Wherever It Leads (25 page)

“Like he respected you? Like he respects you now?”

“You don’t know him.”

“How well can you know him, Brynne? How can you sit there, someone as intelligent as yourself, and tell me you respect some guy that only took from you? Some
kid
,” he spits, “That you don’t know anymore, if you ever did.”

“I didn’t say I respected
him
, Fenton. I said I respected
what we had
. And I’m going to dinner with him, and I’m going to hear what he has to say.” I take a deep breath and realize I’m going to have to just be honest. “He says he has something to tell me and he won’t say what unless I meet him. And on the off chance it’s about my brother . . . I have to go. And if it’s not, I can walk away and feel like there’s not something I didn’t do that could change things.”

The line stills. “Do you think he really has information?”

“Probably not. It’s most likely just another ploy to stay connected to my family, although there’s a chance his employer paid him off. But I can’t take the risk. I have to give him one more chance. My father thinks he’s on the verge of cracking.”

He blows out a heated breath. “No matter what I say, you’re going, huh? Like the fucking bikini.”

“Yes. Like the fucking bikini.”

“Shit,” he hisses. He mutters under his breath again before clearing his throat. “Okay. Have it your way.”

“I fully intended to.”

“You’re something else, you know that?”

“It’s been said,” I say, my words pierced with as much levity as I can insert. “But my break is almost over, so I really need to go. Thanks for calling,
Fent.
”

“Goodbye,” he whispers and I end the call.

The deep blue dress kicks out as I twirl in front of the mirror. It’s pretty, especially coupled with Presley’s red harlot heels, and fits my waist perfectly. The top couple of buttons are undone and I notice my ample cleavage. I hurriedly fasten one, lest Grant get any ideas.

After work yesterday, Fenton sent me a few texts to change my mind. As hard as it was, I held my ground and managed to turn down his final offer via text when I left work this afternoon.

This night has all the potential in the world to go a number of ways and nearly all of them are bad. The one good outcome would be Grant delivering a brilliant bit of information that helps my brother get home. The odds of that are nil.

So why am I even doing this?

I swipe my eyes with another coat of mascara.

I’m doing this because I have to. If Dad is right and he’s on the verge of breaking down, I want to know what he has to say. And if I don’t meet him, he’ll show up here and that’s not safe. So we meet in public and I convince him to leave me alone, and I can come home and pretend I’m back in Vegas with Fenton.

Launching the mascara at the mirror, I hate myself for thinking of him. He pops into my brain like a flashing light and it’s beyond frustrating.

My phone buzzes in front of me and I see it’s my mom. I lurch forward and swipe it on.

“Hey, Mom! Is everything okay?”

“Hi, sweetie. Yes, relax. I’m not calling with news.”

Sighing in both relief and disappointment, knowing that means Brady isn’t free and he isn’t dead at the same time.

“So, what’s up?” I ask.

“Just checking in. Seeing how you are.”

“I’m good,” I say as brightly as I can manage. “Just got off work. Going to dinner in a few.” I think back to the place Grant texted me to meet him. “Checking out a place I haven’t been to before and I hear it’s really good. I’ll probably come home stuffed,” I laugh.

“That’s good. With anyone I know?”

“No,” I lie. I don’t want to get into Grant with her. Not that I have the energy or desire to do it ever, I don’t think she has it in her today either. “Just an old friend. We’re just catching up.”

“You have no idea how happy it makes my heart that you’re going out to dinner,” she sighs. “We have to keep pressing forward, Brynne.”

“I know. And we will. Every day I think of Brady as soon as I get up, and sometimes, just imagining him yelling at me to get up and go is the only reason I actually do.”

“He was always such an early bird,” she whispers wistfully. “You know, sometimes I get up before the sun comes up and watch it and wonder if he saw it rise. The same sun shines on all of us. I just wish it could tell me where he is.”

I wish I was there to hug her. To comfort her. To be home, surrounded by my family. To go into Brady’s childhood room and feel a little closer to him.

“Hyland has a meeting with one of the owners of Mandla this week who has personal ties to Zimbabwe, so he might know more than he’s letting on.”

“Wait up. So one of the guys Brady was working for is from there?”

“I guess. Your father thinks maybe that’s tied in to Brady’s abduction. Maybe he was taken as some sort of retaliation against Mandla.”

I pace the floor in my heels, wishing I could wrap my hands around Brady’s boss’ balls and squeeze until they fall off in a big, dead lump and then feed it to him.

“If that’s true, they aren’t going to tell Hyland anything! If they know this is more than some random thing, they aren’t going to want the blame placed on their shoulders!”

“I know, honey. We’re working on all of that.”

Anger boils in my chest at the thought of my brother sitting for months with a bunch of crazy assholes while this company, out to make money, leaves him for dead.

“Okay. Just checking in. I need to run some errands before your father gets home. Have a good dinner.”

“I’ll try.”

“You’ll try?”

“I will.” She doesn’t respond, curious as to my little slip of the tongue. I try to smooth it over so she doesn’t also worry about me. “It’s just a long drive and you know I hate traffic.”

“You get that from me,” she laughs. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Mom.”

I glance up and see Presley’s head sticking around the door. I roll my eyes and she mimics me, walking on in.

“You look gorgeous. I’m a little afraid to ask why you’re going to see Grant looking like that . . .”

“Is it too much? We’re just going to Pano.”

Presley pops a hand on her hip. “That’s still a really nice place. How is he paying for that?”

“Oh, I probably will if nothing’s changed,” I snort.

I turn away and back towards the mirror again and second guess my outfit. It’s a dress I bought on clearance a couple of years ago and have only worn once. I want to look nice—enough to make Grant realize what he’s missing. But my normal wardrobe is too blasé for Pano and it seems wrong to wear the stuff Fenton bought for me.

I shake my head, trying to keep thoughts of him at bay.

“I’m not going to even ask,” Presley comments, chiding me. “I know that look.”

“You do not.”

“No, I do. That’s the look you get on your face when you imagine Fenton eating your pussy.”

“For heaven’s sake, Presley!”

“What? Did he not? Do I not recall a conversation about his oral skills?”

“I can’t even with you,” I say, grabbing my phone again as it starts to jingle. I gasp at the number.

Presley stills. “That’s him, isn’t it? That’s Cashmere.”

“I don’t want to talk to him, Pres.”

“Yes, you do. Just answer it. Or give it to me and I’ll find him and he can eat my pussy.”

“Get out of here!” I laugh, nudging her to the door.

She flicks her hair off her shoulders and winks. “I thought that would convince you.” She blows me a kiss and shuts the door behind her.

T
he cheery music drifts through the interior of Pano, a bubbly little beat that’s more annoying than welcoming. My mood is a wavy line, tossing over the boundaries of anticipation of what Grant has to say and a quiver of foreboding that this is going to be a mess. That I shouldn’t be here. That, although I want answers, I don’t want to be here.

I follow a casually dressed server about the same age as me, her long hair twisted into some intricate up-do, through the winding tables.

The restaurant is laid back, a very California ambiance flowing easily throughout. I might be a touch overdressed, but I feel good and I’d rather be overdressed when meeting Grant than under. If this is the last time I see him, and by all means that’s the point, I want him to remember me at my best so he can miss me as much as I missed him.

Skimming the room, I look for him. I automatically look for a door leading into a private room, but then it occurs to me yet again that I’m not here to see Fenton. I’m here to see Grant.

Tossing my shoulders back and weaving through the last few tables to the back, I spot my ex-boyfriend sitting at a table.

He sees me and jumps up, jostling the tableware.

“Hey, babe!” He leans in to kiss me, but I pull back. A sheepish grin touches his lips and he nods, his ruffled hair moving with his head.

“Hey.” I pull my own chair out and sit, tucking my purse onto the chair beside me. Grant sits, folding his hands on the table in front of him. We look at each other like we’re complete strangers, and in a lot of ways, we are. The man sitting in front of me is the same man that I used to know. But the twinkle in his eye is different. The smell of his cologne not the same. He’s a lackluster stand-in for the man I used to love, even though he looks . . . better. His watch is fancier, his haircut trendier. It’s a very peculiar situation and one I don’t have time to think much about because he starts talking.

He chatters away about some dirt bike race he saw earlier in the week, one of the things he loves more than anything. My mind drifts away, not at all engaged in his words and realizing that he knows I couldn’t care less, and still—he doesn’t care.

I’m not sure if I thought things would be different between us at some point in the future, maybe when Brady comes home and this is all sorted out. But they won’t be. Some things will always be the same, and while Grant and I had some chemistry, he doesn’t inspire me. He doesn’t make me want to be a better person. He doesn’t put me before himself and he never has.

Like a hammer hitting a nail, pounding it into a wooden plank in one fell swoop, it occurs to me that I will never love him again.

And I’m not sure I ever did.

A server steps up and we order drinks. She scurries away and returns before we can get a conversation started. Whatever I anticipated, it wasn’t this awkwardness like we’d never conversed before.

We place our orders and I wait for the server to leave once again before I try to push this conversation to the finish line.

“So . . .” I say, giving him a chance to lead the conversation. Instead, he sits there like a little boy and doesn’t speak. I groan. “Grant, you’re going to need to start talking.”

“I know, I know.” He fumbles with his silverware and then takes a hasty sip of water. “It’s just . . . I don’t know where to start.”

“I’d just appreciate you starting. Really.”

He plays with his fork, moving it from one side of his plate to the other.

“Grant,” I groan, considering just getting up and leaving. “I showed up here so you could talk. Start talking.”

He stills and looks up at me. “I’ve missed you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Babe, you do. Think back to all the time we spent together.”