Page 14 of Brewer Family Collection, Part 1

My suspensions are always a spectacle. But things happens when you get a group of aggressive, competitive men on a field and hand them a ball—and I get paid to win games.

Sometimes, when I do what I’m told, the powers that be decide it was the wrong move.

Someone must publicly pay for that—and it’s not going to be team management.

It’s interesting to get punished by the same people who requested the behavior, but there are NDAs to keep players from talking about that.

And the outcry against my social media snafu was amusing.

Sure, I inadvertently posted a picture not meant for public consumption.

My dick should not have been in my Social Stories for six minutes.

Got it . But the same people chastising me only do it to be on the right side of the conversation.

If it were socially acceptable to post dick pics, they’d be all for that, too.

Yeah, me accidentally sharing a picture of my own body is so awful. Please .

The night I was carted away from a bar in handcuffs?

That made a terrific headline. I bet the tabloid downloads the following morning were off the charts.

But the part of the story that got left out, and the one I didn’t mention to anyone but the police, was the guy I sent to the hospital had just physically assaulted a woman in the bathroom.

He wanted to fight—maybe not me. But when you swing at a woman, you lose the right to be selective about who swings back. So, yeah, I’m the bad guy. Fine.

But this time, it’s not just about me. It involves Blakely, too. While I might not care what is said about me, I care— a lot —about what is said about her.

My hand clutches my stomach. Don’t get sick. There’s no time for that.

I stop next to the bed and rest my head against the wall. So many thoughts, ideas, and possibilities swirl inside me. I don’t know which to grab. There are so many moving parts … but only one that really matters.

Her.

I glance at the door. Should I check on her? Should I see if she’s okay?

“I need a few minutes alone.”

“Dammit, Renn,” I mutter, smacking the wall as I shove off it. “Think, asshole. How do you manage this?”

“But then it was the accusations, the headlines—the paparazzi used to camp outside my work … That was really, really hard … It’s left me with wounds that haven’t healed … Like being made a joke of in public. Like having a fear that when I love someone, they’ll leave.”

I run my hands through my hair and tug hard .

I haven’t looked at anything besides what Astrid sent me this morning, and that was bad enough. If Blakely thinks it was bad with DiNozzo, she has no idea what’s about to come her way.

A shot of vomit races up my throat. I dart into the bathroom and spit it in the toilet.

I rack my brain for a list of contacts, searching for the right person to handle this public relations disaster.

My PR team is the logical solution, but I know what will happen.

They will spin the situation to benefit me .

That’s what I pay them to do—especially when I have so much on the line. So much to potentially lose.

But not this time.

I won’t allow them to put Blakely in a bad light, no matter what it costs me.

My heart pulls in my chest as I think of her. I’ve got you, cutie. I promise.

I pick up my phone and ignore the missed calls, voicemails, and text messages. I scroll until I find Frances’s direct number. She answers in two rings.

“Renn, you’re making me work for my money this morning,” she says, her tone edged in annoyance. “We’ve been inundated with requests for a statement. I’ve put together a response for you to approve. It’s in your email.”

“I’m having a terrific morning, thanks. How are you?”

“Cut the shit. We don’t have time for that today.”

Her abruptness eats away at my already frayed nerves.

“Have you checked your email?” Frances asks.

“No. As you might imagine, I’ve been pretty busy since I got up.”

“I’ll break it down for you. The only solution is to try to get ahead of the story and admit it was a mistake?—”

“I’m not saying that.” I stop in my tracks. This is exactly why I’m calling you . “I’m not throwing the door open for Blakely to get smeared by those fucking snakes that call themselves journalists.”

“I understand that. But I’m paid to protect your image. Your father has already called this morning?—”

“Who pays you, Frances?” I ask, my voice shaking with anger. “Me or my father?”

“ You . But sometimes, in these situations, you forget the value of your image. Of your family’s image.”

I laugh angrily. “And what about Blakely’s? She’s disposable—why? Because her last name isn’t worth as much financially as mine?”

She sighs. “Renn …”

I start pacing again. “I’m not issuing anything that puts Blakely in the crosshairs. Period. It’s out of the question . Don’t frame this as a mistake that’ll have everyone speculating that she coerced me into it, tried to trap me, or is looking for a payout. I won’t sign off on it.”

“You realize that short of this being a real marriage because you’re in love, the only way to possibly save Blakely’s image, your contract, and your father’s purchase is to nip this in the bud, right?

Make it a nonissue. We need to frame it ourselves—and we have a very small window to do that.

The media will have their day with it; we can’t help that now.

Our best option is to own it, sit back, and let it burn itself out.

You can make a sizable donation to a charity next week for a good photo op, then move on. ”

I clench my jaw, hissing a breath through the phone.

She’s right and I know it. We’ve done it before. Frances can whip something together, phrased just so, to explain this off, while putting the least amount of blame on me as we can. I’ll probably keep my contract. Dad will figure his shit out; he always does. But what happens to Blakely?

“An annulment takes time,” Frances says, her voice lower. Calmer . “We need your attorneys on this now—if you haven’t called them already.” She takes a deep breath. “We need to stay on top of this, Renn. The longer we go, the less control we’ll have over the narrative. So what do you want to do?”

I close my eyes. “You realize that short of this being a real marriage because you’re in love, the only way to possibly save Blakely’s image, your contract, and your father’s purchase is to nip this in the bud, right?”

“I’ll call you later, Frances. Just hold off for a little while.”

She sighs in frustration. “Make it quick, Renn.”

The call ends.

I look at the ceiling and groan, sliding a hand down my face.

My right eye is sore from one of Brock’s shitty punches. There’s a small knot on my jawline. And … what’s that on my chest?

I glance down and spot a bandage. “Huh?”

I pull it off to uncover a tattoo … of Blakely’s name. Over my heart.

My laughter shakes my whole body as vague memories of lying on a chair with Blakely standing over me with a marker trickle through my mind. I can hear her giggle as she drew on my skin. The playful sweetness in her eyes as she watched the artist imprint her design onto me.

The memory doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t make me mad or embarrassed. In fact, it makes me smile.

She makes me smile.

If the paparazzi weren’t involved, this whole thing would be hilarious. I married Blakely Evans . For once, I made a great choice.

And I’m the only person in the world who will get on board with that.

My spirits sink.

I wander around the bedroom, wishing my life was simpler. That I could run upstairs, laugh about this with Blakely, and then go to brunch with her, Brock, and Ella. I wish I didn’t have to worry about headlines, publicists, and contracts.

But I do.

Anger floods me again as my conversation with Frances hits me again. “I’m paid to protect your image. Your father has already called this morning …”

Fuck this .

I’ll be damned if this is handled like Blakely is a nonissue—if my father tries to get involved to save his own skin and act as if Blakely is inconsequential. He might treat me like that, but I’ll be damned if he does it to her.

What does she even think about this? I’m sure she’s as gobsmacked as I am. And what is Brock’s reaction going to be once he’s settled down? I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t try to fight me again.

I don’t know whether to smash something or vomit.

My phone rings, tipping the scales toward vomiting. I know it’s Dad without looking. I can feel the judgment, the wrath about to come my way.

I take a long, deep breath before looking at the screen.

I might as well get it over with .

“Hello?” I say.

“Renn, what the fucking hell is this shit ? I wake up this morning to calls that you got married last night? Are you out of your damn mind?”

I wince. “Ah, you heard …”

“How about for once in your damn life you listen—and you listen good. This little stunt of yours could cost me a deal worth three-quarters of a billion dollars that I’ve been working on for two years—not to mention your contract. My God, Renn. Do you realize how badly you’ve fucked up this time?”

“You know, it’s really not that big of a deal.”

I regret the words as soon as I say them. I pull the phone away from my ear just in time.

“ Not that big of a deal ?” His laughter—loud and obnoxious—is at my expense.

“Son, getting married and filing for an annulment less than twenty-four hours later is a big fucking deal. That’s especially true when your employer just made you sign a fucking waiver that you won’t embarrass the team or become a media distraction! ”

“You realize that short of this being a real marriage because you’re in love, the only way to possibly save Blakely’s image, your contract, and your father’s purchase is to nip this in the bud, right?”

I tune out my father’s rant and do my best to sort through the alcohol still in my system and think that last thought through. Short of this being a real marriage because you’re in love …

My heart pounds.

What if we didn’t get an annulment? What if Blakely and I stayed married? Would it really hurt anything?

I pace back and forth across the bedroom.

It wouldn’t hurt anything for me. I’d have a beautiful wife who’s respectable and classy. But would it hurt anything for her?

I’m kind of scared to answer that. But I can answer what staying married could help … lots of things.

Maybe everything.

“This is a ridiculous question because I know you didn’t think this through. But on the off chance that you had any thoughts at all—did you think about a prenuptial agreement?” Dad asks. “Or a postnuptial one? Tell me you took some precautions.”

His insinuation cuts through me like a hot knife, and I stop in my tracks. “ Excuse me ?”

“You have to think about this shit. I’m sure the pussy is great, but?—”

“ Watch your mouth .”

“Oh, Renn.”

My blood boils as I stare out the window. “Believe it or not, there are other people in this world besides you. And all of them aren’t bad.”

“What has she done to you?” he asks, chuckling.

I ball my hand at my side. Fuck this . “I’ll call you later.”

“Renn!”

I end the call before I say things I can’t take back.

My anger grows as I replay our conversation. Prenuptial agreement. Postnuptial agreement. “I’m sure the pussy is great …”

“This is what they’ll do to her—what my own father will do to her,” I say to the empty room. “And I can’t let that happen.”

I toss my phone on the bed and head for the shower.

I need to wash some sense into myself before I do something really stupid—like propose a fake marriage.