Bentley smiled at him in the mirror, and slammed two more drawers before unwrapping a toothbrush. “You know what’s sadder than the fact that you can’t hold your liquor?”
Brock spat into the sink then wiped his face with his arm. “Twelve shots within ninety minutes is impressive.”
Had it been twelve?
Ten?
Did it matter?
After chasing and losing Cinderella in the crowd he’d completely lost his shit, and drank the frustration away. Why the hell hadn’t she stayed at the party?
Why did he care?
Bentley completely ignored him and lifted his toothbrush into the air. Light flashed off plastic the color of blood. “This, this is sad, this right here.”
Brant moved to Brock’s left and splashed his face with water. “Red toothbrushes?”
“Nope.” Bentley spread toothpaste across the bristles. “It’s sad you don’t need these because have a new woman here every night.”
Brock rolled his eyes. Right, because he had time for that.
“What?” Bentley smirked, toothpaste foaming out of his mouth. “You’re a sad lonely bastard. No wonder Grandfather thinks he needs to pick out a willing woman and slap the Wellington name across her forehead.”
Brant nodded his agreement.
“Remind me why you’re both here? You have your own apartments. Nice penthouses full of STDs and whores.”
“Aw!” Bentley laughed. “You re-stocked for us? You’re such a good brother.”
Patience. Patience. Patience. Brock located a bottle of aspirin and popped two in his mouth then handed it over to Brent, who was already greedily eyeing the white bottle.
“You invited us back here to keep a watchful eye.” Bentley used his fingers to make air quotes and then shrugged. “But let’s be honest: you were just as tanked after Cinderella left with no trace as to her name or social security number.”
Brock went over to the shower and turned it on. “I wasn’t upset. I was just…curious.”
All talking ceased.
Brock turned to see his brothers grinning at him like he’d just announced he was going to get a tiger like Mike Tyson and call it Bitch.
“What?” he growled, and then winced when growling set off another jolt of lightning through his brain.
“You cursed last night,” Bentley pointed out. “A lot.”
“I was drunk,” Brock said, irritated to find himself on the defensive.
“Nope.” God he wanted to punch the smug grin from Brant’s face. “That’s a lie…you curse when you’re either really upset or…” He shared a look with Bentley. “When you want something you can’t have, which isn’t often.”
“Bullshit!” Brock yelled. And winced again as blood surged in his head.
Bentley held up his hands. “And we rest our case.”
“I’m too tired for this.”
Bentley side-stepped Brock then made a beeline for the shower.
“Like hell!” Brock shoved his brother out of the way. “When I’m done showering I want you out of my apartment.” He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it onto the floor as he got into the shower.
“But who’s going to make us breakfast?” came Bentley’s voice.
“Go!”
Silence ensued and then Brant appeared next to the shower door. He was holding up a black shoe. Shit. “So either you have something you want to tell us…or you slept with a woman’s shoe last night. Where’s the rest of her?”
Groaning, Brock let the hot water singe his back as he leaned against the tile and exhaled roughly. “It’s the girl Bentley was talking about…I bought her shoes. Hers broke.”
“You do realize that’s kind of a weird thing to do for a complete stranger, right? You don’t just buy someone expensive shoes after theirs break, especially not a woman. Buying clothes, even in a relationship, usually means commitment.”
“How do you know they were expensive?” he asked.
“Weren’t they?”
“Eight hundred and fifty.” Bentley shouted from the bedroom.
Brant whistled and returned his attention to Brock.
“Go away,” Brock grumbled. “Both of you.”
“Hmmm.” That was Brant’s only response, and then there was blessed silence as Brock breathed in the steam from the shower.
She was just a woman. A really pretty, vibrant, girl-next-door, attractive woman.
With seven freckles.
Damn it.
Small straight white teeth.
An overly plump top lip.
“Damn, damn, damn.” Brock slammed his hands against the tiled wall.
The reminder of the auction he’d agreed to was like a brick in his stomach, a heavy, horrible brick of guilt.
Today he and Grandfather would go over all of the fine print. A list of potential women and rich families would be compiled based on past donations to Wellington charitable causes.
From that list, Brock knew his grandfather would pick his favorites, the ones that “made sense”, just like Harvard had made sense, and football, and wearing three-piece suits at twenty.
Because at the end of the day that was all that mattered. Keeping his grandfather happy.
The only thing that didn’t make sense to Brock was why they even needed this auction. It was a simple question—but one that he was too scared shitless to actually ask. What was the real reason behind the auction? Did they really need good press that desperately?
When he turned off the shower, he stepped over the shoe—the elephant in the room.
A giant elephant, reminding him he needed to start living life for himself.
He stared back down at the shoe, and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. The girl from last night…he knew her name, and that was a start. How hard would it be to find out who she really was? Maybe he’d luck out and she’d be from one of the wealthy families donating to the cause.
Right. And maybe he’d get struck by lightning.
But if she wasn’t part of the auction what would be the point?
Because even as his heart thumped yes, yes, yes when he thought about pursuing her—logic screamed no.
Maybe if he was to just randomly bump into her, joke about having her old shoes?
Good pick-up line.
Solid.
She’d be eating out of the palm of his hand.
With another groan he quickly got ready to go to the office. Images of a woman with brown eyes and plump lips invaded his thoughts the entire time.
Chapter Eight
A sense of dread washed over Brock as he entered his grandfather’s office.
And it wasn’t because his grandfather was waiting to seal his fate without a word of argument from Brock.
No, hell had started the minute he got out of his car and made his way into the lobby of the Wellington building, and was fucking mauled by enough reporters to cover a presidential nomination. Democratic and Republican.
“Shit.” There had been no side-stepping, no avoiding. So he did what he always did, what he’d been trained to do.
What he hated.
He smiled, shook hands, and made his way through the crowd with the excuse of being late for an important meeting with his grandfather.
“Is it true?” One reporter asked shoving a microphone in his face.
“Is what true?” He asked through clenched teeth. And why the hell was he even engaging?
The reporter wore red lipstick and a tight black pantsuit.
She grinned widely as more microphones were thrust into his face.
“The marriage.”
Two words.
“Marriage?” He spat the word. “There will be no marriage.”
The reporter gave him a confused look. “So it’s not true that your grandfather has agreed to choose a suitable wife for the Wellington Dynasty from one of the many women who attempt to purchase you at the auction?”
That was a rumor the press had started buzzing about ever
since they’d learned of the auction. There was no way in hell his grandfather would take it that far.
“No more questions,” he barked, jabbing the elevator button harder than necessary. Thank God the doors opened and closed on the waiting crowd just in time for him to have a full-fledged panic attack as the elevator surged to the top floor.
Marriage.
No.
He wouldn’t.
His grandfather wasn’t that insane.
Was he?
Talk about fucking with Brock’s life. That would be—a prickling sensation ran down his neck and arms.
That would be exactly like something his grandfather would do.
The elevator doors opened.
“Hi, Brock. I’ll just tell him you’re here,” Mrs. Everly began, but the smile dropped from her face the moment she got a good look at Brock.
“No need. I’m going in.” He slammed his hands against the large wood doors as he pushed into his grandfather’s office.
As usual, Grandfather was sitting behind his desk, a newspaper propped up in front of him.
Grandfather was a creature of habit.
Brock’s stomach clenched with anger.
If he wasn’t careful, his future was staring right at him.
And it looked bleak.
Lonely.
Hell, it looked like marriage to a woman of his grandfather’s choosing.
“Brock!” Grandfather placed his weathered hand on the mahogany desk and stood on shaky knees. “Sit, sit!”
“I think I’ll stand,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Suit yourself.” Grandfather shrugged.
“No.”
“Pardon?” Grandfather’s eyebrows furrowed as he moved around the desk and crossed his arms. “What was that, son?”
“I. Won’t. Do. It.” Brock’s body shook. With rage. With dread. He knew the ramifications of saying no, but he couldn’t control the words coming out of his mouth.
His grandfather held out his hands as if to tell Brock to settle down, “Brock, you seem upset—”
“I’m beyond upset!” Brock took a step backward. “Find someone else. Though God knows why you think this is good publicity. We get enough attention from the twins, who seem to land themselves in every newspaper and magazine in the country.”
Grandfather suddenly went pale; his hand went to his chest and then with a strangled gasp, he collapsed.
* * *
Three hours after Brock thought he’d nearly killed his Grandfather by actually standing up for himself he was still in the office.
The EMTs were long gone.
Grandfather was going to be fine.
An anxiety attack.
From stress.
“What were you discussing when he collapsed?” the first EMT asked.
Brock had felt too sick to answer; he just shook his head and asked in a strangled voice. “Is he going to make it?”
“His heart’s just fine.” The other EMT was giving Grandfather oxygen, or at least trying to. Grandfather was fighting him every step of the way, saying he had just felt a tightening in his chest and then hot all over.
And now they were back to square one.
What should have been a brief meeting had turned into one of the scariest moments of Brock’s life.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“I’m fine, Brock,” his grandfather lied.
His grandfather coughed and sputtered into a handkerchief, then stuffed it in the pocket of his three-piece suit. The sound of his leather seat giving way filled the office, as Grandfather leaned back in the cushions and placed his hands in front of his face, tapping his fingers against one another, signaling he was deep in thought.
Brock tugged at his suddenly too-tight tie.
“Shall we…go over the plans for the auction?” Grandfather asked with hopeful eyes. And just like that.
He got his way.
Again.
“Sure.”
“Oh”—Grandfather thumbed through a folder on his desk and waved him off—“I guess that can wait for later. First I want to discuss the ranch. I’m preparing it for your new family.”
His new family.
As in.
One he chose? Or his grandfather? He was afraid to ask. Afraid he’d yell again and really kill the old man this time.
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Grandfather thumbed through a few papers before his eyes lit up when he found what he was looking for. “Once you’re married, I’ll sign over the deed.” He slid a paper forward. “This is a list of all employees currently on payroll. They take care of the horses, chickens.” Since when did they have chickens? “Goats, the cock, and the mean old ass that Bentley won in a bet.”
“Bentley won an ass?”
Grandfather let out a heavy sigh. “He bet his brother, his version of an ass, and the other party bet an actual animal. Simple misunderstanding.”
“How did I not know about this?”
“You rarely come to my parties,” Grandfather said with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Parties? What parties?”
What alternate universe had he just stepped into?
Grandfather ignored him. “It’s good for these old bones to jump and jive every once in a while.”
Jump and jive? The hell?
“You’ve been busy,” Grandfather interrupted. Brock shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You’ve been working yourself into the ground. I want you to take an official vacation until the press dies down a bit over this whole auction business.” A guilty look flashed across his face. “I assume they’re still downstairs.”
“Let me get this straight.” Anger started pulsating through Brock’s body once more. “First, you force me to participate in the auction in order to get us publicity and gain the trust of the board, and now you want me gone?” His grandfather wasn’t making any sense. None of it made sense. “What’s really going on?”
His grandfather fidgeted in his seat. He never fidgeted. “The publicity team thinks the hype of you disappearing out of the limelight will keep Wellington Inc. in the press until we auction you off at the ball.”
Brock pressed the backs of his palms against his eyes and bit back a string of curses. “I can’t just leave.”
Not after what had just happened with his grandfather.
“It’s what I want.” His grandfather stared him down. “It’s what’s best for you. For the company.” His eyes lingered on a piece of paper on his desk. “The shareholders…” Tears filled his eyes. “They don’t trust you boys to take over the company. Brant and Bentley sleep with anything that walks, and you’re guilty by association.” His smile was apologetic but all it did was burn like acid in Brock’s stomach. “The auction…it re-establishes our control. Reminds the shareholders that we’re the face of the company and that this company”—he jabbed his finger onto the desk—“needs the Wellington men!”
Oh hell.
And now it all made sense.
Grandfather began to sweat and patted his handkerchief across his forehead and sighed. “Titus Enterprises has also agreed to participate in the auction as a way to show good relations between our two companies.” He shrugged. “The shareholders have been itching to mend the relationship between us and the Titus family and I’ve kept my promise that I would do everything in my power to do that. The point is, I promised them Titus, the auction, and you, and in return our name stays glued to this company.” He looked down and then back up at Brock with an unreadable expression. “Things are shaky with Titus Enterprises at best. One little snag and they’ll pull out.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why.”
“It’s not your concern. I’ve got it handled.” Grandfather shrugged. “A nice little vacation is just what you need. Besides, what could possibly be keeping you here? Let me run the company—my company—for a few weeks to get the faith of the shareholders back in our court. They’ll see that you’re being the dutiful grandson
by agreeing to be auctioned off and we’ll let the press do what they do best.”
“Destroy lives?” Brock offered.
“Don’t be so dramatic.” Grandfather pulled the papers into a neat pile and leaned forward. “Now, was there anything else?”
He was officially being dismissed.
Brock stood and nodded his head. “I don’t like being kept in the dark.”
“If I worry about you, you’ll worry about me, which in turn makes me worry about you more.”
Brock jerked back as if he’d just been slapped. “You worry about me?”
“Ever since that day when I watched the light fade from your eyes. The same day the responsibility for you boys came to rest on my shoulders. Do this for me, Brock. I’m not telling, I’m asking.”
He wanted nothing more than to push back. To turn and walk away from this conversation, from this life. To yell no over and over again until his voice was hoarse, but he was caught.
Memories of his parents’ deaths flooded his brain. The shock, the tears, the twins waiting for them to come home, the knowledge they never would.
And he knew his thoughts were written all over his face, because his grandfather stared at him with pity-filled eyes, as if to say, “We can talk about it.”
But he didn’t want to talk about it. He wanted to push the whole horrible situation to the furthest recess of his mind and put it on lockdown, where he didn’t have to deal with it—any of it.
Because once he dealt with it, healed, and got over the trauma, there was this lingering fear that he’d forget them.
“Yes,” he whispered and closed his eyes. “The answer is yes.”
“Good.” Grandfather’s smile was strained; he looked like he was about to say more, but didn’t.
God, it was always the same with them.
So much was always left unsaid.
A fake smile replaced Grandfather’s worried one.
And there it was.
His mind immediately went to all the freedom he’d lose.
And the girl with pretty lips and wide eyes that he’d probably never see again.
“The list,” he found himself saying, “From the launch party last night, do you have it?”
“The list?” Grandfather’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”