Brett pets him, soothing him, his hand swiping along the American Bully breed’s fur. Tank calms, but never stops staring at me—his gray eyes wary, a faint growl still in the back of his thick throat. He regards me closely. And I watch him right back—aware of my every movement. Water pools beneath my body, soaking the expensive fibers beneath my feet, when Brett finally speaks up.
“Uh, Sparrow?”
“Yeah?” I say, continuing to keep my eye on Tank.
“You want to put some clothes on, man? Your sword is swinging at me, for crying out loud.”
Shit. I glance down at my naked body. “Fuck, I’d almost forgotten. It’s hard not to…when you think you’re going to be eaten alive.”
My best friend laughs. “Tank doesn’t like the taste of dickhead, Heath. You’ll be fine.”
I take the few steps inside my bathroom, reaching for the nearest dark towel. Wrapping it around my waist, I point Brett towards the kitchen as he escorts Tank into the corner of the living room, and with a lofty sigh, my business partner sinks onto a stool, a tired smile on his face, his skin pale underneath a myriad of colorful tattoos.
He glances up at me across the marble kitchen counters, a strain on his face that I hadn’t seen until now. He exhales soundly, appearing almost small beneath a black Tee and pair of blue jeans.
“I’m sorry for bursting in like this.”
“Looks like the only one who was going to be sorry was me. After Tank bit my ass.”
Brett grins. “But I had no other avenue. Elsie and I have had Tank. Ever since the…” he hesitates, “Marilyn and your dad’s accident.”
“I know.” I nod.
“But we can’t take care of him right now. Not with all the press and reporters harassing us because of my dad’s case. Not with all the travel before the wedding. We have so much to get squared away. Tattoo Gods has another season I’m producing. The ink shops are in great shape, but business has become overwhelming for the managers. The Manhattan location is being bombarded by the same media following after my father. It’s a mess.”
I stare at Brett. “I know. If you recall, brother…this is not my first rodeo.”
He laughs on a dry scoff, his head hanging as he mutters under his breath, his voice softer than a sigh. “And you never let me forget it.”
I lean forward. “What was that?”
“It’s just that…” Brett stares back up at me, his blue and green eyes gazing into mine. His voice is gritty. “You know, you didn’t have to pull out as a producer of Tattoo Gods. We could have run the show together.”
I snort. “That was your thing.”
“Yes. And it could have been ours.” Brett shakes a head of brown hair, the strands falling over and into his eyes. His jaw pulses. “I know I started the show without talking to you. Without bringing you in from the beginning. But cutting yourself out like that? Moving to Hollywood?” He crosses his hands. “You barely have any stake in our tattoo shops as it is, and what little emotional investment you do have is mainly for criticizing our staff.” Brett watches me as I stroll towards the stainless steel fridge, opening its door. His words are strained, almost soft. “You shut me out.”
I turn. “I didn’t shut you out. I just did my own thing.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “You always do. But don’t you think you could afford to give a damn about something that’s not all about you? Take Tank, for instance. Have you even offered to see what your sister needed? Or were you worried about making sure she was alright so you could be on the next plane smoking, leaving everyone behind?”
I practically snarl. “Don’t you dare talk about me and my family, you son-of-a-bitch. You know nothing.”
“I know that you’ve fought hard to forge your own path without your father’s help. Carved out your own career in investing in the right businesses. And yes, your dad abandoned you in many ways, made you the black sheep. Treated you like the bad seed and prodigal son, I get it.”
He stands from his stool. “But he’s also a man who ended up here. In a hospital room alone. Divorced. Bitter. Broken in so many ways.” He closes his eyes before opening them again. He stares at the ceiling before directing his glare at me. His strangled words drive the point home. “Dammit, Heath…” He huffs. “I know your father made you feel as though you weren’t worth shit because you didn’t follow in his lawyer footsteps. But that doesn’t mean you have to step on the rest of us.” He points towards his chest, breathing heavier than before, his entire body heaving with the effort. “I talked to the hospital staff. Have you visited your father in his room even once?”
I grab a beer from the fridge, fumbling with its tight cap. I form a fist around its neck so tight I could break the glass. My eyes are cold as I return Brett’s stare. “That’s none of your concern.”
“Like hell, it isn’t. I’m your friend. Your family…” He trails off. “And if you keep at this self-made man bullshit, you’re going to find yourself without both.” He glances over at Tank, his shoulders tight as he rotates towards the door. “I’ll be back to deliver Tank’s things later.”
He turns and walks away, heading out the front door, and I’m tempted to stop him. But years of unexpressed repentance and regret fix my feet to the floor. I open the beer bottle, alone as ever, draining its contents, marveling at how—somehow, someway—I’ve ended up like my father after all…
Chapter Eleven
VIOLET
“He’s late,” I whisper twenty-four hours after David’s surprise meeting.
“Are you surprised?” She paces the floor. “I don’t know what David was thinking even telling us. Now we’re all wound up, trying to figure the mystery out.”
I shake my head, eager to run my fingers through my slicked-back bun. I wring my fingers. “It’s like my mind has been put into a blender.”
“Exactly,” Em says from her seat in my office. “And David’s the one who put it there. I can’t believe he’s not going to be our Managing Partner. I mean, who is?”
“Beats me,” I scoff. “This isn’t the best idea.” I snatch a pen off my desk, tapping it to my teeth. “Bringing a stranger in? Giving him the top spot? I wonder if I can plead with David to cancel, make him see that the integrity of this law firm is worth more than a spot in the sun.”
No matter how much I need that spot.
Truth is, the pressure is killing me. And our law firm needed the Chris Jackson case like a shot of adrenaline. The company had always been on firm ground, but we were competing with the best in the country.
Every case, every client won, was a battle against the best in business. I’d somehow turned into a magician in the last eleven months.
Pulling every trick out of my rabbit hat wasn’t hard, but I had to admit: my rabbit was getting a little long in the tooth.
I tap my silver pen against my teeth, contemplating my next trick when a small rapping at my office door matches the rhythm of my nervous knocking. The door opens, and David—seemingly flustered and out of breath—takes a step inside.