Broken Halo: The Montgomery Series, Book 2

by Asher, Brynne

  Trig: I know how you feel. If you remember, I was falsely accused once. And I was left on my own.

  Tiny little daggers start to prickle my eyes and I’m forced to bite my lip.

  Trig: Only I didn’t have anything left to lose.

  Shit.

  He just doesn’t stop.

  Trig: Because I’d already lost everything.

  I choke on a sob. Here in my quiet, monster of a house, it sounds guttural and ugly. I cover my mouth as my tears spill. I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t stop. I’ll have to turn my phone off and deal with the heartache in the light of day tomorrow.

  Trig: Let me help you.

  I shake my head and swipe my tears, typing anything, desperate to get him off my doorstep.

  Me: I’ll call you tomorrow.

  I look out the window and he’s not typing, but his thumbs are hovering.

  Trig: I’ll meet you at your studio. Tell me what time.

  No! I can’t do that again. Hesitating, I finally give a little just to get him to leave.

  Me: I’ll get a sitter and come to MI.

  When I look out at him this time, he stands up straight and pulls a hand down his face.

  Trig: What time?

  What have I done?

  Me: Around four?

  Trig: See you then.

  He stands on my porch with a hand at his neck while he contemplates the stone under his feet and I can’t make myself look away. Being able to take him in without him knowing might be the first guilty pleasure I’ve had in years. But he makes me flinch when he throws the same hand back and hits the brick even though I don’t hear a sound in my well insulated house.

  He’s upset, maybe even mad. And, unfortunately, it’s one of the only memories I have of him in the last decade.

  He finally steps off my porch and disappears.

  Rubbing my eyes, I stand and go back to Griffin’s room. Trig’s probably doing whatever this is to appease my damn sister. Fine, then. I’ll play along for both their sakes, if for no other reason, to get him and Jen off my ass.

  We’ll talk about my dead husband’s parents and the marijuana charges. That’s it.

  I crawl back under the covers and set my alarm, not that I ever sleep long enough to need one. Praying for just a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, I bury myself in my pillow, and for the first time in a long time, I hope the night doesn’t go by fast. I’m not looking forward to the meeting I just agreed to.

  * * *

  Everyone handles difficult situations in their own way. Since I don’t normally give a shit what people think of me on any random Wednesday, I can usually turn my nose up at a scratchy scenario without ever needing to itch it.

  I’m trying my best to muster my I don’t give a shit attitude, I really am. But today it’s hard. I haven’t been back to MI since the day I made a spectacle of myself when I found out Trig was back in town. So much so, I’m late because I almost couldn’t bring myself to meet him.

  “Mrs. Ketteman. How are you? I can call up, but I don’t think your sister is here. I’m pretty sure Donny picked her up about an hour ago for a meeting.”

  I don’t do much to hide my cringe as I look at the receptionist in the main lobby of Montgomery Industries. “Call me Ellie. And no. I have a meeting with Easton Barrett.”

  “Oh, I see.” She bites her lip in a way I can tell she’s heard about my arrest last week. Who hasn’t? It was all over the news. I mean, my parents saw it on Twitter while roaming the countryside of Spain and I had to deal with their wrath over the phone. “Should I call him or do you know where to go?”

  Not wanting to make small-talk with anyone, I sign the visitors log and don’t bother showing her my ID. “I know where to go. Thanks.”

  I rush through security, anxious to escape judgy eyes. Not that I don’t already stick out like a sore thumb. I might as well be an Old Navy clearance rack stuck right in the middle of the Saks Fifth Avenue couture department. My short, cotton sundress falls off one shoulder, and just for a bit of self-confidence, I’m wearing my tallest wedge sandals. My hair is loose and unruly, and the million bangles on my left arm jingle as I walk even though I’m the least jolly person in the building.

  Robert hated when I dressed like this so, of course, I filled my closet to the brim with everything a sophomore in high school—or a beach bum—would wear. In the end, it brought me great happiness to piss him off since he basically ignored me anyway. I stopped going to his business events and committed myself to more charity functions and always attended alone. I was generous with his money at the end of every event. The more he ignored me, the bigger the checks I wrote. When he tried to put a stop to my Robin Hood ways, I informed him I’d tell everyone he couldn’t afford a donation, that my poor husband had fallen onto hard times at work and was demoted or, worse yet, let go. His ego was just big enough that he gritted his teeth and knew he had no recourse if he didn’t want me to start rumors about his smug, selfish ass.

  Was it immature? Maybe. But he deserved everything I could do to manage to bring him low.

  I always paid for it when I got home. He’d yell the house down, threatening me to the ends of the earth and back. Robert never actually laid a finger on me, but he sure let me know he could, and would, if he knew he could get away with it.

  Which is why it never bothered me that he ignored Griffin. I didn’t want him anywhere near my son.

  I step off the elevator and try to calm my beating heart. I stop in front of a middle-aged woman sitting in front of an office with Trig’s given name on the door behind her. “I’m here to see Easton.”

  She gives me a warm smile. “Ellie. He’s got you on his calendar. Can I get you a drink?”

  I shake my head. “I’m good, thank you.”

  A deep baritone clearing its throat cuts through our space and my head pops up. Trig is standing in the threshold to his office with his icy blues focused on me. It’s not lost on me my dress matches the shade of those beautiful eyes I was once obsessed with.

  Who am I kidding? I’m here when I know I shouldn’t be, wearing a damn dress that shows too much skin for the corporate world only because it made me think of him this morning.

  “She’ll take a cup of hot tea, decaf. Thanks, Jessica,” Trig says without looking away from me. He’s never gotten me a cup of tea before the other day at his mom’s house. I have no idea how he knows what I drink and I’m just going to choose to not care.

  Jessica smiles and stands. “Can I get you anything, Easton?”

  “I’m good.” He shifts and motions for me to enter the lion’s den. “Hold my calls, please.”

  I take a big breath and make myself as tall as I possibly can in my four-inch wedges. He still towers over me as I stride past him, and I try to channel my inner Jensen Montgomery and act like I have my shit together so I don’t stab him with an elbow to the gut as I walk by. After the other day, I’m pretty sure it’s the only way I can withstand touching Trig Barrett without falling apart.

  I park my ass in one of the deep leather chairs across from his desk and he follows, luckily for me, leaving his office door wide open. Witnesses—witnesses are always good. I have no clue what to expect from him and having someone sitting outside the door will keep me in check should he piss me off.

  Trig takes his spot at his desk and I stare at him like a rare animal I never knew existed. I don’t know this Trig—this Easton Barrett—attorney-at-law and badass in a custom suit, not only in the courtroom, but also the boardroom since my sister is smart and wouldn’t have hired him otherwise. The man I fell in love with was dusty and covered in dirt from working my family’s ranch every day. But at night, when we’d meet, he was always in a clean T-shirt and jeans, his hair damp from a shower. His skin was fresh and smelled of soap—a hint of citrus and the woods in the early morning at sunrise.

  I wonder if he still smells like that.

  Dammit, I should’ve gotten a whiff as I walked by.

  No. I don
’t need to know how he smells now. Maybe he stinks. But Jen wouldn’t hire him if he stinks. Maybe he’s so into himself now he smells like the cologne counter at Nordstrom. I can’t smell him from here, so probably not. Or maybe he smells like his shiny, new Mercedes.

  That’s it. He must reek of new-car smell, just like he looks. A shiny new version of the original that was far superior and the updates have only ruined what once was.

  “Here’s your tea.”

  I jerk as Jessica holds a steaming mug in front of me. “Thank you.”

  “You can shut the door,” Trig commands.

  No! I need the door open.

  “And go ahead and take off early. I don’t have anything else the rest of the day and I can take care of any voicemails,” he adds.

  Shit. The door closed and my only witness sent home early? What the fuck is he doing? I should’ve made our appointment at eight o’clock this morning. No way could he do without his admin for the whole day.

  Good job, Ellie. One bad decision after another.

  Instead of begging Jessica to stay like the desperate woman I am, I take a sip of my tea before setting it on a coaster as my only witness walks out of my life with no knowledge of the drama she’s leaving in her wake.

  The moment the door clicks behind me, Trig leans back in his fancy chair and catches my eyes, holding me hostage. Damn him. He doesn’t even try to make me feel comfortable.

  “Can we get on with it? I’m paying for a sitter and she’s been there most of the day. It’s Griffin’s first day back with her and I’d like to get home.”

  He tips his head. “It’s better than paying my hourly fee.”

  I lift my hand, motioning between the two of us. “You’re the one who insisted on this arrangement. I had an attorney and you kicked him out of my office.”

  “You wouldn’t be paying for a sitter right now had you let me in last night.”

  “About that,” I start, uncrossing my legs and crossing them the other way. His eyes drop to my body as I shift in my chair. I do my best to ignore it as I lay down the law. “No more surprise visits. From now on, we’ll meet here. No—better yet, we’ll meet in Jen’s office. With Jen. She can be our referee even though she pissed me off by telling you where I was last night. But I need to be able to be at work and at home without the feeling that you’re going to pop in at any moment. Okay?”

  He narrows his eyes and his voice hits me, deep and gruff. “No.”

  I feel my brows pinch and my voice rises. “No?”

  “No,” he confirms, flipping open a file sitting front and center on his desk. I’m about to argue, but he changes the subject. “I have some questions about your marriage.”

  “It was shit,” I bite and he presses his lips together but keeps flipping through what I assume is my file. It’s thicker than I imagined. “I need CPS and my ex-dead-in-laws—or whatever you want to call them—off my back. Why do you have questions about my marriage?”

  He leans back in his chair and his thumb and index finger contemplates his chin. “Was it ever not shit?”

  My heart palpitates and my palms heat. “Why does it matter?”

  “I have to paint you a certain way in court and your dead husband’s parents are making serious allegations against you. I need to know everything I can.”

  I look to my right at the credenza that’s filled with diplomas, awards, and what looks to be signed footballs and baseballs. There’s a framed Dodgers jersey on the wall hanging next to a Dallas Stars hockey stick. Beside that, there’s a picture of him and his mom—a snapshot taken at the beach. I realize I don’t really know him—the soul I planned to spend the rest of my life with, make a slew of babies with, and be ridiculously happy forever and ever with…

  “Ellie,” he calls.

  I look back, feeling empty and more alone than ever, giving my head a little shake. “Sorry. Yes, shit. Always shit.”

  “Always?” He frowns and it looks like he wants to ask me a million other questions I ask myself daily but always come up empty.

  “Yes,” I confirm my stupidity and poor life decisions, laying it all out for him so maybe we can get past this. “When it wasn’t shit, it was pretend. I’m not proud of my choices, but there you go.”

  He nods, not looking away from me and mutters, “I know the feeling.”

  * * *

  Trig

  Such small and insignificant shit can change the course of life.

  One decision.

  One moment.

  One mistake.

  Ellie thinks she knows what shit choices are but I’ve spent most of the past twenty-four hours thinking of ways I can torture myself for the same thing. For being stupid, proud, and yes, even scorned.

  Only women in chick-flicks are scorned but I’m feeling just pathetic enough to check myself into their club and pay the lifetime membership fee. Ellie slayed me a decade ago and I was too much of a prick to even take her phone call. Had I just listened to a voicemail—one fucking voicemail—things might be different.

  No, they definitely would’ve been different. History would be different. We might’ve had the universe against us back then, but she tried to break through that. She reached out to me and I cut her off.

  She was the brave one.

  I was the dumbass.

  And she doesn’t know that I know.

  Fuck.

  “Tell me I came all the way down here for more than to just admit my mistakes,” she almost pleads.

  I put my forearms on my desk and lean forward. How do I apologize for losing ten years?

  There’re no words weighty enough for the job.

  If I want her, I’m going to have to win her. Earn her.

  I just hope I can do it—that she’ll let me in after so long. I take a breath and rub my eyes. When I look across my desk at the woman sitting in front of me, I wonder what it will take. She’s different. I’m different. We lost a child and a third of our lives because of my father, her father, his lowlife friend, and my own youthful broken heart and foolishness.

  As long as she needs me in this capacity, to ward off her dead husband’s parents, I’m good. Her hating me is better than her ignoring me. I can work with the hate and roll with it.

  “Okay, let’s get this done,” I start. “Tell me about Griffin and what type of interaction he’s had with his paternal grandparents.”

  She exhales and I see the tension release from her bare shoulder where her lacy bra strap is showing in a way I know she meant to wear it like that. She never gave a shit about being proper or fitting in and could flip off the world with only the cut of her eyes. I hope to hell that hasn’t changed.

  If all she’ll give me is her cold blue eyes right now, I’m fucking desperate enough I’ll take it.

  Reluctantly, she starts to talk. She doesn’t tell me anything I haven’t already learned from Jen and Eli. I didn’t need her here today to work on her case.

  But I’m not above lying to be close to her.

  I ask her questions I already know the answers to for an entire hour.

  She answers most of them as she becomes increasingly irritated with me, and as expected, I learn nothing new.

  When she leaves, she doesn’t say goodbye, throw me a thank you, or ask what’s next. Fuck, I don’t even know what’s next.

  But I’m willing to bet she’s not going to like it.

  12

  Puppeteer

  When you miss me, look to the moon.

  Trig

  “When can you have it ready? These boxes need to go so my photographer can take pictures of the listing. The room will look better empty than as storage.”

  I look around at all the shit my mother insisted on keeping. Hell, most of this stuff is probably decades old. She might’ve been the strongest person I ever knew, but she was a hoarder. I guess we all have our vices.

  If only mine were as simple as a bunch of old shit packed away in boxes I could easily toss to start over.

  I e
xhale and wonder when I’m going to have time to get through it all. “I’ll do my best to get through it as fast as I can and get in touch.”

  He hands me my copy of his contract and looks at his watch. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you. The market is hot right now and it’s going to sell fast. You’re going to make a mint compared to what you paid five years ago. These lots in the middle of the metro are few and far between.”

  I know they are. It took me months to find it back when I bought it to begin with. With the commission he’ll pull from it, no wonder he’s in a hurry to get it on the market.

  I offer him my hand. “I’ll call you.”

  “I’ll show myself out.” He looks around at the remnants of my mom’s hoarding habits and shakes his head. “Maybe you can get started in here.”

  I try not to glare at him as he leaves and glance at the boxes that taunt me. I might be the hardest worker I know, but there’s nothing I hate more than menial tasks that waste my time.

  My eyes go directly to the stack of papers and books I pulled out the other day when I learned about my mother’s clandestine friendship with the woman who obsesses my thoughts in much different ways. I start to flip through the stack when I come across a spiral notebook with a black cover. Scrolled on the front in gold letters reads Stuff.

  Flipping it open, there’re pages and pages filled with my mother’s perfect handwriting. She always said she wasn’t surprised I got a scholarship because she always knew I was the brightest kid around, but that I should’ve been a doctor since she could barely read my writing. Hers, on the other hand, could’ve penned the Declaration of Independence.

  The tops of the pages are dated and followed by line after line of history—her history—meaningless, yet so detailed that I now know she trimmed her mums down to the ground on December first of last year and not because they weren’t, in her words, still soaking up the rays of the heavens, but because they were orange and clashing with her Christmas wreath and if my Easton can put me in a home as beautiful as this one, my stoop is not going to look like a craft show from the netherworld.