My Little Secret (The Breaking Series Book 3) Read online

  I feigned innocence, as if I hadn’t personally attended every single press conference of his before. “You don’t need me there, right? I figured I’d stay back and get more work done.”

  “Sadie.” He leaned forward, his meaty hand spreading out on the tabletop. “You’re going.”

  “Brute.” I matched his tone. “I have a shit ton of work to do. For you, I should add. I need the extra time to get it all done.”

  The door pushed open, and our mother breezed in. She had a fashionably oversized purse hanging from one arm, her platinum blonde hair smoothed back into a magazine-worthy ponytail. She leaned down to kiss Brute’s cheek as she tossed a “Hello, sweetpeas” our way. Then she came over to me, kissing both cheeks.

  “Hey, mom.” I buried myself in my work again.

  “Any news on the betting?” She set her purse down then rummaged for something. Her unofficial role in the family was that of tracking the standings. She got a strange thrill from knowing how many people put up money against her son.

  “Hawk is favored to win by a 10 percent margin,” I intoned.

  “That could change,” she quipped.

  “It will,” Brute retorted. He sighed, scrubbing at his freshly buzzed head. It was his pre-fight ritual. Get rid of all the body hair. “Now tell me again why you aren’t coming tomorrow?”

  I rolled my eyes as my mom’s gasp echoed through the room. He had to know she’d react like this.

  “Where else would you be tomorrow?” Our mother sounded horrified.

  “Well—” I began.

  “She says she needs to stay back and work,” Brute said, as if this was the most ridiculous thing in the world. It was a perfectly reasonable excuse. For anyone except my family.

  “Sadie.” My mom shook her head, tutting maniacally. “This is the biggest fight of Brute’s career. What’s next, missing the match?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” I said.

  “You’re being a little dramatic with wanting to miss the press conference,” my mom huffed, plopping into a chair.

  I rested my temple against my fingers, looking between the two of them. Okay. So this had not gone over as quietly as I’d hoped.

  “I’m not even needed there,” I said, my brain spinning to find a logical rationalization they’d accept. “I’ve done all the legwork of setting this up, of coaching his responses, of setting up the sponsor placements…”

  “And you should be there, too.” My mother’s fiery green gaze sliced through me, and I deflated. She was right—I knew it. I was only avoiding it for one silly reason.

  “Fine.” I straightened my back, turning to my computer.

  Both Brute and our mom looked pleased. We were an odd bunch. I didn’t know how most other fighters did it, but Brute had essentially enrolled his immediate family to act his manager. I handled sponsorships, public relations, media, and the like. My mom arranged hotel bookings and flights whenever we went somewhere. And my dad was the hobnobber—the guy who could get some interesting leads for a variety of promotional events, like high school appearances and charity gigs. It worked for them, since they’d both retired early.

  Brute was set with all of us. And it was nice to work as a family. It really brought us together in a new way. I just never imagined it would bring me and my secret lover together in a way that could ruin everything.

  I didn’t meet up with Hawk that night. I couldn’t. I was too nervous about the press conference and too guilty about hiding from him. I’d been lying by omission for ten days, and now it was about to get real. I didn’t have a plan. Nothing beyond just wrapping myself in linens and hoping for the best.

  It was like Hawk could taste my apprehension from across town, though. He sent me a text after dinner that confirmed my utter shittiness.

  “So…I’m asking again. You wanna come to the fight on Saturday?”

  It made me wince as if I’d been slapped. He’d already asked once since we met, which I was able to sidestep by promising to ask my imaginary coworkers about shift coverage. But that was just another fib in the countless moments when I’d hedged with him. This was getting out of control.

  “I’ll know tomorrow. I promise.” I sent a kissy face as though this was somehow a consolation. I would know tomorrow. Once I found out whether or not he’d still speak to me after realizing I’d been plotting against him for the duration of my brother’s career.

  “Good enough. I’ll be thinking about you. Tuning in tomorrow for the conference?”

  That was the other bullet to the gut—he’d been raving about this press conference, eager for me to watch. No doubt so he could fan his feathers a little.

  “You bet.” My stomach churned. I tried to make it an early night, but my roiling thoughts wouldn’t leave me alone. It was important that Hawk didn’t hate me after all this. It meant way more to me than I cared to admit.

  Chapter 8

  SADIE

  Time barreled toward the press conference like a high-speed chase. Of course, since I was desperate to avoid it. I liked the sweet bubble of fantasy I’d built with Hawk, even if dishonesty had figured in. Okay, so that part of the bubble of fantasy was more like an oil slick. But still, it was a romantic oil slick.

  Brute wore his Sunday best for the press conference. Crisp, ironed button-up shirt, dark slacks that I knew had cost several hundred dollars. Forget business casual—he looked business lethal.

  “You’re gonna kill it,” I said to him as I sauntered into the lobby, my laptop case slung over my shoulder. I had a BRUTE ballcap pulled low over my forehead, all my hair tucked up into it. A different parka than my normal winter coat hid the baggy BRUTE sweatshirt I’d stolen from his room and my own dark sweats. I was the definition of his personal, shabbily dressed cheerleader.

  “Thanks. You sick or something?” Brute squeezed my shoulder as we headed toward Mom and Dad by the front door.

  I shrugged. “That time of the month.”

  “Oh.” Brute nodded too fast. He knew better than to pry further.

  Outside, the wintry air bit into my cheeks and neck. Tucking up all of my hair had been a poor choice. A black SUV waited for us, and we piled inside. The ride to the studio was short but boisterous. Brute talked on the phone while my mom updated friends back home. Dad tried to talk to the driver about the fight stats, while I stared miserably out the window.

  Each foot closer to the press conference doubled my anxiety. When we rolled up to the studio, a throng of fans crowded the door. A small red carpet stretched to the doorway, lined with gold-flaked rope. As soon as Brute opened the door, cheers erupted. He hurried toward the building, me and the ’rents in his wake. I kept my head down.

  Inside, the air was cool and dry. A set manager hustled Brute away; we were told to follow. As we passed the doors to the filming studio, I could see that most of the press seats were full, maybe about seventy-five people. Two tables separated by a podium stared back at the audience; Brute would be on one side, Hawk on the other.

  I knew how these things worked. I could navigate them like the back of my hand. Press coverage had no doubt already begun on the national channels—commentators chit-chatting about history and projections. Once the fighters were introduced, they’d have about twenty minutes of media time, pose for pictures, and then they’d be done. I’d be off the hook.

  I only had to last a half hour. Sweat prickled my palms as we were led to the sidelines, off-camera. The seats on stage were empty, but someone had just stepped out to make an announcement. It would begin soon. An enormous backdrop filled the wall behind the tables. On one side: Brute’s scowling face. On the other: a glaring Hawk, his brows a dark ridge.

  A shiver went through me. Hawk was near. I could feel it.

  The man at the podium droned on, plugging sponsors and giving information about the fight. Two sexy models slinked out from the other side, each one standing behind where the fighters would be. Lithe, blonde girls, typical for MMA events. I glanced across the stage area
, catching a glimpse of Hawk. My belly twisted. He looked fucking killer. A black-on-black pinstripe suit with a silver gray tie. Fuck, I’d peel that off of him in a heartbeat. He was the hottest fighter in the league—and the best-dressed.

  “You ready?” My dad’s voice pulled me back to reality. He squeezed my brother’s shoulder. Brute’s gaze was soldered on the table.

  “Readier than ever.”

  The fighters were introduced suddenly, receiving a round of applause from the media in the audience. Brute strutted out, as did Hawk from the other side. Cameras flashed. Brute waved, instantly cheesing for the crowd. Hawk sat stoic in his spot.

  I couldn’t look away from Hawk as the press conference began. Brute was invited up to the podium to give his opening remarks first. He thanked his family, the pay-per-view channel sponsoring the fight, his coach, and all his fans.

  “And I’d like to say that this fight will have the ending that’s been long overdue,” he said, his words coming out measured and strong. “The ending that will show the true champion. Me. Not this weak excuse of a fighter to my right.”

  Hawk sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Brute said a few more things, lobbed a few more insults, and then thanked everyone for coming. Hawk replaced him a moment later, glaring down at him before he began.

  “Some fighters are judged by their words,” he said, his voice coming through sultry and cool. “And others are judged by their wins.” He paused, gripping the edges of the podium. “The man to my left better hope he gets judged by his words, because he’ll certainly never have this win.”

  Cackles echoed through the studio, and Brute’s jaw tensed. I laughed inwardly. God, that was good. I couldn’t have written better myself.

  Hawk made a similar round of thanks—family, manager, coach, the hotel putting him up, some guy from his past who pushed him—and then talked for a bit about his technical skills and the training he’d gone through. After a few questions for both fighters from the crowd, it was time for pictures.

  Hawk adjusted his pinstripe suit, his gaze sweeping past me as he stepped out from behind his chair. My skin prickled everywhere. Did he see me? But no, he couldn’t have recognized me. I relaxed a little.

  The models led the way, each one grabbing a fighter’s hand. My chest tightened when I saw that pretty blonde flash Hawk a smile. Hawk didn’t seem to return it, but Brute seemed pleased enough about the processional. He always ate up the pretty-girl perks. They stood in front of the tables, while someone brought the disputed MMA belt around to hold up behind the fighters. Brute and Hawk stared at each other, creeping closer until they were nearly nose-to-nose.

  My breath shriveled, tension skyrocketing. Brute’s fists balled and I could see him saying something to Hawk. Probably goading him. Hawk responded, sneered a moment later, and then Brute pushed him. Something fearsome flashed over Hawk’s face, and he swung a punch. Guards from the sides descended immediately, pulling the two apart. People shouted, warning the fighters to keep it civil.

  Hawk turned toward the sidelines, gesturing about something. His heated gaze swept my way again, and I froze. Total deer in headlights. I couldn’t hear what the hell they were saying. They both withstood pictures for a few more moments and then bolted. Safe. Brute appeared in the sidelines, his jaw flexing.

  “What the fuck was that?” I demanded, grabbing at his arm. “You know you’re not supposed to start shit.”

  “Guy’s a douchebag,” Brute said, brushing past me. “He deserved it.”

  “Brute.” I caught up to him as he paced the sidelines. “Seriously. What just happened?”

  “I reminded him of the truth. That his first win was luck and he gets attention because he’s a whore for it.”

  I creased my brow. “So why’d you push him?”

  Brute’s gaze darkened. “He sassed back.”

  I was about to ask what sass meant in Brute’s world, but a media tech grabbed his arm, pulling him away toward some reporters. The murmur of conversation and cameras clicking around me receded into the background as I looked around, searching for Hawk. Just to see him one more time. And make sure I was still in the clear.

  Hawk chatted effortlessly with a camera crew on the far side. The tats on his head were on full display, like he’d just shaved to the scalp before the conference. I hung in the shadows, keeping an eye on him. Waiting for this to be over.

  And once I was in the clear, I had to come clean. Admit it to his face or over the phone, or break it off. Because this was only going to get worse.

  My heart twisted at the mere thought of breaking it off. That wasn’t what I wanted, not even a little bit. But what was it? What did we even have?

  Hawk had moved while I’d been lost in my thoughts. I couldn’t find him. Someone announced the live feed had ended. My parents pushed at me, urging me forward. I stumbled behind the line of tables, tugging my ballcap lower.

  “Did you not wash your hair today?” Mom whispered into my ear.

  “What do you mean?” I shot her a look.

  “This silly hat.” She patted the top of my head. “You never dress down so much.”

  She wandered away with my dad, talking to some of the sponsors nearby. I swallowed hard, turning to head back to the sidelines. Better to stay in the shadows today. I stopped when someone grabbed my wrist.

  Heat seared through me, and my heart tumbled all the way to the soles of my feet. Oh crap. Oh crap. I knew who this was, could feel it down to the marrow of my bones.

  I turned slowly, finding Hawk’s incredulous face staring back at me.

  Chapter 9

  HAWK

  “Sadie?” My voice came out a raw whisper. This was impossible. What the fuck was she doing here? The commotion of the room around us shrank to a dull roar.

  She gulped, looking like I’d slapped her. “Hey.”

  A stunned moment of silence shuddered between us. Confusion roiled in my gut. I’d spotted her across the room as I was looking for my manager. Something about the way she held herself snagged me. Hell, she was practically a homing beacon.

  “What are you doing here?” My gaze wandered over her face. Was she part of the press and hadn’t told me? That seemed absurd. And then I noticed the front of her shirt. BRUTE. My gut twisted, the word refusing to integrate into my consciousness.

  “I would really love to talk to you about this,” she whispered forcefully, her eyes darting to something over my shoulder. “But later. Afterwards.”

  “You’re—?”

  “We just need to talk somewhere that isn’t here,” she insisted. “There’s so much I have to tell you, and I should have told you sooner but I didn’t know how to say it and I—”

  I stepped closer, my heart forming the cadence to the question thrumming through me. “Are you sleeping with Brute?”

  Her eyes went wide. “No! Fuck no! That is so disgusting. I can’t even—no. He’s my brother.”

  A breath I’d been holding slithered out of me, and I wasn’t sure if I was more relieved or confused. “Then what are you—”

  “I told you, we have to talk later.” She sounded desperate. “Jesus, Hawk, I’m so sorry for this. It wasn’t my plan to keep this from you; I didn’t want you to find out this way, I—"

  “Get your fucking hand off my sister.” The voice sliced through, angry and urgent. Brute. I dropped her wrist, and Brute turned to her, eyes blazing. “Why is he touching you?”

  “We were talking.” She looked up at Brute, face flushed. “Can’t we talk?”

  “Not to this guy,” Brute said. His tone pissed me off even more, and I took a step back, drawing a deep breath. Nothing made sense, and now I didn’t know if I wanted it to.

  “It was a mistake,” I said, my voice edged with anger. I gave her a pointed look and turned on my heel, removing myself from the situation before things got ugly. I could feel Brute’s gaze sizzling on me as I walked away.

  No way. No fucking way. I wove through the crowd, half
expecting Brute to come after me and grab me, push me to the wall or some shit. After his little stunt on the live stream, I wouldn’t put it past him to start a show that got the cameras rolling again.

  Questions flooded me, left me weak and wandering. I paced the hallway for a minute before deciding to leave. I just had to go. I called my manager, and he sent the car. A few minutes later, I pushed out the front door of the studio, a whoosh of energy greeting me as fans perked up, shouting and talking as I walked down the carpet. I waved a little but mostly kept my head down until I got into the car.

  Fucking unbelievable. I rubbed at my jaw, staring at the passing city without really seeing anything. Sadie was Brute’s brother. We’d been meeting up—I’d been getting her off—all this time and she hadn’t told me. That was some bullshit.

  My phone dinged a moment later. It was Sadie. “Please please please say you’ll let me explain.”

  I didn’t reply. I couldn’t yet. Another text came in just before we pulled into the hotel. “I really fucked up and I’m so sorry.”

  Yeah. Fucked up was an understatement. I needed to think about this for a while before I said anything. I wanted the story—but her secrecy chafed at me. This whole damn time she knew.

  My own words rang in my ears, my pleas to have her come to the match, her vague responses. Of course. It all made sense now. And made me feel like the biggest chump in the world.

  I squeezed my hands into fists, watching as my phone lit up with another message. I pocketed it. I’d deal with her later. For now, I had bigger shit to focus on. Like demolishing her brother in this fight.

  I let a day go by before I wrote back to her. I took my time, doing some research about Brute’s family. Found out some interesting things, like how Sadie was actually his PR manager. That made shit sting even worse. Made me think back on every single thing I’d told her, combing through the memory reel, trying to find the spots where I’d unwittingly made an ass of myself.