“My sister,” Whitney gasps. “Maxim…you did it. I knew you would.”
I want to tell her I would move mountains to make her happy, but I’m too busy watching the other SUV closely for signs of a threat against my Whitney.
Easton Brawn saunters around the back of the vehicle in an overcoat, a cigar clamped between his lips. He appears to be on edge as he opens the back door, helping Scout climb out, shielding her partially with his body. He signals for us to lower the window and we do.
“Send out the girl,” Easton booms. “Only the girl. They meet halfway. If I see a fucking weapon, it’s over. We’re gone.”
“Same goes for us,” I shout back. “And I’ll wait for Whitney at the same distance you wait for her sister. Or we’re gone.”
After a moment, the gangster inclines his head and I can no longer hold Whitney back. She clambers out the back door and races toward Scout. The sisters throw themselves into each others arms, holding tightly and rocking side to side. Truthfully, as I wait at the edges of the reunion, I begin to feel like a bastard. I might have arranged this meeting, but I did not stop to consider why it was so important to Whitney. I only considered it a task to complete. But her love for Scout is very obvious. Tears are coursing down both sisters’ faces and they speak a mile a minute. Quietly so I cannot hear.
Easton appears to be just as stunned by their affection.
Is it possible I even spy guilt on his face? The same guilt plaguing me?
Perhaps in the future I need to stop and consider why Whitney asks for things, instead of merely what she is asking for. Perhaps this will be insight into how she thinks—and isn’t that what I want? To understand her so I can love her better?
And oh, I love her.
So much I don’t know how I’m breathing with all of this cement packed into my chest. Love is an ache. A reward. It’s terror and joy. When I turned around on the stage and she was no longer there, I was certain that I wouldn’t go on living unless I found her safe. What would be the point after knowing such happiness and having it gone, leaving a hole behind that cannot be filled by anything or anyone else?
She is my heart now. She lives inside of it, keeping it beating.
After Scout returns to Easton and we leave, Whitney is silent the whole ride home.
I feel like an open wound. Unworthy of sharing oxygen with her. All this time, she pined for her sister and I thought only of my need to keep her. Bend her to my will.
When we arrive home, she makes no move to leave the SUV.
Instead she reaches into her purse and takes out her phone. She punches in the code and pulls up her texts, handing me the device. Wordlessly, she climbs out of the car, a member of the staff letting her into the house. And all I can do is scroll through her conversation with Banner with a growing sense of shame.
Banner: I still want you, Whitney.
Whitney: Don’t contact me again.
Banner: Your father is here with me. He is very upset with your actions.
Whitney: I haven’t been thrilled with his actions for the last eighteen years.
Banner: You have such a feisty spirit. Are you with the Russian madman now?
Whitney: Yes. And if he finds out you’re texting me, a concussion will only be the beginning.
Banner: He can’t give you Scout. I can.
Me: Delete my number. Next time, I tell Maxim.
The proof that she was loyal to me is only the beginning. The texts from Banner go back for years and the nature of them make my hands shake with unfiltered rage. She rarely ever responded to him, occasionally telling him to leave her alone, but he persisted. Said crude things to her. Cursed her when she refused to respond. Harassed her.
Whitney didn’t have to let me see this. Didn’t have to offer me this proof of her trustworthiness. She only did so because I so stupidly questioned it.
I won’t do it again.
I’ll never question her.
Did she question me when I brought her here with the understanding she would never leave? No. She showed me only love. Understanding. And what I did, essentially, might have been kidnapping now that I truly think about it. Even when I demanded she quit acting, she might have been upset, but she allowed me the chance to compromise. Which I have not done.
I am terrible boyfriend.
I need to work on this immediately.
And hope I’m not too late to repair the damage I’ve done.
8
Whitney
I wake to the sound of hammering.
It’s still dark outside.
I’m not sure what time I fell asleep, but I’m groggy from crying and still wearing my black slip dress from the club. My arms are stiff from being hauled around by Banner and my father and I wince, massaging away the aches. Where is Maxim?
Last time I saw him was in the SUV when I handed him my phone.
I’m not sure why I wanted him to see the texts between me and Banner. At first I thought I was trying to ease his concerns about Banner. Or stop him from thinking I considered trusting Banner for even a second. Didn’t I owe Maxim that after he arranged for me to see Scout? But mostly, I think I just wanted to confide in someone about all the awful things Banner has said to me over the years. I wanted to let him know…I’m kind of scared of the other fighter. I spend a lot of time trying to be tough for my sister, but the truth is, I’ve been really unnerved since I was sixteen and Banner started showing interest. I’m tired of pretending I’m not.
And I don’t feel like I have to pretend with Maxim.
What happened tonight in the club, the way we embraced our physical relationship in front of the man I hate…in a way, it gave me back control of my budding sexuality. For so long, it felt as if Banner dictated how I dressed, how I felt about my body. Because I knew he’d be watching, stalking. Now I’ll be surprised if I spare him a single thought for the rest of my life. His unnerving hold on me is gone. I took ownership of my body. I allowed Maxim to share it.
As much as I cried tonight, I feel better now that I’m awake.
Like I’ve purged the demons.
But I want my fighter.
Yes, we have a few bugs to work out, such as the lack of trust he showed me, but I want to work them out from my place inside of his arms. Nowhere else.
Quite simply, I love him.
The hammering grows louder and I frown, throwing my legs over the side of the bed. I make a quick stop in the bathroom to brush my teeth and use the toilet, before following the sound of the racket. It leads me to the kitchen and backyard beyond, where I haven’t even been yet. The patio light is on and it illuminates a large pile of lumber…
And a giant, shirtless Russian hammering boards together.
“Maxim?”
His hammer pauses mid-swing.
“What are you doing?”
He turns from his place in front of a sawhorse, sweaty and disheveled in the moonlight. “I am building you a stage, kotik. For you to practice.”
My heart trips over itself. “What?”
“When you need to run lines.” He turns partially and frames a section of the enormous lawn with his hands. “We will have some lighting installed and make sure there is overhang, for rainy days. I will be able to watch you from the gym.”
I’m still playing catch-up. “You changed your mind about me acting?”