He stepped closer to me, bringing his gray eyes level with my baby blues. “Love is about guts. If you have it, you fight the world to keep it. If you don’t, you fight no one but yourself. This isn’t your fight. It’s mine.”
He didn't realize he admitted to loving Isabelle that night, but both Cormack and I heard it loud and clear. It was in that instant we realized Isaac was no longer in the game we had been playing for years. I threw him a curveball; he hit it out of the park. Game over.
I crank my neck to the side when Brax’s elbow lands in my ribs. “What’s the deal? Why is he back?” He gestures his head to Damon.
I toss back a nip of whiskey before replying, "I don't know. He sent Ma a message a few days ago saying he might head back this way in a few months. He turns up on her doorstep the very next day."
"You think he's running from something?" Brax questions, hearing the underlying message in my reply.
“Something or someone.” I take another generous swig of my whiskey, hoping to force the bile racing up my esophagus back into my stomach.
Brax huffs while scrubbing his hand over the stubble on his chin.
Wanting to shift the focus off me and my fucked-up family, I ask, “So what’s the deal with you? I’ve seen you turn down three girls since I arrived. That’s not the Brax I know.” Thankfully, my tone comes out playful even though I’m feeling anything but.
The whiskey I've only just swallowed threatens to resurface when Brax mutters, "I think my cock is broken."
"What?" I gasp, my one word breathless since I'm nearly choking to death.
Brax tracks a blonde sauntering past our booth. Since her hair is more platinum blonde than golden, I take a moment to appreciate her generous curves.
“Beautiful ass, a sinful body, and a rack I’d love to bury my face in.”
I nod, agreeing with Brax's assessment. This blonde is a knockout.If only her hair were a little darker.
“Nothing. Nada. It is fucking broken,” Brax mutters, glancing at his crotch.
I shouldn’t laugh—I’m an ass for laughing—but the more I try to hold back my laughter, the louder I laugh.
My chuckles are nipped in the bud when I spot the genuine worry in Brax's eyes. He truly thinks his cock is broken.
“Maybe things have just gotten too easy for you?” I suggest, my tone sincere.
Brax has never had his heart ripped out and stomped on, but that doesn’t mean he’s undeserving of my sympathy. For a man as sexually promiscuous as Brax, a broken cock is the same thing.
"You need to mess up that pretty face of yours. Make it more of a challenge. Your dick has gotten bored with the ease of the game."
I wait for Brax to nod, agreeing with the shit dribbling from my mouth. He does no such thing. He knows me well enough to know I have no clue what I am talking about.Game? What fucking game?I'm so far out in left field, I can't even see the batter anymore.
When Brax whacks me in the arm, I rub the spot his knuckles landed while turning my eyes to the crowd. It's not an ideal location to put out feelers for a mate, but there is a weird excitement thickening my blood, encouraging my defiance. My rebelliousness has nothing to do with the two dozen half-naked women mingling around our booth. It is a peculiar feeling that is hard to explain. It is familiar, yet odd. If that makes any sense?
Shutting down my bizarre behavior as the consequence of a tiring week, I return my eyes to Brax. “You still buying into Inked?”
Inked is the tattoo parlor Brax began working at when we were in high school. He thought the probation his grandmother arranged would tie up a few weeks of his time. He had no clue it would open doors he never knew he wanted to walk through. When we were teens, Brax avoided work like the plague. Now, I don’t think he’s had a vacation day in years.
I can’t talk. The three days between Chris’s death and his funeral were the longest I’ve been away from Ravenshoe PD. I wouldn’t say I’m a workaholic. . .Nah. Fuck that. I hate liars.I am a workaholic. But if it saves me sitting at home, twiddling my thumbs while thinking about a girl I have no right to be thinking about, I’ll wear the title with pride. I’d rather be a workaholic than a miserable, lonely old man who acts like he is ninety when he is only twenty-eight.
Denial isn’t lying. . .right?
Right.
Then why do I feel like a fraud every time I say it?
Chapter 10
Savannah
“Don’t say anything.”
