“That’s one way to put it.”
Four fights. Not our worst night, but entertaining enough. Standard shit—drunken chest-puffing, too much testosterone. Nothing we couldn’t handle.
Except the blonde. The curb crawler who threatened Sable.Something’s off about that one.The moment I grabbed her elbow, she didn’t struggle. She simply complied, as if she’d anticipated the escort, maybe even craved it.
Just as I was about to shove her out, she unleashed a tirade I never saw coming. She rattled off every sordid detail she knew about Sable.
And Sable’s ex.
I didn’t engage, but she told me anyway, eyes too damn focused for someone who’d just been tackled by a woman half her size.
“She ruins men, you know,” she murmured, dragging her tongue over her split lip, feeding on the taste as though it powered her. “Takes them, wraps them up in all that fire and when she’s done? When she’s sucked and fucked them dry—” A crooked smile spread over her face that said the thought angered her in a way that pleased. “She leaves them fucking useless. Empty. No good to anyone else.”
The crazy ass bitch then tilted her head, looking me over, assessing. “Andrew used to fuck me,” she went on, her tone disturbingly casual, as though listing off her morning routine. “Used to be insatiable for my attention. Until she left him.” She pointed a finger back at the bar.
The words dripped from her lips, each one coated in contempt.
“He told me once—after a few drinks, when he thought I wouldn’t remember—that I can’t compare to her.” Her gaze dropped to my mouth, then returned to my eyes, gauging how much she could say without giving too much of her crazy away.
My jaw locks, my pulse ticks faster. This crosses every fucking line.I don’t want to hear this shit about Sable.But every detail she spills tells me more about what I’m dealing with. This isn’t just jealousy.
“And you know what the worst part is?” Her lipstick-smudged mouth opened as she stepped in closer, dropping her voice as though we were old friends sharing a dirty secret. “She doesn’t even mean to do it. She doesn’t even know the power she has. And they keep chasing her, but they never get her back.”
I said nothing. Just let her words sink in, cataloging every twisted detail of her ramblings.
She wasn’t talking about Sable like a woman scorned.
She talked about her like someone who wanted to be her.
Someone who’d been competing from the start.
Someone dangerously close to losing the game inside her head.
And something told me, she’d never let it end that way.
Climbing the stairs to the loft, her words circle back.I should let it go.Chalk it up to drunken rambling. But it sticks. Burrows deep.
I push open the heavy door, exhaling at the quiet. It’s nothing fancy up here—open loft, old bones but solid. I put in the work myself. Ripped out dated flooring, exposed the original brick, added modern finishes where they mattered. A king-sized bed sits against one wall, leather couch across from it. The kitchen is small but functional with slate gray counters.
I stay here when the nights run long, but it’s not home. That’s out in the Hill Country. Secluded. Quiet. Mine.
I’m too damn tired to make the ride back. The loft will do.
I strip off my shirt, tossing it over a chair, and sink onto the couch, rolling my shoulders. My body’s exhausted, but my mind is still running, still caught on the image of Sable standing by that booth, watching me as I escorted the blonde out.
She looked… surprised. Maybe even a little impressed.
Or maybe I’m imagining that because I can’t stop thinking about her.
I reach for my phone, not even fully aware of what I’m doing. I’ve pulled up her social media like some goddamn teenager.Sable Hawthorne.
The thirst trap photo she’s tagged in from earlier is already racking up likes and comments. She looks good. A cocky smirk at the camera, confidence radiating from her with ease. My eyesbeg to drink in what lies beyond where the photo cuts off—the long lines of her legs, the curve of her hips, the bare skin she exposed with conviction.Christ.The woman’s a fucking distraction.
I let out a slow breath, rubbing my neck.
This is not what I should be doing.
I’m about to put my phone down when a chat bubble pops up, the one connected to the bar’s website.
