Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
DEREK
The front door opens without a knock.
Mark’s voice carries down the hall like this is his place. “Wow. Still dressed. I was expecting sweatpants and regret.”
Alex follows him in, already looking around. “You look like you were planning to sit here and think.”
“I was not,” I say automatically.
Mark drops onto my couch and kicks his shoes off. “That’s a lie.”
“It’s Sunday,” I say. “I worked all day.”
Alex shrugs. “So did we.”
“All week,” Mark adds. “You don’t get a medal for that.”
I glance at the clock. “You’re not talking about a quiet drink.”
Mark grins. “We’re talking about The Vault.”
“Absolutely not.”
“We’re going out,” Alex says. “To drink. To party. And we’re not taking no for an answer.”
“You hate The Vault on Sundays,” I say.
“Exactly,” Mark replies. “Which is why this is an intervention.”
I run a hand over my face, already knowing how this ends. They’re not going to stop.
“One drink,” I say.
Mark’s smile spreads. “Sure.”
The way he says it tells me everything.
The Vault on a Sunday is different.
Not quieter—looser. The people who come on this night aren’t here to be seen tomorrow. They’re here because the week already got to them.
The music is heavier. Slower. It settles into your chest instead of bouncing off it.
Alex scans the room the second we step inside. “Oh yeah. This is a bad idea.”
Mark just nods, already moving toward the bar.
The bartender spots us and lifts a finger in greeting. “Pierce.”
I don’t order. I don’t need to.
VIP section.
The bottle lands on the table with a solid thunk. Glasses follow. Ice. No ceremony.
Alex raises his glass. “To poor decisions made responsibly.”
“You don’t know what that means,” I say.
He grins. “That’s what makes it fun.”
People drift in fast. No hovering. No hesitation. A woman in black slides into the empty space beside Alex like it’s always been hers. Another leans against the table near Mark, close enough to be deliberate.
Mark says very little. Watches. Listens. His attention is steady, almost polite.
Alex, on the other hand, is already holding court.
“You ever notice,” he says to no one in particular, “that Sunday nights make everyone honest?”
The woman beside him laughs. “You’re assuming people aren't honest any other night.”
“Fair,” he says. “But tonight they don’t even pretend.”
I take a drink. Then another.
Someone brushes my arm. Lingers. Her perfume is expensive and sweet, the kind meant to be remembered.
“You look serious,” she says.
“I usually am.”
She smiles like that’s a challenge.
Alex leans back in his chair. “Don’t encourage him. He thinks brooding counts as a personality.”
“It does,” I say. “In certain circles.”
She laughs and stays close.
The music shifts. Someone bumps into the table, cringes when he sees who's sitting there.
"Pierce, man! Sorry." He doesn't wait for forgiveness.
The woman slides in next to me now. "Pierce. Derek Pierce?" she asks, her voice silky.
"The one and only."
"I've heard about you," she says, then leans in and whispers, "and I'd like a taste."
I don't respond.
I know I taste good.
She, however, is all over me now. Her hand sliding up my thigh, over my chest, across my back.
My body's interested.
Another round appears without asking.
My gaze drifts—to the bar, the edge of the floor, the spot near the corner where someone stumbled hard enough to catch attention.
I look away and force my focus back to the table.
The woman’s hand slides up my arm, slow, confident. Familiar.
This part still works.
Alex is laughing now, surrounded. Mark’s expression is unreadable, but relaxed. The night folds in on itself, louder, warmer, easier.
I let it.
The guys each leave with their chosen women.
I leave with her because it’s expected. Because not doing it would mean stopping the momentum, and I don’t want to think yet.
Her apartment is clean.
Not sterile—just precise. Framed photos line one wall: family, trips, moments that look chosen instead of staged. A shelf crowded with small figurines catches my eye. Collected, not decorative. Intentional. She doesn’t strike me as the type.
City light filters in through tall windows, moonlight washing everything silver. She doesn’t turn on a single lamp.
She kicks the door shut behind us and kisses me, confident, unhesitating. Slides my jacket off my shoulders like she’s done this before and expects me to follow.
I do.
My hand finds the zipper of her dress. It slides down easily, the fabric pooling at her feet. She steps out of it without breaking eye contact, standing there in her heels and panties, unapologetic.
She’s beautiful. A rockin’ body. All the right lines.
But something hesitates in me anyway.
She takes my hand and leads me toward the bedroom. The door stays open. Moonlight spills across the floor. Clothes come off in pieces, not rushed, not careful either. Her hands are everywhere—confident, practiced, familiar.
I make sure she’s taken care of. I take my time. I know how to do this. I pay attention to her breathing, the way her body responds, the sounds she doesn’t bother to hold back.
She arches into me. Grips my shoulders. Wants.
I give her what she wants.
Still, when we move together, something doesn’t fit right. Our bodies line up, but the connection feels… off. Like forcing the wrong rhythm.
When I finally come, I close my eyes—
And I see Audra.
Steady. Present. The way she looked at me like I actually mattered.
I roll off her, staring at the ceiling, slowing my breathing.
Silence stretches.
This place. This moment.
I don’t belong here.
“I should go,” I say.
She turns her head, confusion crossing her face. “Did I do something?”
“No.” I sit up, reaching for my clothes. “This is me.”
I’m gone before she can decide how she feels about that.
The drive home is a blur of red lights and empty streets.
By the time I pull into my garage, I realize something else I can’t undo.
I don’t know her name.
Not her last name. Not even her first. I don’t remember hearing it, and I didn’t ask. I wouldn’t recognize it if it showed up on my phone.
That should bother me less than it does.
I shut the car off and sit there, hands on the wheel, feeling the weight of how easily I slipped back into something that used to feel effortless.
How little it meant.
I went through the motions. I made sure she was satisfied. I did everything right—technically.
And still, when it mattered, I was somewhere else.
I got out of the car and let the silence of the house close in around me.
This wasn’t about wanting her.
It was about proving I could still be this guy.
All I proved was how empty it feels now.