No next times. I’ve got to get back and figure out how the hell to speed this shit show up. Love you guys.
I pocket my phone and catch my reflection in the mirror.
Not bad.
My makeup is on point.
And with a flip of my head, I fluff my hair before straightening and adjusting my boobs so they fill the low-cut neckline of my flowy little boho dress a little better. This date might be a dumpster fire, but I’m going to at least look good while it goes down in flames.
Rome
Condensation slides down my beer as I look over at my little brother at the other end of the bar. Lucky’s refilling some coed’s drink as she bats her long lashes at him in invitation. I shake my head, wishing I was anywhere but here, attempting to ignore the man next to me droning on about the fight I won last weekend. Like it was the fight of my life.
Truth is, it was a waste of time. A stepping stone. Something I had to do to get to the next one that leads me to the one after that. The league I fight in forces its fighters to jump through years of hoops before you get to the good stuff.
I should know.
I’ve been askinghow highfor years.
Waiting for my chance that hasn’t come yet.
Meanwhile, Mr. Suit and Fucking Tie goes on and on, rehashing every moment of the entire ninety seconds the fight lasted before I knocked my opponent out cold, like it was the highlight ofhislife because he sat in the second row.
Now normally, I’d be eating this shit up.
Normally, I’d spin his attention to suit my needs and use it to get the kind of attention I wanted. The kind that only comes in the arms of a beautiful woman. Somewhere I’m not sure this dude has ever been. Doubt he’d know the first thing to do with a woman even if he had.
But I’m not spinning shit.
Something’s off.
And it isn’t just tonight.
No . . . this shit’s been building for months.
I just can’t place whatever the hellitis as the last of my beer sours in my mouth.
Fuck this.
I push my bottle away and catch my brother’s eye as Lucky tucks a napkin in the back pocket of his jeans, smiling. One more year... maybe two, and this kid’s whole world is going to change. He’ll be playing in the NFL. Living his best life like the rest of my family, and where the hell will I be?
Right here.
Doing the same fucking things I’ve been doing.
I shove back from the bar, blowing off the guy still droning on next to me as Lucky grabs my empty bottle and replaces it with another.
“I’m heading home, brother,” I tell him with a shake of my head.
“You sure?” he asks, eyes darting around me, no doubt shocked I’m leaving alone. “You feeling okay?”
“Yeah, man. Just tired. It’s been a long week.” I throw a fifty on the bar and grin. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, shithead.”
He looks over my shoulder, his grin growing a mile wide, and I follow his eyes, catching what they’re caught on.
Dillan Ryan.
Fuck.
