Reed
. . .
My phone buzzes, her last reply lighting the screen.
I should be used to it by now: the silence that follows messages I want to respond to, the way my chest stirs as if it remembers what hope feels like. But I’m not. The second her name lights up the bar top, it hits me in the gut.
Butterflies. Goddamn butterflies. I don’t even recognize the sensation. It feels strange, wrong, somehow, like my body’s betraying me for something it shouldn’t want.
Tucking my phone into my pocket and letting the dull ache settle, I reluctantly grab the worn rag. The counter is spotless, with the wood gleaming beneath the soft light, but I scrub anyway.
It’s routine. It’s something to do with my hands while my head spins in circles.
The bar is alive tonight; perhaps a bit too lively. Laughter crashes like waves against the walls, boots thump on the floor, and glasses ring as they’re set down a little too hard. Perfume blends with whiskey and wood smoke, creating a thick haze in the air.
In the corner, my brothers are wrapped up with their wives.
Maverick’s grin is wide enough to split his face in two, with his hand resting on Amelia’s rounded stomach, admiring her and caressing her belly as she carries his son.
She cradles his face in her hands, kissing his lips in gentle, continuous pecks.
Carter, Christ, the man is soft clay around Catalina. She talks loud enough to drown out the music, and he watches her like she’s the only reason he bothers breathing.
They have the kind of love people write songs about. The kind I stopped allowing myself to believe in.
I force a smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes, not when I notice the looks sent my way across the bar.
Women let their eyes drift over me, but not for long.
Some pause a second too long on the jagged lines crawling down the peak of my cheekbone, down my neck, beneath the collar of my shirt.
Their gazes harden. Lips curl—a whisper here, a quick nudge to a friend there.
They see me the same way everyone does.
Scarred. Disfigured. Less than.
A freak.
I’ve heard the word hissed before when they thought I couldn’t. I’ve seen how they flinch when the light hits just right, when my face turns, and the skin pulls tight. I’ve felt the recoil when I brushed against someone in a crowded room, and they jerked back in disgust.
It never gets easier.
Pushing away those harmful memories, I move the rag in continuous circles against the wooden counter; the rag squeaks as my hand presses harder than needed. I let it. The sting in my palm is easier to hold than the hollow ache in my chest.
I want what my brothers have. Someone who doesn’t look at me and see the wreckage first. Someone who sees me.
But that’s not my life. Not anymore.
So I wipe the bar again, cling to the silence between my ribs, and pretend I’m not still thinking about the way her name looked glowing against my screen.
I continue cleaning the glasses with more force than necessary, my palm pressing until the scar tissue tugs. Every stretch, every twist of my arm comes with that deep burn. The itch never fades, burrowed under my skin like a reminder I’ll never escape.
Setting the glass I was cleaning too hard, I flex my hand against the ache, pushing my glasses back up the bridge of my nose.
I fucking hate them. They slip, they fog, and they remind me that even the parts of me untouched by fire are breaking down now.
“Would you look at that,” Maverick’s voice cuts through obnoxiously. His heavy arm slams across my shoulders, jolting the raw skin beneath my shirt. “Baby brother’s all grown up. Got himself some glasses. Next thing you know, he’ll be giving us lectures about bedtime.”
I shoot him a glare over the rim. “Get your bitch ass arm off me.”
He grins, leaning harder. “What’s that, Professor Hayes? Can’t hear you with all that wisdom weighing down your frames.”
Carter comes over to us, carrying two empty pint glasses. He sets them down and looks at me with that steady, unimpressed expression. “He’s right. You do look like a schoolteacher.”
Maverick explodes with laughter. “See? Even Carter agrees. Our baby brother is now Clark Kent, but with a mustache.”
I grit my teeth, reaching for the tap. “Glad you two assholes find this entertaining.”
“Entertaining?” Maverick grins so wide it’s stupid. “Reed, this is the highlight of my week. Amelia nearly spit out her drink when she saw you. She said you looked like a tortured, broody bartender.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. “She said that?”
Maverick leans closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t worry, you’re not that broody.”
Carter finally cracks, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Broody’s an understatement.”
I shove Maverick’s beer toward him, sharper than I need to. “You two are insufferable.”
Maverick lifts his glass. “And you love ussss.”
I shake my head, turning back to the bottles. My skin burns, my chest aches, but for a second, the weight eases.
Even if I’m the youngest, even if I’ll always feel like the one left behind, they’re still my brothers.
And that’s enough to keep me standing behind this bar a little longer.
The rag’s still in my hand when I hear the scrape of chairs and the shuffle of familiar voices drawing closer.
“Reed,” Amelia groans as she waddles up, joining the conversation.
Her hand cradles her belly, as the other clutches a glass of water.
“Do you have any idea how miserable it is to be nine months pregnant? My ankles look like tree trunks, my back feels like it’s breaking in half, and if your brother doesn’t stop hovering over me, I swear—”
Maverick ducks his head, smirking, his arm already sliding around her waist. “She loves it. Don’t let her fool you. Can’t get enough of me.” He leans down, pressing a kiss to her temple. “My girl just doesn’t know how to admit she’s obsessed.”
Amelia shoots him a look, but her fingers curl in his shirt anyway, anchoring herself there.
“God, you’re insufferable,” she mutters, but kisses him anyway.
“Insufferably handsome,” he corrects, winking at me.
I roll my eyes and turn to grab a clean glass, anything to distract from the ache still simmering in my skin. Every movement tugs at the scar tissue, with the burn and itch constant and unforgiving. But I keep moving, because that’s what I do.
“REEEED!”
Her shriek pierces the bar like a siren. Catalina charges ahead, Carter following behind with his usual scowl that softens the moment she grabs his arm.
“Reed! Reed, oh my GOD—Layla is here!” Catalina’s chestnut eyes are wide as her manicured hand claps over her mouth. “She’s finally here!”
My world stutters.
I freeze, the rag limp in my hand, chest tight as though all the air’s been sucked from the room.
My pulse ticks erratically, my nerves spiking like electricity under my skin. For a second, I can’t move. The laughter, the clink of glasses, and the noise of Boots & Bourbon all blur into each other.
She’s here.
And suddenly, I’m not the steady, quiet bartender anymore. I’m just a man with scars crawling up his skin and butterflies tearing through his stomach, wondering what the hell she’s going to think when she sees me again.