Chapter 9
NINE
Walker
Colson
I’ve called twice. Why aren’t you picking up?
Make that three times. Answer your goddamn phone, Walker.
Or at least text me back.
Come on, man. Don’t make me ask one of the Spades to go in and check on you.
Jesus fucking Christ. Would it kill you to call me back? I know you’re sitting in that hotel room, not doing shit.
At least tell me you’re okay.
Iheld my finger against his last text, and when the box appeared, I selected the thumbs-up. That was all I gave him; I didn’t have words.
All I had was a desire to be left the fuck alone.
I didn’t want to be checked on.
I didn’t want to be nagged.
And I certainly didn’t want to be asked how I was feeling, something I knew would be coming soon.
Four nights—that was how long I’d been in this hotel, and nothing had changed.
Maybe while Sky was here, the thoughts paused for a bit. The questions halted rather than taking their usual laps around my brain. At least during the hours she was awake and filled the silence in the room.
Shit, I didn’t know why, but things felt easier when she was here.
She gave me something to focus on.
Something beautiful to look at, to listen to, to admire. And then the moment she walked out the door for the second time, the loudness returned. Enough so that I wanted to throw a fucking glass at the handle and lock.
I had.
More than once.
But I wouldn’t toss this tumbler. The one half filled with whiskey. I needed this one. My buzz was just starting to peak, and I needed it to come on stronger. I needed my fingers to stay wrapped around the thick glass and for it to only be a short commute to my mouth.
Especially as I stared at my phone, an article on the screen. It had come in as a Google alert—the first since the San Antonio opening of Horned, which had happened last night. I was sure, within the next few hours, there would be several more just like it, reviewing the restaurant.
It wasn’t the description of the food that stood out or the construction and decoration of the interior that had cost us well over a million.
It was the two lines near the very bottom that my eyes continuously reread.
Walker Weston, founder and executive chef of the Weston brand, was noticeably absent from the grand opening of the company’s first solo venture of Horned—a restaurant previously started in Laguna Beach, California, by a separate owner and bought out by the Westons.
When queried, Walker was unavailable to comment or answer our questions about the food sources and recipes used in this location and the future locations of Horned.
The publication—the most followed food and beverage resource in all of Texas—had reached out, their questions currently in my email. A follow-up was also sent to my assistant and marked high priority by her.
I hadn’t replied.
Because I didn’t have it in me.
And because I didn’t have any fucks to give.
The article was overtaken by an incoming call, the screen showing Colson’s name, number, and a picture of him.
Was this his fourth call? Fifth? I’d lost track.
I sent his ass to voicemail.
Colson
You’ve got to be kidding me …
I’d seen enough—from him, from the article, from everything.
I set my cell down and immediately brought the booze up to my lips, extending my legs onto the coffee table and crossing them. My eyes then closed as I rested my head on the cushion behind me.
Why was sleep so far away?
Why couldn’t I drink myself to the point where I’d pass out?
Where was Sky when I fucking needed her?
The vibration of my phone made my eyes open and look at the screen.
Eden.
I squeezed the hard, plastic case, my arm threatening to toss the fucker toward the door.
I was tired of the noises—the ones this cell made only added to the others.
I was tired of entering my password and reading things I didn’t want to see, like the opinions of reviewers, the accusations. The constant fucking judgment.
The difference between Eden and Colson was that Eden would hang up and call right back—a pattern she’d repeat until she got through. Hell, there was a chance she could be standing outside my door.
My sister had a fire in her.
A fire that even I didn’t want to fuck with.
As I clenched my jaw, my exhales came out through my teeth, and I held the phone to my ear. “What?”
“Slow down there, cowboy. Let’s not what me, okay?” I could visualize her smirk. “You know why I’m calling. Seeing my name on your phone screen shouldn’t be a surprise at all. So, how about you just tell me how you’re doing? And then we can cut the bullshit and get right to the point.”
I pounded the back of my head against the cushion, wishing it were a wall. “I’m fine.”
“But are you? Really? Because the thumbs-up you gave to Colson told me everything I’d wanted to know.”
The air that came through my lips sounded like a wind tunnel. “What do you want me to say, Eden? That I’m miraculously better? That things have cleared in my head? That I’m dying to get back into the kitchen? That this break has renewed me?” I huffed. “Fuck that.”
“I know those would be lies.”
My head shook. “Then why are you asking?”
“Because I’m your sister and I love you and I have to ask.” She paused. “Did you take my advice? Or have you only been drowning yourself in whiskey? I know you’re deep into the latter. I can hear it in your voice.”
I exhaled through my nose this time. “I took your advice.”
“And?” She sounded far too optimistic.
“You want the details?”
“I absolutely do not want the details, dickhead. I want to know if it helped.”
Did it help?
Fuck no. Because now I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I couldn’t get that gorgeous face out of my head. I couldn’t stop fantasizing about her perfect pussy.
“It helped while she was here for the two nights. But now she’s gone, and not even the whiskey can numb me.”
“Hold on a second. You had her stay? In your suite? For two nights?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” she gasped.
“Why the hell not?”
“That’s not how the Hooked app works. It’s a do-it-and-be-done kinda thing.”
I chuckled. “We both know I’m not a rule follower.”
“But you should be. Especially when it comes to that. Unless … oh shit. Is a relationship what you want, Walker? Why didn’t you just say that—”
“This family has made it impossible to have anything that even closely resembles that.” I sat up taller, my tongue not burning nearly enough from the sip I’d just taken.
“If you want to know the truth, it was a one-night thing. Once it was over, she left. Or I should say, she moved into the hotel room I got her. But when the noise returned to my head, I had her come back. She stayed until she had to go to work.”
“And now?”
“Are you asking if she’s here now? No. Or are you asking if she’s going to come back? No to that too. It wouldn’t be fair to get involved when I don’t have a single fucking hour in my day to dedicate to anyone.”
“You have an hour, Walker. Let’s not be dramatic.”
My feet left the table and slammed onto the carpet.
“How about you come live my life for a week and see if that statement holds up?” My chest was ready to split open and purge.
“The four of you focus solely on The Weston Group. Me? I have forty-seven fucking hats, and I’m wearing them all at the same goddamn time. ”
“I hear you.”
My fingers clenched into a fist. “No, Eden, you don’t fucking hear me. None of you do. And you know what? I’m tired of having this conversation because it doesn’t matter how loud I yell, you still don’t listen.”
“I have an idea … let’s talk about something that doesn’t make you want to throw your whiskey at a wall, okay?”
The noise that came out of me sounded like a growl.
“Like the opening of Horned San Antonio,” she continued. “I want to tell you all about it.”
“You mean the opening that’s already started rumors about my whereabouts?
” I put her on speakerphone and pulled up one of the notifications that had come through.
Since the article about opening night had been posted twelve hours ago, that gave the rumor mill plenty of time to speculate.
All the gossipers needed was a tear in the seam.
A tiny fucking slit, and the allegations would spiral.
“I know you’ve seen some of the theories of why I wasn’t there. ”
“What are you referring to?”
“Come on, Eden. I have no doubt that you have Google alerts set up for each of us. So, you’re well aware of every goddamn word that’s said. Knowing you, you’ve probably already emailed our publicist so she can hose things off before they ignite.” I set the phone on my lap and wiped my lips.
“Ah. I see we’re talking about the frying pan incident and how, allegedly, our sous chef is pressing charges and you’re in hiding so you won’t be arrested for assault.
” She paused. “Yes, I took care of that. But please tell me you’ve reached out to our sous chef, Walker. The man’s hand is really hurt.”
“Of course I have. I’m not a fucking animal.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Are you trying to goad me into an argument?” My lips were now curled. “Because you’re doing a hell of a job at it.”
“Before I call you a dickhead again and hang up, let me just state that the opening went exceptionally well. The food was outstanding. The staff, for the most part, handled the massive influx. Patrons seemed extremely pleased when they left. And reviews are already pouring in, most of them five stars. You would have been really, really proud.”
When I swallowed my spit, it felt like acid going down my throat. “I’d clap if my fingers weren’t in a fist.”
“Our family knows what you put into that restaurant. We know the opening wouldn’t have happened without you. We know that you’re the reason we’re getting those five-star reviews.”
I ran my hand through the back of my hair, and on the next pass, I pulled the strands. “I don’t need the recognition.”