So, this is what it’s like to be famous.
So far, Reed and I had kept our relationship out of the limelight, but not that day.
Another wave of questions circulated as they continued to talk over each other. Luckily, Reed’s car was only yards away.
“Do you think the Palmers got what they deserved?”
Finally, the Bugatti appeared through a gap in the crowd of people. Reed didn't run; he moved with purposeful calm. As he opened the passenger door, his frame blocked the view of the cameras as he turned around, shielding me.
“I want to thank the public for their support,” he announced, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that made people sit up and listen. “And the only comment I have about the trial is that justice has been served.”
“Do you have something you’d like to say to the Palmers?”
“No comment,” Reed replied, motioning for me to get in the car.
Reed pushed the door closed with more force than necessary. I could tell he was wound up, but he hid it well. The sound of the door slamming was like a gunshot.
I watched him through the windshield as he walked around the front of the sports car. A reporter tried to block his path, but a security man wrenched him backwards.
The door opened, and Reed slid in. He didn't speak immediately. He just gripped the steering wheel, clearly frustrated.
“Sorry about that,” he finally rasped. “Are you okay?”
“Is it always like that?”
“Sometimes. It depends on how juicy the story is,” Reed explained, his eyes scanning the mirrors as he accelerated carefully through the lingering crowd. “When I broke Kyle Anderson’s nose on the field, they practically camped in my driveway for weeks.”
I took a deep breath as we left the press behind. “How are you feeling?” I asked, finally clicking my seatbelt into place. “Any sense of closure?”
Reed didn't answer immediately; his jaw remained stiff. In the rearview mirror, the courthouse where the Palmers had been prosecuted dissolved into the distance.
“Some,” he admitted. Reed's smile was tight, a thin line that didn't quite reach his eyes.
I knew he had found it hard coming forward about his trauma with the Palmers, having to relive that shit again. The case had been a marathon of misery, but Reed’s speaking out had led to other victims coming forward. In conclusion, fourteen felonycounts were brought against David and Louise Palmer. Child cruelty and torture, false imprisonment, and neglect. They had been sentenced to twenty-five years in prison.
“Thank you for everything,” Reed said, his voice dropping. “I know I’ve been a nightmare lately.”
“Not at all,” I teased, trying to make him feel better. “I think Phoenix bore the brunt of your mood swings.”
Reed snorted, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he asked, “Is he still bitching about that?”
“Reed, you drove over his foot,” I pointed out. I bit my lip to keep from giggling; the image of my mountain of a brother hopping around in pain had been funny at the time.
“It was an accident! And it didn't even do any real damage to his ridiculously large fucking clown feet.” Reed shook his head, then glanced at me. “Anyway. You hungry?”
“Starving,” I replied.
He cut me a glance. “You mind if we hit The Tavern? I told the guys I’d meet them there.”
I cringed internally. Yes, I was a bar snob, and I hated The Touchdown Tavern—the Sawyer brothers' favorite haunt. It was loud, greasy, and smelled of stale beer and body odour. Not exactly my scene. “That’s fine,” I teased. “I take it your health insurance is up to date?”
“Cute,” Reed shot back, a flash of the old, cocksure Reed returning.
I watched his profile as we merged onto the freeway. Even worn down by the NFL season and the grueling courtroom drama, Reed had navigated the trial with poise and strength—two of his many qualities.
Over the last few months, Reed had also launched The Sawyer Foundation. It was a charity that raised money for children who were victims of neglect and abuse. He had purposefully used his family name instead of the name he was famous for. Reedwanted the charity to be about the kids, rather than his fame, and in just eleven weeks, it had raised over a million bucks.
Stretching my legs out, I rested my hand on Reed’s knee as we merged onto the freeway. My engagement ring caught the afternoon sun, casting a glitter of light across the dashboard. This one fitted my finger perfectly.
