Page 23 of Crushing On My Brothers BFF

“That’s cynical as hell.”

“Sorry, boss, but you’re the one who told me that.”

He’s probably right. That’s how I felt in those gray and dreary days: numb, caring only about numbers, profit, or lack thereof. I don’t reply. “I’m a cynical prick, then,” I say, laughing darkly.

I pick up the speed on the running machine. If I can talk and laugh, I’m not going fast enough.

“How’s the documentary coming along?” Tyrone asks a moment later. “Are you recording yourself interview-style to explain how all this is affecting you?”

“I tried last night,” I tell him. “I feel like an ass, making this about me. I’m not the one who got injured. I’m not the one who’s miserable because he can’t train.”

My breathing is finally picking up. That’s good. It will mean I have to push through the cardio wall. Hopefully, that will obliterate any thoughts of Sophie with her thick hips and plump legs.

“That footage would be good,” Tyrone says.

His tone tells me he basically wants to order me to get the footage, but he doesn’t want to cross the employee-employer line.

“I’m going to be working with Paul’s sister,” I say, assuming Paulhastold her about it.

“What? Why?”

“Don’t lose your cool,” I snap. “She’s a film student. She’s a talented woman. She’s going to make it even better. Hell, she might even make it watchable.”

“A filmstudent?”

“She’s working on it,” I say flatly.

He says nothing, but I know he most likely disapproves. He’d prefer somebody with a resumé full of achievements, a focus-group-tested worker who will churn out exactly what we need from a corporate standpoint.

“Anything else?” I ask. “Any news on Lisa and Mark?”

“Nothing yet,” he replies.

“Keep me posted.”

I hang up and then crank the running machine to its maximum setting, pumping my arms and running hard. I keep going, head ducked, imagining I’m running away from Sophie. I’m running away from these feelings pulsing inside me, this sense of betrayal and wrongness.

Then my thoughts shift. I can’t keep that up for long. Soon, it’s like I’m runningtowardher. In cardio, it often helps to invent a scenario. Some people imagine they’re running away from zombies or into battle. Now, I imagine the paparazzi swept awaymy Sophie, not that little girl. I charge toward them, ready for violence, flooded with rage. They have no right to touch her.

Stopping the machine, I hop off, breathing hard. It’s happened again. My thickness is aching with tension. I’m so hard thinking about my woman, rescuing her, claiming her, owning her. Owning every single fuckinginch. Grabbing her thick ass and?—

Another call. It’s Paul. Taking the phone into the main area of the suite, I stand at the window overlooking LA. After saying hello, Paul asks, “Do you know anything about a woman sending naked photos to my house?”

I laugh dryly. “Why would I know anything about that? You think I’ve arranged something to cheer you up?”

“No, I mean… to you.”

“Tome?” I snap. “There’s nobody who’d send me photos like that. Not that I can think of.”

What I don’t add is thatthe only person I want to see naked lives with you.

“Some woman sent a letter to the house. There was a photo and a caption offering sex. Just thought you should know.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know anything about that. They shouldn’t even know where you live.” Biting down, I think of some freak following me, stalking, maybe even following Sophie. That would make me ready for serious violence. “How would you feel about me hiring some security and having them watch the place for a while?”

“It’s a lot of trouble,” he replies. “It’s probably just some crazy fan.”

“This is serious,” I say, “and it’s notrouble. That’s one of the benefits of being obscenely wealthy.”

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