM Romance (Wright Brothers Series Book 2)

by Stevens, Camilla

  “Um, I see a price tag right next to this one,” Brianna said, pointing one of the pieces. It was Spark, inspired by the night Alex had fallen asleep in her lap as she watched the Eiffel Tower light up at night.

  “I already have the perfect spot picked out for it. Right above the toilet in my bathroom where all the shit in my house ends up.” She gave a laugh that left no doubt that the other two were to join her, which they eagerly did.

  Brooklyn’s eyes took on a pathetically pleading look as she stared at her boss.

  “Of course, it seems a bit pricey, considering the questionably quality, but whatev,” Brianna said in a deceptively blithe voice. “Some of us can afford to flush our money down the toilet.”

  That was apparently enough to encourage her boss to take the proper route. He turned to Brianna with a professional look of regret. “I’m sorry ma’am, I know there is a price tag but these pieces have already been purchased. Perhaps we can get you a coffee on the house to make up for it.”

  Brooklyn said a silent prayer of thanks for such an awesome boss. She avoided looking in Brianna’s direction, afraid of rekindling any more attacks. Instead, she humbly accepted the generous hand she had just been dealt and didn’t push her luck any further.

  “So much for customer service,” Brianna scoffed. “Keep your damn coffee. It’s probably as shitty as this ‘art.’”

  David kept it professional as the three walked out. Brooklyn secretly wanted to strangle the bitch.

  “Thank you,” Brooklyn said, as soon as they were gone. “I know I shouldn’t have—”

  “Nonsense,” David said. “I get it. You think they were the first difficult customers I’ve ever dealt with? Why don’t you go on break, since it’s so slow; I can cover the register.”

  “Thanks again,” she said gratefully, tears practically coming to her eyes.

  * * *

  She had taken off her apron and escaped outside. She walked around the corner, out of sight of Joe on the Go and leaned against the side of the building, closing her eyes as the hustle and bustle of New York sped along around her.

  It was July and the concrete baked under the summer sun so heavily she could actually see waves. Still, it was a pleasant reprieve.

  Brooklyn shut out the recent incident with Brianna, shifting her mind to other thoughts. The first that popped to mind was London.

  Poor, sweet, prudish London.

  Brooklyn actually smiled to herself. She wished her only problems in life were that some idiot had caught her topless on a beach in Ibiza. Knowing London—uptight, responsible, Type-A London—she was probably having a mental breakdown.

  So it would seem both Jefferson sisters were having a bit of a shitty week. It wasn’t lost on Brooklyn what the common denominators were.

  The Wright brothers.

  She didn’t want to think about Alex, but he invaded her mind all the same. Frankly, half the stuff they’d done—and the places they’d done it—would have made London’s little photo portfolio seem like a kid’s birthday party at Chuck-E-Cheese.

  Alex Wright.

  “Looks like someone is slacking off on the job.”

  It was a like a remote control, blinking the bittersweet thoughts to a tiny white dot as Brooklyn was snapped back to reality. She sighed and raised one annoyed eyebrow at the offender—who obviously hadn’t got the earlier memo.

  “Careful Blondie,” Brooklyn warned, “I’m not on the clock right now. You and your little finishing-school friends might find yourselves in over your heads.”

  She looked Brianna square in the eye, “I may seem Blackish, but I can get hood real quick, make no mistake.”

  Brianna didn’t so much as flinch, which was telling. “Well, bring it on, skank,” she sneered.

  Brooklyn waited a few beats. “You know what? You aren’t even worth it.” She looked the girl up and down with contempt. “In fact, I bet that’s exactly what you want, isn’t it?”

  The flicker of disappointment and surprise that briefly flashed in Brianna’s eyes was all the answer Brooklyn needed.

  Brooklyn actually laughed.

  “Wow,” Brooklyn said, pulling back and eyeing Brianna up and down with critical amusement, “you must be really thirsty, going through all this just for a guy who has absolutely no interest in you.

  “It only proves I don’t have to fight you. I”—Brooklyn made sure to stress the point—”have nothing to fight you for. I’ve already got what I want, which is no doubt what you want as well. Sorry sweetheart, Alex is already mine…and I’m his.”

  Brianna was good, almost too good. The poker face remained, but Brooklyn saw a tiny twitch in the eyes that told her she’d ruined whatever devious plans Brianna had in store for this little one-on-one.

  Frankly, the entire thing was getting tiring. Brooklyn decided to end it. “Well, I actually have to go back to being a productive member of society. I suppose you have a duck face or something you need to make for Instagram, so I’ll leave you to it.”

  The scowl on Brianna’s face as Brooklyn skipped back to work created a guilty pleasure that was only tainted by one nagging little question: Was Alex still hers?

  Chapter 25

  The day after Brooklyn dished out a good verbal spanking, London was home alone indulging in a little bit of metaphorical self-flagellation.

  Michael had insisted on riding with her in the taxi home from the airport. She had been far too preoccupied with her own thoughts to fight him on it. She had, however, put her foot down when he offered to come up to her place and “discuss this shit.”

  This was not something she wanted to discuss, at least not yet. The only scenario she could see was her whining about each and every photo while he tried to talk her down off the ledge. If she was going to wallow in self-pity—and yes, subject herself to the pain of looking at each and every image, article, and worst of all, the vile, disgusting comments—she didn’t want an audience, even one whose sole aim was to comfort her.

  “Okay, I can see you need your space,” he had said, with surprising understanding. “But I’m coming back up tonight to take you to dinner.”

  He had seen the protest that was about to come to her lips, and stopped her before she could speak.

  “I won’t take no for an answer, London,” he warned. “You can only spend so much time being alone with this and I won’t let you torture yourself all night long, which is exactly what I know you’ll do.”

  Eventually she nodded, if only to get him to leave her alone for a bit.

  She worked her way back through every gritty mention of her online. Almost all of it was from the past day or so, as though it had been timed just as the two of them were making their way back home.

  No wonder there had been paparazzi to greet them at the airport and outside of her apartment. The news was still quite fresh, and what better photo op than to have the “gold-digging, nigger whore”—as one commenter had so colorfully described her—arriving back home draped over the arm of the “sucker” who paid her way around Europe?

  The same sort of self-disgust that ran through her veins when Dion Davis had made his advances toward her, now infiltrated every part of her being. It was one thing to have a single individual disrespect you that way. Now it seemed every low-life troll in New York was getting their jollies thinking of the most creative way to drag her through the mud.

  And no target was left sacred. She could have expected the focus on her race and gender (and there was certainly plenty of that to go around in the comment boards), but some of the observations were so absurd it would have been comical if it wasn’t directed at her. One person had actually gone off on a rant about how the light blue nail polish she had chosen for the trip meant she was just “an old hag desperate to remain a teenager.” It was all very pathetic.

  And each one cut a tiny little nick in her increasingly fragile ego.

  By the time Michael came by for dinner she had made up her mind.

  “We need to take a
break,” she said.

  The look on his face told her that he had fully been expecting this. Already he knew her too well.

  “Okay,” he said, crossing his arms and giving her a hard look. “Tell me one good reason why?”

  “Why?” she nearly screamed. “Why? Do you really have to ask me why? Have you read these comments people have been writing about me?”

  “No, and neither should you,” he replied. “You know what people are like online. You take a picture of a kitten and you’ll find some shit-head turning it into a Nazi manifesto.”

  “Okay, how about the photographers who are still camped outside my building. Us going out together now would be like adding fuel to the fire.”

  “Or,” he said, coming closer, “It will show the world that you aren’t just some plaything to me. For Christ’s sake, London, we’ve been sneaking around so much because you were worried about what that asshole Dion Davis might think. It’s no wonder they think what we have is sleazy!”

  “So now you’re blaming me?” she asked incredulously.

  He closed his eyes and sighed in frustration. “Of course I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying, now that we can act like a real couple, why not show the world that we are?”

  “It’s easier for you to take that risk Michael,” she said. “You’re a man and, I’m sorry to point it out, but you’re also white. You’ll never get treated as badly as I will—as I already have!”

  “I get it. Yes, you got the short end of the stick on this shit. Which is why I don’t understand why you want to go this alone. I’m right here for you, to help you. To show the world I’m yours! Two weeks ago we were talking about finding an apartment together, now you want to spend time apart.

  “London, every couple is going to go through struggles. It’s going to be twice as hard for both of us because of who our fathers are. If you’re going to have a break down every time the shit hits the fan, you might as well just be alone.”

  That one actually hurt.

  “This is totally different Michael and you know it!” she spat. “This isn’t some little blurb on page 20 of People Magazine. This—this is some sort of personal attack.”

  Michael nodded, as though he had the same thoughts. “You’re right,” he said calming down. “Which is all the more reason to fight back—together!”

  “Or, just take it easy until it all blows over,” she sighed. London fell down on her couch, and closed her eyes. “I’m just sick of fighting, Michael. In the past three months alone, I’ve nearly been indicted for a crime I didn’t commit, been accused of destroying a marriage, and now—now, this. I’m just fucking tired of it.”

  “So you want to break up with me,” he said as though confirming it.

  Her eyes flew open and she sat up. “No! Of course not, Michael.”

  “Well, maybe you should think about what you do want, London. Because couples don’t do this; they don’t ‘take breaks’ every time things get difficult.”

  “You—you just don’t understand, Michael.”

  “I guess I don’t. But I’ll give you your space. Maybe you should use it to think about whether you really want this to work or not.”

  Before she could respond, he quickly walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

  She leaped off the couch and ran to open the door. His long legs had already taken him out of view. Instead she shut the door and ran to peek out the window to watch him go. She held the curtains shut to avoid any prying telephoto lenses.

  Eventually she saw his large frame storm out the front of her building. Immediately, the paparazzi were on him, one getting so close he almost hit Michael with his camera. London’s heart stopped when she saw Michael grab the guy by the shirt and shove him so hard he fell to the ground. There was an immediate craze of camera flashes and London knew exactly what image would be splashed over every sleazy corner of the internet in the morning.

  This was her doing. She briefly wondered if her route was the best way to go. Then convinced herself that of course it was. This media blitz couldn’t continue forever. Sure, the two of them were the children of notorious fathers but how much longer could interest be maintained?

  London appreciated what Michael had proposed, but this was definitely for the best. Take a break, let it die down, then they could get on with their lives.

  It occurred to her that Michael just might not be there this time when the dust settled.

  Chapter 26

  Math was not particularly Alex’s fortitude, but it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together in the little Bermuda triangle shit-storm that was Brooklyn, Brianna, and himself.

  Trina had given him the breadcrumbs. All he needed to do was follow them to see what a mess he had created. It had started when he found Brooklyn working at Joe on the Go, where her art work hung from the walls, instead of the Manix Gallery where they should have been.

  Now that his old “friend” was back in New York City (and Alex didn’t need three guesses to tell him why) he decided to stop by for a little chat.

  As soon as he set foot in the Nolton family residence, memories of his wild past that was now coming back to bite him in the ass came flooding back. Stumbling through the front door at dawn after a night of partying. Snorting coke off any hard surface available. Loud music and games of Truth or Dare that went way too far.

  When he saw Brianna come bounding into the foyer to greet him, it was as though nothing had changed…at least on her end. She was wearing a pair of tiny Juicy Couture shorts and a Victoria’s Secret Pink tank top. All long limbs and fake tits. It was deceptively casual. Alex knew better.

  “So, look at both of us back in New York,” she said, giving him a grin as she bent her head to the side with a smirk to look at him. “Come on, let’s go to my room.”

  No fucking way.

  “Actually we can just hang out here,” he said. “This will be quick.”

  She took in the tone of his voice and her bubbly mood popped.

  “Can I get you a drink?” she asked, raising one sarcastic eyebrow, “Or have you given that up as well?”

  “I think you already know this isn’t a social call,” he said. “Frankly, based on the shit you’ve pulled I’m surprised you had the balls to even see me.”

  She crossed her arms and gave him a glare. “Well, we are old friends aren’t we?” she asked.

  “Which is why I find it odd you would try to destroy my life, or rather that of the woman I love.”

  He saw that the last word caused her to flinch. Hopefully that meant things were actually sinking in through that thick head of hers.

  “Well, if you’re not going to, I might as well,” she huffed, walking off in the direction he was still familiar with after all these years: the liquor cabinet.

  “What were you hoping to accomplish with all of this, Brianna?” he said to her back as he followed her. “Is it just boredom? Jealousy? Is your own life that pathetic you have to bring down everyone else’s?”

  She grabbed the crystal decanter of brandy and spun around. “Why are you being so mean to me?” she finally cried. “Doesn’t our past mean anything to you?”

  “What past?” he yelled, throwing his hands up in the air with exasperation. “So we got drunk and smoked pot and drove our parents crazy? In what universe does that spell ‘relationship’?”

  “So, what?” she spat. “You can just have sex with me and all of a sudden it means nothing?”

  “You’re talking about 10 years ago, Brianna! And I distinctly remember you fucking half our classmates at the same time,” he said with a bark of laughter. “Jesus, is that what this is about? You’re upset because I’m not cherishing some fond memories of a few drunken rolls in the hay we once had?”

  It was time to get to the point. “Listen, I don’t know what bug you have up your ass about Brooklyn, but stay the fuck away from her and out of both of our lives, okay?”

  He could see another denial of any wrongdoing coming to her lip
s and he preempted it.

  “Don’t even fucking say you don’t know what I’m talking about. I stopped by the Manix Gallery today.”

  She turned her head to the wall with a look of indifference, but he saw the stiffening of her body and the firmer hold she took on the glass of brandy.

  “My guess is Eleanor has no clue you’ve been dropping her name around town, does she?”

  The set to her jaw answered the question for him.

  He gave a laugh that bordered on a taunt. “Once again you have to ride the coat tails of others to get by. First Daddy, now your godmother. Have you ever done anything for yourself?”

  She turned to him with a steely gaze. “Maybe the gallery just realized your girlfriend’s work sucks.”

  His face hardened and he impulsively took a few steps forward, stopping only when he saw the genuine fear in her eyes. As much as his hands longed to grab her pathetic little neck and wring it, he used his words instead.

  “We’re done, Brianna. Do you get that? Done. I don’t want to see or hear from you ever again. I don’t give a flying fuck what stupid nostalgia you’re pathetically holding onto from when we were teenagers. If I see you, I’ll make a deliberate attempt to cross the street. Your name and number in my phone? Deleted. Don’t even fucking think about using my name or handle in a DM or hashtag or even @ me on twitter. Or Brooklyn’s for that matter.

  “In fact, you may want to think about setting up home base in L.A. like you hinted at, because I’m going to be spending a lot more time here in New York—with my girlfriend.” He stressed the last point, ending the conversation with it and then turned to leave.

  “Wait!” she called out. The only thing that stopped him was the wild desperation in her voice.

  He turned around, closing his eyes at his own stupidity. They came open when he actually heard her begin to sob.