Chapter 49
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
isaac
The Sapphire Room has a blue tint to the dim lighting. It smells like expensive perfume, cheap liquor, and desperation.
I’ve been a few times with buddies for bachelor parties and birthdays, been gifted a lap dance or two. Enough times to learn I’d rather spend time with women who want to enjoy me, not ones who are being paid to pretend.
Lately it seems I prefer ones who aren’t into me at all.
Strobe lights flicker overhead. Music pounds through the floor. We’ve been here five minutes when a blonde I think I went to high school with pours herself onto my lap. Her perfume’s too sweet, smile too eager.
“Hey, sugar,” she purrs. “Buy me a drink?”
I barely look at her. “Not really up for it tonight, sorry.”
Brett pats his lap. “Come sit over here, honey. Eeyore over there is having a rough night.”
My head pounds with the music, my buzz from The Stillery is wearing off much too quickly. When a raven-haired waitress comes around, I order a round of shots on Brett.
He leans too close to me, and yells in my ear over the loud music, “Wait ‘til you see who just started working here. Apparently, her little brother kicked some kid’s ass at school, and she’s got to pay off a lawsuit and some medical bills.”
Another dancer starts her set. The crowd gets rowdier, several guys shoving past each other to get closer to the stage to put money in her thigh garter.
I barely notice. It’s like I’m watching through fogged-up eyes until I see her face.
Fuck me.
I do not want to see this particular woman here. She’s a damn kid, can’t be more than twenty.
Brooklyn Harris is wearing nothing but a silver sequined G-string bikini and confidence, but her eyes are somewhere else.
Cold. Distant.
Empty.
Beau leans in. “Told you.”
I groan.
Brett whistles low. “Damn what I wouldn’t give to—”
“Don’t,” I say so I don’t have to punch him in the mouth on principle.
He shakes his head. “You’re a real buzzkill tonight, Logan.”
“Hence why I was heading home.”
Home. I used to love that word. Now all it does is remind me where my brand-new wife isn’t.
Without her there, wearing my hoodie, wrapped in a blanket, sneaking treats to the dogs, it’s just a house.
A sad, empty, lonely house.
The throbbing in my head intensifies.
This night just went from bad to worse.
Asher is going to be fucking irate. Check in on the Harris kids when you can, he writes in every letter. With Ethan gone, he seemed to believe they were his responsibility now.
Ethan Harris was Asher’s best friend all through high school. They’d enlisted together, been deployed and served together. Asher never talked about it, but I was pretty sure he’d been there when Ethan was shot and killed while serving overseas.
His dead best friend’s little sister taking her clothes off for cash isn’t something I want him to learn about in a letter. But I’m not sure how else to get in touch with him.
I checked in on them like Asher said. Brooklyn always told me to mind my own business anytime I’d asked if she needed anything. I’d given her my number and told her to call anytime, not in a booty call kind of way. She’d eyed me like I was amusing. And annoying.
She’d never once asked me for anything, no matter how much I offered. Seeing her working here, knowing things got bad enough that she’d resort to this, stings.
I always make sure to tip a ridiculous amount when she’s working at the bar. Wyatt does, too, and I give Brett and Beau hell if they don’t. But if she’s here, what she’s making at The Stillery isn’t enough. And she’s desperate.
Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with this profession.
In my opinion, they’re performing a valuable public service.
If Brooklyn was like Carly Rae and enjoyed the attention, got a thrill from flaunting her body, and wouldn’t feel guilty about it later, I’d tell Asher to suck it up and let the girl do what she enjoys.
But Brooklyn is not enjoying this. At all.
She doesn’t even glance my way. She doesn’t glance anyone’s way—just stares off into the distance not really seeing anyone from the looks of it.
I can’t tell if she’s high on something, clinically depressed, or intentionally disassociating.
Either way, this is bad. Really damn bad.
She writhes against the pole on stage then turns her back to us and begins untying her top.
I push up from the booth, still slightly dizzy from the alcohol. I can’t be here. I can’t see this. Because I won’t be able to unsee it.
Asher would carve my eyeballs out with a rusty spoon.
Elena might puree my balls in a blender and put them into salsa.
Elena. Infuriatingly stubborn ass woman.
The alcohol gives me courage I didn’t have earlier. We’re technically married. Sort of. The woman went from looking at me like I was everything she ever wanted to freezing me out like I was suddenly repulsive to her.
I’d heard marriage could do that, but damn. I figured it would take a little longer than five minutes for her to have buyer’s remorse.
“I have to go,” I say to no one in particular. My legs start moving toward the exit.
“Where you going? You’re going to miss the good part,” Beau calls out after me.
There’s nothing good about this night.