AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I scoff. ‘If she’ll still call me Dad after this. You just plastered her picture all over the internet and made out like I’m sleeping with her. How freakin’ reckless can you be?’
‘Reckless? How can it be reckless if I didn’t know who she was? I mean, bloody hell, Brooks. You have an adult daughter and you didn’t think to tell me? How could you not have told me that? Oh, I get it. Just play with me and ship me back off to London, right? There was no need to tell me anything about your family. Who is the mother? Are you… together?’
‘Jesus. Back to me having an affair. I’m not even entertaining this. I should have told you about Cady but maybe, deep down, I knew the kind of person you are and decided not to bother.’
I watch as her eyes fill and she rolls her jaw. ‘Great, yeah, put this on me being a shitty person. I’ll take the blog down, and please tell Cady that I’m sorry. But you’re still a liar, Brooks Adams, and I want nothing more to do with you.’
‘That makes two of us.’
I turn and walk out of her apartment, leaving her there with tears in her eyes, my own throat locked tight with emotion.
Cady and I don’t speak as I drive her home. She looks out of the window and I maneuver around the bright headlights of cars, my elbow on the window ledge, my fist propping up my temple. All I see is Izzy. Tears in her eyes. Smelling of wine.
I stop on the corner of Alice’s cul-de-sac and Cady climbs out of the car without speaking, slamming the door behind her. I watch until she makes it inside the house and closes the door behind her, not once looking back.
Well, Brooks, you royally fucked this one up, buddy.
I stick the car into gear and just drive, to anywhere, nowhere.
25
BROOKS
Day 10
When I walk into Studio A, a small group of reporters – two I recognize and two new – are already gathered. Izzy doesn’t meet my eye or speak to me as she loads a salsa video. Once the video is loaded, she leaves the room.
After my workout, I shower. As she said would happen, now that I know the moves, I can build up a sweat doing her routines. I head up to my office and stop in the corridor when I hear her soft, high voice singing to the gentle strum of my guitar. I lean back against the wall and listen. Each strum and each word peels back a layer of my anger and bares my feelings for her. I have to force myself to remember that she’s childish and petty and this whole thing is just one big game to her. A game she is playing to win.
As she sings about feeling alone, I recognize the lyrics. Not because I’ve heard the song before; I haven’t. I recognize the sentiment. That she can feel alone in a crowd of people.
Of course, if you write blog posts claiming the guys you are sleeping with are also sleeping with their daughters, it is a surefire way to make yourself lonely.
I don’t have the energy for this. No more. I seek out Elliot – one of my best trainers – and ask him to cover Izzy’s session for me.
In my office, Izzy is frantically scribbling on a piece of paper. Crossing out words, writing down guitar chords. She stops when she sees me and puts the guitar down, returning to her desk and her blank laptop screen.
‘Elliot is going to take your session this afternoon,’ I say. ‘He’s one of my best and he has your notes.’
She lifts her head but her expression is unreadable. She nods, then stands and walks out of the room.
* * *
I hold the punch bag that hangs from the ceiling of the boxing room as Drew pummels his fists, knees, and shins into it. Kit is slumped on the floor with his head between his legs, recovering from his session.
‘Give me a left-right-left. Nice. Right-right-left. Good hit.’
As I talk Drew through his usual routine, throwing in a few different patterns to keep him sharp, Elliot comes into the room with Izzy following behind. He raises his chin in greeting. Izzy doesn’t look our way at all.
‘Give me five knees each side,’ I tell Drew, who is now dripping with sweat and grunting through each move.
I watch Elliot strap Izzy’s hands, my entire body tensing when he holds her wrist, his skin on hers. It’s a small touch. I’m mad as hell at the woman. Yet it riles me. She takes Elliot’s instruction without giving him any grief. I wish the music weren’t playing so loud so I can hear what she’s saying. It’s a small comfort that she isn’t laughing or smiling.
‘Roundhouse, hook, jab. Five on each side,’ I direct Drew.
Izzy starts punching at her bag but her technique is off. Her arms are too straight or too bent at the wrong times. She isn’t punching through the bag. That’s what I’d be telling her right now.
Elliot picks up on it but rather than telling her how to fix it, the bastard moves behind her, his chest to her back. He interlaces his fingers through her right hand and demonstrates technique by moving through the punch with her.
