I lean against the dark panelled wall, arms crossed, watching them order drinks, their heads close together. She doesn’t notice me. She never does when she’s distracted, and that’s when I see her truest.
The friend asks, “So how’s your summer been? You look…different.”
Brooklyn laughs, shaking her head. “Different bad or different good?”
“Good,” the friend insists. “Like you’ve got this glow. Like—” she leans in, smirking, “—there’s a man involved.”
The ice in my veins shatters.
Brooklyn chokes on her drink, coughing, waving her hand. “There’s no man.”
Liar.
My jaw clenches so tight it aches.
“Mmm,” the friend teases, sipping her cocktail. “So why the glow?”
Brooklyn’s smile falters. She looks away, toward the crush of bodies on the dance floor, and for one raw second her mask slips. The guilt, the ache, the storm—it’s all there in her eyes before she blinks it away.
“I don’t know,” she murmurs. “Maybe it’s just this place.”
Not this place. Me.
I grip the edge of the wall so hard the wood bites into my palm. I shouldn’t care what she says. I shouldn’t care who shetalks to, who makes her laugh, who makes her glow. But I do. God help me, I do.
And if that girl keeps pressing, keeps poking at secrets that don’t belong to her—I’ll end it.
Right here, right now.
Brooklyn might not be mine.
But she sure as hell isn’t anyone else’s.
“Walker.”
The name cuts through the music, sharp and familiar, and I grit my teeth before I even turn.
Marcus.
Of course. The bastard materialises out of nowhere, all slick smile and expensive suit, holding a glass of scotch like it’s an accessory. He claps me on the shoulder like we’re old friends. We’re not.
“I didn’t think I’d see you here tonight.” His grin is all teeth. “Slumming it in your own club?”
I don’t answer right away. My eyes flick past him, back to where she’s sitting at the bar with her friend, straw between her lips, head tilted back in laughter. My entire chest pulls tight.
“Something like that,” I mutter.
Marcus follows my gaze, and I feel the prickle of his curiosity like a knife against my skin.
“Well, well. Who’s the girl?”
My jaw ticks. “Not your concern.”
He laughs, low and knowing. “That’s an interesting way to say mine.” He sips his drink. “You don’t look at women, Dean. Never have. I’ve known you for years, and I’ve never seen you watch anyone like that.”
I force my expression blank. “You’re imagining things.”
But he isn’t. And we both know it.
