by Eden Summers
“And you’re going to let her get away?”
“She’s already gone.” He shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“You pushed her away. But I don’t think it was hard enough to be permanent. You could get her back.”
Why? For what reason other than to drag her down to his heartless level? “I don’t want her back.” He only wanted to know what she’d said. How she’d said it. And what she’d looked like when those words had left her lips.
“Why?”
He scoffed. There were a hundred and one reasons. A thousand. Many more. “Because it’s a waste of time. Everyone walks away in the end.”
“How can you say that? Especially after everything T.J. and I went through. We went to hell and back, and now look at us.”
He should’ve clarified—everyone walked away from him. His parents. His aunts and uncles. His cousins.
He turned to face her, taking in the determined set of her shoulders. “Cass, T.J. tried like hell to leave you behind.”
“You know that’s a lie.” Her eyes sparked with defensive rage. “He was only doing it to protect me.”
The inside door squeaked again, making his exhaustion peak. If Shay added to this bullshit, he’d lose his fucking mind. More than he already had.
“You need to get my envelope back.” He jerked his chin toward the internal door to the upstairs staircase. “And take whoever that is with you. I’m not interested in company.”
A curvy figure came to stand in the doorway to the newbie lounge, the familiarity setting his vision to flame.
Fuck. Me.
He stumbled back to the counter and gripped the scotch like a lifeline. His throat threatened to close. His lungs demanded more air.
Cassie swiveled on the stool, the name she spoke slicing through him like a sword through silk. “Pamela.”
“Hey.” The response was the sweetest form of torture. A punishment he couldn’t keep his gaze from.
“What are you doing here?” The question was born from habit. He already knew the answer. He just needed to fill the void of restricting silence. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”
“I heard you had a bad day.” She held up the envelope in her hand. “I read about it, too. But don’t worry, I overheard you say you didn’t want company. I promise I won’t stay long.” She was fragile—her eyes, her lips. Even her skin seemed like porcelain. Her attention gently raked over him, tearing through skin, ripping through flesh. “Can we talk?”
He couldn’t deny her. He couldn’t watch her walk away again. Not yet, anyway. “Give us a minute, Cass.”
“Okay.” She gave a hollow nod and slid from the stool. “Please make sure you don’t run out of here without saying goodbye.”
He couldn’t make any promises. Not that it would matter. By the time he was ready to flee, Cassie would have Shay, T.J., and Leo positioned at the exits, ensuring he couldn’t escape unnoticed. “We’ll catch up later.”
“Thank you.” She strode for Ella, giving the other woman’s shoulder a squeeze as she passed before disappearing into the newbie lounge.
The room closed in around him, those eyes reading him and finding the truth.
He couldn’t do this. Not today.
He cracked the cap of the scotch and took a long pull. The burn lessened the emotional carnage staring him in the face, but one taste wasn’t enough. He feared the whole bottle wouldn’t dint the surface of the shit-storm about to descend.
“Did you tell them?” Slowly, she approached the bar, her work pants stained with coffee, her white button-down wrinkled at the ends. He loved that she wasn’t picture-perfect. Mascara smudged her eyelids. If she’d worn lipstick today, it was nowhere to be seen. Not that she needed it. Her lips had always been her most endearing feature. Hypnotic and too damn influential.
“What’s there to tell?”
“You’ve kept the information to yourself this whole time?” She rounded the bar, stopping a few feet away.
“This whole time?” He gave a harsh laugh and downed another gulp of awaiting solace. “I guess I enjoy my privacy too much.”
“Then I assume you didn’t want me to have this.” She placed the envelope on the counter, her hand lingering against the name written on the front.
“Cassie had no business going to see you.”
She winced, the slightest furrow marring her brow. Her pain was more torturous than the threat of Cassie’s tears. Ella’s discomfort tore at him, demanding apology, which he beat back with another quick pull from the bottle.
“You should slow down with the alcohol.” She eyed the sloshing liquid. “You’re going to feel crappy tomorrow. There’s no point making it worse.”
“There are only two things I need at the moment, and one of them is booze.” Lucidity was no longer an option with her here. She was still fuckable. Still irresistible.
“And the other?”
“Sex.”
It was a taunt. He couldn’t help it. Making the conversation interesting saved his mind from the dark and dreary cave of reality. And, truth be told, even though they were discussing his mother, he wasn’t even thinking of her. There was only Ella.
“Well, you’ve got a bar full of booze.” She glanced around the room, probably searching for a diversion. “And you’ve already made it clear I can’t help with the other matter. So, I guess you want me to leave.”
He couldn’t tell if she was itching for a fight or an excuse to run. He could never tell with her. “I’m not going to kick you out. Feel free to pull up a stool and take a front row seat to my impending alcoholism.” He swung the bottle to his lips, watching her as he took another long pull. “You’ll probably enjoy the show after all the shit I’ve put you through.”
“What shit?”
He released a breath of a laugh. “I don’t need to paint you a picture. We were both there.”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s not what I meant. I’m just trying to figure out which shitty moment you’re referring to.”
This time his laugh was audible. “I appreciate the honesty.”
“I’m not going to coddle you.” She approached, her steps still slow and cautious. “But I do think you need to add some water to your intake.” She reached out, her warm fingers brushing his to grip the bottle neck. “Let me take this.”
She kept their hands fused, their eyes, too. “Please.” She tilted the scotch, inching it toward her chest. One hard tug had it slipping through his fingers, and she placed the bottle gently on the bar beside them.
He could give up the liquor if he didn’t lose the heat of her. Denying himself both didn’t seem fair.
“Bryan…”
The whisper of his name brought pain. Nobody had ever spoken to him like that. Not without desire or need. She was selflessly here, dealing with his shit, and he couldn’t understand why.
“Why do you care?” He inched closer, his thigh brushing hers, the zing of atomic attraction washing away the fucked-up reasons that drove him to drink in the first place.
She didn’t retreat, only hitched her chin higher, refusing to look away. “You need water.”
“It doesn’t even rank in the top twenty things I need.”
“Really?” This time she stepped back, and he countered with an arm around her waist, keeping them close.
“Yeah. Really.”
She elbowed him, soft but blunt. “You’re looking for a distraction, which will only be temporary. You need to talk this out. If not to me, then your friends. Tell them about the cancer. Tell them about the funeral.”
“I didn’t go.”
She balked, her lashes rapidly beating in a show of shock.
The seconds of silence were punishing. For once, he didn’t want her thinking he was a callous asshole. He didn’t enjoy the judgment staring back at him. He wanted to be better. To be worthy. “I didn’t know about it. They didn’t tell me.”
“They didn
’t tell you when they were holding the funeral of your own mother?”
No. For the first time, someone in his family had heard his voice, even though his request had been a painful backlash. They always found his weak spot, no matter how he acted.
“They didn’t tell me she was dead.”
Her expression fell, her throat churning over a heavy swallow. Breath by agonizing breath, her devastation reigniting his own. “When did you find out?”
“A few hours before you did.”
Her gorgeous face bleached, all color and compassion. She turned away, gripped the counter, and released a long breath before sucking in another lungful of air.
“Ella?” He placed the bottle beside her and ran his palm over her arm. “What’s going on? Why are you upset?”
“Why?” She slid farther along the bar. “I’m devastated for you. You don’t deserve this. They put you through enough already. I don’t understand…”
He became lost in her words and the tears now staining her cheeks. She was crying. Not because of something he’d done. Those tears seemed to be due to something she felt.
For him.
She cared?
About him?
“There’s no point crying a river, sweetheart. It’s not like I want to bring her back. My mother is exactly where she deserves to be.”
“Oh, God.” Her eyes widened. “Don’t say that.”
“Why? I didn’t kill her. I’m just not sorry she’s gone.”
“You’re grieving, Bryan.”
“Not for her.” He shook his head. He felt something, but it definitely wasn’t grief for the woman who’d birthed him. “I swear I couldn’t give a shit about her passing.”
“Then what happened earlier today?”
Earlier today? He ran over the day’s events, pinpointing the only thing worthy of making the rumor mill. “Fucking Cassie. What did she say?”
“She was worried about you.”
“Well, for the sake of my sanity, can we please ignore every other motherfucker on the face of the planet for the time being?”
“I’m worried about you.”
Jesus Christ. Where the hell did he put the scotch?
“I don’t know what else to tell you.” He ran a hand through his hair, unable to explain his confusion. He’d never given a shit about his mother. He didn’t care about her death. It was something else. Something he couldn’t pinpoint.
“When Lucas died, I cried for days, even though we were never close.” Her voice came in slow, soft bursts. The depressing lilt reeked of despair. “It wasn’t until a week later that I realized I was grieving more for what could’ve been. I was hurting because the dreamy relationship I fought for us to have would never happen. I’d tried so hard to get him to love me, never giving up hope it would happen one day. Then he was gone. And so were all the fairytale dreams.” She lowered her gaze, staring at her feet. “I grieved for what could’ve been. Not the man who died… If that makes sense.”
He froze, her explanation sinking down to his marrow.
It was such simple insight. So easily spoken. Yet, it was exactly how he felt. He didn’t give a fuck about his egg donor. The thing tearing him apart was what he’d missed. What most people took for granted.
A pained laugh escaped, the action dislodging the ache behind his ribs. He couldn’t fathom the brilliance of this woman. He didn’t know why she knew his thoughts, or how she’d become abnormally insightful. He just loved the fact she was here, with him, pushing away the hollow feeling that no longer dictated his chest.
“Did I overstep?” She glanced up at him through thick lashes, the sight of her concern depriving him of words. “I’m sorry… I should go.”
He couldn’t make her stay.
He shouldn’t.
“Again,” she added softly, “I’m sorry for what you’re going through. It gets easier. I promise.” She made for the end of the counter, her retreat encouraging the return of his hollow torment.
He needed her here. And yet, he didn’t have any way to encourage her to stick around.
There were no bonus points for enduring his company. He didn’t have the kindhearted nature of T.J. or the smooth sophistication of Leo.
Only a shitty attitude and an even shittier outlook on life.
“Don’t.” That was all he had. One word. One pathetic, timid syllable.
She paused, her back to him, her hands limp at her sides. He could feel her slipping away, moving closer and closer toward an escape even though she remained in place.
“Stay a while.” He came up behind her and wove a hand around her hip.
The only asset in his arsenal was sex.
Carnal finesse.
The gift of orgasms.
She gave an audible swallow, and he fought the need to cringe. Everything about her spoke of discomfort—her stiff spine, her rushed breathing, her silence.
She turned, her hip brushing his crotch with painful effect. The slight connection had his cock filling with rapidly-pulsing blood. Those dark lashes beating up at him made coherence difficult.
“You want a distraction?”
“I want you.” He pulled her tight against him and clasped the back of her neck with his free hand.
“What about your insurance policy?”
He scoffed. “Turns out all bets are off when you find out your mother is six feet under.”
She cringed. Maybe she didn’t appreciate his callousness, or sensed his lie. But the evidence stood thick and heavy between them, his dick taking center stage as he leaned in to slant his mouth over hers.
The kiss was utter finesse—smooth swipes of lips and a gentle dance of tongues. He wanted to tattoo this moment on her soul. To engrave himself in her memory, like she’d carved a hole in his.
“Stop.” She placed her hands on his chest. “I still don’t think this is a good idea.”
The rejection stung deeper than it should have. “Why? It’s not like my track record has provided anything but satisfaction.”
She scowled. Scoffed. The two reactions kneeing him in the conscience.
“Fuck.” He stepped back. “I’m sorry. I’m shitty company today… As opposed to every other day, right?”
He waited for her to retaliate. For those eyes to continue spitting fire.
“I never minded your company, Bryan.”
“Skip the placations, sweetheart. We both know I pissed you off more often than not. It’s what I do.”
Her shoulders slumped, his words defeating her in a way he didn’t understand. “You’re nicer than you think you are.”
“Then sleep with me,” he begged. The sorry sack of shit he’d turned into pleaded to get laid. Not by anyone. Only her. Only because he presumed he’d never get the opportunity again. “Neither one of us has anything to lose.”
Her smile was fake. Maybe even reminiscent. “Bryan, if I tell you what’s going on in my mind, it will reinstate your insurance policy.”
“Then don’t.” He slid toward her, smashing his lips to hers, lifting her off the ground. “Don’t say a word.”
“I can’t keep this to myself.” Those determined hands found his chest again, pushing. “If we don’t see each other again, I want to make sure this is out in the open.”
She was seeing someone. Fucking someone.
Christ, he didn’t want to know who.
“Bryan?”
“Yeah?” He placed her on her feet and reached for the bottle of scotch, letting the burning liquid unleash on his throat.
“You’re not going to want to hear this.”
He nodded, his focus on the dwindling scotch.
She was right. He was already prepared to tell her to leave without explanation. He didn’t want to hear the details of who she’d hooked up with. Could it be the cowboy from the bar? Or the weak bastard who fumbled over his words out the front of her cafe? Maybe it was someone with worse qualities.
God knew she had shitty taste in men.
“A
ll right. Let me have it.” He raised the bottle again, this time holding the liquid in his mouth, letting it sauté his tongue.
“I like you.”
The alcohol gagged him, choking the air from his lungs. “What?”
“When we first met, I promised I had no interest in you—not because I knew that was what you wanted to hear—I actually didn’t like you. I thought your attitude was toxic and your confidence grated on my nerves. But the man I got to know is nothing like the brute everyone claims you are.” She nibbled her lower lip. “I don’t see that guy when I look at you. I see someone I want to spend more time with. Someone I fell for. Someone I could see myself falling in love with.”
He dropped the bottle to the counter, still clutching the neck for grounding.
“Don’t get angry.” She held her hands up in surrender. “I know it’s the last thing you want to hear. And that’s why I didn’t tell you the night in the parking lot. I walked away, just like you wanted me to. But I can’t be with you tonight and pretend I feel differently. I can’t lie by omission.”
He wanted to believe everything he heard. If it wasn’t for the alcohol, the nervous breakdown, and the fucked-up news about his mother, he probably could’ve convinced himself this wasn’t a hallucination. Problem was, it seemed too coincidental to have the one thing he wanted laid out before him within accessible reach. It was too good to be true.
“Say something,” she pleaded.
“Give me a second.” His head spun, liquor and disorientation having their wicked way with him.
He wanted to sober up. He needed to sober up.
He side-stepped to the sink, snatched an empty glass from the rack, and filled it with water. Gulp after gulp, he downed one glass, then two, his impatience making the numbing intoxication a heavy liability.
“Don’t worry about it.” Her voice drifted. “I’ll see myself out.”
“No.” God, no. He just needed a minute.
He gripped the counter, lowered his head and breathed deep.
“It’s okay. This response is better than the rage I anticipated. I thought you’d yell at me.”
Because that was what he’d done in the past. It was all he knew how to do.
Focus.
He mentally repeated a suitable response, over and over, to make sure it seemed worthy. “I feel the same way.”
