Resting her head on the back of the couch, she thought of the last time she’d seen Hannah. She’d looked just as scared, just as miserable as Ressa had felt. “Hannah asked me if I’d like to maybe stop working so hard. She knew how I could get enough money to cover my books and everything that my scholarship wouldn’t cover—plus still have money left over. I told her to get the hell out. Figured she was talking about drugs and I’d finally gotten clear of that. Took a long time to get away from everything my dad had done—the mistakes I’d almost made. But she laughed. It wasn’t drugs. Wasn’t anything illegal. Was usually even fun. She told me I could do a trial run, even.”
Sighing, she looked back at him. “Hannah was an escort—there was a teacher’s aide who’d set it up. About fifteen girls from that school and a community college a few miles away. It was easy money. I’d get anywhere from two hundred to five hundred dollars just to spend an evening or a day with some guy who didn’t want to go to a party by himself. A few times, I’d fly to some event—there was one in New York, one in Miami. I’d make more on those. It seemed like a dream come true.”
Unable to sit there any longer, she got up and moved to the fireplace. The hearth was empty and cold. The mantle held pictures—a few of Mama Ang and Bruce, a couple of Kiara from high school but most of them were of Neeci.
There wasn’t a single one of Ressa.
She still felt like an imposter here.
“Dreams never last though, do they?” She picked up a picture of Neeci and Kiara. She’d taken it when Neeci was a year old, when she’d taken the little girl to see her mother.
“What happened?”
“My cousin found out how I was making money. If it had just been that . . .” She shrugged. “But she wasn’t happy. There she was, with a nice chunk of change coming to her but it had to get doled out in bits and pieces until she was twenty-five. She’d gotten used to having everything she wanted. Bruce had spoiled her, trying to get her to open up to him . . . it didn’t work, but she sure as hell came to like having somebody who’d give her every little thing her heart desired.”
Bitterness choked her and she had to stop for a minute. Forcing herself to breathe, she put the picture down. How many times had she wished she’d had a father like Bruce? Too many. Oh, she’d loved her dad, even when she hated him.
He’d taught her how to con people, used her to distract people while he robbed them blind.
Remember how we do it, baby . . . that woman right there, the little lost girl act. That’s what we’re doing.
Later, he’d used her to carry the drugs he’d started to sell because cops wouldn’t search a child.
He’d ended up in jail anyway and later he’d ended up dead and she’d been the one they’d come to, looking for the money he owed.
“Hannah told her about it, one day when I was out. Sharon—she was the woman who set it all up—she’d always pay a bonus to whoever brought a new girl in and Hannah loved the bonuses. I think she liked the bonuses more than the actual jobs. She told Kiara . . . and Kiara was determined. She got involved in it—lied about her age, even. She was only seventeen when she started going out with these guys, but she’d always looked older. Acted older. They loved her. Some guys love having some sweet young thing and playing the sugar daddy—she got real popular.”
She lapsed into silence for a moment and then looked back at Trey. He hadn’t said anything since she’d started to talk and the silence was killing her, telling him all of this was killing her. But she couldn’t stop now.
* * *
Trey wanted to tell her to skip all of this.
He’d already decided he didn’t give a damn.
But it was pretty clear she did—and she had to tell him.
So he listened.
“Sharon’s boyfriend started getting greedy. Scott started bringing in new clients, telling them that some of the girls might be willing to offer a more personalized service. He was careful about which of us he talked to—he didn’t even let Sharon know. Hannah didn’t know, I didn’t . . .”
The words trailed away.
“Your cousin did.”
Ressa lifted her head and met his eyes. Then she shrugged. “She says she didn’t sleep with anybody for money. But she was doing other things—they were doing other things. Getting pictures and stuff.” She stopped for a minute, then spoke again. “For blackmail.”
Trey closed his eyes, dragging a hand down his face.
“One of the newer girls tried it with one of the established clients—his regular girl was sick. She’d gotten mono and he wanted a date for a business function. He was a sweet old guy, just . . . shy. A lot of these guys were harmless. He didn’t like going alone and he loved having a pretty girl with him. That’s what the service usually was. It was harmless,” she said again. Her voice was soft, but there was an odd note under it, as if she was trying to convince him.
She turned away from him. It was a cut to the heart and he moved up behind her, curling an arm around her waist. She tensed and he thought she’d pull away. But then she sagged against him. “Marisol—that was her name—she . . . um . . . she tried to pull something in the limo and it upset him. His name was Egbert. Mr. Egbert—his regular girl always called him the Egg. He was round and pale . . . anyway. He had the driver turn around and take Marisol home and then he called Sharon, he was so upset by it. That’s when she started poking around—when she realized Scott was pulling some shady shit. Marisol was an idiot—she always used a little recorder deal Scott had set her up with. It was in her purse—I don’t know what all she got, but she took it to Scott, I guess to try and blackmail Egbert. He must have told her no, because she tried to do it on her own . . .” The words trailed off and she looked away.
He rested his chin on her shoulder and stroked a hand up and down her arm. She was so tense, he thought she’d break. So rigid, his own muscles ached in sympathy.
“Egbert called the police. Reported Marisol and everybody else—from what I’ve heard, he tried to make it clear he thought the problem was Marisol, but . . . they didn’t care.” She shrugged and eased away. “They started watching us. There was an investigation—it lasted for months. I’d pulled out. One of the last guys I’d gone out with, I was almost certain he was a cop and when he started pushing me for extra services, I shut him down, and that night I called Sharon, told her I was done. No more. Not long after that, a few of the girls—including my cousin—were arrested.”
“I . . .” She stopped and swiped the back of her hand over her mouth. She shot him a look. “It turns out that guy who’d made me so nervous was a cop. I saw him during the trial. He was the same guy who ended up arresting my cousin. She got caught up in that because of me.”
“No.” He moved behind her and pressed his lips to her shoulder. “She made her choices. We’re all responsible for the ones we make. You can’t take her choices on yourself.”
She turned to him then, pressing her face to his chest as silent tears spilled free.
* * *
If she could, Ressa would have let herself lean on him.
But she’d just proven to herself how badly she could fuck things up. Especially when it mattered.
Her head ached as she finally pulled away from him.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “What I said . . .”
“Stop.”
His voice was weary.
The tension that filled every muscle of his body told just how much damage her careless words had done. The man had lost his wife. He was raising his child on his own. Regardless of the privileged life he’d had, he’d known more than a little heartache, more than a little loss.
“What am I supposed to do?” she asked, miserable. His gaze cut to hers and it was the hardest thing ever not to look away. “I said things to you that I didn’t mean and you won’t even let me apologize . . .”
“I don’t need apologies.” Trey just shook his head. “I came here to see you, to be with you. You’re hurting. If
you think I can’t see that, then—”
Swearing, she shoved the heels of her hands against her eyes. “Don’t be nice! You let me be a bitch to you, you won’t let me apologize, and now . . .” She sputtered, reaching for the words. “After everything I’ve told you, you stand there and be nice! Don’t do that.”
“Fuck, what the hell do you want me to do?” Some sign of frustration came through in his voice.
She still didn’t dare look at him.
It seemed that everything she did today was wrong, though. And her head was too messed up to handle this right.
What am I doing?
Part of her was screeching that.
But the calmer part of her, the one that was still somewhat in control, realized this was the only thing to do. “I . . .” Her voice cracked. “I think maybe you should leave.”
* * *
Even before she said the words, Trey already knew.
Slowly, he crossed the floor to her, studying her face.
She was still, her eyes, for once, completely unreadable and her face was a blank mask.
But when he stopped in front of her, her entire body seemed to vibrate as though she had to struggle not to let any sign of anything she felt escape. He wanted to pull her up against him. No matter what she said, he didn’t think she’d fight him.
Neither of them wanted to be apart from each other. But he suspected both of them needed it.
Just like he thought she was right; maybe both of them needed distance. If he touched her, everything rushing through him was going to come to the fore, and thought would melt away, lost under the need to touch. To comfort. So he kept his hands at his sides, as much as he hated it.
“I’ll go,” he said softly. “But first, let me tell you this. If you try to push me away because of this, then make sure you understand . . . you are the one doing the pushing. Not me. And I won’t go away easily.”
Her gaze jerked away from his.
Now he reached up and cupped her cheek. “But I can’t make this work on my own, either. If you don’t want to be with me, then you don’t.”
Dark brown eyes shot to meet his.
“I can already see that you’re worried,” he murmured, stroking his thumb over her lip. “It doesn’t change anything for me. Does it change things for you?”
“Fuck, yes,” she whispered.
And he felt the cut of it, deep inside.
He was bleeding, and he didn’t think she even knew.
“You can’t stand there and tell me that the idea of it doesn’t bother you.” She reached up and tugged his hand away. “You know what will happen if any of this gets out? You don’t even know half of all that went down. There’s more—a lot more. I’m connected to an ugly, nasty prostitution scandal. How is it going to affect you if that gets out? Doesn’t the idea of that bother you?”
“Bother me?” He studied her, wondering just how much time she’d spent thinking about this. And here he was thinking he had most of the baggage. Looking away, he blew out a breath. “The idea of it pisses me off on the same level that that kind of gossip has always pissed me off. Some scumbag, sorry excuse of a reporter will push in on people’s privacy and as long as there are people who want to know . . .” He stopped and shrugged.
Maybe if more people knew what it was like to have photographers hovering at your shoulder as you buried your wife, to have insinuations that you’d somehow caused her death . . . or to have lies smeared about like they’d done with Abby and her father’s suicide, how that had only added to her already wrecked childhood, yeah, maybe they’d get it. Maybe they’d ease back. But this was just a part of his life. “Look, this is nothing I’m not already dealing with on some level. They’ll find another way to jab at me, or Zach, or Seb. Hell, they even poke at Zane and Travis from time to time. We’ve lived with this our whole lives. I can deal.”
Ressa just closed her eyes. Then she moved in close to him and dropped her head against his chest. He let himself hold her. Took in every nuance, every breath, every scent . . . and then, after a moment, he stepped back.
“The question is . . . can you?”
A shudder fell over her eyes. Then she backed away.
“I just don’t know.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The sexy car in his driveway normally would have made him smile. But at two a.m., this was the last thing he wanted to deal with.
Especially after he’d left Ressa back in her house, her words hung between them like a poisoned kiss—I just don’t know.
He’d pulled her to him, unwilling to believe that, unwilling to accept it.
She’d let him.
Then she’d kissed him and murmured, “You should go. We both need to think. We probably should have had this talk long before now anyway.”
Yeah. He guessed maybe they should have—before he went and fell halfway in love with her.
The last thing he wanted to do was go, think. But what was he supposed to say? I have been thinking . . . I think I’m falling in love with you?
That wasn’t going to make things any easier. Any better. Both of them needed to breathe, and she needed to work through all of this.
What a complete mess.
His brothers spend years dragging their feet before they actually make a move, and here he was, almost stupid about a woman he’d known weeks.
Again.
It had hit him this hard the first time . . . and he’d never expected it to happen again, but here he was, and he was faced with the prospect that she might be ready to pull out before they even got started.
Fuck it all.
Brooding, he climbed out of his car and eyed the rental—and it was a rental. It wasn’t the typical rental, no doubt about that, but the sexy little convertible Ferrari was almost definitely a rental, and it was completely Sebastian’s style and it was completely like his little brother to drop in unannounced.
He just hoped Sebastian would be too tired to still be up, because he was in no way ready to talk to anybody.
No, what he wanted was to grab that bottle of Glenlivet he’d bought years ago. He wanted to open it. He decided then and there he was going to have a drink. If he ended up puking his guts out, at least he’d have something else to be miserable about.
If not? Then he’d have a drink and hope he could find some way to sleep before he had to get up with Clayton.
The dark quiet of the house wrapped around him as he let himself inside. Judging by the soft snores coming from the living room, he had a feeling he might even get the silence he wanted—or close to it. A quick look into the living room confirmed the identity of his late-night crasher—Sebastian had fallen asleep on the couch, hadn’t even made it to one of the guest rooms, and Trey had several, one no more than a few yards down the hall. Glancing into the darkened living room, eyes gritty, he saw his younger brother, still wearing jeans and a T-shirt that rode up over his back. His hair had grown out from the last movie, almost brushing his shoulders.
He made a grunting noise under his breath and rolled—
Trey grimaced and watched as Sebastian ended up crashing on the floor. And he didn’t wake up.
The idiot had always slept like the dead.
Sighing, he moved into the room, crouching down next to the younger man. “Seb.”
No response.
He reached and tapped Sebastian’s cheek and then scowled when Sebastian turned his face toward him, muttering, “Not now, honey. Too tired.”
“Horny son of a bitch,” Trey said, amusement working in past the frustration, and the sadness that had been weighing on him ever since Ressa had unloaded on him.
“He’s not going to wake up.”
At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, he glanced over his shoulder.
Travis stood lost in the shadows, his eyes glinting, but Trey could make out little else other than his form as he stood in the hall.
“So I see.” Resigned, he stood up and moved to the wooden chest tucked up a
gainst a wall and opened it. It was filled with the quilts Aliesha had used to keep thrown over the back of the couch, the chair. They had belonged to her grandmother, so he hadn’t been able to get rid of them, but leaving them out hadn’t been much of an option, either. Snagging the top one, he pulled it out and draped it over Sebastian.
That done, he rose to his feet, heading out of the room and making his way into the kitchen. He splashed some whisky into a glass and eyed his brother. “I’m tired,” he said, hoping to cut off any inclination Travis might have to talk.
He was too frustrated for it. Too frustrated with himself, with Ressa—even with his brother, although his frustration with Travis had nothing to do with tonight, and everything to do with how much shit he knew Travis was holding back.
But Travis, smart man that he was, didn’t seem to pick up on that subtle hint. He followed Trey up the stairs, down the hall to the big bedroom that ran almost half the length of the house.
Tossing back the whisky, Trey slammed the glass down on his dresser with enough force to break it. The strong alcohol burned all the way down and he relished every second. When it hit his stomach, he kept his eyes closed, waited. But the only thing he felt was that gnawing, restless anger . . . the frustration. The misery.
And his twin’s waiting, watchful presence.
As he sat down on the edge of the bed, Trey shot Travis a look. “Maybe you didn’t hear. I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”
“You don’t look like a man who just got laid.” Travis had his thumbs hooked inside his front pockets and his head was cocked, a thoughtful look in his eyes as he studied his brother.
“You don’t look like a man with a genius IQ. Appearances are deceiving. Leave me alone, Trav.”
Instead of turning around and leaving, Travis did the typical brother thing. He came inside and shut the door. “What’s the deal, man? You two didn’t fight, did you?”
Trey focused on his shoes, giving the task of unlacing the Reeboks a lot more attention than it required. Once he was done, he kicked them off and headed into the bathroom. Aware that his brother was still watching, still waiting for an answer, he said, “No. We didn’t fight.”
Busted (Barnes Brothers #3) Page 27