“I remember your wedding day,” she continued, oblivious to the fact that he was one second away from groveling on the floor for her forgiveness. “I was here. In my parents’ house. In my room. I told them I had the flu so they’d go without me. I couldn’t go near that church. I couldn’t be here anymore. Not when I knew I’d see you two looking so happy together. Not when I wanted it to be me. I emptied my savings and I bought a ticket to Chicago while you were saying your vows.”
Vows that had made him sweat. He’d loved Audrey. In his own way. And she’d been in love with at least the idea of him. But it had never been right.
“Baby.”
“It’s selfish, but I’m glad you saved this for me,” she said.
“Only you,” he said fiercely.
She exhaled slowly. “Speaking of Audrey and Spencer. Would you be upset if they got together?”
Brick shrugged. “Why would I care?”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed. “Good answer, because I think they’re banging.”
“Speaking of, I just busted your sister doing the walk of shame up our porch steps.”
Remi squirmed against him. “Are you serious?”
“Said she was out for a run.”
“My sister doesn’t run,” she scoffed.
“She was wearing Kyle’s law school sweatshirt.”
“What a weird day,” she said, grinning up at him.
“I love you, Remington.” He felt like he was being swept away by a current stronger than he was. It was both terrifying and exhilarating.
“I love you, Brick. Now, let’s go downstairs, solve everyone’s problems, and go back to bed so I can show you with my mouth just how much I love you.”
48
Brick sat at his own dining table and tried not to acknowledge the rage that blazed inside him. Camille Vorhees sat across from him, carefully sipping water through split lips as Remi clutched her free hand.
“I appreciate you doing this here,” Camille said, automatically assuming the role of hostess as if the instinct had been bred into her.
“I’m sorry this is necessary at all, Mrs. Vorhees,” Chief Ford said from the head of the table. “But I appreciate you trusting us. Where would you like to start?”
“I spoke to my attorney. He’ll be filing for an order of protection and divorce tomorrow,” Camille said. “He felt it prudent that I discuss the situation with law enforcement.”
Darlene nodded. “We’ll take down the information and pass it on to the Illinois authorities since that’s where the alleged abuse occurred.”
“Alleged?” Remi snapped. “He drove us off a fucking cliff. There’s nothing alleged about it.”
“Remington,” her mother said crisply, then pointed to the tape recorder. Remi flipped the recorder the middle finger.
Brick wanted to reach out, to touch her, to reassure her with his body.
“Why don’t you two go get us some tea or coffee or ice cream,” Darlene suggested, looking between Brick and her daughter.
Camille gave Remi an encouraging smile. “Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”
Remi and her mother shared a meaningful look as she rose.
Brick followed her out of the room.
“I can’t tell if she’s giving us busy work so she can make Camille feel more comfortable or if she knows it was fucking torture for me just to listen to some of the things he’s done,” Remi complained.
He couldn’t hold himself back anymore and pounced. Grabbing her mid-stride, Brick hauled her into his arms and carried her past the kitchen where the rest of their house guests were pouring coffee and eating pancakes.
He stepped into the living room but couldn’t put her down yet.
“I want him dead, Brick. And I know that’s uncharitable and bad karma and all of that. But he’s a fucking monster, and I want his life over. He’ll never stop otherwise,” she whispered.
He held on tighter, unable to speak.
“Some protection order isn’t going to keep her safe. If anything, it’s just going to make it worse. I get it now. It was safer to stay. Even though it was going to always end with him trying to kill her. She’s actually safer living in that fiend’s house.”
Brick felt like he couldn’t breathe. “Remi,” he finally managed to rasp.
She pulled back and looked up at him. Her expression softened. “Hey, it’s okay, big guy. I’m not going anywhere. Certainly not to prison for murder. I’ll make it look like an accident.”
“Remi,” he said again. “He’s going to come here. He’s going to follow the trail and find you and Camille here.”
She cupped her hands to his face, rubbing her palms over his beard. “And you’re going to stop him. You aren’t going to let him anywhere near Camille, and you’re only going to let me close enough so I can relocate his balls to his throat.”
“I can’t—” He paused and cleared his throat. “I can’t lose you.”
She tried to squirm out of his arms, but he only held on tighter until she went still in his arms.
“Look at me,” she ordered, her voice steady. “Look at me. I’m not going to do anything that puts me or Camille or anyone else in danger. Okay?”
“I can’t handle the thought of him anywhere near you.” His voice shook. She was so fucking precious to him. He wouldn’t survive it if something happened to her. Wouldn’t be responsible for his actions if someone tried to take her from him.
She gave him a hard hug, pressing her face to his chest. He cupped the back of her head and held her there.
“Come watch me paint.”
He released her, frowning. “You’re going to let me watch you?”
“They’re going to be in there a while. Camille has a lot of incidents to report. I’ll give you a behind-the-scenes peek at the creative process.”
He let her lead him into the studio and suppressed a smile when she locked the door and drew the blind. Even when she hadn’t been speaking to him, the door had remained unlocked, the blind open.
“Come on,” she coaxed, tugging him down the ramp into her chaos.
He hesitated, feeling the pressure of the preparations he needed to make. But he’d always wanted this. He’d always wanted to see how the magic came to be.
“I’ll even let you pick the song,” she said, positioning him on a paint-splattered stool off to the side of the easel. She handed over her phone and pointed him in the direction of her music app.
He watched her as she pushed the canvas she’d been working on out of the way, replacing it with a fresh canvas.
The drop cloth on the floor wrinkled under her bare feet as she worked her hair into a high knot.
“Did you pick a song yet?” she asked.
He shook his head. “You choose.”
“Gentleman’s choice,” she insisted. “What song makes you think of summers here?”
Inspiration struck. He typed it in with a quirk of his lips and hit play.
“Nice choice,” she said with a sly smile as Neil Young began to sing about harvest moons.