by T. K. Leigh
Once I’m settled, a bartender approaches, placing a cardboard coaster in front of me. “What can I get you?”
“Scotch. Neat.”
“You got it.”
He turns, grabbing a bottle and pouring the amber liquor into a tumbler. He pushes the glass toward me and smiles. “Cheers.”
I place enough cash on the bar to cover the drink and a decent tip, then take a sip, my throat and stomach burning as the alcohol makes its way through me.
“Celtics fan?” a deep voice asks as I place the glass back on the bar.
“No. Just waiting for a friend who’s running late,” I say, stealing a glance at the man by my side. I hadn’t noticed him when I walked in, only caring about finding an empty seat. He looks as out of place as me, his tie loose, copper hair disheveled. He’s probably in his early forties, his features distinguished enough to make it appear like he has life experience, but not so withered as to make it seem like he’s close to retirement age. “Figured it was safer waiting in here than out on the beach.”
My phone buzzes. I quickly retrieve it from my purse, my fingers frantic as I hope for a message from Drew. When it’s just a work email coming through, my heart deflates, but I try not to let it show, plastering on a smile.
“How about you? Are you a Celtics fan…?” I lift my brows.
“Tony,” he answers, holding out his hand.
I grab it. “Brooklyn.”
He nods, then releases his hold on me, returning his attention to the game. “I suppose you could say I’m a fan.” He blows out a laugh, his mouth twisting in the corners. “I kind of married into it. My wife’s a big fan.”
I shift my eyes to the TV screen, feigning interest. I’ve never followed basketball, considering its season is the same as hockey.
“She just asked for a divorce,” he says after a minute.
I shift my gaze back to him. His lips are pinched together, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in hard swallows.
“I should have known it was coming, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. She’s always complained I work too hard.”
“What is it you do?”
“I’m a detective with Revere PD,” he answers in a thick Boston accent, then brings his bottle up to his mouth. “I’ve worked hard to give her everything she’s ever wanted. But I was too blind to realize all she wanted was me. Now I have to figure out a way to tell my kids why I’m moving out.”
“How old are they?” I ask in a small voice.
“Jessica is thirteen. Embry is eight.”
I offer him as compassionate a smile as possible, hoping he finds even a small slice of comfort in the gesture. “They’ll be okay. Kids are alarmingly resilient.” I look forward once more, swirling my glass on the surface of the bar.
As I check the score, I almost do a double take when they show a wide shot, one of the ridiculously tall basketball players dribbling toward the basket. But that’s not what catches my attention. It’s who’s sitting one row behind the team…Drew and his agent.
I squint, wondering if my eyes are playing tricks on me. Sure enough, the whistle blows and the camera zooms in on Drew, a banner below him on the screen displaying his name, followed by “Former Bruins Center”.
“How do you know?” Tony’s voice cuts through my stunned silence.
I whip my eyes toward his, my face heating as I try to pretend the idea of Drew standing me up for a basketball game doesn’t affect me.
“What?”
“Kids. How do you know they’ll be okay?”
I blink repeatedly, my gaze fluctuating between the TV and Tony’s, confused, a thousand explanations filling my brain as to why Drew would be at a Celtics game, considering he specifically asked me to meet him tonight. It doesn’t make sense. When I look back at the screen, I notice Drew’s not paying attention to the game, making me think perhaps his agent dragged him there for some reason. The camera goes to a wide shot again and my heart sinks when I realize what that reason is…
Skylar.
I try to tell myself it’s just a coincidence. I want to believe he hasn’t been carrying on with her even after all the promises he made these past few days, even after I planned to leave a man who’s been nothing but devoted to me to pursue something with Drew. But as I witness Skylar saunter up to him in her ridiculously revealing uniform and pull him toward what I can only assume to be a private location, the way he licks his lips as he visibly undresses her with his eyes, makes me realize I’ve been so wrong about him.
My grip on the glass tightens, my jaw clenching as I do everything to remain in control. But the more I think about how naïve I’ve been, the harder it becomes. I wonder what sick game he’s playing, what he gets out of toying with people’s emotions.
“Brooklyn?” Tony says, noticing my changed demeanor. “Are you okay?”
I look at him once more, my voice caught in my throat. Everything feels foggy, the background noise muffled.
“I…” I shake my head, words refusing to form, my chin quivering.
It shouldn’t surprise me. After all, Drew’s made a habit out of promising me one thing, then failing to follow through. I wanted to think he was serious about me, wanted to believe he was a different person than the cocky hockey player who was going off to college, or the hotshot celebrity whose face was plastered on billboards, t-shirts, coffee mugs. That’s what hurts the most right now. Not that Drew stood me up yet again, but that I was so desperate for him to finally want me that I believed the lies he fed me, even though I should have learned my lesson the last time. And the time before that. And the time before that.
“Brooklyn?” Tony repeats.
“I have to go.” A blank expression on my face, I raise myself from my seat and walk through the bar, ignoring Tony’s requests asking me if I’m okay. I should be crying at how stupid I’ve been, but I’m not. I’ve given Drew too many of my tears. He doesn’t deserve them. He never did in the first place.
I’ve always liked to believe everything happens for a reason. There’s a reason Drew never showed up at my house when he promised he would all those years ago. There has to be a reason I decided to step into that bar to wait for him in the hopes he’d show up with a valid explanation as to why he was late. Perhaps this is the universe’s way of showing me Drew hasn’t changed like I thought he had, like he tried to insist he had.
As I cross the street, I remain alarmingly composed, at least on the outside. On the inside, I’ve broken down, the walls I’d erected around my heart seventeen years ago returning, this time thicker, stronger, impenetrable. Everything seems subdued and distant as I make my way through the parking lot and approach my car.
When I open the door, an unexpected echo of heavy footsteps against gravel breaks through the fog of my heartbreak, catching my attention. I look around, searching the lot for the source, my heart pounding in my chest, adrenaline filling me.
The last thing I remember is peering into a pair of familiar eyes before two large hands wrap around my throat, my head meeting the car door, rendering me unconscious.
Chapter Twenty
Drew
I tap on the steering wheel, cursing all the stoplights as I make my way toward the beach. I have no idea whether Brooklyn is still there, considering she didn’t pick up the myriad of times I tried to call. Didn’t respond to any of my texts. Not a single word from her. I pray she’ll understand. The instant I put the pieces together and realized Skylar played a part in this, all I saw was red. All my outside responsibilities and commitments took a back seat to uncovering the truth.
As I sit in traffic, I continue trying Brooklyn’s cell every few minutes, only for it to go to voicemail. I don’t want to read too much into it, but I can’t help feeling like something’s off. If Brooklyn were just pissed at me, she’d pick up and tell me. But not answering at all? It doesn’t sit right.
Finally, I turn my SUV onto the street abutting the shoreline, driving faster than normal. Approaching the parking
lot, red and blue lights flash. I slow my speed, counting four police cruisers. Dread fills me, beads of sweat forming on my neck.
I slam on my brakes, leaving my SUV on the side of the road, and dash toward the pandemonium. I pray I’m just overreacting, that it’s just my guilt seeping into my subconscious. As I near the flashing lights and see yellow tape roping off Brooklyn’s car, my pulse skyrockets. The sound of my heart thrashing in my ears mutes the background noise of crashing waves and passing cars.
On autopilot, I duck under the perimeter, my throat tight, barely able to keep myself upright as I stride toward her car. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for an officer to approach me, putting his hand up, preventing me from taking another step.
“Sir, I’m going to need to ask you to leave this area. I can’t have anyone contaminating evidence or compromising the integrity of the crime scene.”
“Crime scene?” I attempt to look past him at Brooklyn’s car, desperate for any indication she’s okay. “What happened?” I roar, panicked. “Where is she?”
“She?” He glances behind him. I follow his line of sight just as a crime scene tech shines a flashlight on the door, bringing attention to blood smearing the edge.
“Brooklyn!” I shout, my voice bellowing in the night air. “That’s her car!” My eyes bulge and nostrils flare as I tug on my hair.
“Sir, please. If you’ll wait behind the tape, I’ll send a detective over to talk to you.” He grips my elbow, dragging me away, but not before I notice more blood on the pavement. I’m too lightheaded to put up a fight, too weak to shake off his tight hold and rush to the beach to see her sitting in our spot, all of this a misunderstanding.
When we get on the other side of the cordoned off area, other locals and passersby congregating in intrigue, he releases his grip on me. “Wait here, Mr…” He lifts a questioning brow.
“Brinks.”
He eyes me with mild recognition before retreating toward a group of men in suits. They talk for a moment, increasing my anxiety level, then one looks at me and heads in my direction. He’s tall and lean. The bit of gray dotting his copper hair and lines around his face make him appear to be in his forties.
“Detective Tony Santa Rosa.” He holds his hand out toward me, a weariness about him. Unlike the other men, his tie is loosened, his hair disheveled.
“Andrew Brinks,” I respond.
“I know.” He gestures at Brooklyn’s car. “Are you acquainted with the woman who owns that automobile?”
“Her name’s Brooklyn. Brooklyn Tanner.”
He closes his eyes and inhales a long breath. It doesn’t matter this man is a complete stranger. I can tell he’s out of sorts.
“What happened?” I ask frantically, desperation taking over. My gaze darts from Brooklyn’s car, to the crime scene techs taking photos, to the group of other police officers and detectives. My mouth is dry, my neck stiff, my jaw tight.
“I saw it all myself,” he answers, staring off into space. “She came into Jonny’s Pub and ordered a scotch. I struck up a conversation with her. She seemed to be in a good mood, then started watching the Celtics game.” He gives me a knowing look. “It was around the same time the cameras spied you in the crowd.”
I swallow hard, heaviness settling in my stomach.
“She suddenly became distracted, quiet, then left the bar, ignoring my questions asking if she was okay. That’s when I noticed this big guy follow her. It could have been nothing, but after fifteen years on the job, I couldn’t shake the feeling in my gut that this was not a good person, so I paid my tab and left to make sure she was okay.” He runs a hand over his face, pulling his lip between his teeth. “I should have left the bar sooner.”
“What happened?” I press through a tightness in my throat, unsure I want to hear his response.
“The man attacked her. Smashed her head into her car door, knocked her out, then dragged her toward his car.” He looked behind him, gesturing to a run-down station wagon parked several yards away from Brooklyn’s car. “As he was about to throw her into the trunk, I told him to stop, showed him my shield. That’s when he drew a gun. I did the same and clipped him in the shoulder.”
I swallow hard, absorbing his story as my eyes rake over the scene, a trail of blood from Brooklyn’s car to the station wagon making me even more queasy now that I know how it got there. “It’s all my fault,” I murmur, my stomach hardening.
“Excuse me?” Detective Santa Rosa asks, intrigued.
“I was supposed to meet her here at seven, but something came up.”
“The Celtics game?” I hear the disapproval in his voice. I know what he’s thinking. That if I hadn’t gone to that game, this never would have happened.
I shake my head. “No. Well, yes. But…” I pace, tugging on my hair. I’ve never felt so much guilt in my life. If I’d just stopped for a moment to think instead of being hell-bent on revenge, I would have remembered the plans I made with Brooklyn. How many more promises will I make to her just for something to prevent me from following through? It already required her to make a giant leap of faith to trust me again. How will she ever trust me after this?
I whip my wild eyes to the detective. “Where is she? Is she okay?”
“I haven’t received an updated status yet, but she hadn’t regained consciousness by the time the EMTs arrived. They took her to Everett.”
Reacting quickly, I turn from him, dashing back to where I left my SUV, speeding away from the beach, mumbling a silent prayer for Brooklyn.
The automatic doors slide open and I barrel into a packed waiting room, the sound of coughing and wheezing overpowering that of the distorted speakers of a television there to keep people occupied so they don’t think about how long they’ve been waiting.
“Brooklyn Tanner. Where is she?” I bark at the nurse manning the registration desk of the emergency room.
“Are you family?”
“Yes, well…not technically, but we grew up together.”
She hands me a clipboard and pen. “Sign in. I’ll check to verify whether she’s able to consent to see you.”
“And if she’s not?” I scribble my name down, then push the clipboard toward her.
“You’ll have to wait until she is.”
I glare, her answer only angering me more. I know it’s not her fault. She’s just following procedure, but I need to see Brooklyn. Need to make sure she’s okay. Need to feel her soft skin on mine. Need to see her chest rise and fall. Need to promise never to let her down again. That’s all I care about right now. Nothing else.
“Have a seat.”
“How long?” I press.
“Once I check in all these people in need of medical care…” She gestures to the line behind me. “I’ll work as fast as I can, but I promise to make you a priority.”
I fight the urge to return her sarcasm with a biting comment and spin from her, plopping down into a hard chair with a force that evidences my impatience regarding the situation.
My leg bounces as I chew on my nails. Every few minutes, a nurse opens the security door, calling a name other than mine. I watch as someone with an arm in a sling, or pressing an ice pack to their face, or puking into a pail is escorted into the triage area. I try to peek down the corridor, hoping to catch a glimpse of Brooklyn, but I’m not so lucky.
My hands burrow into my hair, my nostrils flaring. I hate being in this purgatory where I don’t know if she’s okay. What if she is but requested not to see me? I can’t stomach the idea.
When the door opens again, I straighten, the nurse popping out to call yet another name. What I’m about to do is incredibly stupid and may end up with me getting hauled away in handcuffs, but I don’t care. Launching to my feet, I dash through the open door, ignoring the shouts as I search for any sign of Brooklyn.
The hallway is littered with people in chairs, some on stretchers as they wait to be seen by a nurse, PA, or doctor. They don’t appear to be in that bad of shape, maybe a s
prained wrist or a dizzy spell necessitating a visit to the ER since most medical clinics are closed at this hour. Knowing I don’t have much longer before security comes after me, I turn down a hallway, peering into every room, none of them containing the woman I’m after.
As I near the end, a familiar moan finds my ears. I’ve heard that moan before, but when the person was experiencing pleasure. Now the sound is riddled with pain.
Not even thinking twice, I dash inside, closing and locking the door behind me. The detective told me what happened, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight that greets me. Brooklyn’s curled up on her side, blood seeping from a temporary bandage on her head, bruises around her neck, as if someone had tried to strangle her. The detective left that part out.
“Brooklyn,” I exhale, rushing to her, desperate to wrap her in my arms and assure her it will all be okay.
The instant I do, she yelps, wincing in agony. I step back, seeing her face scrunched. I survey her, not noticing anything that would cause this reaction. Then I recall the detective’s account that she was dragged across the parking lot.
My heart pounding, I slowly shift my gaze to her exposed back, choking out a sob when I see how bruised and bloodied it is, as if whoever attacked her got some twisted pleasure out of harming her like this.
“My god.” I shake my head, struggling to keep my tears at bay. “I am so sorry, Brooklyn. I fucked up. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you, and I’ll do it.” I sit in the chair beside her, brushing her hair out of her face. “Please, just—”
“Don’t. Touch. Me.” Her voice is scratchy as she glares at me, recoiling from my touch.
I drop my hand, my lips parting. “Brooklyn, I—”
“I saw you.” Her tone is alarmingly calm, as if she’s speaking to the judge regarding one of her cases, not addressing the man who just broke his promise to her…again.