“I’ll leave my phone number on the counter,” Remington said, head tilted in caution. “If you need anything, call me, okay?”
“You’re quite the caretaker, aren’t you?” Beckett huffed out a laugh. “Like Rhys without all of the calculation.”
Remington gave him a small smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Beckett. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
RHYS MIGHT BE THE VILLAIN
Rhys had always hated his desk at the estate, but as he sat behind it that Monday morning, he would have used it for kindling if he could have found a lighter. As such, his father always kept lighters and his vile cigars in the inside pocket of his jacket and while not one second had passed that didn’t involve Rhys thinking about tossing Marcus St. George and all his accoutrement off a third floor balcony, he hadn’t gotten that close yet.
He’d been away from home—from Myers Bluff—for less than forty-eight hours and it already felt like one of his limbs had been removed. Rhys knew that didn’t have anything to do with the actual city itself, but more of what was in the city. His brother. His home. Beckett.
Beckett, who he so desperately wanted to talk to, but his father had barely given him more than a moment’s peace since he’d come to collect him on Saturday night. Rhys had drank himself sick in the limo on Saturday, spent half of Sunday morning wanting to throw both of them over the edge of a balcony rail, and the other half of Sunday with his father by his side. There was no discussion, no cheerful banter or business negotiations. He was just there.
Rhys was being monitored for his behavior like he was a child.
So, at dinner on Sunday, he drank until the ballroom spun without any music playing and not a dancer in sight, and he tumbled into a bed he used to love more than anything in the world. When had his life gone so far off course? When had things changed? It evidently had to have been before Beckett because Rhys had committed himself to the relocation before he even knew Beckett existed. But he couldn’t pinpoint a change or a shift. And Rhys wasn’t like Callahan or Sebastian.
He wasn’t fool enough to pretend he could walk away from his money and not hate every second of it, which was why he would never. It was why he’d started that separate investment account when his father gave him the ultimatum about Callahan because Rhys knew, he just knew in his chest, that there would come a time. And the time was now, so Brent better figure out how to get Rhys into that account without his father being able to make a grab for it.
Because that was the only plan he had.
Rhys pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and set it down on the leather desk pad in front of him. He’d been granted a blessed minute of silence while his father handled some business in the adjoining office, and Rhys most certainly planned to take advantage of it. With a fleeting glance to the door that joined their offices, he swiped open his phone and dialed Beckett, who answered almost immediately.
“Rhys.”
Even with the throbbing memory of all of the alcohol he’d swallowed in the past two days, Beckett’s voice was a welcome balm, even if the greeting was followed by a sniffle that made it clear as day to Rhys that Beckett was or had been crying.
“Beckett,” he whispered, leaning down toward his phone. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
“When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know.” Rhys glanced at the door to make sure it was closed. Even though it was wood and probably weighed over a hundred pounds. He would hear it if it opened. “Soon, I swear. I’m sorry I had to leave witho…”
“It’s fine,” Beckett interrupted with another sniffle. “I mean, it’s not fine, but…you know.”
“I love you, Beckett.”
“I…I love you.”
“Every time I’ve closed my eyes since I left, all I’ve seen is you,” Rhys admitted, closing his eyes yet again. The only reprieve he had.
“Just come home,” Beckett pleaded.
“Are you taken care of?” he asked, ignoring Beckett’s plea because he had to or else he would fall apart and he wasn’t in a situation where that was acceptable. “Did Sebastian…”
“I’m fine,” Beckett assured him. “I have a key to your place, and I’ve talked with your brother and Remington every day. We…Rhys, whatever is happening, you’re not alone, okay?”
Rhys desperately wanted to believe that, but when hadn’t he been alone? When hadn’t he had to do everything on his own?
“That’s cute of you to say.”
“You’re not,” Beckett protested.
Beyond the door, Rhys heard a phone slam down on the receiver.
“I have to go,” he said quick, voice low. “I’ll call when I can. I love you, Beckett. I swear it.”
