Chapter 10
Ten
“Your swing isn’t consistent, Brielle.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard that tonight, but I pray it’s the last.
“Even your tempo’s lacking. What’s going on? You’re usually on top form.”
I shrug, knuckles white against the silver shaft of my club. “I’m just a little tired.” Concern flickers across my parents’ faces, so I add quickly, “It was a long day—the beach, the boardwalk. Fun, but long.”
That should appease them. Knowing I’m soaking up the sun instead of being holed up in some dark room.
It’s not exactly a lie either. Aspen and I were apart of the boardwalk crowd today, and I did have another lesson with Reese—though if I’m being honest, it barely lasted an hour before I hauled myself back inside.
The truth is, fitful sleep’s been evading me since arriving in Grove. I can’t say I’m surprised. Not only am I in constant quarters of the ocean, I’m also spending time in it. Those are the nights I know I won’t catch a wink. Can’t because when I try, the nightmares come.
My mother’s caution drifts in with the summer breeze.
“It’s lovely you’re enjoying Grove, but don’t overexert yourself.”
My father is in agreement. “Sit this one out if you’d like. We’ll finish up, then dine al fresco. They have exquisite options here.”
Here being Pine Oak, the country club grand enough to devour my parents’ time day in, day out. I guess I can’t blame them, not with the state-of-the-art facilities and the landscapes that look stolen straight from a travel brochure.
“Okay,” I murmur. “That’s fine with me.”
The unease crawling down my spine tells a different story. It drags guilt with it, and that distinct hum of self-loathing I can never quite shake.
But how can I not feel dread, when I know exactly what this dinner is for?
They practically spelled it out by insisting I come tonight.
Two words. One name.
Dr. Gazelle.
My teeth worry the inside of my cheek, but before I can break skin, my phone vibrates. The buzz syncs with my pulse, and I force myself to move slow as I reach into my pocket.
ur in luck, Janson on shift @ bar 2. Ask for Club Special with extra olives
Air leaves my lips in a whoosh. Relief. It loosens a knot in my stomach, but not enough to ease it. I’m wound too tight for that. Probably why my swing wasn’t consistent.
Messaging my dealer felt like a shot in the dark, banking on the fact he’d moved to Merrin from a town near Grove. Turns out, it wasn’t that long a shot; he still has connections, and one of them is working here, right now.
I want to say luck is finally on my side but is it really in my best-interest to have this option in reach?
I guess I’m not thinking that far ahead. Right now, it’s simply about surviving dinner, and the only way I can get through talks of therapy is knowing there’s a high waiting if I need it. Just something to fall back on if it gets too much.
It’s worked before.
Worked my first night here too.
I stand, pulling two sets of eyes to me.
“I’m thirsty, so I’m just gonna…” I gesture vaguely behind.
“You don’t need to, darling,” my mother points out. “Someone will bring us drinks. What do you wa—”
“I want to,” I interrupt. “I haven’t seen much of this place yet, and I want to take it in.”
The lie slides out like I’ve rehearsed it. Maybe I should be worried about how natural it comes to me now, but I’m not. I’ll do anything, say anything, take anything, if it keeps the edge off.
“Ah.” My father‘s head tilt is half-knowing. “I should’ve known you’d want to take pictures. You never can resist.”
I freeze. If he notices, he pretends not to, keeping that smile that never really feels real anymore.
“Yeah.” I try not to mutter it. “You got me.”
Another lie. Because as I make my way to the clubhouse, I don’t lift my phone once. There was a time I would’ve chased this—the sunset melting into the horizon, gold spilling over green, the kind of elegance begging to be frozen in time.
But that need to tell stories through a single frame?
It’s gone. Dead and buried under everything I’ve lost. It doesn’t matter that it once fueled me.
That my Nikon used to be an extension of my hand.
Now, it’s buried at the bottom of my suitcase, gathering dust beside a photo album I haven’t dared touch since… before.
Before the rose-tint was stripped away.
Before the colour drained.
I shove the thought down and quicken my stride. The inside of the clubhouse is exactly what I expect, all vintage sconces and curated artwork.
I glance away from a piece long enough to thumb out a request for Janson’s description.
Bad timing. My focus is still on the screen when I slam into someone hard enough to jolt me back a step.
“Excuse me,” the snipe is instant.
“I’m so sorry. That was totally my bad.”
The apology bounces right off her. Red lips curve downward, yet feline features are somehow untouched by it. We’re both draped in luxury—designer dresses, similar hair, even our earrings are a similar make from Bottega—but standing here, I may as well be the dirt beneath her Louboutins.
“Well watch it next time.”
Her sneer snags on my bracelets, doubles, and just like that, I’m dismissed. She’s already scanning over my head, hunting for someone worth her attention.
Well, then.
The bar is only a few paces ahead, lit in curated amber.
Dale’s description might’ve been nondescript, but the guy at the far end matches it. Brown hair. Green eyes.
It takes a few minutes before he makes his way over. There’s no customer-service smile in place, just the standard, “What can I get you?”
Perfect.
“Club special, please.” I pause. Give myself the few extra seconds and the chance to change my mind. Nope. “Can I get extra olives with that?”
Awareness straightens his posture.
He’s about to respond when someone beats him to the jump—hot, potent, angry. I feel the energy sear my side even before the solid form settles there.
“She’ll do without the olives.”
My synapses snap to attention, recognising that crushed timbre instantly. What are the damn chances?
Probable, clearly. There’s none of the usual board shorts or saltwater clinging to him, but it’s Carson, all right. Tonight he’s all crisp lines and cold fury, a pristine button-up stretched over muscle, every sinewed ridge taut beneath. He wears the polish well, I’ll give him that.
Still, something feels off. A misalignment I can’t name.
And it isn’t the wellspring of fury he’s aiming straight at me.
I’ve had my fair share of glares from him, but this one’s not even in the same orbit. It runs deeper, flares intenser, and all I can do is stand here, not knowing what to say in the face of such animosity.
Why does it feel like he knows exactly what I’ve asked for? And why does it feel like Janson knows that too? His shoulders stiffen, his stare bypassing me entirely to lock onto Carson. A tendon jumps in his neck, once, twice.
Carson doesn’t react. Doesn’t give him an inch. His focus stays nailed to me, unblinking, even as Janson mutters something under his breath and slips away.
That’s when Carson finally moves. A lean, just that little bit in, where the shadows in his face threaten to swallow me whole.
“Stay away from him.” His voice is pure vehemence.
What is he warning me away from? Janson, the coke—or both?
I don’t know, but judging by both reactions, there’s history there. The heavy kind.
What history could a D1 swimmer possibly have with a drug dealer?
Maybe if I knew him better, I could hazard a guess, but even then something tells me the truth isn’t that simple. I haven’t seen much of him these past few days, but when I have, he’s been in the water. In daylight, he seems even more bound to it, more devoted to every relentless wave.
He wouldn’t risk something he loves that much… would he?
“Do you know him?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking.”
“I wasn’t thinking that,” I return, quietly enough that it’s almost lost in the background buzz. “Whatever you do is your business.”
And whatever I do is mine.
I don’t say it outright, but he must hear it loud-and-clear. He moves like a storm front rolling in until his shoes brush mine, and I can’t draw a full breath without pulling in saltwater and aftershave.
“I don’t care what you do,” he grouses, head dipping. “But Aspen seems to like you, and I don’t want her distraught when you’ve dug yourself into a hole.”
When not if. It hits like a blow I don’t expect, heavier than I want to admit. I fix my gaze on the liquor-lined shelves ahead, but none of it sticks. And, God, my lips might’ve trembled if I didn’t roll them flat.
I’ve known it. I know I’m spiraling. So why does it slice open like this?
Maybe because hearing it aloud, instead of it bouncing around in my skull, makes it feel undeniable. That maybe my broken is visible.
And, worse, everyone’s already seen it.
Shit. If I can’t fake it, then what do I have?
I hate this. Hate that I’m coming apart and he’s here to see it.
Why doesn’t he leave?
There’s nothing left to say between us yet he stays. If I looked at him, maybe I’d catch it—the barest falter in his expression. But I don’t. I can’t.
When he finally speaks, it’s stripped of the bite. “You didn’t see me here.”
It takes a second to catch his meaning.
Don’t tell the others I was here.
I nod.
I meant what I said, after all.
Still he doesn’t move. Is it verbal confirmation he wants? Or maybe he’s waiting for me to react, to rise to his stare the way I usually do.
I can’t. Not when I’m unraveling at the seams.
Time drags.
The muted buzz of voices, a faint song curling overhead, and me, still fixed on the racks of bottles, contemplating disappearing into the bottom of one.
Then, the atmosphere tilts, charging like words are teetering on his tongue.
But they don’t fall. And they never will.
He walks away, and he doesn’t look back.
I know, because that’s when I turn. Just in time to see him move with effortless command toward the private balconies where… the blonde I collided with is waiting. Her French-tipped nails curl around his bicep as if they belong there.
Then, the two of them disappear through the stately set of doors together.