The question is ugly and selfish and I hate myself for thinking it. Mason and Judah have a lifetime of history. A bond. Childhood memories and inside jokes and a connection that existed long before I stumbled into Mason’s life with my panic attacks and party-girl reputation and endless demands on his time.
I was the catalyst. The person who pushed them back together after a decade apart.
But catalysts don’t get to stay in the equation once the reaction is complete.
Regardless of what happened during Mason’s heat, I can’t assume I know where we all stand. Mason needed me as a buffer because he was vulnerable and hadn’t reconciled his feelings for Judah.
But what use am I now?
The thought is a knife between my ribs.
I tear my gaze away from them before I can spiral further. The bar swims in my peripheral vision as I push through the crowd toward the only available seat at the long wooden counter. Dom’s busy at the other end, but he notices me slide onto the stool and gives a quick nod of acknowledgment.
“What can I get you?” He appears in front of me moments later, already reaching for a glass.
“Something strong.”
He studies my face for a beat longer than necessary. Whatever he sees there makes his eyebrows draw together slightly, but he doesn’t comment. Just reaches for a bottle of something amber and pours two fingers into a lowball glass.
“On the house.”
I take a sip of whiskey that I doubt is from the well. It burns a path down my throat that almost—almost—drowns out the ache in my chest.
Dom, who has drifted back within earshot, pauses with a bottle in his hand. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I take another sip of whiskey. “Just having a bit of an existential crisis.”
Dom flicks the rag over one shoulder and leans his hip against the back counter. His dark eyes hold mine for a beat too long, reading something in my expression that I’d rather he didn’t see.
“Existential crises are a two-drink minimum.” He pours a second whiskey—for himself this time—and clinks it against mine before taking a slow sip. “House rules.”
“You just made that up.”
“I’m the bartender so I get to make the rules.” He sets the glass down, fingers still curled around the base. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not even a little.”
“Got it. Talking is overrated, anyway.”
His forearm rests on the bar between us, tattoo sleeves catching the neon glow. I find myself tracing the ink with my gaze—a serpent coiled around a compass rose, thorned vines disappearing beneath his rolled cuff. His knuckles are scarred. His rings glint when he shifts his weight.
“You know,” he says, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear him beneath the hum of the crowd, “I’ve heard the best way to get over one problem is to get on another.”
He waggles his eyebrows so I can’t mistake his meaning.
I nearly choke on my drink. “Oh my God, Dom. That was terrible.”
“Of course it was,” he agrees with a smile. “Mason told me to treat you like a normal girl. A terrible pick-up line is the first thing I’m offering on the rare occasion someone as sexy as you sits at my bar.”
My gaze snaps to his face.
He’s not looking at me. He’s wiping down the section of bar to my left, movements deliberately unhurried, mouth curved in the barest suggestion of a smirk. Like the compliment slipped out sideways and he’s pretending it didn’t happen.
Heat prickles across my skin that has nothing to do with whiskey.
“That your idea of flirting, Romano?”
“Depends on whether or not it’s working.”
