Page 2 of Delta (Alpha #12)

And yes, I've been to therapy. All sorts of it.

Mama and Dad flew in an A-lister-approved therapist from LA, and she spent a week with us in the Keys, helping me process my grief.

I did horse therapy. EMDR. Ketamine. But at the end of the day, I think you just have to grieve and be sad and try to move on.

I've got the first two down; I’m still working on the moving on part.

Cal, Killy, and I spend the day skiing; Cal and I race a few times. He wins twice, and I win three times, although Killy says the last one was a tie. Bullshit—I won.

When even the seemingly-tireless Cal says he's ready to call it, we pile into one of the SUVs and let Roger drive us back to the hotel.

We spend the late afternoon and early evening napping, snacking, and watching TV in our respective rooms in the penthouse suite.

Around seven or so, we head down to the hotel restaurant and have a long dinner, during which we chat idly about nothing in particular.

After dinner, the boys head for the elevators. I'm antsy and restless and in need of distraction.

"You guys wanna hit a club or something?" I suggest.

"Nah," Cal says. "I'm beat. I plan on hitting the slopes early tomorrow."

"Same," Killian says. "And also, you shouldn't hit up any clubs either, Brynnie. Remember what happened last time?"

"That was not my fault. I was behaving myself."

He arches an eyebrow. "There's a photograph of you dancing on a bar. Wearing a skirt so short, I’m still traumatized after seeing the photograph once for five seconds."

"Okay, well first of all, fuck you,” I say.

“I don't dress for your approval so you can fuck all the way off.

Second of all, that photo was taken out of context.

There were like eight other girls dancing on the bar.

It was a dance-off. Which I won, by the way.

They just only published that picture of me. "

"Gleason had to carry you inside," he answers. "Because you were obliterated."

Gleason, behind us, does his best to look invisible—good luck with that one, buddy—he's a six-foot-eight former NFL linebacker who can bench press entire Volkswagens.

He and Uncle Thresh often have arm wrestling competitions, and he can give Thresh a real challenge, which says something, seeing as Uncle Thresh is the strongest human being I've ever met.

I look at Gleason. "Was I obliterated, Gleason?"

Gleason looks frightened. "Um. I believe you passed out that night, ma’am."

I glare at him. "Sellout."

"Sorry, ma'am."

"Whatever." I sigh, wave a hand. "Fine. Be lame-ass losers. Go to bed even though it's barely midnight and we're on fucking holiday, by ourselves, with no parents."

"Right, because these guys are definitely not reporting our every move back to the parentals," Cal says, jerking his thumb at the six massive humans forming a wall of Brooks Brothers-clad muscle between us and the hotel foyer.

I look at Gleason. "Are you?"

"Am I what, ma'am?" he asks, endeavoring to look innocent.

"Reporting back to our parents."

He shifts his monumental weight from one foot to the other. "Erm. In certain cases, yes. Every move, no."

"So, when I met up with that guy from the bar in Berlin…" I say, leading. "Did you report that?"

"No, ma'am. I knew where you were, and I did a brief look into your…date. But I did not say anything about it to your parents."

"You looked into him?" I ask.

"Yes, ma'am," he says. "Of course. I photograph and investigate everyone you spend time with."

"Wow. I didn't know that."

“You're not supposed to."

I hum thoughtfully. “And? What did you find out about Eric?"

Gleason grimaces. "Um, his name was actually Kai, and he was pretty vanilla. Studying biology at the university in Berlin. Engaged for six months, the year before you met him, but they broke it off somewhat amicably, according to his social media. Excellent credit rating, and no priors."

“Kai. Right." I smile, remembering. "We had fun. He did this thing where—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP RIGHT NOW!" Killian shouts. "I do not want to fucking know a single detail about your sexcapades, sis .”

I pinch his cheek, laughing. "You're so easy to rile up, Killy-Billy. Like I'd actually tell you anything? Gross. No."

He flicks up both middle fingers and shoves them in my face. "You're a walking catastrophe." He punches the call button. "And if you call me Killy-Billy again, I swear to god I'll put Nair in your shampoo."

Cal wraps an arm around Killian's shoulders. "Killy, buddy, do you remember when you and Bryn got in that prank war?"

"Fuck you," Killian mumbles.

"Do you?"

"Yes, I remember,” Killian grumbles.

Cal claps him on the bicep. "I'm just saying, man, I'd think twice about starting that shit up again. Better to just let her call you Killy-Billy. You refused to come out of your room for a month until your eyebrows grew back."

I can't suppress a snort of laughter. "That was awesome."

"Oh yeah? How awesome was that ghost pepper powder in your underwear?"

"My vagina still burns just thinking about that," I admit. "Fine. Truce. Besides, I was just fuckin' with you."

The elevator finally arrives and we all pile in—all nine of us. Gleason does his best to wedge himself into the corner in an attempt to take up less space, but there's only so much you can do to reduce your footprint when you're six-eight and weigh three hundred-plus pounds.

I head back to my room, waving to my guys before I close my door.

And to clarify, "the boys" means Killy and Cal; "the guys" means Gleason and Zidane.

Zidane is a mystery. Six-foot even and lean, he's got dark brown skin, a shaved head and long beard, and never, ever speaks unless spoken to, and only then to say “yes ma'am” or “no ma'am.” Once, I actually got a whole five words out of him: “I don’t think so, ma’am.” Basically, he's a scary shadow, one of those guys that just exudes fuck-off vibes.

Of my two guards, he's the one who'd do the bloody work, if called for.

Not that Gleason is just for show—after an injury ended his NFL career, he pivoted to security and made a name for himself single-handedly fighting off a dozen armed attackers who were trying to kidnap his A-list actress client…

who got the whole fight on video. And posted it on TikTok.

Gleason is TikTok famous and can throw down with the best of them.

AND he's scary as fuck, despite generally being a big sweet teddy bear of a man.

Alone in my room, I try to watch TV, but after flipping through all the channels at least four times and finding nothing, I turn it off. I'm not sleepy, despite a day spent skiing.

I need to do something.

How can I get out of this room and past Gleason and Zidane undetected so I can go clubbing by myself?

Fire alarm? Too big and too obvious.

I can't ask the boys to cover for me, because the little bitches will squeal on me.

The only real option is to go down to the hotel bar and hope I can slip away. I'll have to turn my phone off since it's tracked six ways to Sunday, and if it's on, Uncle Lear can pinpoint my location anywhere on the globe within seconds. I'll also have to be creative about my outfit.

I put on my favorite silver sequined miniskirt paired with a strappy, slinky, low-cut, iridescent midriff-baring top.

I leave my hair down and keep my face makeup free, and then put on a baggy pair of sweats and matching hoodie—stolen from Killian because they're worn and soft and cozy. The hoodie, coincidentally, is voluminous enough to hide the strappy silver wedge heels under it. Along with my clutch—which has my compact pink SIG Sauer 9mm, because I’m not a total idiot.

Just mostly. I know, I know, guns are highly illegal in most of Europe, but I'm Bryn Harris, and people are fucking nuts.

I may be foolishly ditching my bodyguards to go dance at a nightclub, but I'm not doing so unarmed.

How will I get it past the club bouncers? Wait and see.

I grab my room keycard and clutch my phone in my hand as I leave the room, breezing past Gleason to the elevators. "I just need a nightcap, guys. I'm bored and can't sleep."

They follow me dutifully down to the bar and post up where they can see me and keep an eye on the bar and exits.

Now…we hope a distraction pops up.

I order a Moscow Mule from the dour old woman behind the bar and sip it, idly scrolling TikTok while surreptitiously watching the bar, looking for ways to create a distraction so I can get the fuck out of here and away from my babysitters.

My deliverance comes in the form of two groups of skiers—all bros who are all already drunk and are eyeing each other in a way that speaks of some kind of in-built cultural enmity I’m too American and too sheltered to know anything about.

Time to set things off. I let a guy from group A catch my eye and none-too-subtly eye-fuck him.

Let him buy me a drink.

Chat him up, flirty-flirty, don't you wish you could see what I'm wearing under this baggy gray sweatsuit.

I finish my drink and excuse myself to the little girls’ room—a very real necessity since I'm on my third Moscow Mule and second glass of ice water.

When I head back, I act more tipsy than I am, and "mistakenly" join group B as if confused about who I was talking to.

More flirty-flirty.

Boy-toy from Group A is jealous and pissed off, and getting more so as I let the mark from group B get handsy.

Oh, yep, here he comes.

Words are exchanged.

Shoves are traded.

A punch is thrown.

Chaos ensues.

Here come Gleason and Zidane, on cue, ready to rescue li'l ol' Brynnie-Winnie from the big bad angry boys.

As if I needed rescuing from soft putz-fuckers like these tools.

But I digress.

In the chaos, I slip behind the bar, steal the bartender's security card from off of the register—she's hiding on the floor in a huddle, hands over her head. Which is, honestly, smart, because glassware has been thrown.