Page 13 of Hard to Score

And then my next after is how can that even cross my mind?

How can I look at her and want her, knowing part of my fate is because of that last name she has?

“Brex?” I ask.

Her breath is shaky. Hesitant. Affected. That last part is such a turn-on even when I swear to fucking God I don’t want it to be.

“Deal,” she murmurs, but I don’t let go of her arm, and she doesn’t step back out of my space.

Indecision lingers where normally I would dive right in. That history I told her to forget clouds my mind and sidetracks the thoughts I’d love to act on.

“Brexton.” Her name is a whisper laden with intention.

Seconds feel like minutes and each breath is like another push of momentum to kiss her. The woman I shouldn’t want.

The woman I am already thinking about having.

We jolt apart at the sound of the doorbell followed a second later by pounding on the door. It’s rapid and insistent, and my heart drops into my stomach because I know that knock.

I know that fervor.

Not now.

Not fucking now.

“I need to get that.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes. It’s . . . why don’t you go out back and grab another beer.”

Confused eyes meet mine but a soft smile warms them. “Sure.”

I wait for her to go out the back door before I head toward the intermittent yet demanding knocking. With a deep breath, I prepare myself for what I’ll find when I open the door this time.

But it doesn’t matter how much I prepare, I’m still knocked on my ass when I swing the door open and find my sister standing there, the visual reminder of the rippled effects of the betrayal. What Brex’s father did to my family. The toll. How Brex’s dad hurt us all.

Like my younger sister, Maggie, standing here. Her eyes are hollow, her collarbone is poking through whatever you call what she’s wearing, and her body twitches in a way that says she’s coming down from whatever withdrawal she seems to be riding today.

But it won’t last long.

It never does.

She’ll find someone to give it to her or sell something to get it.

The sight of her rips every shred of emotion from me—anger, disgust, sorrow, resignation—just like it does every time we’re back in this space.

And it’s been too many to count.

“Maggs,” I say, disappointment flooding through me. “Long time no see. Apparently, it’s been long enough though for you to start using again.”

“I am. I was. Things got tough,” my sister explains as she remains in a perpetual motion of twitches and feet shifts and neck jerks.

“I see.” My sigh is heavy enough for the both of us. “And by tough, you mean what? The last check I sent you ran out? The one that was supposed to help you with living expenses but, from the sight of you, went to other things?”

“Don’t you stand there and cast judgment on me, Drew. Not you in your fancy house, perfect life, and all your money. You don’t get to judge me or look down upon me or—”

“You had a good run. I’m proud of you,” I murmur as I try to remember what her sponsor from her last rehab stint instructed me was best to say to lessen her agitation. As I try to bite back the anger that eats at me with each and every passing minute. “Is everything okay? What do you need?” We’ve played this delicate game more times than I care to count.