The Copper Valley Bro Code Series: Volume 1, page 26
“Stop being an ass,” the woman next to him hisses. She rolls her eyes at me. “And you shouldn’t have let Ryder off that easy. He’s what’s wrong with the world.”
“You guys. Give Sarah some breathing room.” Mackenzie leaps in front of me and holds her arms wide. “Are we here to be gossips, or are we here to help make the world a better place? Go on. You. Shoo. Get to work. You too. The trash isn’t going to pick itself up. And did a single one of you mention that the Fireballs won last night? What’s wrong with you?”
The crowd breaks up, and of course, now I should’ve brought my sweatshirt, sunglasses, and hat.
But no one’s talking about my parents.
So apparently no one recognized me.
I’m sagging with relief while I steal Mackenzie’s hat and sunglasses, because she owes me this much. “I’m going home,” I tell Adriana. “I’m so sorry, but I think I’m more of a hindrance than a help.”
“Okay, but you have to tell me all the details next time.” She glances around with a smile. “And thanks for bringing out all the volunteers. I didn’t realize when I started getting questions about if you were coming, that it meant so many people would want to talk to you. But then someone showed me the video, and—”
“Sarah? Sarah!”
“Yeah. Gotta go,” I say. I dart back to my car, Mackenzie on my heels.
“Are you mad?” she whispers.
“No.”
“You’re acting mad.”
“I’m surprised. And I hate attention. And why do people think we’re dating? We’re not dating. And—”
“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug that says she clearly knows.
“Mackenzie…”
She chews on her bottom lip and gives me the puppy dog look.
I cross my arms and glare at her, which sends someone who was halfway through calling Sarah! to turn around and head the other way, and which also makes me feel like slime, because I hate glaring at Mackenzie. She’s my best friend. And I still owe her the truth, and I really hope she stays my best friend after I confess to her.
“Okay, look. I read gossip pages,” my best friend whispers. “And it’s all about chemistry. Chemistry on set, chemistry walking down Sunset Boulevard, chemistry at a secret dinner in New York City, chemistry in interviews. You and Beck have chemistry. People eat that up. And if I let you edit that video, you would’ve taken out all the chemistry, and like, maybe a third of the people who care right now would’ve listened. I did it for the cause. Swear on the Fireballs’ winning streak, it was all for the cause. Saving the giraffes is so much more romantic when people think there’s a secret relationship behind the video.”
“It’s not—listen, I have to tell you something.”
“Sarah! Oh my gosh, Sarah,” yet one more person hollers, and dammit.
“I have to get out of here,” I tell Mackenzie. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Please don’t be mad.”
I squeeze her in a hug, because she’s basically family, and I might be mad, but I still love her. “Do not comment at all on anything related to that video. Understand? And you have to promise you won’t be mad at me either.”
“Sarah. Oh my god. Why would anyone be mad at you?”
I wince, because she’s going to find out soon enough.
It takes a little maneuvering, but I make it out of the parking lot around the volunteers arriving for clean-up day. Half a mile down the road, I spot a strip mall with a packed parking lot. I park near the back—employee cars, I assume, so little foot traffic here—and I pull out my phone and dial a number.
The sun won’t be up yet in California, but my mother might be.
An hour of yoga before the sun rises puts a beautiful day in your soul.
She answers on the first ring. “Serendipity! You called! I thought you might.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“So. When do we get to meet your boyfriend?”
“I don’t—”
“Nonsense. Franklin already sent me the video. Sweetheart. Your hair. You’re not going to keep a man like Beck Ryder happy with hair like that for long.”
“He likes picking the bugs out of it.”
“Serendipity Astrid Darling, what a horrible thing to say. I know you wash your hair too often to get bugs. Although—what’s this about bees? I had no idea you loved bees. Have you been on beekeeper dating sites? Is that why you’re on the Twitters talking about bees?”
“No, I—”
“And the giraffes! Oh, sweetheart, I had no idea giraffes were endangered. Do you remember the giraffe that came to your seventh birthday? You were so afraid of it. But don’t worry, your father and I are making a very sizable donation to giraffe research. And I assume our dear Mr. Ryder has done the same?”
“Yes, and he has four or five thousand a year,” I mutter to myself.
“Mr. Ryder is no Mr. Darcy, young lady,” my mom informs me. “If I’d known you were interested in former musicians, I could have gotten in touch with my agent to see if we could arrange an introduction to Cash Rivers. Now there’s a Mr. Darcy for you.”
“Mom—”
“I know, I know, dear. It’s all for publicity’s sake to clear his name, and Cash Rivers does have that nose. Now, what can we do to help?”
“Just—just please don’t say anything. To anyone. The attention will blow over. I don’t want—”
“Our names involved,” she finishes, and I cringe at the hurt tone in her voice.
I don’t want to hurt my mom. Or my dad.
But Hollywood-level attention and I don’t get along well.
Changing my name, taking a gap year in Morocco, and then enrolling in a small technical university in Copper Valley—all the way across the country from my parents and their high-profile lifestyle—worked perfectly to give me the anonymity I desperately needed after high school.
After my entire childhood, actually, but high school was the worst.
“It’s not you,” I say quietly.
“I know, Serendipity.” She sighs briefly again, which adds to the guilt cockleburs sticking to my socks and making my skin itch all over. “It’s just—never mind.”
“What?”
“If you change your mind, you know where to find us.”
I drop my head to the steering wheel. I’m the world’s worst daughter. “Thanks, Mom.”
“And comb your hair, sweetheart. It’ll make you feel so much better.”
I ignore her last bit of advice, because I don’t need it. And I did comb my hair this morning.
This thing with Beck Ryder will blow over.
People just need a new distraction.
And I need to make sure no one ever, ever figures out who my parents are.
While still probably confessing to my best friend.
Probably.
I think.
I mean, if people haven’t figured it out yet…will they ever?
8
Beck
Leaving my penthouse isn’t an option Sunday morning. In fact, leaving the Copper Valley area isn’t an option for the foreseeable future. Every meeting I was supposed to have in New York, California, and everywhere in between has been canceled or will be covered by someone else on my team.
My invitations to public appearances have all been revoked.
All of them.
I’m on the world’s shit list, waiting to see if that video Sarah posted will do anything to redeem even a fraction of the reputation I built on hard work, luck, and lots of hours hanging with kids at hospitals, schools, and in third world countries where another of my foundations helps provide clean food and water.
Of everything I do, my favorite part is helping the kids. I loved my childhood, and I’ve always wanted kids. Hell, I am a kid. But since we made that decision to sign that contract for a record deal for Bro Code, my life’s been heading in a direction that convinces me more and more every year that it won’t happen.
It’s been five years since the second—and last—woman told me I was going to be a father. In both cases, paternity tests proved them wrong, but that was enough for me. And I haven’t dated a woman since that I’ve been able to fully trust.
So having everything on the verge of falling apart now, when I have a bank account big enough to buy a small country, and when my businesses could operate almost on auto-pilot to keep funding more charity work like the foundation with Vaughn?
This sucks.
It’s too early to call Vaughn again to grovel some more—do not get on a pro athlete’s shit list when he’s a reformed street kid who’s now basketball’s poster child for projects related to children, at least not if you want to form a joint foundation with him—so I’m hanging out in my small weight room, sparring with Davis.
My old neighborhood buddy and former bandmate lives an hour or so outside the city, doing some real job with the nuclear power plant down there at the Virginia-North Carolina border that required him to go to college after the band split up, but he came up for Ellie and Wyatt’s engagement party last night.
“That tweet could’ve been worse,” he says as he aims a right hook at my ribs. “You could’ve said it to an old dude.”
I grunt and aim a right hook right back. “That would’ve actually been funny.”
“Knock, knock, you got your clothes on?” Ellie calls from somewhere outside the weight room.
“No, we’re both naked, and your brother’s sucking my dick,” Davis calls.
“In that case, I’m bringing a camera,” she replies.
He blocks my sucker punch aimed at his gut, and he bounces back as Ellie appears in all the mirrors around the room. “Ew, put your shirts on,” she says with a grin.
I use mine to wipe my face before heading toward her. “C’mere and give your favorite brother a hug.”
“Touch me and die.”
“Touch her and die,” Wyatt agrees behind her.
Pretty sure he could take me—he’s mostly a rocket scientist for the Air Force, but he takes being in the military seriously, and in addition to being brilliant, he also flies jets to test them out, which makes him badass in my book—so I settle for bending over and holding out a fist to Tucker, who’s standing between them. “Hey, little man. You have fun at your party last night?”
“The grown-ups talked too much,” he tells me.
“Yeah, and that never ends,” I agree.
“You know your phone’s blowing up on your kitchen counter?” Ellie says to me.
“What phone? I don’t have a phone.” Shit. If I missed a call from Vaughn, I’m probably dead.
She gives me an exasperated smile, then ruffles Tucker’s hair. “Uncle Beck has a Pac-Man game here.”
“No way!”
“Yep. Right through that door.”
That’s all the invitation Tucker needs. He’s darting to my game room across the hall before I can tell him I also have Donkey Kong in there.
“Don’t break it,” Davis mutters with a smirk under his beard and man-bun while he pulls on a black T-shirt that matches the ink up and down his arms.
“He can’t break it,” I say.
He, Ellie, and Wyatt all exchange glances, and Davis is the only one looking amused.
“Dude. Shit. Did you guys break Pac-Man at my house in Shipwreck?” They were out at my favorite little getaway in the Blue Ridge Mountains this past week for the Pirate Festival. Yes. Pirate Festival in the mountains. It’s a thing.
“Relax,” Wyatt says. “We didn’t break Pac-Man.”
“Mom sent cinnamon rolls,” Ellie adds quickly, and dammit, they’re hiding something.
But cinnamon rolls are the magic words.
My mother makes the best cinnamon rolls on the entire planet. I’ve flown home overnight from Australia before just to be there when she pulled them out of the oven. When we were kids, everyone knew when she made cinnamon rolls, because you could smell them baking all the way down to the end of the street at the Wilsons’ house, and she always made enough to feed an army, because that’s how many kids would show up on the doorstep looking for Saturday morning cinnamon rolls.
But when I head for the kitchen, Ellie blocks me. “Tell me you’re not pulling the Hollywood fake relationship thing with my neighbor,” she says in that deadly tone of voice that suggests there’s one right answer and one wrong answer that will result in a titty twister to end all titty twisters.
But it still doesn’t stop me from fantasizing about Sarah, which I’ve been trying very hard not to do all morning.
Those eyes. Those intense, wary eyes. And don’t get me started on the curves hiding under her clothes.
She has me fascinated. Which is dangerous, because I know she has secrets.
“What? Fake relationship with Sarah? No. You know me better than that.”
She crosses her arms and demonstrates how much she’s learned about being a mom in the year since she and Wyatt started dating seriously.
Shit, she’s good at that don’t give me your bullshit glare.
“What?” I ask again.
“The apology video?” she prompts.
“She wanted to spread the word about giraffes. I wanted to apologize. Win-win.” And my growing belief that it was that simple, that she’s not interested in anything else, is both refreshing and frustrating, because I think I like her.
“Have you talked to your team this morning?” Ellie asks.
“Hey, nudie dude, your brains are here,” Davis calls.
“Was he always this not-funny?” I ask Ellie.
“Were you always this sensitive? That was hilarious. And I take it that’s a no to talking to your team yet.”
“It’s Sunday. I told them to take the day off.” Not that they listened, because we’re in crisis mode, but it was a nice dream.
“At this rate, I’ll take a Sunday off in three years,” Charlie says. She stops in the doorway too and looks me up and down, her no-bullshit meter also clearly pinging high today. “You’re not answering your phone.”
“You want one of my mom’s cinnamon rolls? They go great with bad news. Did I miss Vaughn?”
“No, and it’s not all bad news.”
That means it’s mostly bad news with a side of sunshine. “New plan. Cancel all my appearances for the next month, and I’ll go into hiding in Shipwreck while we tell people I’m in rehab.”
“Everyone who invited you to appearances for the next four months canceled them already. We’re at a point of having to make up an event for you to have an appearance at if you’re ever going to be seen in public again.”
“So…we just need to spread the rehab rumors?”
“It’s astonishing to me that you run a billion-dollar fashion empire with this kind of attitude,” Ellie says.
I grunt. It won’t be a billion-dollar fashion empire for long at this rate.
“He’s a lot smarter when we’re in Milan or Paris,” Charlie tells her. “Being home turns him into a teenager who just wants to play video games again.”
I’d argue that that’s not fair, except it’s true. “Home’s for kicking back and relaxing. I work four hundred eighty-seven days of the year, so when I get my twenty-six to relax, I relax. Work hard, play hard.”
“Until you fuck up hard,” Charlie points out.
“Video didn’t work?”
“Worked too well.”
Ellie glares harder.
Charlie gives me the you’re so screwed smile.
And I realize that whatever’s going on, cinnamon rolls won’t solve it.
9
Sarah
Mackenzie shows up shortly after noon with peace offerings in the form of caramel corn and takeout burgers. And because I would’ve posted the video by now myself anyway—maybe edited, maybe not—and I still haven’t told her the truth about where I grew up, I let her in and hug her tight.
“Why are there two black cars with scary looking men parked across the street?” she asks me.
“Security. In case I get doxed. Charlie set it up.”
“Doxed?”
“Doxed. When the crazies on the internet find someone’s address and post it so weird stalker people can come by to see if Beck Ryder’s really my boyfriend.” I roll my eyes like it’s no big deal, but the internet is a scary place with scary people sometimes.
Can’t deny that I was grateful to get Charlie’s message this morning that they’d put extra security in the neighborhood as a precaution.
Especially after I logged onto Twitter to see how bad it was when I got home a couple hours ago.
Currently fifty-fifty, with half the world wondering if Beck Ryder’s apology was sincere enough to result in me crushing on him, and the other half of the world in total chaos arguing still over whether Beck or I are the uglier, stupider, assholier, or more desperate of the pair of us.
No one speculating about where I came from or who my parents are.
I just might’ve pulled this off.
“You two were really cute on the video,” my best friend tells me, leaving no doubt where she falls on the scale. “I can totally see tons of people making the same mistake as everyone at the nature center this morning. Not that an underwear model could ever be another Trent Fornicus—I mean, they stuff the briefs before they shoot the pictures, right?—but it’s your fifteen minutes of fame and you’re using it to save the giraffes.”
That’s it.
That’s my opening.
I suck in a deep breath to tell her, but she impulsively hugs me. “Seriously, I’m so proud of you. Where’s your jersey? The game’s on in ten minutes.”
And the moment is gone.
I change, pop popcorn, use some of my mom’s old meditation techniques to forget Mackenzie brought up Trent and to clear my mind enough to focus on how I’m going to tell her I’ve basically been lying to her for almost a decade, and we’ve just turned the TV on when she leaps to her feet and dashes to the kitchen.
“Wha—” I start, but then I hear voices at the back door.
Now familiar voices.
“Hey. Am I late?”
“No! Come in! Come in! Wait. What’s that? We don’t eat cotton candy during baseball games. It’s bad luck. Throw it away. But is that Fletchers caramel corn? Oooh, we haven’t tried that yet.”
