Thorn
Pier Fortune Bar and Restaurant
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
His notes on Lucas Brewer were already stacking up—quick impressions, shorthand assessments—each one adding up to Oliver’s assumption.
From across the room, Lucas was impossible to ignore.
Broad shoulders and a chest that filled his navy power suit as if it’d been tailored with worship. He was tall enough to command attention the second he walked into a room…but for all the wrong reasons.
Thorn hummed under his breath as he leaned back into the leather of his corner booth and unbuttoned his suit jacket to get more comfortable.
He slid his phone into the inside breast pocket. He had enough notes. Now, he could just watch .
Lucas tossed back a second shot and chased it with a long pull of beer. He had one elbow resting on the glass bar top, his other hand draped over his thigh, while Oliver leaned close to his ear, as if giving him classified information.
If not for the relentless scowl etching deep lines in Lucas’s brow and the downward curve of his full lips, Lucas would be considered stunningly handsome. Or maybe sexy-distinguished because of the streaks of silver in his black hair.
But for Thorn…it was the weight of his heartbreak he was attracted to. The way the man appeared so polished and strong on the outside while bleeding to death inside.
Lucas wore grief like a superbly knotted tie, so perfect and deceiving.
Oh yeah, he really needs Lincoln.
For half an hour, Thorn monitored him closely, deciding—almost against his better judgment and disregarding his rules—that he’d extend Lucas an invitation to Belladonna.
Oliver whispered something in Lucas’s ear before he took his keys and cell, and walked away from the bar.
That was his cue.
He raised two fingers for the waiter to bring his check, and when he shifted his gaze back to Lucas, a man the size of a linebacker in a wrinkled black suit was in front of him, blocking his view.
The guy’s suit looked as if he’d slept in it for days. Thorn’s gaze traveled up higher, and those eyes—gray and cold—radiated enough disdain to punch the air from his lungs.
“My god,” Thorn said before he could stop himself. “Evan. Is that you?”
“Thorn,” Evan grunted his name as if it pissed him off to even have to say it.
Shit .
Thorn’s pulse spiked as his ex slid into the booth beside him, trapping him between his bulk and the wall.
With his new broken heart only feet from him, Thorn’s mind was catapulted into flight mode. He had to get away. He’d been here before and knew what was coming next.
Thorn had his demons just like everyone else, and each time he thought he’d conquered them, they resurfaced, louder, crueler, and determined to tear him apart all over again.
He’d just been thinking how well Lucas carried himself—upright and strong—while a hollowed void on the inside.
Now here was Evan, the man who’d left Thorn feeling the exact same way.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
Evan’s scent hit him first. The faint smell of Walmart-brand aftershave over the stale twang of cheap whiskey. Memories tried to follow the stench, but Thorn shut the door on them before they could get across the threshold.