by Eden Summers
“Brute…” She approached his desk.
“Shay, I’m not in the mood.”
“You know they’re only going to bring the meeting up here if you don’t get your ass downstairs.”
His friends must have reached the threshold of his bullshit. About time, too. He’d expected them to cave more than a week ago, and he still hadn’t been able to pull himself out of the spiral of bad behavior.
“Was that your brilliant idea?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, already knowing the answer.
“You know I’m always trying to figure out how to get more Brute time.”
He sighed and rested back in the chair. He’d been ignoring everyone for weeks, successfully keeping enough distance to avoid their nagging eyes. “I’ll be down there in a minute.”
“Good.” She boasted her victory with a slight quirk of her lips. “You still doing okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Do you really want me to spell it out?”
“What I want is for you to get the fuck out of my office.” And for Ella to get out of his mind. It seemed he was destined to give a shit about women who didn’t give a shit about him. First his mother, then the sexual goddess in the Vault who had his gray matter running a minefield of pathetic emotions.
“I will, as soon as you follow me downstairs.” She smiled, big and broad, and backtracked toward the door. “Come on.”
“I said I’ll be down in a minute.”
He needed to pull his shit together before the inevitable slew of questions. He’d left everyone in the lurch for almost three weeks without explanation or remorse over why he’d bunkered down in the office, demanding to be the reclusive office bitch.
He’d played Tetris with the once-perfect work roster, moving employees around like puzzle pieces to fill the holes his absence made. All he could handle were emails, stock orders, and bookwork. Everything else had been left to T.J. and Leo, along with a disgruntled team of staff who’d never liked him anyway.
Most of the time he sat staring at his phone, waiting for calls that never came. One from Tampa. The other from Ella.
Neither connection seemed likely to happen, and each day of radio silence made him more annoyed. At himself. He should’ve known better, on both counts, than to expect a different outcome.
But he’d still texted Ella days after their night in the parking lot. It hadn’t been much in the way of communication. A few sentences to encourage a conversation that never eventuated—I gave your books to a local oncologist. He appreciated your donation and said he’d pass them on to interested patients.
He couldn’t blame her for cutting him off. That was what he’d set out to achieve when he slept with her. That, and to get her as far away from the dick at the bar who couldn’t spare five seconds to ask what she wanted to drink.
She deserved better.
Truth be told, she deserved better than someone who would call her out in the middle of a sex club. Or fuck her in a dark parking lot in a shitty neighborhood. Or let her catch a cab home on her own after she’d been drinking.
He was no better than the champagne-buying prick.
And her lack of reply was a good indication she knew it, too.
“What’s going on with you, Brute?”
“Shit.” He startled at Shay’s voice. “Why are you still lurking?”
She cocked her head and scrutinized every inch of his face. “Something really bad is up with you, isn’t it?”
“Apart from my annoyance levels from your constant nagging, no.” The cloying thoughts of going back to Tampa didn’t help. He’d contemplated making the trip every damn day. There was a hatchet to bury, if only for his sake, because his parents made it clear they still wished he’d been swallowed instead of conceived.
But it was about closure, right?
Or something similar. He’d read a convoluted online article outlining paragraphs of psychological drivel stating all the reasons to be the better person. All of which made a lot of sense. Just not enough to convince him to pack his bags.
Not yet, at least.
“You sure? You haven’t been brutish lately. I was thinking of changing your nickname to melon.”
He scowled.
“Because you’re so melancholy,” she explained.
He pushed all the air from his lungs. Before Ella, Shay’s taunting had kept him on his toes. She was an annoyance he enjoyed reciprocating. Now, all he wanted to do was sink his head back against the chair and go to sleep. “Get out, Shay.”
“See, that right there is a stellar indication of your melon state. Brute would’ve told me to try it and see how I liked the unemployment line, but this melon uses a defeated tone to tell me to leave.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
Her expression stilled as she contemplated him, then slowly her face fell and a potent look of concern bore down on him. “Now I’m really starting to worry.”
“Look, I’m fine, okay? I’ve got shit going on. Personal shit. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“You know you can talk to me if you need someone.”
He glared. “Seriously?”
“Don’t be like that. We’re friends. I care about you.”
He closed his eyes and massaged his lids. “I’m not the talking type. You know that.” At least he hadn’t been. Not until Ella. That woman seemed to bring out the verbal diarrhea in him. She currently knew more about his life than his closest friends.
“Well, maybe you should be. It wouldn’t kill you.”
“It might.”
She chuckled, the sound half-hearted. “Have it your way. But just so you know, if you’re not downstairs in five minutes, I’m bringing the team up here.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
Her footsteps faded down the hall, allowing the shit running through his head to reassemble and gain traction. This whole situation had started because Shay had wanted him to help a random chick obtain an orgasm.
But Ella hadn’t turned out to be a random chick, and what he’d given her hadn’t merely been an orgasm. She’d taken much more from him. Too much more. And he had no idea how to get those parts of himself back.
He was stuck feeling too hollow and too heavy, at the same time. There was darkness, as well as picture-perfect clarity. Unpredictability and painful routine.
He pushed from his chair and made his way downstairs to fast-track the punishment. There was no point holding out any longer. His friends had been patient, far more than he would’ve been in return.
They all sat in a line, positioned across the stools at the main Shot bar. Leo, Shay, Cassie, and T.J.—all of them holding matching blank expressions as he walked behind the bar to face them head on.
“You’re late.” Leo slid a stack of mail across the counter. “And you might want to consider checking the mail every once in a while if you plan to continue being the office bitch. This must’ve been sitting in our box for weeks.”
“It was on my to-do list.” He grasped the envelopes and flicked through the pile, finding a mass of potential bills and one hand-written address.
“You seem like you’ve been busy in the office.” T.J.’s statement sounded like more of a question.
“How are you handling the detox from the Vault?” Cassie asked.
“It’s a piece of cake.” It wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t stepped foot inside the sex club in weeks and had no interest in going down there in the near future. Not until he got his head sorted out. His dick, too.
“Speaking of to-do lists.” Leo cleared his throat. “Did you refund everyone’s money for the demonstration night?”
The reminder made him tense. “It’s done.” He ripped open the first envelope and retrieved the folded invoice inside before discarding the rubbish onto the counter. “I’ve refunded everyone involved.”
“Did you explain the cancellation?”
“It’s nobody’s business.”
“Not even ours?” Leo stared him down. “What happen
ed, Brute? We’ve handled you with kid gloves for weeks, but now it’s time for an explanation. I thought you were determined not to let the women win.”
“They didn’t win. I needed a break from the Vault.” Not only the setting, the carnality, and the people. He needed a break from the reminder of what had driven him into this mind fuck. “And Ella couldn’t participate either. So, the cancellation worked for both of us.”
“Did you refund her membership?” T.J. asked. “It would be a nice gesture of goodwill.”
His hand paused in the middle of tearing open the second envelope. “I’m not kicking her out of the club. She can return whenever she wants.”
“She’s not coming back,” Cassie spoke softly.
He continued to open the envelope, his gaze focused on the shredding paper. A tight restriction took place behind his sternum, the pain intensifying with the need for answers to questions he didn’t want to voice. Tighter and tighter his lungs squeezed, until he couldn’t hold it in anymore. “You’ve spoken to her?”
“I called her,” Shay answered.
He emptied the invoice from the envelope, threw the rubbish to the counter, and then started the process all over again. “I didn’t realize the two of you were friends.”
“We’re not. Not really. But I wanted to check on her.”
“How’d you get her number?” He couldn’t hide the pathetic jealousy in his voice.
“I looked in the Vault database.”
His foot to tapped against the polished floorboards, the rampant beat out of his control. “You were on my computer?”
“She was on our computer,” T.J. corrected.
“Right.” He slashed another envelope and turned back to Shay. “And she said she isn’t coming back?”
The nod and accompanying look of pity were enough to send his fingers tearing through the paper.
“Did she say why?” He already knew her original reason—nobody interested her in the Vault. But he’d hoped her mind would change with time.
“Are you asking because you hope we don’t know the answer?” Cassie rested her elbows on the bar, leaning forward, fully invested. “Or do you truly not know?”
He shredded another envelope and kept his mouth shut, not wanting to admit he was to blame. He didn’t need to exacerbate his pathetic existence.
Shay sighed.
Leo crossed his arms over his chest.
Cassie glanced at T.J., while her husband pinned him with a sympathetic stare.
He opened three envelopes in quick succession and pulled out the accompanying information. “What’s next on the agenda?”
Uncomfortable silence fell until T.J. had the balls to fill it. “We still haven’t resolved the current topic. Are you able to refund her membership? Maybe write a check and put it in the mail?”
Another envelope died in his hands, the front half ripping in two. He didn’t want to think about her any more than he already did. He didn’t want to look up her details on his computer. Or scribble her name on a check. But taking this route and getting his friends off his back was the lesser of two evils. “Yeah. No problem. I’ll sort it out.”
“Great. We can move on, then.” Cassie gave her co-conspirators a warning look, wordlessly reiterating how pathetic and temperamental he was. “Next on the list is the possibility of an under-age dance night.”
That was his cue to zone out of the conversation. His field of fucks was well and truly barren. Everything felt raw and uncomfortable. Even answering the simplest of questions. All because of Ella—a woman who hadn’t called and evidently had no plans to see him again.
She’d forgotten him.
And with all his determination and focus, he still couldn’t seem to do the same with her.
Turned out, his insurance policy was a piece of shit.
He tore open the last envelope, this time slower, drawing out the need to keep his hands occupied. There were no folded pages this time. He parted the opening and sank his hand in to retrieve the tiny slip of paper buried inside.
A newspaper clipping.
He read the heading and wondered if he’d fallen into a momentary hallucination. He blinked, blinked again, and re-read the words. He stared for long moments, his chest tightening, bile rising in his throat.
“Brute?” Shay’s voice was distant. A million miles away.
“Bryan?” Cassie pleaded. “What is it?”
He slid the paper back into the envelope and ran a hand over his beard, hoping to encourage his lunch to stay in his gut. “Nothing.” His response was static. “Can you finish up without me? I need to sort out this mail and get started on the refund for Ella.”
Ella. Fucking Ella. At a time like this, she was still at the forefront of his mind.
Pinched brows aimed at him. Worried eyes, too.
“What’s going on?” Leo glanced at the envelopes in Bryan’s hand. “Is there something in the mail I need to know about?”
“No.” He was on his own with this. Like he always had been. Like he’d always wanted to be. He never should’ve contemplated a deviation. “I’ll fill you in later if anything becomes important.”
He made for the upstairs staircase. Once he was out of view, he ran, taking the steps two at a time, pounding out the motions until he was behind the closed door of the office and leaning against the hard wood.
He was done. So fucking done with life and work and people.
The mail crunched in his closing fist as devastation seared a scorching trail through his veins. Every inch of him was out of control—his mind, his pulse, his tingling limbs.
He’d never needed something more than he did right now. And for the life of him, he didn’t know what that something was. He only knew there was a hole in his chest. A massive, gaping crater, screaming to be filled.
He couldn’t breathe through it. Couldn’t think around the pain of it. Everything was closing in—his mistakes, his insecurities. Every little thing he hated about his existence bore down on him with enough force to crush him.
Nothing gave him hope.
Not. One. Thing.
All he had was the dizzying punishment of all the mistakes he’d made.
He rushed toward the desk, grabbed a fresh envelope from the drawer and scrawled Pamela across the front. Those six letters were a death sentence.
No. They’d been a life sentence. Years upon years of unwanted sterile independence.
He transferred the newspaper clipping into the unripped envelope, making sure not to read the words demanding his attention, then encapsulated the information by sealing the back. He stood staring at the name, hating it, his anger building, growing.
He tore his attention away and scoured the perfect alignment on the desk. The pens, Post-Its, and stationery items all had their own place, their own function in the world. While he remained in limbo, stuck thinking about what he was good for.
In one harsh swipe of his arm he sent everything flying, the symmetry transforming into a scattered mess on the floor. The destruction brought relief, the tiniest flicker of havoc sating his self-loathing.
He did it again, this time pulling the drawer from the desk and throwing it across the room. And again, with the second drawer. And again, with the filing trays.
His blood raced with dizzying speed, the lightheaded delirium righting some of his wrongs.
Most, but not all.
Ella still stared back at him from his mind. Taunting him. Reminding him of his biggest mistake. He never should’ve touched her. Never should’ve given a shit. Because now she was stuck in his head. Unable to get out.
All he wanted was for her to get out.
To leave him alone.
To stop torturing him with the one thing he wanted but nobody could ever give him.
“Fuck.” His shout echoed off the walls.
He had to find a way out of this. To make his head stop pounding. He spun around, his gaze catching on the bookshelf, the parallel lines of immaculate book spines taunting
him with their equilibrium.
“Fuck you,” he spat.
Fuck their easy existence and harmonious balance.
Fuck their effortlessness and their calm.
Fuck everything and everyone, because he couldn’t take it anymore.
Breaths heaved from his lungs. His limbs ached. His forehead heated with sweat.
“Fuck. You.” He stormed toward the bookshelf and gripped the heavy wood in his hands. Then in one effortless pull, he created more destruction.
Chapter Sixteen
Pamela raised her gaze to the person walking into the deserted cafe. “What can I get—” The words died on her lips, the familiar face bringing memories she eagerly tried to bury.
“Hi, Pamela.” The blonde gave a half-hearted smile as she clutched a large wicker basket in her hand. “I’m Cassie from Shot of Sin.”
“I know. We’ve met before.” The woman was T.J.’s wife and a regular participant at the Vault.
“Sometimes we’re not easily recognizable with our clothes on.” The faux tilt of her lips increased.
“I suppose so.” Pamela grabbed the portafilter from the coffee machine and dumped the used puck into the refuse chute. “What can I get for you?”
“Actually, I’ve got something for you.” Cassie raised the basket and placed it on the counter. “This is yours.”
“Why?” She paused the cleaning routine and scoped the contents of the basket from the corner of her eye. Inside lay an array of different items. Two bottles of wine. Chips. Bar nuts. A small bottle of vodka. Along with other things hidden beneath.
“I hoped you might be able to tell me the answer to that. Bryan asked me to deliver it to you.”
“Bryan?” She raised a disbelieving brow. “He asked you to deliver me a basket of goodies?” The same Bryan who had been nicknamed for his brutality? The same Bryan who told her their time together was over? “Sorry. I think you’ve got the wrong person.”
The woman broke eye contact.
“Why are you really here, Cassie?” She shoved the portafilter back into the machine and slid along the counter, meeting the woman face to face. “We both know he didn’t send you here.”
There was a beat of silence while T.J.’s wife turned a bright shade of pink. “Wow.” She gave an awkward chuckle. “I thought this would’ve played out a little longer than five seconds.”