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“Noted,” I say sarcastically, acting as though I’m scribbling in a notebook despite already knowing all of that except for his personal feelings about his big brother. “What else? You mentioned defending yourself. Are you a fighter?”
His jaw goes tight and his eyes narrow.
“I’m not trying to offend you, Carson. But you did throw yourself into the middle of a situation when most people would’ve stepped back and let the professionals handle it.” I take a deep breath. “I need to know if any other altercations are out there, even if you think it was insignificant or was a long time ago.”
Mirroring me, Carson takes another breath before answering. “I’ve been in a few fights. When I was younger, just stupid kid stuff,” he spits out begrudgingly. I nod, not wanting to make a big deal out of it when even that small detail was like pulling teeth. “I’m not a hothead, though, if that’s what you’re getting at. I took a calculated risk to help security secure McKenzie . . . I mean, Abby . . . so that nobody would be hurt and the situation could be resolved as fast as possible.”
I don’t argue with that. What’s done is done, and if everyone made good choices all the time, I’d be out of a job. Instead, I push forward, changing the subject. “Okay, what else? Hobbies, crazy exes, family drama, sex tapes, vengeful former employees. What’s in your skeleton closet?”
Carson gives me a look that again, I can’t fully read.
CHAPTER 3
CARSON
“What? Why?” I demand, though I understand why she’s asking me. She doesn’t really want to know the inside of me. She wants to know how to save my ass. But still, I’m stalling, wishing I’d wake up from this nightmare. A nightmare of my own creation.
Jayme looks at me expectantly, not deeming my question worthy of an answer.
“Fine,” I grunt, running my hands through my hair and tugging at the strands in frustration, a move I’ve perfected in the last forty-eight hours. “No crazy exes or drama, beyond what my own family creates, and no sex tapes. Dad thinks I’m a potential liability not because I don’t know my shit but because I prefer to live my life in a way that he doesn’t approve of. But just because he’s all oatmeal for breakfast, out of the office by five, and quiet evenings at home before 10 o’clock bedtime, doesn’t mean I need to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I want to live life,” I exclaim, feeling anger and maybe a bit of excitement start to build inside me. “Motorcycles, the occasional bet on a game, travel, and yes, roller coasters. I like having some excitement in my life. But I’m not a mess who requires a full-blown media campaign to fix.”
Her lips quirk at my assessment, but she says, “Agree to disagree.”
“Really?” I snap, my anger at myself and this fucking McKenzie-Abby person finding a new target. Who is she to come in here, all high and mighty, making me feel like a loser who failed my family’s legacy? Does she think she’ll throw me off or something and that’ll somehow lead me to open up to her?
What does she know about the pressure I live under to be the best, to make up for my older brother, to represent myself and the Steen name? She’s sitting in my office in a designer black pencil skirt and silk blouse, with perfectly highlighted and curled blonde hair, looking like she’s never seen a day of struggle in her life.
Jayme leans forward, staring unblinkingly into my eyes with her chocolate brown ones. They're beautiful, deep doe eyes that at the same time sparkle with fire like the deepest, most precious amber in the world.
The fierceness of the fire there stops me in my tracks as she informs me, “In normal times, I would be happy to let your secrets remain yours. A little bike riding that’s never resulted in a speeding ticket, a weekend boat trip with a woman of consenting age, and some gambling on basketball wouldn’t be a big deal.”
Okay, I didn’t expect that. She’s almost understanding. And also . . . damn, she knows more about me than I thought. But she’s clearly not done raking me over the coals.
“Carson, right now, your entire image is under fire as the representative of not only Americana Land, but of the Steen family. So yeah . . . you’re a problem.” She points at me with a perfectly manicured, blush pink nail. “Or maybe better put, you have a problem.”
I don’t usually give much thought to my image because I’m not someone most people recognize or care about. Until now, apparently. “So, what now? What’s your big fix-it plan?”
She pulls a red leather notebook from her matching bag, opens it, and then holds it out to me. “First, motorcycles say danger, risk. Especially something as non-ecologically friendly as a Kawasaki Ninja H2/R that’s been tweaked to race specs while sacrificing on the fuel economy. Is it even street legal if someone takes a look at it?”
