Leaning back in the wicker chair, I take the Blue Moon and pop the tab, my gaze wary. “Did you want something? Can’t imagine I’m the most interesting part of your night.”
“Really?” He swivels the chair beside me, then takes a seat. “There’s a criminal sitting on my deck at two in the morning, playing songs on my guitar. Most people would find that awfully interesting.”
“Mm.”
“But the breakup won’t last,” he repeats. “If that’s why you’re here.”
I glance left, through the narrow window above the sink, watching asAnnalise washes a dinner plate with a yellow sponge, her fingers drenched in suds, her face pinched in concentration. A dark twist of hair is piled on her head, the pale-blond strands bobbing in front of her eyes as she scrubs at crusty streaks of marinara sauce.
She looks tired. Fucking exhausted.
My face must do something that gives me away because Tag lets out a knowing sigh.
“That’s what I thought,” he mutters.
I jerk away from the window and bring the beer to my lips. “I’m here for the music.”
“A poetic way of saying you’re trying to get into my sister’s pants.”
A headache pulses between my eyes. I can’t tell if he sounds bitter, indifferent, or low-key supportive. Tag Adams is impossible to read.
Either way, this conversation is a slow, torturous death.
But that could be the cyanide.
Discarding my can, I prop the guitar back up and situate it across my lap, leaning forward, plucking at wayward strings. Tag watches for a minute. My form, my silence, my avoidance.
He spins his IPA between his hands while dishes and tumblers clatter from the kitchen. “For the record, I said itwon’tlast. Not that I didn’t want it to.”
My eyes lift. A few more chords breach the air, new and unfamiliar. Annie’s unfinished song, a work in progress. “I’m sensing you’re not a fan of Alex.”
“Fucking hate the prick.”
I nod slowly, deciding that this guy must be a real piece of work, given the fact that Tag is sharing a beer with me out on his deck—the criminal who nearly killed his only sibling.
My throat sticks as the words sink deeper.
There’s a buzzing under my skin. Hot, festering. A shiver races down my spine.
“Does he hurt her?” I ask, the question tumbling out almost like a prayer.
I’ve wondered. Worried.
I haven’t noticed any bruises, but those can be hidden. Makeup, baggy clothes, strategic placement. The notion seizes my heart, and the few sips of beer turn to cement in my stomach.
Tag sighs, propping his ankle on his opposite knee as he inches the guitar up his body. “Depends on how you define it. Does it get physical? I haven’t sensed that. But does he hurt her? Yeah. Definitely.”
My gut tightens, my gaze panning back to Annie through the window. She swipes a piece of hair out of her bloodshot eyes, scrubbing faster. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Me? Nothing. Annalise is a grown-ass woman, and I’m her meddling big brother.” He flicks a hand in the air. “Goes in one ear and out the other. Has for years.”
“But she walked.”
“She didn’t walk. She waffled.” He chugs down the rest of his beer, crushes the can, then tosses it on the table between us. “Listen, as much as I wish someone could step into her life and make her see the light with midnight musings and napkin songs, it’s a losing battle. A dead end. That shit runs too deep.”
A frown creases.
My eyes draw back to the window as I mull over the past forty-eight hours since I answered her text message.
