by Emma Renshaw
I lapse into my normal quiet mode, listening to our group chatter about everything. My comfort zone is to sit and listen. Listening is how I survived my childhood. Talking too much resulted in a lot of different things, none of them good. When I escaped my past, talking meant exposing too much. Silence is safer. Staying mostly silent has kept me safe for over a decade.
One slip, one inconsequential detail about my life could mean the difference between me sitting here breathing, listening to my friends talking or me six feet under in a pine box.
"How's PT?" Kiernan asks from across the table, forcing me to join in the conversation.
"Pain in my ass," I mutter. Kiernan was shot the same night I was, but his wound didn't require physical therapy. He healed and recovered quickly, and was back in the field providing security for Roman’s company, while I'm still battling for my shoulder not to twinge any time I lift something.
Hudson chuckles, slapping me on the back. "Our boy here has the hots for his therapist."
I groan as I watch the girls at the table perk up and watch me with hopeful eyes. "No, I don't."
"He won't admit it," Hudson says before he whispers conspiratorially, "He's shy about it."
"Shut the fuck up," I grumble.
"I thought it was a guy," Roman says, confused.
"Got rid of him today."
"He has a new one," Hudson informs everyone. "This one’s a girl."
"Is she pretty, puddin' pop?" Savannah asks, smiling at me. Savannah is the only family I have. It may not be by blood, but she’s family. She's like my sister and the only one I will allow to call me any sort of endearment. I know she changes them up and makes them as cute as possible because she finds it funny. The first time she did it was also the first time I saw her smile. I couldn’t ask her to stop and make that smile go away. With a past as dark as hers, she needed anything to bring her back to the light.
Sister or not, I shoot a glare in her direction. "Nope," I lie.
She settles back in her chair, placing her hand in Liam's lap while watching me intently. I stare at her, not breaking eye contact, making my lie believable.
"Give the guy a break," Roman says. "He was shot, owns and runs a gym for a living, and can't work out. He’s probably on the verge of exploding. James doesn’t need to complicate things with his physical therapist."
"But what if something good can come out of it?" Harper retorts.
"The good thing that came out of that shit, sugar, is that you're alive. Don't need anything else."
I nod in agreement. Her sitting across from me with a kid on the way and a beating heart is the only thing that matters.
"If she's hot, show her your scars," Kiernan says, smiling. "Chicks love it."
Hudson claps his hand on the table, laughing hard. The two of them together are a force of nature, each of them taking on the role of wingman for the other.
Savannah, Harper, and Valerie are still watching me and assessing every expression to cross my face like hawks, so I do the only thing I can—throw Hudson under the bus. "Hudson's mom wants to set him up for some event, y'all know anyone available?"
All the females’ eyes swing to Hudson as I relax back in my chair, taking a long pull of my beer.
"Fucker," Hudson mutters under his breath.
The edge of my lips twitch once.
Chapter 4
Tatum
Pathetic.
Absolutely pathetic.
My fingers skim over the necklace around my neck and I wish I chose something else. Absolutely anything else. The half-heart, best-friends-forever necklace Isabella and I split in the fourth grade would be better than the jewelry I’m wearing. The necklace or the earrings, one or other, I could probably get away with; together they're overkill. I close my eyes, taking a sip of champagne, remembering how clever I felt putting on the jewelry Patrick gave me, a subtle reminder of how much I mean to him—meant to him.
Patrick Kensiger, love of my life, high school and college sweetheart, dumped me eight months ago. He gave me the pieces I'm wearing on different anniversaries, each with a promise that one day they would be paired with a ring. A ring that would take me from girlfriend to fiancée and eventually to wife. When he took me to dinner eight months ago after we celebrated his latest case win with our families, I thought he was going to drop to a knee and propose. We'd been together for twelve years, since the beginning of our sophomore year in high school. To be honest, I thought the proposal would’ve happened a long time ago. We’re twenty-seven now and have married friends that haven’t been in relationships as long. I fooled myself into thinking Patrick had a plan. Cold feet never crossed my mind. He was my first kiss, my first everything. My only everything. What better way to celebrate his first huge win than with an engagement? Winning that case was going to be the change of everything. It officially set him on the long path to partner.
The proposal didn't happen. We sat in that quiet, romantic restaurant with a 360-degree view of the city, sipping champagne and laughing through our high of being done with his late nights and hardly seeing each other. Bile rises in my throat when I remember how I thought we were a power couple on the rise. Pathetic. We'd been living together for three years. Our families ran in the same circles. It was a matter of time.
Then some of the most humiliating moments of my life happened. Patrick stared at me across the table, looking nervous before he pulled a red leather box from his jacket, setting it on the table between us before he grabbed my hand. The tears rushed to my eyes as I prepared to hear the most romantic words I'd ever hear.
Only they didn't come.
Not even close.
"I've had this for a while. It was always going to be after we graduated then after we landed jobs then after I got my feet under me at the firm. I can't give it to you, though."
I can't give it to you, though.
The happy tears dried up immediately as I stared at him in shock. "Patrick?" I whispered.
"We have to break up, Tate." He stated this firmly, grabbing the box before tucking it back into his suit pocket.
My mouth fell open and I could feel my lips begin to quiver as I asked my question shakily. "What?"
"I love you so much, and I do want to marry you one day, but we've been together so long, all we know is each other."
"I know. I love that," I whispered. And it's true. I did love that. I thought it was romantic that we would only know each other, learning everything from each other.
"I need to explore. I need to be sure. I want us to date other people."
"Date other people," I repeated quietly, in utter shock, the burn of hot, fresh tears coming back. Only this time they were anything but happy.
"Yes," he emphasized, squeezing my hand. "I love you. I want to marry you."
"You love me. You want to marry me," I repeated again, unable to do anything except repeat his every word. Staring at him, searching his face for answers, I willed myself to do something. Say something. Anything. The city lights and murmuring in the restaurant faded completely to the background. The only thing I can see and hear was Patrick sitting across from me taking my world apart piece by piece and tossing the remains of my heart carelessly. I wasn’t sure if I should keep crying or laugh at the absurdity of this whole conversation. If this was a joke, it wasn’t funny.
"I want us to be sure, Tate. We'll come back together soon."
I shake my head. "What if you want to be with someone else you 'explore' with?" I made sure he understood that the word explore came with air quotes.
"We'll be honest if that ever happens," he said quietly. "We'll come out stronger for this."
"I don't want this," I warn him. “I am sure. I don’t need to ‘explore.’”
"Please," Patrick said, squeezing my hand again.
While I couldn’t even summon the energy to push the food around my plate, he ate the rest of his meal in near silence while his words played on repeat through my head. The man I’ve loved for almost half of m
y life was a stranger sitting across from me. He’s become even more of a stranger in the eight months since the break up, morphing into someone I hardly recognize. It’s the rare glimpses I get of who I knew that keep me wishing he’ll come back.
His words have been playing on repeat for eight months. The repeated rejection playing through my mind still hasn’t been enough to change my feelings for him. Pathetic. Pitiful. Third-rate. Third-rate Tate.
What’s even more pathetic is I’ve been lying to my family since we broke up. I told them it was mutual, that we wanted a chance to be young before we settled down together to start a family. We’d be back together in no time. We’re still friends, I said. Every time someone in my family brings him up, I smile, playing along. If they knew even an ounce of my heartbreak, he’d be on their blacklist forever. I want them to still love him when we get back together though, so I stay silent.
Our first date in high school was a double date. His best friend with my best friend. Now I'm standing at their engagement party, sipping on champagne, wearing jewelry my ex-boyfriend gave me in hopes that he'll notice and realize it's been long enough, realize we belong together. I thought the jewelry would be a subtle reminder. I didn't expect to walk into my best friend's expansive backyard to see Patrick with his arm around another girl.
My heart squeezes painfully as I watch him smile down at her while she presses herself even closer to his side.
Patrick and I grew up together, going to the same private school. Our fathers are partners at the law firm. Our friends are the same; it's inevitable that we'll run into each other. It hasn't been the easiest eight months of my life. He never brings a date to a function he knows I will be at. Until now.
I stop dead in my tracks when I see him graze his hand over her ass. I've never seen her before, and I hope I never see her again. My worst fear is he'll show up with a date and inform me in front of our friends that he's met someone. A real someone. I haven't been with anyone since Patrick.
Patrick is still my only. We've hooked up a couple of times over the past year. Many times it felt like we were dating again without the official label until I'd run into him at a bar and see his tongue down someone else's throat. Each time I told myself I wouldn't let him back in again. The pain isn't worth it, but each time he mutters how much he loves me in my ear, I crumble. I’ve prided myself on being strong my entire life, but he’s my weakness.
Austin is a big city, but sometimes it feels like the smallest town. As eyes start to swing my way, I feel the pity rolling off them and hitting me. My stomach turns as I push away feelings of inadequacy and plaster on a fake, confident smile and stride toward the friends I've known my entire life.
My best friend, Isabella, works her way around the crowd to hug me first. "I didn't know he'd bring a date, babe. I'm sorry. I tried to call and warn you," she whispers in my ear.
I clutch her tighter, loving her for worrying about me at her own damn party—a party she's been waiting to have since we were in high school. "It's okay. I'm okay, promise."
Isabella’s hands rub up and down my back before breaking our hug and wrapping them around my shoulders. "Now the party can really start." She smiles at the gathering of people around the firepit. "My best girl is here."
Before I walk in the opposite direction of Patrick, planning to avoid him as much as possible, I smile and wave, pretending as if I'm totally fine on the inside. It's hurt each time I've seen him with another girl, but this is worse. This is his best friend's engagement party. Hookups don't belong at your best friend's engagement party.
Patrick smiles his perfect, charming smile, showing his straight, white teeth, and winks. I look away, focusing on some friends I haven't seen in a while. As I make my way around the group chatting, I force myself to keep my gaze on the people in front of me, not directed at the man I want to watch.
Is he still touching her?
Have they kissed?
Who is she?
She's nothing like me, which causes my gut to turn even more. If I went out to handpick a guy I wanted to date, he'd almost be a carbon copy of Patrick. His expertly coiffed blond hair, bright blue eyes, and classically handsome features are exactly my type. I don't know if they're my type because he's all I've ever known or if it's simply what I'm attracted to no matter what.
Every girl I've seen him with couldn't be more different from me. They're either far thinner or curvier. Blondes and brunettes, never a girl with the same shade as my hair. Every possibility of why he's needed to explore others has crossed my mind. Is he not attracted to me? Did I do something wrong? Am I too loud?
But every couple of months, when he approaches me whispering sweet nothings, just as I'm about to force myself to move on, I'm back in his iron grip, and he makes me believe his pretty words.
Each person I talk to pities me; I either see it in their eyes or know it when they try to set me up. I hear the whispers that they thought this would be us, too. Patrick and Tatum, I once thought that was a sure thing. One lesson I've learned, nothing is a sure thing.
"Tate."
I swallow when I hear his deep voice behind me. Plastering on my best smile, I turn toward him.
"Hey, Patrick," I say, gripping my champagne flute tighter in one hand and tucking my shaking hand behind my back. It’s shaking so hard the chains on the front of my clutch quietly rattle. My gaze falls to the stunning, tall, leggy blonde standing next to him with her arm wrapped around his waist. "Hi, I'm Tatum."
I stick out my hand. She shakes it once before dropping it. "Hi, I'm Farrah."
"Nice to meet you," I manage to say through my smile without gagging. "How are y'all? Enjoying the party?"
Farrah rolls her eyes. "It's pretty boring."
My smile falls into a tight line. "That's too bad. I'm having a great time celebrating our best friends."
"We're having a nice time," Patrick says, making my eyes fall on him. He grins, looking down at Farrah then back to me as he rolls his eyes, making her a joke between us. He's joking with me about his date. I give him a tight smile in return. When we dated he was kind to everyone.
"I should—" I begin before Patrick cuts me off.
"Farrah, can you grab me a beer, please?"
"Fine. Also going to find a bathroom where I can cry tears of boredom," she mutters before taking off toward the house. I watch her walk all the way inside before turning back to Patrick. His eyes are burning a hole in the side of my face, but I want as much time as I can before I have to look him in the eye and hear what I fear will break my heart.
When my eyes move back to him, he's staring down at me with a small smile before taking a step toward me. His hand rests on my shoulder with his thumb brushing along my neck, hitting the chain of my necklace.
"I love this necklace on you," he whispers.
I don't respond, only close my eyes, wishing his compliment didn't warm my entire body.
"You shouldn't have worn it though," he says. "Or the earrings."
The warmth spreading through my body turns to ice as I open my eyes to stare at him.
"I know what you're trying to do by wearing those," he says, still whispering. Of course, he knows. That was my intention, I just didn't think he'd have a date glued to his side.
"I didn't wear them for you," I lie.
His hand squeezes my shoulder as his expression turns mocking. Twelve years and never once have I seen his face so ugly. "Tate," he says in his placating way. He can make me feel really small in the space of a couple of words or with the tone in which he says my name. As much as I love him, he always needs to have every conversation or situation go his way. During our relationship, that wasn’t the easiest part of his personality, for sure. He chose everything. It had to be his way, but he’s never treated me maliciously and never made me feel worthless. After the night he ripped my heart from my chest, he turned into someone I barely recognize.
"I didn't," I insist. "They're classic and beautiful. It'd be a shame to toss them in a
jewelry box never to be worn again just because they're from my ex."
"They're Cartier, darling," Patrick says with a smug smile. "You don't toss Cartier anywhere. They're meant to be treasured, just like the girl wearing them."
“Don’t be an asshole,” I hiss.
“I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean anything by bringing her here. I’ve been excited to see you. I’ve missed you.”
"Is she your girlfriend?" I ask, unable to hide the anger in my tone. This is what he does, says words that hurt but also soothe my soul.
"No, Tate. I'm single," he says, his smug grin only growing.
We stare at each other in silence, his hand still caressing my shoulder and neck. He finally breaks our stare-off, leaving on a parting blow, one that does its job—leave me wanting more of him.
"You look beautiful in the jewelry I gave you. One day, my ring will be on your finger, and this will be our party." He leans in, kissing my cheek. "I can't wait for that day.” Patrick walks away before I can say anything, never being the one to let anyone else have the last word.
Chapter 5
James
Throwing my SUV into park, I stare at the entrance of the hospital. My appointment is in fifteen minutes. If she's late, I'm done. If she asks for a shoulder roll, I'm done. My patience is on a short fuse this morning. If one thing lights it up, I'll be blowing like a fucking stick of dynamite.
I keep a pulse on everything in my life, any threat that could become something more. Savannah's ex-boyfriend stalked her and used one of his friends, while he was in prison, to keep an eye on Savannah. When all that went down, I took care of it. I watch, keep my ear to the ground, and make damn sure none of what I did to make sure that friend never surfaces again blows back on Savannah and Liam.
Roman and Harper's trouble with the cartel recently got added to my extensive list. They only had trouble with two men, and I'm makin' sure it fuckin' stays that way. All good on both of those fronts, bringing the type of quiet that eases the mind.
