CHAPTER 42
Emmett
Richard
Just attaching these photos for you as a
friendly reminder that you have until
tomorrow morning to decide how you want to play this.
I left that lunch with Julia’s family feeling confused and foggy about a lot of things.
But one thing that has become clear to me is that I’m hopelessly in love with Julia Silva.
Against all the odds and against all the promises I made to myself that I’d never end up here, I have tumbled headfirst into uncharted territory. And while I know little about how being in love with a person changes things, I know that if I don’t put Richard in his place I’ll never forgive myself.
Contractually, I’m stuck.
Emotionally, I’m unavailable.
And morally, I feel reprehensible about it all.
Especially since Richard sent me a text reminding me I have one day to decide, with several of the photos of Julia and me attached.
It pissed me off more than ever. It stirred a feral, protective part of me to life.
So now, with a new fire burning inside of me, I storm across the set. Julia is out of cell service range at the drive-in movies with her family, which is just as well.
My intuition tells me that this conversation will go poorly, and I’d rather she not be here to bear the brunt of it.
The first thing I did on my way over here was reach out to a contract lawyer recommended by my agent. Out of everything that’s gone on over the past several weeks, the thing that’s unsettled me most is the camera inside the house. So I want a professional—who is not paid by the studio—to tell me what that could mean for the contract. And my legal obligation to participate in the show.
It’s a long shot, but I have to try. Because I know I didn’t consent to that, which means Dick Wad trespassed and put an unauthorized camera on private property. It feels an awful lot like a crime.
Richard is a slippery motherfucker, though, so I’d rather not hang my hat on something before I know the legalities. It’s also not something I want to give away to him until I know that there has truly been a violation.
I’m not in a position to sacrifice the money, but it’s gotten to a point where I need to lay out in clear terms what I will and will not do for this show. If that means he fires me, then I will have to live with that.
I don’t bother knocking. I grip the metal handle and rip the door open, skipping the bottom step, going straight for the top one and pulling myself into
Dick Wad’s dingy little office.
My plan is to sock it to him.
But the problem is he’s quite busy socking it to Evelyn.
My eyes widen, and my jaw drops as I take in the scene. Evelyn is bent over Dick Wad’s desk, palms flat, dress flipped, ass up, makeup smudged, and Richard is balls deep inside her, thrusting away.
Evelyn’s mouth pops open in a perfectly round O shape, while Richard booms, “Get the fuck out, Bush!”
But I don’t respond. I just stand slack-jawed, feeling naive for one of the first times in my life as I watch them both scramble apart with red cheeks and heavy breaths all while Dick Wad continues to tell me to get the fuck out.
Evelyn scrambles to push her dress down as Richard draws away. She approaches me with wild eyes, tears brimming along her dark lashes. “Emmett, you have to know why—”
I hold a hand up to stop her coming any closer. “Evelyn, it’s okay. It’s just a show. We’re not together. You don’t owe me shit.”
“He promised me an audition, a real Hollywood audition.”
A sob lurches from her throat and my stomach drops as I watch this woman begin to unravel in front of me. I don’t particularly like Evelyn, but I do feel a flash of empathy for her. Pity maybe. Unfortunately, she’s fallen for Dick Wad’s creepy fucking promises.
But I suppose that in a way, I have too.
“Good luck with that,” I say, my voice heavy with skepticism.
She drops her head and hustles past me, tears of embarrassment glistening on her cheeks. Which leaves Richard and me alone. Belt jangling, cheeks puffing, he looks like a tomato—with very white teeth—set to explode.
“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve, marching in here like you own the place,” he says, rounding his desk to face me.
“That’s rich, coming from the guy I just caught pounding his favorite contestant. Although I guess we all know why she’s your favorite now.”
“You think you can just talk to me like that?”
I make a show of glancing around his trailer, mind buzzing with what this development could mean for me. “Now? After this? I’ll talk to you however I damn well please.”
“Watch yourself, Bush. I don’t respond well to threats.” Richard puffs up like he has some hope of intimidating me. This kind of bluster is old hat for me though. I’m not the least bit affected by his attempt at intimidation.
What I am affected by is the overwhelming realization of how colossally fucked-up this entire experience is.
It’s fake. It’s transactional. It’s manipulative. It’s fucking soul-sucking.
My knee-jerk reaction to joining the show had been that it was a line even I wouldn’t cross. I should have trusted my instincts. Instead, I was blinded by dollar signs. And now the weight of my own regret is downright crushing.
What have I done?
I allowed this man to put a price tag on my integrity.
No more.
“You disgust me.” I scoff the words, shaking my head in disappointment.
“And I quit.”
He huffs out a condescending chuckle. “You can’t quit. I own you.” He reaches across his desk, picking up what appears to be a printed version of my contract.
It dangles from his stubby fingers. Taunting me.
“No. You don’t.” Julia does, I think. But I don’t dare utter her name in his presence. Because this is all on me. And I need to make it right.
He’s fucked with a man who’s never been in love before.
And now I know exactly how I’d act in love.
Irrational.
“Rip it up. I’m done,” I clarify before I spin on my heel and leave his grimy trailer.
He utters threats to my back. They slip off me like rotten eggs from a Teflon pan. Nothing he says matters, because I’d blow my entire life up to spare Julia another moment of strife.
He took photos of her in my house. Without consent.
And it has me feeling fiercely protective. Bordering on vengeful. I want to douse his precious show in gasoline and be the one to toss the match on it. Then stand back and watch all his hopes and dreams for Romance Ranch go up in flames.
Which means I need to go confess to my oma and opa that I just cost them a lot of money.
I sit across the table from my oma and opa, concern etched across their features.
I suppose showing up looking guilty as sin and telling them that I needed to talk was cause for concern. Mostly because this is entirely out of character for me.
But in the time between leaving Richard’s office, going to my cottage, and packing an overnight bag—because I sure as fuck am not staying there with cameras set up—and heading here, the weight of everything that’s transpired became unbearably heavy.
“I don’t know where to start. All I know is I can’t do this show, and I need to stay here with you guys tonight.” I untangle my linked fingers on the table and straighten in my chair in an attempt to appear open and honest. Talking like this is hard for me.
I continue since they say nothing. “I thought I could do this. I thought it wouldn’t matter, and then—”
“You met someone who did,” Oma interjects, voice wobbling, her eyes tearful.
I nod, feeling choked up as my fingers twist between each other again. “Yeah.
And now I… I don’t know. I thought I could make it one more week. I wanted to do it for you guys, I really did, but I just—”
“I think,” Opa says gruffly, “what you’re trying to say is you’re in love with that girl, and the thought of pretending to date anyone else makes you want to vomit.”
I glance up at him, eyes shrink-wrapped with tears of relief, because yes, that’s exactly how I feel. And for a man who says so few words, the ones he chooses land with force.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I think I might be in love with her. Is it supposed to feel like this?”
“Like what, honey?” Oma says gently as she stands up and rounds the table to sit beside me.
“I don’t know. Like every time I try to focus, my brain short-circuits and goes back to her. Like my chest hurts. Like I’d burn down the fucking world and do morally reprehensible things all just to keep her safe.”
“Oh, baby,” Oma says, leaning her head against my shoulder while rubbing slow circles on my back.
Opa laughs, though. A deep, raspy laugh.
“You be nice,” Oma scolds him.
“I am being nice. I’m just laughing because this one’s been made of stone for so damn long, it’s satisfying to see him finally crack.”
I sniff and wipe at my eyes before looking across the table at the man who raised me. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying this,” I joke, knowing they can hear the emotion in my voice but not caring.
I feel flayed open after the most intimate night with Julia followed by lunch with her family. And then the sinking realization that I couldn’t go on like this.
I never expected Opa to crack jokes. Not when he needs that money for the farm. But he just shrugs, gets up, and heads toward the sideboard where he keeps all the best bourbon.
He pulls out a bottle, then grabs three glasses in one meaty hand before plunking back down at the table.
“I was in your shoes once.” He shoots a rare soft look at Oma. “Hard and spiny on the outside, until your oma came along and cracked me open like a fucking crab leg.”
I snort. “Poetic,” I reply, only to look at Oma and see her smiling back at him.
Their relationship has always been a fairy tale to me. Strong, sure, and full of mutual respect.
It strikes me now that if I ever do the whole marriage and white picket fence thing, I’d want it to be like what they have.
Opa pours three large glasses of bourbon and slides two toward Oma and me.
“So, what you’re telling me is we’re skipping the payday?”
I groan and drop my forehead into my hands. And this time, tears slip out unbidden.
Get yourself together, I chide myself. I desperately don’t want to fall apart in front of them. But the stress of the last few weeks—the exhilaration of meeting Julia and the disappointment I’m about to dole out on them—hits me full force in a way I don’t expect.
An awkward sob racks me as I try to pull myself together.
I fail miserably.
“Oh, my boy,” Opa murmurs softly. I hear the screech of his chair as he rounds the table and comes to sit beside me.
“You think I give a fuck about that money or that sleazebag who’s going to pay it?” His arm mirrors Oma’s so that they’re both pressed to either side of me, huddled around me. Propping me up.
“Your happiness is our number one priority. It always has been, and it always will be. We promised your mother that we would love you as if you were our own,
if anything ever happened to her. And we do. She would have been proud of the man you’ve grown up to be.”
The mention of my mom only makes more tears spring up in my eyes, my throat constricting even further. Opa forges ahead, though.
“You’re thoughtful, but shrewd. Nobody’s fool. You’ve guarded that heart for too long. And you’ve made more than enough sacrifices for this family. So, this is one venture I’m glad to see crash and burn. Because if it means your happiness, then who gives a flying fuck about the rest? I’d sell this farm a million times over to see you or any of your siblings living a good life.”
His words make my throat ache, and dampness trails from my eyes. This has always been what being a Brandt is about. This is what’s held me together all these years. The knowledge that no matter what, my family has my back.
And I should have remembered that before I tortured myself over this. I should have known that this is what they would say.
Their hands rub in tandem against my back as I gain my composure. “Oh my god, I’m a fucking mess,” I whisper, sniffling and rubbing my tearstained cheeks on my forearms. As though I couldn’t possibly face them like this.
Oma leans in close, dropping her head to my shoulder. “But what a girl to be a mess over. One who’s strong enough to pretend her car stalled just to keep Carl
from crossing this property line.”
At that, my head shoots up. “What?”
They both burst out laughing. Opa’s firm clap on my shoulder draws my attention to him. His eyes are watery too. I mouth a silent Thank you to him, to which he says back, “Always. Now take a big drink of that bourbon and let Oma tell you this story. It’s an entertaining one.”
The night wears on in a haze of warmth and feelings of love and safety. It’s a good reminder that I’m surrounded by people who love me unconditionally. I head to bed feeling more at peace than I have in a very, very long time.
And as I pull the sheets of my childhood bed up over myself I’m barely able to keep my eyes open. I consider texting Julia, wanting to tell her the good news.
But then I think better of it. She’s out of reception, enjoying time with her family.
Plus, the thought of being able to see her face when I share this good news brings a smile to my lips as I sink into a whiskey-induced slumber.
