Chapter Twenty

Brenna

Misery dogged every single step as I made my way back home. I felt like a bruised puppy with my tail between my legs. I couldn’t even face the subway, and I called for a cab despite the knowledge that my bank account would soon be almost empty. And my glorious apartment. I’d lose that too. My battered heart simply couldn’t take anymore.

Angry questions bombarded my every thought. With each passing second, I only grew angrier that Riley and Rhett had obviously deceived me. What had happened? Had they been working together to pull off some kind of warped scheme? I understood what that meant for Riley, but not for Rhett. Then it hit me. I’d just been another notch in his already whittled bedpost. Even more than that. It was the perfect way for him to seek revenge on me after I’d clearly done my best to smudge his well-deserved reputation.

My heart sank even deeper into despair. Sure, I had found Riley a little annoying and overbearing at times. But she’d acted like we were best friends. She’d gone out of her way to try to help me. The saliva in my mouth turned to acid as I remembered the phony little way she’d offered to help me at Sport Taste. She was probably angling to help her own career the whole time.

Once I arrived home, I grabbed my computer and a big glass of wine before settling on the couch. I went to the Sport Taste website, ignoring the sinking feeling in my chest that I’d never work for them again. That didn’t matter at the moment – all that mattered was finding out the truth, and learning why I’d been so cruelly tricked by the two people I’d grown to trust more than anyone else in the world. And then seeing if I had any legal recourse against any of it.

But when I typed the website in the browser, I got a message that said I was blocked. I stared at the screen, remembering the day Riley was going to bookmark sites for me. Narrowing my eyes, I found the place in settings that showed which websites were blocked from my view, and yes, Sports Taste was one of them. There were a number of other sites too, and when I clicked on them, I discovered they were all pages about Rhett.

I felt sick.

The nausea returned as I skimmed through the short video interviews. There was one titled: Brenna Sinclair on the Yankees. Nervously, I clicked on it and waited for it to load.

Seeing myself on screen shot a new kind of pain throughout my aching body. I looked happy and confident as I sat behind a desk wearing a teal sweater with my hair piled on the top of my head in my signature work bun. As the video loaded, I took a big drink of wine.

Seconds later, the tinny sound of my voice filled the apartment.

“Hi, there! This is Brenna Sinclair, reporting for Sport Taste.”

“Hello, Brenna.” The screen split to show a blonde anchorwoman. After a few seconds, I recognized her as Casey Taylor, one of New York’s most popular female television hosts.

I smiled politely on screen. “Hi, Casey. Beautiful weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

Casey smiled a megawatt smile. “Yes, it is,” she purred. “And you just got back from the first Yankees game of the year. Tell me all about it,” she said with a saucy wink. “Especially about that dreamboat pitcher, Rhett Bradshaw!”

Brenna-on-screen winced. “Well, Casey, I have to say – he’s not exactly in prime pitching mode. Not yet at least. He hasn’t hit his spring stride.”

“I bet all that training will pay off before us New Yorkers can say Yankees!”

“Hopefully so,” I said, tossing my head.

“Can you tell me about the game, Brenna? What kind of advantages do the Yankees have right now…and where do you think they’ll wind up this season?”

On screen, I smiled and laughed. “Well, Casey, I’ve been reporting on the Yankees for about two years now – and Rhett Bradshaw is surely a big part of the Yankees presence. I can say with confidence that if Bradshaw has his way, they’re aiming to be undefeated.”

Casey made a show of whistling. “Wow, that’s really something. Not possible, statistically. But it really speaks to the confidence within the team.”

“It is,” I said. “But that’s only gonna happen if Bradshaw pulls his head out of his ass and knocks off his out of control partying for a while.”

Casey smiled, but to new Brenna, it seemed patronizing. Old Brenna didn’t bat an eyelash. A flash of dislike crossed my brain, and suddenly a memory appeared – the two of us, at a bar, with Casey using her cleavage and smiles for free drinks and attention. She’s a silly bimbo, I thought to myself as I narrowed my eyes at the screen. And I didn’t like her before my accident.

My heart fluttered under the excitement of my first real memory from my recent past.

“Well, I’m sure he does exactly what any guy in his situation would do,” Casey said. She smiled again – this time, it dripped condescension.

“I’ve studied Bradshaw for a long time,” television Brenna said. “And he’s a great pitcher, but he’s got a few tricks up his sleeve that are pretty easy to see if you spend enough time watching.”

Casey raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Like, every time he throws a sinker to a fastball hitter, it ends up a hard foul into the dugout or the stands.” Television Brenna smiled as if she’d just given away a serious baseball revelation. “He’s used that trick many a time.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t like you disclosing his trade secrets,” Casey said, pretending to admonish me. “You’re killing the mystery of the game.”

“For a baseball lover like me, there is no mystery,” she said. “That’s my job, after all – reveal the secrets of the stars, and figure everything out like it’s a science. The truth will set you free, Casey.”

Casey smiled tightly. “Tell me about his other pitches, then.”

I laughed in unison with my on-screen doppelganger. “Haven’t got them all figured out yet, Casey. Just a few.” TV Brenna winked at the camera, and I felt a flutter of pride. Old me had handled this interview with aplomb and class, sticking to the facts but still letting my personality shine without any personal vendetta. “And it would be a disservice to reveal all of Bradshaw’s secrets. I’m a Yankees fan tried and true until the bitter end. I’ll always do what’s best for the team.”

“You certainly had no problem revealing the Intel about the Sinker,” Casey said. “So, Brenna Sinclair, what do you think of this?” Casey smirked and held up a tabloid photo. It showed Rhett from behind, with his pants around his ankles and his bare ass glowing in the dim light. He had a woman pressed up against a brick wall while he pummeled her, her legs wrapped around his waist. A discarded Yankees’ cap lay on the ground beside them.

TV Brenna smiled as if she’d just been given the keys to the kingdom. “Interesting, Casey. I guess I believe every New Yorker has a right to know what kind of dog they’re rooting for.”

Casey whistled. “And you certainly don’t waste any time, do you?” She smiled brightly at the camera. “Reporting from KPMT, this has been Casey Taylor with special guest, Brenna Sinclair.”

The video window faded to grey, and I sat silently on the couch, sipping my wine. Watching myself on camera had been like an instant flashback – I could remember that interview exactly, almost like it happened yesterday. Every detail in vivid color. I even remembered going back to the office – Nina had warned me to stay away from tabloid speculation, but I’d felt pretty full of myself already. Casey had started it, a low blow against Rhett, and I had jumped right on the takedown bandwagon. That had been over a year ago when Rhett was just starting his monumental rise to insane popularity.

I felt like a shell of the former Brenna Sinclair. When I’d had my head injury, everything in my life had changed. I’d gone from happy and confident to withdrawn and confused. And thinking about how Rhett had taken advantage of me only made it worse.

Why? Why had he done that? Had it been some kind of sick conquest, manipulate the amnesiac for a chance to fuck the one woman who’d always hated him? My nausea came back as I realized it couldn’t have been a mistake. No, Rhett Bradshaw had deliberately tried to manipulate me. He’d led me on. He’d acted like we had no history – no bad blood, no anger.

Tears came to my eyes as the possibilities grew worse in my mind. I pictured Rhett and his stupid baseball buddies, sitting around a table and playing poker. In my nightmare, Rhett grins, throws down a handful of chips and bets that he can finally fuck that bitch Brenna Sinclair now that her memory’s flown the coop. The other players cheer and clap Rhett on the back like some kind of decorated war hero.

The image was enough to bring on a renewed flow of illness.

And Riley. Riley, the girl who had claimed to be my best friend. The girl who had offered to help me get back on my feet when all the while she was out trying to screw me even worse than Rhett Bradshaw. My face burned with shame as I recalled the innocent naiveté I’d shown when Riley had held out a hand for assistance. As a lauded reporter, I should just damn well know better than that. But I hadn’t.

And yeah, she’d helped all right. She’d helped me lose my standards and my job. The real Brenna Sinclair never would have taken a chance on someone like Rhett…someone who was a master manipulator and possibly a predator.

But one thing stood out to me, causing my head to swirl in confusion. If Rhett had been trying to manipulate me for so long, why the hell had he asked me to meet his parents? They’d obviously heard of me…and not good things, either. Hadn’t he known that they’d blow his ruse and cover? He’d done that public humiliation thing on purpose too?

Or was he really just a stupid asshole, like I’d thought all along?

The questions whizzed around in my head and colliding into my brain made me see stars. I slammed my laptop shut, guzzled the rest of my wine, and stalked into the bathroom for a hot shower. I waited until the bathroom was filled with humid steam before throwing my clothes on the floor and standing under the hot spray. The water was steaming. It burned my skin as it soaked my hair and my body, but I stayed rooted to the spot.

Finally, it came to me. He did it all on purpose, I realized. A tear dripped down my cheek, and I sobbed, leaning against the wall of the shower. He threw that stupid fucking sinker on purpose, hoping the resulting hard foul into the press area would hit me after I’d said all of those things about him. And then he jumped on his chance to fuck me and embarrass me, just because of how I’d “fucked” him with all of those stupid hit pieces.

Even though he probably hadn’t meant to physically incapacitate me, only embarrass me, the realization made me wobble on my feet. The man who’d lied to me – who’d made the ridiculous claim that he was falling in love with me – was the biggest piece of shit I’d ever met.

I stood in the shower until the steam and humid air made it difficult to breathe. By the time I crawled out and wrapped myself in a towel, I felt shaky and weak as a newborn kitten.

The sound of someone knocking loudly on the door made me jump. Fear rose in my throat. What if it was a process server handing me a summons? Even worse, the police here to arrest me?

My heart pounded as I pulled on a pair of yoga pants and a loose hoodie. I wrapped my damp curls in a towel, fixing it turban-style on top of my head as I padded down the hall.

I’m not going to let anyone get the best of me, I thought angrily as I wrapped my fingers around the doorknob. So just let them try to sue me for something I didn’t do.

Taking a deep breath, I yanked open the door.

Rhett Bradshaw loomed in my doorway.