She finally lifts her head, and I’m able to see her clearly now that she’s closer.
Her face isn’t her natural ivory tone; it’s pale under the warm Edison bulbs. Dark circles color her undereyes, shadows now taking over the once-bright spot.
Our eyes finally meet, and I take in her glassy, red-rimmed eyes, carrying the kind of exhaustion that goes deeper than lack of sleep.
My jaw locks so tight my teeth ache.
Turning, I reach for the Maker’s Mark and pour three generous fingers into a rocks glass.
No flourish. No ice. Just like this fucker asked.
I slide it across the bar with more force than necessary.
He snatches the glass, takes a sip, and grimaces. “I’ve had better.”
Fuck you.
He sets it down with a deliberate clack, smirks at me, then pushes off the bar, heading toward the restrooms without another word.
The second his back disappears down the dim hallway, Layla steps forward fast.
Her hands shake as they grip the edge of the bar. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her voice thin and splintering. “I wanted to come alone, he said he was coming, no?—”
She cuts herself off, throat working. “I didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry, Reed. I’m so sorry.”
I reach across the bar in one smooth motion and catch her trembling hand between both of mine, my thumbs stroking slowly once, twice, over her knuckles.
“Baby,” I say, my voice low and rough. “Don’t apologize. Not to me. Not ever. Please.”
Her eyes fill instantly as a single tear escapes, tracking down her cheek, and catches the light.
I lean over the bar, stretching far enough to reach her face as my thumb brushes the tear away.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her. My voice stays steady even as my pulse roars in my ears. “Stay right here.”
She gives me a small nod, holding tightly onto my hands before she reluctantly lets go.
I push through the small side door, my boots hitting the floorboards hard enough to draw a few whoops from the regulars.
The hallway comes into view, lit by a single buzzing bulb that flickers every few seconds.
I pass my office, rounding the corner just as Brian steps out of the men’s room, zipping his fly, still wearing that smug half-smirk that makes my blood boil.
I don’t slow down.
My forearm slams across his chest, driving him backinto the wall. His head snaps back; the thud is loud in the tight space.
Air punches out of him in a rough grunt.
I pin him there, my forearm pressing across his windpipe as my body crowds him with my weight forward so he can’t twist free.
He’s stunned for half a second, then his eyes narrow, and the shock turns into fury.
He shoves hard, as both his palms slam into my chest.
I stagger back one step before I plant my boots and shove right back. His shoulders hit the wall again, harder this time.
The impact rattles the framed poster of a long-dead country singer, crooked above his head.
