Chapter 9 #2
“It’s boring,” I counter. “At least add a period at the end.”
“What difference does a period make?” Diego asks, genuinely confused.
“Tone,” I explain. “A period means business. No period means casual. It’s texting 101.”
Rett ignores us both and hits send.
“Well, it’s done now,” I say with a dramatic sigh. “Hope she doesn’t read too much into your lack of punctuation.”
Rett pockets his phone. “Now we wait.”
“For what?” Diego asks.
“For her to either change her mind or not show up,” Rett says simply.
“She’ll show,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “You didn’t see her face when—”
“When you ambushed her at work and fingered her in a public bathroom?” Rett cuts in dryly.
I wince. “Okay, when you put it like that, it sounds bad.”
“It is bad,” Diego says. “But also...” He hesitates, a flush creeping up his neck. “Also kind of hot.”
“Very hot,” I agree, grinning at him.
Dane makes a noise that might be agreement or might be disgust. With him, it’s hard to tell.
“The point is,” I continue, “the connection is strong. Stronger than any of us anticipated. And tomorrow night, we’ll have a chance to get her back on our side.”
“And if she wants nothing to do with us?” Rett asks.
I don’t have an answer for that. I don’t think any of us do.
“Then we respect her decision,” Dane says quietly. “And live with the consequences.”
The static buzzes in my head, as if emphasizing his point. The thought of going back to that constant, maddening noise for the rest of our lives is unbearable.
“Let’s not borrow trouble,” Diego says, ever the optimist. “She’s agreed to meet. That’s a good sign.”
Rett nods, but his expression remains troubled. “We need a plan for tomorrow night. A real one, not Tristan’s improvisation.”
“Hey!” I protest.
“He’s right,” Dane says. “We go in prepared.”
“And honest,” Diego adds. “No more games. We give her the planner back. We tell her the truth.”
I lean forward, voicing the question that’s been nagging at me. “The whole truth? We tell her about the static? That we’re all half-crazy from a noise in our heads and she’s our walking, talking painkiller?”
Rett’s expression darkens. “Frame it better than that, but yes. It’s our strongest leverage.”
“Leverage?” Diego repeats, a frown creasing his brow. “Rett, this isn’t a business negotiation.”
“That’s exactly what it is,” Rett counters, his voice hard as steel. “She has something we need. Desperately. Our job is to convince her that the benefits of giving it to us outweigh the costs.”
I see the look of distaste on Diego’s face, but he doesn’t argue. He knows Rett is right.
“Okay,” I say, trying to get my own head around it. “So we tell her about the static. We give her the planner back as a sign of good faith. And then what? We just hope she feels sorry enough for us to stick around?”
“We show her the upside,” Rett says simply. “The resources. The... access.”
“And if she says no?” Diego asks, his voice barely a whisper.
A heavy silence fills the room. The roaring of the static in my own skull seems to amplify like a vicious reminder of what’s at stake.
“She won’t,” Rett says finally, but the words are a prayer, not a certainty.
The next few hours pass in a blur. Diego disappears into the kitchen, stress-baking as usual.
Dane retreats to the gym for round two with the punching bag.
I flip through channels without really watching anything, and Rett holes up in his office, presumably to rearrange his schedule for tomorrow’s dinner.
It’s nearly six when Rett reappears, looking slightly less tense than before.
“I moved three meetings and a conference call,” he announces, dropping into the chair across from me. “Tomorrow night is clear.”
I’m about to make a joke about his legendary micromanagement when his phone chimes. He pulls it out, his eyebrows shooting up.
“What?” Diego asks, poking his head out from where he’s crouched behind the kitchen island.
Rett reads the message aloud: “‘Change of plans. Dinner’s tonight. 8 PM. The Anchor. Wear something uncomfortable.’”
“Tonight?” Diego repeats, his eyes wide. “As in, two hours from now?”
“The Anchor?” I ask, equally surprised. “Isn’t that the dive bar down by the waterfront? The one with the fishnets on the ceiling and the questionable health inspection record?”
Rett nods slowly, his expression unreadable. “That’s the one.”
“Why would she change it to tonight?” Diego wonders. “And why there, of all places?”
Dane, who has appeared silently in the doorway, suddenly straightens. “Something’s wrong.”
We all look at him. Dane doesn’t speak often, but when he does, it’s usually worth listening to.
“What do you mean?” Rett asks.
“The sudden change. The location. ‘Wear something uncomfortable.’”Dane ticks the points off on his fingers. “She’s throwing us off balance.”
“Or maybe she just couldn’t wait to see us again,” I suggest, but even I don’t believe it.
“No,” Rett says slowly. “Dane’s right. This feels... like she’s preparing for a fight.”
“But why?” Diego looks genuinely confused. “What changed between her text a few hours ago and now?”
None of us has an answer for that.
“It doesn’t matter,” Rett finally says, pocketing his phone. “We’ll be there. All of us.”
“Wearing something uncomfortable, apparently,” I mutter.
“What does that even mean?” Diego wonders aloud.
“It means she’s trying to throw us off our game,” Rett says. “So we show up ready to play.”
Dane nods once, decisive. “I’ll bring the planner.”
“And I’ll bring my charming personality,” I add, grinning.
“Maybe leave that at home,” Diego suggests dryly.
“Very funny.”
Rett checks his watch. “We have two hours to get ready and get there. I suggest we use them wisely.”
As my brothers disperse to prepare, I stay on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
Something changed. Something happened after I left the gallery.
Something that made Zoe go from agreeing to dinner tomorrow to demanding it tonight, in a loud, crowded dive bar where serious conversation will be nearly impossible.
What are you up to, Zoe Clarke?
Whatever it is, I have a feeling we’re walking into a storm with no umbrella. But as the static builds to a crescendo in my head, I can’t bring myself to care. The promise of seeing her again, of experiencing that blessed silence, even for a few hours, is worth any amount of discomfort.
Even if it means wearing something uncomfortable to a bar that probably hasn’t changed its fryer oil since 2019.
The things we do for love.
Or, well, not love. Not yet. But whatever this is, it’s powerful enough to make four alphas scramble to a dive bar on short notice.
And that’s saying something.