Page 102 of Lucky Puck

“I have too many special memories here,” I say out loud.

Mom nods, and she takes my arm and walks me out the door. The snick of the lock reverberates loudly in my chest, but I manage to make it downstairs and into the waiting car without crying. My family is too worried as it is. I don’t want them to worry anymore.

Sitting in the back seat with Mom, she leans over and tries to whisper, “Do you want to come home? Your bedroom is waiting exactly as you left it, and you’ll always have a job at our diner,” Mom says.

I smile. It would be the easiest thing to do, to retreat to my warm, loving childhood home. But I’m not a child anymore.

“Thanks, Mom. But I’ll call Kat and move back into the apartment with her in Portsmouth. It’s where I meant to go after… the marriage—charade ended.” The stab of pain through my chest may as well be a knife. Somehow it feels sharper than Cupid’s arrow. Maybe because my whole life’s falling apart. And there goes that control over my tears as a few leak out.

“Whatever you think is best.”

Bill speaks up, “You should come home and get away from the media. They’re like jackals.”

Bob says, “Plus you don’t even know if you still have a job or reason to stay in Portsmouth.”

“Thanks.” I give a watery chuckle. But they’re both right. “You’re right, but I’m too stubborn not to stand up and fight for what I want. I can still have a career as an agent if I work for it.”

Mom puts an arm around me, and my brothers nod in approval in the rear-view mirror.

On the short drive to my old apartment, I text Kat, Cherry, and Delaney to let them know. I don’t text Jett. I need a plan, a polished business proposal for him and for Kat, to represent her in the music industry.

I’m going to need to talk to him—tomorrow.

“What about Brody?” Mom says as if she’s been reading the texts over my shoulder.

“I don’t know. Maybe we’ve already said everything we need to say. We planned to end things, and now it’s over.” I shrug, but the movement causes a ripple of pain because I’m lying to myself. I have a million things I want to say to him still.

Unfortunately, if I’m honest—and I vow to myself that I’m through with lying even to myself—I’m still a little too chicken to say some of those things. Okay—most of those things. Especially the thing that starts with the L-word.

Chapter Thirty-Three

BRODY

The condo is quiet and empty except for me and my new partner in social media crimes, Hamish Jett.

Coach gave the team Sunday off, thank fuck, but we’re up early anyway, early enough to watch the sunrise over the harbor. Not that I’m enjoying it.

I’ve ignored Coach Logan and Coach Nash’s texts and calls since yesterday’s fiasco. I need to regroup and face them—and everyone else—on my own terms with our plan to salvage Brooks’ career locked down.

I don’t care much about my reputation, though the Jett Agency’s crisis management consultant is apoplectic about it. Something about endorsement concerns. But Jett and I agree that we can iron out the wrinkles without much trouble since parading around as a married couple isn’t a crime, especially in this day and age.

The only glossing over that needs to be done is around that one night I wish I could forget now that I remember it, spent with the infamous showgirl-turned blackmailer, Tammi Morrow.

Jett sits across from me in one of the two club chairs positioned to take advantage of both the harbor view and the giant TV at the same time. He picks up the bottle of Courvoisier L’Essence, a gift from Sabien’s dad, who happens to be a connoisseur of brandy and richer than fuck, so he can afford it, and pours more than a shot’s worth into his coffee.

The television is on mute, with the channel tuned to TMSZ, normally the last show I’d ever watch.

But Jett insisted we watch it today since I’m the exclusive feature story. Me and Brooks. He recorded it, and I finally put it on mute after the third rerun of Bigelow telling the story like it’s his, including the scene where I carry Brooks off the fashion show runway like she was about to be kidnapped. Or maybe I look more like the kidnapper now that I’m watching the scene without the sound.

The whole piece is salacious, full of innuendo and half-truths. The usual shit. Courtesy of Bigelow, they have photos of us, including Tammi and Sabien, mostly taken from hotel surveillance footage.

Jett takes a healthy sip from his mug. “I got an email with a letter attached and a call from a purported attorney representing your showgirl⁠—”

“She’s not my showgirl.”

He flares his nostrils at me. “Apparently she intends to sue you for libel and breach of contract for a million dollars.”

I snort a laugh because even my untrained legal mind knows it’s a crock of bull.