Their father wasn’t perfect, but family was his everything. If he’d known he had another son, he’d have moved heaven and earth to make sure he was part of the family. “How? Why would Sawyer’s mother not reach out and let Daddy know? Sawyer’s a few years older than Travis—it was before Momma. Before us.” Emmy paused. “Momma… if Momma finds out… ” A painful lump lodged in her throat.
“She can’t find out. That’s partly why I’ve kept his secret. He found us for a reason.”
Emmy groaned and covered her face with her hands. “I am such an idiot. You should have seen Sawyer’s face when I told him I didn’t have romantic feelings for him.”
Krystal laughed. “Oh, I so wish I had.”
“Either come out, or we’re coming in,” Travis yelled.
“You good?” Krystal asked.
“I think so.” She nodded, shook her head, then shrugged. “I will be. Let’s go.”
Travis and Jace stood outside the door, guitar and banjo at the ready. Travis waved them close, so they could all see the lyrics.
“A one, a two, a one-two-three-four,” Travis counted down.
Jace and Travis played through the melody once, then they took turns singing the lyrics. It was a dance-hall song, made for dancing to. It was the sort of song that would be a hit.
“Hold on.” Emmy ran across the room, grabbed her phone—ignoring their groans—and ran back. “Smile. I’m happy—really happy—and I want a keepsake.” She snapped a few pics. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Travis waved her along. “We need to go or you’ll be late.”
She followed, looking at the picture on her phone. Only one thing was missing: Sawyer.
Her brother. And now that she knew who he was, what he was to her, she wanted to really know him. Why hadn’t he told them who he was? Who was his mother? The questions kept coming—some leaving a bitter taste in her mouth and doubt whispering in her ear. He’d come here to find his family and he had. So why was he keeping his identity a secret? What could he gain from that? What did he want?
* * *
Brock stepped inside the ballroom and tugged at the collar of his custom-cut dress shirt. It wasn’t the fit; it was the surroundings. He tended to avoid events with free-flowing alcohol. Knowing he could get his hands on pretty much anything else—legal or otherwise—from at least three of the people already present didn’t help. It wasn’t that he was tempted; it was that he was aware. That shit was evil, and he didn’t want it near him or the people he cared about.
But the annual American Football League Charity Ball raised a ton of money to be divided among the AFL-sponsored charities, and the players were expected to attend. The AFL flew them all the way to the Big Apple, put them up in hotels, and provided them with goodie bags full of vendor donations, tickets to Broadway shows, and a variety of other perks. He glanced at his watch. He could do this. He’d shake the right hands, take the necessary pictures, then get the hell out of there and take the goodie bag back to Aunt Mo in Texas.
“Where’s your date?” Demetrius shook his hand. “I told Molly we were dancing.”
“I’m sure she’ll hold you to it next time. She’s staying with my dad.” And she’d been adamant that he go without her. She’d doled out a big serving of guilt, saying his father wouldn’t want him shirking his job to sit by his hospital bed. Then she’d gone on to claim the goodie bag was not something she looked forward to every year. If he hadn’t seen a couple of them stacked in the back closet, he might have believed her.
“Gotcha.” Demetrius nodded. “How’s he doing?”
Not good. His release had been delayed due to a tear in his rotator cuff—something he earned from fighting off a med tech who’d been trying to take some blood. “Hanging in.” He glanced at the watch again.
“Planning your escape? I get it. You timed it perfectly. Dinner’s about to start. Until then, we’re up front. Got us grouped by charity this year.” Demetrius pointed, then clapped him on the back.
Brock made his way through the tables, pausing along the way to make the requisite small talk. He caught sight of Leon Greene and smiled—until he saw who else was at the table.
“Brock.” Hank King stood, shaking his hand.
“Sir.” If Hank was here…
“Brock.” CiCi King sat at Hank’s side, her smile triggering all sort of warning bells. “Don’t you clean up nicely.”
“This is a surprise.” This sucked.
“How’s the leg?” Hank asked.
Brock smiled. Damn good now that he’d been released to play. “Getting there.” Coach had told him to keep his mouth shut. He said he’d rather let the Miami Raiders sweat it out until they saw him run onto the field.
“You listen to your doctors, son.” Hank clapped him on the shoulder, then sat.