She tightened around him and cried out, shuddering as she came. He followed seconds later, thrust burying deep, muscles locking, a curse tearing free as release ripped through him.
For a heartbeat, everything went blank.
His forehead dropped against her shoulder, breath harsh and uneven.
When it was over, there was nothing.
No relief. No clarity. Only a hollow opening wider inside his chest.
He stepped back first.
She smoothed her dress, adjusted her hair.
“You make me shiver,” she said quietly. “Behind those storm-cloud eyes is heartbreak. You won’t find what you need here. Running only makes you winded.” She touched his cheek once and slipped out.
Breakneck braced his hands on the sink, staring down at chipped porcelain. Her words echoed, cutting deeper than the act ever had. He turned on the faucet and scrubbed his hands under cold water, as if he could wash the night off himself. His hair dripped sweat onto the counter. His pulse pounded against his ribs like it wanted out.
But when he lifted his head, the mirror betrayed him.
A stranger stared back. Gray-eyed. Raw. Unhinged.
His breath caught. Derrick. The shape of the jaw. The glint in the eye. The sharp, coiled violence. He stumbled back a half step. “Fuck,” he whispered. His mother’s voice twisted through him like barbed wire. I told you what you needed to hear.
He didn’t know what was true anymore. What belonged to the man who raised him. What belonged to the one in the photograph. The not knowing scraped along his ribs as he stepped out of the bathroom.
The hallway felt narrower than before, the low amber bulbs flickering overhead, casting a sickly halo over peeling wallpaper and scuffed floorboards. Heat pooled thick in the air, a humid blend of sweat, spilled liquor, and perfume that clung to his skin like a second layer. The bass thumped through the walls in an erratic pulse that made his teeth vibrate. Every breath tasted like smoke and desperation, like the ghosts of a version of himself he’d trained out of existence.
Breakneck needed another drink. Needed ten. Needed the kind of burn that could cauterize the screaming inside him before it tore him open.
He reached the bar and set down a wad of cash. “Keep ’em coming.”
The bartender didn’t flinch. He’d seen men like this before, eyes blown wide with purpose, jaw set hard, violence coiled beneath the skin.
“For the ladies,” Breakneck said, the words flat, edges dulled by something dark and unraveling.
The bartender poured. Breakneck swallowed. The whiskey hit like fire. A second glass followed. He didn’t taste it. A third. Still nothing. He wouldn’t be the first man to think alcohol could fix anything. He wouldn’t be the last. Right now, it was the only thing that might dull the noise long enough for him to breathe.
Women drifted toward him as if pulled by something unseen, curves brushing his arms, soft laughter rising, eyes lingering on the heavy line of his shoulders, the open leather vest revealing muscle that invited attention and fed hunger. A fingertip skimmed his forearm. Another hand ghosted over his ribs. Their whispers braided around him, compliments and promises from women who saw a man they wanted, not the fracture he was trying to hide.
He didn’t touch them. He felt their heat at his back, the slow way they encircled him, like moths drawn toward something ready to ignite.
Across the room, the man he’d clipped earlier hunched over the edge of the pool table, resentment etched across his face. His glare hooked onto Breakneck and didn’t let go.
“Pretty boy thinks he’s some goddamn movie star,” he muttered loud enough to carry. His friend grunted. “Look at him, roostered up with his little flock. Cocky son of a bitch. What, we’re not good enough to breathe the same damn air?”
Breakneck heard it. His awareness was razor sharp, a sniper’s instinct that never powered down. He didn’t turn. Didn’t blink. Before his mother’s betrayal, he would’ve ignored it, diffused it, let it slide. Tonight the darkness she’d torn open sat too close to the surface.
The man raised his voice. “Hey, sweetheart. Love the vest. You auditioning for Chippendales?”
A couple of women laughed, not at Breakneck, but at the fool who didn’t recognize danger.
Breakneck lifted his glass and took another slow drink. The whiskey warmed the hollow inside him for half a heartbeat. He leaned toward the dark-haired woman. “Now you’ll see what I meant about trouble.”
Her eyes flicked to the instigator. She shivered.
He turned.
“Yeah, that’s right, princess. Real men don’t preen like?—”
