Risky Business

I care what Jayme thinks. And what she wants. Ring or no ring? I don’t care. No baby or a houseful? Whatever. I just need to tell her that I love her and apologize for my shitshow of a family rearing its ugly head again, right when her amazing one showed up for her in a big way. And of course, for my horrible reaction to that in the moment.

I’m still beating myself up for freezing, and then for my lightning-fast flash through every trigger point I have from my own family history. Now, I’m stuck on desperation . . . for Jayme.

I still can’t believe her parents are the Brookses, but I’ve done some reading today. Not the tabloid fodder speculation stuff, but rather the real deal information that’s out there. I wasn’t surprised by anything I found.

There’s very little to nothing about Jayme’s brothers, and only Jayme’s PR work. And certainly nothing listing any of them as Jameson or Leah Brooks’s children. But there’s plenty about her mom and dad and their dedication to philanthropy, where they work in the trenches with hands-on help as well as their financial assistance.

Jayme is who she is because of her family. She spoke with love and affection about her brothers, and that’s because her whole family appears to be happy, healthy, and well-adjusted. I’m not sure what that’s like, given the clusterfuck that mine is, but I can appreciate that they are so close, they’re willing to circle the wagons protectively against anyone and anything that threatens them.

I won’t let that be me.

It’s not me.

I would never do anything to hurt Jayme and will take her family secret to my grave if that’s what she wants. Because all I want is her in my arms again.

I sag into the couch, staring out the window blankly.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh . . . my . . . God! Carson!!!” Toni yells from the kitchen, getting louder and louder with each exclamation point. “Look, look, look!”

She runs into the living room, jumping over the back of the couch and landing in a perfect crisscross position next to me with her phone shoved in my face. “We did it!”

“What?”

Toni scrolls up and then back down, restarting the TikTok video. Taya’s face fills the screen . . .

“Listen here, you motherfucking bitch boy. You got my girl drunk-singing sad songs, and I don’t put up with that kinda shit. Not over some dude who can’t get it together for the best thing to ever happen to him.”

Taya looks up and down, and though it’s through the screen, I feel as though she’s scanning me personally and finding me severely lacking.

My heart sinks. She’s not going to help me find Jayme. Sure, eventually, Jayme will go back to her apartment, and I could be the guy who stalks the front curb, desperately waiting for her. Or I could go stand outside the gates of her parents’ house and beg the security camera or guard I’m sure is stationed there. But by the time I get to plead my case with Jayme face-to-face, it’ll be too late. She’s already writing me off, I can feel it in my bones.

All I need is a chance to plead my case and apologize, time to explain and vow my silence.

“But for some asinine reason, she thinks you’re it. Though I’m not catching that vibe just yet. So I’mma tell you what . . . she ain’t home. She’s with me.”

Taya thumps her chest and lifts her brow to emphasize the words, daring me to not understand what she’s saying. But I get it loud and clear. Jayme is at Taya’s beach house in Los Angeles, where she took me.

“I need to get to LA right now!” I shout, standing up.

Toni grabs my arm and unceremoniously jerks me back to the couch. “Keep watching,” she orders.

“My crew got together with her peoples and set it all up. You do what you did before—like deja vu that shit—and get here by seven o’clock tonight. I’ll make sure she’s ready. Or sober, at least.”

She looks off-screen, her mean-mugging façade dropping for a split second, and I know she’s looking at Jayme. Why isn’t Jayme saying anything herself? Is this some plan of hers? If so, I’ll walk right into the lion’s den and play whatever games she wants to play for a chance at fixing this.

“The rest is up to you. You better use that tongue for something more than pussy licking too, boy, because my girl needs a first-class apology before you treat her like the queen that she is.”

She licks her lips obscenely, finishing with a smacking noise that leaves her meaning crystal clear, before clacking her now blood-red nails at the camera. And then the video starts over.

“I hope you got all that,” Toni tells me. “’Cuz I’m not sure what she’s talking about.”