Chapter 37
37
brONSON
O ne bar down and I already want to go home and sleep off the night.
Not that there’s anything wrong with Boston bars. This city has some of the best bars I’ve ever been to, and many of them are neighbors to one another.
It’s not you, Boston.
It’s me.
So as I walk from bar-to-bar with my friends, reaching the bottom of pint glass after pint glass, I do what I always do.
I keep my mouth shut.
I bob my head when prompted.
I try not to think about what they’re doing right now.
“What do you think they’re doing right now?” August asks as we walk toward Ryan’s House, the last bar of the night. And my personal favorite bar because of its proximity to Muffin Top, the best damn bakery I’ve ever set foot in. Unfortunately, even the promise of famous cherry-cherry cupcakes isn’t enough to make me feel better about that question.
“Probably on their way to meet us by now,” Katrina answers.
Knox scoffs. “Oh, please,” he says, amused. “They ain’t meeting us tonight. Christian’s probably got Jordan tied to a bedpost right now.”
“Knox,” Addison scolds before Katrina can. It’s obviously for my benefit, but she does a decent job of not drawing attention to that, for which I’m grateful.
“What?” Knox asks. “I’m just saying. Myers is a stud! Jordan’s a lucky gal.”
They continue on with teases and jokes. Meanwhile, I linger near the back of the group, my eyes tracing the lines on the sidewalk as we go. Addison subtly detaches from Harvey and shifts to stand by my side. I give her a silent nod and she does the same, though her eyes still bleed the same words as before.
It’s still not too late.
Tell her how you feel.
I consider it. I do.
I picture all the various ways that conversation could go right. All the incredible ways Jordan could respond in kind. But then I’ll picture the other option, the more likely reaction she’d give.
I’m sorry, Bronson, but... it’s like we always said.
We’re just friends.
But could we really be just friends after all this?
Fuck, why did I even approach her in the first place, knowing how I used to feel? How could I possibly think those feelings were long dead and buried when my stomach trembled every single damn time I heard her laugh or saw her smile?
Fuck.
Our group rounds another corner and Ryan’s House comes into view down the block. We pass right on by the bar, everyone unanimously in favor of dropping into Muffin Top first to raid what’s left of the sweets and treats before it closes.
“You know,” Mac says, happily joining us for the evening’s bar crawl, “all the times I’ve driven you throughout here, and I’ve never been.”
His words are met with a series of gasps as Chrissy slips forward and curls her arm around his. “Well, let’s get you sugar-highed, honey,” she coos.
Before we even reach the front doors, my nose tingles with the scent of fresh coffee and warm pastries and, for the moment, I think of something other than Jordan.
As our group steps inside, the large, dark-haired man behind the counter looks us over.
“Oh,” he mutters with recognition at Jonah. “Hey, Jonah.”
Vincent Silva, the proud owner of Muffin Top, isn’t what you’d expect a baker to look like. At all. He’s tall and built like a truck, appearing more likely to smash a pie in your face than bake one to culinary perfection.
What the public might not know is that the guy used to be a Navy SEAL back in the day. He worked with Jonah’s older brother, Ira, and his wife, Veronica, but the exact details of that work are redacted in some file buried deep beneath a government building somewhere.
Yeah. Vincent’s a total badass.
“Hey, Vin,” Jonah greets him. “Got any cherry-cherry’s back there?”
“About a half-dozen left,” Vincent answers with a light shrug.
“We’ll take them all,” Knox demands.
“And one of those almond pastries, please,” Harmony says, poking the glass case in front of us.
“And an almond pastry, please,” Knox adds, unable to deny her whatever she wants.
With a nod, Vincent gets to work, sliding open the case and packaging our goodies to go.
After stuffing ourselves silly, we make our way next door to Ryan’s House to finish up our evening bar crawl. While the others dance and mingle, I park myself on the corner bar stool with the best view of the entrance.
And I wait.
The moments stretch on. More and more patrons come and go. Every time the entrance opens, I look up, hoping to see her face, needing to know they weren’t really off somewhere together. Together together.
Finally, the door opens, and Jordan walks inside with Christian a close step behind her. I sit slightly forward, drawn to her. Her tight shoulders. Her sunken expression.
Something’s wrong.
Jordan quickly scans the bar. Her eyes land on the others first, and she blinks with relief. Throwing on a smile, she shuffles forward, carefully weaving through the other people as she makes her way toward the group.
“Hey-hey-hey!” Chrissy says, greeting them. “About time you showed up!”
Everyone else joins in. Meanwhile, I sit on my stool, watching her as she beelines toward Chrissy and whispers something in her ear.
Chrissy frowns.
What’s going on?
“Rough day, Bronson?”
I turn forward, drawn by the sound of my name. A redheaded woman stands behind the bar, stout but cute. I instantly recognize her as the owner of the bar and Vincent’s adorable wife, Evey. She drags a damp dishcloth across the bar, picking up bits of old peanuts and pretzels as she looks me over with a friendly smile.
“Uh...” is all I can manage before submitting a shrug. “Maybe.”
She shows a supportive pout. “Girl got you down?”
“A little.”
“Aw, it’ll work out. Just have to stay positive!”
To that, I can’t help but crack a smile. Evey’s positivity is quite infectious. “I’ll do my best,” I tell her.
“Great!” She looks me over again, her head tilting to one side. “You’re my favorite, you know.”
“Favorite?”
“In your band,” she says. “Criminal Records.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
She tilts closer. “You remind me of my husband. Handsome and stoic.” She sighs, smitten. “So, is this girl a friend or a fan?”
I don’t even hesitate, the mix of good beer and Evey’s friendliness enough to break through any defense I still have. “Family,” I say.
Evey arches a brow.
“Not the blood kind,” I add. “I’ve known her almost my whole life. And I’ve loved her every single day of it. She’s my best friend.”
“Aww. That’s so sweet.”
I shrug. “She’s on a date tonight with another guy.”
“Oh.” Her nose screws up. “That’s not so sweet.”
“I know what I should do,” I say. “I should tell her how I feel, right?”
She nods. “Of course.”
“But I can’t do that. Not without potentially ruining everything.”
“Then, don’t.”
“Don’t?”
“Love isn’t just words. It’s actions,” Evey says. “When Vincent first opened his bakery next door, I went there every single morning for a whole year. I always ordered the same thing. The entire time, I was crushing on him fiercely, but he never said a word to me and I never said a word to him. Later, I found out that every single morning, he would hold aside a blueberry muffin just for me because he knew it was my favorite.” She grins. “That’s true love in action right there.”
“So, I don’t have to tell her anything?” I ask, hopeful.
“Well, eventually, you should. But if she’s really your best friend, then it won’t come as such a surprise when you tell her. After that...” She hugs herself. “There are warm cuddles and sweet kisses. And sex! All that good stuff.”
I smile at that, though I’m not sure if the advice applies. Not wanting to muddy the moment, I bow my head. “Thanks, Evey.”
“You’re welcome. You want a refill?”
“No,” I say, waving at my empty glass. “I should stop.”
“Well...” Evey reaches beneath the bar. “I don’t know how long you’ll be in town, but swing by the bakery tomorrow for a cookie. On me.”
She holds out a coupon and I take it, smiling at the Muffin Top and Ryan’s House logos side-by-side.
Rough Day Pass, it reads. One free cookie with any coffee purchase. Love, Evey and Vincent.
“Thanks, Evey.”
“Cheer up, Bronson,” she says. “Good things are just around the corner.”
“How do you know?”
She shrugs. “They always are.”
With that, she briefly touches my hand resting on the bar, then walks off to go tend to another customer.
I pocket the coupon and slide off the stool. Before returning to my bandmates to finish out the night — and hearing all the oh-so-cute details of Jordan’s date with Christian — I make a quick detour toward the restrooms first. A line extends from the ladies’, but there’s no wait for the men’s, so I pass them with a silent nod.
The door opens as I approach. I shift to the side, not wanting to accidentally shoulder-check the man exiting. He shuffles by and I catch the door before it closes.
“Yes, sir. It’s all good.”
I stop, Christian’s familiar voice echoing from inside. I peek around the edge of the stall, spotting him standing with his back to me at the urinal, his phone carefully pinched between his ear and shoulder as he does his business.
Really not wanting to bump into him, I spin back around to leave.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Monroe,” he says. “I’ve got the girl wrapped around my little finger.”
I stop.
Oh, I fucking freeze.
Christian laughs. “Trust me. By this time next week, Criminal Records will be in shambles. And little miss Jordan will be all yours. Trust me!”
I see red.
Christian Myers... has been working with Paul Monroe this whole time?
I walk toward him, my step barely audible over his sleazy laugh.
“I’ll keep you updated. Not tonight, though. I’ve got, uh... a busy night ahead, you know what I mean? No interruptions, all right, big guy?”
Christian finishes, zipping up his pants as the urinal flushes. He releases the phone, letting it fall into his hands before turning around.
“Ah!” He startles at seeing me standing directly behind him, my hands rolled into tight fists by my sides. “Oh, hey, Bronson,” he says, releasing a laugh. “You, uh... You having a good night, buddy?”
I don’t reply.
He considers my rage-filled glare, and his stance stiffens defensively. “So...” His throat clears. His lips twitch. “How long have you been standing there?”
Some guys use their words.
Others punch the kid in the nose.
He’s tougher than I expect. His head barely turns at all as my fist collides with it. Giving me a shove, Christian tries to dodge out of the way, but the space between the urinals and the stall doors is too narrow for him to slip past me.
I grab him by the jacket collar, yanking him back toward me before flinging him against the wall. He stumbles but doesn’t fall, using the momentum to bounce up and bolt for the door.
The line of ladies waiting in the hallway scream as we burst through. They dodge out of the way, blocking their faces as we crash into the wall. I lash out, my vision still red with rage. Each punch connects, but they’re not nearly as satisfying as I want them to be. Christian tries hitting back, but he’s sloppy and easy to dodge. Unable to hit me, he learns fast, opting to slip free instead.
I shove him into the bar. He collides with a small table, toppling it over and sending another wave of screams through the room, the sound rising over the thumping bass of the music.
Tunnel vision leads me straight to him, and I’m ready to pummel him all over again for what he’s done to us.
For what he’s done to Jordan.
My Jordan.
“Hey!” Christian growls as I grab him by the lapel. “Get off me, man!”
I punch.
I keep punching.
“Bronson!” Knox tugs on my arm. “Dude! Let him go!”
Jonah’s here now, too, attempting to push himself between me and Christian. “Bronson, stop!”
“Tommy!” Evey shouts behind the bar. “Get Vin!”
Knox pulls at my elbow, stopping my next blow. “What are you doing, man?”
I stay firm, refusing to let Christian go. “He’s working with Monroe,” I growl through my teeth.
They both pause, frozen amid the buzzing pandemonium behind us.
“What do you mean?” Jonah asks.
“Jordan,” I say. “Monroe sent him.”
It’s vague. Too vague. But there’s no time to explain.
Still, they’ve heard enough. Their concerned faces darken as they look at Christian.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, blood dripping down his chin. “I can explain?—”
Knox hits him.
Then, Jonah hits him.
Then, I hit him.
Three against one. Not exactly fair.
But I don’t fucking care right now.
“Bronson!”
Jordan’s voice rises over all the others. I look up into her wide eyes. She’s standing only a few feet away with Addison and Katrina by her side and I…
Fuck.
The distraction knocks a little sense into me. I pause just long enough for a thick arm to curl around my throat and lift me off of Christian.
“brEAK IT UP!”
I’m slammed hard against the nearest wall. It shakes from the impact and I cringe, my toes dangling a few inches off the floor.
Ahead of me, I look into the familiar face of Vincent Silva.
“I said,” he growls, his face an inch away from mine, “break it up.”
I nod as much as he allows me to. “Hey, Vin,” I squeak, his forearm pressed against the hollow of my throat.
Beyond the outline of his head, blue and red lights flash through the windows and a siren wails.
Yeah.
Probably should have just used my words.