Chapter Nine

Poor Brat.

Poor, poor Brat. Couldn’t catch a break if said break was sitting still right in front of her, with a Post-it note reading, CATCH ME.

I didn’t feel bad about last night. The fact that she’d decided to stop and enjoy the show was unexpected, but definitely not unwelcome.

I wasn’t much of an exhibitionist, but I liked having Hallie’s eyes on me when I fucked Marla, a flight attendant I’d known from years back and was in Dallas for a layover.

Brat had a dark side, and I had to remember she was off-limits, because nothing turned me on like darkness.

I did feel sorry for her. Her parents were two pieces of work. The shit show yesterday was very telling. A quick scan of the Thorne estate had confirmed zero mentions or sights of anything Hallie-related. Though I’d seen plenty of photos of her horsey sister along with her fiancé, who looked like a piece of bread soaked in water.

The time her parents made her wait conveyed the message that she wasn’t important to them. Then her father had invited me for a talk, in which her mother was present, and I realized these people didn’t know their own daughter as well as I did. They thought she had an alcohol problem, something I’d have picked up on if it were true.

They thought she had multiple sexual partners—in practice, I’d wager she was seeing very little non battery-operated action between the sheets.

And they thought she was as dumb as a rock. But I was starting to suspect there was more to their daughter than meets the eye.

I woke up with a headache. It was six in the morning. Brat was fast asleep. I hit the hotel gym, but not before giving the security company I’d hired a piece of my mind about letting Brat get into the room without calling me first last night.

I hit the shower back in the suite. Brat’s soft snores were still rising from the master bedroom. I wondered what kind of plan she had waiting for me today. Brat was always in the mood for retaliation whenever I messed with her. And yesterday I’d made her come in her studded pink sweatpants just from watching.

I found her fight amusing. Now that I knew her background was comprised of such a shitty family, her unreasonable behavior almost made sense.

The Princess woke up at ten in the morning and found me in the kitchen, working. She was extra pouty. She was also dressed—thank God—though I couldn’t exactly describe what she was wearing. It looked like an old gingham curtain that had suffered a midlife crisis and decided to become a ’50s-style dress.

She put her ruby hair up into a high ponytail, letting tendrils spill across both her shoulders. I had to admit—she was beautiful in broad daylight. Fragile, elegant, and succulent, all at the same time.

“Coffee?” I asked, my idea of giving her an inch of a white flag. A white stamp, if you would.

She shook her head, sitting directly in front of me at the table. I shut my laptop screen. I had a feeling she wasn’t used to having people give her their full attention unless she was naked.

She stared at me. I raised my eyebrows, in a what-the-fuck? gesture. No doubt, she wanted to clear the air after yesterday.

“My parents…” She licked her lips.

Her parents?Did not see that one coming.

“They thought I was staying at their house, and I left without saying goodbye. Did they call you?”

“Yes,” I said evenly.

“Am I in trouble?”

“Also yes.”

Her expression collapsed to something full of annoyance.

“Stop fighting everything and everyone. Accept the situation. These are the cards you’ve been dealt. Me. Your parents. This life. It’s not the worst.”

“I’m not going back there today.” She folded her arms over her chest.

“We have to,” I said dispassionately, taking one last sip of my espresso and standing up to dump the cup into the sink. “They invited us for dinner.”

“I don’t want to.” Her eyes were glassy, and I hated that I had to make her. Catering to assholes who didn’t deserve your time was something I knew a lot about.

ButI had to play nice with Anthony Thorne because he was a key figure in what I was trying to achieve for my business.

“Maybe we can tell them I’m sick.” She snapped her fingers, her eyes lighting up. The way she had forgotten about yesterday, about the charged chemistry between us, about climaxing at the same time, like it hadn’t happened, surprised and confused me. Usually, I was on the receiving end of sexual propositions. Yesterday, I’d been minutes away from kissing the shit out of her in the bathroom.

Maybe she didn’t want to broach the subject when the place was wired. A car ride alone would change that.

“No.” I picked up my phone and scrolled through my messages. “You’re used to people letting you off the hook. Time to change that. We’re going.”

“I hate you,” she murmured.

“I understand,” I said blandly, but I didn’t believe her.

“Well, then.” She stood up. I did not check out her ass. Okay, fine, I did. Fuck, she had Jessica Rabbit’s proportions. And hair. “I have an appointment to get to, if you want to join.”

“Want is not the operative word here.” But I was glad for the distraction. “Where to? I need to check out the place in advance.”

She gave me the address of a small tattoo shop in downtown Dallas. I sent the team to sniff around while she got ready. Hallie took approximately five-and-a-half years to make herself presentable.

“What tattoo are you getting?” I asked as I drove her down to the shop. Downtown Dallas was awash with shoppers, joggers, and people walking their dogs.

“Promise not to laugh.” But she didn’t look concerned about my opinion. Also, she still didn’t say jack-shit about last night.

“Don’t give yourself too much credit. I’m a hard man to entertain.”

She produced a piece of paper from her secondhand Gucci bag, handing it over to me. It was a drawing of an anatomically correct heart, made out of a diamond. It looked morbid, real, and surprisingly compelling, even though tattoos weren’t my jam. I handed it back to her.

“Where?”

“Hipbone.”

“Does it represent something?”

“Sometimes I feel like my heart is as hard as a diamond. Or should be, to survive my life.”

This was the part where I mocked her for her hardship, while balancing a 3k bag in her lap. But baiting her was getting old, not to mention all of her shit was secondhand. In fact, I didn’t know a lot of women who rummaged through trash the way she did to take care of the environment. No. Hallie’s lack of employment and direction didn’t come from laziness.

Instead, I asked, “Did you draw this yourself?”

It was surprising both because I didn’t normally show that I gave a damn and because I didn’t realize she had any talents other than pissing me off.

“Yes.”

“You’re not terrible.”

“Lofty praise coming from you.”

I let her lay in the puddle of her own thoughts for a while, knowing she was incapable of keeping her mouth shut for more than five minutes.

Sure enough, two seconds later, she sighed audibly and said, “Sometimes I worry.”

“About?”

“That I’m too numb. I think I love tattoos not only because it’s easy to hide behind them, but because…well, the pain gives me an excuse to feel.”

“Pain’s not a feeling,” I corrected her. “This is why you keep getting inked. You’re searching for a feeling, but you’re not getting it.”

“What do you mean? Of course pain is a feeling.” She turned to face me, and I swear the temperature in my body rose a couple degrees. Goddammit. I had to bang a Hallie lookalike and get rid of my stupid fixation with her. This was ridiculous. And dangerous. And putting a strain on my cock, which wasn’t used to being erect nineteen hours a day.

“No. It’s a sensation. There’s a difference.”

“What’s the difference?” Her eyes were two sapphire saucers, directed at me.

“A feeling is an emotional state. A sensation speaks to your nervous system.”

“How do I fix this?” she demanded.

“You don’t.”

“I must,” she insisted. “Tell me how.”

“Do I look like a shrink?” I snapped.

“No, but you charge more than one, so you should go the extra mile.”

I didn’t answer that. Getting life advice from my ass was as good as celibacy tips from a whore.

“And what about you?” she redirected. “Do you have feelings or sensations?”

“Neither.” I pushed my sunglasses up my nose. “And thank fuck for that.”

I parked at the back of the tattoo shop so as not to draw attention, but when we rounded the alleyway, spilling onto Main Street, Brat pointed out we’d have to enter through the front, anyway.

As soon as we appeared on the corner of the street, next to a Starbucks, dozens of paparazzi photographers swarmed us like raptors, aiming their cameras at us, crouching to try to catch an up-skirt money shot.

Hallie stopped, smiled, and blew kisses to the cameras. She waved at all of them, practically glowing. She was giving them old Hallie. The person they wanted to mock. The one who drew bad press.

“It’s good to be in Texas again, y’all.”

This was her little payback for last night. Inviting the paps and making me look like I didn’t have control over her ass.

“Hallie! Are you here for your sister’s wedding?”

“When’s your turn?”

“Is it true that Wes Morgan dumped you because you’re having an affair with your bodyguard?”

“Are you pregnant?!”

I grabbed her wrist and ushered her inside.

“Did you hear?” she purred. “We’re having an affair and I might be pregnant. Should I tell them your favorite flavor is unwilling?”

“We both know that’s not true.”

“I’m sure the tabloids will listen to reason instead of capitalizing on a juicy detail.”

Never have I wanted to murder and kiss someone more. Simultaneously.

I pushed the door open. We both entered a tiny space with checkered flooring and posters of skulls and zombies on the coral-hued walls. Very refined.

“Oh, come on. You couldn’t expect me to just let you get away with what you did yesterday.” She laughed, her throaty voice filling the small space, drowning out “Young Folks” by Peter Bjorn and John.

Nowshe wanted to talk about last night. In front of a three-hundred-pound tattoo artist with a bushy beard and enough bodily piercings to moonlight as a sieve.

“You wanted to watch,” I snarled.

Case in point: she’d stood there and stared at my cock like it was a Broadway show.

“I was shocked, is all.”

“Bullshit. You’re curious.”

“And if I am?” She twirled a piece of hair around her index finger. “What does it mean for us?”

It meant my cock was about to fall off for wanting her so badly, but I was never going to act on it.

I turned around, giving her my back.

“Just get your shit done.”

While Brat was getting inked, I hopped on the phone with Tom. He was back in Chicago, shadowing Mayor Ferns, and sounded bored out of his ass.

I didn’t call him to hear about his day-to-day life. I called about Ian Holmes and the soap opera we’d left in L.A.

“The feds are taking their time,” he complained. I heard him unbuckling his belt, taking a piss. “And the LAPD is so overworked and underpaid, my guess is they’ll try to bone up some bullshit info just to get someone to trial, but it doesn’t look great. Mainly, there’s not enough evidence against Kozlov.”

“They aren’t digging deep enough,” I insisted.

“If Ian couldn’t stop them with his resources, ya think they’ll want to stitch up a case against these career criminals? This is not the eighties, Ran. These people have lawyers on retainer. The type who charge four figures an hour.”

“Are you saying they’re scared to touch the Bratva?” I asked.

“I’m not saying they aren’t, is all.”

This meant I had to drag out Brat’s stay here in Texas until I had a better idea of how to protect her in Los Angeles. If the Russians had impunity, and didn’t fear getting caught, I was certainly the next one in line to get offed.

The best course of action was to tell Anthony Thorne there was a threat to Hallie’s life in L.A. She wasn’t going to be happy about it, but sparing her feelings wasn’t as important as keeping her safe.

Brat was done three hours later. She wobbled out of the back room toward the register, wincing with each step she took. The artist slipped behind the desk and checked her out. With a faux smile on her face, she snapped her fingers in my direction, like I was her butler. “Pay the man, Lockwood.”

“My apologies, ma’am. I forgot my checkbook in the suite, along with my servant uniform and, apparently, your sanity.” I smiled cordially.

What made her think I’d pay for this shit?

“Cash’ll do. So will a credit card.” She didn’t spare me a look.

“Nonetheless, I’m still not reaching for my wallet.”

“I haven’t received my daily allowance in days,” she reminded me. “Go on. Pay up. That should cover the tattoo and the tip.”

“I’m not paying for this.”

“Well, someone is,” the man behind the desk said, popping the buttons of his leather vest open. “And I ain’t got all day, pals.”

“Gee, I understand,” she sassed, draping herself over his desk seductively. “The last thing we need is a headline, sir. Anthony Thorne’s Daughter Leaves Local Tattoo Shop without Paying Bill.”

Yeah. Hallie Thorne wasn’t dumb. She simply channeled every cell in her brain to being a manipulative little minx.

Reminding myself that I was about to keep her in Texas for a long time, and that was retaliation enough, I took out my wallet and handed him my card.

Brat twirled her way out of the shop, all sunshine and rainbows. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

After a quick stop at a bridal shop to get her measurements for the maid of honor dress, we drove to her parents’ house in silence. My favorite soundtrack.

About halfway through our journey, she let out a little sigh, and that was when I knew my luck had run out and she was about to start talking.

“I think I might be a horrible person.”

“Finally, a statement we can both get behind.” Was she expecting a pep talk? We were in the midst of a cold war.

“I mean it, Random. I think I am.”

I didn’t want to get to know her better right now. I didn’t want to hear about her woes. In fact, I regretted the moment I made the error of telling her about my humble beginning, but at the time, she’d looked about ready to off herself and a dead client would’ve looked really bad on my résumé.

She stared out her window with a slight pout. I thought I saw a tear sliding down her cheek.

I guess self-realization was part of the ‘grow the fuck up’ itinerary I’d thrust upon her. Sighing, I said, “Why do you think you’re a horrible person?”

“I just realized yesterday that I have no real friends. No real connections. My relationship with my family is in shambles. My life is keeping up appearances. It’s an empty shell.”

I said nothing. If this was her having a breakthrough, it was better she come to the conclusion herself.

“And all those Instagram friends…NeNe and Tara…” She frowned, shaking her head. “They haven’t even called me once since I got here. No one but Keller—he’s the closest, but… Don’t you think it’s weird?”

“No. It is very possible NeNe and Tara don’t know how to operate a phone.”

“I just feel like I’m wasting my life away.”

“You are,” I confirmed. It was the first crack in her tabloid princess persona, and I was going to break the rest of it apart and pull out whatever was hiding underneath.

“What should I do?”

“Get a job. Do something meaningful with your life. Contribute. It’s not like you’re a stranger to altruism,” I gritted out. “You care. Put your good intentions to use.”

“I always thought work was a means to an end. A way to pay for the pleasures of life.”

She looked mesmerized by the idea that doing something with herself was an option, rather than a bad joke.

“Why do you think people who retire deteriorate fast? Humans need to be on the move. Fight or die.”

“But I feel like everyone would love to see me fail.” She bit at her lower lip.

“Prove them wrong.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Then die trying.”

“What’s the point of trying if you fail?”

I smiled grimly. “You look at yourself in the mirror differently. Have you given any thought to what you want to do with your life?”

She inclined her head. No surprises there. To me, the answer was obvious. But she had to realize it herself. It was no good if I handed her the idea. It had to come from her. And, she deserved to choose that for herself, at least. Not like she’d had much say over the rest of her life, not with the family she’d been born into.

“Better come up with something.” I drummed the steering wheel. “It’s part of our process.”

“Okay.” She rolled her shoulders back, sitting straight. “Do you think I’m a decent person?”

We were still on that subject? Jesus.

“I think it doesn’t matter,” I said, and when she opened her mouth to speak again, added, “This conversation is over, Brat.”

The way dinner had gone, I was pleasantly surprised by Brat’s resilience. Her loyalty. She had every reason to write these people off, but she still kept it civilized.

“This is an informal supper. Please, feel at home,” Julianne Thorne urged, snug in her Alexander McQueen red satin jacket.

We followed the Thornes across the foyer, with Brat staring down at her feet, looking much younger than her twenty-one years.

“Good to see you again, Sugar Pie.” Anthony eyed his daughter. He glossed-over the fact his daughter ran away from their house yesterday without so much as a goodbye.

Hallie, stiff and uninterested, sported the facial expression of a prisoner of war. “The pleasure is all mine,” Hallie deadpanned.

“We were so shocked when you left without saying a word,” Julianne whined to her daughter.

“Oh, yeah? I was shocked you thought I’d stay after our conversation in Dad’s office.”

The girl had an admirable amount of fight in her.

We sat down at the “informal” table in the kitchen, not the fancy one in the dining room, while three chefs in absurd white hats produced sweet potato and buttermilk pies from an AGA. Accompanied by chicken fried steak, a hearty stew, and sweet tea.

Very casual, you see.

“So. Ransom.” Julianne kept patting the corners of her mouth with a napkin, even though she didn’t consume any food. “Please tell us all about your company. We’re eager to get to know you.”

I provided them minimal information about Lockwood and Whitfield Protection Group, occasionally glancing at Brat, who seemed to have shrunk into herself until she was the size of a toddler.

I told myself it was not my monkey, not my circus. But it took them forty minutes to remember she was there while they grilled me about my life, my upbringing, my career, and my business partner.

“Oh, Bunny, I forgot to tell you. Remember Felicity Hawthorne?” Julianne gave her daughter a frosty look, taking a sip of her red wine. “She went to school with Hera. She’s the director of a think tank now, in Los Angeles. She said she’d love it if you sent her your résumé!”

“I don’t have a résumé, but I do have an allergy to nepotism.” Hallie smiled, and that was when I noticed her plate was empty. Which, of course, made sense, since almost everything on the table contained meat. She must have been starving—no wonder she was hangry.

“Oh, I’m trying, Hallie. Could you at least throw me a bone? Sarcasm is beneath us, Bunny.” Julianne’s face fell.

“Good thing I’m not a part of ‘us’ then, right, Mommy?” Brat tapped her pointy nails along the table, a habit she’d developed five seconds ago to get on her mother’s nerves.

“This conversation is redundant.” Anthony tossed his napkin onto his plate. “You don’t need to get a job right away. There’s still time for that. We haven’t seen you in so long, Hallie. Let’s focus on catching up.”

“Let’s.” Hallie perked. “Do you have a month or two? I have a lot of news from the last twenty-one years.”

“You’re a product of a generation that has too much, and of whom is required too little.” Julianne wasn’t in the mood to de-escalate the atmosphere.

“Whatever, Ma.” Brat rolled her nails along the tattoos on her arms, making her mother’s eyes stop and examine them. “Personal responsibility is a foreign concept to you.”

“That is rich.” Julianne smiled. “Coming from someone who hasn’t worked a day in her life.”

“Dessert’s almost here!” one of the staffers in the room cried desperately, leaning between Hallie and me to clear our plates.

“Good,” Julianne said. “I’m in the mood for something sweet and comforting, since I obviously cannot get any affection from my own daughter.”

I was starting to see the pros of not having a family.

“So what did you want to talk about, son?” Anthony referred the question to me, pouring more iced tea into my glass. I wasn’t his son, and I found the endearment denigrating.

“I understand that the rehearsal dinner is tomorrow.” I didn’t spare Brat a look. I was about to deliver a knockout.

“Correct.” Anthony nodded. “My security team was instructed to send you all the details.”

“They did.” I took a sip of my iced tea. “And the wedding’s in two weeks.”

“Yes.” Julianne touched her tinted cheeks. She obviously took pride in her other daughter. “That’s exactly right.”

“I would like to bridge it out and stay in Texas,” I said, not looking at Brat, who stiffened beside me. “Other than saving everyone the logistical headache, it would also ensure Hallie is protected in her hotel suite, where she already has a security team working around the clock.”

“Sounds like a solid plan to me.”

“No way.” Brat stood up, slapping her palm against the table. Her face looked ashen, yet she was animated enough to safely assume she was close to stabbing someone with her steak knife. “I’m not spending two-and-a-half weeks in Texas. I’m allergic to this place.”

“Dearie me.” Julianne swirled her red wine in tiny circles. All good manners and bad intentions. “Are we not glamorous enough for you, Bunny?”

Hallie’s gaze was fixed on her father, the lesser evil. “I want to be where I belong.”

“You belong in Texas.” Anthony’s face softened. “With us.”

“You belong nowhere,” I interjected. “You have three friends in L.A. Two of which probably cannot spell your name. It is too big, too crowded, and the paps would love to have your head on a platter. Texas may not suit your lifestyle, but it’ll keep you away from temptations and potential news coverage. You’ll be staying here, doing some volunteer work, getting to know the area. I’ve already set it up.”

“Thank you, Ransom.” Anthony winked. “Now, this is what I call money well spent.”

Brat stared me down. Though words didn’t pass her lips, her eyes screamed volumes.

I wasn’t letting her put herself in danger in Los Angeles. Even if I was the one responsible for this unfortunate predicament.

“I’m not staying here a minute past the rehearsal dinner,” she announced.

“Careful now, Miss Thorne, or your parents won’t be able to see the staggering progress you’ve made.” I smirked at her.

Our plates cleared out. Servants came out of the kitchen with Bananarchy, ice cream sandwiches, and an unholy amount of cake, lining shiny silver spoons on fresh napkins.

“Random, please.” I saw the exact moment when she lost her fight and tried to appeal to my conscience, knowing damn well mine was working only ten percent of the time. “Just once, let me have my way.”

I swallowed. Amazingly, my feelings were not as flatlined as they usually were. I hated doing this to her. And I hated she didn’t deserve this.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, meaning it. “It’s settled.”

She hung her head low between her shoulders.

We left shortly after dessert.