Page 103 of Embracing the Beat
WEST
“Get the fuck out!”
The door rattles against the jamb as Michaela slams it behind me so hard I’m surprised none of the pictures fall off the wall.
“Trouble in paradise?” Sawyer is standing halfway up the stairs, his face an unreadable mask.
I don’t say anything, my brain trying to hold on to the anger and betrayal of being put in this position again. Am I ever going to find a girl who doesn’t fuck anything with a dick and try to pass off another man’s spawn as mine?
Scrubbing my hand down my face, I groan.
“You could say that.”
“Looks like you could use a beer,” he says. “Come on.”
Wait.
I stop at the top landing, my ear straining for any noise coming from the bathroom. What the fuck am I doing?
Shaking my head, I follow Sawyer down the stairs and out to the driveway.
“What are you doing here? Kelly said you weren’t coming in until later tonight.”
“I caught an earlier flight.” Is all he says. “I’ll drive.”
He holds up a hand for my keys, and I toss them to him before rounding the hood to the passenger side. My knees mash against the glove compartment, and I move the seat back, breathing a sigh of relief as they uncurl. Only then do I remember why the seat is so far forward.
Michaela.
She’s so fucking petite. The seat was up as far as it would go, and she still managed to look tiny in it.
“Where am I going?” Sawyer asks, pulling down the street as my body wars with itself over good memories being tarnished by everything that’s happened in the last three hours.
Longer.
She fucking lied.
Repeatedly.
I shrug. “I don’t care. A bar. Any bar.”
The noise he makes is a grunt of affirmation, and he pulls into the parking lot of the first bar we come across—one of those chain sports bars with TVs everywhere, every type of athletic event imaginable playing on them.
The place is packed when we make our way inside, but Sawyer snags two chairs at the end of the bar and catches the bartender’s attention
“Two Sam Adams,” he orders, then turns to study me. “What the fuck did I walk in to?” he asks. “You two fighting?”
“You could say that.” I take a pull on the bottle the bartender sets in front of me.
“I did say it. And I’m not used to repeating myself, but in the interest of time, what the fuck is going on?”
“Do I have a sign on my forehead that says ‘patsy’ or something?” I run my index finger across my forehead.
“No, but there is one that says annoying as fuck. Spit it out, Abbott.” He takes a sip of his beer and stares at me in silence.
“Dude, she’s your sister. You don’t want to know.”
“Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.” His gaze doesn’t waver, and I curse the military mumbo jumbo shit he learned that makes me want to spill my guts about every-fucking-thing.
