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He clenches his teeth and rests his forearms on the bar, deep inside his head as he stares off. I wonder if he’s going to stop me. I want him to admit that he drank. Instead he continues to stay silent, even as the bartender slides the glass over to me.
“Refill?” she asks Lo.
He shakes his head. “No, I’m good.”
“Cheers.” I raise my glass at him, and he watches me with narrowed fucking eyes. I put the rim to my lips. Stop me, Lo.
This is a high stakes game of chicken.
And he doesn’t move a muscle or say a fucking word.
I tip the glass back, and the sweet taste of Fizz mixes with the sharpness of whiskey.
Scotch whiskey.
He drank alcohol.
The more I repeat it, the more irritated and concerned I become. I drink half the glass, waiting for him to say something, to grab it out of my hand. But no matter if regret flashes in his eyes, he watches with a cold, dead gaze like I deserve this shit. Like this is my penance for ignoring him for over twenty years.
I set the glass down.
And it takes me a moment to process the weight of what happened.
I just broke my nine years of sobriety.
I stare right at him. “I hope you enjoyed that.”
“Which part? Me drinking or watching you do it?”
I am trying not to explode on him. My muscles are on fucking fire. I grab the glass again, about to down the last of it, but he surprisingly steals it from me, passing it to the bartender.
“He’s done,” Lo says. When he turns back on me, he adds, “If you’re this big of an asshole sober, I can’t imagine what kind of asshole you are drunk.”
I grab his arm before he jumps off the stool and disappears through the tightly packed crowd. “You can’t do this shit,” I growl. “You’re supposed to call me if you have a craving to drink. I could have talked you out of it.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to talk to you!” Lo shouts all of sudden. He hops off the barstool, and I follow, having only an inch height advantage. We face each other, unresolved hate strung between us.
He doesn’t know anything about my childhood, and I don’t expect him to ask. All I wanted was a chance to undo what I had done wrong. To be there for him, to be his brother, and Lo makes it so fucking hard. He never gives me a reprieve like Connor.
“Then call Lily,” I say, “your fucking fiancée, who would be in tears if she saw you right now. Did you fucking think about her when you drank? Did you consider what this would do to her?”
Lo’s face twists. He won’t punch me. “I’m done with this shit,” he says. He’s about to walk away.
I grab him by the arm, not letting him go that easily. “You can’t run from your fucking problems. They’re there twenty-four-seven. You have to deal.”
“Don’t talk about dealing. You won’t even text Dad back. You’re ignoring him like he’s not even alive.” He shakes his head, venom pulsing in his eyes. “You’re doing the same thing to him that you did to me. So why don’t you just do what you do best and pretend that I don’t fucking exist.”
His words slice cleanly through me, the pain like a fucking swift punch to the gut. Lo never needs his fists to fight. He shoves past me, and Connor stops him before he leaves the pub, calming him down.
I hold onto the bar, training my breath to normalize. When it does, I scan the crowds for Daisy. I spot her with Christina and another male model, his jaw chiseled. He leans in close to Daisy, licking his lips as he talks.
What the fuck?
Not tonight.
Seeing that—it’s enough for me to start weaving through the fucking people to reach her. I don’t like her body language that’s angled towards Christina, away from the guy, silently telling him to back off.
They stand by a high-table littered with beer bottles and spilt liquor. The taste of scotch still lingers on my tongue, making me nauseous. Some people recall the perfume their mom wore with fondness, the cigar smell on their late father’s shirt, the cologne, the shampoo—but for me, I smell and taste scotch and I remember my father sitting across from me in a fucking country club. I remember his sharp gaze, his fingers tapping the glass in annoyance, as though the world moved too slowly for him.
I feel like I ingested my past, full of bad memories. It’s a sickening nostalgia.
I try to ignore it as I approach Daisy. The moment she sees me, her face brightens, but it dies down when she absorbs my features. “Do we need to leave?”
“Not yet,” I tell her, my hand finding the small of her back. “Who’s your friend?” He’s been sizing me up this whole fucking time, a beer clutched in his hand. His pupils are also dilated.
“This is Christina,” Daisy says, her arm hooking with that young model. She sheepishly meets my eyes, her cheeks already reddening. “She’s in the same agency as me.”
“You’re Ryke Meadows,” she says with a nervous laugh.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Cool necklace.” She wears a sapphire on a chain, shaped like a dolphin. She bites her lip to hide her full smile. I raise my brows at her, and she has to look away from me, too giddy. Daisy has never been like that around me. I thought she would be flustered by me when she was fifteen, but instead, she had no trouble holding a conversation. It always felt like we were meant to be friends.
“This is Ian,” Daisy introduces. “He’s a—”
“Ford model.” Ian extends his hand. I shake it, both of our grips firm. He’s slept with her. I can see it in his eyes. And if not that, they’ve fooled around. A territorial rage consumes me for a minute. I want to wrap my arm around Daisy, but we can’t exactly do that in public.
He nods to her. “I was just telling Daisy that we should go to a salsa club after this.”
She looks up at me. “And I was telling him that I’m rhythmically challenged. Lily is the good dancer.” Daisy is right. She’s not good at dancing, but that has never stopped her from doing it. And I fucking love that she doesn’t give a shit.
Ian laughs. “I don’t believe that at all.” His eyes graze over her hips, as though imagining them shaking side to side against his dick. Fuck you, you fucking fuck.
I glare at him, and he smiles as he sips his beer like Yeah, I’ve got the fucking girl. Be jealous, asshole.
“I’d try to salsa,” Christina says, raising her hand.
“See,” Ian says to Daisy, “you have to at least try like Christina. I’ll teach you.” Over my dead fucking body. He reaches out to wrap an arm around her shoulder, to bring her in for a fucking hug, and I step between them.
“Sorry,” I say, “you’re not teaching her how to grind on your fucking ass.”
Ian lets out a short laugh. “I don’t think she needs you to tell her what she can and cannot do. She’s a big
girl.”
“Yeah,” I tell Ian. “She’s also my fucking girlfriend.” I don’t break his gaze, but I can feel Daisy’s smile fill her whole face beside me. She grabs my hand, restlessly bouncing up and down on her toes like she wants to kiss me but realizes she can’t. Even though I said the fucking words, it’s different than someone having photographic proof.
That evidence is enough to overturn our world.
Ian stares between us. “I thought you said you were on a break?” he asks Daisy.
I’m not that surprised she lied to him—before we were together—telling him that she had a boyfriend. She’s done more impulsive things than that.
“We got back together,” she declares.
Ian begins to smile again as he stares at me.
Don’t bring up your night with her, you fucker.
But he does. “Did she tell you that we hooked up during your break?”
“Do you want me to rip your head off?” I ask. “Because I’m close to breaking your fucking neck.”
Ian licks his lips again. “I’m just laying it out there. You deserve to know the truth. She even moaned when I stuck my finger in her asshole. Did you know she liked that?”
I fucking punch him, my knuckles socking his jaw hard. He knocks into the high-table, beer bottles shattering on the floor. He raises his hands in surrender really quickly.
“Whoa, whoa,” he stammers.
“I don’t know where you fucking come from,” I tell him. “But where I grew up, a guy would get more than a sucker-punch to the fucking face for what you’ve said to me.”
“I didn’t think you were seriously together,” Ian says, touching his reddened jaw like I’ve damaged his career.
My body is begging my mind to go and claim Daisy with more than just words. Fucking kiss her.
But people have whipped out their camera phones, recording our confrontation for the internet.
I can’t do a fucking thing. I can’t solidify this relationship in front of the whole fucking world. Not without huge consequences.
“Let’s go,” Daisy says, tugging me towards the door. “Christina, come on.”
