Brant

by D. B. James

  “See you in a while, Cherry mine.”

  TESSA

  Brant is released from the hospital eight days later, and we’re on a flight back to San Diego the following Wednesday morning when we finally talk about everything that’s happened over the last few days.

  “The FBI formally charged Martinelli with five counts of murder in the first degree yesterday morning. How do you feel knowing your father will be spending the rest of his natural life in prison?” I ask.

  “Honestly? I feel fucking fantastic. It’s where he deserves to be. I’m thrilled Justin was able to take down as many family members as he did. It’ll help me sleep at night. If there’s one place they deserve to be, it’s prison,” he replies. “What about you, how do you feel about the charges brought against Mick?”

  “I’m ecstatic. He’ll be spending time in prison as well, and rightly so,” I say. “Although he could probably benefit from spending some time in a psychiatric hospital, if he’s ever released back out into the public.”

  My point is filled with validity. He’s not as vile as some of the monsters Ace helped put away this week. His main issue may truly be mental, but it’s not like I give a shit what happens to him from here on out. As long as he’s far from me, I’m golden.

  “I will say this: knowing you saved me more than Mick meeting justice. I’m breathing freely for the first time since my daddy died, thanks to you. You had a hand in saving me from myself. If you hadn’t forced me to break my stupid promise to myself, I’d still be the closed-off woman Mick forced me to become.”

  “No, sweetness, we saved each other. I suppose now that I’m out of work, I should start looking for gainful employment. You wouldn’t happen to need a handyman around the store, would you?”

  “Um…about the store—wait a minute, don’t you still have access to the trust fund from Martinelli? Or was it seized?”

  He doesn’t know what I’ve been thinking over the last week or two. I’ve been internally debating whether to let go of my franchise and move to Michigan. It’s either I move or he does, and it makes more sense for it to be me. Rhys and Av are there, and I could always work with her in her store. It’s not like I don’t know how to help her run it.

  “First, I want to know what you mean about the store. Second, yes, I have the trust fund. It’s been open to me since my twenty-fourth birthday. It wasn’t seized because it’s in my name. Now spill,” he demands.

  “What would you think about me selling the store?”

  “Why would you want to do such a thing?”

  “For us. If I did, I’d be free to move to Michigan. I’d have to sell my house as well, but it’s in a valuable area, so I’m sure it would sell fast. It makes more sense for me to move rather than you.” Taking a deep breath, I ask him the big question. “Why don’t you want to spend as much time together as possible?” The words feel like barbed wire passing through my throat, turning my tongue to ashes.

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “Nope,” I reply, the word popping from my lips.

  “Hell yes, I want us to spend as much time together as humanly possible. I was willing to move for you. You obviously have more to lose by moving. Do you want to move to Michigan? It snows there, and the weather is temperamental at best. Sometimes the summer feels like spring or fall, and…you’d be leaving Goa Goa.”

  “But I’d be gaining you, and Rhys, and Av—all wins in my book,” I argue.

  “All valid points. I don’t hate the idea, not at all, but I only want you to make it once you’re absolutely certain you want to move. I’ll support you no matter what. I can find work anywhere. My record has been scrubbed clean, thanks to Justin, and I’m a numbers guy. Places are always hiring numbers guys. Wherever you’re happiest is where I’m happiest.”

  Wow. Did I win the boyfriend lottery or what?

  To think, upon first meeting him, I misjudged him to be a womanizing pig when he’s anything but. He may have a few piggish tendencies when it comes to his mouth, but I love every single thing about him, warts and all.

  Shaking my head, I let him know I’ve heard his point and the discussion is tabled for now.

  I spend the rest of the flight thumbing through magazines and pretending to read on my Kindle, though I’m actually listening to Brant’s steady breaths as he naps next to me.

  A month ago, I would’ve called you insane if you had told me the love of my life was staring me in the face all along. I would’ve laughed if you’d told me it was Brant. I never wanted to love anyone after Mick, including myself. The promise I made would’ve held strong for the rest of my days. I was happy living day to day, dating here and there to satisfy my needs when they arose, but it was a mediocre life, one spent with my books and panda friends.

  I was fine living life as a long-distance friend, but running my store, going to meetings, learning how to cook, being in charge of every second of every day—it was exhausting. I’m not sure how I lived without his love for this long, but now that I know how it feels, I’ll never go a day in my life without it, and that’s more than okay by me.

  Epilogue

  Mick

  Twenty-one days later

  News 2 Orlando broadcast:

  Good evening, Orlando. We start off tonight’s broadcast with an update in the Mick Davison case, or as he’s come to be known, the Disney Springs Shooter.

  Word came in to the studio around 4 p.m. this evening. It appears Mick won’t be making his court appearance tomorrow as scheduled after all. He was found unresponsive in his cell, and police reports are saying he died by asphyxiation. Whether it was foul play or done by his own hand is yet to be confirmed.

  Updates to follow.

  MARTINELLI

  Seven months later

  Day two hundred and eleven locked away from the world.

  Time goes by different in here. Everything is different in here.

  Organized.

  Planned.

  Guarded.

  What gets me in the nuts? The coffee is shit. I’d kill for a decent cup of joe. And the eggs? They’re the fake powered kind. If I want bread, I have to work the line down in the bakery to earn it.

  Earn it.

  Fuck, I’ve never had to earn anything in my sixty-two years roaming this earth, and I’m not going to start earning it now.

  Earn it my ass.

  If I want to watch an hour’s worth of evening TV, I have to earn it.

  All this earning it shit is for the birds.

  I used to have guys to earn shit for me, before the FBI brought down my whole operation.

  I’m Vincent Martinelli, and I’m about to show these bitches what earning it truly means.

  “Mail call!” one of the guards—Saltzman, I think—yells down the hallway. Normally he passes by my cell, but this time he stops and tosses two envelopes my way.

  Who the hell is writing me? I’ve been jailed nearly seven months now, and this is the first correspondence I’ve received. Hmm…

  Hastily, I open the first envelope. Scanning the contents of the letter, I see it’s from my lawyer, informing me whatever money I had left in the estate has gone to my traitor of a son and his whore. The FBI took the rest of my money. It seems fitting for my bastard son to get the remainder. Fucking prick. I’ll sleep better tonight if I know there’s nothing more than mere pennies left. On the last page, I hit pay dirt.

  $2,457,889.07

  Scanning the contents several times won’t heed a different result, but I do it anyway. My fucking bastard son became an instant millionaire.

  Instead of opening my other piece of mail, I write something of my own—not to my no-good traitor son, Brant, but to a person they didn’t arrest: my wife. I’m ordering her to burn the portrait of Brant in my office, to get rid of any trace of him. Once the FBI allowed her back inside, she took her clothes and left, but I know, I know the painting is there taunting me.

  It must go.

  Day two hundred and twelve has to be a
better day.

  BRANT

  Ten months later

  As I gaze across the crowded restaurant, I know one thing for certain: I’m the luckiest bastard alive. My girl sits at a table near the center of the room, covered in the glow from the candles spread throughout the dining area. She’s the most beautiful woman in the world.

  Tonight, I’m asking Tessa to marry me, to join me on this crazy rollercoaster for the rest of our lives, because my life without her is not one worth living. She’s become as essential to me as the air I breathe.

  Pulling my chair out, I take my seat across from her.

  “Everything all right with Rhys?” she asks.

  She thinks the phone call I staged was Rhys calling for some idiotic reason. It wasn’t; it was nothing but pure Michigan air on the other end. I paid our waiter to place a call and stay on the line for a moment until I stood up and walked away from the table. He did, and I gave him the ring.

  Yeah, I know it’s cliché to have the ring dropped in her glass of champagne, but it works for a reason. It’s classic, and deep down, I’m a classic sort of guy.

  As the waiter approaches with the bottle and glasses, I move down to one knee. She gasps in surprise.

  “Oh my God…Ace, seriously?”

  “I love you, Tessa, because you’re feisty and strong. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met. You could live a life without me, and you’ve proven it, but I couldn’t live without you. Will you do me the honor of marrying me and becoming my wife?”

  Holy shit, when did it get this hot in here? It feels like I’m sitting in the belly of an oven.

  “Yes, I’ll marry you, Ace. I’d marry you tomorrow if we could. For the record, I can’t live without you either. Pretty sure that’s evident since I gave up my store—not to mention my pandas—and moved here to Michigan to be with you. I love you, Brant.”

  Standing, I pull her up and kiss her senseless as the restaurant breaks out in applause.

  I’m the happiest man alive.

  I am Brant Vincent Ashley-Martinelli, and this is my truth.

  THE END

  Acknowledgments & Shit

  When I first started writing this series, it wasn’t a series. I had an idea for Rhys and from there, the stories grew. By the time I was midway through writing Rhys, I knew Brant had something to say. Did I know it would end up this twisty? No. When writing Averill, I still didn’t know who had held the letters or why, until the words flew from my fingertips, surprising even myself.

  Back in August of 2017, I stayed with a fellow author friend, and I spilled my guts on my ideas for Brant. She looked at me and said, “Dude, your character made a crossroads deal with Crowley!” Unknowingly, I had woven a subplot of Supernatural into my storyline. Martinelli became my Crowley.

  Then, in October of 2017, I received some upsetting health news. My spine (which is horrible) was in need of at least four surgeries to correct my current issues. I also learned I’ve never had carpal tunnel but instead suffer from a bone spur in my neck that causes carpal tunnel-like symptoms in my left hand and fingers. Yay. (Not.) My surgeon—who, newsflash, actually listens, something that took me nearly a decade to find—asked which surgery I’d like to start with. Of course, I picked the hardest one first. It’s a 12+ hour surgery. I’m terrified. As I write this, my scheduled surgery date is January 5th, 2018.

  But…these circumstances kicked my ass into gear author-wise. Brant had been sitting on my laptop with maybe 5k written. I booked a date with my editor for the end of November and knew I had to stick with it. I wanted this novel written before surgery. All I’d have to do after was market it and release it. Easy peasy, right? Wrong.

  Another story hit me out of the blue, one that started to consume me. So, to get the characters to shut up, I booked another editing date, vowing to finish two novels before surgery, and I’m well on my way, with only one slight problem. The other story? I, uh, accidentally deleted it. I know, I know, I’m horrible! I even had three copies saved. Boom, all gone. I saved Brant in its place instead.

  The positive thing about it is that I generally know what was written and I’m positive I can rewrite it even better this time.

  I don’t know when my second surgery will be scheduled, but I do know I’ll have at least two releases, this one and one more, before the end of May 2018.

  No matter what my spine throws at me, I have plenty of stories to tell. <3

  THANK YOU’S!

  Always first, my parents. It’s as simple as me not being here without them. They’ve always encouraged me to follow my dreams, whether it be singing, being an author, or meeting my idols. If I dream it, they help me achieve it.

  Heather, thank you for opening your home up to me to recover after surgery. The less steps, the better. Thank you for being a wonderful sister and friend.

  Anthology authors, you ladies have put up with my crazy while I was writing Brant. I love you bunches and bunches. Since working with y’all on this charity anthology, I can’t wait to do it all over again. Hilaria Alexander, Alexandria Bishop, Megan Green, Zeia Jameson, Jennifer Rebecca, and Rachel Renee, I love y’all. Period. Now who wants to give it a go again next year? LOL

  Stephanie, you’re the peanut butter to my jelly. Never forget that. I love you.

  Betas, y’all ROCK! You group of ladies give me the courage I need to keep writing these characters. I’m sad to be letting this group of fowl-mouthed coffee addicts go. Mel, if it wasn’t for you a certain sexy-time scene never would’ve made it in. You made me push boundaries writing that scene. #MaybeSomeday I’ll write a story for Justin, or #MaybeNot, but whatever I do, I know you ladies will be up for reading each draft.

  Melissa, the uh, cherry scene, never would’ve happened the way it’s written without you. I planned just a kiss. You suggested to use them in other ways. Thanks, yo.

  Dawn R, you know the manuscript I begged you for in the end of Averill? I’m begging for you to send it to me again. DAWN, QUIT SITTING ON YOUR BOOK, and you know, send it to me please. <3

  Dawn B, I love you. You know this. You’ve helped me turn DBDL into a fun place to chat with a few like-minded readers. It’s my safe haven. Thank you.

  Colleen Hoover, I don’t care if you ever see these. I’m still going to write them. Some of them are shit, some are kind. This one’s a mixed bag. Why? Because I’m pissed off I couldn’t come visit with you on the Without Merit tour. My stupid spine kept me in stupid Michigan. Ugh. It was the worst. Then when T. Esties (yep, Testies, I HAD to go there) handed you my books to be signed, she forgot to have them personalized. Gah, she had ONE JOB, HOOVER! Anyway…I can’t wait to see you in July and give you a stupid awkward hug and crap, and maybe we can give Testies shit together for her mishap. (Nah, she’s good people, I loves her.)

  Bloggers and readers, I couldn’t do this without you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for loving my characters as much as I do, and for taking a chance on a gal like me.

  DB’s Destination Lovers. LOVERS! You make every day fun for me. It’s my own little safe haven where I can be the weird girl I am, the one who loves dying her hair vibrant colors, is obsessed with makeup, hoards books, believes music can heal all things, and drinks coffee like it’s water. You make me feel like I’m normal. Thank you for letting me be me, while you be you.

  About the Author

  D.B. James is an indie author of New Adult Romance. In her spare time, she's an avid reader. Colleen Hoover, Tarryn Fisher, Jennifer Armentrout, KA Tucker, Linda Kage, Renee Carlino, and Sarah J Maas are a few of her obsessions. She is a mother to one spoiled rotten fur-baby named Frasier. He’s a bi-colored Persian cat, who thinks he’s royalty and can’t be told otherwise. She's a Michigan girl through and through but currently resides in sunny Florida. Sarcasm, Supernatural (team Sam!), Harry Potter and coffee are among her favorite things.

  Previous releases;

  Seventeen Days

  Rhys

  Averill

  Love
, Snow, & Mistletoe Anthology

  Contact me:

  Facebook (like page)

  Facebook (friend page)

  FB Group

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  Instagram @DBJames

  Book + Main @AuthorDBJames

  BookBub

  Rhys Preview

  Secrets Series #1

  Start from the beginning.

  Keep reading for the first two chapters of Rhys (Secrets #1)

  Prologue

  Present day

  As the officer approaches my open front door, he holds his hands out in front of him, like he is trying to calm down a rabid dog.

  Are all of these cops here for me?

  He begins taking step after step closer to me, the words coming from his mouth only confusing me more. Did I do something? I mean I must have—there are dozens of police outside my living room window, the red and blue flashers lighting up the otherwise black night sky.

  Holy shit, is that a sniper on Ms. Walker’s rooftop?

  Before I can try to make any more sense of this, the officer inside my door is speaking to me again, more words that have no meaning to me.

  “Hey man, as you can see, I’m unarmed. I’m going to need you to drop the knife now. It’s over. Whatever it is…it’s over. If you don’t drop the knife, my fellow officers outside the windows will shoot. They’re in position, I know you’ve spotted them. If you drop the knife and come with me, we’ll get this all sorted out.”

  What knife?

  I don’t know what the hell this cop is talking about, but I sure as shit see a knife in my hand. The worst part about not knowing how it came to be there is not knowing whose blood is dripping from the jagged blade. There are a million questions running through my brain right now. Someone has to have some answers for me.