Chapter 25 #2
That one lands funny too. “Something else?” I repeat.
“With work.” There’s no accusation in his tone.
That’s what makes it slippery. No outright insult. No overt disrespect. Just this mild, reasonable curiosity that would sound completely harmless if I hadn’t already clocked the undercurrent.
I lean back in my chair. “Like what?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know. Something with less…overlap.”
There it is again.
Overlap.
Like Ambrosia isn’t a business. Like I’m not managing staff and payroll and customer issues and scheduling and all the things that actually keep the place running. Like what I do only counts as a real job until people remember who signs the checks.
I keep my voice even. “You think I need a more respectable résumé?”
His brows lift. “I didn’t say that.”
No. He didn’t. That’s the thing. He doesn’t have to say the ugly part out loud because he’s packaging it all so carefully in concern.
Like he’s helping. Like he’s offering perspective. Like maybe if I were smart enough or brave enough or ambitious enough, I’d naturally want to be dragged away from the life I came from and polished into something more acceptable.
I smile without warmth. “You didn’t have to.”
For the first time all night, he looks genuinely caught. Not guilty. Not embarrassed.
Caught.
Which tells me I’m not imagining any of this.
He sets his glass down and says, “I just think you’re capable of more than being tied to a place like that forever.”
And there it is.
Clearer now. Still clean enough to deny later if he needs to. Still wrapped in this patronizing little bow of admiration.
You’re too good for where you came from. You’re too pretty for that world. Too smart. Too polished. Too worthy.
It’s amazing how insulting that becomes the second you realize it isn’t really a compliment.
My chest tightens. Not because I’m devastated. Because I’m angry.
Because he’s looking at me like I’m somehow separate from all the people who built me. Like I’m the exception. The salvageable part. And that’s not love. That’s condescension with a hero complex.
I take a slow sip of water before I answer. “My family owns that place.”
Drew nods once like he’s being patient with me. “I know.”
No, he doesn’t.
That’s the problem.
No, he absolutely does not.
I should leave.
That thought hits me clean and clear. I should get up, toss my napkin on the table, and call this what it is before I waste another ounce of emotional energy trying to force myself into a version of normal that comes with this much quiet contempt baked into it.
Instead, because I am apparently determined to see exactly how bad this gets before I make a decision, I stay.
Maybe because I want to be sure. Maybe because I don’t want to feel like I’m running back toward chaos just because a safer option turned out to be built on rotten framing too.
So I stay.
And because the universe loves irony, that’s exactly when my phone starts vibrating on the table.
Drew glances at it automatically.
I do too. And immediately bark out a laugh.
“What?” he asks.
I grab the phone and angle it toward myself.
The group chat is exploding. Not unusual. But tonight’s reason is particularly spectacular.
Mac: If one more man in this clubhouse asks me if I’ve had enough water I’m filing for divorce before I’m even married
Kya: DOM ATE MY PICKLES AGAIN
Brooke: Carter bought baby wipes in lavender scent and now I’m crying because what if the baby hates lavender
Shaina: This is the weakest group of men I’ve ever seen in my life
Ana: Carter just asked if Brooke needed “compression socks for her feelings”
Emma: Please stop escalating.
Raven: Lexi just told Joker he smells like Louisiana and I haven’t stopped laughing for five minutes.
Kya: WAIT YOU’RE BACK???
Raven: We got in twenty minutes ago. Grinder sent us home with enough food to feed a battalion.
Mac: Thank God. Please tell Joker to go supervise these idiots before I start biting people.
I laugh harder this time, the sound surprising even me.
Drew watches me with something like curiosity. “Everything okay?”
I shake my head, still smiling. “Just family.” That word sits in my mouth with more meaning than it should.
Maybe because I needed the reminder. Needed the noise and absurdity and warmth of them crashing into my evening right when I was starting to feel too far from myself.
Because there they are.
Mac being dry and homicidal.
Kya threatening murder over pickles.
Brooke emotionally destabilized by lavender.
Emma trying to referee.
Raven back from Louisiana with Lexi and Joker.
The whole loud, ridiculous, impossible mess of people who love hard and interfere constantly and make life feel too full in the best and worst ways.
Home.
Even in text form, they feel like home.
Drew glances at the screen before I lock it, and something unreadable flickers across his face. “You’re really close with all of them, huh?”
I look up. “Yeah.”
He nods once, but there’s something about the way he does it that makes me brace. Not jealousy. Assessment. Like he’s trying to decide how much work it would take to pry me loose.
That thought lands so ugly it nearly steals my appetite.
He leans back in his chair and gives me this small, almost pitying smile that I immediately want to slap off his face. “You ever think maybe you don’t have to be?”
I go still.
Not outwardly. Not enough for anyone else in the room to clock.
But inside?
Inside, everything sharpens. The clink of silverware. The low hum of conversation around us. The candle on the table. The way Drew’s posture stays easy, like he thinks he’s saying something kind.
And suddenly I can see it.
Not just the digs. Not just the redirection. Not just the polished little comments about work and “environment” and overlap.
The shape of what he actually thinks.
He thinks I’m above them.
Above Ambrosia. Above the club. Above the men who helped raise me. Above the women who would bury a body for me without asking too many questions and then bring snacks for the cleanup.
He thinks I’m some beautiful, unfortunate exception.
A good girl born too close to bad blood.
And worse…he thinks he might be the kind of man who can save me from it.
I set my napkin down. Slowly. Carefully. And when I look back at him, my voice is very calm when I ask, “What exactly do you mean by that?”
He doesn’t seem to realize he’s in danger yet.
That’s probably his first mistake.
He folds his hands loosely on the table and says, “I just think sometimes people stay tied to places because it’s all they’ve ever known.”
There it is. Now we’re getting somewhere.
I don’t blink. “And you think that’s what I’m doing.”
He smiles again, and this time I hate it on sight. “I think you deserve better than those people.”
The second the words leave his mouth, something in me goes cold. Not shattered. Not devastated.
Cold.
Because I’ve been hurt by Jimmy in every possible direction lately, but Jimmy has never once looked at my family and thought they made me lesser. He may be emotionally feral and catastrophically stupid, but he has never once treated where I come from like something shameful I should outgrow.
Drew just did.
And the worst part?
The absolute worst part?
He said it like he was giving me a gift. Like I should be grateful someone in a clean shirt and polished shoes thinks I’m too good for the people who built me.
My mom. My dad. Landon. Ana. Shaina. Emma. Raven. Mac. Kya. Brooke. Every brother in that clubhouse who has ever made sure I got home safe, every old lady who has ever fed me or corrected me or loved me like blood.
Those people.
I hate the way it lands so much it almost makes me dizzy. Because suddenly all of it clicks into place.
He doesn’t like me in spite of where I come from. He likes me because he thinks he can remove me from it. And that means he doesn’t actually like me at all. He likes the version of me he can imagine once he’s scrubbed the Deathstalkers off my skin.
I sit there for one long second, looking at him across a candlelit table while he waits for me to take his condescension as a compliment.
Then I smile. Small. Controlled. Dangerously calm.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that this date is over.