Page 71 of Five Days

“Preston would help you.” Sean pushed when I didn’t respond.

I heaved a heavy exhale, assured in the deepest parts of me that the boys of EEMM would go above and beyond for me if it meant me finding healing and contentment. We didn’t discuss deep shit, but a bond held us all together far beyond the ties of selling our bodies.

While I still wasn’t ready to dissect the desires troubling me, perhaps laying a better foundation for my path going forward would offer me some clarity and bravery.

“Okay,” I agreed, and Sean squeezed my shoulder again before releasing me.

“Come on. Let’s go finish watching the game.”

Jimmy headed out, and once he left, I asked Sean to turn off the TV. For the first time ever, I unloaded the entirety of my shitty past to some of the few men I considered friends. From my early memories of foster care to climbing aboard the flight that returned me home from paradise, I spilled what I could recall. I had expected to feel soiled, dirty in a way that getting on my knees for cash had never made me experience, from uncovering my secrets.

Instead, relief settled in. An unburdening of emotion I hadn’t realized pushed me beneath water.

“So here I am with kettlebells attached to my arms and holding me under,” I murmured, studying my empty hands hanging loosely between my spread thighs from where I leaned, elbows on my knees. “I’m not one to ask for help, but you all are the closest thing I have to family—and I could use some direction.”

“Give me three days, and I’ll find your birth parents,” Preston stated with absolute assurance, causing my throat to swell up.

“Thanks,” I whispered, finally lifting my head since starting the story of my life.

“No need for it,” he insisted, his own emerald-like eyes welling along with mine. “It’s what family does.”

Shit moved fast as fuck after that.

Drake’s computer whiz found the information I needed less than thirty-six hours later, blowing my misconceptions about my beginning to bits. I had the name of my mother—and the truth my sperm donor had been unknown.

I’d never missed having a real father, so a lack of his identity didn’t hit me nearly as hard as that of my mother. Facts echoed through my head throughout the rest of the day and late into the night as I struggled to accept the truth of my beginning.

Lauren Briggs had passed away at the age of seventeen, less than two weeks after giving birth to me. While learning of her death lessened my sense of abandonment, I didn’t know her story or even how she had died. Other questions needed put to rest as well, namely why her surviving family listed in the papers didn’t want or keep me.

What had I done as an infant to deserve their backs when I’d needed their arms?

The following afternoon after a near sleepless night, I stood on my grandparents’ front stoop, the whirlwind of events leaving me hesitant as reality caught up to me. One thing for certain, Lauren came from a higher society than most. The mansion looming three stories above me promised that truth as much as the printouts from Preston that revealed old money filled the Briggs family’s bank.

One slow inhale and exhale, and I raised my shaking hand.

A middle-aged man dressed in black-and-white drab garb answered. His short stature, dark eyes, and thinning blond hair suggested we didn’t share DNA.

Regardless of his lack of height, he stood in the doorway as though a brick wall barring entry. Lips in a thin line, he glanced down over my tight Henley and faded jeans before lifting his focus to my face. When our eyes met, he blinked, his already pale complexion turning gray.

From the images Preston had shown to me, I knew I was a spitting image of Lauren’s father, Malcom Briggs, the man I hoped to have a little chat with. And while I had zero expectations of being accepted or acknowledged as family, I at least wanted to see him in person.

“Can I help you?” the man before me asked with an uncertain tone, his voice hinting at a Scottish accent.

“I’m looking for Malcom and Iona Briggs.”

He straightened slightly, chin lifting as though he attempted to peer down his nose at me. “And you are?”

“Zackary Briggs.” I watched him closely, noting the flash of disquiet in his eyes and how the paleness around his mouth intensified.

“One moment, please,” he finally snipped as though thoroughly put out by my appearance and request.

The door shut in my face with a resounding click.

I stared at the dark, wooden grain, shifting on my feet. Would I be ordered to vacate the premises? Completely ignored as I’d been as a baby?

If the latter, I planned on pounding on the thick oaken panel until Malcom himself answered or the cops showed up and forced me to leave. I’d taken a huge fucking leap in driving to Rhode Island to seek them out, one I’d never even considered until reconnecting with Landon had inspired change in my soul.

The door pulled inward once more, and I stared at a picture of the man I would someday become—if I had one foot in the grave, the other clinging to the edge of the living.

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