“Drew. That’s not . . .” I bark out an uncomfortable laugh. “I should be offended by your question but I understand where you’re coming from. Yes, I’m an agent, but I’m not so conniving that I’d come to your house, get you buzzed, and then try to sell you why your agent is doing you no favors whatsoever.”
“I think you just kind of tried to.” He laughs and holds up his thumb and forefinger a little bit apart. “Just a little bit.”
I roll my eyes. “Agent or not, anyone can see you have a shitload of talent just sitting there not being used. Has Ari tried to—”
“Brexton.” My name is a resigned sigh.
“No, I’m serious. Your arm is remarkable. I was looking at your stats. There’s no way what happened with your dad—”
“And you just made my point. Thanks for a walk down memory lane, but it’s probably best if you get going now.” He pushes up from the table and starts collecting the plates.
I sit there with the taste of rejection in my mouth and a weird panic flickering in my veins. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun or relaxed so easily.
There’s still something about him that makes my heart flutter all these years later.
“Drew. Wait.” I scurry after him and have my hand on his arm the minute he sets the plates down. “I’m sorry. I’m not here to push or prod or anything, I’m just at a total loss why your talent has gone unnoticed and why you seem completely fine with it.”
“Because.” He throws me a lopsided smirk over his shoulder that I don’t quite buy.
“Because why?”
“First, I don’t care if you understand why. And second, I love my life. It’s steady and stable for reasons that are no one’s business but mine. I get to stay in one place, I get to play a game I love, and—”
“But you’re a competitor and competitors like to compete. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand.”
“Stop trying to. I’m not the kid you once knew and you’re not the little girl I used to know either.” His eyes roam up and down the length of my body. “A lot has changed.”
“It has but the other night you implied it’s because of your dad and that—”
He turns abruptly and faces me, hand grabbing my arm in return, and the look on his face stops me cold. We’re in each other’s personal space and, where there was awkwardness, there’s now a strange tension that I’d swear was sexual if his expression wasn’t one of irritation.
“I’ve had fun tonight, Brex. More than I thought I would when you showed up on my porch a few hours ago. I’d like the evening to continue because it’s been a long time since I’ve had someone who I can talk this easily to. You’re witty and intelligent, and God knows how hard that is to find in a conversation these days. The little girl I knew is all grown up and frankly, I’d love to get to know her better . . . but only on one condition.”
“What’s that?” I ask as I swallow over the sudden lump in my throat. He smells like soap and sandalwood, and I feel ridiculous focusing on the little things about him—the shadow of his stubble, the ring of dark blue around his irises, the very subtle scar through his eyebrow that I remember was the result of a skateboarding accident gone wrong.
“The past is the past. What happened is what happened. We don’t talk about it, we don’t pick it apart. It’s history for a reason. We don’t try to solve it . . . and we’ll be good. Got it?”
CHAPTER FIVE
DREW
THERE’S DEFIANCE IN HER EYES that is equal parts infuriating and fascinating. Both war through her expression. Both give and take and struggle to subside.
I hate that my next thought is how I want to taste her lips.
And then my next after is how can that even cross my mind?
How can I look at her and want her, knowing part of my fate is because of that last name she has?
“Brex?” I ask.
Her breath is shaky. Hesitant. Affected. That last part is such a turn-on even when I swear to fucking God I don’t want it to be.
“Deal,” she murmurs, but I don’t let go of her arm, and she doesn’t step back out of my space.
Indecision lingers where normally I would dive right in. That history I told her to forget clouds my mind and sidetracks the thoughts I’d love to act on.
“Brexton.” Her name is a whisper laden with intention.
Seconds feel like minutes and each breath is like another push of momentum to kiss her. The woman I shouldn’t want.
The woman I am already thinking about having.
We jolt apart at the sound of the doorbell followed a second later by pounding on the door. It’s rapid and insistent, and my heart drops into my stomach because I know that knock.
I know that fervor.
Not now.
Not fucking now.
“I need to get that.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes. It’s . . . why don’t you go out back and grab another beer.”
Confused eyes meet mine but a soft smile warms them. “Sure.”
I wait for her to go out the back door before I head toward the intermittent yet demanding knocking. With a deep breath, I prepare myself for what I’ll find when I open the door this time.
But it doesn’t matter how much I prepare, I’m still knocked on my ass when I swing the door open and find my sister standing there, the visual reminder of the rippled effects of the betrayal. What Brex’s father did to my family. The toll. How Brex’s dad hurt us all.
Like my younger sister, Maggie, standing here. Her eyes are hollow, her collarbone is poking through whatever you call what she’s wearing, and her body twitches in a way that says she’s coming down from whatever withdrawal she seems to be riding today.
But it won’t last long.
It never does.
She’ll find someone to give it to her or sell something to get it.
The sight of her rips every shred of emotion from me—anger, disgust, sorrow, resignation—just like it does every time we’re back in this space.
And it’s been too many to count.
“Maggs,” I say, disappointment flooding through me. “Long time no see. Apparently, it’s been long enough though for you to start using again.”
“I am. I was. Things got tough,” my sister explains as she remains in a perpetual motion of twitches and feet shifts and neck jerks.
“I see.” My sigh is heavy enough for the both of us. “And by tough, you mean what? The last check I sent you ran out? The one that was supposed to help you with living expenses but, from the sight of you, went to other things?”
“Don’t you stand there and cast judgment on me, Drew. Not you in your fancy house, perfect life, and all your money. You don’t get to judge me or look down upon me or—”
“You had a good run. I’m proud of you,” I murmur as I try to remember what her sponsor from her last rehab stint instructed me was best to say to lessen her agitation. As I try to bite back the anger that eats at me with each and every passing minute. “Is everything okay? What do you need?” We’ve played this delicate game more times than I care to count.