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The bar smells like stale beer and fried food. Not my first choice, or even my tenth, but I thought Leo might back out if I chose to meet in a halfway decent spot.
He’s petty like that sometimes.
The bartender frowns at me. Great customer service, right there.
“I’ll have a ginger ale,” I tell him, which only sets his frown in concrete. Then the door opens, flooding late afternoon light into the bar and stealing attention away from me. My twin brother strides in, all confidence in a room like this. A room he’s used to.
How I wish we were used to different rooms.
He spots me at the bar and strolls over.
“Shot of tequila.” Leo wraps his knuckles on the bar once when he orders, but the bartender doesn’t seem to mind. Still, he scowls when he slides my soda to me, as if the lack of alcohol offends him.
“You’re drinking a shot?” I ignore the surly man, focusing on the person I care about. “You celebrating something?”
Leo drapes himself over the stool next to me, doing his best to wear a condescending smile. “I’m a busy man. I’ve gotten used to drinking my poison quickly. No time for sipping.”
Keeping my eyes locked on his, I purse my lips into the smallest pinch I can manage, then take the most minuscule sip of my drink.
The cockiness in his expression bleeds into true—suppressed—amusement.
“Aah.” I smack my lips. “Refreshing.”
“Drama queen,” he mutters with a smile.
“Butt head,” I say back with a smirk of my own, hiding the pang in my heart.
This is it. These minor exchanges are enough to keep me hoping.
Leo is a dick. I know that. He does immature shit and says mean things. But there’s this constant nagging in the back of my mind that tells me something is off whenever he flings one of his barbs. A whisper of a voice begging me not to give up on him. And then I get a glimpse. Maybe it’s a genuine laugh or a throwback to our childhood together, and I wonder if there’s still some parts of my brother worth saving.
The bartender sets Leo’s drink down, and I watch him throw it back like water.
“What’s up, Loony? You need help or something?” He stares at me, calculating.
And just like most things with Leo, there are layers. Would he help me if I had a problem?
Probably. Maybe.
Would he judge me?
Probably. Maybe.
Would he charge me for help?
Probably. Maybe.
But I’ve never asked him for help. Because when we were kids, I never had to ask. He knew what Dash and I needed, and he did his best to get it. Then a switch flipped, and it was just me taking care of things.
Leo turned into someone I fought against to keep Dash safe. Which meant I brought none of my problems to my twin, and he stopped trying to solve them on his own.
“I don’t need help.” I sip more of my ginger ale and study my brother, looking for more hints. For more cracks.
Leo flexes his shoulders and kicks the heel of his boot against the barstool, agitation in all the lines of his body.
“Like I said. I’m a busy man. Want to get to the point?”
“Do you know why I’m in town?”
