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I’m not shaking. I’m not crying. I’m standing tall.
I walk into Jax’s kitchen, the same stunning kitchen that he’s declared as our future kitchen, should I so choose, and I actually feel free enough to open my mind to that possibility and more. Standing up to York, owning him instead of him owning me was empowering. For the first time in years, if not ever, I’m owning my life, not York or my father or even my own insecurities. I walk to the coffee pot, fill a cup, sweeten it up, and then sip. I like it. I like this place. I like the idea of a life outside an apartment I rent from my father’s empire. I like Jax. Maybe I’m falling in love, too, but the like part matters. It matters so very much.
Setting my cup down, I dial my brother, and he answers on the first ring. “Talk to me, Emma.”
I pause, because this is the part where he pushes me for all the things I just said in front of Jax and Savage, but I remind myself that I’m empowered. I don’t need to do anything I don’t want to do. “York is a bad person, Chance,” I say simply. “He does bad things. He did bad things to me.”
“What bad things, Emma? I need details. That way I can decide how badly he hurts before I kill that fucker.”
Warmth spreads through me at the reminder that he’s my big brother, that he loves me, but the reason I need that reminder is present, too. Jax and I might have York out in the open, but Hunter is still dead. We can’t bring him back. We can’t turn back time. “I’m going to spare you the details,” I say, “and the need to hurt York. He’s handled, and for the record, thank Jax for that. He made a difference in ways you can’t understand.” On that, I choke up and swallow hard, delicately clearing my throat. “Make the call. Tell Monroe about dad and Marion.”
“What does ‘handled’ mean, Bird Dog? Because I heard that crack in your voice.”
I ignore the comment about my voice. That’s the overflow of years of baggage. “It means,” I say, “that while he was gloating about certain nefarious details of our past, I recorded him with witnesses present, as back up. And he knows it. I have him by the balls. He’s not a problem.”
“What witnesses?”
“He’s handled. He’s not a problem. But Monroe might be. Maybe you should let me call. I’ve spent more time with him than you. He’s going to associate cheating with our brand, and let’s just face it, you with dad, otherwise known as the cheater.”
“Yeah, I was thinking about that after we hung up. You’re right. We have to tell him. The man has as much right as mom for some sort of justice. But you need to tell him.”
“It’s going to hurt him, Chance. Is that justice? Do we want to do that to him?”
“On some level, he knows. Mom said she did, and she hurt all the time. Now she’s hiding in Europe. Is that what we want?”
“Of course not. And you’re right. He has to know, at least on some level. I’ll call him. Text me the number.”
“Emma—”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m better than I’ve been in a long time, actually.”
“And Jax helped make that happen?”
“Yeah. He did. He’s a good guy. I know the Hunter stuff is a challenge, but I’m—I need you to step back from that. Please.”
He’s silent a beat. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened?”
Disappointment stabs at me that he hasn’t agreed to try with Jax, but I let it go. “No,” I say frankly. “I’m not.”
“I’m going to assume the worst.”
“Okay,” I say, because his worst isn’t going to be my worst. Not even Jax and Savage get how bad it was.
“That’s it?” he challenges.
“Yes,” I say, feeling no desire to explain myself, which, thinking back, has been part of my place in this family. I’m the one who explains myself away. No more. “Yes. That’s it. Text me the number.”
He hesitates. “I love you, Emma.”
“I love you, too.” We disconnect, and I consider the idea that he’s behind Hunter’s death or at least complicit, but I reject that immediately. Chance can come off as a jerk, but it’s only when he’s in damage control mode. When he’s protecting what he loves: the brand. I don’t see how Hunter could have ever threatened our brand. And Chance wouldn’t kill him anyway.
But my father might.
I think.
The journals made it seem as if he might. My phone buzzes with the text from Chance, and I stare at Monroe’s number in the message. I have to do this. I’m going to hurt him, but Monroe, like everyone, deserves someone who treats him better. I dial his number.
“Emma,” he greets, somehow recognizing my number. “To what do I owe this call?”
