Until the moment she’d leaned up to my ear and said, “Who’s your weird neighbor?”
It had been such a strange question that I’d almost started laughing. “Weird neighbor? What neigh—” But before I could even finish, I knew.
Emerson.
I swung my gaze toward Em’s house, and sure enough, she was there. Staring back at me from her bedroom window. The look on her face was . . .
It was haunting, and it nearly dropped me to my knees.
Those blue eyes of hers seemed to look right through me.
Suddenly, all I could think about were all the unreturned calls and text messages I’d sent her. All the times I’d stood outside her door, waiting for her to answer. Willing her to come home.
The nights I’d spent tossing and turning, wondering where I’d gone wrong.
The booze I’d consumed, trying to dull the sharp edges of her from my memory.
And now there she was, looking out at me like . . . like I was doing something wrong for living my own life. For moving on.
Well, fuck her.
I leaned in close to the girl—a girl whose name I’d probably heard and never bothered to commit to memory. Later, I told myself. After.
I grinned widely, remembering her earlier proposition. “So how, exactly, does one become a blow job artist? Is that an undergrad degree? Or is it a natural gift?”
Her lips parted, just the right amount of devilish as she answered eagerly, “Baby, I got my master’s.”
And then I kissed her.
She didn’t know the kiss was all for show, and for a second, when her tongue shot out to mine, I almost forgot too. She wasn’t just eager, she was greedy. She took control, making it easy for me to get lost in the moment. To withdraw in the sensation of it all.
To pretend she was someone else.
She cupped my ass as she drew me toward her. It was a rush, the feel of her body rocking expertly against mine, her hips pulsing lasciviously, restlessly, rhythmically with mine. My dick was no longer soft. It swelled with need as I reached into the back of her hair and dragged her closer, inhaling her scent, my tongue battling hers.
I backed her against the wall near the open door, where Zane and his girl had already gone inside.
This would change everything, I thought as I ground against her, my hands reaching up to cup her breast. This would fix everything.
“Emerson,” my voice scraped. “I forgot how good this was.”
Two hard fists against my chest shoved me away. “The fuck did you just call me?”
I blinked as I stared into the furious face of the girl who most certainly was not Emerson. She made a show of wiping at the bold lipstick, which was now thoroughly smeared around her mouth—a mess there was no fixing. She looked like a distorted clown. “Did you just call me Emerson?”
“Shit. Sorry.”
“Shit, sorry? That’s all you have to say for yourself?” Her entire body slouched to one side as she cocked her head at me. “You are a dick.” She leaned her head inside the door. “Sierra! If you’re not out here in two, I’m leaving your ass!”
Zane was definitely gonna kill me. “Don’t do that,” I said, but my attempt was unimpressive. “You don’t have to go.”
The girl, whatever her name was, wasn’t listening. She didn’t care whether my roommate got his or not. “The fuck I don’t. You think I’m sucking your dick after you just called me some dude’s name? You’re fucked in the head.”
I couldn’t hold back the grin, the idea of Em as a guy was . . . well, it was ludicrous. “Emerson’s not a dude.”
From the look on her face, that answer didn’t help my case any.
“Know what?” She started stomping down the walkway, making it clear she could walk just fine on her own. “Go fuck yourself.”
She said it like it was a bad thing, fucking myself. I was beginning to think of it as part of my everyday routine anyway, like brushing my teeth or shaving.
And after seeing Emerson tonight, I would definitely be fucking myself.
EMERSON
Bitsy’s offices had moved since I’d been here last. No big surprise. The last time I’d visited her work was back when I still worshipped the ground she walked on.
Her new digs were even more modern and sleek than before, with a giant wall of windows overlooking the heart of downtown Beverly Hills. The receptionists—one male and one female—were young and impeccably dressed. Like smoking-hot pieces of art perched behind the glass and steel reception desk.
I tactfully glanced at the giant man reclining in one of the white leather chairs not far from me. He had his head tipped all the way back, his hands folded across his chest. I might’ve guessed football player because of his bulk, but his long, lean legs made me think basketball.
I wished I could be as relaxed as he seemed, but I was nervous, and had to stop myself from jiggling my knees up and down.
When I heard my name, I bolted up from my seat.
“Ms. Brooks will see you now,” said the man who’d come to fetch me. He was as drop-dead handsome as the duo behind the desk, and I wondered if that was one of the job requirements, to be easy on the eyes.
I followed him into the back offices, through a maze of cubicles, where everyone seemed to be wearing headsets. Some were barking into them, others were engrossed in their computer screens or cell phones, while some stood and shouted across the offices at each other. The bustle of activity got my blood pumping.
This was everything I’d ever wanted. Ever worked for.
I wanted to be one of these beautiful, headset-wearing people, hustling to score the next big deal.
Bitsy emerged from behind a closed door then, looking far less frazzled and not wearing a headset. As a senior partner in the agency, she had one of the actual offices that ran around the perimeter. A large, nicely decorated corner office.
When we reached her, she greeted me the same way she always had, as if we were family—good old Aunt Bitsy.
I cringed in her embrace, but I didn’t push her away. I was the one who’d contacted her. I’d asked for her help. The least I could do was let her hug me.
When she released me, she looked me over as if she hadn’t seen me in ages. Then she smiled warmly. “Espresso?”
I shrugged. “Why not?”
“Make that two,” she said over my shoulder, to where the hot guy was still waiting. Then to me, she said, “Come on in.”
I half expected her office to be a carbon copy of my dad’s study—a shrine to The Shrine. But when I stepped inside, it struck me: Electric Earl wasn’t the only game in town. Bitsy had memorabilia and photos of several of her clients, many more famous than my dad.
Color me impressed.
“Your daddy told me about the football camp you two are collaborating on,” she said, easing down behind her desk. “I hear you’ve got some good buzz started on it already.”
She was right. Lauren and I were already putting the wheels in motion for the first annual Electric Earl Football Camp. My dad had drafted several of his former teammates to spend the week coaching the kids, and two of my brothers had signed on as well.
The event was growing into something impressive. Something I was proud of. And Lauren and I were planning to make the official announcement at the end of next week. By the time the press got wind of what we were doing here, donors would be lining up to write fat checks to our camp and to the rec center.
“He also told me about that kid you introduced him to at the rec center,” she said, and when I looked confused, she clarified. “That big kid. Markus Wilson.”
“Markus?” I narrowed my eyes. Why did I get the feeling there was more to this meeting than just me asking for a favor?
There was a tap on the door and the hot guy who’d led me back to Bitsy’s office came in with one of the receptionists. They were each carefully balancing a steaming cup as if their lives depended on not spilling it.
“Thanks,” I said to the girl who set m
y cup in front of me.
Bitsy only said, “Put my calls on hold, will you, Christophe?” Christophe nodded and left.
Once we were alone again, Bitsy lifted her cup and gave me a knowing smirk. “Markus Wilson—now, he’s one to watch.”
“How do you even know his name? How do you know anything about him?” I asked.
“I have my ways. After your daddy explained his situation, I did a little digging. Found out where he went to school . . . sent a scout out to watch him practice. From what I hear, he’s got potential. No one on the field can tackle him.” Her eyes lit up. “Kid’s big, but he’s also quick on his feet. Seemed to know what the defense had planned even before their play started. Always five moves ahead of ’em.”
Big, fast, and smart—the perfect trifecta.
I nodded. “He’ll be a senior this year. Maybe someone’ll get the chance to really see him play.”
“Maybe they will,” she agreed shrewdly. Then she switched topics. “I’m glad you called the other night. It was good hearing from you.”
I nodded again. “Well, I appreciate your help. This fundraiser is important to me.”
“I’ve already made some calls. Seems like just about everyone’s glad to pitch in. I have some great things heading your way. You should be able to raise some decent money.”
“Yeah?” I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. “That’s—” It felt strange thanking her, the woman I’d hated for so long. “ . . . awesome. Thank you.”
“Happy to do it.” She took another drink and then set her cup down, pushing it aside as she studied me for a moment. “Can I ask you a question?”
I’d be a jerk if I said no, especially while she was being so helpful with my fundraising efforts for the gala. I braced myself. “Fire away.”
“Why didn’t you want to come work for me? Your daddy always said you wanted to be a sports agent. Still do, the way I hear it. So why not intern at my agency?”
What had I expected? Bitsy never had been one for subtlety.
Well, favor or not, why should I beat around the bush if she wasn’t going to? It was time to grab the bull by the horns. “Seems sorta obvious, doesn’t it? I saw what happened, between you and my daddy. I might’ve only been fourteen, but I was old enough . . .”
She chewed on that for a minute, pondering, before she answered, “I think you and I might see matters . . . differently.”
For once, I wouldn’t do this my parents’ way, by ignoring the elephant in the room. “Really? Because I’m not blind, and I’m not a little girl anymore. I also saw you two at my dad’s party and I know it wasn’t a one-time thing.”
“Emerson . . .”
“Don’t.” I held up a hand to stop her. “I see the way you are together. What I don’t get is how you can pull that shit right under my mom’s nose.”
Bitsy didn’t defend herself, the way I thought she would. She didn’t make excuses or lie, she just said, “I think you’re confused.” There was a knock on her door again, and Christophe peeked inside.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Brooks,” he said rather urgently. “That call you were waiting for finally came through.”
“Tell him I’ll only be a moment.”
She stood then, smoothing the front of her skirt as she pasted on a polite smile. “Emerson, it’s not my place to have this conversation with you.” I was clearly being dismissed as she came around the desk and started leading me to the door. Christophe was still there, waiting to escort me back out. “But it’s probably time you had a heart-to-heart with your mother.”
My mother?
“What’s this got to do with her?” Besides everything. “I already talked to her, years ago. I told her what I saw way back when.” But really, it felt good to get this off my chest. I’d been carrying it around far too long. “This is about you . . . and my dad.”
“It’s not.” Her smile grew stiff as she glanced at Christophe. This time, when she spoke it was from between her teeth. “Trust me, you need to talk to her.”
I must’ve stared at the picture of my mom in my contacts list a good ten minutes before finally pressing the call button. I’d tried to shake the cryptic conversation with Bitsy, telling myself she was just trying to distract me from the real issue, that she and my dad were Cheater McCheatersons.
There was one problem with my distraction theory: Seth. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Seth had been trying to tell me something too, that morning in the kitchen when I’d been visiting for Dad’s birthday
“Some things aren’t what they seem,” he’d said.
I’d brushed it off as the ramblings of someone who didn’t know whether to check his ass or scratch his watch. But now . . .
Now I wasn’t so sure.
Did Seth know something I didn’t? Did everyone know something but me?
And why was everyone speaking in veiled messages meant to drive me crazy?
There was only one way to find out for certain.
It seemed like forever before my mom’s voice finally came down the line. “Em? Is that you, darlin’?”
I managed to keep the eye roll from my voice. She had a smartphone, she knew damn well it was me. “Hey, Mama.”
“Everything okay? I heard you and your daddy are doing good things with those underprivileged kids of yours.”
There were so many things wrong with what she’d just said, starting with the fact that everything hadn’t been okay in years and ending in the fact that my mother managed to make me of all people look like the patron saint of political correctness.
“I’m fine,” I answered, because this wasn’t the time to talk to her about being more sensitive. “Everything’s fine. I just had something I needed to run past you. You got a minute?”
I could hear dishes banging in the background, and I knew even without seeing her, she was wearing her bright pink rubber gloves and filling the sink with sudsy water. “’Course I do. I always got time for you.”
“It’s about Bitsy.” The banging on the other end came to a sudden stop.
Her voice was hesitant. “Bitsy, hmm? What about Bitsy? You reconsiderin’ ’bout that internship she offered?”
If only it were that simple.
But it was now or never. “No, Mama, I haven’t reconsidered. But I ran into her today . . . and we got to talking.”
More hesitation. “Really? ’Bout what . . . ?”
I shrugged to myself. “’Bout things. Just . . . things. And . . . she said I needed to talk to you.”
The hesitation became a stretched silence, and then, “She said you needed to talk to me? About things?” She just ended there.
“Mama,” I prompted.
But there was so much quiet on the other end, I thought maybe she’d just up and disconnected the line. It wouldn’t surprise me.
“Mama? You still there?”
There was a snap—the sound of her gloves coming off—followed by a deep, exaggerated sigh. A Southern woman can stretch a sigh out for a country mile. “I can be there tomorrow. We’ll have lunch.”
Lunch. Tomorrow.
I wasn’t sure what to say. Maybe Bitsy hadn’t been wrong. Maybe there was something I needed to know.
“Oh, and, Em, dear?”
My tongue was dry as the desert. “Yeah?”
“Don’t tell your daddy I’m comin’ to see you.”
EMERSON
Mama didn’t let me pick her up at the airport the next day, instead she had me text her the address of the restaurant and we met there. She was already seated when I arrived at the fashionable downtown eatery, a place she’d mentioned wanting to go to in passing when I’d been home visiting.
There was an outside patio with clusters of small bistro tables beneath an array of colorful umbrellas, but my mother had gotten there ahead of me, so when I told the hostess I was looking for her, I was led to a table inside, in a far corner. Mama didn’t notice me approaching. She had her menu drawn up to shield her face, as if she were in hiding
from the paparazzi.
The whole thing was very cloak and dagger. I’d always suspected that if my mother hadn’t met my father and settled into the life of a football wife, she would have made a great spy. A spy who needed a platinum card, to fund her expensive tastes.
“What’s up with the sunglasses?” I asked, when the hostess left and I took my seat across from her.
“Oops,” She reached for the dark Louis Vuittons still on her face. “I must’ve forgotten I had ’em on.”
But it was like a cave in here, and when she pulled them off, I saw what she’d been hiding. She hadn’t forgotten—her eyes were swollen and red.
I let out a breath. “Mama? What is it? What’s so terrible that you’ve been keeping it from me? That Bitsy insisted I ask you myself?” A million scenarios played through my mind, not one of them good.
She shook her head, her entire face tightening in a way I’d only seen a couple of times in my life: the day we buried Grann, the time Drew wrecked his car and we all rushed to the hospital to make sure he was okay, when my dad got the call that he’d been cut from the team and his contract wasn’t being picked up by anyone else.
Not yet her expression told me. “Let’s just order first,” she said in a strained voice. “I—I need a minute.”
“Okay. Sure.” I lifted my menu and scanned it numbly. Everything looked delicious, but nothing looked good. My appetite had vanished.
When the waiter came by, my mom ordered the salmon and a glass of chardonnay, and I ordered the quail with Asian pears.
When he was gone, I gave her a determined look. “I don’t know what this is about, but you might as well tell me. Whatever this is, it’s clearly eating you up. Are you sick? Is that why Bitsy said I had to talk to you about it?”
“No!”
“Is Daddy?”
“Emerson, no. No one’s sick.” The waiter came back with my mom’s wine and she eagerly took a drink before attempting to answer again. She kept her voice hushed. “This is about your dad and Bitsy . . .”
Unbound (The Men of West Beach Book 2) Page 20