My brother’s insults are embarrassing and childish. “What is he wearing? Did he come straight off the beach?” He points to Logan’s cutoff shorts, flip-flops, and T-shirt. Compared to Blake’s button-down, khakis, and boat shoes, Logan does look like he came off the beach.

I start to defend him, but Logan intervenes. “Last I checked that’s what ocean plus sand is. The beach.” He points to the water.

Layla laughs. “It’s a bar, Blake. Not a five-star restaurant.”

Blake glares at Logan and neither of them attempts to hide their mutual hatred.

“Give him a break,” Layla says. “He’s a nice guy.”

I can’t help but laugh. That has got to be the funniest thing I’ve heard in weeks. Logan laughs too, and the look on my brother’s face, seeing us laugh together, is one of horror.

Layla pokes Blake in the arm. She’s known my brother for ten years and neither his size nor his intimidation tactics scare her. “Stop being an asshole. They seem like a good couple together.”

He stares at her like she’s grown horns. “No.”

“He knows your mother’s name.”

Blake’s shock mirrors mine. We never talk about our mother, partly because I never knew her, partly because my coming into the world killed her, but mostly because it’s too damn painful for both of us.

Except Blake is unimpressed with Logan. “She’s known you a week, and she already told you about the most painful thing in her life? I don’t think so.”

Layla’s eyes lighten. “Penny, did you tell him or . . .” She glances at Amisha, and her face lights with suspicious interest. “If you didn’t tell him, how did he learn it?”

I lean into Logan, trying to look affectionate, though he stiffens against me. I need to salvage some of the good ground we made before Blake arrived. “The point is, he knows about me.” I shove under his arm to hint he should put it around me. He drapes his arm over my shoulder like a robot.

It’s odd that affection is so strange to him. He touches and kisses me in private like it’s as natural as breathing, but in public, he’s awkward, like he’s never done it before.

Blake doesn’t like it, even with Logan’s awkwardness. “Get your hands off her.”

Logan’s hand tightens on my shoulder like he has no intention of ever letting go.

* * *

Blake’s murderous expression doesn’t scare me, it infuriates me. I’m the only one who’s allowed to be angry around Penny. I’m the only one who’s allowed to be on the verge of a murderous rage. Because me—I trust to keep my shit together. I’ve spent my life repressing my temper. I know how to control it.

Blake, I’m certain, does not.

I suspected it from the first time he came into Penny’s condo. I can see it in him now. He would hit me and loose all his anger on me without a care for the safety of anyone here.

He can hit me all he wants. His mug resembles his father’s, and I’d love an excuse to pound it. But not in front of Penny.

I urge her toward the door. “Penny, go to the car.”

“Logan, I’m not . . .”

I scowl at her, the most serious expression I can give. “Go. To. The. Car.”

“She’s going nowhere!” Blake grabs her by the arm and tugs her to him.

I see red. I can’t help it. The peripherals of my vision turn a vibrant blood color, blocking out everything except his hand squeezing Penny’s arm painfully tight.

“Blake, let go.” She struggles against his grip.

He doesn’t. “Not unless you promise to stay away from him. He’s a worthless son-of-a-bitch.”

I control my voice to stay low. “You can say any shit you want about me. But she asked you to let her go.”

“Not until she sees sense and agrees to get rid of you.”

“This is ridiculous.” Penny pushes at his hand and winces when he squeezes tighter. “You’re hurting me.”

“Blake.” Layla shouts at him. “Let Penny go. She gets to decide her own life.”

“He’s using her. She’s only money to him.”

“Blake!” Penny cries.

He clutches both her shoulders. “He’s a fake, a con. Tell him to leave. Please, Penny.”

He’s right. I don’t know what I’d do if my sister had been in the clutches of a man like me. I wonder if Penny will rat me out, tell him the truth, give him the excuse he’s looking for to ruin everything I’ve planned.

But then I’d get to see the other kind of revenge—their father’s reputation ruined by every media outlet that will print my story.

It wouldn’t be enough. Penny started out as a major point in my plan, but she’s grown into more. She’s now the only piece of my plan that matters. More than the money, more than her father’s ruin, I need her to believe me.

Penny stills. “Last chance, Blake. Let me go.”

He shakes her again. “Not until you tell him to leave.”

I’m ready to rush in and force Blake off of her. But before I can, she stomps on Blake’s foot.

“What the fuck!” Blake lets her go.

Layla claps her hands. “Well done.”

“Are you okay?” Amisha goes to Penny, who backs as far away from her brother as she can.

Now it’s my turn.

I shove Blake toward the door.

He regains his feet. Still wincing, he thrusts up his chin.

“My wife got to hurt you,” I say, taking way too much satisfaction in calling her that. “Now it’s my turn.”

People scuttle away, giving us a wide berth. A man dressed in black who must be a bouncer says, “Outside, gentlemen.”

“Gladly,” Blake says, and I follow him into the gravel parking lot.

Away from the building and people, he turns to me. “I’ll pay you off. Not the whole trust, but enough for you to leave her alone.”

“And why would I take that? She’s far too much fun to give up for less than all of it.”

His shoulders rise, and his neck muscles bulge in fury. “Because eventually she’s going to see through you, and when she does she’ll turn you in to the police and have you arrested.”

I cross my arms. “For what? I haven’t hurt her. I haven’t stolen anything from her and I’m not going to.”

“You’re guilty of something, and I’m going to find out what.” Barely contained anger roils his expression.

I’m still itching for an excuse to hit him, so I provoke him. “The only thing I’ve done is fuck with your sister.” It works.

He makes a fist and throws a punch. I block with my forearm and punch him in the gut. He rams me with his shoulder, and I’m shoved against a car.

A fist nails my jaw. My head cracks against steel, but I grab him and throw him against the side of the car.

“STOP IT!” Penny’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. “Get in the car!” she shouts at me, pointing at the flashing taillights of her Lexus hybrid.

Blake holds his head and glares at me.

“Now!” Penny shouts at me.

“Stay away from her,” I say to Blake, then follow her to her car. I’ll have another opportunity to fight him.

I slide into the passenger seat of Penny’s car.

She gets in. “Don’t hit my brother, ever!”

“Not even when he’s nasty to you?”

“Not even.” She starts the car and drives out onto the road.

I catch my breath and rub my jaw where it’s swelling. “You got to hit him.”

“He’s my brother.”

“Yeah, well, he hurt my wife!” My voice rings in the car.

“Careful. Or I’ll think you actually care about me.”

I cringe. “It makes me look bad if some guy hurts something that’s mine.”

“I’m yours now?”

“By law.”

“No. That would be in the Middle Ages. I am not yours. I’m not anybody’s.” Her voice lowers. “Not anymore.”

I jerk in surprise. “Were you somebody’s before?” Her belonging to someone else, some other guy is . . .

I shouldn’t care. But the response in me is the same as the one I had to her brother. I want to rip his eyes out.

She sighs. “My father wasn’t big on, well, independence.”

“Oh. Him.” It doesn’t slow my heartbeat, though.

“Perhaps that’s why his death hit me so hard. The control he exerted over my life—even from far away . . .”

I want to know everything about this dead man who destroyed my sister’s life. “What did he do?”

“It wasn’t bad. Not really.”

“But it upset you.”

“It was small things. Things that added up to . . . me . . . not . . .” Her words come slow and hollow, like from the end of a tunnel.

“What did he do?”

“More like . . . what he didn’t do.” Her words come faster. “If I got bad grades, he wouldn’t talk to me until I’d fixed them. When I was little, if I did something he didn’t like, he would walk by me and pretend I wasn’t there. For days at a time. And when I decided not to go to med school . . .” Her voice shakes and breaks off.

“What?”

“He didn’t speak to me for six months. Wouldn’t answer the phone when I called. Was ‘out of town’ when I was home on break.”

“Good. You didn’t need to be spending time with that asshole.”

“He wasn’t an asshole. He was my father!”

“Exactly.”

She doesn’t speak, but the rise and fall of her chest quickens and her shoulders bunch. A shiver goes through her, but she shakes it off—as though trying to get rid of thoughts. Whatever she’s thinking, she’s closer to being ready for the truth.

I’m more than ready to give it to her.

* * *

My father loved me, too much in many ways, and I was his prize. His prize to put on display for his friends and business colleagues. His little girl to do as he said, whenever he said.

It wasn’t so bad. Sometimes it annoyed me. But I received so little attention from him, that what little I did get, I savored and pined for. But this is the first I’ve thought of it since he died.

I squash my thoughts. My father is gone. I refuse to think bad things of him. He was a good man who wanted what was best for me. He wasn’t perfect, but I would give anything to have him back.

The twist in my gut at that thought sends a shot of fear through me.

Of course, I want my father back. I miss him. I loved him. I—

Logan yanks me away from my thoughts. “Pull over. I’ll drive.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

A sob lodges in my throat, but the urge to close my eyes and lose it makes me pull over.

My door opens.

“Get out and let me drive,” Logan says.

His voice, the sound, it infuriates me. It’s all his fault. I wouldn’t be having these problems if he hadn’t barged into my life and made me start thinking these bad things about my father.

“I hate you!”

I leap from the car and shove him.

He stumbles backward into the road. I see the headlights too late, the car heading straight for him.

I scream. “Logan!”

The horn blares, the car swerves, and Logan jumps off the road in time.

My heart pounds with fright, but the car passed him. Missed him. He’s okay.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he shouts, his face falling into his mask of fury.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I’m so—”

“Get in the car.” He walks around me and gets in the driver side.

I stumble around to the passenger side. He drives us home in silence, me wondering if I’ll ever have the courage to face the truth—no matter how bad it is.