The Lover's Surrender (No Exceptions) (5 page)

Like
someone I didn’t know at all.

“I don’t
think she’s friends with them,” Kenny said by means of resuming our
conversation.

“What makes
you say that?” I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

“Well, for one,
she’s half-naked,” he said. “ Maybe she is doing it for fun.”

“For fun?”
I turned to stare at him.

Kenny
shrugged. “Lots of women take pole dancing or stripping lessons. Why not
modeling, too?”

Could that
be the case? Was Brooke trying to learn to be sexier than she already was?

“Well, I
want it deleted,” I said.

“Sure.”
Kenny shrugged and pressed a few buttons. The photo disappeared from the
screen. “What about the others?”

I stared at
the screen as I felt the pressure in my head increasing. “You think there are
others?” I finally asked.

Kenny
clicked on a folder, and sure enough, more pictures of Brooke popped up. Anger
surged through me as I realized they were far worse than the first one.

The room
seemed to be alive with people.

People
dressed up.

Men
standing next to Brooke, eyeing her.

Men who
watched her as though she was some sort of merchandise ready to be bought.

Kenny’s
suggestion was absurd.

It didn’t
look like Brooke was posing for fun.

I balled my
hands into fists again and took a few deep breaths, even though I could barely
contain the need to slam my hand right through the wall. For a few moments, I
couldn’t say a word, too shocked by the discovery.

“At least
it’s not porn,” Kenny mumbled after a long moment, in what seemed a poor
attempt at making me feel better.

I shook my
head and grimaced. “No, it’s worse than that.”

Kenny
chuckled nervously. “Well, if Sylvie did this kind of thing, I’d ask her to
move in with me. This shit is hot. I’d be proud of her. Come on, we’re talking
about pin-up girls in lingerie.”

“Well, hot
shit or not, I want these taken down and deleted for good. Can you do that?” I
asked through clenched teeth.

“Should be
easy enough, but chances are he has some kind of secure server somewhere where
he keeps backup copies. It could take me two days to track it down for you and
erase the backup stuff. But if I do it, I’ll have to erase them all, and it
wouldn’t be without leaving a trace.”

“Just do
it,” I said, hopeful until I noticed Kenny’s expression. “What?”

“There’s
just one problem.” Kenny swiveled his chair around and faced me. “He might have
sold them. If he’s a professional photographer, which I think he is, because
he’s the owner of the building and he seems to have quite the followership,
then there’s the possibility that he’s already sold at least a few. Maybe he’s
given away the rights.”

I raised my
brows, not seeing where the heck he was heading. “So?”

“It would
take me days, if not weeks or months, to track down all the digital copies and
delete them, with no guarantee that they might not still end up online
somewhere. From the look of it, he might have even sold them straight to
print.”

“How do you
know?” I asked.

“Let’s just
say I’ve attended this sort of event and ordered the originals.” He laughed.
“Just not from him. And it wasn’t really a transaction in the seller’s favor.”

I frowned,
having no idea what the heck he was talking about. But for once, I had no
interest in figuring out Kenny’s riddles. “So you’re saying it’s impossible to
get them all and destroy them.”

Kenny
nodded. “If they’re on the web, I’d say it’s impossible. And if you’re lucky
and they’re not online, you’d still have to find out who bought copies and what
they did with them.”

I sighed
and began to pace the room. Kenny swiveled around in his chair, his back facing
the pictures on the screen. “It’s a nice one though. She has great legs. She
looks hot. The damage is minimal, if you ask me. It’s not really a big deal.”

Without
thinking, I switched off the screen.

I couldn’t
bear it. Couldn’t bear that she was so readily on display.

Looking so
sexy, so different, so confident.

It was as
though she was a new woman—one I didn’t know. And I didn’t like that. I
didn’t like that someone might have touched her, jerking off to her pictures,
doing God knows what else. Demanding that she undress. Maybe inviting her back
to his home.

His bed.

“She did
nothing wrong, Jett,” Kenny said warily.

“I know
that. But fuck…” I swallowed hard against the waves of anger rushing through me
like hot lava.

“What are
you going to do?” Kenny asked after a moment.

“I’m buying
the rights to all of them, so I’ll be the sole owner, obviously,” I said dryly.

“All of
them?”

I shot him
a sideways glance. “Yes, of course. All of Brooke’s photos. Before they end up
online. The last thing I want is her half-naked pictures belonging to someone.
I can’t bear the thought of someone jerking off to her pictures.”

Kenny shook
his head slowly. “How do you think you’ll accomplish that?”

“I’m
calling this Grayson guy, you know, talk man to man. Settle it with an amount
of money he can’t refuse. And if that’s not working, I’ll make sure he changes
his mind. He has to. Everyone has a price. I’ll just have to find out what his
is. In the meantime, I need you to comb through the web for any copies, leaked
or uploaded on purpose, while I try to get the originals.”

“What about
Brooke?”

I
hesitated. “She can’t know.”

“You’ll
keep another secret?” Kenny asked.

I stopped
my pacing near a couch and plopped down, no longer able to ignore the pounding
sensation in my skull. “Just until her pregnancy’s over.”

Kenny shook
his head. “Man, I’m telling you, you’re hitting deep water. If you decide not
to tell her now, the shit’s going to hit the fan eventually. Did it even occur
to you that Brooke might not want to stop working for him?”

I leaned
forward, resting my elbows on my knees as I observed him, taking in his words.
“You think she would continue doing this stuff even though she’s pregnant?”

Kenny
watched me in silence for a few seconds. Eventually, he resumed the
conversation. “Well, I could be wrong, but if she’s not doing it for fun, I
think she’s doing it for the money. You said she had debts. Maybe she thinks
she has no choice.”

“I’ll be
her buyer.” I stared him down, my grim expression daring him to question my
decision.

Kenny shook
his head slowly. “Behind her back?”

“Yeah.
Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.” At Kenny’s confused look, I added, “The
Lucazzone estate. I’m trying to find a buyer. As long as Brooke has connections
to the estate she inherited, she won’t be safe.” I started to pace the room
again. “She should have told me if she needed money. I would’ve helped.”

“Maybe she
doesn’t want you to, considering…”

“Fuck, man,
you’re not helping,” I cut him off, irritated by his need for brutal honesty.
“I get it. No need to remind me that she’s a proud woman.”

“No, what
I’m trying to say is that if you had told her earlier, she might have confided
in you. Now she doesn’t trust you anymore.”

I stared
him down again, my anger consuming me.

“I gotta go.”
I turned around and headed for the door, ignoring Kenny’s voice calling after
me.

“Where are
you going?”

I didn’t
reply as I stepped out the door and walked to the training halls.

I needed
time alone.

Time to
think.

Time to
reconsider my plans.

To admit
that I had failed.

Maybe not
telling Brooke had been a mistake.

Maybe I
should have let her in on some secrets, stopped playing games, given her a
little bit of information—enough to make her feel that she knew
everything and feared nothing.

Kenny had
been right all along.

Brooke
needed something—anything.

The problem
was I had no idea what I could tell her without making her worried, without
risking her health. I had no idea how to repair the damage to our relationship.
I had so many secrets. I didn’t see how adding one more could cause more
damage. If only it weren’t exactly the same sentence that pushed me into hot
water with her in the first place.

There’s still time to tell her.

Kenny’s
words rang in my head.

But what if
he was wrong and it was too late?

What if
that Grayson guy had touched her? Made out with her? Fucked her?

The thought
made me want to punch someone. It got me furious beyond hell.

Contrary to
Brooke’s belief, our relationship wasn’t over. I refused to lose her. How the
fuck couldn’t she see that?

As long as
I still loved her, which I knew would be forever, or as long as forever
existed, I would fight for us.

Or at least
until I knew for sure she had stopped loving me.

Stopped
wanting me.

Maybe I
couldn’t force Brooke to give up her new pastime, but I sure could make it
clear to her that I’d be the only one who had her pictures.

I might not
be able to tame her, but maybe I didn’t even need to and surely not by force.

Maybe all
she needed was for me to put some distance between us, move away for a while
until her bitterness settled a little.

Picking up
some punching gloves and peeling off my shirt, I stepped in front of the
training mirror, my gaze brushing over the many scars I had acquired in my
previous life as a member of a gang. They were ugly, hard, visible reminders of
a past I wanted left behind. And yet, as much as they had hurt, compared to our
breakup, they seemed barely more than a few scratches gathered along the way.
The wound Brooke had created was invisible but more shattering than anything I
had ever experienced because it contained a single truth:

She didn’t trust me enough.

The
knowledge stung, knowing that she never might.

An
insurmountable obstacle.

Getting
married might be a problem. Because how could she possibly become my wife when
she couldn’t even entrust her heart to me?

BROOKE

Present day

I used to
think love was a lesson to avoid, something to capture and throw away if it so
much as glanced in your direction. That was until I met Jett Mayfield.

The man who
had changed my life.

The one man
who instinctively knew how to mess with my head.

Pressing my
hand against my heart, I couldn’t help but wonder if my ribs were as bruised as
they felt from my heart pounding so hard against them whenever I so much as
looked at him. How could it possibly be that just looking at him could break
and melt my heart at the same time, and yet being away from him made my heart
die?

I had no
idea.

All I knew
was that loving him was not a choice. I had thought his secrets would crush me,
and they had, but so had seeing him renew my faith, making me feel hope again,
like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

By telling
him everything that had happened over the past three days in my crazy life, I
felt like a burden was being washed away. As if sharing pain with him would
halve the demons inside me. Or maybe it was his green eyes and the gentleness
that resided in his touch that opened my soul to him in the knowledge that it
was him who could erase all my pain.

At least
two hours passed during which I recalled the past events in minuscule detail:
how someone had left me an envelope at the hotel, containing information about
Nate’s impending release and the secret visits Jett had paid him; how I took a
new job, met new friends, went out, and that the next day, one of said new
friends, Gina, was found dead. I told him of the detective who paid us a visit,
questioning me, and how familiar he seemed, that I was sure I had seen him at
the hotel. Eventually, I finished with all the things the detective told me
about Jett.

Throughout
my monologue, Jett didn’t interrupt me once.

Not once
did he judge or question me.

He just
listened—truly listened, as if it was a peculiar story, something
extraordinary, except it wasn’t.

It was a story
of fear.

A story so
frighteningly real it almost felt unreal.

A story I
hoped would have a happy ending.

At times,
he looked at me with a worried frown—like when I mentioned having found
Gina’s belongings at his place. At other times, he sat there impassively, even
when I expected a reaction—any reaction—like when I told him about
the job. Right now, his frown was back in place. I had recounted the story
about the detective five times, and each time his worry lines seemed to deepen.
His hands were clenched into fists, and his rigid stance became more
uncomfortable to watch.

I knew how
I sounded.

Like a crazy lunatic.

Fear
engulfed me at the thought that he didn’t believe me, or worse yet, that he
thought I was making up the story, and he didn’t have the guts to tell me.

“He really
looked and acted like a detective, Jett,” I whispered and rubbed my hands
together in the hope the knots in my stomach would disappear.

“I believe
you, without a single doubt.” He intertwined his fingers with mine, and I let him.

Relief
washed over me as his thumb began stroke my skin. For a moment, I stared at his
hand, big and strong against mine—until his voice drew me back.

“The guy
who interviewed you. What did you say his name was?” he asked, his face turned
away from me.

It was his
first question, carefully phrased as if he had no idea whether I’d allow him to
ask it. I swallowed the lump in my throat as I watched him.

“I think
Sparrow. No, wait, that’s wrong. It was…” I paused and wet my lips as I racked
my brain. “Barrow. Detective Barrow. Why are you asking?”

 
“I’m trying to figure out why he would
meet with you.” His gaze remained focused on our hands.

“It wasn’t
me in particular he wanted to see, Jett. He interviewed everyone. That’s why I
believed him.”

“Are you
sure?”

“No.” I
cast my eyes down, trying to remember. “I was the first one he interviewed, and
then I left. I don’t know what happened after that. Only that he was interested
in you, knew your name, and he showed me pictures.”

“And the
next day you found my apartment a mess?”

I looked at
him. My silence forced his gaze to meet mine. “Not just a mess. It was
vandalized, Jett.”

He nodded,
as if that confirmed his suspicions. “What kind of pictures did he show you of
her?”

“Just one.
It was a headshot of her dead—in the street. There was blood on her neck.
Two dots had been drawn on her face, which I’m sure she didn’t have when I last
saw her at the club.”

My voice
was shaking as another cold shudder ran down my spine. His hands left mine. I
sensed him moving. When I looked up, I watched him pick up a blanket from a
drawer, then walk back to me to wrap it around me.

“Thank
you,” I mumbled.

Jett sat
down next to me, his arm going around me to pull me toward him. Together, we
leaned back, my head cradled against his chest.

“I can’t
believe she’s dead,” I continued.

I wrapped
the blanked tighter around me, as if it could protect me from the memories of
my past. Memories that had haunted me for such a long time that, at some point,
I had been sure they would stay with me forever.

They had
defined me.

My body
began to shake uncontrollably. Jett’s hand stroked my hand gently, his
tenderness calming me.

“You sure
she was dead?” he asked.

“Gina?”

“Yes.”

His
question took me by surprise, but really, it wasn’t that unexpected.

My gaze met
his green eyes. A few weeks ago, his father had faked his own death, only to be
found alive—until Nate shot him and sent him into a coma from which he
hadn’t awakened. His father’s unpredictable condition haunted and anguished
Jett, and I couldn’t blame him. Robert Mayfield was a potential witness. His
statement could expose all the members of Nate’s club—if only he woke up.

“She was
dead, Jett,” I whispered, unable to stop the sarcasm creeping into my voice.
“Dead as in dead. Is that what you want to hear? Gina’s eyes were half-open.
There was a big gash wound on her neck. It looked pretty real to me. I don’t
think you can fake that.” I choked on the words. “I don’t know why anyone would
kill her.”

“It’s
okay,” he whispered. “If you want to, we can stop talking about it.”

“No, it’s
all right. I want to tell you. Need to tell you. Too much time has passed, too
many secrets. I want things to be out in the open and for us to be honest with
each other. I don’t want to ever get back to that place where we don’t talk.”

His embrace
tightened as his hand brushed my face.

“I don’t
want that either.” His beautiful green eyes carried that gentleness I loved
about Jett. It was deep. Real. “Us not talking created barriers. I want you to
know I never wanted that.”

I propped
up on my elbow and turned my body to face him fully. “Are you saying you’re
sorry?”

His smile
was gone, replaced with anguish. “I’m saying I went too far. Yes, I made some
stupid mistakes, and not being here when things happened was one of them. If I
could change it all, I would in an instant.”

Tears stung
my eyes.

His words
were all I had wanted to hear in the past few days.

“I wish I
could change it all, too,” I mumbled too low for him to hear. A part of me
didn’t want to break our moment. But if we didn’t get this over and done with,
Jett would never know the kind of situation he was in.

I closed my
eyes, carefully phrasing my words in my head.

“The other
two pictures he showed me were of you, Jett,” I started. “One was from the
night club where you picked me up. And the second one was taken in a coffee
shop two weeks ago and showed you talking with a girl. Her name was Sarah
Smith. She was murdered.”

I let her
name linger in the air. I didn’t even know why I had added the last piece of
information. Maybe out of hope that the name would trigger something in his
mind, but it didn’t.

Jett
remained awfully quiet. But I knew he was processing the information from the
way his jaw muscles seemed to work, rhythmically clenching and unclenching.

“Jett?” I
prompted, touching his arm. “Do you know someone by that name?”

He shook
his head slowly, showing that he was listening.

“Sarah
Smith.” He frowned. “Should I know her from somewhere?” It sounded like a
question addressed to himself rather than to me.

I cocked my
head, assessing him in thought.

“The
picture was taken in a coffee shop two weeks ago,” I repeated in case he missed
it. “You were talking to her. I don’t know what you were talking about, but
surely you remember. I mean, it wasn’t that long ago. Maybe if you think real
hard, it’ll come to you.”

“What did
she look like?”

I shrugged.
“Blond bob, very young. Her age wasn’t clear from the picture. I’d say
eighteen, twenty tops. She was wearing a black cuff bracelet around her wrist
and her clothes were dark: fishnet stockings, short black skirt.”

He shook
his head again, and then his eyes grew hazy as recognition dawned on him. His
hand rubbed at his unshaved skin.

My breath
hitched in my throat.

“You
remember her,” I whispered slowly.

It wasn’t a
question.

It was a
fact.

“You said
dark? Like a goth?” Absentmindedly, he picked a curl of my hair and wrapped it
around his finger, hesitating. His jaw was clenched, his lips tight. “There was
this girl with black cuffs and rhinestones, yes. I remember waiting for my
order when she approached me.”

My heart
skipped a beat and blood rushed to my ears. I held my breath as I stared at his
face, waiting for him to continue.

It was her.

Jett had
met her.

I knew it.

“I don’t
remember her face, how she looked or anything like that, so I’m not sure I’d
recognize her again if she wore different clothes,” Jett continued, his voice
growing quiet. “But I remember thinking that she was too young.”

“How so?”

“She said
she was a musician trying to make it big. She told me she was sixteen and
sleeping on the couch at her friend’s place. She asked me if I wanted to buy a
copy of her music because she had no money.” He looked at me with a strange
glint in his eyes, as though he was trying to convey a certain meaning that he
wanted me to understand. “I gave her some cash and told her to go back home to
her parents. That they were probably worried about her.”

I continued
to stare at him, unsure of what to think.

“She was a
runaway?” I asked at last.

He nodded.
“She gave me a copy. I think I still have it back at the office.” He remained
silent for a moment. “But I didn’t know her, Brooke,” Jett whispered. “Not
personally. Just as I didn’t know your friend Gina. You have to believe me.”

He looked
so sincere. It felt good to believe him.

I found his
hand, and we intertwined our fingers again. “I believe you.” I looked at him,
smiling, and found myself whispering the same words he spoke earlier. “I
believe you, without a single doubt.”

For a few
minutes, we stared at each other, the silence soothing, and then his expression
changed to serious again.

“Brooke, if
I remember correctly, I met that girl more than two months ago, maybe at the
beginning of September. It definitely wasn’t two weeks ago, like the detective
claimed.”

“Two
months?” My eyes widened. “You’re saying the detective—or whoever he
is—lied about that, too?”

He nodded.
“Like with the car.”