Page 79 of Cocky Brutal Sinner

Beau

I’m telling Luke about us tonight. I just wanted you to know.

I stare at my phone screen, willing her to answer me. If she asked me to keep it a secret, I’d do my best to respect it. I would promise James anything, from the Terrace Steakhouse deed to my firstborn child.

Read: 8:18 p.m.

I wait a few minutes before sighing and shoving my phone away. That’s it, then. I’m finally bringing my relationship public in the most important way, and my girlfriend wants no part of it. Hell, she probably doesn’t even want to be my girlfriend anymore. She’s been fading away from me since we got home from Italy.

I never thought that telling Luke would end with me single, but then again, it’s not like any of this has been easy.

The drive home feels like walking the plank. I try rehearsing what I’m going to say, but every version sounds wrong.

I’ve been in love with your sister for five years.

I’ve been sleeping with her for three.

I know she’s Peppermint. I’ve known for weeks, and I didn’t tell you any of it.

There’s no version of this that doesn’t end with Luke’s fist in my face. I know that, but I’m going anyway.

It takes me three tries to park straight. It’s hard to focus on anything other than Luke. His face swims in my head for the whole walk to the building lobby. When the elevator doors slide shut, it’s like they shut out all the oxygen. My heart slams against my ribs as I watch the numbers slowly climb. I realize then that I left the bottle of reindeer whiskey back in the car—my one feeble peace offering three floors down where I can’t use it. Oh well. It’s too late to back out now.

It’s finally happening.

The elevator doors open.

Nobody is playing poker.

Chips and stray cards are scattered across the green velvet surface like shards of broken glass. The chairs are all pushed back, one knocked to the ground. An energy of wrongness sweeps over me. This isn’t the buzzing excitement of a close game or the frustration of losing everything.

This is bad, and I haven’t said a word yet.

Nate’s on his phone, his scowl deeper than I’ve ever seen it. Ryan has his hands up, trying to calm someone down. James is standing apart, arms crossed, expression unreadable. At the center of it all is Luke, holding a manila envelope.

I take one step off the elevator, and everyone’s gaze swings to mine at once.

Shit.

Ryan reaches for Luke’s arm, but Luke shakes him off. He’s already striding across the room toward me with a stack of documents and photographs fanned out in his hand. He shoves them at my chest, wrinkling the pages.

“Is it true?” he demands.

Fuck. The PI report must have arrived early, sometime in the middle of poker.

I look over Luke’s shoulder at James, hoping for context. How much does Luke know? About me and Brinley, about Peppermint, about all of it? James’s face is passive, offering nothing. So is Nate’s. Ryan’s attention is fixed on Luke, like Luke’s a wild animal about to charge.

I take the documents from Luke’s hands, trying to stack them in some semblance of order so I don’t drop more on the floor. The first document is a series of numbers overlaid underneath each other, scrambled bits of IP addresses, narrowed down to a single final number. Then a paper of what looks like writing pattern analysis, including Peppermint articles, the Copper Cup’s website, and Brinley’s published fanfic. Under that is a careful table of timeline correlations tying Brinley to each Peppermint post.

Damning, undeniable evidence.

Then there’s the hotel records. My name on the receipt for the St. Regis, and a photo of Brinley walking through the lobby, shot on a security camera. A quick glance shows me more receipts, with both our names on them.

When they found Peppermint, they found me, too.

Luke knows everything now. Not because I told him. Not because James told him. Because a stranger in a PI firm compiled his sister’s secret life into a manila envelope and sent it by courier to a poker game.

“Is. It. True?” Luke glares at me, daring me to deny it.