Mind F*ck (17 page)

I stand, tightening my robe as tight as possible before tying the sash into a knot, “Here. You read it. Let me know if I’m fucking reading it wrong. And by the way, my mother will be here shortly. Apparently,” And I know, I know—hell I physically cringe the third time I say it,
apparently.
But I’m pissed! And when I’m pissed I can’t think, and when I can’t think, I can’t plan my next move or words. “When my husband decides to really fuck me, he really runs with it. I mean he drives it straight past fucked. He mind fucks.
With an audience!
” The last part is screamed so loud I’m certain only dogs heard it. But I don’t care.

My heart’s broken.

I spin and stumble. I try to straighten and step forward in my attempt to flee and it sends me falling over the chaise lounge Rhett and I were sitting on’s opposite half, but thankfully, he’s there and I don’t face plant into anything.
Again.

“Thank you,” I mutter as I stand and storm the rest of the way into the house before making a bee line for Liam’s, or I guess, now
my
side of the house.

Before I’ve even reached the stairs the tears are streaming with no signs of stopping any time soon. And by the time I barrel into the master suite, I’m a sobbing hot mess.

His text was clear if nothing else.

Crystal clear.

But in his defense,
or offense, however you look at it
, he really didn’t have any other option. I mean, my response is limited and matters none.

Sure, money wise, I’ll be fine. I’ll be set, that’s certain.

But what about our history?

And what about his text?

I feel the hard door’s coldness seep through my thin robe and shiver, but still I slide down it until I’m sitting on the cold marble floor of the bathroom. I huddle there in my little hole, thinking back to his text and I shudder harder against a different brand of cold that settles in around me.

It’s the same damn brand of cold I experienced after I lost the baby.

Same fucking ice cold. Bone cold.

And it gets colder and colder with every remembered word:

Lexy, I’ve been gone for reason. Reasons I’ll never be able to explain to you. I will say this, and not because you earned it. But because I earned the right to say it. I’ve accidentally fallen in love. And somewhere in doing so, we made a family. One I’ve decided to choose over you. Maybe this is why that God of yours never blessed you with a child, or us. Maybe it’s because he or she knew I’d be needed somewhere else soon. I don’t know what to tell you.

I have received your texts. And I’ve considered each one as an individual, I hope that wasn’t too presumptive of me. And I’d like to hit the high notes. First, I know you’ll miss me, baby girl. And I know this is going to hurt. But I’m here for you. And this will work if you want it to. Secondly, don’t worry yourself about the surveillance, it was totally for your safety, I can assure you. And thirdly, I know you haven’t mentioned him, but I am still keeping tabs on the house and YOU, I hope things are kept cordial between the two of you. At least until I’m able to announce mine and Summer’s engagement and share our news about becoming first time parents.

Ask your boyfriend whose wife he’s getting for his birthday, sweet tits.

Go ahead. I can’t wait to hear your reaction.

Nor yours when he informs you of the celebration his long lost god-father, Old man Jackson has prepared for the event tonight.

I do hope to see you there, baby girl. And I’d like to remind you to remember to mind your manners.

I’ve assured your mother will be there shortly with our little Mary to help you get ready. So if Rhett won’t escort your socially retarded inept self to the party, I’m sure you’ll find your mother still loves you enough to.

From now, on the other side.

—Liam

The other side?

Shit.

Does he think he’s freaking Adele?

“Shit,” I mutter, remembering the part about my mother.

I need to text her. Hell, she’s called a hundred times today, now I know why.

I guess I was
distracted.

I slowly stand before making my way through the dark bathroom and turn on the water in the closet sized shower stall, then light candle after candle.

I’m normally a bath person. I like soaking.

I like relaxing, breathing.

I like the silence.

I plug my iPhone into the Bose speaker system and press play on my playlist, positively blaring Lightening Crashes by Live.

The first chords tear through the echoing marble room and chill bumps race out across my naked skin.

Then the bass thrums though the room.

I walk from the shower to the mirror and brace myself with my hands on the countertops before looking back at myself in the mirrors reflection.

You know, to check and make sure. Reality bites sometimes so hard that a reality check is needed.

I know, I thought I was done learning new shit too.

“This is really happening?” I ask my reflection. Almost whispering, as if I can’t believe it either.

Then I nod.

Because I don’t know what to do.

I look myself up and down, completely bare as the day I was born, and I wonder what I did wrong.

My heart constricts tighter in my chest as the question ricochets through my conscience.

What the hell did I do wrong? Did I age bad? Am I aging bad? I stay fit, I run.

I try not to nag.

What’d I do wrong?

Defeat weighs heavy on my shoulders and they slump before I turn and slowly walk from the mirror and into the shower.

Once the still freezing cold water hits my skin, the sob that’s been lodged in my throat since I took my eyes off myself in the mirror releases, tearing its way out and the tears mix with the slowly warming water.

God I didn’t know it hurt this bad. I never thought it’d feel like such…agony. It’s fucking agony having a broken heart.

Having a broken heart is like having broken ribs. You look fine on the outside, but on the inside every breath is almost an impossibility.

The tears come for I don’t know how long. Long enough for my fingertips and toes to prune and the water to turn scalding hot.

I’ve just evened out my breathing and actually began bathing by lathering soap into my bath sponge when the bathroom door slams. Then less than a second later, I’m frozen, listening for a second sound, one hand half way to my shoulder ready to scrub away the morning, when suddenly I’m being slammed up against the wall and
all
of my space is being invaded by Rhett fucking Bennett in all of his long, tall glory.

His face stops, for the second time this week, less than an inch away from mine.

He’s still fully clothed. I’m not.

His hair is getting wetter with every passing second. Wetter, and heavier and falling into his face, sticking to it in rivulets of water streaming down, mixing with it. When he blinks, his lash sprinkle drops upward.

My hands fist, gripping his sweatshirt, his
sopping wet
hoodie sweatshirt. And I dunno, maybe I’m bracing myself? Stopping myself? From what?

Falling.

His are cupping my face when he finally speaks. “Fuck yeah you read it right. And fuck no I don’t know anything about it. So what? It’s my birthday. So what? Old man Jackson is throwing me a party. Yeah, I knew about it. I’ve known about it. All week. Just like you’ve known you were married to a cheating asshole. But let’s you and I stick to the facts, shall we? It’s my fucking party, and you need a date. Text your husband back, and tell him to fuck off. I’ll be on the balcony at eight to pick you up—“ He hesitates, and mouths
goddammit
, before continuing, “And your mother, too. I don’t want to do this anymore than you do, so together, we’ll get through it. Together we’ll do it.” He narrows his eyes. “Get dressed. Get beautiful. Don’t wear any damn pale, drab colors either. If you can’t do colors, I get that, wear black. But no pale pink or fucking khaki.” He coughs and turns his head, then squeezes his eyes shut before facing me and opening them again. After he pins me with those dark brown orbs, he clears his throat again, then goes serious. “I must’ve been out of my fucking mind thinking I could storm in here, with you in water
and not a stitch of clothing
—which I hadn’t calculated that into my equations by the way— say what I needed to say and not get out of here, out of your presence, without at
least
a ninety percenter.”

As fast as he’s there and his words are said, he’s even faster when he’s done speaking and gone.

I reach out and turn the water off to listen better, then run my fingers over my wet hair to squeeze some of the water out.

“Hello?” I quietly ask.

I haven’t heard the door close or creak. Then again, this house is so new, I doubt it would creak.

Then I hear the door creak.

“Just answer yes or no, we’ll work out the rest as it comes, are you going to be on the balcony? Is three hours enough time? Or not enough? Just…put me out of my misery, are you going to be on the balcony, Lexy?”

I don’t even have to think about the answer, I just say it.

“Yes. I’ll be on the balcony, Rhett.”

Then I hear the door creak before I hear it close.

My decision, once made, was quickly executed. I seriously doubt Lexy even realizes how quickly we were divorced once I made the decision last week. And unbeknownst to her, she’s been divorced since the day before yesterday. And she’s been fine. I’m sure it’ll sting her pride for a bit, but she’s tough. She’ll brush herself off and get back up.

I’m certain of it.

It didn’t take me long after Summer moved her things into the penthouse and situated herself into my life to make my decision. Not long at all.

And now with Lexy out of the way, all I have to do is stomach tonight.

I swallow the lump lodged in my throat.

It’s been lodged there since Travis and I had lunch on Monday.

I remember wondering why Rhett Bennett looked so smug as he walked out of the Italian bistro that afternoon.

And now I know why.

He’d just left Travis’ table where he’d been informed that my mistress, the Jackson princess, was carrying my child and my penance to him was my innocent by-stander wife. At his birthday party celebration.

Like Lexy would hand Rhett the time of day.

She’s scared to death of him. I’ve heard the audio from the common areas of the house, she sounds like a scared kitten. She just as soon piss herself before showing any claws or teeth.

She may talk big with her friend Mary on the phone or Gigi, but mother’s and best friend’s are easy to talk big to. It’s another thing entirely to walk the walk.

And Rhett Bennett is too much for Lexy Mayer Dean.

Believe me, I speak from experience, I know my wife.

“Was that the ex-wife that texted?”

Ex-wife. Shit, I keep forgetting.

I look over the back of the couch to where Summer’s playing something originally by Bach on the piano. “I don’t know. I text her and set my phone down in my study. I don’t care what her reply is. I’ve already spoke to Father. The lawyers have already started the proceedings, she’ll be compensated. More than compensated. It’s almost highway robbery, but my father loves her. And apparently so did my mother, though she never met her. Victoria had her will set up a certain way—even though she never laid eyes on my first wife, she made sure whoever it was that won that title would be taken care of, even after death and marriage.” I shrug. “My family is insane, I’m still learning.”

“Huh.” That’s all she says though, for the longest.

And it irks the hell out of me. “Huh?” I ask. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The keys make a foreboding sound when her fingers still on them. “It means exactly what it sounds like it means.
Huh.
Had I felt it needed further elaboration, I would have elaborated.”

Without any further explanation, she slams the piano shut and storms from the room, leaving me at a complete loss.

“What’d I say this time?” I ask her retreating back, but she doesn’t turn back around and respond.

I should probably go after her. I should probably try and talk to her, see if communication will help.

Then again, I think, isn’t it a little early in the relationship to be needing communication? Shouldn’t we just be fucking?

And why is she even talking?

Because she’s a working woman. A businesswoman.

Summer and Lexy are nothing alike. Nothing. Where Lexy is meek and timid, Summer is loud and unabashed.

And I’m quickly learning that while that may be fun to play with…it isn’t as exciting to settle with. It’s exhausting. Almost to the point of being nauseating.

Up. Then Down. Pissed. Then hot and bothered and at my feet in the perfect sub stance the next.

What? And I’m supposed to believe that it’s caused by her pregnancy? Ha! That’s an excuse, nothing more.

I know crazy when I see it.

And I recognized it all over Summer Jackson, the moment we met. Bumping straws, headed for the same line of coke.

Shit.

Have I made the wrong decision?

Shit.

I don’t like that Summer has me pinned where she wants me. I don’t like it when my hand is forced. Nor do I appreciate when things aren’t in my control.

And right now, the growing sense of uncontrolled chaos is nipping at my sanity.

HARD.

I stand abruptly from the couch I was sitting on and head towards my study. I make a bee line to the top desk drawer, slip out the mirror with pre-cut lines already railed out, and retrieve my silver straw from the drawer beside it.

Five seconds later I’m squeezing my nares together and swallowing the bitter taste out of my mouth, when my cell rings, notifying me of a text.

It could be from any number of people, even at this hour. But I’m willing to bet it’s either Lexy or Drake.

Lexy responding to the text I just sent her, cauterizing our once happy life together. Or Drake, with word about our boy, Bennett.

The night I left the bar after only sharing half of a drink with my new associate, I sent Drake a text telling him to dig up everything he could on Mr. Rhett Bennett.

But so far, aside from a few court documents where there were some conflicting stories while each testified, he comes up clean.

There’s no dirt to be found on this guy.

None.

But I just can’t unleash this guy on Lexy. I have to do
some
homework on him.

And I’d also like to know what the hell Travis is getting out of this.

He’s had his eyes set on my wife…

Shit. Ex-wife.

Since LA. And now he wants her to be
gifted
to Rhett?

Like some sort of
present
? Or a prize?

I scoff, chuckling to myself as I line up a few more rails and tuck the mirror face up back into the drawer.

Even though I know Summer hasn’t stopped her recreational habits because of her pregnancy, it isn’t worth the fight. She says she stopped. So that means I have to stop.

Which means I just have to keep hiding it, like I did when I was with Lexy.

Same ocean, different boat.

Same problems, different scenery.

And it hits me.

Somewhere between stalking from the desk in my study to the table in the sitting area, before I even get a chance to see who texted me, it hits me.

Then my mind becomes the uncontrolled chaos—supported and fueled by the cocaine and scotch pumping through my veins…

I can’t let Lexy go.

Lexy’s mine.

She always been mine, she’ll always be mine.

With my phone still in hand, I stop at the doorway to the master bedroom in the penthouse and peek in, feeling my phone vibrate, notifying me of a second text. When I see the bedroom lights off and the bathroom light illuminating it, I step inside and glance towards where I hear Summer moving around in the bathroom.

Barely catching a glimpse of her in the bathroom mirror, and I know, that’s all I need. I already know she’s doing exactly what she forbade me from doing.

And I’m disgusted with her.

It matters none what I’ve just done. I’m not the pregnant one.

And the fact that she had the audacity to pitch a fit until I said I’d stop, and then I catch
her
shoving the shit up her nose
?

She’s not even trying to fucking hide it.

I ground my molars together, and it takes a strength I didn’t know I possessed for me to calmly turn on my heel and leave.

Once I’m back in my study and both doors are locked, I pour myself another scotch and down its contents, twice, before thumbing my phone on and reading the first text that started
this
entire argument.

Hey, man. It’s Drake. You know me, new number. I found some hits on our boy. Seems you’re not the only big brother buddy S’s been tangled up with. That, and he’s got some shitty medical history. Hit me up later or meet me at McClearn’s at the reg time.

Later, man—D.

Hmm…

I thumb through my phone and see the second text was from the big brother in question, Travis.

And I briefly wonder why Lexy hasn’t texted back, and it causes me to have to consciously force myself not to go into the back office of my study and listen in to what audio I do still have up and running at the estate.

The last
few
that Rhett hasn’t
stumbled
upon.

Just so I can see how she’s reacting to my text.

But I’m already certain I know how it’s playing out.

And honestly, I don’t need to hear it or see it, I already know I can’t stomach
that
right now either.

My eyes scan over Travis’ text:

Call me.

And it’s during the following phone conversation I have with Travis when something inside me fractures. And it’s probably something on a very basic fundamental level. Something I’m certain a psychologist would suggest a normal man couldn’t afford to have broken.

The fissure splits and splinters.

With every word.

He answers, “This’s Trav.”

“Hey, man. Just saw your text. What’s up? Party still at nine, correct?” I glance at the clock above the mantle and sigh, pinching my nose between my eyes in an attempt to ward off the oncoming headache.

His voice cuts through the phone line, “I don’t know how else to say this, other than just out right saying it. You’re fucked, brother. The old man has been slowly snuffing out Brighton’s branch in The Big Easy since last March. Remember that meeting last month in New Orleans? The one you accumulated Bennett during? Yeah, that Brighton. Well, in six months Pops had it planned out so he could offer Brighton
and his son
a duel contract, insuring the youngest Brighton, the Brighton that
wasn’t
at that meeting, to the company while
his father
comfortably retires up here in New York. Now here’s the
why
…” The tone in his voice never waivers, even after he grabs another lung full of air to continue, “Here’s
why
Pops has gone the extremes he’s gone to get this kid out of New Orleans and in New York. And it isn’t only because his series seven scores make ours look comical!” He laughs, but his voice remains without humor. “Nope. It’s because, Liam. This
fucking
kid and Summer have been a
publicized
item, since you guessed it—last March.”

“Wait—What? Come again? This is the first I’m hearing of this.” I’m left reeling. It takes everything in me to stay rooted to my place in the study and not go tearing off after Summer, interrupt her shoving more shit up her nose, and demand answers.

Instead, I breath. Control the chaos.

“Look. Travis, I can do this. I am doing this. And your sister and I, we have some things to work out. But we’re fine. Everything will be fine.” I clearly speak, using my voice to portray my calmness.

“I’m still a firm believer in you, Liam Dean. I do believe in you, brother. Know that.” His voice mirrors mine. Calm. And clearly spoken.

“You have class, and you know what’s expected of you.” He continues, “You know how to produce what this type of crowd expects and that is perfection. I know you and Lexy can figure this out. You’ve got to. Do you understand?”

Although my mind is falling apart and I’m having problems understanding what is up and what is down, I quickly reply, not wanting to hesitate, “I understand that, Travis. And I thank you for believing in me. Although, it may not be necess—“

His voice barks through the other end, cutting off my words. “None of this sits well with Pops. Do you understand that? None of this. Not you being married. Not Summer being with Adam Brighton
publically
and you
privately
, then the two of you conceiving a fucking child!” His voice raises for the first time in the conversation. Then it’s back to calm, and he’s clearly speaking, “It doesn’t look good. Not in the social circles, nor in the business ones. It doesn’t look good, brother. It doesn’t reflect well on the family name, and that’s what my father’s empire is built on. His name. My name. Our name.”