Page 54 of Brewer Family Collection, Part 1

Jason

“ A re you good with that?” Ford Landry asks, his voice filling my car as I fly down the expressway.

I flip the visor down to spare my eyes from the bright morning sun. “I mean, I don’t love it. I get her point, and I respect it. But I don’t love it.”

“At what point do we compromise?”

With Rory Brewer ? Good fucking question.

I glance at the time on my dashboard and wonder how the hell things got so complicated before eight in the morning.

If my life weren’t already full of situations like this, like my mother calling our security company and demanding her detail be cut in half, I’d be worried. At least they’re consistent.

“She’s not going to want to compromise,” I say, passing a pickup truck doing forty-five miles per hour in the fast lane. “I’d be a lot happier about her having one security guard if it could be Foxx.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s happy right where he is—at home with your sister.”

I roll my eyes. “What about that Erickson guy you were telling me about?”

“Give me a second.” The sound of him tapping at his keyboard comes through the speakers. “I have an interview with him tomorrow. My buddy, Cane Alexander, gave him a stellar recommendation, so I can’t imagine I’ll have a problem with him. Cane likes five people on a good day.”

“Any chance Erickson will work out of Florida?”

“Maybe. Let me talk to him tomorrow and run a background check. If we hire him, I’ll consider assigning him to your mom.”

“Good. Tell her to sit tight until we can get a plan in place.”

“Will do. Other than that, I’m good on this end. Renn did send an email last night with explicit instructions not to have Calvin on his detail.”

I shake my head, remembering my conversation with my brother last night. “Renn’s surprisingly emotional right now. It’s probably a good idea to keep him and Calvin apart.”

“Did something happen?”

“No. And I don’t want it to,” I say, chuckling.

“Me either.” He sighs. “Do you have any questions before I let you go?”

I tap my fingers against the steering wheel and take the exit toward the office. Soft classical music drifts from Ford’s office through my car speakers. His wife makes him play it to help his blood pressure—something that all his friends know, and none of us let him live down.

I’ve known Ford Landry for a decade. We served two tours together in the military before he got out and went home to Savannah. I was discharged and went to work for a private security firm, Mandla.

Ford and I kept in touch. When the government shut down Mandla after a bold rescue operation in Africa went sideways, Ford asked me to work for him. I chose to go home to Nashville and start Brewer Air instead.

Our paths crossed again when I took over the security operations for my family and our businesses. Naturally, I hired Landry Security because Ford is one of only a few people in this world I trust implicitly.

Besides Foxx, Ford may be the only one.

“No questions from me,” I say. “Let me know if Erickson is a viable candidate.”

“I will. If he doesn't pan out, I have ten or twelve interviews next week. With business booming like it is, I could hire twenty people if I could find twenty decent options.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Right?” He groans. “Okay, I gotta get busy. I have a meeting with Troy Castelli in five minutes. Talk to you later.”

“Later.”

I press a button on the steering wheel, ending the call.

My car's engine roars as I press the accelerator and overtake a minivan, passing it safely to the right. I set aside Mom’s security situation, knowing Ford has it handled. Then I click on the navigation screen before my phone connects to Brandi.

“Brewer Air, this is Brandi. How may I direct your call?” she asks.

“Hey, it’s Jason.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning. Is Chloe in the office by any chance? I’ve called her phone several times this morning, and she hasn’t answered.”

Last night was long. I couldn’t sleep for shit. I kept replaying our exchange—the strange man’s voice and Chloe’s pitch as she responded. Her grandmother telling her that she better not be talking to Thomas. The stress and exhaustion in Chloe’s voice.

It bothers me.

A lot.

I feel like I know so much about her, and I’d describe our relationship as close. Yet after last night, I realize there’s a lot I don’t know about Chloe … and I wish that weren’t true.

I tap my fingers against the steering wheel and exhale.

“Actually,” Brandi says, “Chloe called in and said she’d be late.”

My stomach drops. “She did?”

“Yes. She said something happened at home and she’d be in by lunch. She had me pull a few reports and email them to you. I hope that’s all right.”

Fuck . “Yes. Thanks for doing that, Brandi. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Of course, Mr. Brewer. Goodbye.”

The call ends, and I ease up on the gas pedal.

A swell of anxiety rises in my chest. I can’t fight the feeling that something’s wrong.

Maybe something happened to her grandmother.

“She’s not sick, really. She just forgets she’s not in her thirties anymore, and her legs give out. She’s fallen a few times recently. I have to sleep with one eye open because I’m scared to death that she’s going to fall in the dark.”

A chill races down my spine as her neighbor’s voice echoes through my brain.

Waves of concern wash over me for the millionth time. Who the hell was that, anyway? And what was he saying?

I stopped myself several times from finding out where she lives and checking on her. A part of me thinks it’s overstepping my role as her boss—and that’s probably true. But a bigger part of me thinks it’s the right thing to do because I’d do it for any of my friends.

I stop at a light. Using the pause in activity to my favor, I slide my phone out of the holder and tap on Chloe’s name. It rings three times before her voicemail picks up again. This time, I leave a message.

Fuck.

“Hey, Chloe, it’s Jason,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “Call me back when you can, please. Thanks.”

Where is she ? She’s never late and rarely calls off from work—and she wouldn’t have had Brandi pull those reports for her if it wasn’t necessary. That I know for a fact.

Every time she takes a personal day, she lets me know at least a week in advance. And if she doesn’t answer when I call, she calls me right back.

I glance down at my phone. No return calls over the last hour.

This is so unlike her …

I take a hard right into a parking lot. I barely stop the car before I call HR.

“Brewer Air, Keisha speaking,” she says.

“Morning, Keisha. It’s Jason. Can you get an address for Chloe Goodman for me?”

“There are laws about who and why I can release personal information, Mr. Brewer.” She laughs, not knowing I’m about to lose my patience. “I’m assuming you’re using this for some super important company project.”

“I don’t see why else I’d need it.”

“Me either.” She clicks away on her keyboard. “It’s 8901 Lang Avenue, Number 4A. Want me to text that to you?”

I activate the navigation system and pop the address into the search bar. “No. I got it. Thanks, Keisha.”

“No problem. Have a good day.”

“You, too.”

I end the call quickly.

Anticipation surges inside me, mixing with irritation and a touch of adrenaline. I’m still trying to understand why I asked for this information. What can I really do with it?

What do I want to do with it?

I haven’t found an answer to either question before the navigation displays the route to Chloe’s house … a whole seven minutes away.

An internal war brews over whether I take this information as a good to know —or if I use it. Before the arguments can be played out, I slam my car into drive and follow the prompts to get into the left turn lane.

Fuck it.

I slow my speed as I draw closer to my destination.

I’ve only been to this part of town a few times. No business happens here. There aren’t meetings or restaurants, and there are no parks for a nice afternoon jog. It’s not a place to be if you don’t have to be here.

So why is Chloe?

The buildings on both sides of the road have seen better days. Chain-link fences separate lots and grass and weeds run rampant through broken sidewalks. Litter and debris have accumulated in dusty front lawns and empty spaces between complexes.

Heads turn as I crawl through the neighborhood, searching for address numbers on the buildings. Most have no numbers at all. Some have a few. But only one building—8901—has all four.

Even if I didn’t recognize it as the infamous Pliny Building, the faded block letters on the top, minus half of the L , would be my first clue.

“You have reached your destination,” the car chirps as I stop in front of the large brick structure.

“Hey, fucker. Move it or lose it,” a man shouts from the sidewalk. He holds his arms to the sides of his dingy white tank top as if he owns the space.

I hold up a hand in a semblance of a wave and press down the street.

My jaw clenches, and I rub it absentmindedly while taking in the neighborhood. Every block, every turn, is more of the same. Car alarms. Windowless buildings. Doors boarded with plywood and covered in spray paint.

Logic says to return to the expressway and head to the Brewer Group for my meeting with Gannon. I’m already behind schedule, and there’s work to be done. Instead, I whip a left and circle the block, finding a parking spot a short distance from Chloe’s building.

Chloe’s building.

Why in the world does she live here?

I rack my brain, wondering how much we pay her. Surely, it’s enough that she doesn’t have to live in this neighborhood. If it’s not, I just added another task to my to-do list. Pay people better .

I grab my phone and leave Gannon a message. “Hey, it’s Jason. I’m not going to make it over there this morning. Something came up. Have your assistant send me notes, and I’ll respond by the end of the day. Thanks.”

My breath is measured as I stare at the building. I give myself a final chance to back out. But even as I consider it, I know my decision’s already made.

I must make sure she’s okay.

Warm air hits my flesh as I step out of the car. I press the remote on my keychain, and the lock's beep catches the attention of a small group of men gathered around the back of a blue pickup truck. They cast glances at me and then at my vehicle as I pass.

Please don’t be ballsy enough to try to break into my car. I don’t want to kick your asses today.

I make eye contact as I walk by, giving them the slightest nod. It’s enough to acknowledge their presence and not enough to warrant a conversation. The look should be sufficiently pointed to keep them from getting too bold while I’m gone.

I’m bold enough for all of us, it seems.

What am I doing? I have enough problems on my hands. I need to get out of here.

Yet, I keep walking toward the Pliny Building.

My jaw sets as I correct myself.

I’m not walking toward the Pliny Building. I’m walking toward Chloe … because there isn’t any other choice.