My palms turned sweaty as I waited for what came next. I sat up on the bed, the phone clutched so tight in my hand that the joints in my fingers ached.
The three little dots at the bottom of the screen taunted me. I stared at them hard, willing and not wanting it to come through at the same time. Why was I torturing myself? I should just put Brock’s phone back, pretend I saw nothing.
And then the picture came up.
I felt the color drain from my face completely.
A photo of me popped up, chained to a wall in nothing but a black lace bra and a pair of panties. A silk scarf was wrapped around my eyes. The face was mine, but not the body. It looked to be taken in some kind of sex dungeon, probably a hidden room in the Pattersons’ basement. Steven did have a part of the basement converted into a wine cellar years ago. Who was to say there wasn’t a secret panel that led to something kinky and dark?
His son had to have inherited his perverted tendencies from somewhere. Right?
The picture was clearly altered. I didn’t care how many drugs Carter might have slipped me when I didn’t know it. This picture was not of me. The head had been slapped onto someone else’s body. He hadn’t even done a good job in attempting to make the hack job look real.
I knew my body well, and those were not my tits, nor my legs. But the visual was there. Carter intended to make Brock picture it, an image of me that would haunt him.
Fuck. It would terrorize me.
The shower turned off. I didn’t bother putting Brock’s phone back or hiding it, because I couldn’t let these texts go without talking to him. I doubted discussing it would make me feel any better. Carter would need to be dead or behind bars for that to ever happen.
And days like today, it felt as if that would never be likely.
Brock emerged from the steamy bathroom minutes later, a towel wrapped around his waist and his dark hair wet and slightly curly. His eyes went from content to suspicious as they landed on me and saw my expression.
“What happened? Is it your mom? Did she not get bail?” he asked, jumping to a conclusion that made sense.
Actually, I’d briefly forgotten about her in lieu of Carter's text. “That’s not it. I didn’t check. You got a text.”
His brows furrowed in a way that said he didn’t need to know who it was from. I caught the clenching of his jaw as he spun toward the dresser where he had a bag stuffed with clothes. He pulled out a clean gray T-shirt and faced me.
I flipped his phone around and showed him the newest picture of me. “Were you ever going to show me these?”
The muscles in his chest hardened before he tugged on the tee. “No,” he stated. “You have enough to deal with. Besides, I’m handling it.”
“How?” I demanded, scooting to the edge of the bed, dropping the phone on the middle of the mattress.
He braced his hands on the dresser behind him. “I don’t want you involved.”
I glared hard at him. “No, you don’t get to do that. I’m already involved.”
“And that’s the problem, Firefly.” Dropping the towel, he had no shame, and neither did I as my gaze drifted over him. I couldn’t help myself. He was too damn fine of a specimen not to appreciate. He let me take my fill before tugging on a pair of sweats. “The deeper involved you get, the harder it is to keep you safe.”
I swallowed, trying to hang onto the reason I was annoyed with him, but after that little display… correction, not so little display, I found it challenging. “You don’t always have to protect me.”
He shoved off the dresser and strode to the bed, stopping when he was directly in front of me. “Maybe not. But I want to.”
A sigh left my lips, and I lowered my forehead to his chest. Could I fault him for caring enough about me to want to keep me safe? If the roles were reversed, I would do everything in my power to prevent him from being hurt. “God, I really fucking hate him.”
Thanksgiving Day was a day meant for celebrating. For family and friends. For giving thanks. For blessings.
Not for tears and heartache.
Angie, like Brock predicted, was able to post bail. The part of me that still cared about her was relieved that she wouldn’t be spending Thanksgiving alone behind bars. But I seriously doubted it would be a joyous celebration at the Pattersons’. Knowing Angie, Thanksgiving could go two ways. She would either put together a spectacular event, or spend the holiday with Jack, Daniels, and Jose, a few of her favorite bottles. Really though, she wasn’t picky. Any stiff drink would do the job.
And before my dinner was over, I’d wish for a bottle of something strong too.
Thanksgiving started wonderful, full of laugher, happiness, and a shit ton of food. Elise needed a raise for the feast she provided. The food flowed from the time I woke up through dinner. Football played nonstop on the television. Bets were made, too rich for my blood, but it was amusing as hell to see Chandler, Grayson, Brock, and even Kenna get in on the action. The house was loud, in a constant state of cheers, swears, and nonstop laughter. I got enough football at school, but this was somehow different from watching my boyfriend and the Elite, less intense. The friendly competition was addicting, and before long, Liana and I both found ourselves sucked in.
That energy continued through dinner, as we sat around the table. Platters and bowls of food were passed around, potatoes, turkey, and stuffing, all the standard fixings. I swear I could eat Elise’s potatoes every day of my life.