Carter (Toxic Hearts Club #1)

1. Chapter One

Chapter one

Nash

I take the empty stool at the bar between two average-looking guys that have the type of posture which tells me they’re comfortable here.

It’s hard to turn off the part of my brain that assesses everyone all the time, but that’s what happens when you’ve been a cop for twelve years and counting.

You see shit and you can’t unsee it. You know what the possibilities are, and you’re always worried they will happen.

Plus side is you’re prepared—usually for anything.

“The usual?” Sadie asks, raising a brow as she tosses the towel over her shoulder.

She’s a pretty girl. Young, petite, natural blonde hair and blue eyes but with the thickest New York accent you can imagine. Doesn’t seem like it’d come out of someone like her, but there are crazier things happening in New York City.

I shouldn’t come here often enough to have a usual, but we all have our flaws.

“Please.”

A moment later, a glass of my favorite bourbon is placed in front of me.

They over charge for it, and I really should just drink at home to save myself the money.

It’s not that I’m hurting for it, but it’s stupid to waste it on shit like alcohol.

You never know when you may need it—especially when you’re responsible for a brother who is in and out of rehab.

Drinking at home alone is a bad idea, though.

But I guess drinking alone in a bar in a city you just moved to isn’t much better.

I knew this would be a change, that it would take some getting used to, but I didn’t expect it to be so goddamn lonely.

And I’m used to being alone. I choose to be alone.

I keep both of my brothers at arm’s length, making everything face value with them so they don’t get too close.

When people get too close, they see through your facade.

Which is also why I don’t do the dating thing.

I stay single because dating ends up messy.

I check in with my brothers often enough; always pushing to know what’s going on with them to make sure they’re okay.

I care about them, but maybe there is a sense of safety there because I know neither one of them will open up, even if prodded.

Trying makes me feel like a good person—on top of being an obligation because I’m the oldest. But they’re just like me—closed off and dead inside.

Guess some apples don’t fall far from the tree.

Though, my brother Jericho did just find the love of his life, even if they haven’t made up yet. They will. Because Jericho is a good guy, and Miles is perfect for him. It doesn’t make me hopeful. That won’t be me, though I’m a lost cause, and I know that’s not the life that’s planned out for me.

“You ever want to just fuck a stranger?”

The glass is halfway to my lips when I hear the question, and I don’t realize it’s aimed at me until the guy on my left hooks his gaze toward me.

Raising a brow, I take a small sip before putting my glass down gently.

I’ve heard a lot of weird shit in my day.

People say the craziest things when they’re about to be arrested, left in an interrogation room, or just hopped up on drugs. It doesn’t faze me.

My fingers graze over the top of the glass as I answer the guy honestly. I don’t know if this is supposed to be some over-the-top pickup line, or if he’s just that drunk.

“No. That’s too much work.”

He scoffs, reaching for his drink. Vodka, if I had to guess. It’s clear and in a small glass, similar to mine. Or maybe he’s moved on to water.

The laziness of his eyelids tells me he’s been drinking a while. The haunted look in his eyes tells me why.

“Too much work?” Shaking his head, he finishes what’s left in the glass and puts it down. “Seems like it would be easier.”

“Sure, if all you’re looking for is something warm to shove your cock into.”

There’s a thoughtful look in his eyes as he considers my words. It doesn’t go unnoticed that he doesn’t flinch at my bluntness. Usually it turns people off. Maybe he’s too drunk to care.

“What about, like… a dating app that does all the work for you?”

“Don’t they all do that?”

“No, I mean, like…” He pauses a moment to think over his words. “Like I put in all the stuff I like. Maybe describe a fantasy. It pairs me with someone who wants the same. We meet. We do it. We go home. Done.”

“So, an anonymous hookup tailored to your tastes.”

He points at me, a handsome grin splitting his face. “Bingo.”

He’s younger than me—no way he’s hit thirty yet. His face is too soft, even though I see the hint of trauma in his eyes. It hasn’t done a thing to age him physically. Maybe he hasn’t been carrying it around long enough yet.

I shrug, reaching for my glass. “I suppose that could be fine.”

“Could be? No, it would be. Maybe I should do it. Create that app.”

“Sure, if you know how.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

I grunt a laugh, then sip my drink.

“Hell, maybe it doesn’t even matter.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

They go dark, slightly unfocused as he stares at his glass.

The bartender fills it without asking—definitely vodka based off the Grey Goose label—and he reaches for it tentatively, like maybe he knows he should stop but can’t help himself.

Does he have a problem? Is he an alcoholic? It’s none of my business. Even if he is, he’s an adult. But I do wonder what it would be like if someone was there to tell my brother Hollis not to do drugs or take a sip of alcohol before it’s too late.

I should tell this guy to stop. It’s clear he’s had enough, and I’ve seen too many people in literal pieces from driving while intoxicated.

I’m off duty, but I’m never really off duty.

I can’t shut off my cop brain. Can’t remove the images of blood and limbs spread out across dark roads while a car is wrapped around a tree.

Can’t forget the faces of parents who learn that their child has just died due to driving under the influence, even though they aren’t old enough to drink.

I’m haunted by this shit, day and night, so yeah… I should tell him to stop.

“Maybe,” he says forcefully. “Maybe it’s pointless. All of it. Who knows when it’ll all end, right? One second you’re here, and the next—” He snaps his fingers and picks up his glass. “You’re gone. Just like that. Best to have fun while you can, right?”

His voice is lower, almost far away. He’s talking to himself more than me. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but maybe it’s something else. I reach into my inner jacket pocket and pull out a business card that I slide over to him.

His eyes flick to it, brow furrowing slightly as he takes it in.

His gaze drifts to me, and I try not to pay too much attention to his eyes.

Noticing things like that are part of the job.

You learn to take in everything in a second.

But those eyes… they look like something that could haunt me too, if I let them.

Green eyes. Dirty blond hair. Five-ten. Athletic build. Around one-eighty. No obvious tattoos, scars, or other distinguishing marks. Clean-shaven. Black T-shirt. Worn jeans. Black boots. A black, puffy jacket hangs off the back of his chair with no brand label on it that I can see.

His features are pronounced, similar to all the models you see on the covers of magazines. For all intents and purposes, he’s a good-looking guy.

I tell myself I notice all these things because it’s just what I do… but there’s something in my chest telling me it’s a little more than that.

He’s attractive.

Not just in general, but I feel it.

“What? Are you a psychiatrist or something?” he asks as if the card has offended him.

“Cop. One who’s talked too many people off ledges.”

And witnessed his father kill his mother and then himself when he was only a kid.

Of course, I don’t tell him that. I don’t tell anyone that. The only people who know are the ones who were there and dealt with it.

“I’m not suicidal,” he says defensively, staring at the card as if it’s about to attack.

“Okay,” I say simply. “Give it to someone who needs it then. Never know when it’ll come in handy.”

“I’m not,” he whispers, his voice cracking.

Now it seems like he’s about to cry. His shoulders sag and he shrinks in on himself.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” I say. “Just trying to help.”

He says nothing for a while, and I focus on my drink, finishing it and getting another.

“I probably should be,” he says, breaking our silence. The bar is loud enough, as bars usually are between the music, and the people playing pool and having too much to drink. “After what I went through, I should be.”

Oh. He means he should be suicidal. I thought he meant he should be offended.

“I can drink to that.” I lift my drink out to him, and he grabs his but looks at me before lifting it.

He blinks slowly, thick dark lashes framing his eyes.

His brows are neat and trimmed, like he takes care of them—or maybe he’s just so lucky to not grow hair in all the places you’re not supposed to according to society, like me.

Finally, he lifts his drink. Our glasses clink.

We sip and put them back down. As if that’s all supposed to mean something.

I’m not a doctor, and I don’t know this guy, but people who are depressed don’t usually take care of themselves like this guy does. At least, not those I’ve seen. All the people I’ve talked down, and those I didn’t, always had one thing in common.

They looked like hell warmed over. So bad that I felt it. And with each one of them, for a moment, I understood their pain. Because I’ve been through pain too.

But I also know enough about mental health to know that it isn’t one-size fits all. Everyone experiences it differently, and it’s very possible this guy is really good at hiding the shit he’s dealing with. Maybe because he’s trying to convince others. Or maybe he’s just trying to convince himself.

“What if you could meet someone in a bar and… just know they were it? No games, no swiping, no months of pretending. Just one look, one conversation, and you’re done.

You go home together, and suddenly the silence doesn’t feel so heavy.

Because you’re not alone anymore,” he says so quietly I hardly hear him.

In fact, I don’t know if he wanted me to hear him.

Those words settle on me like a heavy, suffocating wool blanket. It makes me itchy, hot, and uncomfortable.

I almost tell him it’s impossible. That just doesn’t happen. I almost tell him that you could know someone for years—my parents—and you may still never know what they’re capable of.

You could marry someone, have children with them, make them dinner every fucking day, and they still wouldn’t love you.

I don’t, though. Because that’s my shit, and I don’t need to put my shit on him or anyone else. I need to bury it deep, make it disappear, like I always do.

Words come to me, and I don’t know from where.

It’s like a revelation, something that should be advice to myself but I think it’s a crock of shit.

But I say it to him because maybe it’s what he needs to hear.

Sometimes I’m good at that—saying the right thing even though I know it’s the biggest pile of bullshit to ever exist.

“I think people find their endings everywhere, all the time. And just like when someone’s time is up, you never know the moment yours is starting.”