Hard Fought (A Stepbrother Warriors Novel)(35)

I run across the lawn and then through the kitchen door and down the hallway toward the security center. The only thing that would make Carter angrier than me missing his appointment is if I left the house without a security detail. I knock on the door and after a moment it opens.

"Roger! Can you drive me somewhere?"

"Where's Carter?"

"He's at physical therapy, and I'm supposed to be there, but I'm not. Can you drive me?" Roger pauses, then nods, and follows me to the garage. I hop in the back of the Escalade and tell him to head to the hospital. He drops me off at the front, and I fly inside. Carter would be right next to me, but Roger seems a bit less vigilant, content to follow me from a distance as he slowly exits the car.

I rush down the hall to the physical therapy suite, belatedly realizing how terrible I must look right now. With a wave to the receptionist, who knows me but looks a little taken aback, I hurry down the hall to the workout area. I look at my watch. One o'clock exactly. They should just be finishing up. I take a deep breath and run my thumbs under my eyes. When I look down, they're smudged with my mascara, now fallen underneath my lashes.

I poke my head nervously around the corner, and I'm shocked by what I see. Carter and Petra are sitting on a workout bench together, laughing. I shrink back, watching them. He's sweaty from the session, but he looks so relaxed. And from the way she's looking at him, it's clear how she feels. She takes a card from her pocket, and a pen, and she writes something on the back of it. I'd bet a million dollars it's her private number. He takes it and gives her a hug, and a kiss on the cheek.

I step back, and start in the other direction almost as quickly as I came. Halfway down the hallway, I run into Roger.

"Never mind," I tell him. "They didn't need me."

Back in the car, I examine myself in the reflection of the tinted windows. God, I look like shit. All the late nights and drinking are beginning to show on my skin. Petra would be better for Carter anyway. She's sweet, chipper, and not a complete fuck-up, like me. Carter needs someone who will be there for him, and clearly I don't fit the bill.

When we get back to the house, I thank Roger, and head for the first bathroom in the hallway. I scrub my face clean and then head into the kitchen for a tall glass of water. I take it into the den and slip under the throw blanket and turn on the TV.

Some sports channel. I bet Bree's been watching it again. She always says she doesn't like sports, but I've seen her in here more than once, watching the game coverage. I'm about to flip the channel when I see a familiar face pop up: hers. What the fuck is Bree doing on FOX Sports?

I turn up the volume and lean forward. "Up next, a look into the life of Sonny Bosko, disgraced player for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. We've caught up with him, and his family, and you'll be shocked at what our reporting has uncovered."

Oh, boy. That can't be good. I take my cellphone out of my clutch and find Bree's number. "Hey, where are you?" I ask as she picks up.

"In my room, why?" she answers.

"Could you come down to the den? I need to show you something."

"OK, weirdo," she replies jovially before hanging up. I wait nervously for her to arrive, wracking my brain for what Carter told me about his father. Bree bounces in from the hall, and I pat the seat next to me.

"So, I'm not really sure how to put this, but I think there is some kind of TV report coming out about you and your father."

Bree goes pale. "What? What do you mean? How do you know?"

"Well, they just showed a preview of it. I thought Carter said that he didn't know where your father was, but the anchor said just now that they found him."

"Oh my god...where is he? Do I want to know? Shit, I knew I never should have gone to that game. Will you get Jack?"

"Um, sure...I don't know where—"

"He's working out around the side of the house," she says, staring at the commercials streaming across the TV screen. I nod, and hurry back down the hallway and then out and across the patio.

"Catch!" Jack yells as I approach, and tosses me a perfect spiral. I catch it and then drop the ball next to me.

"Bree asked me to come get you," I tell him.

"Why?" he frowns.

"I saw something on TV...some kind of exposè on her father is about to air."

"Oh, fuck," he swears, and charges around me back to the house.

I follow him slowly, curious about what's in this report, but more curious about what's happening right in front of me. Why did Bree want to see Jack, rather than, say, her mom or older brother? I guess Jack might know more about the sports world, and have some good advice? But then Bree is always watching sports news, so she's definitely not clueless, even though she's pretending to be. It's like she's hiding something.