39. Reed
reed
. . .
The bar is alive the way it always is on a Friday; boots scuffing across the worn floorboards, laughter crashing over the jukebox’s low thrum, glasses clinking.
My brothers are both home tonight, tucked away in their warm houses with their wives and quiet routines, while I’m here behind the scarred oak bar.
I’ve been pouring drinks on autopilot for hours, nodding to regulars, flashing the half-smile they expect, pretending the last couple of months haven’t carved a hollow space in my heart.
Two months since I last saw Layla.
Two months without hearing her sweet voice around this bar. Two months without feeling her soft hands wrapped around mine or the sweet taste of her.
I’ve checked my phone so many times that the screen should be worn thin. I’ve reread her messages until they no longer made sense. I’ve told myself she’s fine, that she’s figuring things out, and that she’s still wearing his ring.
I knew what I was getting myself into, but it still doesn’t stop the ache.
The front door swings open again.
I don’t look up immediately as another group of guys yell for another round of Fireball, but the air shifts.
A prickle runs down the back of my neck.
Adjusting my glasses, I quickly glance over at the wooden doors, and my heart stops.
Layla stands just inside the entrance.
She’s wearing the pastel yellow dress I’ve always loved, the one that clings to her hips and ends mid-thigh.
Tonight, it looks off because it’s wrinkled across her waist and the hem is slightly crooked.
Her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, with strands falling loose around her face, making her look more exhausted than effortless.
My gaze travels along her delicate face and nose, and I notice that concealer sits heavily along the curve of her throat, but it can’t quite hide the faint purple bloom beneath.
She wraps her arms tightly around her middle, and her shoulders curve inward as if she’s trying to disappear into herself.
He steps in right behind her.
His hand clamps around her upper arm, as his fingers dig in hard enough to turn her skin white under the pressure. He steers her forward through the crowd, tugging her along.
His eyes sweep the room and lock onto mine almost instantly.
A cocky smirk flashes across his lips before he tightens his grip and pulls her closer to his side, briefly kissing her on the lips, making me wince.
She stumbles half a step, but she doesn’t try to pull away, and it kills me watching her.
Red-hot boiling anger simmers beneath my skin, my fists clenched under the bartop.
They weave through the tables and finally reach the bar, as she keeps her gaze fixed on the floorboards the whole way.
This cocky bastard doesn’t, as he watches me while they inch closer and closer to the bar.
Once he reaches the oak top, he taps his fingers on the scarred wood, leaning in, crowding my space.
Layla stands half a step behind him, her arms still locked around herself.
I set the bottle I was holding down with careful precision.
He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Don’t fucking look at her, you freak. Whiskey neat. Now.”
Fuck him. My eyes stay on her, watching her subtle movements.
She finally lifts her head, and I’m able to see her clearly now that she’s closer.
Her face isn’t her natural ivory tone; it’s pale under the warm Edison bulbs. Dark circles color her undereyes, shadows now taking over the once-bright spot.
Our eyes finally meet, and I take in her glassy, red-rimmed eyes, carrying the kind of exhaustion that goes deeper than lack of sleep.
My jaw locks so tight my teeth ache.
Turning, I reach for the Maker’s Mark and pour three generous fingers into a rocks glass.
No flourish. No ice. Just like this fucker asked.
I slide it across the bar with more force than necessary.
He snatches the glass, takes a sip, and grimaces. “I’ve had better.”
Fuck you.
He sets it down with a deliberate clack, smirks at me, then pushes off the bar, heading toward the restrooms without another word.
The second his back disappears down the dim hallway, Layla steps forward fast.
Her hands shake as they grip the edge of the bar. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her voice thin and splintering. “I wanted to come alone, he said he was coming, no—”
She cuts herself off, throat working. “I didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry, Reed. I’m so sorry.”
I reach across the bar in one smooth motion and catch her trembling hand between both of mine, my thumbs stroking slowly once, twice, over her knuckles.
“Baby,” I say, my voice low and rough. “Don’t apologize. Not to me. Not ever. Please.”
Her eyes fill instantly as a single tear escapes, tracking down her cheek, and catches the light.
I lean over the bar, stretching far enough to reach her face as my thumb brushes the tear away.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her. My voice stays steady even as my pulse roars in my ears. “Stay right here.”
She gives me a small nod, holding tightly onto my hands before she reluctantly lets go.
I push through the small side door, my boots hitting the floorboards hard enough to draw a few whoops from the regulars.
The hallway comes into view, lit by a single buzzing bulb that flickers every few seconds.
I pass my office, rounding the corner just as Brian steps out of the men’s room, zipping his fly, still wearing that smug half-smirk that makes my blood boil.
I don’t slow down.
My forearm slams across his chest, driving him back into the wall. His head snaps back; the thud is loud in the tight space.
Air punches out of him in a rough grunt.
I pin him there, my forearm pressing across his windpipe as my body crowds him with my weight forward so he can’t twist free.
He’s stunned for half a second, then his eyes narrow, and the shock turns into fury.
He shoves hard, as both his palms slam into my chest.
I stagger back one step before I plant my boots and shove right back. His shoulders hit the wall again, harder this time.
The impact rattles the framed poster of a long-dead country singer, crooked above his head.
“Get the fuck off me, you freak,” he snarls.
Freak. That word. Freak. Freak. Freak.
I lean in close, just inches away, but he still has to tilt his head back to look up because I’m taller.
My forearm stays locked across his throat, with just enough pressure to remind him how easily I could snap his neck.
“Put your hands on her again,” I say slowly, looking down at him. “I’ll break every bone in your fucking hand. Then I’ll do the same to the other. After that, I’ll move on to your knees, elbows, ribs—until you’re crying and can’t stand. And I won’t stop until you’re begging.”
His lips peel back in a sneer as he shoves again, harder this time, twisting his hips so his shoulder drives into my chest.
I lean back slightly, but I’m not someone to be underestimated.
Just because I’m quiet doesn’t mean I won’t fuck you up, especially noticing how Layla flinches around him—my Layla.
He uses the space to wrench his arm free and shove his forearm under my chin, trying to reverse the hold.
I catch his wrist mid-motion, twisting it down and out, slamming my free hand into the center of his chest.
He hits the wall a third time, his breath exploding from him again, but he doesn’t fold.
He snarls and swings.
I duck his wild hook.
Coming up inside his guard, I plant my palm on his throat, not a punch, just a hard shove that pins his head back against the paneling.
“Listen to me very carefully,” I growl, my voice dropping so low it barely cuts through the muffled music leaking in from the bar. “You don’t own her. You don’t get to mark her. You don’t get to drag her anywhere like she’s your fucking property.”
His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with rage and adrenaline.
He spits the words through clenched teeth. “You think I hit her? You’re imagining things. Besides, she’s my fiancé, asshole.” He wriggles in my hold. “Not yours. Never yours. You’re just the bar trash she fucks around with when she’s bored.”
My vision tunnels as I slam my forearm harder across his throat.
His face flushes a dark red; veins stand out at his temples.
“You think those bruises make you a man?” I ask, my voice shaking with the effort to keep it quiet. “You think putting your hands on her when she’s scared makes you strong? You’re a fucking coward.”
He tries to knee me, a pathetic attempt.
I shift my hip, take the blow on the outside of my thigh rather than the groin, and drive my knee into his inner thigh, hard enough to make his leg buckle.
He grunts, sags for a second.
I don’t let up.
“You touch her again,” I say, leaning in so close our foreheads almost touch. “And I will end you, slowly. I will make sure every time you look in the mirror, you remember exactly who did this to you. Nod if you fucking understand.”
“I didn’t fucking touch her, you fucking loser.” He spits out, struggling. “And every time I look in the mirror? Look at you, you’re disgusting.”
I push him against the wall harder, cutting off his oxygen.
His hands claw at my arm, trying to pry my forearm from his throat.
I don’t move as I keep pushing, until I finally let him go.
He slides down the wall a few inches before catching himself, coughing violently, bracing his hand on his knee, as the other clutches his throat.
Before I walk away, he calls out to me in a hoarse voice. “You’ll never have her. Who would want to look at someone like you, let alone love you?”
His words hurt, but I keep pushing, shaking off the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
I step back into the main room, and the hallway light fades behind me as the noise of the bar swallows me whole again—laughter, clinking bottles, the radio kicking into the last chorus of Siren Sounds by Tate McRae.
My chest is still heaving, adrenaline burning through me.
I flex my hands once, twice, trying to shake the feeling of Brian’s throat under my forearm.
I don’t go straight back to the bar, I can’t.
If I see her sitting at that bar with those sad blue eyes and that brave little smile she tries to wear when she’s hurting, I’m done for.
I’ll crumble.
I can’t fucking look at the only woman who’s ever made me feel alive, not when every part of my soul is still reaching for her.
Moving to the far end instead, near the stack of clean pint glasses and the ice well, where the crowd thins and the pendant lights don’t shine quite so brightly.
From here, I can see the whole room.
I watch, and my gaze lands on her.
Always her.
She remains in the same spot I left her, her hands resting on the bar top with her shoulders hunched as her eyes are fixed on the hallway.
Brian appears a few seconds later.
He’s walking slower than before, no swagger, no smirk, his hand resting at his throat, rubbing absently where my arm pressed.
His face is already smoothing back into something neutral, something practiced.
He walks straight to her, and I wait for him to snap.
The yank, the possessive clamp on her arm again. It doesn’t come.
He stops beside her, leaning down close enough that his mouth brushes her ear, whispering.
Whatever he says is inaudible from where I’m at, but I see her flinch, small and almost invisible, the plain eye wouldn’t notice, then she nods once.
His hand settles on the small of her back in this sickly gentleness.
The way you touch someone when you’re trying to prove you’re not the monster everyone believes you are.
My stomach turns over as I watch the light of my life leave with him.
She lets him guide her toward the door. Her steps are small and hesitant, but she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t fight.
Once they reach the exit, he pushes the door open with his shoulder, holding it for her like any decent man would.
She steps through first, but hesitates.
Right before the door swings shut behind them, she turns, just a fraction.
Just enough that her eyes find mine across the crowded bar.
Our gazes lock, and I wince at the contact and the pure longing in her eyes.
Her face is pale under the neon signs as her lips tremor, like she wants to say something, anything, but the words can’t make it out.
The sheen of tears glosses over her eyes, shining with emotion she hasn’t let fall yet.
There’s no hope in them. Just a deep, quiet sadness that cuts deeper than any scream could.
She looks at me the way someone looks at a house they once lived in, something warm once, something safe once, knowing they can’t go back inside.
My hands are locked around the edge of the bar so tightly that the wood creaks.
I feel the tear slip down my cheek before I realize I’m crying.
My throat constricts, a strangled sob clawing its way up before I can stop it.
Pressing the heel of my hand against my lips, I fight myself to keep it together.
Because the second it escapes, the truth hits me harder than anything ever has.
I’m not losing just anyone.
I’m losing the woman I was supposed to spend the rest of my life loving.
Every muscle in my body is screaming to go over to her, to cross the room, to pull her out of his reach and take her somewhere he’ll never find.
But I stay rooted, because it isn’t my place.
Because she’s walking away with him. Because he’s touching her gently now, gentle enough that anyone watching would call it love. Because she’s letting him.
And because, deep down, I know what that look in her eyes means.
She’s not choosing him tonight because she wants to. She’s choosing him because she believes she has to.
Because she thinks the only way to keep the peace is to keep swallowing the hurt.
Because she thinks that if she leaves, everything will explode—her life, his temper, her following, the views, the fragile little world she’s built around pretending that everything is fine.
I watch the door close behind them, and all I can do is sit here, breathing through the gaping hole she left in my chest, knowing the only woman who ever felt like home just walked out that door.
And I let her.