Page 97 of Braving the Storm
All the skeletons are primed and ready to tumble out of that particular closet.
“I think I need a drink for this conversation.” My palm brushes over her hair, and she tilts her chin up to meet my gaze.
“You can tell me.” That look, that assurance, that trust written all over her expression is something I don’t fucking deserve, but I’m going to hold tight to it anyway.
“Come on, I’ve got some beers.” I grab hold of her palm, threading our fingers together, and lead her through the sprawling ranch floor plan to where the entertainer’s dream kitchen stands. All the appliances here have already been upgraded, so it’s a fully kitted-out showpiece of stainless steel and perfectly polished wood countertops.
Fuck knows what Beau’s intending to do in here, but the guy obviously plans on cooking… a lot.
“Sit your pretty little ass up there.” Lifting Briar, she makes a tiny squeak of protest as I set her on the counter, then swipe a couple of beers from the cooler.
Opening and handing over one bottle, I settle myself, leaning up against the length of bench directly opposite where she’s sitting. Crossing my ankles, I enjoy simply looking at her for a moment. This position puts us eye to eye, and this just feelsso fucking easy, so natural, even if what I’m about to try and talk about is like scratching nails down a chalkboard.
Tipping my drink back, I let a long gulp go down as my thoughts collect together in some sort of coherent fashion. Trying to make sense of the hornet’s nest of memories, I most certainly do not want to kick. This is a box I’ve had locked and shut away for so long now; it’s always a little rusty trying to open the hinges and rediscover the mess hastily shoved inside.
“One night in Vegas, I’d just had a massive win, one of my best rides, best points totals ever, won the entire fucking circus, and walked away with my big fancy check and all that bullshit.” Bringing the bottle back to my lips, I drink down another long draw while Briar watches me with those soulful goddamn eyes. “When I woke up the next day, I not only had a raging hangover to contend with and no memory of whatever the hell happened after the first few rounds of shots, but I had a fucking ring on my finger… one hell of a way to realize I’d fucked up so badly, not even the great Erik Lane could get my ass out of that legal mess.”
Running my tongue over my teeth, I inhale through my nose. Here comes the really shitty part of this whole terrible tale.
“She overdosed ten years ago. We had legally remained married, but I hadn’t seen the woman, Tegan was her name, since that night in Vegas, and truth be told, it was like hearing about a stranger passing. Yet, I had to show up to her funeral and play the role of the widower and all that shit that came with legally being attached to one another.”
Ten years since, I discovered exactly what my own goddamn brother had done.
“It’s kind of a lot to take in. I remember being told you’d been married. I vaguely remember hearing about the funeral, but I didn’t know much more than that. Of course, we were kept so far away from things. I feel like an idiot for not knowing, or at least asking.” She sips her beer thoughtfully.
“Probably same as how I didn’t know they’d married you off to some asshole.”
Briar sucks in a breath through her nose. “The Lanes are pretty good at keeping secrets, aren’t they?”
She doesn’t even know the half of what her father was capable of.
“My only real relief, if you could call it that, was that I’d been in an accident when I was a kid—the kind that meant I knew without a doubt I couldn’t get a chick like her accidentally knocked up from a stupid, meaningless drunken one-night stand.”
“You can’t have kids?” Briar’s eyes widen over the top of her beer, she pauses with her bottle halfway to her mouth.
“Nope.” Jesus, I didn’t even think about whether revealing that special little gem might have this girl running for the hills rather than sticking around with the likes of me. God. I hadn’t thought for a second about whether Briar might want kids of her own one day.
Fuck. It feels like someone just put my chest inside a vise and started tightening the screws.
But she doesn’t seem to react to that piece of information, just carries on matter of factly. “So why didn’t you get a divorce? Why’d you let her hang around?”
“Well, for starters, she didn’t exactly hang around. We never actually lived or spent any time together. It was all just a piece of paper tying us to one another in a legal sense, but that was it. At the end of the day, I was permanently on the road competing, and I had zero interest in having awife. But your dear old dad persuaded me it would be ‘good for my image’ if we stayed married, ticked that box, you know…”
“More like good for the Lane family brand.”
“Precisely.” I set my beer down. “So, Tegan lived in LA while I carried on with my life, and we occasionally exchanged details through my agent and lawyer. It sounds fucking weird to say it now, but ten years went so fast when all my attention was on the rodeo. Seemed like it was over in a blink.”
“Couldn’t you have fought my dad on it?”
Shaking my head, I try to pick my next words carefully. “Look,Erik was jealous as fuck of the attention I got while I was still in my competing days, and hated even more that at that time in my life, I fed off the spotlight. I’m not proud of who I was if it didn’t involve being on the back of a bull, but getting wasted and chasing women… it was my best attempt at filling a void.” I flex my hands against the lip of the benchtop and chuckle to myself. “Probably a whole lot of shit to do with being dumped at an orphanage as a kid that someone really shoulda shoved me into therapy for at some point, but that’s a part of me I’ve gotta make peace with.”
We both sip our drinks, letting the dust settle on everything I’ve just shared.
Briar clears her throat. “I have this recurring nightmare. It’s from the day of my wedding. I’m in this stupid couture gown, walking down the aisle of some billionaire’s country club, and I’m just sobbing. I remember my entire body was convulsing, and no one cared. They all sipped their champagne and clapped politely when the deal was done and hid their laughter at my expense behind their hands.”
Her eyes get that far away kind of look to them I hate, but I’m also relieved she’s telling me this and I don’t want to stop things.
“Antoine reeked of smoke and cheap perfume, and I think they’d jetted straight in from his bachelor’s party. I nearly threw up in my mouth when I had to kiss him at the altar.”