I almost laugh. “Oooh trust me. I do,” I say, trying to pull myself together on the inside. I take one look at Cal, meeting his eye only briefly and then tell him, “I’m fine. I promise. I’m good.”
He doesn’t say another word, but I can see the worry all over his face. “Please tell me this isn’t about Shep?—”
“No. It’s not about Shepherd,” I snap, biting the inside of my mouth so I don’t crack. “I said I’m fine. Just let me get to work. I need the distraction.”
When I step out to the bar, I plaster on a smile so tight my jaw aches. My hands tremble as I pour drinks, the bottles clinking against glass rims. I force laughter that scrapes my throat raw while making hollow small talk with customers, but inside, I’m cracking like thin ice over a frozen lake, hairline fractures spreading with every breath. One more wrong move and I’ll shatter.
And well, because the universe is a sick sadistic bastard, it waits for the perfect moment to destroy me.
It’s mid-dinner rush and the bar is three-deep with thirsty customers. My beer-soaked fingers reach for a pint glass and itslips—the crash exploding through the bar like a gunshot. I flinch violently at my own mistake, dropping to my knees as shards scatter across the floor.
“Shit,” I mutter, trying to clean up the glass. Cal says something but I don’t hear it. I whip my head around and slam my palm directly onto a jagged shard jutting from the floorboards. It pierces deep, like a white-hot poker driving through flesh and muscle. Pain slices through my palm, deep and immediate, and bright red blood erupts from the wound and spreads quickly across my skin.
“Motherfucker!”
“Jesus, Sutton!” Cal drops beside me, his face draining of color as he grabs for a towel before I can even register what’s going on. I stare at the blood like it’s happening to someone else because certainly this can’t be my hand.
Words float around me—move, towel, wash, bandage—but they’re just noise drowning in the roar of blood in my ears. My body won’t respond no matter how hard I try. I’m frozen, shattered, and bleeding out in more ways than one.
Too much.
No Apartment.
Too much.
No food.
Too much.
No Frank.
The bell over the door jingles but I barely notice it until I hear someone call his name.
“Shepherd,” a voice cuts through the chaos. I lift my head so fast my vision blurs. I claw my way up from the floor, legs trembling like I’m standing in an earthquake. And there he is.
Silhouetted in the doorway.
Six-foot-something of solid ground when everything else around me is fucking quicksand.
Our eyes lock across the room and something inside me fractures completely. My lungs seize but my throat closes. My mouth opens but nothing comes out while my mind howls like a wounded animal.
Help me, Shepherd!
Please!
Maybe this is the moment the universe finally takes pity on me because Shepherd takes one look at me and everything in his face changes. There’s no panic. Not that I can see. And there’s no anger. He stands flanked by men with the same jawline and the same broad shoulders—his brothers, clearly—but he doesn’t spare them a glance. His gaze locks on mine like a lighthouse beam cutting through fog and my feet finally move before my brain catches up.
One step.
Two.
The bar blurs around me. Blood seeps through the white towel wrapped around my palm, a crimson pattern blooming along the material.
Three more steps.
My chest throbs and salt stings my eyes, hot tears spilling over.
Two more steps and I’m there, crashing against his chest, my face pressed into the soft cotton of his shirt that smells like cedar and something uniquely him. His arms close around me, soft and tender, but as solid as fortress walls.
