I’ve always suspected that over the years Dylan has maintained the seeds of doubt he planted, reinforcing his endeavors of keeping Gareth and I from ever crossing that line.
Or maybe that’s just me projecting my own fears, but I’ve always lived within that narrative, putting my brother first.
Regardless, I wasn’t surprised when Gareth showed up at the bar last weekend. And I was even less surprised when he texted me the following day, telling me he didn’t regret our kiss.
A bold move for someone who believes I’m in a relationship. I know what he’s doing, though. I’m not naïve, but I am stubborn enough to keep resisting the pull I feel toward him.
And if my brother’s immature behavior is any indication of where he stands on the subject, resisting is the smartest thing I can continue to do.
“Hey, Punk Princess.” Rosie slides onto the barstool in front of me, her hair hanging in a thick, loose braid over one shoulder. She’s wearing a black lace camisole with a bandeau bra, paired with tight leather pants. She looks sexy as hell, and I can’t help but laugh as my gaze drifts to her husband, Cain, who’s scowling in the corner of the bar. Slowly, he nurses the drink I made him twenty minutes ago, his eyes never leaving his wife.
“You know,” I tell her, my tone sassy, “you’re over here looking like a ten while your husband looks like a caveman four. What is happening with his face?”
Cain looks like he hasn’t shaved in months; his beard unruly and uneven, grown far too long. While it adds to his rough, biker aesthetic, it’s aging him.
It was almost comical when he stepped outside to check on me that night. I could see the cogs in Gareth’s mind working as he tried to piece things together, forcing together puzzle pieces that didn’t fit. He assumed Cain was my boyfriend—the elusive Zach—and I didn’t bother correcting him. Cain is a beast, and itfelt safer to let Gareth believe he was the guy I was seeing. Maybe he’d stop nosing around.
Not likely, but maybe.
“I know, right?” Rosie scoffs, spinning on her stool to look back at her husband. “He keeps referring to himself as sexy Santa, but, if anything, he looks like the stereotypical version of a biker prez. Maybe if I drag him onto a chair and straddle him naked, he’ll let me trim it.”
“Is he still taking us shooting later?” I ask, excitement zipping through me. Ever since The Sinners were involved in a drive-by shooting during a barbecue here at the bar, Cain’s made a point to take me and Rosie to the gun range to practice handling a firearm and to work on our shot.
The Sinners lost one of their own that day, and it put Cain on high alert ever since. His presence looms over the bar day in and day out,especiallywhen Rosie’s here. Immediately, he bought two guns for us to have for protection—one we keep in Rosie’s office, and one in a lock box under the bar.
“Of course. You know Cain’ll never cancel that standing reservation at the range.” We both laugh at her comment, then she steers the conversation back to me. “So are we going to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” I ask nonchalantly, picking up a bar rag to clean the counter.
“Oh,” Rosie drawls. “So she’s gonna play dumb, I see.” She pins me with a look that could kill a man point blank, but it only makes me laugh again.
I shrug, not answering her.
Unamused, she swipes the towel right out of my hand. “I don’t know, how about the fact that my husband had to step outside the bar and watch a little”—she gestures between the two of us—“what’s the word, Indy? Confrontation? Reunion?Lover’squarrel?” A smile plays on her lips. “This time start at the beginning and spare no details.”
Rosie leans her elbows on top of the bar, her chin resting against her fists.
I sigh dramatically. “He wants me to come to a game, and I keep refusing.”
“Oh no! Not a baseball game!” Rosie gasps, covering her mouth. “Wouldn’t want to see a bunch of attractive guys running around in their tight white pants!”
“You're such a dick.”
“I betlover boywould give you good seats, too,” she adds.
Golden Boy,I think.Not lover boy.
“That’s the whole problem,” I stress. “He’d want me to sit in the VIP box, which is reserved for friends and family.”
“Are you not friends? I thought you’ve known him since you were a teen?”
“I have, and we are. But I know the second I show my face in that box, questions will swirl—and I already have enough questions to fill the entire Coit Stadium, so I don’t see the point in adding to it.”
“But you dowantto go?” she pushes for clarification.
What a loaded question. Of course, I do. I’ve never seen him play and would love to, but out of sheer principle, I can’t.
“Girl. It cracks me up how you’re so quick to think outside of the box for the bar, but so slow to do it for yourself. Indy, my sweet, beautiful dumbass. It’s a baseball stadium—if you want to watch him play, then what’s stopping you from buying a ticket and going? You can sitanywhere. He’d never even know you’re there.”
