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His chest caved in like someone had just dropped a building on top of him. Absently, with the hand not holding the phone, he rubbed at the ache. He realized how stupid that was and dropped his hand back to his lap. The ache was there inside of him.
June was there. She’d captivated him from the first second he slid into the seat beside her at the poker table. He remembered that much. Her smile, her eyes, her wit, her humor, her charm, the way she tried to resist him, the strength she had, like underneath all that creamy skin was a layer of iron. She amazed him. It was far too soon to say that he had real feelings for her, but he knew that the potential was there. He knew that he wanted to know her and the thought of her not being in his future, of not getting the chance, was so fucking painful he couldn’t breathe.
He dialed Owen’s number and thankfully, though it was Sunday, the guy answered on the first ring.
“My man. Please don’t tell me that you have a disaster of a situation there in Vegas that you need me to clean up and that’s why you’re calling me on Sunday morning before lunch.”
God, he knows me too well. “I- uh- it’s not a disaster. I can fix it- uh- fuck. I think- can you just do me a favor? I need you to look up an address for me. I’ll give you the name. I need it ASAP. Also, I think I’m going to have to leave. I’m probably going to have to make a road trip to San Diego.”
Owen’s deep breaths filled up the phone. “I know this is bad. Your voice has that tone.”
“What tone?”
“The same tone you used when that blonde chick was stalking you after she found out that you were rich, and she threatened to say that you’d done something to her against her will unless you gave her a whole bunch of money.”
Brock sighed. “You could have just said blackmail. I would have known what you were talking about. It’s not that though. I- can you please just get me the address?”
“What did you do? Brock…”
“Nothing. It’s nothing. I just- address. Please.”
“Brock…”
“Owen.”
“This is bad. I fucking know it. I’ll help you out. Just please, tell me that it isn’t going to be all over the front pages of every magazine and newspaper. If it’s bad, I have to get on damage control immediately.”
“It’s not bad. Nothing happened.”
“You better not have gone down there and got yourself hitched in a moment of drunken stupidity. That would be the mess of all messes. I’m not sure that even I’m equipped to deal with that.”
Brock slammed his eyes shut. His head was beginning to ache. He felt like he had one hell of a wicked hangover, which was astounding, since he hadn’t drunk anything the night before. More like a Juneover. God, what if Owen was right? What if she went straight to the tabloids and sold the story for money? What if she leaked everything out of anger and spite? What if she made him pay since they were legally married, and he hadn’t signed a pre-nuptial agreement? I’m so fucked. Just because she didn’t seem like the kind of person to do it, didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen. If Brock learned anything over the years, it was that he was generally far too trusting, and it came back and bit him in the ass more often than not.
“Brock? Are you still there?”
“Yeah.” He rasped his fingers over his jawline again. He enjoyed the burn, both in his jaw when he pressed down too hard, and on the pads of his fingers. “Look. Can you get me the address? I need it. I’m going to- head out early this afternoon.” He’d go to June’s hotel first, but he was sure that she was already gone. Even if she wasn’t, she probably wasn’t going to answer his texts or calls. He’d try that first, but her address was like a security blanket.
Owen hesitated and breathed out a frustrated breath into the phone. It was obvious how annoyed he was, not because Brock was obviously in a mess, but because he wouldn’t come clean. “Fine. I’ll have it over to you in an hour.”
“Thanks. I know it’s Sunday, so if it takes longer than that, it’s alright.”
“It won’t take me longer. I’m employed by you for a reason. To handle messes, situations, people, and to get information. My job is to make sure you look good. I’m there to guarantee that you’re the best version of you that you can be. If that’s not true, if shit hits the fan down there, please fucking call me. Please, Brock. If I wake up to a mess in the morning, splashed all over every tabloid, I am going to find you and strangle the life out of you myself.”
