16. Chapter 16
Chapter 16
I saac was too many beers in for a Tuesday night.
He wasn’t even sure how this had happened.
He’d come out to meet Elodie, tell her it was done, but that had somehow turned into meeting the guys and drinks with Shay and Chris. And that had somehow turned into a full-blown night out.
Now it was 10 p.m., and he was shitfaced.
And the worst part?
Rosie still wasn’t answering his calls.
His phone screen blurred in front of him as he stared at her name, the last four unanswered calls sitting there like a personal insult.
Isaac’s stomach twisted, something uneasy settling deep. He had a bad habit of not giving a shit. Not worrying. Not caring.
But this?
This was different.
Chris, just as drunk, nudged his beer against Isaac’s. “Dude,” he muttered, watching him scroll through his unanswered calls. “Stop stalking her.”
Isaac’s jaw tensed. “She’s fucking homeless.”
That shut them up.
Shay and Chris both froze, their beers mid-air.
Chris blinked. “Come again?”
Isaac ran a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “Yeah. Homeless. Living in some fucking LA studio warehouse with no bed, no shit, no nothing.” He shook his head, still pissed. “I’m making her stay with me until we sort that out.”
Chris’s mouth opened. Closed. “What the fuck?”
Shay lifted a brow, grinning now. “Oh,” he said, slow and knowing. “So you’re fucking her.”
Isaac’s eyes snapped up, glare sharp. “No.”
Chris and Shay exchanged looks.
“Suuuuure,” Shay muttered.
Isaac pointed at him. “Fuck you.”
Shay smirked. “You already did, buddy. Apparently, she’s living in your house.”
Chris, drunker than both of them, suddenly sat up straight, eyes gleaming. He clearly had a bright idea.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s see what’s up with our girl.”
Isaac barely had time to process before Chris pulled his phone out of his pocket.
“Chris, I swear to God—” Isaac lunged, but he was too slow, too wasted, and Chris was already dialing.
Shay was howling with laughter, Isaac was wrestling Chris for the phone, but he wouldn’t punch his friend.
Not over this.
Chris, dodging Isaac’s grip, pressed the phone to his ear.
“Rosie baby,” he grinned, putting it on speaker. “Where are you?”
Isaac nearly killed him.
And then—
Rosie’s voice crackled through the line.
“I’m drunk at the Dolce Vita. Come see me.”
Isaac froze.
Chris grinned wider. “Okay, here we go.”
And before Isaac could stop him, Chris was shoving them all into a cab.
Shay was still laughing, Isaac was still glowering, but his dumb, drunk brain was ticking.
She’s ignoring my calls.
But she answered his?
And for some reason—
That fucked him up.
* * * * *
The Dolce Vita was a packed, buzzing mess of an Italian tapas bar—too many people, too much noise, dim lighting that made everything feel like a fever dream.
Isaac pushed through the crowd, his shoulders tight, his jaw locked, barely registering the scent of charred rosemary, grilled seafood, and spiced red wine lingering in the air.
His eyes were locked on one thing.
Rosie.
Sitting at the cocktail bar.
Flushed. Laughing. Flipping long strands of her dark ponytail back over her white blouse. Looking like she had no goddamn idea what she’d done to him these past few days.
Chris and Shay beelined for the table, loud, boisterous, calling her name like she was their favorite person.
And she lit up for them.
“Boys!” Rosie sang, throwing her arms around Chris, pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek. “Mm I missed you!”
Chris grinned like a fucking idiot, hugging her tight.
Shay got the same treatment—a big hug, a showy air kiss on both cheeks.
She was putting on a show, and she was doing it to make a fucking point.
Isaac stood back, watching, glowering, gripping the edge of the bar like it might stop him from snatching her away from all of this.
And then, in her drunken dramatics, she miscalculated—**shifted too fast, too loose—**and her chair tipped.
She started to fall.
And he was there before he could think.
Catching her. Holding her.
His arms locked around her waist, pulling her against his chest, grounding her, steadying her.
And for one brief second, she stilled.
Her hands fisted in his shirt.
Her breath caught.
Isaac gritted his teeth, holding her tight.
Then she shoved him off.
“Don’t.”
His stomach fucking dropped.
And suddenly, he wasn’t drunk anymore.
He was too aware, too sober, too pissed.
Chris, meanwhile, was wildly entertained.
“Ohhhh,” he muttered, sitting back, grinning at the thick, crackling tension. “This is good.”
Isaac cut him a glare, ignoring him.
But then, his attention flicked to the woman across the table—
The gallery manager.
Amy.
And holy shit, if looks could kill.
She was staring daggers at him, eyes narrowed, like she wanted to launch her wine glass at his face.
Isaac let out a rough exhale, raking a hand through his hair.
“Well, this fucking sucks,” he muttered, signaling the bartender.
“Shots.”
Might as well.
Next stop—smokes. Maybe a blunt.
The night blurred into a haze of drinking, arguing, and laughter—that kind of messy, chaotic energy that came when too many people were too deep in their drinks, and old wounds cracked open just enough to let the fire spill out.
Isaac nursed his whiskey, one elbow on the bar, jaw tight, eyes flicking between conversations.
Rosie was fucking hammered.
Chris was lapping it up, making her laugh, leaning in too close, grinning too wide, and Isaac wanted to put his fist through the table.
“Jesus, would you relax?” Amy’s voice cut through his jealous spiral.
Isaac flicked his gaze to her, raising a brow. “What?”
Amy rolled her eyes. “You’re acting like a sulking frat boy who just got told he can’t bring his beer bong to brunch.”
Isaac snorted. “And you’re acting like someone who’s deeply invested in my bad mood.”
Amy leaned back, arms crossed, studying him like she had him all figured out. “I’m invested in Rosie.”
Isaac took a slow sip of his drink, eyes locked on hers. “Yeah? And what does that mean?”
Amy exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I don’t know. Maybe that I don’t like you screwing with her life?”
Isaac tilted his head. “You think I’m screwing with her life?”
Amy’s lips twitched, barely a smirk. “No, I think you’re screwing her. The rest is just a byproduct.”
Isaac let out a low, sharp laugh, shaking his head.
“Christ, you’re a piece of work.”
“And you’re a cliché,” she shot back.
His smirk deepened. “That hurts.”
“Good.”
Amy took a long sip of wine, and that was the end of that.
Outside of their argument, the bar hummed with drunken energy.
Rosie was leaning too close to Chris, her head tipped back, laughing at something dumb he said.
Isaac’s grip on his whiskey glass tightened.
Chris was loving this.
Loving whatever tension was crackling between them, eating up the fact that Isaac was glowering from the other side of the bar, feeling like a goddamn idiot for caring.
So, fuck it.
Isaac needed a cigarette.
Outside, the air was thick with humidity, the pavement still holding the heat of the day even though it was creeping past midnight.
Isaac lit his smoke, exhaling long, slow, dragging it through his lungs, letting the buzz steady him.
He pulled out his phone, annoyed with it buzzing incessantly in his pocket.
Shay:
LIVE FROM DOLCE VITA:
Isaac’s girl just kissed Chris on the cheek and I think Isaac’s blood pressure hit triple digits.
Chris:
Status update:
Isaac is outside gripping his cigarette like it insulted his mother.
Rosie’s laughing.
I am the moment.
Heath:
You’re gonna get stabbed, Chris.
I can feel it.
Colson:
Who the fuck is Rosie and is she hot?
Drunk?
Details.
Shay:
She’s “stumbling into your arms by accident on purpose” drunk.
And very fucking hot.
Adam:
Why am I in this chat.
It’s a Sunday.
Chris:
Because we need a commander on deck and you’re our most tragic father figure.
Isaac:
Murder. You. All.
Shay:
HE’S TYPING FROM OUTSIDE.
HE’S SMOKING.
HE’S PISSED.
Heath:
Do we have confirmation he’s pacing?
Chris:
Confirmed.
Pacing. Smoking. Grinding his molars into chalk dust.
Colson:
Someone please get him water.
Or a sedative.
Isaac:
Keep talking and I’ll come back in and end the night with a felony.
Shay:
brO.
Rosie literally just fell into you.
You CAUGHT HER.
You did the full-body hero hold.
She clutched your shirt like a rom-com climax.
Chris:
AND THEN SHE SHOVED HIM
I NEARLY ASCENDED
Adam:
Jesus Christ.
What’s her BMI?
Heath:
This is more dramatic than Dom in Caracas.
Dom:
At least I didn’t get shoved after saving her.
Isaac:
Say that again and I swear to God—
Dom:
Your whole life is one long “We’ll put that kiss behind us” lie.
You’re playing house with a woman you won’t claim, then getting jealous when someone else makes her laugh.
Shay:
OHHHHH SHIT.
Chris:
DOM WITH THE DEATH ARROW
FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE
Heath:
Sniper shots hit different when it’s personal.
Isaac:
Dom.
Shut the fuck up.
Dom:
You’re not mad because she kissed Chris.
You’re mad because she kissed you and you pretended it didn’t matter.
Adam:
…
Shay:
…
Colson:
I need a drink and I’m not even there.
Chris:
He’s not wrong though.
Isaac:
None of this is useful.
Dom:
Then why are you standing outside like you just got divorced from someone you never had the balls to marry?
[pause]
Isaac:
I’m going home.
Shay:
Translation:
“I’m going to repress everything and bench press until I hallucinate clarity.”
Adam:
Let him go.
Heath:
Someone check on him in six hours.
He’s going to end up sorting ammo alphabetically by emotional trauma.
Colson:
Too late. He just texted the quartermaster to “refresh his dive kit.”
Chris:
Oh he’s not running from feelings.
He’s submerging them.
Isaac stood on the curb with his cigarette burning low between his fingers and the group chat open in his other hand—each message brighter and louder than the last.
Shay narrating.
Chris throwing gas.
Adam dropping silence that said more than words.
And Dom—fucking Dom—landing kill shots like he was back behind a scope.
Isaac’s jaw flexed so hard it ached.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
Then he gripped the phone like he meant to break it.
Just shatter the goddamn thing against the pavement.
Crack the glass. Split the logic board. Let it bleed.
It wouldn’t stop the truth.
Wouldn’t unmake the moment in that bed.
Wouldn’t undo the smell of her hair. The way her hands fisted his shirt when she fell.
The fact that he had her—in his arms, in his goddamn orbit—and still hadn’t said a fucking word.
He stared at the screen a second longer.
Then killed it.
Screen black.
Pocketed.
Not because he was calm.
Because he didn’t trust himself if he kept holding it.
He paced the sidewalk once, twice, then stopped.
He looked up the street. Away from the noise. Away from Rosie. Away from the mess he’d made by not making anything clear.
He could leave.
Disappear for the night.
Say it was work. Say it was a thing he forgot. Say it was anything other than what it really was—cowardice wrapped in tactical restraint.
His hand drifted to the pack of smokes again.
Lit another.
Inhaled like the burn might quiet the chaos.
It didn’t.
Because he could still feel her on his skin.
Still see her leaning into Chris.
Still hear Dom’s voice in his head, cold and quiet and right:
You’re mad because she kissed you and you pretended it didn’t matter.
Isaac stared down the road.
Nothing ahead of him but streetlights, concrete, and a thousand different outs.
He didn’t move.
He just stood there.
Smoldering.
Still.
And completely unsure if walking away was the smart thing… or the final mistake.