Chapter 28
Luke
The silence between us yawns like a chasm, thick and heavy, pressing in from all sides as I stare at the untouched glass of bourbon in front of me.
The ice has melted just enough to dull the color, the amber now slightly cloudy under the low bar lights, condensation gathering on the outside and pooling on the scarred wood beneath it.
I was on a roll earlier, working through drinks like they might take the edge off, but I haven’t touched this one since I poured it. Reid totally killed whatever buzz I had going the second he walked in.
I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting here without speaking.
Long enough for the noise of the bar—a local radio station playing rock classics at low volume, the hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter, the clink of glassware, the door opening and closing—to fade into something distant and irrelevant.
The mood between us has shifted from sharp and heated to something worse.
Not calm. Not resolved. Just… stalled. Awkward in a way that feels heavier than the argument did.
He hasn’t said anything because he can’t answer the damned question. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the way he keeps his eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder like there’s something worth studying in the grain of the wall. I can hardly blame him. I can’t answer it either.
We’ve landed ourselves with an impossible problem—a dilemma with no clean way out. I’ve turned it over again and again in my head, looking for some version where we all walk away at least okay. But there isn’t one.
Seems Reid’s hit the same wall. All we can do is sit here, drink, and let it hang between us—that low, gnawing awareness that whatever happens next is going to cost us something. Maybe a lot. Maybe everything.
I roll the glass between my fingers, watching what’s left of the bourbon shift, then sneak a glance at Reid. He hasn’t moved. Still staring past me, still somewhere else entirely. Probably thinking about Sierra. Not a hard guess, considering I’m doing the same.
Never stopped.
She’s not just on my mind—she’s everywhere in it, threaded through every thought whether I want her there or not.
Like she’s claimed the space and settled in.
If it’s like this for me—someone who’s only just met her—what the hell must it be like for Reid?
His feelings have history behind them, roots that go deeper than mine, even if he’d rather choke than admit it.
As for Talon… yeah. He’s in this too. No question.
The way he snapped earlier wasn’t about pride.
That was something else. Something deeper.
What a delightful fucking mess.
I drag a hand over my mouth, exhale slowly, and let my head tip back for a second before forcing myself upright again.
Where the hell do we go from here? None of us want to hurt her.
None of us want to blow this up between us either.
But it’s starting to feel like those two things can’t coexist. Keeping our distance hurts her.
Getting closer—fighting over her—hurts her too.
The idea slips in out of nowhere.
You could share her.
I huff under my breath and shake my head, shifting in my seat, the leather creaking faintly under me.
Not a real solution. Not this time. Yeah, I’ve shared women with Talon before.
More than once. But those were easy. Clean.
No feelings, no stakes beyond a good time.
This is different. This is a woman I actually give a damn about.
A woman I nearly tore into one of my best friends over.
But still…
Would it really be so bad?
“Bah.” I drain my drink. Reid glances at me, but I don’t meet his eyes. I just stare down at the empty glass, shaking my head. He goes back to his own. I catch the bartender’s eye and nod. He nods back, already reaching for the bottle and two fresh glasses.
That’s the worst part. This didn’t build slowly enough for me to see it coming. At first, it was simple. Attraction. Easy conversation. I liked being around her. She liked being around me. It felt uncomplicated.
Then it shifted. Quietly.
Maybe it was those nights we talked about our pasts, sitting side by side with nothing but open space around us, realizing we carried some of the same scars. Maybe that’s what did it. Maybe it’s just a trauma bond.
Except… no. That doesn’t track.
I’ve had clients open up to me before. Some of them with stories a hell of a lot darker than hers. I’ve sat with them, listened, shared pieces of my own shit in return. We’ve had those moments—passing a blunt back and forth, talking about things most people don’t say out loud.
But I always knew where the line was. Always kept it there. Never crossed it.
So why her?
Is it because we slept together first?
I stare at the fresh drink as it’s set down, the ice catching the light. In hindsight, maybe that should’ve been the warning sign. I’ve never crossed that line with a client before. Not once. But with her… I didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t pull back.
It just happened.
Fast.
Too fast.
And the feelings followed right behind it, building in the background until suddenly they weren’t background anymore.
I only really clocked how bad it had gotten these last few days, when being around her without acting on it started to feel like pressure under my skin. Like something waiting to snap.
It’s torture pretending this is just friendship. Pretending I don’t notice the way her eyes linger, the way her body reacts, the tension that builds between us when we get too close. Pretending I don’t want to lean into it, push it further, see how far she’ll go.
She’s got a hell of a sex drive. No denying that.
And I fucking love it.
I love the way she responds, the way she gives as good as she gets. I love teasing her, pushing her just enough to get that look out of her. I love having her under me—and I love the quiet moments after just as much, when she softens, when she lets herself settle.
That’s the problem.
Because at the same time, I’m supposed to be the one helping her. Keeping things steady. Not complicating it with my own bullshit.
So, I did what I always do.
I shoved it down. Ignored it. Told myself I had it under control.
Until I didn’t.
Until it came out sideways, sharp and ugly, and now we’re here.
And all that’s left sitting in my gut is shame.
I’ve screwed this up. Badly.
There’s a tightness in my chest that won’t ease, a low, creeping dread settling deeper the longer I sit with it.
What if she leaves because of me? What if I’ve made this place—what’s supposed to be safe for her—feel like something she needs to escape from?
What if she walks away before she gets what she came here for, just because I couldn’t keep my shit together?
I scrub a hand down my face, feeling the rough drag of stubble against my palm, and push out a breath. “We should go. I owe Sierra an apology, and I don’t want her doing something rash before I get there.”
“Sure,” Reid says, already shifting, reaching for his jacket—but before either of us can stand, a chair scrapes loudly against the floor beside us.
The scent hits first. Whiskey, strong and sharp, but not the bourbon we’ve been drinking. Something cheaper.
Clay Dawson. County sheriff.
I don’t even need to look to know it’s him, but I do anyway, turning slightly as he drops into the seat beside me like he owns the place. His movements are a fraction too loose, his head tilting just a little too far when he grins.
“Howdy.”
“Sheriff,” I greet, shifting slightly in my seat as Reid inclines his head, already reaching for his jacket and gesturing for the tab like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Those two have never gotten along. Not since one of Dawson’s deputies decided to make an example out of Reid over a bullshit parking situation in town.
Something that should’ve been a quick “move along” turned into a full production—attitude, accusations, cuffs right there on the street.
Hauled him in, left him sitting in a cell for over an hour “to cool off,” fined him, then had his truck towed just to round it all out.
Reid had come back from that one wound tight enough to snap steel.
Truth is, though, he’d been like that long before.
There’s always been something in him around cops—controlled on the surface, but never relaxed. A tension that doesn’t switch off. Like he’s constantly measuring distance, exits, angles. Like part of him expects things to turn bad, fast.
Most people probably wouldn’t notice it.
I do.
As Reid shifts to stand, Dawson leans in closer than necessary, close enough that I can smell the stale edge of whatever he’s been drinking layered over something sharper.
“You boys have no idea how much heat you’ve branded on my ass,” he says, words just slurred enough to notice. “Do you know who the fucking mayor of Yellowbrook is?”
“Not a clue.” I flick a glance at Reid, guessing he probably does—he’s the one who actually looks into things—but I never bothered. In my head, the guy’s just another rich asshole with too much time and too much influence. “Who is he?”
“Have you ever heard of the Reismans?”
That gets my attention. “Yeah.” The name lands heavy, familiar in a way that sticks.
Old money. Big money. Oil, telecoms, gold—half the damn world touched in one way or another.
My mother used to talk about them like they were royalty.
She had dinner with Martha Reisman once and wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks, going on about handcrafted fountains and imported stone like it was some kind of religious experience.
My father ended up building her a version of one just to quiet things down, and then—because that apparently wasn’t enough—buying her a place in the south of France near Martha’s.
Ridiculous, of course. One of many reasons I’m glad to be out of it.
Funny the things that stick with you.