Well, that ended today.
Spencer wanted to put some asinine condition on doing the show with her, then that was peachy-keen-okay by her. Because she had the power to walk away. But she was sticking because she wanted to. Not because he was forcing her, but because she'd weighed her options and balanced the scale.
This time she was making the choice. Spencer wasn't ripping control out of her hands the way Brian had. The way her father had over and over and over.
No, this time, Brooke was giving it to him. Handing him control so that she could get what she wanted. A calculated, reasoned, cold-blooded trade.
Which meant she wasn't surrendering it at all. She was the one manipulating the situation.
She was the white-hot goddess tugging on the strings that controlled the world.
And no one--not her father, not some dickless asshole with a stash of GHB, and not even Spencer--could take that from her. No matter how hard he fucking tried.
With a smile, she tilted her head up to meet her father's eyes. "Thanks for popping by, Daddy. But now I think you need to go."
Chapter Eight
At a quarter to eleven, Spencer sat in the empty bar of The Driskill Hotel drinking a Scotch. He didn't usually drink before lunch, but he considered today a special occasion. The network meeting was in fifteen minutes, and Spencer still hadn't decided if
he wanted Brooke to agree to his terms or to slap his face and run the other direction.
Honestly, it was a toss-up. And the Scotch wasn't helping.
For years, he'd been telling himself that he never wanted to see her again. Trying so damn hard to erase her from his thoughts.
And yet she'd lingered. He'd never managed to shut her out, and he'd spent the last five years comparing every other woman he dated to her.
With the exception that none of the women had left him at the altar, they'd all come up short by comparison.
Then again, he hadn't asked any of them to marry him either. Once bitten, twice shy, after all.
Not that any of the Hollywood women who'd latched onto him would want him permanently. In their beds or on their arms, he was an interesting bauble to flaunt at the various network events and parties that had been command performances over the years. But he wasn't so naive as to think that any of those women would want something permanent with a guy like him. A guy who, at the end of the day, was a construction worker from a shithole neighborhood with a juvie record, gang connections, and a brother who'd narrowly escaped death row.
Yeah, he was one hell of a fucking awesome catch.
Once upon a time, he'd actually believed Brooke's bullshit. That she wanted him. That she believed in him. That she saw all the work he'd put into making something of himself.
He'd thought she was his muse, and he'd known she'd be his wife. But on both counts, it had turned out to all be bullshit.
So, no. He wasn't a fucking awesome catch.
He was a fucking naive asshole.
Brooke had been playing a game with him. A bitter duel, but he'd been too blind to see when she pulled the trigger. And her bullet penetrated straight through his heart.
Yeah, she'd fucked him over, and good.
But now it was his turn.
He closed his eyes, remembering the heat of her when he'd cornered her at The Fix. He'd barely touched her and yet he'd felt her. The electricity of her. That vibrancy that he'd always associated with Brooke, like something restrained that longed to be set free.
Once upon a time, she'd let herself go in his bed. Had given in to that wildness that lived, untamed, inside her. And as much as she'd hurt him, he couldn't deny that it rankled to think that over the years she'd given herself like that to some other man. That another guy had felt the pulse of energy from the woman he'd once claimed as his.
Fuck.
That was exactly the kind of thinking he didn't need. Because, dammit, he didn't need her. Didn't want her. Not anymore. Not after she'd so callously walked away.
What he wanted was revenge. And the perfect plan had been laid in his lap.