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Because fuck loving another person I could lose.
Fuck falling apart all over again.
I have my brothers to worry about.
Family is all that matters.
I groan as Wyatt continues his get-Charlie-laid tirade. “Don’t worry. I already picked few out for you, Charlie.”
I take a sip of my beer even if I don’t want it. “I’m too old to drink like that.”
Ford sits back in his chair and laughs his ass off. “You mean, you’re too grumpy.”
“Aren’t you off tomorrow?” Davis points out.
Wanting to shut them all up, I give Wyatt a menacing glare to enforce big brother status. “You’re one to talk. Aren’t you seeing Sheena Wolfington?”
Wyatt twists a hand through his shaggy light brown hair, his gaze snapping to Fallon, who’s so far across the room she isn’t even breathing the same oxygen. “Dude. Shut the fuckup.”
“Dickhead,” I mutter.
The cacophony of the bar increases. The Choir Boys bellow obscenities and battle it out in shuffleboard. Through the window, I watch the sky turn dusky as the sun dips below the horizon.
That’s when three things happen at once.
Number one. The jukebox sticks. Merle Haggard croons a wobbly refrain. Fallon swears and pounds on it with her fist.
Number two. Lionel and Clyde Wolfington saunter into the bar.
Wyatt gets out of his chair. From behind the bar, Beef yells out a warning, jabbing his finger at the sign which doesn’t stand a fat fucking chance.
Number three. The front door swings open again, and sunshine spills into the room.
I blink. Not sunshine. A girl.
She’s delicate and small in a bright yellow sundress that hits high on her slim thighs. Big blue doe-eyes. Bee-stung lips. Slight, elfin features. Thick, silky hair the color of rose gold hangs down to her shoulders. In her hands, she holds the cardboard “HELP WANTED” sign Beef put up ages ago after his chef attacked him with a can opener.
On a dime, the mood of the bar turns. Though it doesn’t slow its pace or stop its conversation, all eyes are on the girl. An offender, a stranger in Resurrection.
It’s like someone dropped a wildflower onto a gravel road.
“Immediately no,” Ford announces, leaning low on the table as if to track her.
His concerned eyes sweep to Davis, who’s suddenly on alert. Wyatt, oblivious, banters with Lionel.
I shove a hand through my hair, then scrape it down over my beard. My mouth goes dry.Fuck. Be lost. Turn around.
But she doesn’t.
All I can do is watch the girl cross the room, elbowing her way through the crowd, only a faint trace of apprehension in her eyes. She looks calm and composed—shoulders back, expression even—as if she’s walked through hell every day of her life and doesn’t give two shits.
“Ballsy.” Davis sounds impressed.
Ford lifts a brow. “Ballsy is right.”
Wyatt, realizing he’s alone in his Wolfington pile-on, glances up and over. His eyes lock on the girl, and he whistles. “Who’s the Disney Princess smokeshow?”
I scowl, already annoyed.
