That had been two years ago.
Where the fuck had his life gone?
By the time Beckett reached La Creperie, he’d broken a sweat. He punched in and locked himself in the bathroom to wipe off and wait until his skin went from flushed back to pale. After some deep breaths and a big drink, he slipped back out into the kitchen, where he ran into a despondent looking Audra at the time clock.
“Why the long face?” he asked, hip-checking one of his favorite co-workers.
She scrunched her nose and pointed at the schedule tacked onto the cork board. “I told Heather I couldn’t work Sunday.”
Beckett let his stare follow to where Audra’s finger pointed.
A Sunday brunch shift.
“I’ll cover you,” he offered, heart hammering against his ribs at the prospect of another brunch shift after so long.
“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” she said.
“Not a bother,” Beckett interrupted. “Heather hasn’t scheduled me on a weekend since I got my wisdom teeth out, and I could use the tips.”
“She hasn’t?” Audra frowned at him.
He shook his head. “Honestly, I’m tight on money right now, so covering for you wouldn’t be a hardship. You’d be doing me a huge favor.”
She let out a slow breath, mouth twisting down at the corner. Audra dragged her finger to the day before…Saturday. Another brunch.
“Do you want this one too?” she asked.
“Are you kidding me?”
“I have an out-of-town wedding Saturday night. Heather apparently doesn’t care.”
“I’ll take them both,” he said quickly, wrapping his arms around her. “Thank you. Thank you!”
She laughed and leaned into him. “I mean, you’re welcome, Bex, but you’re really the one doing me a favor here.”
“Bitch, you just saved me from a week of eating nothing but celery.” He laughed at the way she rolled her eyes at him before punching in herself and, for the first time since he woke up, Beckett relaxed.
CHAPTERTHREE
RHYS THE MARTYR
Rhys sat on the edge of the bed and stared down at his toes. Potentially, his feet were the most unremarkable thing about him. He sighed and lay back on the bed, spreading his arms wide like he was on a cross. Eyes closed, a smile fell across his face as, for the first time in longer than he could remember, Rhys wasn’t anyone’s martyr. He had no one else's sins to atone for, and he found himself…
Bored.
Sebastian, for the most part, seemed happy living in near squalor with Remington Dockery, and Callahan…well. Rhys had heard Callahan and his much younger beau, Jace, were happy together. Engaged, even. And he tried, God, he tried to not bristle about it. But if Rhys were to sit with himself in his boredom and his solitude, he would have to admit to a feeling that he preferred to imagine didn’t exist.
His phone vibrated on the nightstand, saving him from having to make the admission. He rolled across the bed until he could reach the phone and swiped to answer the call without checking first to see who it was. Hardly anyone called him, and he could hazard a guess.
“What?” he greeted, an appropriate question for whichever suspect it might be.
“That’s no way to speak to your father.”
Rhys licked his lips and let out a soft breath. “It’s Sunday; why are you working?”
“What makes you think I’m working?” his father asked.
“I don’t think you’ve ever called me just to check in and see how I’m doing, Father. That’s the antithesis of your parenting strategy.” Beneath him, the sheets were soft. Much softer than the thread count Sebastian had on the bed when Rhys had made the move to Myers Bluff. His brother chose to be stubborn and resistant in the most petulant ways sometimes. Money couldn’t buy everything, but it could buy most things.
