“He thought it was a good idea to send you?” I demand.
“I'm not sure about good. More of a last resort because no one would help him,” he says.
“You mean, no one besidesyou.”
Brandon tucks his chin, takes it. “That’s a low blow, Fran…but fair.”
“It’s not Fran. It’s not Francesca. It’s just Frankie.” I cross my arms; study him for clues that he’s lying.
Malcolm hates Brandon. He’s despised him since Brandon published the very first story detailing Malcolm’s unethical business practices. Despise ratcheted up to destroy once Brandon got a book deal for the unauthorized bio of Malcolm.
The thing is, the stories didn't touch Malcolm. He always found someone else to take the blame and cameoff smelling, if not quite rosy, at least not as dirty as he is. But he still hated Brandon just for writing them.
Malcolm expected me to take the fall when Bran broke the story about the green washing behind “our” eco-resort, Rancho Mirage. What he didn’t expect was that I’d been the one who’d given Bran the info I’d discovered.
When Malcolm found out, he was beyond mad, but when he found out I’d also married Brandon, he did exactly what I was taunting him to do—cut me off. Then he vowed to ruin my reputation and make sure Brandon not only never published another story, but also never got another job anywhere. Not as a journalist. Not as a writer. Not even as a worker in a stupid hat at In-n-Out.
Malcolm’s words, not mine.
He succeeded with me.
But Brandon saved himself by doing the same thing Malcolm had done—throwing me under the bus. For all his commitment to truth, Brandon agreed not to publish the bio or anymore stories about Malcolm, for a price, of course. He walked away with his job and the advance he got from his publisher—despite canceling the book deal—and a million dollars from Malcolm.
In the meantime, all the fury Malcolm threw at me, Brandon did nothing to stop. The info he had on Malcolm could have buried him. Or if not buried him, at least distracted Malcolm enough to leave me alone.
I meet Brandon’s gaze with a hard look. I won’t be taken in by him again. “I know he paid you off, Bran.”
He swallows. “Malcolm’s sick, Frankie. Really sick. He wants to see you.”
My impulse is to ask what’s wrong with him, but I stop myself. This is Malcolm. The only thing wrong is that he’d use something like this to manipulate me into seeing him; make methink he’s dying and wants to make amends. I’m about to say as much when there’s a knock and Cal pokes his head around the door.
“Frankie?” He sees Brandon, stiffens and steps inside. “You okay?”
I give a quick nod, but he’s already by my side.
“This is Brandon.” I nod toward my ex.
Cal’s eyes narrow.
“Who’s this?” Brandon asks.
“None of your business,” Cal says at the same time I say, “A friend.”
Brandon looks between us, then nods slowly. There’s hurt in his eyes when he raises them to mine. “I was hoping you hadn’t moved on.”
“You’ve got it all wrong, Bran. We’re friends. That’s all,” I say to protect Cal, but when his shoulders dip, I wonder if he understands why I’m insisting we’re only mates.
Yeah, that’s what we decided we are, but I also don’t want Bran trying to dig up dirt on Cal or any of the Holloways.
Whatever Cal thinks about what I’ve said, he recovers and straightens to his full height before stepping between Brandon and me. “Are you here for a reason?”
Brandon takes a step back and holds up his hands, like he’s the innocent one. “Just delivering a message to my ex-wife.” He looks around Cal at me. “Malcolm’s not well, Frankie. I’ve seen him.”
Cal glances over his shoulder at me, then steps aside as I look around him at Bran.
“In Brisbane?”
Brandon shakes his head. “He’s in L.A., being treated by a specialist. He said he wants you to have what’s rightfully yours. You and Archie both.”
