Chapter Eleven #2
I bite my tongue from snapping at him to shut the fuck up. He’s not making this any better or easier.
Weston is seething. He sees he’s not winning, and so this prick seeks out what he believes is my weakness.
He tilts his head toward Phoebe. His gaze drips invasively down her body, like he’s stripping her in front of me.
I sidestep and block his view of her, but it’s too late.
He shoots a sickly smug smile at me, as if she’s just a pawn he can move between us.
I know Phoebe is fuming. I don’t even need to look to feel her wrath. It sears through me.
Weston starts, “Your brother screws with my daughter, don’t expect me not to do the same—”
“Think carefully about what you say next,” I cut in with malice. “Because my wife wouldn’t touch you with a hundred-foot pole even if she were on her deathbed. So the only way you could get her is by force, and if you even fucking dare force yourself on her, you will regret ever knowing who I am.”
He falters, patches of red on his cheeks. He’s having a hard time coming up with something to say, but I have plenty to add.
“I’ve seen so many of you,” I sneer lowly, nearly under my breath at him.
“You’re all the same cowardly pieces of shit.
When the debt piles up and the liquor stops numbing the hatred you feel for yourself and your outsides curdle like your insides, try phoning a friend.
I’d love to see who answers a bastard like you. ”
His expression is that of distaste and disgust. “Look in the mirror.”
“Oh, I have. Trust me. I know exactly what I am.” I stare him down. “And you and I—we aren’t the same. Not even close.”
Unleashing on Weston feels like ripping through a brick wall—one that I’ve been banging my head against for too long. But it’s not enough. Because he’s not the number one person I want to rattle and slam into the floor.
I would love to go feral on Trent Waterford. Jake’s older brother.
But I can’t. He still has too much leverage and power in this town to turn into an enemy.
Weston fixes the collar of his white button-down, his rage mounting. “If you had a daughter,” he says tightly to me, “you’d understand the lengths you’d go to protect her.”
I flash a dry smile at him. “Well, I don’t have one.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Is that supposed to hurt me?” I let out a blistered, acidic laugh. Then I say, “Go fuck yourself, Weston.” I wave him toward the exit.
“Likewise.” He marches out with a curled lip and snooty attitude.
I rotate to my brother, eyes skimming him head to toe. “You good?”
He’s not blinking. His intense glare is skewering the shadow of the widower, even as Weston disappears out the door.
Phoebe’s bugged eyes are pinging to my brother, to me, then back to my brother. Like this is an oh-shit moment.
Oh shit, what if Trevor kills anyone he dislikes or deems a threat?
Truthfully, I’m not as worried as she is, because I didn’t just learn this “fun fact” about him. I half expect her to down a swig of liquor. She even brings the glass to her mouth…then thinks against sipping it.
Fucking weird.
She’s been actively avoiding alcohol the past couple weeks. I haven’t seen her drink any beer, wine, or liquor, but she did share my cigarette in the loft. So, no, I couldn’t have gotten my sister’s friend pregnant. She wouldn’t have smoked if she were.
Phoebe can’t be pregnant.
There is a fucking way she could be, sure, but every time I’ve come inside her, I’ve used a condom.
I smear a hand across my mouth, trying to focus more on my brother and not the gnawing sensation in my chest. He hasn’t snapped out of it.
For fuck’s sake. “Trev.”
“I was supposed to meet Sidney here for drinks.” He’s still fixated on the last place he saw Weston. “He read her texts. He forbade her from coming, and he tried to pay me to stop seeing her. She hates him, Rock.”
“We’ve known she’s hated him. It’s why she’s dating you—to get back at him.” What’s changed?
Trevor intakes a staggered breath. He’s been spending more time with Sidney than necessary. It’s easy to say he caught feelings, but for my brother, that’d be incredibly unusual. He empathizes with very few people, but it’s becoming clearer he’s growing more attached to her.
I tell him, “Weston is insignificant.”
“Not to me.” He hops off the barstool and slips on sunglasses in the dark.
“He constantly threatens to take away Sidney’s trust fund when she doesn’t comply with his rules.
He won’t let her live in on-campus housing.
He won’t let her choose her own major. He won’t let her stay out past curfew without having to text five-minute updates.
Sidney told me she was friends with Kate because they bonded over how their parents tried to control their lives. ”
Kate Waterford—Jake’s little sister.
I drop my voice. “Weston is a small fish right now. We’ll deal with him later. And what you did…what you can do—not a solution. It makes everything worse, and we need to do this together, as a fucking team.”
“Okay,” he says fast. “Okay.” He combs a hand through his damp, shaggy hair. “And the big fish?”
“The triplets’ dad.” Varrick.
He nods slowly, then glances over at Phoebe, who’s bumping up to the bar to order a drink. “I don’t think she liked you mentioning her dad.”
I watch her mime a water to the bartender. “He’s not exactly a fun topic.”
He cracks his neck. “I can take him.”
I stare harder at Trev.
He adds, “With your help, I can take him.”
“That’s the way, shithead.”
A smile pulls the corner of his mouth, but a serious thought draws his lips downward. “I know I can’t suck you off, being pseudo-related and everything, but just know, I can do more for you than Phoebe. Don’t bench me.”
I shake my head at his vulgar comment, decide to hop over it, and say, “You’re summering at Stonehaven with us. Does that sound like a bench?”
“No,” he mutters, then he says he’s going to meet up with Sidney at the docks. She was planning to sneak out, apparently.
I clasp his hand and pull him into a short hug. Then he’s gone, and I slip beside Phoebe at the bar. She’s waiting on the distracted bartender, Gretchen, who’s busy serving her college friends at the other end.
Nearly a year in this town, and I know almost everyone by name.
“You okay?” I ask Phoebe under my breath, setting the whiskey near her.
She avoids. “Yep. Never better.”
“Liar,” I say casually.
I catch her smile, especially as her eyes drift back to me. “Be honest, you’d love my heart less if it wasn’t made partially of deception.”
I look her over, and I’m not sure if that’s true. Still, it’s hard to deny. Phoebe and I—we’re built at the foundation to deceive. Yet we’ve never spent a real moment pulling the wool over each other. I can’t tell if that’s changed.
“Honestly,” I whisper back, “I love your heart at its best and its worst.”
Her gaze softens, and I just barely hear her quiet, tender reply. “I hope it’s the best here.”