Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

Renn

I adjust my collar in the mirror.

“Did they send black or charcoal?” Astrid, my personal assistant, asks. “I put an emphasis on black, but the salesgirl was distracted the entire phone call. I have a note to call the manager on Monday morning.”

“Over clothes?”

“Technically, over customer service. Wouldn’t you want someone to tell you if I treated them like crap?”

I step back and check out my handiwork. Not bad . “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Yeah, maybe . I hope they’d consider that you might just be having a bad day.”

I hear Brock yell at Blakely to see if she’s ready, and then her faint giggle in reply. The sound is bright and happy. Just like her. Dammit .

“I mean, we all get distracted sometimes,” I say, sighing.

Astrid rambles on about what good customer service means and its importance to business. I get it . I like good service as much as anyone. But sometimes Astrid gets too by the book, and I have to remind her that real human beings are involved.

She doesn’t have this problem with my younger sister, Bianca.

Bianca and I mostly share a personal assistant because I feel pretentious for having one and don’t give her enough to do. She worked for me virtually while I was overseas, but now helps me in person. Is it nice having someone available to coordinate the landscape crew, return calls I don’t want to deal with … and send dinner clothes to me when I jump on a plane from Miami to Vegas for a birthday weekend? Absolutely. Is it necessary? Nope.

On the other hand, my sister is much better at doling out tasks. She has no qualms about having Astrid take over her personal life while she sits at Dad’s right hand and helps run the family businesses. And I get it—Bianca is probably busier than I am. Smarter than I am. More successful than I am. But I still think she could do some shit herself.

“Did she even send a black outfit?” Astrid asks.

I step away from the mirror and find my cologne. “Yes. Even my underwear is black.”

“That’s more info than I need.”

I chuckle. “How much did you tip the salesgirl?”

“Enough.”

“ Astrid …” I say, teasing her.

“For fuck’s sake, Renn.”

She laughs. “Don’t forget that you have a charity game at the end of the month. You got a packet in the mail today about it, reminding you to share it on your social media and giving you the details about the charities it supports. I added it to your calendar since you verbally agreed and didn’t give me details.”

“Hey, look on the bright side. I told you about it, at least.”

“That would be a bright side if you had. Except you didn’t.”

Fuck . I put her on speakerphone and apply a few squirts of cologne. “I’m sorry. Gabe Henderson called me a few months ago and said he was trying to start this foundation and blah, blah, blah . What was I supposed to do?”

“You say yes. And then you tell me about it .”

“Want me to send you a selfie to make you feel better? That always seems to help irritated females.”

“Sure. I’ll use it as a dartboard.”

“That’s mean.”

She only laughs.

I dig around the bags from the boutique Astrid sent the clothes from and find my belt.

Her mention of the charity game reminds me that I need to call Gannon and get him to cut a check from Brewer Group as a donation. Since he’s so worried about my image and all—he can put his money where his mouth is .

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll let you get back to your night. Any plans?”

“Oh, that wasn’t begging, Ren. I can be a lot more persuasive than that.”

That line has gone through my head a hundred times already.

If Blakely were anyone else, I’d have her bent over the bed by now. Then again, if she were anyone else, I wouldn’t be this messed up about it.

I weighed the risk versus reward for about five seconds earlier. Is there any way I could get away with fucking Blakely and not have Brock rip my throat out? The answer was a resounding no . But even when I pretended there was a chance, something was wrong with that picture.

The thought of having Blakely in my bed makes me lose my mind. Naked. Spread open. Moaning my name as she comes on my cock. But the idea of seeing what I’ve seen in other women’s eyes when they have to leave makes me ill.

Blakely’s not like that. She’s a treasure, and for the first time in my life, I don’t know if I could actually fuck a woman and not give a shit afterward.

What the hell is wrong with me? When did I grow a conscience?

“Renn? Plans?” Astrid asks again.

“Nope,” I say, trying not to imagine Blakely’s ass going up the stairs. “Just having dinner with Brock and his sister for her birthday. Keeping it low-key.”

“Sounds good. It’s just so sad that they lost their mom so young. She was only in her early forties, right?”

I tighten the belt. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“Okay. Well, have fun tonight but, for the love of God, behave , Renn.”

“You’re starting to sound like Dad.”

“The last time you were in Vegas, you wound up in the emergency room with head trauma, a prostitute refusing to vacate your hotel room, and a public relations nightmare that nearly gave your father a heart attack.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m so misunderstood.”

“ Right .”

“That was three years ago. The head trauma was because I got hit over the back of the head in a brawl that had nothing to do with me, in a room that wasn’t mine—I was only paying for it—over a prostitute that had nothing to do with me at all.” I blow out a breath. “I have a suite here, you know. I’m not as exposed to the elements.”

“A suite and a pretty brunette. Am I right?”

I grin.

“That’s what I thought,” she says, sighing. “If you do something stupid, I quit. I’ll give all my energy to Bianca.”

I snort. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“Try me.”

I pull open my door. Brock stands beside the table, taking in the view. He glances over his shoulder, sees I’m on the phone, and turns away.

“Is that all you need?” I ask. “I gotta get going.”

“Yes. That’s it. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Hey! Call that poor salesgirl back and double her tip.”

She groans.

“Thank you. Bye, Astrid ,” I say, taunting her.

“Goodbye.”

She ends the call with a click.

Brock slips a hand in his pocket and looks at me. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah. All good. Astrid just updating me on some shit. I forgot to tell her about Henderson’s charity game. So she was super peachy.”

“Shit. I forgot about that too.”

“You probably have a packet of info waiting on you.”

Brock plants his hands on the table and rolls his neck around his shoulders. “Thank you for coming with me, by the way. I don’t know if I’ve said that. You’re a good friend.”

Guilt riddles me. No, I’m not. I’ve imagined turning your sister inside out on my cock for the last three hours. I’m not a good friend.

“Thanks,” I say instead—mostly because I like my face. “I’m going to grab my wallet, and I’ll be ready. Have you seen the girls?”

“They should be about done. I’ll go check on Ella and hurry her ass along.”

Shall I go check on your sister’s ass ? “Great.”

He gives me a sideways look as he leaves.

“I gotta get it together,” I mutter, entering my room and closing the door.

I lean against the wall and blow out a long, harried breath.

My heart feels like I’m gearing up for a game. Every cell in my body is on high alert, waiting on … nothing . Nothing is going to happen.

I should’ve jacked off in the shower. It would’ve at least taken the edge off things.

Maybe.

My phone buzzes, offering me a reprieve from my thoughts.

Bianca: If I tell you something and it turns out to be true—and it’s illegal—am I considered an accomplice?

Me: Did you do it?

Bianca. NO. Not me.

I sit on the edge of the bed.

Me: Out of all your siblings, you chose the brother playing rugby for legal advice?

Bianca: No offense, but out of all our siblings, you have the most experience dealing with legal issues.

Me: Touché. Continue.

Bianca: Maybe I should call you so it’s not written down. Paper trails are a real thing.

Me: Why? You think I’m going to rat you out?

Bianca: I’m calling you.

“Thanks for the warning.” As promised, the phone buzzes in my hands. “If you didn’t know, I promised your father I would be on my best behavior until his purchase goes through. I don’t think he’d appreciate you dragging me into the dark side.”

“ My father?”

I shrug. “He likes you best. And me least . Anyway, I knew you had illicit behavior in you. I could tell. It’s in your eyes. Real recognizes real.”

“Renn? Shut up.”

“Fine.”

She sighs. “I think my new neighbor might be holding someone hostage.”

“ What ? Why?”

“I was sitting on my patio, enjoying my tea and doing some paperwork, and all of a sudden, this muted … banging was coming from that direction.”

“Maybe he’s doing construction.”

“Have you seen him? He’s not construction-y, and there are no work trucks or anything here.”

Huh .

I’ve seen her new neighbor a couple of times. He seems like a decent guy. We briefly chatted about running and the best place to get burgers. He didn’t seem weird or hostage-holding-y. But what do I know? People have surprised me before.

“I think it began last week. Not just banging, but thumps too. And I swear to God I heard screaming the other night,” she says. “It’s freaking me out.”

“Damn. How thin are your walls?”

“I had the window open, Perry Mason.”

I laugh. “Look, do you think you might be jumping to conclusions?”

“No, and here’s why— he’s hot .”

The line stills. I wait for her to expound on that brilliant observation, but she doesn’t follow her statement with anything more.

“Did he nab you too? It’s awfully quiet over there,” I say.

“ You are not funny .”

“ Bianca . Your reasoning for thinking your neighbor is holding someone hostage is that he’s hot. Have you listened to that out loud?”

“He’s extremely good looking, Renn. Beautiful . And attractive people always get away with stuff because no one suspects the gorgeous doctor in the gated community of wrongdoing.”

“Call the police then.”

“And say what?”

“That your beautiful neighbor is thumping on his walls, I guess. I don’t know. Come to think of it, how do you know he’s not just fucking his girlfriend?”

The line goes quiet again.

I sigh. “When I get home, I’ll come over and do some reconnaissance, if that will make you feel better.”

“Not if you’re just going to make fun of me.”

“I’m not.”

“I hear it in your voice, Renn.”

“So what do you want me to do? If you seriously think something is weird over there, call the police. I suppose that’s the responsible response.”

She groans. “Now I don’t know. What if you’re right?”

“It won’t be the first time.”

“I won’t dignify that with an answer.” She takes a deep breath. “Forget it. Calling you was a mistake. I’ll call Tate.”

My laughter is loud and immediate. “Why? So he can come over and shout mean things over the fence at him?”

She tries not to laugh but fails.

“Set your security system,” I say. “And if you hear anything else, call the police. Or Ripley, at the very least.”

“Okay. But I can’t be held responsible for anything right?”

“No, Bianca, you can’t.” I roll my eyes. “Anything else? I have reservations.”

“Reservations? Where are you?”

“Vegas. It’s Blakely Evans’s birthday, and I came with Brock for the weekend. I’ll be home on Sunday.”

She pauses. “So what are your plans while you’re there?”

I twist my lips, knowing exactly what she’s asking—without asking.

“Oh, not much,” I say. “Strip club. Shots. Might get married tonight. That sort of thing.”

“Renn Patrick Brewer, don’t you even joke about such a thing. You’ll lose your contract if you so much as breathe the wrong way, and Dad has hundreds of millions of dollars tied up in this Arrows purchase—”

“I’m aware. Damn . Don’t any of you have any faith in me?”

“Is that rhetorical?”

“Call someone else the next time you think you’re living next to an apex predator.”

“I will.” She takes a breath and blows it out. “Enjoy your night. Safely .”

“And safely enjoy yours.”

“Love you, Renn.”

“I love you, Bianca. Goodbye.”

“Bye.”

Before I put the phone in my pocket, I enter a quick text just to piss her off.

Me: I can’t believe you’re helping your neighbor hide bodies! That’s wrong!

Sure enough, it buzzes in quick succession as I shove it in my pocket and walk out of the room.

No one is visible, and the suite is quiet. I start to check the kitchen. But just as I pass the staircase, movement catches my attention.

And then it steals the breath right out of my lungs.

Ho-ly. Fucking. Hell.

Blakely stands at the top of the stairs looking like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.

Her dress fits her like a glove that shimmers as she moves. A deep, plunging neckline showcases her breasts. The hem stops just low enough to keep it classy, capping off her toned, tanned legs that look a mile long thanks to those silver heels I found earlier.

Fuck. Me.

“Does this look okay?” she asks, running her hands down her stomach.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you come closer so I can get a better look?”

She takes her time descending the staircase, taking my hand as she reaches the bottom. It takes every ounce of power I have not to kiss the hell out of her.

My body buzzes as we make contact, skin to skin.

Big hoop earrings. Lipstick the same color as her cheeks when she blushes. She’s gathered her hair loosely at the nape of her neck, letting strands hang around her face.

I’m not mature enough for this.

“You are absolutely beautiful ,” I say, holding her hand and encouraging her to twirl. “My God, Blakely. How do you expect me not to get punched tonight?”

She giggles, her eyes twinkling. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“That’s how I meant it.”

“Then thank you.”

We exchange a smile that makes my stomach tighten.

“Are you guys ready?” Brock yells.

Fuck you, Brock.

I pull Blakely closer, spreading my fingers against the dip in her lower back. “Want to ditch them and go out by ourselves tonight?”

“That’s funny. I thought you’d want to ditch them and stay in by ourselves tonight.”

“Say the word.” I lean closer. “ Say the fucking word .”

Thoughts of unwrapping her out of that dress roll through my mind.

She winks, stepping away. As she moves, she brushes her hand against my crotch. “We’re ready, Brock,” she calls sweetly.

I growl as she walks away.

This will be the longest, hardest night of my life.