“Come on, man,” I said with a shake of my head. “You need some sleep or something.” This emotional shit started to wear on me. I wasn’t one for this type of vulnerability.
Keep your weaknesses hidden, unseen so that people couldn't capitalize on them. That was my life’s motto.
“And what the hell is this damn song you keep playing?” I demanded when he got up to replay it at the jukebox.
“‘Stormy Weather’ by Lena Horne,” he replied as he sat down.
I blinked. “What’s the singer’s name?”
Ace lifted his hand, ordering another beer before replying, “Lena Horne.” He didn’t even look at me as he answered. I was glad about that.
He might’ve seen the stunned expression on my face before I could smother it. The name. Lena.
That damn name had haunted my thoughts for the last nine months. Even on the days where I trained or worked so long I would fall into bed at night, I pictured those cinnamon eyes and full lips. What I hated to admit the most was that after that night in Los Angeles, I’d looked up her music.
It was a far cry from what I typically listened to, but one or two of her songs had somehow made their way onto my playlist.
However, the Lena singing this dreary ass song that Ace kept spinning wasn’t Lena Clarkson.
Different woman, I reminded myself. No need to allow my thoughts to linger on a woman I met once. She wasn’t mine anyway. She had a douchebag of a fiancé. I would never see that woman again, which was a good thing.
I sat back in my seat and stared across at my brother, who took a long pull from his latest beer bottle. The watery, glazed look in his eyes, the slump in his shoulders, and the smell of alcohol pouring off of him were reminders of what a good thing it was not to be hung up on anyone.
After almost fifteen years, Ace still went to pieces over a broad.
No fucking thank you.
“Let’s go. I’m taking your ass home,” I demanded, rising from my seat. “And don’t try to fight me on this. I’ll put your ass in a chokehold and carry you out of here.”
Ace was the same height as me and strong as hell, but he wasn’t the trained MMA fighter. I was. Plus, he was drunker than a fucking skunk. He couldn’t hold his own against a Girl Scout in this condition, let alone me.
“I ain’t finished my beer,” he insisted, grabbing the bottle.
“Take it with you.” I pulled him up, and he stumbled into my chest. “Fuck, you’re heavy,” I grunted. After adjusting him to lean against me as I walked, I directed us toward the door.
With a two finger salute thrown at Toni, I pushed through the doors of the bar.
“Where’s your bike?” I asked Ace, looking around for his motorcycle.
“Left it at home. Caught an Uber here,” he answered. “I knew you or Micah would be the one to pick me up tonight.”
My response to that was to secure Ace to my side and walk us both to my car. I shoved him inside before slamming the door shut and heading around to climb in the driver’s seat.
“And don’t take Tucker Bridge home. I hate that fucking bridge,” he mumbled.
I never understood his disdain for the bridge that connected the two sides of Harlington, but whatever. He would sleep this shit off at my place.
Within five minutes of my pulling out of the parking lot, I looked over to see Ace slumped to the side, his eyelids closed. The steady rise and fall of his chest indicated he was asleep, or at least on his way there.
Good.
The last thing I wanted to hear was him bringing up his past again. You’d think he would be beyond the shit by now.
I sighed before turning on some music to fill the silence.
Fate must’ve decided to kick me in the ass one final time that night because instead of playing the rock song I’d been listening to last, up came Lena Clarkson’s song “Broken Kisses”. The title track of her most successful album.
The song was about the anticipation of that first kiss but missing the opportunity. I hated myself for keeping it on my playlist. Yet every time I went to remove it, my thumb just hovered above the delete button.
