by Luma Rose
He picks up the phone. “Margaret, who the hell dropped off this envelope for Isla?” He waits a moment for her to tell him. “Get me the messenger company. Now. Better yet, get me the tape. I’ll find out myself.” He hangs up the phone, banging the receiver multiple times.
It’s obvious from his anger that he understands the context of this picture.
“I’m not talking to you about this.” He stomps from the kitchen and heads down the hallway toward the bedrooms.
I chase behind him. “We have to talk about this. I can’t just pretend that some stranger didn’t send me that picture. What is it about? Whose bed is that?”
He doesn’t say a word as he enters his walk-in closet and comes out wearing a long-sleeved shirt, socks and shoes. When he blows past me without looking at me, tears gather in my eyes.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“You can’t go out. We have to talk about this!”
He swings around, glaring at me. “I already told you that I’m not discussing this with you.”
I throw my hands up on either side of me. “What am I supposed to think?”
“Whatever the fuck you want. I don’t care.”
I’m speechless as he hightails it to the foyer. Seconds later, the elevator dings and he’s gone.
What the hell just happened?
40
Chapter Forty
Garrin
I don’t even know where I’m going as I step onto the elevator. I just had to get out from under her accusatory eyes. At least that’s how they felt.
Who the hell would have sent her that photo? There’s only one person I know with access to it—my father. And it goes against everything he’s trying to achieve to do so. Is he just fucking with me?
I wouldn’t put it past the sadistic son of a bitch. Maybe he’s figured out that I really do love my fiancée and he hasn’t tricked me into doing something I don’t want to do.
“Fuck!” I scream and stab the floor number for the exercise room. A round on the punching bags sounds good.
By chance, Ford is already down there working out. Must have some aggression to relieve himself. That’s the only time I ever see him down here.
“Hey, how’s it going? Figured you’d be with your fiancée tonight,” he huffs out while doing some bicep curls.
“I need a sparring partner. Either that or you can hold the bag while I beat the shit out of it. What’s it gonna be?”
He sets the weights down and stares at me for a second, a gleam of something in his eye. “Sparring it is.”
I nod and whip my shirt off, dropping it to the floor, and head over to get my gloves and helmet on while Ford does the same. Neither of us speaks. It’s clear we’re both dealing with our own shit right now. Once we’re suited up, we walk over to the ring and lift the top ropes, crouching under them to enter the ring.
“Just avoid the face,” he says. “I still have four weeks until the election.”
I nod in agreement. “Do your worst.”
Without preamble, he throws the first punch. I manage to dodge out of the way but only by millimeters.
Twenty minutes later, we’re both exhausted and panting, leaning against the ropes side by side. He landed a couple good hits to my head, and I got more than a few good ones to his ribs. We’ll both be wearing the evidence of our brawl tomorrow.
“You and Isla fighting?” he asks, removing his mouth guard.
I have to be careful what I tell him. Not because he’d ever run and tell her, but because we have an agreement about prom night, one we made almost a decade ago.
Nova Brookes’ murder still remains unsolved, and there’s plenty of reason to suspect any one of the Classholes. Except Carter—he’s gone. We all agreed not to discuss what each of our fathers are holding over our heads from that night. That way if we ever got pulled up into court to testify, none of us would have anything to say. It’s an agreement we’ve stuck by since we made it, and I don’t plan on nullifying it now.
“Something from my past surfaced. I’m going to deal with it.” I begin to remove my gloves.
“Is it going to be a problem?” He looks warily at me.
“Not if she believes my story.” Truth is, I don’t know if she will. And even if she does, it’s not like it’s going to cast me in the best light anyway.
He nods knowingly.
“What’s under your skin?” I ask.
He’s contemplative for a moment. “Went to visit my mom earlier. Didn’t like what I saw.”
Enough said.
We’ve both got our shit to deal with.
I throw both gloves on the floor and remove my helmet. “Wish me luck.” I push down the middle rope and climb out of the ring.
“I don’t think you need luck, Stone. I hear the way Isla talks about you. She’s got your back.”
He sounds so sure. If only I was.
The entire way back up to my condo, I wonder if Isla will still be there. I can’t blame her if she calls everything off after the way I ran out. Relief swamps me when I step through the doors and hear the TV on in the main room.
She stayed. She didn’t leave. That has to be a good sign.
She must have heard the elevator, because the sound of the TV cuts off before I reach the main room. I step in with my head down, feeling like a pussy and an asshole for running away.
“Hey,” I say and slowly raise my head. She sits on the couch with her arms crossed over her chest, scowl in place.
As soon as she takes in my face, she bolts up off the couch. “Oh my God! What happened to your face?” She rushes over and her hand hovers over my swollen and cut lip.
“Ford has a mean right hook.” I shrug.
Her hand drops and she steps back. “You got into a fistfight with Ford?”
I shake my head. “No, we were sparring in the gym. We both needed to get some aggression out.”
She nods slowly, biting her bottom lip, her eyes glassy. “Garrin, what’s going on? What is that photograph about?”
At least she’s giving me a chance to explain. She really is too good for me. With a sigh, I lead her over to the couch by her hand. We sit facing each other, and I release her hand because after I tell her, she’s not going to want to touch me.
“It was taken on prom night,” I say.
“By who? I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know.” She tilts her head as if to say yeah, right. “I really don’t. Most likely by someone my father was paying to keep tabs on me. That’s something he’s done my whole life.”
“Okaaay…”
“We had a housekeeper who worked for us, and she had a daughter who would sometimes come to the house to help her mom out if my dad had put her on one of his more demanding projects that week. We used to talk sometimes. She’d flirt with me, but I wasn’t interested because I was hung up on you.”
She tilts her head, listening intently, so I continue.
“After you slept with Asher and I released the tape, I felt like such a dick that I didn’t really care anymore. I was looking for anything to numb myself, so when she came on to me that night, I agreed to take her to the after prom party at the hotel. The guys all had rooms. It wasn’t my intention to sleep with her, but I did—not knowing she was a virgin until then.” I shake my head and push my hand through my hair. Talking to Isla about this has to be one of the most uncomfortable conversations of my life.
“I’m confused. Why would someone send me this picture, then? It’s not like I don’t know that you’ve slept with other women.” She frowns.
“My guess is for the same reason my dad tried to hold it over my head since that night—they think it’s related to Nova Brookes’ murder.”
Her eyes widen and she shifts in her seat. “Does it?” She swallows and holds her breath.
“No! Of course not!” I stand from the couch, unable to sit any longer. She’s quiet, and after I’ve paced a couple lengths of the room, I stop and
look over at her. “You believe me, right? I had nothing to do with her murder.”
She stares at me for a long time, neither one of us saying a word. Then she slowly nods her head, not looking away. “I do.”
My muscles relax.
“But if the picture isn’t what your dad thinks, what’s the big deal? You could have just said it’s not Nova’s blood and they’d have tested it to confirm it.”
My hands land on my waist. “That’s true. It would’ve cleared me of that crime.”
She raises a dark eyebrow. “But?”
I release a breath and join her back on the couch. “I didn’t know it at the time, but she was underage. She had just turned sixteen and I was already eighteen. She told me she was eighteen, and if you’d seen her, Isla, you’d have believed her. I didn’t know. She told me right after when I saw the blood.” I hold her gaze, pleading with my own for her to believe me.
“Why would she lie?” she asks.
“After I got angry at her, she told me that she didn’t think I’d be into her. Same with her virginity.”
“Okay, okay.” She’s nodding to herself, looking down at her hands in her lap. She lifts her chin to meet my gaze. “I believe you didn’t know.”
“I swear I didn’t.” I reach forward and squeeze her hands, taking the chance that she’ll let me touch her. “She started spitting off all these accusations about rape and I got scared that she was going to go to the police. Or tell my father. Everything just steamrolled that night. I put her in a cab and spent the rest of my night getting wasted.”
She squeezes my hand in return, thank God.
“But my dad thinks that photo is something else. He thinks that really is Nova Brookes’ blood because…” I pause not wanting to incriminate my friends, but if she’s going to be my wife, she at least needs to know what I do—even if it’s not everything. ”The night of Nova Brookes’ murder, the six of us were the ones who found her. We were scared and reached out to the only people we knew would fix it, if not for us, for their own reputations—our fathers.”
Her hand twitches in mine and she sucks in a breath. “They think one of you or all of you murdered her?”
“I’m not sure what they think. I guess my father does since he told me after the father’s got the case closed that one day he’d come to me and ask me a favor. One I’d have to do unless I wanted that picture to be given to the police. Now, it’s his way of having leverage over me and there are some things he’ll call on me to do and I have no choice but to do them.” My chest constricts at the thought of our engagement being one of the favors.
Isla pulls her hands from mine and stands. “What kind of things?” she asks.
“I really don’t know,” I admit. “But that picture is not Nova Brookes’ blood, I swear.”
Her hand flies up to her ear, and she twirls her earring around. I give her a moment to consider what this might mean.
“Do you think one of your friends murdered her?” she says softly.
“Honestly?” She nods. “No. I believe my friends, but that doesn’t mean that evidence couldn’t be found to incriminate us. Who wouldn’t like to see five rich pricks be accused of a crime? But I’d never tell you any of this if I thought for a moment it was one of them.”
Again, she twirls her earring and her eyes study the floor. As the quiet seconds tick by I put myself in her shoes. Then she looks up at me. “Do you think you can still marry me?” I’m terrified to ask the question, but I need to know. This question now more important than when I asked her to marry me.
“I think so, yes. As long as these favors to your father doesn’t involve hurting someone or taking their life,” she whispers.
I stand and take her shoulders in my hands. “I’d rather go to jail than do something like that.”
She nods and leans in to embrace me. I wrap my arms around her and let my cheek rest on top of her head. “Thank you,” I whisper.
She squeezes her arms tighter around my waist. “For what?”
“For believing me.”
I blink back tears at the realization that Ford was right—this woman does have my back.
It’s been a long time since I haven’t felt like someone I cared about could up and abandon me at a moment’s notice.
Isla is different.
Isla stays.
41
Chapter Forty-one
Isla
Things were a little strained for a few days after Garrin’s confession, but we seem to be back on track. I don’t hold him responsible for what went down with that girl on prom night. I believe he didn’t know. In fact, I feel terrible that he has the kind of father who actively seeks out leverage over him.
We have plans to meet for an early dinner tonight. The election is in three weeks, and things are looking good for Ford. We’re working harder than ever, but Ford said it wouldn’t be an issue for me to have a quick dinner with Garrin and then whip home to see my dad. I had no choice but to tell Ford because I want to spend more time at home with him. Ford said he’d keep my secret, and Garrin said I don’t have to worry—Ford’s word is good. I’ll be returning to the office afterward, but I get to see my two favorite guys, so I’m not bummed about it.
Midafternoon, my phone rings and my mom’s name lights up on the screen. I stifle the eyeroll I want to give. She’s been calling me so often lately, asking me this or that about the wedding. She’s talked to the wedding coordinator more than I have at this point.
I’m happy to let her be this involved in the plans. I have enough on my plate with the campaign, and it’s been a nice distraction for her from my dad’s illness.
Clicking the green circle, I bring the phone up to my ear. “I made sure to email you my guest list last night before I went to bed,” I say with a smile. The wedding is slated to happen two weeks after the election. Neither Garrin nor I wanted to wait too long, and since I didn’t want a huge wedding, a decision had to be made about who to invite.
“Isla.”
Something about the way my mom says my name has me reaching behind me aimlessly to find my chair to sit in.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
“You need to come home.”
I sit there in silence, a million thoughts racing through my head. Finally, I find my voice. “What’s going on?”
“Your dad has developed some complications.”
“I’m leaving now.” I hit end on the call, throw my phone into my purse, shut my laptop, grab my spring coat off the hanger, and bolt out the door, heading straight to Ford’s office.
He’s on the phone when I step inside, and he gives me the just-a-second gesture with his finger up, but I ignore his request. “It’s my dad. I have to go.”
He drops the phone from his ear and covers the receiver. “Okay, yeah. Keep me in the loop.”
I nod and race out of the office, taking the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator, and into the parking lot. I’m lucky I don’t pass any cops on the way home because I’m speeding like a madman. I slam my car into park, run into the house and toss my purse aside as soon as I get inside. My mom meets me when I’m halfway to their room.
“Honey.” She pulls me into a hug, but it’s clear she’s been crying.
“Mom, what’s going on with Dad?” I murmur into her hair.
She pulls away and holds me at arm’s length. “He’s developed pneumonia. He was at the hospital today to have some tests done because he was complaining that it was becoming harder to breathe.”
“But he was doing so well. I don’t understand.” I shake my head. “He seemed fine last night.”
Her eyes tear up. “His doctor said these things can change quickly with his type of cancer, and especially after you’ve gone through chemotherapy and your immune system is so compromised.”
“I need to see him.” I move to step around her, but she stops me, gripping my wrist.
“Isla, you need to understand that this may not end well. He’s on medication
and he’s receiving oxygen, but your father’s wishes at the start of this were very clear—he does not want to be put on a ventilator.”
I rear back like she’s smacked me. “What? Why the hell not?”
She shakes her head, tears running down her face. “He knows the odds of coming off one are slim. He didn’t want a machine keeping him alive. You know what a proud man your father is.”
“So we’re just supposed to let him die!” I can’t believe she’s saying this—that they waited until now to tell me. How could she agree with him? Doesn’t she love him?
“Is it really living the other way?” She’s in pain, that’s clear, but I’m still angry. Why would she let the man she loves die if there’s a way to save him?
I rip my hand from her grasp and bolt down the hall, pushing open the door to the bedroom. My dad lies in the middle of the big bed, sleeping. There’s an IV dripping into a line leading to his wrist and an oxygen tank with tubes in his nose. His pallor is gray and worse than I’ve seen all these months. His breathing is so shallow it’s almost imperceptible.
“Papi?” I say softly, checking to see if he’s sleeping or just resting his eyes.
He doesn’t move. Not even a flinch. I sit on the edge of the bed and hear the wheezing sound from his chest whenever he inhales.
“Why won’t you let us save you?” I whisper. And with that, the tears flow freely down my face. His decision makes me distraught and angry, but I’m not surprised. My father is not the type of man who wants to be kept alive by artificial means, leaving my mother and me to hold out hope, wishing for a miracle for months, or worse, forcing us to make that decision ourselves.
I wipe at the tears on my face and lie down gently next to him, careful not to disturb him. He’s come so far, fought so hard, this cannot be the end.
I must have fallen asleep, because I wake with a start. I sit up and look down at my dad, my hand falling to his chest. Relief floods me that he’s still breathing.