Forty - Two - Serena

“What do you really want from him?”

 

 

California

 

 

 

I woke up feeling impetuous this morning, which resulted in me hopping on a private plane without a plan.

Kholton has been ignoring me for the past week and I can’t take it anymore. So here I am in California, tracking him down.

I’ve no idea where his family home is, but with Brock’s beach house just a few blocks from mine, it’s the first stop I make.

After ten minutes of abusing the doorbell, I conclude no one is home—or that they’re ignoring me—and set out for the next best stop. 

BCI Services.

There’s an absence of construction workers milling about this time. In fact, it looks nothing like when I first came here. The four-story brick building is now matte black, with wider reflective windows. A complete face-lift. Modern and mysterious, with the marquee in rich, red letters.

When I attempt to open the entry door, I fail. It’s locked. In the glass, I can see my reflection and the parking lot behind me, but nothing on the inside.

Belatedly, I notice the buzzer on the inner wall, a monitor next to it, and a camera above trained on me.

I press the buzzer.

A disembodied voice comes from the monitor. “Please enter.”

Cool air-conditioned air blasts my cheeks when I enter. This floor, which was a debris-covered mess the last time I was here, has been transformed into a sleek but cozy lobby, with black and gold furniture and blood-red accents.

A stern brunette sits behind the reception desk, with two massive, hulk-like guards dressed in black on either side of said desk.

“May I have your name, please?” the brunette asks without lifting her head, her fingers flying across the desktop keyboard.

“Serena Bentley.”

“Your address?”

“Long Island, New York.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Is red your natural hair color?”

Huh? “What does all this have to do with anything?”

“It’s protocol, Miss. I’m just doing my job. Natural hair color?”

I roll my eyes, because this is ridiculous. “Yes. Red is my natural hair color.”

She types for a few seconds longer before she finally lifts her head and makes eye-contact. “Okay, Miss Bentley, how may I help you?”

I flip the rental keys around on my finger. “I’m looking for Kholton.”

She looks nonplussed. “Pardon?”

“Kholton Sharpe.”

She begins typing on her keyboard again. “Can you tell me what department he is in, please?”

“Department?”

She glances up at me, impatient and seemingly suspicious. “Bounty Hunting, International Investigations, Law Aid, or Private Investigations?”

“Oh, uh, he doesn’t really work here. He’s a shareholder and a close friend of the Cage’s. White hair. Silver eyes. Leaves an impression on you?”

At that, her eyes alight with recognition and she smiles. “Oh. You mean Khol.”

“Yes. Him.”

“Khol is—”

“Not here.”

I jerk around at the interruption and see Brian. Where the heck did he come from? The dickhead.

He’s leaned against the wall next to the elevator, wearing his usual shit-eating grin, a black tee, and dark denims.

I glower. “Where is he?”

“Not here,” he repeats.

I grit my teeth. “Where?”

He pushes off from the wall and jerks his head to the front door as he proceeds out of the building, expecting me to follow.

I hate having to follow his punk ass, but I do, because if there’s anyone who has the answers I need, it’s him.

From his back pocket, he withdraws a pack of cigarettes and plucks one out.

“Since when do you smoke?” I ask, because I’ve been around him a number of times and have never seen him smoke. 

He lights up the cancer stick and sucks in a lungful of death. “Since fifteen-years-old. Peer pressure and all.”

I watch his full lips as smoke spills from between them. He’s annoyingly hot, in a manner that screams trouble is my name, whereas his twin is a quiet, brooding, scary type of hot.

“Stop checking me out,” he says, face tipped to the sky. “You’re not my type.”

“I’m not—what?” I splutter. “I’m not even going to go there with you. Where’s Khol?”

“What’d you want with him?”

“Listen to me, you sonuvabitch.” I run up and chuck his shoulder twice until he’s facing me. “You two stole from me. I’ve been nice enough not to take legal action. Don’t make me change my damn mind. Where is he?”

“You got proof of that, sweetheart?” There goes that grin again. “Last I heard, you are in possession of this supposedly stolen item. You running broke or something? Tryna commit insurance fraud?”

Veins of rage expands under my skin.

Tightening my hold on my purse, I swing it through the air and thwack him straight in the face with it.

“What the—”

I smack him again. “You piece of shit!” And again. “After what you did to me, you should be kissing my ass!” Smack! Smack! “Tell me where he is right now!”

A black G-Class Mercedes jeep swings into the parking lot as I’m beating the shit out of Brian with my purse, all while he keeps backing up and laughing, shielding himself with one hand.

Out of the jeep jumps his twin. Brock. “The hell?”

I keep hitting him and hitting him and hitting him, shrieking, “You piece of shit!”

In the next second, I’m locked into a death grip from behind by Brock’s brawny arm. “Calm down, woman.” To Brian, “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing!” Brian replies through a half-cough, half-laugh. “She got mad because I told her she isn’t my type.”

At this, I shriek again and attempt to break free of Brock’s hold to get at the asshole. But I’m going nowhere. The man is more solid than Iron Man.

Brock puts his lips to my ear. “Serena, you need to chill out.”

Closing my eyes, I count to ten.

Ten doesn’t work, so I count to thirty. “Okay. I’m calm.”

Brian flashes me a jeering smirk, but Brock spins me around to face him so the asshole can’t screw up my calm. “Talk to me. What are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing here?” I snap, annoyed, exhausted, and jet-lagged. “I’m looking for the white con artist.”

“Khol?” he replies. “He’s not here, babe. He flew back yesterday.”

“Flew back where? New York?”

He nods. “Yeah. Naan…she’s in the hospital.”

“What?” I pull away from him, frowning. “No, she’s not. I saw her two days ago.”

“She is, babe. The hospital called him night before last. Said she has pneumonia and things weren’t looking too good. He flew out the next morning.”

Things weren’t looking too good? “What does that mean? Have you received any updates from him?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. Haven’t heard from him since. Brian’s flying out tonight to go see what’s going on.”

I spin around to Brian. “I’m coming with you.”

He makes a face. “Uh…yeah—no.” 

“Brian,” Brock reproaches.

“Look, man,” Brian says, “Those two have this weird, screwed-up, head-fucking thing going on, and I’m not getting in the middle of it. Besides,” he lifts a spiteful brow at me, “she just assaulted me.”

“Knowing you,” Brock says, “you probably deserved it.”

Brian scowls. “Gee, thanks for having my back, man.” He looks to me. “No. The answer is no. I’m not taking you with me.” 

Four hours later, we’re boarding a commercial flight together.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” he grumbles as the plane takes off.

About an hour into the flight, he looks over at me with a serious expression and asks, “What’d you really want from him?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” He stares me down. “He stole from you. Gamed you. And instead of running in the other direction, you’re moving heaven and earth to find him. Why?”

“Because…” I stare back at him. Unseeing. Yes, why, Serena? Why? “Because I want him to know I forgive him.”

As if disappointed in my answer, he shakes his head and sighs. “You don’t need to let someone know you’ve forgiven them. You just forgive them and move on with your life. Forgiveness is not for them, it’s for you.” He continues to bore through me with his stare. “What do you really want from him, Serena?”

I grow irritated. Not at him for asking a perfectly valid question, but at myself for not having a valid answer. I snap, “What’s it matter to you?”

His gaze ices over. “It matters to me because he’s my brother and he’s stupid in love with you—Lord knows why ‘cause it’s not like you’re anything special—and you can’t even admit that you feel the same. Why can’t you just fucking say it?”

Boom.

Boom.

BOOM.

Three times over my heart implodes on itself. How am I still breathing? How am I alive? “W-What?”

“You know he gave up a kidney for you?” he grounds out. “He did it for you. Not his father. He had a choice to make, and he chose you. While you’re running around with your entitled, high-heeled ass thinking he’s just gonna dance to your beat until you say stop. That’s not how it works, ‘Miss Bentley’? When the game is over, only truth and real matters. And the game’s been over.” 

His words are like tiny pin pricks to my veins. As my eyes begin to burn, I turn away and look out the window. “Screw you, Brian.”

“Like I said,” he replies coolly, “you aren’t my type.”

We land.

One minute I’m beside him, keeping up with his quick, long strides as best as I can, and the next minute, he’s vanished. Nowhere to be seen.

“Son of a—”

Yep, I’ve been ditched.