37. James
Chapter thirty-seven
James
"Hit me again," I signal, shoving my empty glass across the sticky bartop of The Rusty Spoon. It’s probably drink number five, or maybe six. Who’s counting? Definitely not me. Smart move before the final? Hell no. But after the way Elena looked at me today, smart moves are officially off the table.
The dive bar is packed, a cacophony of clashing music from the jukebox, shouted conversations, and the clatter of pool balls. It's a universe away from the polished veneer of the Harborview, and exactly what I need. A place to get loud, numb, invisible.
Cole, nursing what I swear is still his first beer of the night, sits on the stool beside me.
"You should slow down," he says, his voice a low rumble against the bar’s din.
"You should speed up," I counter, raising the glass in mock toast. "Cheers to fucking everything up." I take a long swallow, the cheap beer doing little to wash away the bitter tang of regret.
"You didn't single-handedly ruin this," Cole says.
"Tell that to Elena." I take another gulp. "Did you see how she looked at me? Like I was some kind of feral animal."
"You growled," replies, deadpan.
"Thank you, Lieutenant Obvious. I was there." I run a hand through my hair, wrecking what little order it had left. "God, I'm such an idiot."
The jukebox belts out a slightly warped 90s rock hit, full of nostalgic charm. On the makeshift dance floor, some festival contestants sway to it, the pressure of tomorrow's competition temporarily forgotten.
"Fuck it," I say, straightening on my barstool. "Who cares anyway? I came here to win. That's what matters. That's always been the plan."
"Is it?" Cole asks quietly.
"Yes! The competition. The TV deal. Proving my father wrong." I tap my temple with more force than necessary. "Eyes on the prize, baby."
"And Elena?"
"Elena can… Elena will be fine," I say, a little too forcefully. "Besides, I can have any omega I want. Or beta. Whatever. This town’s crawling with them for the festival." The boast sounds hollow even to my ears.
Cole gives me a long look, unimpressed. "Didn’t you give me a whole lecture earlier about not hiding behind bullshit to avoid what's in front of you?"
I let out a slow breath. "Yeah, I did." I scrub a hand through my hair. "Turns out I'm a massive hypocrite."
His stare doesn't waver. "Alright, fine!" I throw my hands up. "I'm lost, okay? I care about her. I care way more than I should about a woman I've known for less than a week."
"Same," Cole replies simply, finally turning his attention to his drink.
"She doesn't want us," I continue. "She made that pretty clear tonight." I take a long gulp of my beer. "I’m terrified of feeling this much, this fast." The admission slips out. "It's not just… scent, or whatever. It’s… her."
Before Cole can respond, a wave of obnoxious laughter crashes over us from a nearby table.
"—she was giving off vibes today man," Max Fleming says, gesturing wildly with his beer, sloshing some on the floor. "That Avery girl. The pretty one, with the eyes."
My spine stiffens. Every nerve ending goes on high alert.
"Can't believe she's a beta," another one sneers.
"I don't give a shit about that," Fleming declares with a lewd smirk, his words slightly slurred from both alcohol and his swollen nose. "All that… flavor … is just waiting for someone to tap it, I tell you."
I'm halfway out of my seat, fists clenched, a snarl ripping from my throat before I even register moving.
But Cole, damn him, is already halfway to their table with a steady, measured approach that somehow feels even more menacing.
The effect is immediate.
Max's face drains of all color beneath his bruises. His beer slips, crashing to the floor. His buddies follow his horrified gaze to Cole's approaching figure.
"Oh shit, oh shit," Max whispers, practically shrinking into his chair.
Cole stops beside their table, looking down at Max with calm expectation, not saying a word.
"I'm sorry!" Max blurts out, his voice cracking. "I'm really sorry! I was just—I didn't mean—please don't—" He's practically hyperventilating now, one hand unconsciously touching his bandaged nose.
His buddies are already backing away from the table, mumbling their own apologies and excuses as they scatter.
Cole nods once, satisfied, then turns and walks back to our table as if he'd simply gone to check the weather.
Max remains frozen in his chair for exactly three seconds before bolting for the door.
The bar falls silent for a moment before erupting in scattered chuckles and approving murmurs.
I stare at Cole returning, a mixture of awe and something akin to hero-worship bubbling up. "Damn, Cole. Again . That was… surgical."
"You were about to get disqualified throwing a punch," he says, sitting down and taking a sip of his beer as if he just finished discussing the weather. "Couldn't have you disqualified before the final."
I can’t argue with that. I signal the bartender. "Get this man another beer. On me." I raise my own glass. "Thanks. For… you know."
Cole just nods with a tiny smile, accepting the fresh beer.
We drink in companionable silence for a while. The bar's energy swirls around us, but it doesn’t quite penetrate the bubble of our thoughts.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," Cole says eventually, his gaze fixed on the condensation trailing down his glass.
"What?" My head snaps toward him.
"After the morning briefing, I'm handing responsibilities to my second and heading back to the city."
"Why?" I object, though I already know the answer.
"It's just that… I can’t be effective if I'm distracted. And I am. By… all of this." He makes a vague gesture that seems to encompass me, him, Elena, maybe even Dorian. "Being a good firefighter means one hundred percent focus. Can’t do that if my head’s not in the game."
"Distracted by Elena," I clarify, the words tasting bitter again.
"It's the right call," he says, his voice firm, but his eyes betray a hint of vulnerability.
"So you're just… bailing?" I demand, the irony not lost on me. "Let me get this straight: I called you out for hiding, you threw it back at me, and now you’re doing the exact same thing?"
Cole's jaw tightens. "This is different."
"How? How is this different?" I press. "You're still using your job as an excuse to avoid dealing with your feelings."
"Because people could die if I'm not focused," he snaps, meeting my gaze. "That's how it's different, James. My distractions don't just affect me, they could cost someone their life."
The gravity in his voice stops my argument cold. Because he's right about that .
"So that's it, you're giving up. On Elena, on..." I wave between us, "whatever this is."
"She made her choice, James," he says after taking a long sip. "Sometimes the best way to protect something, or someone, is to step back."
"So," I start, resignation settling over me like a thermal blanket, "tomorrow we all go back to our separate worlds, pretend none of this ever happened."
Cole doesn't contradict me, which is answer enough.
"Well then," I raise my glass, "here's to what might have been."
He clinks his bottle against mine, our expressions equally bleak as we drink to a future that's evaporating before it even had a chance to form.