Page 177 of Broken Brothers

With that, Morgan stood up, offered his hand, and I just shrugged.

“I’ll think about it,” I could only say.

Morgan strangely didn’t look that disappointed, almost like he could understand my predicament.Which means what’s going to happen next is going to happen whether I like it or not.

And given how things have gone so far, I’m probably not going to like it.

“Have a good one, Chance,” Morgan said.

He didn’t say anything else as he quickly departed.

I knew as these thoughts came that my paranoia was getting worse and the situation was weighing on me, but I couldn’t help but feel like I was the prisoner getting told I was going to a happier place, only to find out that I was about to be executed. Granted, I didn’t think the odds of an actual execution were that high—though the fact that they were even odds in the first place was terrifying enough—but still; how likely was it that Morgan was about to prove even more that he was on Edwin’s side and that he was going to disown me once more?

He was no brother of mine. He was no friend. He was just an agent now for his father, as greedy and hungry for money as Edwin Hunt.

Fucking bastard.

71

By the time I returned to the apartment, I was unbelievably angry. Angrier, I think, than I had been since Layla had ruined the deal with the Taylors for me. Not that I held her culpable still, but in that moment, my anger was unlike anything I’d felt.

Until now.

Morgan’s departure had pissed me off, but the liberating feeling that had followed shortly after had quelled that one pretty well. No, there was nothing to contain my anger right now. Anger that Morgan would meet up with me, then give me stock answers about how things would be better soon.

And then to have the fucking gall to ask for the recording of Andrew getting reamed by Edwin! That was ballsy, I suppose I should give him credit for that. To ask the enemy for incriminating evidence in such a blunt manner… it was so unlike Morgan, but maybe that was the idea. Maybe by making me think he was acting out of character, he was secretly on my side.

Yeah, fat fucking chance of that happening. Most likely, I was just being led to the goddamn gallows.

When I got back to Layla’s apartment, I saw her in the kitchen, cooking herself some breakfast. She looked at me with a gentle smile, but I couldn’t bear to see her face. I didn’t want to see the smiles of anyone happy right now. I was in a dark, fucked up place, and the last thing I needed was a reminder that other people could have brightness in theirs.

I went into her room, the only place where I’d be hidden from her, and slammed the door behind me. I took off my hoodie, curled up to where I had slept, and fumed. God, how I wanted to fucking kill Morgan for that little stunt. God, how I wanted to kill Edwin for everything.

God, how I wanted to… how I hated myself for getting to this spot.

How I hated my own paranoia, turning me into a crazy man like this.

How I hated that even with that paranoia, there might have been a justifiable reason for thinking like this.

How I hated that I had led my life down this path… if I could have just kept my raging hormones to myself when I first met Layla at Burnson Investments…

None of this was her fault. But ever since I had failed to keep control of myself…

“GodDAMNIT!” I yelled, punching the bed in an attempt to release some fucking anger. “Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!”

I shook my head. It was pointless. There was nothing to fight with Edwin Hunt. All of the news in the world would just drive him to kill me. All of these reports coming back wouldn’t faze him; he was Edwin Hunt, not someone with a soul or a conscience. All this would do was affirm how awesome he was and how much money he had made through the years.

Layla was right. I did have to get out of the city. Melanie had been kind enough to give me a “get the fuck out of town and start over” gift. A million bucks, so long as I didn’t move someplacelike San Francisco or London, would last me for quite a while as I got myself situated once more.

And I had to do it soon.

The door creaked open. I didn’t turn back to look at Layla, partially out of embarrassment at what I had become.

“Chance,” she said, not so much a question as a statement. “Chance, talk to me. What happened? Where did you go this morning?”

“I’m fine,” I growled. “You should eat your breakfast.”

“Bacon can wait,” she said, curling up behind me and hugging me tight. “I want to know what’s going on with you. Are you OK?”