David pulled into Charlie's driveway just after 2 PM, the Impala's engine cutting off with a satisfied rumble. His new security detail—Jacob and two others—pulled up behind him in a black SUV, maintaining their professional distance.
The beach house looked exactly the same as always. Modern glass and wood construction, expensive outdoor furniture scattered across the deck, a surfboard leaning against the wall that Charlie probably hadn't touched in months.
Perfectly Charlie—all style, maximum comfort, minimum effort.
David climbed out and waved off Jacob as the security team started to follow. "I'm good here. Just visiting my brother. You guys can wait outside."
Jacob hesitated, his former Marine instincts clearly warring with following orders. "Sir, we're supposed to maintain visual contact—"
"It's my brother's house," David interrupted gently but firmly. "I'll be fine.just keep an eye around for cameras. If I need you, I'll call."
Jacob exchanged glances with his team, then nodded reluctantly. "We'll secure the perimeter. Call if anything seems off."
David appreciated the professionalism even as he found it slightly ridiculous. What was Charlie going to do, attack him with expensive whiskey?
The front door was unlocked—typical Charlie, who'd never seen the point of locking doors in his own private beach sanctuary. David let himself in, following the familiar layout through the entryway into the open-concept living room.
Charlie was exactly where David expected to find him: sprawled across the leather couch in board shorts and a Hawaiian shirt that looked like it had been designed by someone having a tropical fever dream.
A bottle of expensive scotch sat on the coffee table, and Charlie had a half-empty glass in one hand, the other arm draped dramatically across the back of the couch.
"Davey!" Charlie's face lit up when he spotted his brother. He raised his glass in greeting. "Finally! Get your ass over here. I'm three drinks in already, so you've got some serious catching up to do."
David dropped onto the couch beside him, the leather creaking under his weight. "Day drinking on a Tuesday? That's pretty hardcore even for you."
"It's my Tuesday off," Charlie corrected, reaching for a second glass and pouring a generous amount of scotch into it before handing it to David.
"Which means I can drink whenever the fuck I want. It's called being successfully self-employed. You should try it sometime—oh wait, you already are. Cheers to us."
They clinked glasses. David took a sip—smooth, expensive, the kind of scotch that cost more per bottle than most people made in a week. Charlie never did anything halfway.
David glanced around the empty house, noticing the lack of female presence. No purse on the counter, no shoes by the door, none of the small signs that Jill usually left scattered around.
"Where's Jill? I thought she'd be here."
Charlie's expression immediately went flat, all the easy humor draining out of his face like someone had flipped a switch. "We broke up. I don't want to talk about it."
The tone made it absolutely clear that pushing would be a serious mistake. Whatever happened with Jill, it had hit Charlie harder than he was willing to admit, even to himself.
"Alright man," David said simply, not pressing. He knew his brother well enough to recognize when a subject was off-limits.
"How are you holding up otherwise? With everything going on?"
"Same old me, different day." Charlie poured himself another drink, the scotch splashing into his glass with practiced ease. "Drink. Write some jingles for commercials, deposit the checks, get some action, wake up, repeat. Living the dream."
He paused, staring into his glass. "Although honestly, dealing with Mom's bullshit is a lot less fun when you're sober. Hence the drinking."
Before David could respond, footsteps echoed from the kitchen. Berta emerged carrying a tray with sandwiches and what looked like fresh coffee, stopping short when she spotted David.
"Well look who's here," she said, her usual gruff tone softening slightly as she set the tray down on the coffee table. "The famous rockstar gracing us with his presence. Charlie said you might stop by."
"Hey Berta." David smiled genuinely. Despite her perpetual grumpiness, he'd always liked Berta. She was honest in a way that was rare in Hollywood, and despite her crass behavior, she'd been more of a stabilizing presence in Charlie's life than their actual mother ever was.
"How are you? Your daughters finally behaving themselves?"
Berta snorted, a sound that conveyed exactly what she thought of that idea. "Same old shit with those two. Candy's still dating that loser on the motorcycle—you know, the one with the neck tattoos who keeps getting arrested for public intoxication.
And Naomi thinks she's going to be an actress." She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Like this town needs another wannabe starlet with an attitude problem and no actual talent."
Charlie chuckled into his drink. "Tell us how you really feel, Berta."
"You want me honest or you want me nice?" Berta shot back. "Because I can't be both."
Then she did something that made both David and Charlie freeze in surprise—she reached out and placed her hand on David's shoulder, her expression softening in a way that neither of them had seen before.
"How are you doing, sweetie?" she asked quietly, genuine concern in her voice. "After what your mother pulled with all that media crap? That was low , even for her."
Charlie's head snapped up from his glass, his eyes widening comically. "Did you just call him 'sweetie'? Like, actually use a term of endearment? Am I that drunk already, or did hell just freeze over?"
"Shut up, Charlie," Berta said without even looking at him, still focused on David. "I'm serious. Are you okay? That woman..." She shook her head head with a sigh.
"I've worked for this drunken man baby long enough to know what kind of person Evelyn is. So are you actually okay?"
David felt something warm settle in his chest. "Thanks for asking, Berta. Really. I appreciate it." He paused, feeling his jaw tighten as he thought about Evelyn's actions.
"I'm better now than I was yesterday. Honestly, I wanted to just forget she existed, move on with my life and pretend she was never part of it.
But she had to show up at my house uninvited, cause a scene, insult my girlfriend, and then run straight to the gossip magazines to spread her poison."
His voice hardened. "She's probably hoping to get some money off me, or at least ride my fame for her own benefit. It's pathetic, really.
But I'm done being passive about it. I'm going to teach her a lesson this time. Make sure she understands what happens when you come after someone you shouldn't mess with."
Berta nodded slowly, her hand squeezing his shoulder once before dropping away. "I don't normally like to see people go for revenge, specially if it's somone in the family.
It's messy, makes everyone involved look bad, and usually ends up hurting the person seeking it."
She paused, her eyes distant with old memories. "But if anyone deserves to have the truth told about them, it's her. Just be careful, David. Don't let her drag you down to her level."
"I won't," David promised, meaning it. "I'm just making sure the truth gets told. No lies, no exaggerations. Just facts about who she really is and what she really wants."
Berta studied him for another moment, seeming to find whatever she was looking for in his expression. "Alright then. I'll leave you boys to your drinking and plotting. Try not to get too drunk . "
She started heading back toward the kitchen, then paused and called back without turning around, "And Charlie? Eat one of those sandwiches. You're not invincible, despite what you seem to think."
"Yes, mom," Charlie called after her sarcastically, earning himself a middle finger thrown over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen.
Once she was gone, Charlie sat up straighter, suddenly much more alert despite the alcohol in his system. The humor drained from his face, replaced by something sharper, more focused.
"Okay, so what's the actual plan here? You said you're teaching Mom a lesson. What exactly did you have in mind?"
David took a long sip of his scotch, letting it burn down his throat while he organized his thoughts. "I'm holding a press conference tomorrow morning. 10 AM at Sony headquarters. Going to meet the reporters head-on instead of hiding behind lawyers and publicists like most people would."
Charlie's eyebrows rose. "That's a bold move. What are you planning to say?"
"The truth," David said simply, his voice taking on an edge of steel. "That Evelyn Harper isn't interested in reconciliation or having a relationship with her sons. She doesn't give a shit about being my mother or fixing what's broken.
She just wants her share of money now that I'm successful, and she wants to ride my fame for her own benefit." He leaned forward, setting his glass down with deliberate care.
"I'm going to tell them exactly what kind of person she is—how she treated us growing up, how she made our childhoods hell, how she only showed up after the money started rolling in for both of us. Just the facts."
He turned to face Charlie directly, meeting his brother's eyes. "And I wanted to ask if you'd be willing to speak up too. Stand with me and share whatever you've been holding back all these years.
It would mean a lot more coming from both of us—two sons telling the same story about the same woman. Harder for her to dismiss it as just one angry kid with an axe to grind."
Charlie was quiet for a long moment, staring down into his glass like it contained answers to questions he hadn't asked yet. His fingers drummed against the side of the glass, a nervous habit David recognized from childhood.
When he finally spoke, his voice was deeper than usual, carrying weight that hadn't been there before.
"I don't really care about media crap and reputation," Charlie said slowly, still not looking up.
"Never have. People can think whatever they want about me—I'll still be here drinking good whiskey, writing my jingles, living my life on my terms. Public opinion doesn't pay my bills or warm my bed."
He paused, then finally looked up to meet David's eyes. "But if it helps you finally be free of her? If it stops her from poisoning your life the way she poisoned ours for so many years? Then yeah, I'll do it. "
David felt relief wash over him, tension he hadn't realized he was carrying releasing from his shoulders. "Thank you, Charlie. Seriously. This means more than you know."
"Don't thank me yet," Charlie said, holding up one finger in warning. A slight smile played at his lips. "I'm not going to get all weepy and emotional on camera. I'm not sharing my deepest, darkest memories or breaking down in front of reporters like it's some kind of therapy session. That's not who I am, and that's not happening."
"I wouldn't ask you to," David assured him quickly. "Just tell them what you remember. What she did. How it affected you. That's enough."
Charlie's smile widened into something more mischievous, more typically him. "Actually, you know what? I should show up drunk to this thing. Like, properly drunk. Really sell the whole 'look how badly our mother ruined our lives that we need alcohol just to talk about her' narrative. It would be perfect."
Despite the seriousness of the situation, David found himself laughing—genuinely, freely. He raised his glass toward Charlie. "That would definitely make an impression on the reporters."
They clinked their glasses together, the sound sharp and clear in the quiet house.
They drank in comfortable silence for a few moments, the afternoon sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting everything in shades of gold. The ocean was visible in the distance, waves rolling in with steady rhythm, uncaring about human drama.
David remembered something else he'd been meaning to ask. "Has Alan talked to you at all? Since all this news broke about me and her?"
Charlie sat up, his expression shifting to something between amusement and exasperation.
"Oh yeah, I completely forgot to mention that. He called me yesterday asking for your number. Said he wanted to talk to you about something."
David raised his eyebrows in surprise. He and Alan weren't that close, had never really been close, even as kids.
Alan was too different from him and Charlie, too focused on being the "good son," too eager to please Evelyn no matter what she did.
And his personality of thinking he's better than others by being someone who played by the rules wasn't endearing. But David didn't hate him for it. He even tried to sometimes get him involved in some of their fun activities as a kid.
"Alan wants to talk to me? What did he say?"
Charlie's smirk widened, and there was something knowing in his expression. "Why don't I call him and you can find out for yourself? I have a feeling this is going to be entertaining."
David chuckled. "For you or for me?"
Charlie laughed. "We'll find out soon, won't we?"