Defiance (The Protectors, Book 9)

by Sloane Kennedy

  I’d chosen wrong.

  And it was too fucking late to do anything about it.

  But I couldn’t discount what Dom had said. “Tell me about Cade’s son,” I said.

  Dom sobered and then he glanced at Ronan and Memphis. “May I?” he asked as he motioned to the couch. Both men nodded. I went to sit in an armchair because I could tell just by looking at the expression on Dom’s face that whatever he had to tell me was not going to be easy.

  “Beck is nineteen…almost twenty, actually,” Dom began. “Cade and my brother, Rafe, adopted Beck and his brother and sister when Beck was twelve. Beck has struggled with some mental health issues over the years, but we didn’t know until this past summer what was driving some of the behavior. He’s finally in a good place, but with the threat against Brody’s brother, Beck and both his men are feeling the strain. The mention of Brody in some of the emails Nathan received has made things even harder, especially on Beck.”

  My eyes shifted to Memphis and Ronan briefly before they fell back on Dom. When his eyes met mine, I felt anger settle over me.

  But it wasn’t directed at him.

  It was directed at myself.

  I’d had a chance to have a man like Dom in my corner, but I’d been naïve enough back then to think that the country David and I had served would step up and make things right.

  Now David was dead and I’d served my country in a different way.

  A way that would have shamed David.

  I got up and went to Dom and extended my hand. He immediately stood up and shook it, though he looked both confused and surprised.

  “You had my back when no one else did,” I said. “I’ve got your nephew’s.”

  As much as the idea of going back to the world that I’d fought so long and hard to escape sickened me, I knew that was no longer a factor in any of this. I didn’t give a shit about Nathan Wilder or whatever bullshit he wanted to sell to the American people so they’d give him the power he needed to push his own personal agenda, but I did want to do something that might have David looking down on me with pride instead of shame.

  I turned to look at Ronan and Memphis. “If I do this, I’m doing it my way.”

  Both men nodded. I turned to leave, but then thought better of it and paused long enough to say, “After this, lose my number. It’ll be better for all of you that way.”

  Chapter 1

  Nathan

  Hey Nathan, it’s me. I know you don’t want to hear from me so I’ll stop bothering you after this. I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday…

  My brother’s voice dropped off, but the voicemail message didn’t stop. My gut clenched as I heard his voice become more uneven.

  I really miss you, big brother. I just…I…

  Another pause had me dashing at the tears that threatened to fall. I’d made the mistake of hitting the play button on the voicemail message while still sitting in my car after parking it in my driveway. I’d had two new messages and had accidentally hit Brody’s message instead of my campaign manager’s, and the mistake was like a punch to the gut.

  Because I always needed to steel myself before I let myself listen to my twin’s voice, which was so much like my own.

  Brody’s voice lost its luster as he blurted, I hope you’re okay. And with that, the message ended.

  I wasn’t okay. Not even close.

  But Brody didn’t need to know that. And he most definitely didn’t need to know how badly I wanted to hit that call back button and tell him how fucking sorry I was.

  “Fuck,” I muttered to myself as I reached for the door handle. The message from my campaign manager could wait, because I needed a drink.

  Or ten.

  I climbed out of my car and wiped at my eyes. Luckily, it was late and there weren’t any stray reporters lingering today. Because I wasn’t sure I could paste the smile on my face that was a requirement for the camera that inevitably got shoved in your face, along with the microphone or tape recorder that was thrust so close to your mouth that you wondered if it shouldn’t have been required to buy you a drink first.

  I loved coming home. It was one of the few places where I could just be Nathan instead of the various titles that I’d somehow managed to accrue, despite how very little I’d actually done with my life.

  Candidate for Senator.

  Son of Chandler Wilder, governor and political scion.

  Former poster boy for the right-wing movement to Bring God Back to America.

  Fuck the damn titles tonight. I’d turned thirty today, and the only person I would have even considered celebrating that milestone with was over two thousand miles away.

  Because I’d driven him away.

  I managed to remember to lock my car as I made my way up the path leading to my front door. I would have liked to park my car in the garage, but it was full of campaign paraphernalia that I hadn’t been able to find the time to get moved to my new campaign headquarters in the heart of Charleston.

  I’d bought the little Cape Cod home earlier in the year after I’d escaped the stronghold of the right-wing movement my father had begun building in Columbia, the capital of South Carolina. I’d left my law practice, too, which had pissed my father’s former General Counsel off to no end, since he’d gotten me the job at the prestigious firm shortly after I’d graduated from law school. Yeah, the plan had always been for me to get into politics, but I’d kind of fucked those plans up when I’d abruptly turned my back on my father and his constituents to run as a Democrat instead. To this day, I received countless calls from endless high-ranking officials in the Southern Baptist community who were trying to usher me back into the fold. They’d even suggested how I could spin my explanation for the sudden, albeit temporary, switch in my political affiliations.

  Blame it on Brody.

  I’d told them what they could do with that idea, and for a good ol’ Southern boy, I’d chosen some pretty colorful language to get my point across. Didn’t mean they didn’t stop trying, though.

  And they’d stepped up their game.

  The emails had started over six months ago. They’d been a nuisance at first, and I’d dismissed them as just another incensed member of my father’s constituency. But they’d taken a dark turn when they’d mentioned Brody.

  And an even darker one when things had gone beyond just veiled threats in writing.

  I shot a glance over my shoulder at my car and reminded myself that I really did need to get my garage cleared out. I’d already had to spend thousands of dollars in body work and new tires to fix the damage that my apparent stalker had inflicted upon the vehicle a few weeks ago. Luckily, the damage had occurred while my car had been parked overnight at a parking garage near my campaign office, so I had no reason to believe the asshole had my address.

  Even the possibility that he did had me hurrying my step. I was a big guy and could handle myself well enough if push came to shove, but I knew unbalanced guys brought guns and knives to fistfights. Whoever he was, he wasn’t going to play fair, and I needed to remember that.

  It wouldn’t stop me, like he was clearly so intent on doing, but it would make me more vigilant.

  The night air was quiet around me as I unlocked the front door. I lived on a quiet street in a family-friendly neighborhood, and by the looks of things, most of my neighbors were already asleep. Not surprising, considering it was well after eleven.

  I’d been thirty for almost twenty-four hours and I hadn’t even realized it until I’d heard Brody’s message. If I was any kind of brother, I’d at least text him to tell him happy birthday.

  But I’d lost that privilege a long time ago. Even if the circumstances surrounding my life didn’t pose a threat to Brody, I still wouldn’t have called him. Yeah, he’d hinted at wanting to try to rebuild our relationship when I’d gone up to Dare, Montana to warn him about the potential threat against him, but it wasn’t something I was even considering.

  For many reasons.

  But mostly bec
ause I’d fucked up any chance I had at being a brother to Brody when I’d betrayed him twelve years ago.

  Despair lurched through me as I remembered that night, and I quickly shoved open the door. I needed that damn drink. I hurried to the alarm panel in the front hallway and was already punching in my code when I realized it hadn’t sounded.

  Fuck, I’d forgotten to set it. That was what week after week of eighteen-hour days got you.

  A shitty memory, a refrigerator with a couple of Chinese takeout cartons and a bottle of ketchup in it, and a house that relied on others like a gardener and housekeeper to take care of it so the press wouldn’t start writing articles speculating your body was rotting away inside because the grass was more than ankle high.

  I returned to the front door and locked it, then went straight for the small bar in my living room. The only light I turned on was the one above the bar. I searched out the whiskey and grabbed a glass before heading to my favorite leather chair. It was ridiculous that I had such an ornate living room setup when all I did was sit in the single chair which was pointed at the flat screen TV on the wall. But I’d let Virginia do the decorating, and my only condition had been that the furniture had to be masculine.

  She hadn’t liked that, of course, since she’d fully expected to share the house with me someday, at least for as long as it took to buy something bigger and fancier.

  She hadn’t liked a lot of things.

  But the game changer had been the day I’d done the unthinkable and stood before God and much of America and denounced my father’s stance on gay marriage, the very thing that had made him a household name and catapulted him, and me by extension, to the forefront of the right-wing movement. Virginia had been certain it was some kind of joke or temporary act of rebellion, but when she’d placed the blame on Brody, saying he’d somehow used the devil to influence me, I’d kicked her ass to the curb, not caring one whit about what the press would say about it.

  I dropped down into the chair, but didn’t bother with the TV. I got enough of the news during my daily briefings with my campaign manager, Preston Bell. He wanted to make sure I had answers to any and every controversy that cropped up. The man was a slave to talking points, while I had no problem with veering off topic if the situation called for it. I’d told Preston that from the beginning when he’d approached me with an offer to run my newly founded campaign. I’d been a joke at the time, so it wasn’t like I’d had a lot of offers. Democrats had been suspicious of my switch in positions, and I’d become a pariah within even the most liberal of Republican circles. Preston had claimed the whole thing would be his crowning glory in a long-running career of getting people into office. But I’d suspected the truth…the man liked what I stood for. Because, despite all the things I did to drive him crazy, he never balked when it came to making it clear to voters what I stood for. He never tried to have me compromise in order to save face with one group of voters at the sacrifice of another. Simply put, he let me show people who I really was, which was all I’d ever wanted.

  And since I was leading in the polls, I must have gotten something right.

  I downed the whiskey in one shot and then filled the glass with two fingers of the amber liquid. I wasn’t a big drinker, but tonight I was happy enough to get shit-faced. Not enough that I wouldn’t be able to get up at five in the morning for my usual run and then head to the office, but enough that I didn’t have to worry about looking bleary-eyed on camera, since I’d told Preston not to schedule me for any interviews.

  After just a few sips, the alcohol began to warm my insides, and I set the glass down on the table next to the chair. I had a bad habit of falling asleep in the chair and was determined not to tonight. I forced myself to my feet, grabbed the glass and headed towards the kitchen. Ida, my housekeeper, was kind enough to cook for me a couple times a week and would stash the food in the freezer. She only worked part-time, so I didn’t get her home-cooked meals every night, but they usually got me through a few days out of the week. Take-out took care of the rest…or I simply didn’t eat. Most nights I was too tired to care, anyway.

  I flicked on the overhead light in the kitchen and went to the fridge. Ida had thrown out the Chinese food, no doubt because if it had stayed in there any longer, it would have grown feet and walked away on its own. But in its place were two plastic containers. I opened the first and sent Ida a prayer of thanks for the huge helping of lasagna, one of my all-time favorite meals. Curiosity had me reaching for the second container. It was taller than the first, but not as wide. I stilled when I saw the sight of a single cupcake sitting inside. There was even a candle stuck in it.

  As grateful as I was for the gesture, it made me feel even shittier.

  Thirty years old, and the only ones who’d taken the time to even remember my birthday were my twin brother and my too-kind housekeeper.

  And I had no one but myself to blame.

  I stuck the container of lasagna back into the fridge and then took the cupcake over to the table and sat down. I didn’t have any matches or lighters in the house, so I set the candle aside. It would have been too depressing to light the damn thing anyway. I reached for my phone and let my thumb hover over the play button on Brody’s message.

  “Don’t,” I whispered to myself.

  But I did it anyway. I played the message again.

  The second I heard that crack in Brody’s voice, I shoved the cupcake away and reached for the whiskey. I downed the rest and then heaved the glass at the wall, relishing in the sound of it breaking. No, I didn’t feel any better, but at least I got to show the rage I couldn’t show in the real world.

  I wasn’t sure how long I sat there before I lifted my eyes and stared out the picture window, which faced the front yard. If the alcohol had had more time to work, my reflexes wouldn’t have been fast enough. I barely understood what I was seeing in the reflection of the window, but there was no mistaking the glint of a knife just above my left shoulder, along with a figure dressed in black standing right behind me. I instinctively threw myself to the right and hit the floor hard as my attacker plunged the knife down. It hit the table, sinking deep into the wood. As the man, and I had no doubt it was a man based on the heavy build, tried to yank the knife out, I kicked out at him, catching him behind the knee. An ordinary man would have hit the ground where I could have continued the attack. But this guy had either seen my blow coming, or he’d expected it, because he twisted at the last minute and my foot glanced off the fleshy part of his leg right below the knee joint…not enough to disable him.

  He grabbed the knife as he threw himself down on top of me and I barely managed to catch his wrist as he plunged his arm in a downward arc. At 6’3, I wasn’t a small guy and I worked out enough to keep fit, but I wasn’t at my fighting weight. The stress of the campaign trail, among other things, had caused me to lose a good forty pounds, and this guy had that much on me at least, and all in muscle.

  I tried swinging my legs out to knock him loose, but he’d pinned me in a way that I couldn’t move. My eyes fell on the remnants of the glass I’d thrown against the wall. The top part had broken into several small pieces, but the bottom piece hadn’t completely shattered. It had broken enough so that it was jagged along the top and bottom edges, and it was only about a foot away. It might be my only hope, but if I had to release him with one hand long enough to reach for it, I’d be giving him an advantage and he could easily plunge the knife into my throat long before I managed to grab the piece of glass.

  But I didn’t have a choice because even now, my arms were burning under the strain of holding him back. The man suddenly used his right hand to punch me in the side. I gasped as he knocked the wind from me, but instinct had me holding onto his arm. When he went to hit me again, I used his momentary distraction to release his arm with one hand and snag the piece of glass. I ignored the pain in my hand as the glass sliced my palm open and punctured the skin on a couple of my fingers. I used all my strength to slash at the man’s face.
He was wearing a ski mask, but the glass easily sliced through it and ripped into his flesh. Shouting, he fell back, grabbing his cheek. I used both hands to knock him backwards. I managed to scramble to my feet, but I’d just barely managed to stand when he was on me again and shoved me back against the wall. The knife was gone, but it didn’t slow him down because he slammed his fist into my jaw and then smacked my head against the wall. I managed to stay upright, but I was dazed, so I couldn’t move as he stepped back and pulled out a gun.

  I’d watched enough TV to know it had a silencer on it.

  I wanted to laugh at the irony of it all. I’d been morosely thinking about the press starting rumors about my dead body going undiscovered in my house based on an unkempt yard, but that was exactly what was about to happen. Even Preston wouldn’t miss me for a while, since he was in D.C. meeting with the power players to try and get more endorsements for me.

  In that split second as I waited for the bullet to pierce my body, I thought about Brody. We’d had that twin thing early on in our lives where we could feel each other’s emotions when they were heightened enough, but I doubted that link remained, at least for him. I still had the occasional sensation of happiness come over me at the strangest of times, and since my life wasn’t exactly the epitome of joyful, I’d had an idea of where that feeling had come from. It had been confirmed when I’d seen my brother with his men.

  If he was listening, I tried to convey something other than the fear I was feeling, along with the regret of knowing I’d never be able to make things right with him.

  The man aimed the gun at me. “You’re getting off easy,” was all he said. I watched as his finger settled over the trigger. I could have begged for my life, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. Not with the dead look in his eyes, and most certainly not after everything he’d said to me in the emails…I just hoped like hell my death would satisfy whatever insanity was driving him and he’d stay away from Brody.