Chapter 11
Emmy Lou sat on the velvet-covered stool in her hotel bathroom. The illuminated mirror highlighted the shadows beneath her eyes. Watson sat on the vanity, batting her powder puff across the white marble countertop. “Sure, go ahead. I was done with that.” She smiled as the kitten swatted the puff onto the floor.
Watson meowed, looking at her, then the puff, then her again.
“You want your toy back?” She asked, tapping his nose and earning the beginnings of a rumbling growl.
“I thought that was for makeup?” Krystal ran her fingertip along the edge of her ruby-red lined lips.
Watson meowed, leaning forward so Emmy would give his little head a rub. She did. “What? You’re just as gaga over Clem as I am over Watson,” Emmy said.
“Whatever.” But her twin was smiling. “Clem is way cuter.”
Emmy laughed, returning the powder puff to the counter.
Watson trotted across the counter, spied Clementine on the ground, and swatted the powder puff back onto the ground. Clementine barked, grabbed the powder puff, and ran from the bathroom. Watson was a flash of black fur, chasing after Clementine.
“Run, Clementine.” Krystal laughed. “Hopefully they’ll stay out of Momma’s way.”
Emmy peered around the door. “Travis, can you—”
“Door’s shut,” Travis interrupted.
“Thank you.” She smiled. Since Watson had arrived, Emmy Lou had spent more than her fair share keeping Momma and her beloved kitten apart. Momma wasn’t an animal lover. Watson had done his best to win her over—following Momma around, purring, meowing, and being adorable. But then he’d stolen one of Momma’s silk Hermes scarves and found another way to get attention. Momma had run after her scarf, but after three unsuccessful attempts to get the scarf away from Watson, she’d shrieked until Daddy had managed to step in.
Daddy had returned the scarf to Momma, saying to Emmy, “Best keep this little guy out of her way.”
Emmy Lou had only brought Watson with them to New York because Momma had said she wasn’t coming. But Watson’s rescue video and the will-they-or-won’t-they Emmy and Brock memes were still a hot topic. When they knew hashtag #Bremmy started trending, Momma announced she would be going to New York for the AFL Charity Ball.
“I thought that dress was nixed?” Krystal pointed at the Grecian-style seafoam-green dress Emmy was wearing.
“Momma wasn’t coming.” Emmy turned sideways. Momma favored dressing them in formfitting outfits. Not only did it strike a confident chord, it also made sure she and Krystal kept in shape. But this dress… She felt pretty. And even though there was no guarantee Brock would be there tonight, she wanted to feel pretty. “I like it. I don’t think I look pregnant.” Momma insisted empire waistlines were a surefire way to get pregnancy gossip started.
“You don’t. You look beautiful.” Krystal peeked around the door, then whispered, “Have you talked to Brock?”
“Not since we visited Aunt Mo.” When he’d stared at her without hostility…like he liked what he saw. “Why are we whispering?”
“Travis.” Krystal pointed. “Unless you’re enjoying the teasing?”
“No. Nope.” Emmy stood, lowering her voice. “I’m sort of hoping Brock won’t be here. Momma’s worked up over the Bremmy thing—even though there is nothing going on.”
“No? Maybe. Not yet. Momma’s freaking out because there’s not much she can do about it.” Krystal laughed. “Bremmy. What would that make Jace and me? Jystal? Yuck. Or Kace? Nope. Never mind.”
“I’m serious. After all he’s been through. And his dad now? Nothing is going to happen.” No matter how much she wished otherwise. “I won’t put a target on his back for Momma.”
“Oh, Em, you’re too good, you know that?” Krystal hugged her. “Come on. Let’s get this show on the road.”
They’d rented out the entire penthouse, and where had Travis and Jace picked to set up? Her bedroom. The two of them were poring over a song, pages of sheet music spread out all over the table and floor in front of them. Sawyer stood behind the couch, stoic as ever but reading over the music. It was a familiar sight—a comforting one. Soon enough, this would be the norm. Tour bus living, live shows, hotel rooms, and mobs of devoted, screaming fans. And no Brock.
Travis looked at them and nodded. “Gotta say, Em, you look good. Maybe you’ll get lucky tonight.” He plucked out notes on his banjo.
“Hey, Travis, here’s an idea. Let’s not start this tonight.” Emmy Lou scooped up Watson before he could launch himself at her layers of gauzy skirts. “Or ever? I like that idea.”
“I can’t help but worry.” He shrugged. “It’s been decades since you dated.”
“Yeah, I had so many dates when I was seven years old.” Emmy rolled her eyes at her brother. “Six years. Six. That’s all.”
“No dates. No kisses. No touching.” Travis shrugged. “You’re twenty-seven years old, Em. Six years is a long time. The whole nun thing isn’t all that farfetched. Am I right, Jace?”
Jace stopped scribbling. “I’m staying out of this.” He kept his eyes on the sheet music.
If Travis only knew. She’d had been kissing and touching and hugging—and grabbing and thrusting… She wanted more. Soon. The familiar ache twisted in the pit of her stomach and made her cheeks hot. She buried her face against Watson, a feline shield.
“Are you blushing?” Travis set his banjo down. “This is getting good. Come on, Sawyer, spill the beans. She says it’s not Brock. Who’s the special someone who’s making my little sister’s cheeks go red?”
Sawyer’s blue-green eyes met hers, his face as unreadable as ever. “No one.” He stretched his neck, glanced at his watch, and left the room. “I’ll call for the car.”
“Seriously? Maybe she’s blushing because you keep embarrassing the shit out of her?” Krystal threw a pillow at Travis. “You are such a dick. Apologize now. To both of them.”
“It’s fine.” Emmy was in shock. Sawyer hadn’t ratted her out. “I’m going to get some water. Krystal?” After her sister nodded, Emmy Lou slipped from her room and took a deep breath. She hadn’t asked Sawyer to cover for her, but he’d done it anyway. And she felt guilty. “I’m sorry about that.”
“About what?” As usual, his face was blank.
“Asking you to lie.” She shrugged.
“You didn’t ask. I didn’t lie.” His gaze met hers. “They asked me if there was someone special.”
She blinked. “But you saw—”
“Brock?” His eyes narrowed. “Off the field, he’s not all that special. How well do you know him, Emmy Lou? He’s divorced from a supermodel with a rap sheet that includes shoplifting and possession.”
She knew about the divorce. The rest? No. “Um…”
“Did you know he’s recovering from a serious drug problem?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “That his addiction was so bad his team had to stage an intervention?”
The drug problem, yes. The intervention, no.
“Did you know he ran his car into a median, and he was so high he didn’t even realize he’d dislocated his arm until two days later?”
He’d dislocated his arm? She remembered the pictures of his Ferrari wrapped around that concrete median all too clearly.
“Drug Free Like Me was his court-appointed community service.”
At this point, she felt the need to defend Brock. “In the beginning, maybe—”
“He’s a good football player. But I’m not so sure he’s a good person.” He shook his head, the barest traces of frustration evident. “Not good enough for you.”
Emmy Lou was terrible at reading people—men especially. Travis thought it was hysterical. Krystal found it annoying. But right now, she was getting some definite non-bodyguard vibes from Sawyer. The way he was looking at her, how intense he was…
Why did this matter so much to him?
Unless… No… Did Sawyer have feelings for her? No. No way.
“I care about you, Emmy Lou. I don’t want to see you get hurt. I’ve never met anyone so willing to trust and give.” He stared up at the ceiling. “People take advantage of that. Especially people needing a comeback—people like Brock.”
She was so stunned her words all ran together. “Sawyer, it means a lot that you care. It does. I care about you, too. You’re more like…like a grumpy big brother. Someone who always has my back. Or tells me the truth. Or lets me use them as a human crutch.” She sucked in a deep breath. “But if you’re trying to say you have feelings for me…I should let you know I don’t feel that way about you. I’m sorry.”
Sawyer stared at her, his blue-green gaze fixed on her. “No, Emmy Lou.” A short laugh escaped. “Let me make myself perfectly clear. I have no romantic feelings for you. At all.” He opened his mouth, then shut it. With another shake of his head, he walked away, and Emmy headed back into her bedroom.
“I thought you were getting me water?” Krystal asked.
“Oh, sorry.” She was still nibbling on the inside of her lip. What was that? What did Sawyer have against Brock? Why was he being so protective?
“What?” Krystal asked.
She glanced at Jace and Travis, completely tuned out and invested in the song they were working on. “I think…I think Sawyer might like me.”
Krystal nodded. “Of course, he likes you. Everyone likes you.”
“No, I mean like me,” she whispered. “You know?”
“Oh.” Krystal shook her head. “Let’s go play with your hair.”
“We just did my hair,” she argued.
Krystal tugged her back into the bathroom and closed the door. “I need you to not freak out over what I’m about to tell you, okay?” Krystal took her hands, waiting just long enough for Emmy to nod. “I’ve hinted at it. A lot. Maybe it won’t be too big a shock. It’s not hard to see, really. Give Trav Daddy’s hair and eye color and a ton more muscles and you get…Sawyer.”
She stared at Krystal, stunned. “Wait…” The weird tics and postures that Travis, their father, and Sawyer shared. It all crowded in on her, clicking into place. “Are you saying Sawyer is our brother?” She paused. “That’s why you were asking Daddy about his first love…Sawyer’s mother?”
“I’m guessing so.” Krystal nodded. “Sawyer and I have talked. I told him I knew but I’d keep his secret. For whatever reason, he hasn’t owned up to who he is or tried to talk to me or you or anyone about it. Daddy has no idea.”
Their father wasn’t perfect, but family was his everything. If he’d known he had another son, he’d have moved heaven and earth to make sure he was part of the family. “How? Why would Sawyer’s mother not reach out and let Daddy know? Sawyer’s a few years older than Travis—it was before Momma. Before us.” Emmy paused. “Momma… if Momma finds out… ” A painful lump lodged in her throat.
“She can’t find out. That’s partly why I’ve kept his secret. He found us for a reason.”
Emmy groaned and covered her face with her hands. “I am such an idiot. You should have seen Sawyer’s face when I told him I didn’t have romantic feelings for him.”
Krystal laughed. “Oh, I so wish I had.”
“Either come out, or we’re coming in,” Travis yelled.
“You good?” Krystal asked.
“I think so.” She nodded, shook her head, then shrugged. “I will be. Let’s go.”
Travis and Jace stood outside the door, guitar and banjo at the ready. Travis waved them close, so they could all see the lyrics.
“A one, a two, a one-two-three-four,” Travis counted down.
Jace and Travis played through the melody once, then they took turns singing the lyrics. It was a dance-hall song, made for dancing to. It was the sort of song that would be a hit.
“Hold on.” Emmy ran across the room, grabbed her phone—ignoring their groans—and ran back. “Smile. I’m happy—really happy—and I want a keepsake.” She snapped a few pics. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Travis waved her along. “We need to go or you’ll be late.”
She followed, looking at the picture on her phone. Only one thing was missing: Sawyer.
Her brother. And now that she knew who he was, what he was to her, she wanted to really know him. Why hadn’t he told them who he was? Who was his mother? The questions kept coming—some leaving a bitter taste in her mouth and doubt whispering in her ear. He’d come here to find his family and he had. So why was he keeping his identity a secret? What could he gain from that? What did he want?
* * *
Brock stepped inside the ballroom and tugged at the collar of his custom-cut dress shirt. It wasn’t the fit; it was the surroundings. He tended to avoid events with free-flowing alcohol. Knowing he could get his hands on pretty much anything else—legal or otherwise—from at least three of the people already present didn’t help. It wasn’t that he was tempted; it was that he was aware. That shit was evil, and he didn’t want it near him or the people he cared about.
But the annual American Football League Charity Ball raised a ton of money to be divided among the AFL-sponsored charities, and the players were expected to attend. The AFL flew them all the way to the Big Apple, put them up in hotels, and provided them with goodie bags full of vendor donations, tickets to Broadway shows, and a variety of other perks. He glanced at his watch. He could do this. He’d shake the right hands, take the necessary pictures, then get the hell out of there and take the goodie bag back to Aunt Mo in Texas.
“Where’s your date?” Demetrius shook his hand. “I told Molly we were dancing.”
“I’m sure she’ll hold you to it next time. She’s staying with my dad.” And she’d been adamant that he go without her. She’d doled out a big serving of guilt, saying his father wouldn’t want him shirking his job to sit by his hospital bed. Then she’d gone on to claim the goodie bag was not something she looked forward to every year. If he hadn’t seen a couple of them stacked in the back closet, he might have believed her.
“Gotcha.” Demetrius nodded. “How’s he doing?”
Not good. His release had been delayed due to a tear in his rotator cuff—something he earned from fighting off a med tech who’d been trying to take some blood. “Hanging in.” He glanced at the watch again.
“Planning your escape? I get it. You timed it perfectly. Dinner’s about to start. Until then, we’re up front. Got us grouped by charity this year.” Demetrius pointed, then clapped him on the back.
Brock made his way through the tables, pausing along the way to make the requisite small talk. He caught sight of Leon Greene and smiled—until he saw who else was at the table.
“Brock.” Hank King stood, shaking his hand.
“Sir.” If Hank was here…
“Brock.” CiCi King sat at Hank’s side, her smile triggering all sort of warning bells. “Don’t you clean up nicely.”
“This is a surprise.” This sucked.
“How’s the leg?” Hank asked.
Brock smiled. Damn good now that he’d been released to play. “Getting there.” Coach had told him to keep his mouth shut. He said he’d rather let the Miami Raiders sweat it out until they saw him run onto the field.
“You listen to your doctors, son.” Hank clapped him on the shoulder, then sat.
The lights dimmed as Brock sat, a smattering of applause going up as AFL Commissioner Shane Thorpe walked onstage. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming…” Commissioner Thorpe thanked a long list of important people who had made the event possible.
Brock took a long sip of his glass of sparkling water and scanned the room. CiCi’s gaze met his over the rim of her champagne glass. There was nothing warm or welcoming about the smile on the woman’s bright-red lips
.
He didn’t know where he and Emmy stood, but he was going to do his damnedest to follow Aunt Mo’s advice. The past was the past. The only way forward for them was a start fresh. That wasn’t going to happen tonight. CiCi King being here was going to make that damn near impossible. It clicked then. That was why she was here. CiCi King was going on the offensive. But why CiCi thought Emmy Lou needed protection from him was the mystery.
Commissioner Thorpe had paused for the applause. “And tonight, with your help, we’ve raised close to a million dollars.” He clapped, nodding. “Before dinner, we have a special treat.”
Commissioner Thorpe kept clapping.
Emmy Lou seemed to glide onto the stage, her long dress a swirl of blue and green. Green like her eyes. Damn, but she was beautiful.
“Commissioner Thorpe, I appreciate the invitation tonight. And I hope you like my little song.” She paused, pressing her hand to her ear.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Hank lean back in his chair and smile.
“Oh, wait.” Emmy pulled out her earpiece, looked at it, then slipped it back on. “Hold on. A little technical difficulty.”
“Is that better?” A voice from backstage.
“No.” Emmy Lou pressed her hand over her ear. “It’s still not working.”
Travis King came onstage, holding a banjo. “Is it on?”
Clapping broke out.
He took it, listened to it, and shook his head. “I don’t think it’s working.”
“Really?” Emmy Lou asked, hands on hips—almost sassy. “You don’t say?”
Brock had to smile then.
“Hold up.” Jace Black and Krystal King came onstage. “Try this one.”
The clapping and whistles reached a near-deafening decibel.
Brock shot Hank a look. Hank was staring back at him, smiling. “What can I say? This was their idea. Wanted to test out a new song.”
“They know how to work a crowd.” Brock was clapping, too.
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