Page 34 of The Late Hit
Brynn has always been the wild, easygoing, “never take things too serious” girl, but seeing her so vulnerable is doing something to me. Those feelings I’ve worked so hard to drown out are floating back up to the surface.
Get it together, Q. She’s your best friend, that’s all. You’re here to be her emotional support friend, that’s all.
Our driver pulls in front of the Wilders’ home, and, after putting the car in park, he makes his way to Brynn’s door and opens it for her. She thanks him before turning to walk up the front steps. I follow her inside, taking in the large expanse of the home. When we first arrived, time was not our friend so I didn't get a chance to check out the estate. This place is insane. A two-story foyer greets us with a large chandelier in the center. There’s a grand staircase leading to the upstairs with an open railed runway across the foyer, connecting the two wings. Board and batten accent the walls, making the home feel lavish.
“C’mon,” she says, nudging me along. “There’s a room I know you’ll like.” My mind goes straight to her bedroom. If Grant were here and he could hear my thoughts, I have no doubt he’d smack me or force me to tell her my feelings.
“Yeah, it’s nice,” she says, not stopping to watch me check out her home. “C’mon, there’s a room I think you’ll like even more.”
Following her into the kitchen, I watch her remove her coat, and my eyes immediately drop to her ass. I can’t help but appreciate the way it looks in her tight black jeans. Brynn’s hot, I’m not blind. There’ve been many opportunities for me to notice her body, and oh have I. Hell, I am a guy after all. When a girl who looks like Brynn is in your eyesight, you appreciate her. Brynn is the type of girl who’s blessed with good genetics. She’s not one to work out, but somehow manages to keep her body toned.
Snapping back to reality and following her lead, I take off my coat and drape it across the back of the same barstool where Brynn placed hers. The kitchen is just as luxurious as I’d imagined. A French country design with creamy white cabinets, large black-paned windows, champagne hardware, and Sub-Zero appliances, it’s a true chef’s kitchen. The stove sits in a concave space with arched woodworking and a brick backsplash and there's an oversized island with a smaller sink in the center.
It’s incredible. I’m used to fancy houses, but there’s just something about this house that makes it special. It’s the difference between old money and new money. Nothing in our home has character. It’s all modern and cold.
Brynn leads us through another doorway, which I discover leads to the butler’s pantry. Not as elaborate as the main kitchen but still huge. She reaches into the fridge and pulls out two Stella Artois and two bottles of water.
Handing me the beer and water she finally speaks. “Stella is all we have, but I figured beer is beer.” She pauses, sucking in a breath before slowly looking up at me, vulnerability and exhaustion are etched in her features. “I know there’s a lot we need to talk about. A lot was thrown at you tonight, stuff I should’ve told you about a long time ago, but for tonight, can we just pretend?”
“Pretend what?” I ask, holding her eye contact.
It’s there that I see the pain, the darkness she tries so desperately to hide under her mask. This is the real Brinley. The happy-go-lucky girl is just a facade that she uses as a disguise. Only I’m not everyone, and I want to see the real her. The Brinley Wilder that has warmed her way into my heart and my soul.
“Pretend that I haven’t just kept a huge secret from you for the past two years. Pretend that I’m not as fucked up as Ireally am.”
Pulling her into my arms, I hold her, feeling her body slump against me. It has to be exhausting to keep this inside, and then have everything unravel at your feet years later. Seeing her interact with her parents—which her dad didn’t even acknowledge her tonight—it all makes sense on why she avoids Chicago.
“Yeah, we can pretend.”
Seeing her so broken would have me agreeing to anything she wants. If pretending is what she needs, I’ll agree. I’d do whatever I need to to get my Wilder back.
“Thank you,” she whispers, squeezing me tighter before letting me go.
“Wilder,” I say, before she has a chance to walk away. She doesn’t turn around, just glances over her shoulder. “You’re not fucked up. And I don’t want to hear you call my best friend that again.” My comment leaves her speechless.
Walking toward her, I run my thumb over her cheek. A breath catches in her chest. I see her pulse quicken.
Sliding past her, the two of us make our way out of the butler’s pantry and into another room. It’s the only room on this side of the house, and I can see why. It’s a large media room with an oversized black sectional, a movie theater-sized projector, a table with a popcorn maker and snacks, and movie theater posters lining the wall.
“If it’s alright with you, I thought we could just watch a movie tonight.”
“Hell yeah! This room is sick.”
Brinley grins before walking to the back of the room where a computer is set up.
“How aboutGet Out?”
“Fuck no! I’m already in the white one percent, I don’t need that shit jinxing me.” I shudder.
I hear her laugh, knowing that she’s fucking with me.
Brynn’s face is lit up by the screen, and it’s the only light except for a couple of dimmed canned lights in the ceiling. I wander over to the snack cart where I discover fresh popcorn and a variety of movie theater boxed candy.
When did she have the time to get the popcorn made?
I fill a bucket with popcorn and pour melted butter on top. Once the bucket is full, I grab a few boxes of candy—Twizzlers for Brynn and Reese’s Pieces for myself.
Making my way to the couch, I find a very comfortable Brynn curled up in the middle of the sectional, a fort of pillows nestled under her head and a fuzzy blanket covering her body. She looks spent—physically, mentally, and emotionally. I hand her the bag of Twizzlers before settling the bucket of popcorn down next to her. I take my spot on the other side of the couch. Toeing off my shoes, I make myself comfortable.
