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Brett’s jaw was clenched, and he hadn’t moved a muscle to do anything for these guys. Pose. Sign. Nothing. He scowled at them to the point that it seemed he was keeping himself from putting his hands on them.
I’d known this about him earlier. It was a sixth sense I had, knowing when someone was capable of violence. There was a difference I could feel between people—those who had never needed to use violence but were capable, people who weren’t capable of it, and those who had needed to be violent and would and could be violent again if a situation occurred.
Brett was in that last category.
Brett?
I was on a first-name basis with him?
I suppose anyone who knew about Miss Sylvia Rivera should be on a first-name basis with me. I didn’t talk about her with just anyone. I held her in such high regard, like the real Sylvia.
But also whoa, because I knew Mason Kade. He’d gone over to join the San Diego Orcas, a brand-new team, and they’d shocked everyone by almost winning the Lombardi. Brett knew him in real life? From childhood? I was trying to remember who Mason Kade’s woman was, but I couldn’t. My football knowledge centered mostly on the players themselves, their college playing history, and the general game gossip about them. I didn’t pay attention to the blogs that wrote about their personal lives, unless they’d been arrested for some reason and that interfered with their career. I’d never heard about that with Mason Kade. Most newscasters just talked about his athleticism and whether he was going to stay with the Pats, his old team, which he hadn’t.
“Whooooaaaa! The Brood Machine is activated.”
That guy’s voice was annoying. It was high and shrill. There was a wide smile on his face, like he was watching a show play out in front of him. The other guy looked more chastised. His head was down, and he looked back at the group of guys waiting for them. There was a girl with them, and she eyed Brett like he was covered in whipped cream.
She probably needed a hamburger.
The guy shoved his paper and pen out again. “Just sign, man. We didn’t mean anything.” He moved closer, lowering his voice. “My girlfriend is two seconds away from coming over here and pressing her breasts against your chest. I love her, but she’s a fame whore.” He looked to me now. “No disrespect, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” I barked, all my usual hesitancies forgotten. Who was this? I didn’t recognize myself. “I’m thirty-two. Not old enough to be your mama.”
He flushed. “I call every woman older than me ma’am. It’s just a thing.”
The other guy hooted. “He just insulted Broody’s woman. This is classic. Hey, wait a minute.” His laugh died. His head straightened, and his eyes got big. “You’re the chick who tripped this morning. On CBX. It was a clip from their show. HOLY SHIT! You guys.” He stepped to the side, pointing at me. “This is the hot chick that took a nosedive.” He looked between Brett and me. “That like just happened, didn’t it? It was loaded an hour ago, and ESPN already added it to their Sunday highlights. It’s all a joke, that Broody’s magic is so powerful, even a girl who survived a serial killer is affected. And shit, girl. I’m real sorry about what you went through.” A keen look flashed in his eyes. He tilted his skinny head to the side. “Can I have your autograph?”
“Fuck’s sake.” Brett’s hand wrapped around my shoulder, tucking me against his side.
Tingles shot through me. Humiliation raged inside me, but it warred with the fact that he was touching me again. Oh no. Yay. No. Yay! Shit, no. But also, yay!
He smelled good. Like fresh laundry. That was the best smell.
And his chest was so tight. There was no softness to him at all—not that a little softness was bad. I liked a little cushion. Dad bods. Brett Broudou definitely did not have a dad bod. All muscles. And strength. And hardness.
I needed to stop thinking.
“I mean this with the utmost respect,” Brett clipped out. The guys quieted. I waited. “But fuck off.” He moved us back and returned to the lobby.
An hour ago?
I’d stayed after to talk with one of the producers because she knew Vicky, and then to calm down, but it’d been over an hour?
I’d lost track of time.
“Mr. Broudou?” One of the front lobby guards approached, likely concerned about how livid Brett seemed. It was radiating off him.
Yet somehow I felt protected and safe. None of the violent tendencies emanating from him affected me, which was shocking, because with my past, with anyone else, I wouldn’t be anywhere near him.
I would’ve sensed them on the elevator immediately. And I would have gotten the hell out of there.
“Yeah. Stupid dipshits outside,” Brett explained. “Can you have my car brought to the parking ramp? Is there a connecting door to it from this building?”
The guard nodded. “Do you want the police called?” He had a walkie out and was walking quickly beside us, an arm stretched ahead, showing the way.
“No. They’re just young shits. We were all young shits at some point.”
“Of course, Mr. Broudou. And yes, we got ahold of your driver. He needs to go around the block in order to pull into the ramp. It’ll be a short wait, if you’d like me to stay with you?”
